Finn and Portia ran past a few ramshackle houses and a cottar’s farm. They crossed the stone bridge over the Alleg, their boots ringing. The main gate in the south wall stood open and frightened men, women, and children, were hurrying to get inside. Ander paused at the far end of the bridge, turning to look back the way they had come.
“Come on,” Portia gasped. “What are you doing?”
There were still a number of people in the fields, and others hurrying between the Southside houses who had not yet reached the shelter of the city. The orcs were too close and it appeared as if some at least would not make it to the safety of the walls.
“You two,” Ander gestured with his sword, “get back to the castle at once.” He unslung his shield from his back, settling it on his left arm.
Portia just stared at him, at the wild light that burned in his eyes. She wanted to run away, but something held her in place. She did not wish to abandon Ander to fight alone, and somehow it felt as if the safest place on all of Ninavar was beside him.
“No,” Finn said, and Portia turned to look at him. Her brother stood just behind her, and she was surprised by the strength of his conviction. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Don’t be foolish!” Ander growled. “You’ve no business—”
“Troll!” a guardsman on the wall shouted, his voice high and edged with fear. “They’ve brought a troll!”
The warband emerged from the trees on the southwest, a hundred orcs at least, and as many goblins. They spotted the houses and the fleeing peasants and sprang forward with howls of glee. Another creature, this one at least eight feet tall, with gnarled features and limbs like twisted tree roots, was among them. It lumbered forward with a long, swinging stride. In its huge hands it carried a war hammer, the haft of which was at least five feet in length, with a head like an anvil.
“Aedon’s mercy,” Portia said. Both she and Finn took an involuntary step back. “What is that?”
“That, my young friends, is a troll.” Ander flashed them a savage grin. “Tough to kill, even more difficult to have a conversation with. And a big one at that. I’m telling you, you should go. This is about to get very unpleasant.”
“Archers!” someone yelled, and there was the thrum of bowstrings and a whine like angry bees as their arrows flew. A handful of orcs and goblins fell with feathered shafts piercing their flesh. Ander cut down two more as they reached the bridge, but there was an entire host coming behind them.
The troll ambled into Southside and slowed its pace as it approached the bridge. It looked down at them with baleful eyes. “You are in my way, little man.” The troll’s deep-throated voice was like the cracking of desiccated wood.
“You want to come in?” Ander said, “You have to go through me. Or you could just turn around and go home.”
The troll made a sound like leaves rustling together in a strong wind. Portia supposed it might be laughter. She clung to Finn’s arm, afraid and uncertain what to do, but not willing to leave Ander to face this creature alone.
“Come on, then,” Ander brandished his sword. “Let’s dance.”
Chapter 12
Pilfer jogged along the narrow trail, doing his best to stay in the shadow of the trees that crowded the bank. He was unused to so much activity. It seemed as if all he had been doing for the past few months was running, followed by more running. He was hungry and sweating beneath his robes, and wishing more than ever that he were snug and warm in his little hole far to the north.
Ahead of him the walls of Nachtwald Castle loomed, tall and menacing. As always Retch was beside him, clinging to his robes and muttering sullenly. The jester’s bells jangled with every step and Pilfer kept a nervous eye on the castle, waiting for armored men to come spilling out of the postern gate. So far, none had, but he could hear them inside, shouting orders and blowing horns.
If not for all the noise, they would surely have heard Retch’s stupid bells by now and killed them all.
“Could you please take that wretched hat off?” Pilfer whispered urgently, turning to stab a finger at Retch.
Retch gave him a weak smile. “Of course not. It’s part of who I am.”
Pilfer shook his fists in frustration. He took a breath, and then made a small swirling motion in the air. Little bursts of cotton erupted from each of the bells, silencing them, at least for a while. He gave his friend a sharp look, then turned his back on the fool and continued running. He and Retch had been assigned to a small warband made up of goblins of both the Horntooth and Little Fist clans, led by a sullen goblin chieftain called Stub, an unpleasant little tyrant with an annoying habit of spitting on everyone when he talked.
Pilfer had hoped to be leagues away from Nachtwald by now, but that was before he and Retch were caught trying to slip out through the back door. Durog was most upset when Retch and Pilfer had been dragged before him, but rather than kill them outright, which he was definitely on the verge of doing, he instead assigned them to Stub’s group. He called it a suicide mission, which did not sound at all promising, and told them that if they tried to run, their heads would be decorating spikes at the front of his hall. Pilfer shook his head, muttering under his breath. Despite this brief setback he still hoped to find some opportunity to get away. They just had to be patient and wait for the right circumstance to present itself.
At the base of the hill, below the northwest tower of the castle, lived a small community of fisher folk. At the sound of the horn, the fisherman had abandoned their small huts, along with a dozen boats that bobbed on the waves of the Alleg River, and fled for the safety of the walls. There were no guards visible on the parapet above, and Pilfer desperately hoped it would stay that way. He was guessing they had been called away to deal the orc warband that was even now attacking the city from the southeast.
“You!” Stub barked, slowing as they neared the boats and stabbing a finger at Pilfer. “Burn ‘em! And make it quick.”
“Get ready to run,” Pilfer whispered to Retch. Retch gave him a weak smile, looking around nervously.
Pilfer planted his staff, his hand tightening over one of the runes as he whispered a few words of Lunovarian. The rune glowed beneath his fingers and a column of fire leapt from the end of the staff. The first boat went up in a sudden conflagration, causing the goblins around him to howl and gibber in excitement.
“This is a bad idea,” Pilfer mumbled as he sent a second fiery bolt speeding through the air.
* * *
The narrow footpath that ran along the river was little used and overgrown in places with bracken and weeds. Rayzer and Blayde crouched in the thick undergrowth just above the path, watching as the goblins went past them. They waited to see if more would come, but there was no sign of further movement.
“That’s not very many,” Rayzer whispered, sounding disappointed.
“And only goblins,” Blayde said. “There are no orcs with them.”
“Let’s give them a little surprise, shall we?” Rayzer said.
At that moment, a burst of flame consumed one of the boats on the river below.
“So, that’s what they’re up to.” Blayde drew her sword. Rayzer sprang from cover just as the second boat burst into flame and quickly descended to the path below. Blayde dropped down behind him, running after Rayzer and darting ahead at the last moment. The rear most goblin turned at the sound of her footfalls and the goblin’s eyes went wide with fear.
The point of Blayde’s long sword leapt out like a striking serpent, and the goblin, mouth open to give warning, staggered back, trying to stem the flow of dark blood spurting from a wound to his throat. Blayde followed up with a backhanded slash that removed the goblin’s head and sent it rolling down the slope. The head made a soft plop as it fell into the water.
There was a brief moment of surprise as more goblins turned to see what was happening. They let out a howl and rushed at her. Blayde parried an awkward thrust of a spear. Her counter stroke left the goblin doubled over, grasping a
t his belly as his entrails spilled onto the ground.
Rayzer ran up the side of the slope, leapt over Blayde, and landed in the middle of the warband. His twin swords sliced the air with a low hum of steel, a veritable symphony of death. With every stroke a goblin fell, some clutching bloody stumps where hands had been, others gasping for breath through severed windpipes. Most did not rise again, but lay twitching, or screaming, in the tall grass. Rayzer laughed as he danced, a terrible, mirthless laughter that spoke more of madness than joy.
Blayde plunged forward, reaching her brother’s side, and the twins pressed their foes, forcing them back along the path. Blayde’s sword rose and fell with deadly consistency. The goblin’s angry curses soon turned to squeals of terror. Those in the front of the warband, witnessing the slaughter behind them, hesitated, on the verge of panic, weighing the consequences of confronting two deadly wood elves against the lash of their masters should they turn and run.
The path, which was cut into the steep bank of the hill, soon became too narrow for both Blayde and Rayzer to stand together. Rayzer leapt up over the goblins’ heads once more, seeming to float on the gentle breeze off the river. His feet struck the bank above, and he rebounded, spinning in the air. He landed lightly on the ground just beyond the front of the pack. The lead goblin drew back in fright, and all of the goblins pushed and shoved, trying to retreat from the mad wood elf with the bloody swords, while still maintaining their distance from the angry one in the leather armor.
Rayzer grinned at them, eyes glittering dangerously, as he twirled the twin swords in his hands. “Where do you think you’re going?” He said, advancing slowly.
* * *
The destruction of the veil between Ninavar and the Dreamland was the beginning of a war that would last for generations. The initial conflict between the elves and Ashalonians lasted twelve years and ended with the death of King Darion, but that was only the beginning of a centuries-long conflict that would spread across much of the known world. The sorcerer king, and former general, Tenabrus, had used the human incursion into the Dreamland to rid his country of some of its less savory denizens. He had unleashed countless orcs, goblins, trolls, ogres, and other fell creatures, giving them free rein to go where they would and do whatever they desired. For the ancient tribes of men—the Wudu, the Elathians, the Shaddarans, and the Anthunians—it must have seemed like their darkest nightmares had suddenly sprung up from the grass to wreak vengeance upon them.
These thoughts ran through Ander’s mind as he watched the troll lumbering toward him. As a Northman growing up in the mountains of western Hithgowr, he had fought trolls before, along with other unsavory creatures. Trolls were few in number compared to what they had once been. They resided mostly in the frozen wastes of the far north, above the fallen realm of Ashalon, but every now and then a few would wander south, like this one, to participate in some new war or conflict. It was sort of their way of making sure they were not forgotten.
“Move aside, little man.” The troll was the biggest of its kind Ander had ever seen. It towered over him, its rheumy eyes filled with hatred. “Or I will break you in half.”
By way of answer Ander lunged forward, swinging the great broadsword. The steel cut into the bark-like hide of the troll’s leg, but it hardly noticed. Thin, watery blood welled from the wound, but almost as quickly as the cut was made, the wound closed, leaving only the barest mark where the sword had struck. That was the problem with trolls. They healed faster than wounds could be inflicted and there was little short of fire that could hurt them.
Ander hewed again, but the blow was knocked aside. Black talons raked his arm and he fell back a step, wincing from the pain. The troll advanced on him, forcing him back across the bridge.
From somewhere behind him a dagger whistled past, striking the troll in the chest. Ander risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see Finn still standing a dozen feet behind him. Finn threw a second dagger, this one striking the troll in the forehead. The troll growled something unintelligible, annoyed at the interruption, and plucked the dagger from its head. The blade in its chest sagged, slid free, and fell, striking the side of the bridge and dropping into the water.
“I thought I told you two to get out of here,” Ander growled.
Portia stood next to her brother, her staff clenched tightly in one fist. She raised the staff, fingering one of the runes etched into the wood, her red lips moving silently. The air was charged with arcane energy, making her golden hair rise around her, as if floating on a gentle breeze. Flame flickered on the end of the staff, but then, with a fizzle and a pop, the spell was broken. Portia staggered back and almost fell. Finn grabbed her by the shoulders and held her up.
“What was that?” Finn said.
Portia shook her head, momentarily confused.
“You’re too close.” Ander ducked as the troll took a swing at him, the great hammer sending chips of stone flying. It took another step forward, its massive foot crushing a child’s toy.
“They eat magic! There’s nothing you can do here. Go on!”
Portia steadied herself. There were tears in her eyes and fury written all over her face. Ander noted with some small satisfaction that this was not a woman who liked to fail. He darted forward, bringing up his shield and plowing into the troll. Surprised and momentarily off balance, the troll fell back, and Ander pressed his advantage, hewing at the creature and driving it backward, off the bridge and onto the road.
The troll struck out at him with a backhanded blow. Ander took the massive hammer on his shield, but the force of the blow sent him reeling sideways. He crashed to the ground beside a peasant’s cottage.
Ander rolled to his feet, shaking off the pain in his back. A company of Nachtwald’s soldiers rushed out to meet the advancing orcs. They flew across the bridge in close formation, driving into the orcs like a knife, but they were too few and vastly outnumbered. Ander hazarded a glance at his surroundings. Houses were being ransacked and some of them put to the torch, and everywhere people were running and screaming. There was nothing he could do about any of it at the moment. He had a bigger problem to contend with.
* * *
Loth pushed his way through the press of people, dodging past frightened townsfolk intent on retreating away from the city gates and the battle that raged just beyond their walls. The gates were now closed and the guards seemed unlikely to open them again. Loth sprang up the stairs to the top of the wall and looked out.
Orcs and goblins moved through the area just beyond the river. They were ransacking houses, trampling gardens, and setting fire to some of the dwellings. Smoke began to rise up over the river, partially obscuring the view from the wall. The orcs had not managed to cross the water yet, for a small group of Nachtwald’s soldiers still held the bridge, at least for the moment. Most of the orcs were habling, the younger warriors who made up the bulk of any warband. They were poorly armed and armored, making them good sport for anyone with a bow.
Loth took up a position among the archers above the gate. There were only a handful of men there and they did not seem to mind the addition of another bow. From where he stood, Loth had a fairly good view of the invading force. He could see that some of the townsfolk had not made it inside before the gates were closed and were now being pursued by bloodthirsty foes.
Loth fit an arrow to his bowstring and drew it back to his ear. He followed a pair of orcs who were stalking a fleeing woman with a child at her breast. He let fly. The arrow pierced one orc’s chest, striking with such force that it passed completely through the body and sank into the foot of the orc following. The second orc let out a howl of pain, staggered, and fell as a second arrow pierced its throat. Two more of the devils ran past, not even slowing to glance at their fallen comrades. Loth pulled back the string and let a third arrow fly. This one sliced through an orc’s neck. The ape-like form fell back with a short squeal and disappeared behind a hedge. Loth drew another arrow from his quiver, humming to himself as he let i
t fly.
* * *
Rayzer continued to hack and slash at the bodies long after the last of the goblins had fallen. He was in a fury, his eyes blazing, muscles taut, flecks of foam flying from his lips as he cursed them for their stupidity and lack of stamina.
Blayde watched from a short distance away, leaning on her sword and wiping blood and sweat from her forehead with a square piece of cloth. She had witnessed this madness in her brother before and knew it would subside soon enough. She looked up at the sky and the roiling clouds that sailed overhead, threatening more rain. A cool breeze wafted along the river, stirring her hair and carrying with it the scent of wood smoke. The city was burning.
Rayzer paused, his breathing labored and his eyes wild, but he was grinning like a cat that has eaten a bird. Not for the first time Blayde wondered what her brother’s years among the Yattiar must have been like. He seldom spoke of it and she never asked. He was still her brother, but his time among them had made him into a killer.
“Well,” Blayde said, “are you quite finished?”
“I’m just getting started! Tell me there are more of these vermin.”
“I’m sure there are. There are always more. I can hear sounds of battle coming from the city. We need to get down there. If Nachtwald is under attack, I’m sure Loth and Ander are in the thick of it and will need us to save them—”
Something rustled in the bushes almost at her feet and Blayde crouched, her sword at the ready. She scanned the shadows and saw two sets of eyes, both wide with fear, staring back at her.
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 13