Tides of Blood and Steel

by Christian Warren Freed

  “Mahn!” he cried.

  Any hope of victory crumbled. Fighting on the barricade had devolved into hand-to-hand. Several Goblins were already among his ranks. The defense was failing.

  Mahn raced over and grabbed the prince roughly by his armor. “We need to leave. Now!”

  “No. I’m not about to leave my men like this.”

  “Don’t be a fool. We are lost and I am not going to be the one to tell your father I got his son killed in some damned fool operation that was doomed from the start.”

  He shoved Aurec back. Men died all around them. More Goblins broke through.

  Manzo slashed his sword across a Goblin’s throat. Ropes of blood danced through the air. “He’s right, sire. I can handle this. Get out while you still can.”

  Aurec finally conceded. “All right. Withdraw the archers and fall back. I will see you in the castle.”

  They fought their way through the chaos in the vain hopes of surviving this long night. Aurec wanted to vomit. So much destruction. Bodies fell entwined in death struggles. Goblin and Men, Lord Death did not discriminate.

  “Do you have any idea what you did?” Stelskor scolded.

  His voice bordered on rage. Aurec and Mahn stood humbly in front of their king. Their heads hung low, embarrassed.

  “Father, it was all my fault,” Aurec said.

  “Aurec, you are the heir to the throne. What right do you have to throw away your life so recklessly? Again we have the same conversation. You are the son of kings, not some base soldier from common blood.”

  “I understand that.”

  Stelskor slammed an old fist on the arm of the throne. “Then start acting like it!”

  Admonished, the prince held his tongue. He couldn’t keep his thoughts from drifting back to the men who fought and died desperately trying to hold the line.

  “How many casualties?” Stelskor quietly asked.

  “Forty-three dead and close to one hundred wounded. Twelve are missing,” Mahn reported.

  “They are as good as dead. Goblins do not take prisoners.”

  Mahn reluctantly agreed. “Matters are worse than just numbers.”

  Stelskor couldn’t see how that was possible. “How so?”

  “The enemy is using poisoned weapons and appear to have a coordinated plan. The Wolfsreik hasn’t attacked yet. The Goblins knew what they were doing.”

  “We are in more trouble than I thought if this is true. How did Badron come into an alliance with these creatures?” He paced to the huge window overlooking the ruins of his city. The enemy was already at the river. That thin sliver of water and a wall was all that remained between life and death.

  “The engineers are almost finished digging the escape tunnels. We should be able to evacuate those who are still breathing when the castle falls,” he told them.

  Aurec summoned the courage to speak. “How long can we expect to withstand a siege?”

  “As long as need be,” his father said sharply. “Our first priority has to be the wounded. The sooner we get them safely to Grunmarrow the better.”

  “Who stays to command the final defense?” Mahn asked.

  Gone was the simple scout. Only Stelskor knew Mahn had once been a fine general. One of his last wishes during command had been that no one learned the truth, not even Aurec. Mahn wanted to live the remainder of his days in a simple fashion. Fate intervened to shatter those dreams.

  Stelskor held a twinkle in his eyes. “The time is not yet, but I have several potential commanders picked out.”

  The prince felt like he was missing a vital part of their conversation. Mahn was an exceptional scout and a good friend and mentor, but he certainly wasn’t the confidant of a king. It didn’t add up.

  Mahn knew better than to press. Instead he decided to change the subject and excuse himself. “Sire, I need to see to my scouts. Several were wounded during the last skirmish.”

  “Of course,” Stelskor said and sighed. “We will have need of them soon enough. Please pass the word that I shall be making my rounds in the infirmary shortly.”

  He waited for Mahn to close the door behind him before turning to face Aurec. “What is it going to take to make you understand how important you are to our future?”

  Aurec struggled with shame. “I do not know, Father. It seems as if all of my decisions lately have been wrong. I feel lost somehow.”

  The king was replaced by the father who tended to Aurec’s scrapes and bruises when he was but a child. “It is natural to go through times of doubt. The measure of a man is how well he pulls through them.”

  “I have tried, but even I can’t see how we are going to survive.”

  A tear escaped his tired eyes. Father hugged his son.

  “I don’t either, son. I don’t either.”

  Raste hadn’t stopped trying to rub the blood from his hands since he dropped down exhausted next to the small fire. Soldiers passed him without regard. They had their own miseries to contend with. Wars changed men forever. Many already had nightmares from the opening days of siege. Raste knew that many of those same men had resigned themselves to death. Others moved about with a distant look in their eyes. Still more were reduced to hollow shells of what they could have been. Those men were quickly taken away so their condition did not affect the others. Such was war.

  “Try dirt,” Manzo said from behind.

  The older warrior pulled up a stool and dropped down. His upper right arm was drenched with drying blood.

  Raste didn’t bother to look up. “How is your arm?”

  “Just a scratch. I’ve had worse, believe me. Besides, the Goblin who did it got the worst of it. Ha!”

  The scout tried to smile but discovered he no longer had it in him.

  Manzo noticed it with concern. “You have got to learn to let go, boy. What’s done is done. The best thing for it is to get a bite to eat, wash it down with some good ale, and then sleep it off. Tomorrow the fight begins all over again.”

  The advice was sound enough, though Raste had never experienced a real battle before. All of the skirmishes and raids combined were nothing compared to the horrors of a prolonged siege. He had watched too many friends die. Screams from the wounded kept him up at night. The smell of burnt bodies poisoned his stomach. Raste knew he was not strong enough to keep going.

  “Why dirt?” he asked after a long period of silence.

  Manzo barked a jovial laugh. Raste’s cheeks flushed crimson, but he still snatched up a handful of loose dirt and started to rub.

  “I like you, boy. Mahn’s trained you well,” Manzo said approvingly.

  “There is no way he could have prepared me for this. How do you do it?”

  “I was born for it.”

  Raste couldn’t tell if he was joking or not and decided not to call him on it. Drums began to beat in the city ruins. Men wearily rose and grabbed their weapons.

  “It looks like we’re not going to be getting much sleep tonight,” Manzo said. His voice snapped with a snarl.

  Raste resisted the urge to hang his head. Instead he snatched up his sword and followed Manzo to the wall.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Siege Intensifies

  Rogscroft burned. The sound was deafening. The smell of putrid death clung to the air with a pall of misery. Casualties were everywhere and mounting. Massed ranks of Goblins lined the far riverbank firing poisoned arrows at the castle defenders. Burning pitch and fragments of brimstone fell down on them as the Wolfsreik bombardment soared overhead to crash into the castle. Thick plumes of black smoke billowed up. It was a vision of hell. An occasional Goblin fell dead when an enemy archer got lucky.

  “Never in all my days did I hope to see such a sight,” Piper Joach said in awe and mild shock.

  Rolnir watched his catapult batteries continue to pummel Rogscroft. Scant few rounds came back at them. The battle progressed as Badron predicted. But it wasn’t right. The battle for the city had been intense, so much so that Rolnir felt like he was
being led into a trap.

  “This is war at its worst.”

  Piper glanced over at him. “We should not be here, Rolnir.”

  The general’s expression softened. “That is not for us to decide. The life of a soldier is never easy. You know that.”

  “Yes I do, but this isn’t right. Why are the Goblins here? Why are we wasting lives and energy trying to storm a castle in the middle of winter? It does not add up. Our planning in Delranan did not include this.”

  Rolnir looked nervously about. Anyone might be a spy. “Quiet yourself, Piper. The king might have ears among our men. Goblins we can deal…”

  “But?”

  “A darker force drives this war forward,” Rolnir replied softly. “Have you not noticed how different he acts lately? His chambers are cold every time we have council. There is some evil at work here and I feel it may damn us before the end.”

  “We cannot fight what we do not see.”

  Rolnir shook his head. Another salvo exploded against the castle wall. “We must be cautious. Has anyone tried to escape yet?”

  “No.” Piper took the meaning behind the sudden change of subject. Stay watchful until the right moment to act. “I have scouts surrounding the castle. Roving patrols report negative contact. There is no way anyone can sneak out without us spotting them.”

  “You have been in the Reik long enough to know not to use never,” Rolnir laughed.

  “One or two at the most, but no great numbers,” Piper conceded.

  “I say let them go. They have no allies. The ones who escape are only deserters trying to survive. Each one is one less we have to worry about once we get inside.”

  “At least the Goblins are taking the brunt of the assault. Do you think old Stelskor suspects we plan on hitting the rear simultaneously?”

  Rolnir shrugged nonchalantly. “Does it matter?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “How much longer until we have the siege equipment ready?” Rolnir asked. He didn’t say it, but he was starting to get worried. The longer the siege lasted, the more dangerous it was for his men. Complacency would set in and that killed men. They all knew the legends and stories of sieges ending in disaster. Rolnir grew increasingly worried the same was going to happen to him, despite the strength of the Goblin army.

  “A few days at most. We will be ready long before our artillery can knock down those gates,” Piper snarled.

  “We are losing almost two hundred Goblins a day. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but we need them if we are going to succeed.”

  “We are better off without them.”

  Some of the fire left him and his mood darkened. “Unfortunately that is not our call. Continue with the preparations, commander. I don’t want those damned Goblins to be the ones who sack the castle. If this is an inevitable task, I would see the Wolfsreik gain the glory.”

  “Yes sir.” Piper saluted and stalked back to his men.

  Rolnir watched the battle for many long moments. It was an awesome display of firepower. He damned Badron for starting this war, but found an immeasurable sense of pride from watching his men in action. A king like Badron did not deserve such an army.

  * * * * *

  Badron found himself staring back into the shadows. His grasp on reality was slipping, of that much he was certain. He had lost control. Not over the war, his army was strong enough to manage that. But he was losing himself. His mind was in constant agony from the manipulations of the Dae’shan. Night was the worst. He always dreamed of his son, and the life robbed. Then came his daughter.

  The wretched child who murdered her mother, his wife. Anger demanded satisfaction. All of this was because of her! Life would have been much better had she never been born. Maleela was a cancer to his family. First his lovely wife and now his son. Badron raged and cursed his daughter’s name. Dark emotions sprang forth from the deepest recesses of his soul. He hated her. Visions of throttling her in her sleep added fuel to his anger. Maleela was the source of every single bad thing that had happened. She had to pay for that crime.

  Barely more than a wisp of darkness, Amar Kit’han floated inches above the ground and watched. The taste of Badron’s rage was a fine wine to the Dae’shan. Truthfully the king had been far too easy to corrupt. Jealous men usually were. All it took was a singular moment of trauma capable of pushing a man over the edge. The rest was easy. Badron held more than enough trouble in his beleaguered soul to make his turning possible.

  His pain served as an elixir. Misery and torment provided the Dae’shan sustenance. It was not always so. Once they had been neutral, servants of life. Time and the loss of the gods of light turned them into unholy creatures who fed on darkness.

  Badron stiffened. “I know you are here. Show yourself, monster.”

  “That is no way to speak to your only friend.”

  “Friend? What manner of friend would drive me to the edge of insanity and still demand more?”

  “You act as if either of us have a choice in our actions, king. Perhaps you forget my masters dictate the path of the future. We are all puppets.”

  “Why all of this secrecy? You sow the seeds of discord among my top commanders and they do not know you exist!” Badron accused.

  Amar drifted to the ground. “They suspect.”

  “Of course they do. They are the very best Delranan has.”

  “Do not be so fast to place your faith in men. They will turn on you before the end,” the Dae’shan admonished.

  He forcibly shook his head. “You have no faith in men.”

  “You have too much.”

  Badron trembled. He was in no mood to trade barbs with a power he still did not understand. He briefly entertained the thought of running Kit’han through. Nothing about the creature was substantial so he stayed his sword. Still, stabbing him would improve Badron’s mood.

  “Why have you come to me this time?” he asked.

  “I felt great pain in you.”

  Badron’s hand instinctively dropped to his sword. “You read my thoughts?”

  Amar stared back from behind the security of his hood. “I do not need to. It is evident upon your face, king. Perhaps it is time you became privileged to one of the world’s oldest and most closely kept secrets.”

  Badron’s hand dropped, if only slightly. “More secrets?”

  “All life revolves around secrets. One might say this is the secret that began it all. Very few men have been given the opportunity to see what I am offering.”

  He laughed. “Yet I do not trust you. What does that say of you or me?”

  “It gives credence to you wearing a crown. Think hard, but quickly. I am only going to offer once more. After tonight you will never be given the chance.”

  Indecision tore at him but Badron’s curiosity was too high. “What will I find?”

  “No questions. Yes or no.”

  “Not good enough. Will this secret help me win the war? I must know.”

  Amar Kit’han might have admired the man under other circumstances. “Yes or no. Persistence will not avail you, king.”

  A wall broke within him. Curiosity and anger infused into an original abomination in the king’s mind. Gnawing guilt swelled to life. Badron finally gave in.

  “Yes, show me.”

  Amar Kit’han smiled behind his mask of shadows. His constant manipulations ate away Badron’s resolve. Very soon now it would be time to advance the dark gods’ plans. “Follow me.”

  They wormed their way through the night and his sleeping army. No one questioned his passing and few would remember it come the dawn. Amar whispered a spell that made the night darker, more sinister. He led Badron into the heart of the night, past picket lines and sentries. Caution abandoned, Badron was lost to burning desire. They finally came to a halt at the foot of a lone elm tree. Enormous, the tree would easily take ten men to circle it. He looked up in awe. Then he noticed the tree was dead. Most of the bark was gone, peeled away through time and decay. Branches were
broken and twisted with age. Badron shivered.

  “This place feels evil,” he whispered. His eyes narrowed as he searched the supernatural darkness for threats.

  “It is only evil if you wish it to be so. Good and evil have always been subjective. They are opposite ends of a spectrum that Mankind has subverted to suit his own needs and desires. You must go closer if you wish to learn the secret.”

  Badron shot him a nervous look. The desire to know was too strong. He reluctantly obeyed. The tree moved the closer he got. He froze. Darkness swelled around him, choking him. Badron dropped to his knees as visions violently swirled around him until they became reality. He bore witness to sights, such wonderful and horrible sights. Birth and apocalypse. Salvation and Armageddon.

  Badron screamed at the top of his lungs.

  * * * * *

  “Fire!”

  Catapults erupted. General Rolnir watched his men with pride. The soldiers of the Wolfsreik moved with the precision that only came from endless hours on the training fields. They were completely professional in their approach to war, down to the lowest-ranking man. Not that he expected anything less. These were his boys. The source of his greatest pride. All were sons he never had.

  A young captain, Ulf, moved to intercept him when he saw Rolnir come closer. “General, welcome to the Mouth of the Wolf.”

  He smiled fiercely. The Mouth of the Wolf was the nickname given to the artillerymen by their infantry cohorts for the booming noise and gouts of fire each catapult threw into the night.

  “Captain Ulf. I see your boys are performing admirably.”

  “We try, sir,” Ulf replied. His youthful face brightened at the compliment.

  Rolnir had never been the sort to flower his men with accolades or warm embraces. He was a hard and unbending master who demanded perfection in everything. Each one of his men would readily lay down their lives just to please him. Rolnir made it a point to know as many of the men by name as possible. It was the least he could do in return for their great sacrifice.