The smoke eventually settled and everything became much clearer.
William was right in the thick of it, lunging and weaving as a true swordsman. His strokes were so furious that he was dropping three of them at a time, with his feral face dripping red with the wastes of spent evil.
Brawling as avidly as he, Redmun was incorporating flashing streams of fire whenever he could, and, similar to the boy but on a grander scale, he smote dozens of foes by his hand alone. Gargling, gangling gangs would race in at him, yet before they could collide, he’d shower them in his flames, making them flail into hysteria, setting twenty more alight in the process. He slashed their numbers significantly with every blast. Before they knew it, they were treading over their charred corpses as the battle raged on.
Chaos reigned further by their sweeping strikes. Our heroes, who were encumbered by a vast mob of the most unforgiving evil, were actually opposing them with marvellous effect. Ifcus was bucking the faces off Hobgoblins. Crosco was entrapped within a lustful frenzy of most gruesome decapitations. It wouldn’t have been difficult to spot his whereabouts on the battlefield, what with it all of the heads raining down about him like popping kernels.
The girl and Icrick were combating away, back-to-back, relieving wrinkly little imps of their limbs to join those coaly hides upon the floor. Treating them like they were little more than wasps, the Grogoch also took to swatting away those mischievous Faeries whenever they swarmed in like hornets. Feisty little blighters, too. They may not have been very strong, but there were a great deal of them, and their sorcery of yellow fire bolts was extremely irritating. Not fatal, but dangerously distracting. Enough to drive anyone crackers when they were already busy trying to fend off much bigger opponents. Icrick and Wren, however, used this anger. Without it, it is very possible they mightn’t have proved fruitful at all.
Stell was outside the fight, defending his allies from higher ground. He was firing in so many arrows, at so rapid a rate, that his arm was almost a blur. He would have preferred to be in the thick of battle, but they needed support from up top, to pick off any stragglers or sneaky assassins.
Gremlins had begun casting in nasty little arrows of their own. Once Stell had gotten into the swing of things, all the nasty little arrows in the world wouldn’t have made any difference, for there was no foiling him. Gremlins were either being toasted or vine-strangled; spun into a gale, or smashed into a thousand tiny icicles by his magical bow. Any remaining Gremlins were left in a state of panic when they noticed their brethren dropping like filthy bluebottles around them. In their desperation, they started firing at will, at absolutely nothing. But thanks to Stell, their numbers were steadily diminishing.
Last of all were those unsightly, but amiable, giants. Two of them had perished at the hands of Croclins, yet four remained and were battling strong, of their own initiative. Their whooping swings were launching Ahueé and Glogs into oblivion; whose snapped limbs flopped as if on busted hinges.
The Ogres saw this and advanced. This changed the tides for those loyal cadavers of William. Bless their souls, they held those devils back, for a time, but the Ogres, along with their wild hounds, were too much for them. Next thing William knew, of his union, Crosco stood the tallest, now that the giants were no more. They tussled valiantly before falling, which left our band at a far better advantage than they would have been otherwise.
A riotous wind then suddenly befell them. William faced skyward only to sight Redmun’s great fireball boosting back down to earth, after accumulating into something massive.
“Perfect timing!” the Erethaoí hailed, having purposely unleashed this furious bombardment as a secondary support attack, amongst other reasons.
“Stand your ground,” he ordered, “all of you! Brace yourselves, and do not flee. For this is my fire, remember! It won’t cause you any harm. Them, on the other hand.”
That monstrous, blazing sphere pummelled down angrily, turning the russet ground crimson, as it closed in. The entire battlefield cowered to it. Everyone, that is, apart from the Erethaoí, who just stood there, eyes shut, arms out, wearing a calm smile. He may as well have been enjoying the cool showers of hot July.
It exploded to the ground, with a wailing ripple which ran down an entire third of Drevol’s army. Now that was something to be proud of. They were actually winning now. This took a lot out of Redmun, such that his wound started bleeding again and his legs started trembling. But he managed to keep up the fight, if only one enemy at a time.
Many foes remained. But of those many, most were scared out of their wits. And they weren’t the only ones.
Terrified of being browned to a crisp, whilst petrified of disengaging from the fight should he take an unexpected slap, Icrick swung away with his eyes shut. He wasn’t landing many. To tell you the truth, he landed none; and he was so confused that he ended up meandering off outside the action completely. Then stepping onto a bronze goblet, he slipped. The precious little bundle rocketed from the Symphogram, then trundled down a pile of trinkets into an open barrel with a dunking splosh. Khrum, in his ill state, could easily have drowned in that barrel, so Icrick sprinted to his aid. His dread then struck new boundaries when he saw the cliffs breathing with hundreds of hideous cannibal men who were crawling down, headlong, like locusts.
The Grogoch slid up to that dusty old cask. He was whimpering and pleading that his dear chum would be unscathed, and that they could escape those cannibals in time. But as soon as he studied the label, he wasn’t long scrambling away again. One would’ve assumed a bomb to be ticking inside. Suddenly, the barrel kicked. And again. And once more after that. Soon it was rattling ‘n’ rocking, so aggressively, that the contents were sloshing out over the sides.
By any chance, do you know what the cask contained? What it contained was ‘Smythie & Samun’s Old Winter’s Malt.’ And do you know who Silfun Smythie and Syró Samun were? Only two of the most prestigious whisky distillers in the history of all Lythiann. In some counties, of the darker ages, their exquisite drop was considered even more valuable than gold; only for it to end up here, a mere surplus offering to an ungrateful deity of sin. But the whisky’s price was of little significance here. It was its effects that were of graver import, above all to our little Icrick.
As that was going on, another dreadful turn was transpiring a way off. Carrying a symphony of redoubtable shrieks, of such could harden dripping magma to basalt, a fresh swarm of evil flooded in, from the eastern passage this time. Flying demons, no less. The Dearg Due, to be exact, and our group were all well aware of what they were when they perceived their witchly cries behind them.
What were the Dearg Due, you ask? Well, I’m confident you’ve heard of the vampire? The Dearg Due were, likewise, of the Celtic variety of night-stalker. This female fraternity of the undead, who were often inseparable, would embark during a full moon to hunt out and drain their victims of scarlet life (all bar the one Dearg Due—Rethian Lorhóyd—who helped in the escape of—well—you may learn all about her noble ventures in another tale). Whilst dangerous in their own right, toadying cowards they remained, irksomely loyal to anyone more powerful than they.
Entirely naked, with the exception of draped waists, these scarlet-skinned demons, whose frayed wings fanned afar, soared across between the pikes and banners of the battle, venomously bearing fang with cutting stares aglow as their snow-white hair carried the wind. Beautiful, in a way, and yet altogether haunting. Nor did it change the fact that they were out for blood, as were the other army of twelve hundred who happened to be marching in behind them. More Ogres. More Gremlins. More Hounds. More Rooglés. More Merrows. And more dreaded Ahueé. An army four times larger than the last, and counting.
For every hundred killed another two hundred seemed to take their place. When this dawned on our heroes, they had a good mind to drop their swords and surrender. Nor could they be judged for it. Be that as it may, they didn’t admit defeat. They couldn’t. For they stood just as much a chance o
f survival by fending them off as they would’ve in handing themselves over. A noble choice, but it didn’t help them feel any less scared. So they readied themselves and charged in.
One particular Dearg Due spotted the stray of William’s herd, and flew straight after him, unbeknown to the little calf himself.
Claws splayed out, she came riding down at Icrick with an alerting screech. This caught his attention so that he screeched, and farted, and faded inadvertently in return. The she-demon was so close to plucking him up that all he could think to do was hide his face. But as she swooped over, the barrel beneath her exploded, liberating a gigantic, grunting shadow, and through the dissipating drizzle, a monster so formidable was exposed. Breathing so intensely that his massive shoulders heaved, this thing retained the appearance of a thirteen-hundred-pound ape, had he only been covered in black hair and not just a ginger beard. This titan, although somewhat portly, was forged of brute muscle; his attire torn asunder, but for his special leprechaun trousers.
The ten-foot goliath ousted a kingly roar, grabbed the she-demon before she could flap away, bit her head off, and then spat it out like a bottle cork.
“Whew!” Icrick gasped, swabbing his forehead. “I never thought I’d say this, but am I glad to see you again. It’s been a while. Four, maybe five winters? An age, either way.”
Clearly the giant was unable to speak words, so he shouted at Icrick instead, blowing his fur back with a foul wind. A grumpy fellow, whatever was wrong with him. Needless to say, he remained fairly placid in the Grogoch’s company, if only for a time. Leprechauns can be hard to trust with whisky in them.
“Now-now!” Icrick countered, wagging his finger at him. “Don’t be like that! I was looking after you all this time. I would’ve tended to your wounds sooner if only I’d had the chance, or the provisions, for that matter. But you’re all better now, so what of it? Mind you, perhaps that little incident with the Slingtail will teach you a thing or two about not being so bloody careless in future! Eh, Khrum?”
The leprechaun snorted grumpily and took it no further. Icrick knew his way around him. He then picked the Grogoch up by the scruff of the neck, and sat him on his shoulder.
“Good show!” said the Grogoch, settling himself in, having sat there many times before. “Lesson learnt. That’s what I like to hear. Good to have you back, old friend.”
Studying the field, he went on, “Well now, what have we here? This army seems to have tripled since last I saw it, so what say you have yourself another quick snifter, and then do what you do best, for old time’s sake? Dare I say, it could even be fun!”
He didn’t need to be told. The powerful Khrum was already guzzling down his third cask. With a content lick of his beardy lips, he broke the barrel over a cannibal’s head—all of whom had since cowered upon his arrival and were trying to sneak around him—and galloped into the eye of battle, making patties of the other flesh-eaters as he trampled over them. Best of all, he was enjoying it. Three arrows had struck him in the back but they were mere pins to him, nothing more.
William couldn’t figure out what was transpiring. Rows of enemies were being tossed through the air around him, Ogres and all. Whatever the cause, it was clearly of greater might than they. Wren then discerned, through the crowd, a Grogoch yahooing on the leprechaun’s back.
“Look at our Khrum go!” she cheered, with a spluttering Merrow in a choke hold. “He must’ve found himself a drop of the good stuff. Holy mackerel! At this rate, he could take the entire army on, single-handedly. We could just sit back and enjoy the show. Imagine if we had fifty of them!”
“Some strength, indeed!” The Head agreed, yet wary still, he pointed out, “Nevertheless, leprechauns are known to be extremely unstable with a snort in them, are they not? So let’s hope he keeps fighting for the right side.”
The clash between good and evil ploughed on. Only this time, Drevol’s army exhausted most of their time dodging that great ramming bull, which stood to reason, given how he was crushing every nasty little sprite into slime; even plucking Dearg Due from the air so he could use their heads for spit-balls.
They were doing well. Holding their own. But merely surviving wasn’t enough. Our courageous few were still outnumbered, and it wouldn’t be long before Drevol’s armies had swelled beyond victory.
“We need to retreat, while we have the chance!” Redmun ordered, falling back. “To the eastern corridor! Get that leprechaun’s attention! I know how we could put him to better use. I just hope it works!”
They slipped away from the fight and followed him to the eastern passage. Of crude stone, this natural gateway created a bottleneck into the adjoining dome of Briggun’s courtyard.
William, whose pace was still shackled by his injury, couldn’t refuse a glance over his shoulder. A black horizon of spears were chasing them down. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands.
The second they arrived at the corridor, whose foggy heights were littered with more tarnished chains and weathered scaffolding, Redmun uttered, in something of a resolute tone, “Leprechaun! Grab those chains and rip down those walls at once, do you hear? They come at us like water, then we shall build a dam!”
His intentions were good. However, it would be the last time he would ever address an overgrown leprechaun like that again.
Taking no such orders from someone whom he had no true concerns for, in his given state, Khrum charged, full force, at the Erethaoí. Redmun ignited his fists, when the creature slewed to a peculiar standstill.
Icrick had suddenly appeared in front of him, his arms outstretched, and with a strict look on his face.
“Khrum! Behave!” he warned. “Sure ‘tis no wonder you leprechauns hardly have a friend to share between ye when you’re in this…this ‘Whisky Mood,’ or whatever you want to call it! You need to learn to control yourselves, or your habit! One or the other!”
Khrum actually struck them as being somewhat embarrassed after being given out to like that.
“No offence, Redmun,” said the Grogoch, “but he probably won’t listen to you. Not when he’s like this, at any rate. Not one for taking orders from strangers, really. Nor is he the sharpest tool in the box, while in this form. Plans need to be explained very carefully to him. Brain of a two-year-old, they say…when whisky’s involved. Perhaps I should try. He may just listen to me, maybe.”
Icrick approached the leprechaun, glared him dead in the eye, and spoke as if addressing deaf ears, complete with hand gestures: “We…neeed…you…to…cre-ate…a…barri-cade, Khrum. Do…you…under-stand? A barr-i-cade! Big…fence! Hard…to…get…over! Even…harder…to…get…through! You…with…me?
To…do…this…we…neeed…you…to…pull…on…these…chains…so…that…the…walls…coll-apse! You…know? Fall…dooown! Like…an…old…tree! Eeeer-psssh! Rock…is…old…and…probably…quite…weak! Would…you…be…so…kind…as…to…help…us?”
It took Khrum a moment to comprehend all of this complicated stuff. This didn’t sit well with William and the Dullahan. For the ground was rumbling around them now; only getting louder. But what were they to do? Tell Khrum to hurry it up? I think not.
After poring over it a few more times…bingo…Khrum had finally grasped the plan and consented with an eager nod, followed by a filthy belch.
“Beauuutiful.” muttered the sulking Head, receiving an evil eye from the leprechaun, which shut his smart gob for him fairly lively.
Giving him some room, they ran into the courtyard side of the entrance.
Khrum grabbed a fistful of chains in both hands and wrapped them around his knuckles. The demon army were gaining fast. He could practically see the whites of their eyes.
He discharged such a monstrous growl that it howled down the oncoming force, and, demonstrating amazing strength, he pulled the chains taut. Both walls of the corridor splintered, but they did not crumble.
Khrum’s arms bulged. Sweat poured off him by the bucketful. Yet he didn’t tire there. No. The
fact that these ancient walls seemed to, on some level, test his patience, was enough to make him even stronger, such that he started yanking on them brutishly, giving them slack, then yanking on them again, like a bound monster trying to free itself.
More and more rocks hurtled downward, but not as many as they would have liked.
Icrick said worriedly, “He hasn’t got enough time…” when the opposing forces, now ten times stronger, embarked on their final sprint.
“Khrum!” he beckoned. “One…more…try…then…leave…it! There’s…nothing…more…you…can…do…here! You’ve…done…very…well…though! I’m…very…proud…of…you!”
Khrum considered the Grogoch’s wishes, but was too proud to give in, so he gave one almighty heave. As chance would have it, one of the supporting boulders, long in shape, came roaring down, with several more like it thereafter. Khrum’s tug was so powerful that even his chains broke, throwing him backwards, nearly knocking everyone down. But what a fantastic result it was, to see those boulders tumbling down into a beautiful pileup of dust.
An inventive plan, well improvised, but overall a disaster. That same swallowing cloud of dust not only impeded their sense of escape, but also offered cover to those who managed to slip past the cave-in. Several hundred of the brutes. Those slippery shades emerged from the cloud, one at a time, to stand unbeaten before them. Mainly hounds, Ahueé, and those malformed cannibals. Anything with wings was otherwise hovering above our fellowship, who were all laying there, a shrunken leprechaun in their midst.
Having perspired so abundantly during his all-out tug-of-war, little Khrum had sweat the drink from his system and was now in a heap on the ground, nursing possibly the world’s worst hangover.
The Other of One: Book Two Page 60