Tym offered a blank stare. Clearly, the two Fist hadn’t been warned of the nightmares burrowed deep beneath the earth.
Kavan crouched down in from of Tym and gestured towards Gessun Thune. “There are monsters there, lad. Spit from the deepest pits of the underworld.”
Tym blanched.
“Your captain should have told you at least that much.”
“Stop trying to frighten him,” Aphere admonished.
“I merely speak the truth.”
Aphere added, “Tym, when we go inside that cavern, we will be beset by werebeasts, monsters the likes of which you’ve never imagined. You must trust in us. That is the only hope we have for victory. Faith and steel, my friend.”
Tym crawled into his tent, his face a twisted mess of emotions. The knights watched him before continuing.
“You undermine our task,” she scolded.
Kavan held up his hands. He hadn’t returned seeking a fight. “I told him the truth, and you know it. They deserve that much.”
“That doesn’t mean we need to change his mind. What’s to keep them from leaving in the middle of the night?”
“Aphere, those men are mercenaries. Their loyalty is to money. Any man with an ounce of sense would leave.”
She took a moment to calm down before responding. “I don’t like this any more than you, but we’ve been given a task.”
“Aye, and I pray we live long enough to come out of it,” he said. “We’re both tired. There’s no point in bickering. Let us sleep and tackle the beast tomorrow.”
Through it all, Mabane watched from his stump.
Corso stalked the empty chamber, lost in thought. Childish giddiness flowed through him. After so long, he was about to be released from his prison. Corso pressed a hand against the cracked granite slab. They were so close. He could feel his wicked masters pulsing from the other side of the veil. One thousand years of exile left them hungry. They thirsted to wreak havoc among the living. Corso delighted in the images of whole continents enslaved under his dark banner.
Very soon, the last hunt would begin, and hundreds of fresh souls would be slaughtered upon this very slab. Their blood would open the keys to the prison. His only hope was that the blood of the Knight Marshal was strong enough to work. Thus far, his experiments had been a source of constant disappointment. Dozens of Gaimosians had died in his quest. His seduction and eventual transformation of Pirneon was his last hope. If that failed…. Corso shuddered. He dared not think of the suffering his masters would visit upon him. The sound of hot spittle striking stone disturbed him from his delusions. Corso slowly turned and faced his newest pet.
“Anxious, aren’t you?”
Evil laced his words.
The Pirneon beast crouched on all fours and snarled. Slender fangs protruded from his elongated snout. Whatever creature was blended with him was lost to the dust-covered tomes of history.
“You’ll get your opportunity soon enough. Please me, and I’ll let you feast upon the flesh of your friends.”
Pirneon salivated hungrily.
FIFTY-ONE
Siege
Pharanx Gorg had grown up a gambling man. His entire life was a series of well-gambled chances that had played out perfectly. He’d grown up a pickpocket on the streets of a city long forgotten. Every scrap of food and coin he had was fought for. That’s where Alcha had found him. Tall and immensely powerful, the former master of the Fist had taken Pharanx in and cared for him like no father ever had. It quickly became evident that he was being groomed for command.
Pharanx had reveled in the chance to prove himself against his betters. He’d mastered any craft he could in the constant quest to prove his worth. Others had grown jealous, and more than once, he’d found himself the target of an ill-conceived assassination attempt. All who tried had been put in the ground. Pharanx had learned to become a ruthless killer and keen tactician. When Alcha had fallen in battle, Pharanx had assumed command and never stopped. His first task had been to cull those he couldn’t trust. Some were dismissed, others disappeared. Yes, Pharanx considered himself a lucky man.
This morning, however, he almost believed that luck had run out. A runner came to him in the predawn hours. Out of breath and visibly shaken, the boy explained that Wurz needed him on the wall at once. Pharanx swung out of bed and strapped on his weapons. The pair made their way back to the aged walls in silence. The Fist prepared for battle all around. Pharanx gave them all the look of approval. He was inherently proud.
“What goes?” he asked his lieutenant.
Wurz gestured over his shoulder. His axe was already in hand. “They’re here.”
Pharanx stared into the brightening dawn. Moncrieff’s army had, indeed, arrived. They marched out of the darkness in great waves of crimson and black. The creak and groan of heavy wheels accompanied crisp sounds of thousands of marching boots striking the ground. Siege machines.
“I’d almost hoped they weren’t that smart,” he breathed.
The Dwarf snorted. “They’re not taking chances.”
“I guess we angered the king.”
“If he truly is one. Listening to the Gaimosians leads me to believe he’s just a puppet.”
Pharanx stared sharply at the Dwarf. Through all of their trials, he remained constant, a stalwart companion who never shied from speaking his mind. Pharanx needed that.
“King or not, Eglios is our enemy now,” he said. “He’s spilled enough of our blood. Vengeance, my friend. When hope fades, we must look to vengeance to keep us warm. Perhaps the Gaimosians have the right of it.”
Hundreds of soldiers marched into place.
“We might not get the chance to find out,” Wurz grumbled.
Pharanx agreed. “All we have to do is hold them long enough for Kavan to get to this Gessun Thune and do what needs doing.”
“I’d rather be here than with Kavan. They’re not going to have an easy time of it.”
“There wouldn’t be much fun otherwise. Moncrieff will spend most of the day getting into position. His soldiers will be tired from marching through the night.”
“It’s not the soldiers that worry me. We have to do something about those engines.”
The bulky shapes of catapults and scaling towers rumbled into view. Pharanx suspected Moncrieff wasn’t willing to waste lives in the assault, making him cautious.
“Let us see if our brother Gaimosian has any ideas for dealing with those machines,” he offered.
Together, they turned their backs on the approaching storm. They found Barum and Geblin at the armory, fletching arrows. Hundreds already filled quivers with many more bundles scattered on the ground.
“They are here,” Barum asked, seeing the two Fist commanders approach.
“Every damned one of them, by the looks of it,” Wurz answered.
Geblin rolled his eyes.
Barum slapped his knuckles against the Gnome’s chest. “How much siege equipment do they have?”
“Enough. About a half dozen catapults, three scaling towers, and hundreds of ladders. They’ll make quick work of our defenses unless we act first.”
Barum set his half-finished arrow down. “How many flying beasts did you say we have?”
“Two dozen.”
“I say we use them while Moncrieff is still marching. Take him off guard and reduce his assault capability.”
Pharanx gestured him to continue. “I’m listening.”
Confidence bolstered, Barum explained, “Circle around behind them and dive. They won’t be expecting an assault from the rear. Fire bomb their machines, and they lose momentum and, hopefully, some of their will to fight.”
“We also lose that singular advantage.”
Pharanx was loath to invest his greatest asset so early in the fight, even if meant being pummeled by the siege engines. Then again, there was the chance, small as it was, that his dactyls would be enough to break the enemy’s will. Cut off the head, and the snake dies. “It might work.”
“We have nothing to lose.”
“It will be light soon,” Wurz said.
Barum looked up. “Do we have enough time?”
“Aye. I’d say yes. Let’s go give these bastards exactly what they want,” Pharanx grinned, broken teeth gleaming in the torchlight.
“What do you say, Geblin?” Barum asked.
“I’ll stand the wall, but you haven’t a prayer of getting me on the back of one of those beasts. Gnomes belong on the ground, not flying like some fancy bird.”
Pharanx barked a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Flying birds is exactly what we shall become, little Gnome. Birds of death and fury.”
Regret. That singular emotion threatened to take control of his thoughts and push him to the point of distraction. Pharanx battled his mind as he clenched his thighs around the slender neck of his pet and companion. The cool predawn air felt good to both. It had been too long since they’d taken to the skies. Up here, lost among the clouds, was the only time he truly felt at peace.
Pharanx’s regrets stemmed from various sources. He regretted taking Corso’s contract, thus jeopardizing the lives of five hundred. He’d no idea how evil Corso was. He regretted wasting lives recklessly hunting the Gaimosians. Too many had died for no reason. The Fist had sorely underestimated their enemies and paid dearly for it. He regretted staying in Aradain after Corso turned on them. How many more need to pay for his arrogance? Too many at the least.
His final regret came from deciding to stand and fight in the abandoned fortress of Kalad Tol. The illusions were gone by now. They were all going to die. There it was, plain and simple. Every last one of his brave warriors was a dead man. Naturally, he hoped one or two might escape in the confusion, but the possibility was unlikely. No, the Fist would make its final stand at Kalad Tol and pray history looked back kindly.
Pharanx Gorg regretted it all.
He glanced about, ensuring the rest of his squadrons were in sleek V formations of six each. Each rider was grim faced with determination. Sacks of explosive powders some claimed were created by ancient sorcerers in the dark corners of the world draped from the dactyls. Pharanx wasn’t interested in where they were discovered. All he needed to know was that they were highly potent and effective with devastating results. Moncrieff’s army had no idea the nightmares it was about to undergo.
Pharanx tossed his head back and bellowed. His long black top knot trailed behind. Dawn was breaking, the red sun crisp against the dark horizon. The enemy army was fixed on the fortress, ignoring their rear and the sky. The Fist was about to make them pay for that error. Spying the massive scaling towers, Pharanx signaled for the attack. The army of Aradain was little more than one massive shadow in the fading night. Campfires illuminated the area enough to give the dactyls a target. Pharanx cracked a shallow smile. Corso and Moncrieff had played their hand too early.
The Fist dove.
Wings tucked back, the dactyls screamed down on the unsuspecting army. There was no air power in Malweir, giving the army no cause to look up before the explosive sacks rained down on the engineer site. A catapult burst into flames. Wood and metal shattered through tents and flesh. Men screamed. The ground trembled. Soldiers raced to extinguish the flames, but it was for naught. Two dozen more explosions ripped through the camp. Bodies and engines were torn apart without ceremony.
The sickly sweet smell of freshly spilled blood traced the air. Soldiers abandoned their posts in order to find cover, any cover. There was none. After the first pass, all of the scaling towers were in flames and half of the catapults. By the time the Fist were out of ammunition, only a single catapult remained. Acrid smoke poured into the sky in great funnels, blocking the withdrawing dactyls.
Moncrieff stalked through the wreckage of his army. His face burned the deepest crimson. Never before had he been embarrassed so on the battlefield. The sheer weight of destruction here was unheard of. He knew of two things capable of doing this: dragons and elder sorcery. He carefully stepped over body parts and impact craters. He couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Couldn’t wrap his mind around the facts.
“General,” his adjutant saluted. The man was out of breath and in disarray.
Moncrieff took the man in. Blood splattered the front of his tunic, though he appeared unharmed. “What?”
“I have initial casualty reports.”
Some of his anger faded. “Give them to me.”
The adjutant cleared his throat. He was more nervous now than during the attack. “More than four hundred are believed dead. Eight hundred more were wounded. The surgeons believe another hundred in that figure won’t last the day. Most of the siege engines are inoperable. Our engineers are trying to piece together what they can but aren’t having much luck.”
Moncrieff held up a hand. “How soon will we be ready to lay siege to those scum in the fortress?”
“With minimal casualties to the infantry? No sooner than a day.”
“Captain, this day has barely begun, and we’ve already lost almost a third of our combat power. You dare tell me all we can do is build campfires and stare at the enemy? Unacceptable.”
The adjutant stammered, “B…but sir, we’re in no position to lay siege!”
Moncrieff raged, “Damn the siege! I want every last man inside that fortress dead! Do you hear me? No one walks out of there alive.”
“Sir, there might be unarmed combatants inside.”
The general paused as brief conflict trembled his face. He swallowed hard, and it was with great personal regret that he replied, “Not anymore there aren’t.”
He resumed his march through the carnage. Every corpse was personal. A friend. Son. Father. Those godless mercenaries had casually ended their lives without honor. A sick feeling spread through his stomach. Moncrieff wasn’t prone to thoughts of vengeance, but today was different. He cursed the king for being so weak and Corso for being greedy. Whoever won this battle, the day would end badly for both sides. He knew what he had to do but was reluctant.
“Your orders, sir?”
Moncrieff almost smiled. His adjutant had been around him long enough to recognize his moods. “Summon Jestis. I have a mission for his commando squads.”
“Yes, General.”
Moncrieff stood alone again on the crowded battlefield. Surrounded by frantic men and havoc, he’d never felt this isolated in his life. He hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.
FIFTY-TWO
Gessun Thune
“It’s time.”
Kavan heard the horns blaring from the southern end of the encampment. He climbed out of his sleeping bag and stretched off the stiffness from the night. Muscles hardened from decades of battle flushed the sleep away. He felt tired, despite all of his experiences. A lingering sense of dread hung in the back of his mind like a miasmatic cloud. He’d never felt so desperate before. The oracle’s words were strong yet left him with grave doubts.
He wasn’t a leader. He knew that. A solitary man, Kavan couldn’t help but wonder if he was up to the task. Aphere was more than capable, confident in her abilities. She, out of them all, felt the oracle’s inspiration. He envied her. She had a brand of faith he would never possess. Perhaps it was the mutation of her blood bond. Pirneon certainly seemed convinced. His anger and disapproval had slowly fed into an undercurrent of hatred towards her. Kavan scoffed. If faith kept her going, who was he to argue against it?
Aphere emerged from her tent, yawning. “What’s happening?”
Her eyes were bloodshot. Kavan regarded her in new light. He respected her more. He also knew that he needed her more than either of them could guess.
“I think the hunt is beginning,” he replied.
Mabane had heard the horns in his sleep. The sounds produced volatile memories. He awoke in cold sweat. The Vengeance Knights watched him closely. If he was going to break and run, now was the time.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
His
shoulders trembled. “Those horns.”
“Yes. An official party comes,” Kavan replied.
“I know.”
It suddenly dawned on Kavan that they’d been forgetting the one important piece of the puzzle: Mabane. Kavan moved beside the one arm man.
“Mabane, listen to me,” he began. “We have sorely underestimated you. I have personally. For that, I apologize.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been the key to this quest the entire time, and only now do I realize it. You’ve done all of this before. The hunt, I mean. We should have been seeking your guidance from the start.”
Humorless laughter tainted his voice.
“How could we have missed that?” Aphere asked, the idea suddenly dawning on her.
Mabane wanted to cry. The last thing he expected was a confession of ignorance from two venerable warriors. Old fears tormented him, more so now that he was sober. He lacked personal courage necessary to enter this fight. His nerve was gone. A coward maybe, though not by his own choosing, Mabane knew it would take more than fanciful accolades to change his mind. Yet still….
“Yeah,” he said after calming down. “I’ve been here before. It’s all the same. All I see are dead men.”
“Dead men?”
He barked derisive laughter. “Every last one of us. Dead. All dead.”
“It doesn’t have to end this way. We can still find victory,” Aphere tried to sooth.
“How so?”
It was a tired conversation. The Gaimosians seemed to have a deep-rooted need to know they were doing the right thing, which he failed to understand. They’d become an insistent lot focused only on goals meeting their needs. In his mind, they were also naïve.
“Do you have any idea what’s going to happen next?”
Kavan struggled to contain his irritation. “We already know about the werebeasts in the pit. What we need to know is how to get in without being noticed. Tell us what happens in camp. How does the hunt begin?”
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