The first row of Tarthuns came around the corner. They never saw the dwarves hiding in the dark before the cavedogs tore them down. Startled, the second row tried to run backward, but the pressing throng pushed them into the cavedogs’ waiting jaws. Faengoril whistled, calling the cavedogs back. Then the dwarves fired their crossbows to cover their mounts as the animals rushed back to them.
Enraged, the Tarthuns shouted and fired their bows. This time, one of the cavedogs went down with several arrows riddling its back. The rider was able to double-up with another dwarf.
“You steer and I will shoot!” he shouted. The group raced down the cave, firing their crossbows and trying to duck clumsy arrows as they hurried toward the next bend, which also was narrower and would bottleneck the invading enemy.
Luckily, even with the torches the Tarthuns were unable to clearly identify their targets when they aimed their bows. The dwarves, on the other hand were just as comfortable in the darkness as they would be on the open fields. Almost every crossbow shot hit its mark.
They continued on like this for several hundred yards, stopping at turns or behind rock outcroppings to antagonize the horde. The Tarthuns were playing right into their hands. They had already passed two of the trigger points, and there was no sign that the Tarthuns were slowing.
As the riders ran out of their crossbow bolts, they rounded the first defensive blockade. The dwarves there not only prepared their own shots, they tossed new quivers to the riders.
When the Tarthuns came into view they were met with a wall of biting steel teeth flying through the air. Shouts and shrieks filled the cave. The Tarthuns grouped into formations and fired back. The dwarves ducked behind the blockade, waiting for the arrows to stop so they could fire another volley. The arrows plinked and tinked off the blockade, bouncing over the dwarves or back up the cave. The arrows came incessantly. Faengoril looked to the others and realized that the Tarthuns were rotating their shots in order to keep up a steady volley to suppress the dwarves.
Unfortunately, he didn’t realize this until it was too late.
The arrows stopped right as Faengoril started to shout his order, but he never got the chance. No sooner had the arrows stopped than a wave of Tarthun warriors leapt over the barricade, hacking down with their spears and axes. Faengoril caught a spear in the chest. The point didn’t pierce his armor, but the force of the blow knocked him to the ground. Faengoril’s lizard snapped its jaws around the attacker’s leg at the knee. The bone crunched amidst a spray of blood and then the real fighting began.
“Footmen out!” Faengoril shouted. “Drop the ceiling!”
This was the order to spring a trap that had been set at this first blockade. A lever clicked off to the side and a series of pikes and sharpened branches dropped down from the ceiling, angled at the oncoming enemy. Each of the points had been crafted to stop just a few inches above a dwarf’s height, thus placing it squarely in a Tarthun’s chest without hindering any of the dwarves as they retreated from the first blockade.
The anguished screams blotted out all of Faengoril’s following orders. The riders stayed with him, firing their crossbows from a few yards beyond the pikes and shouting at the dwarves on foot to get out of the cave as fast as they could.
Many dwarves fell, but most were able to escape. The riders picked up the last few stragglers and made a dash for the next blockade.
The next station would afford them better odds, Faengoril knew. The dwarves there had fashioned fake walls and rigged them to create miniature cave-ins. This time he knew to trigger the trap shortly after the arrows began flying.
As they cleared the next set of traps, the other dwarves were already standing atop the next blockade and aiming over Faengoril and the other riders. The crossbows began firing before Faengoril and the others reached the blockade. The dwarf commander cast a glance over his shoulder and saw the Tarthuns close on their heels. Many of them slipped and tripped in the trenches and pits still, but the horde as a whole was moving much faster now, infuriated by the dwarves’ assault.
Arrows flew back. Two riders went down as arrows found their mark between the plates of armor and also stabbed through their lizards. Still, they couldn’t stop until after they rounded the blockade. Faengoril ordered the riders to fire their crossbows again. Now it seemed as if the Tarthuns were unstoppable. They went down by the dozens, but each corpse only barely hit the ground before being swallowed in a wave of angry Tarthuns.
A pair of dwarves fell from the blockade, looking like pincushions as they hit the stone with a plethora of arrows protruding from their chests. Faengoril cursed the Tarthuns and ordered the next retreat.
A stout dwarf at the far end of the blockade pulled a heavy lever with the help of two more dwarves. A flash of sparks blasted out into the cavern as rocks exploded out from the walls and crushed a huge number of the enemy.
Even that was not enough to stop them.
Faengoril grabbed a pair of warriors and shoved them forward as he ordered the retreat again.
The riders stood their ground, firing crossbows until their quivers ran dry. Then they turned and brought up the rear. Arrows rained down all around them. Faengoril was hit a few times, but they were glancing shots that ricocheted off his armor. The next bend in the tunnel was closer, and soon the dwarves were out of range.
The group raced toward the third and final blockade which was near the mouth of the cave. Faengoril shouted to the dwarves to run and abandon their blockade. None of the dwarves moved. Instead they clambered atop the blockade and prepared to fire.
“Run, you stubborn fools!”
The thundering Tarthuns rounded the corner. Their torches illuminated the cavern. The dwarves atop the blockade waited for a few moments longer and then fired their deadly bolts. Arrows pelted the retreating dwarves from behind, spurring them faster through the cave.
Only when Faengoril passed the edge of the blockade did the other dwarves turn to retreat. They all coursed out over the shallow water. There were no trenches or pits dug here. They had actually worked to level this area somewhat in order to facilitate their own escape.
“We won’t make it out,” one of the riders called out.
Faengoril turned to see the Tarthuns were only about forty yards behind them. At that moment an arrow sailed just by his face and sunk deeply into the base of his cavedog’s neck. The animal went down and Faengoril tumbled across the wet stone, barely able to stop himself. A second later a pair of hands reached down and plucked him up by the armpits. Two riders flanked him. Each one held one of Faengoril’s arms, half dragging him out of the cave as he furiously pumped his legs as best he could until finally the two riders maneuvered close enough to sit him behind of them.
As they hurried out from the cave, Faengoril noticed that the Tarthuns were slowing down. The cave was narrowing again, forming a natural bottleneck and the dwarves were much better equipped to navigate the treacherous path in the darkness.
A few minutes later Faengoril hopped off the back of the cavedog as they emerged from the cave. A group of dwarves ringed the exit, spears and crossbows at the ready just in case any enemy Tarthuns escaped before the cave-in.
Faengoril reached down to his hip for the horn. His stout fingers only grasped an empty chain where the horn had previously been attached.
“Blow the horn!” someone shouted.
Faengoril sprang into action. He yanked the nearest rider from his mount and charged into the tunnel. “Spear!” he called out.
A nearby soldier tossed his spear to Faengoril.
Faengoril urged his cavedog as fast as its four legs would carry it. The shallow water splashed up and the beast’s mighty tail swished side to side.
“Come on, run!” Faengoril growled. He rounded the nearest corner, scouring the stone floor for the gold encrusted horn. The thundering footsteps were growing ever closer. The orange and red light of the many torches grew brighter upon the walls. Still, Faengoril could not see his horn. If it had bro
ken from his belt when he had fallen, there would be no way he could reach it in time. If it had fallen even farther back during battle, then the cave-in would never be summoned. The plan would fail.
His army of several hundred could not possibly hold off seven thousand at the cave’s entrance.
He rounded a bend and saw the first couple Tarthuns sprinting around a corner roughly one hundred yards away. His heart sank. Two of the Tarthuns stopped and knelt as they drew back their bowstrings. Their torchlight pierced the darkness enough for them to spot him. They took aim.
Just then a glint caught his eye. There, off near the wall sat the gold encrusted horn. He pushed his cavedog toward it.
Arrows sailed toward him. He hunkered down and tried to cover his lizard, hoping his armor could protect both of them. One arrow sailed by harmlessly, and the other bounced off his back. Faengoril smiled, but his mirth was short-lived as row after row of Tarthun rounded the corner. A dozen archers now knelt, spanning the breadth of the cave. A dozen more stood behind them with their bows. The chances of reaching the horn were slim at best. Faengoril took a mental note of where the horn sat, and then watched the archers as he charged on.
Bowstrings snapped into place and arrows took flight. Faengoril let out a hopeful shout as his cavedog galloped forward. A second volley of arrows followed the first. Black streaks filled the air in the cave. Then, at the last second the dwarf commander leapt from his mount, tucking and rolling across the stone toward the wall.
The squealing shriek emitted from the cavedog he had just betrayed pained him, but he knew there was no other way. He didn’t bother to look back at the arrow-riddled animal. There was no need. He sprinted for the horn and blew long and hard. Cracking and exploding rock shattered out around him. A great rumble shook the ground. A volley of arrows struck all around him. A few bounced off his armor, but there were a few points that found his flesh.
He groaned and leaned back against the wall. He put the horn to his lips and blew one more long, loud blast. He knew the trigger had already been sprung, but he wanted the dwarves outside to hear him, and know that all had worked out in the end.
Rocks crumbled all around, and Faengoril closed his eyes and waited for the mountain to take him. It was a fitting death for a dwarf.
*****
Lepkin leaned heavily on the spear shaft. His heart pounded in his chest and his shoulders ached with fatigue. His forearms burned and cool, stinging sweat dripped into his eyes. He clumsily wiped the liquid away and surveyed the forest around him. Bodies littered the ground. The smell of blood filled the air. Some of the fallen were eerily propped against a tree, or tangled in a bush. Human bodies mingled with those of orcs and goarg. It had not been easy, but they had triumphed over the latest group of skirmishers sent to pursue them.
He looked down, letting his eyes follow the spear he leaned upon until it abruptly disappeared into an orc’s chest. Fright and anger were still painted upon the orc’s twisted features. Instead of anger, he felt pity and sorrow for the corpse beneath his feet. For a moment he wondered whether the orc had a wife. Perhaps she was safe back at home, with a young orc growing within her belly. Even without a wife, the orc most certainly had a father and a mother.
Lepkin sighed and yanked his spear free of the orc. He turned away from the dead orc and pushed the empathy out of his mind. It was dangerous to allow such feelings to control one’s mind, Lepkin knew. The orcs sought conquest. Lepkin wanted only to protect and defend his homeland. There was no allowance for forgiveness. The enemy had to be driven back. Despite all of the lessons he had given to Erik to the contrary, Lepkin would need to put away his mercy. Now it was time to be a dragon at heart, and not just in form.
“Master Lepkin,” a voice called out from nearby. Lepkin looked up to see Virgil Gothbern, one of the dragon slayers. “Shall we put the orc heads on spikes to deter them from following us?”
Others nearby twisted their faces in disgust. Lepkin paused for a moment and considered it. It was a brutal tactic, but it had its place on the battle field. Still, Lepkin knew it was not a tactic that would stop the orcs.
“In order for a monster to frighten a man, there must be a heart within the man,” Lepkin answered. He shook his head. “Such ploys have little, if any, effect on the orcs.”
“We should do something,” Virgil pressed.
Lepkin nodded. “I agree.” He gestured to the men around and then pointed up at the nearest tree. “Let’s clear a swath of forest. Drop every tree from this one to five hundred yards north. Then we move east and west to create an open area.”
“We don’t have the time,” one of the soldiers commented.
“The orcs are done for today. If there is another raiding party we will be more ready for them than if we just continue to flee northward without preparing the field a bit in our favor.”
“How far out to the east and west?” Virgil asked.
Lepkin folded his arms. “One thousand yards in each direction from where I stand. We will fell and limb each tree. Then, we will pile the logs along the southern edge, forming a loose wall of logs between us and the orcs. The branches we will pile at the outer base of this wall.”
“That would only slow them a little,” Virgil pointed out. “Goargs could easily skirt around the sides of such a construct.”
Lepkin nodded knowingly and turned to glance over his shoulder. “That is why when the piles of branches are set in place we are going to light them. We are going to burn the forest to the ground. The orcs may be fierce, but they can’t walk through fire.”
Murmurs rose up among the soldiers, but Lepkin clapped his hands and pointed to the men. “Use axes if we have them, or swords if you must, but get the job done. The clear band will give us enough time to move northward before the fire spreads around the gap we will create.”
Lepkin wasted no time pulling a battle axe from a fallen orc and moving to the large aspen tree. The first swing broke the bark and wedged the blade inside the moist wood. He wiggled the axe back and forth to free it and then took another swing. This time bits of wood exploded out. The others realized he was more than serious and began their work as well. The chorus of chip-chop whop-whack played through the forest as the army cut through the trees. Each one that fell was cleaned of its limbs in minutes and then whisked away to form part of the two thousand yard wall.
The men toiled until the light had vanished from the sky. They had cleared most of the area and were all exhausted. They set watchmen and ate their supper, which consisted mostly of berries and mushrooms gathered from the forest during their flight away from Ten Forts.
Lepkin went without any food. There was little to go around, and he refused to eat unless all the others were filled first. He rested with his back against the log wall and let sleep take over his body. It hardly seemed like more than a blink to him before the first rays of light played upon his face and woke him.
He moved slowly, still achy from the day before. Others in the camp were beginning to stir as well. Lepkin was thankful that the night had been peaceful. As for the day, there was no guarantee that another band of orcs wouldn’t show up at any moment.
Lepkin stood and walked into the clearing. He surveyed the swath of clear-cut land carefully and then moved to a still-burning camp fire. He put some more wood into the fire to keep it going and then woke the soldiers nearby.
“Get up, wake the others. We will set fire to the forest now.”
The soldiers nodded and sprinted off through the camp. Before long, Virgil approached.
“Will we have enough buffer to protect us from the fire as we continue our retreat?” He asked.
Lepkin nodded. “We should be alright. Have them light the fires every ten feet along the wall. Once a good blaze is going, then we make haste to rejoin with the others in Stonebrook.”
Within minutes the crackling flames were taking hold of the branches and logs piled against the forest. The flames began to spread to nearby deadwood along the forest
floor and expand out to the south. Smoke rose up into the sky and logs popped and creaked as the orange and red flames consumed them.
The soldiers quickly gathered their belongings and made their way northward as the fire furiously roared south. No orcs would be able to follow them until the blaze had run its course.
CHAPTER FOUR
King Mathias stroked his long, white beard and looked out over the assembly hall. Rows of wooden seats were filled as noble families streamed in. Senator Mickelson sat to Mathias’ right, ticking off names on a long list as people arrived.
King Mathias noted Lady Lokton and her man-servant were in attendance. She was dressed in a flowing yellow gown, though she made the effort to cover her face with a dark veil. She nodded slightly to him. The old king returned the gesture and then continued to watch as people filtered in. To his delight, most families were represented in the meeting. He even saw Lady Cedreau enter the meeting hall. She stopped briefly to speak with Lady Lokton, and then the two of them sat down together.
“I would not have imagined they would wish to speak with each other,” Mickelson commented as he ticked off House Cedreau on his list.
King Mathias cleared his throat and leaned over so as to keep his comment between the two of them. “Both women have seen their houses torn apart. Where men might continue to uphold a feud between houses, women have more sense than that when presented with outside dangers. That is why both houses have pledged their warriors to my service. When this is over I doubt they shall ever speak to each other again, but until then I dare say that House Lokton and House Cedreau will unite against every enemy that threatens either house until we have restored peace.”
Mickelson didn’t respond. He shrugged and went back to his list. After the doors were closed, the guards moved in to block the doors. Two more remained in place behind King Mathias, as Mickelson insisted.
“I do not see Lord Finorel,” King Mathias said. “Did you mark him down as present on your list?”
Return of the Dragon (The Dragon's Champion Book 6) Page 4