by John Grover
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The Gibbelin drums stopped abruptly. The largest one again eyed Nix and the others before taking a ceremonial spear into his hands, iron rings jingled around it. He shook it in front of his brethren and they cheered and roared, shaking their weapons, frothing from their thick, fanged lips.
The leader danced wildly around his war parties, paying homage to the dark queen as he looked up into the skies. “Hear us, dark one! We make this offering to you, our queen! Sinnia see us! Bestow your graces. Sinnia see us! Send your power!”
Nix whispered to Lianna beside him. “We have only one way to survive this.”
“Make me believe it.” Her eyes kept watch on their gear and soul jars, now in a pile in the center of the Gibbelins.
“I will plead to the true kings of the mountain”
“They will not hear you.” Lianna shook her head. “They retreated from the world ages ago.”
“It is still their world, too. The Gargoyles will hear me.”
Vanare’s antennae twitched. “They are neutral. They will no longer interfere in any race’s affairs. Their own strife and warring nature nearly destroyed them. The Gargoyles watch and observe. That is all.”
“There will be nothing left to watch,” Nix said, his anger rising. “They cannot just watch everything die…hear me…” Nix looked up at the rocks above them, the cliffs, the ledges, and the summit of the mountain. “I know you are watching. You are always watching. Do not let this happen. If we fail, there will be nothing left. The beauty will turn to darkness. The forests will be no more. The waters will dry up. All life will fall at her hands. Be a part of our realm again. Please…help us. It is your world, too.”
The jeers and roars ceased. The Gibbelin leader walked up to Ayre, licked his lips, and drew back his spear. Without hesitation he plunged it into the elf, skewering him alive. Ayre wailed in agony before coughing up blood. He sighed before drawing his last breath then fell limp. The Gibbelin ripped out the spear and set his eyes on Nix.
He stepped in front of the elfin leader and drew back his spear. A cracking resounded above them. Great stone wings unfurled slowly from the rock face. A shower of rubble poured to the ground as a Gargoyle dropped between Nix and the Gibbelin leader, towering over them both.
The Gibbelin’s eyes widened with shock. He stared up at a massive head crowned with horns. Pale alabaster eyes stared back, and he brandished his spear. Before he could strike, the Gargoyle seized him by the throat with a clawed hand and lifted him from the ground. The Gargoyle bellowed with a thunderous roar and snapped the Gibbelin’s neck in one twist. He threw the body over his shoulder and turned to the rest of the army.
Terror and rage washed through the Gibbelin war parties. They charged with weapons aloft, but to their surprise hundreds of Gargoyles stepped from the rock walls and soared to meet them.
Blades shattered against stone flesh. War clubs splintered as the Gargoyles clashed with the Gibbelins, lifting them into the sky and hurling them off the top of the mountains. Screams echoed, claws slashed, and the Gibbelins were quickly no more.
The Gargoyles freed the group from their bonds. Nix stood before the nearly eight foot tall creatures and bowed his head. “We thank you. All of Orum thanks you.”
There was no response from the Gargoyles. They stared in mute indifference and slowly climbed back into the mountains, melding with the rock, returning to the stolid silence.
The group gathered their weapons and soul jars then continued their journey. They paid respect to the body of Ayre and buried him on the summit, before descending on the other side of the peaks.
Few words were exchanged between them. They still reeled from the awesome sight of the Gargoyles.
The last four of the leaders rested on the west side of the Banebridge mountains, eating bread and sharing water, unsure of what waited for them below.