Gruval had no idea what to do, but Cobalt soon finished devouring the goat some dwarves had brought him as a gift and tribute to his heroic saving of them.
"Put hers onsss my back, dwarf princesss," Cobalt hissed.
"I'll do as ye ask, brave and mighty dragon," Gruval said, "but don't call me a princess again, or we will have to rumble. You can call me Gruval." Cobalt got the gist of the dwarf’s joking tone and let out a guttural hiss that must have been a laugh. "Climb onss my back, behinds the girl."
Gruval stood back and felt a wave of unease course through him. "Ye wants me to climb on?"
"Yesss," the dragon hissed. "Today, you and I will avenge your peoples lossesss."
Gruval wasn't sure what Cobalt meant, but he figured if a little girl could ride a dragon, so could he. He bundled Chureal in a fur cloak similar to his and climbed on, sitting her in front of him. He held her tightly, not knowing what to expect.
Outside the barn, the sound of battle had already begun to fill the freezing morning air. Gruval hadn't remembered to open the barn doors before getting situated on Cobalt's back, but the dragon didn't wait for the doors. He butted his head into them, breaking the thick wooden bar as if it were a twig. Then, with a roar that sent a shock of primal fear through the blood of all who heard it, he took three lunging steps and leapt into the air.
Within seconds, Prince Gruval's head was clear, the lingering inebriation left somewhere on the ground behind them. His apprehension was left behind, as well, and though he found it was as cold as a witch's tit, he was thrilled and exhilarated by the sensation of dragon flight.
"Where are your dwarf holesss?" the dragon asked over his shoulder. Gruval had to think about it, look around, and relate the location from his overhead view, but it wasn't long before he oriented himself.
Cobalt set them down in the empty slave encampment. Chureal was sent underground with some of the wounded dwarves, where she would be well cared for and safe while she recovered all of the energy she had expended the day before. She didn't want to separate from the dragon, and Cobalt had to soothe and comfort her before she relented and let him fly back into battle without her. But she did, making Gruval promise to keep Cobalt from getting too brazen.
Gruval learned that more dwarves were making their way over land to the valley, having left the hole the night before, and that the tunnel leading right into Uppervale was almost complete. He ordered all of the available dwarves in the area to go through that tunnel and be ready to fight as soon as they broke the ground and opened it up. He didn't get a count, but he estimated at least ten more score of his kinsmen would be ready as soon as the shaft was finished. Then, to the awe of his subjects, he climbed back on Cobalt's back and held on for dear life when the dragon leapt back into the air.
The allied fighters in Uppervale had a somewhat less glorious morning than the prince of dwarves did. They were literally fighting for their lives. The unexpected arrival of Krookin Bloodthorn and his wood trolls at their rear proved to be a mighty boon for the enemy.
All morning, the demon's trolls and gothicans were pummeled with loads of catapulted broken glass, pottery shards mixed with fist-sized stones, and thin skins full of flammable oil. Flaming arrows followed, and the thorny wall Chureal had created, and any of the enemy who was near, were set afire.
Still, the enemy came. Barrels of the flammable oil were dumped from rooftops and huge spears were projected through the enemy ranks by the large mechanical crossbows Captain Murdle had made. These shafts sometimes impaled three or more of the enemy at a time. Everyone slipped and slid on patches of blood-slicked ice, but one of the cleverer traps the allies had set caused the attackers to slide down a hill into a massive pit full of sharpened stakes, but still, they didn't relent.
By midday, Uppervale's defenders were still outnumbered, but not nearly as bad as they'd been that morning. At best guess, they were two to one now, but as the traps and tricks were triggered and ceased to be useful, the battle once again became a brutal fight of steel and will. The bigger, stronger gothicans and trolls took their toll on the dwarves and humans while their overwhelming numbers kept Dendle and the red-sashed gothicans tired and warn.
All through the cobbled lanes, from the river's edge out past the village and into the pastures, knots of bloody battle with steam rising from the groups of combatants, raged on.
Half of the buildings along the main thoroughfare were on fire, and dark billowing clouds rose out of the crimson slush that was once a bustling smile filled trading area.
The humans were attacking with arrows. They would loose, then dart away through the alleyways, using their familiarity with the buildings they'd grown up around. It was the only way they could fight the bigger foes. Several men, however, had engaged with their handheld weapons in battle with a group of wood trolls. They were faring well, but only because there were twenty townsmen, and only eight of the not so giant forest vermin when the battle began. When it was done, a dozen worn and battered humans stumbled away to either find more ground to defend or a place to die in peace.
Two gothican invaders attacked Balo. They'd pressed her back against the burning wall of a shop, where she was now fighting the intense heat against her back, as well as the two giant gothicans in before her.
Out of nowhere, a large, panther-like creature leapt into that fray. With its bloody gnashing jaws, it tore the throat out of one of the gothicans while its razor-sharp claws ripped across the face of the other. Not stopping to look back, the creature then sprinted across the lane and literally tore the head right off a rock troll who'd just pounded his club into Trenka Shawl's side. The gray-skinned thing would have crushed her prone skull, had the glossy-furred feline not intervened.
Balo followed the creature's path and managed to drag Trenka to an empty alley. After the gothican woman took a few minutes to press her blistered back against the frosty side of the building, she made sure the fiery-haired human was recovering, and went back out to find another fight.
Writhick fought like nothing the trolls had ever seen, and the goths from both sides of the fight stayed clear of him, for none had seen a warrior kill so brutally and efficient, save for those who had seen Lord Ulrich himself swing a blade. Writhick's chest armor was split wide open, and his flesh split, exposing his sternum, but he seemed oblivious to the painful looking wound. With each acrobatic spin of his big body, his blade found a target. In a mesmerizing macabre dance, he ducked and spun through the battle, avoiding and deflecting blows and leaving a swath of dead or dismembered challengers behind him.
Balo only wished she could fight as well.
Captain Murdle was badly wounded. He'd been stabbed in the side by one of the wide gothican swords. He looked like he thought his insides would spill out at any moment, but he fought on, one hand over the wound, the other on the hilt of his sword, until Balo finally pulled him away from the action.
She found she was too burnt to fight well, but she refused to lay down and had been getting the wounded to safety where she could. She carried Captain Murdle to a place near the river, where the battle had yet to stain the snow. Upon further inspection, she found the man wasn't gutted as she had first thought. The sword had been jabbed clean through his side, under his arm and out the back, but hadn't gotten inside his ribcage. If he didn't bleed to death or freeze, he would probably be all right.
Balo, over the past few weeks, had come to love Dendle, and she knew the human captain was the closest thing to a father he had ever known. She didn't want the man to die, but she could do little more than hold a cloth against his wound to stop the flow of blood. Then an idea struck her, and she took off the red sash that distinguished her from the enemy and tied it around the captain, holding the staunch in place. She then picked him up again and carried him to the barn the dragon had been using. She wished the strange little witch girl was around to heal him as she'd done the dwarven prince and some of the others the day before, but she hadn't seen her or the dragon this morning
.
Trenka Shawl, and several others too wounded to fight, made their way to the barn, too. The red-haired woman found a leather strap and took Balo's place caring for Captain Murdle. The first thing she did after securing the material keeping his blood inside him was return her sash with a nod of respect. “We wouldn’t want anyone to mistake you for the enemy, dear.”
Chapter Seventeen
The dragon returned in the afternoon with the dwarven prince on his back. The wyrm began wreaking havoc with its sizzling liquid breath and its razor-sharp claws. Balo saw that its return breathed new life into those defending Uppervale, and once the enemy witnessed the result of the dragon's fury, the tide finally began to turn.
It was clear the gothicans fighting for Lord Ulrich and his demon god, until now, hadn't felt fear. Some of them were looking around at the hated rock trolls beside them, and Balo imagined the words of her half-blooded lover, who had so proudly condemned them when they'd come, were starting to sink in. While she took all of this in, two of the enemy gothicans simply turned and walked away.
Others were swayed by the savage feline they'd seen Dendle become. Balo didn't understand it, but to watch him as he tore apart troll after troll was akin to watching a tree cat in a feeding frenzy inside a cage full of rabbits.
Writhick's relentless fury was what all gothicans had been raised to respect, and not one of the gothicans fighting that day could argue that mighty Goth, the warriors’ true god, was on his side. Even the dwarves fought with prideful fury worthy of Goth’s respect.
Balo saw a few more enemy gothicans leave the battle, separating themselves from the rock and wood trolls, refusing to engage their kindred or any other defending this place.
An eruption of howls and screams drew her attention when Cobalt blasted a group of wood trolls into a smoldering flurry of ashes and gore. After the dragon passed, only one wood troll was left standing. From other parts of the battle, a few other wood trolls came rushing to his side.
Davvy ducked a blow from a wood troll's axe, rolled away into the soot-darkened snow the dragon had just passed over. When he stood, he was staring up at the angry face of Krookin Bloodthorn and a few of the wood trolls who'd just returned to his side. Without thinking further, Davvy lashed out with his sword and left a nasty gash along the forearm the troll king used to deflect the blow from his body.
Davvy had no idea he'd just injured the king of the wood trolls, though it was clear this troll was different than the rest. Instantly, two of the four were coming at him. He turned to run but stumbled and slipped in the bloody mush, landing face first. He rolled back over, expecting to feel one of the troll's heavy clubs caving in his skull but, instead, he saw a shadow draw the eyes of the trolls upward, and the nearest one was yanked from the ground by its head. As Cobalt carried him away, he dragged him through the others, sending them tumbling to the sides. The dragon lifted sharply into the air and hurled the screaming vermin heels over head through the air. The troll landed into the smoldering ruins of one of the buildings. When the dragon dove again, this time it was at the troll Davvy had attacked and the only two brave enough to remain at his side.
Davvy rolled to his feet and ran over to the troll who had dove away. Just as it was raising up, Davvy ran it through. He turned to see the leader of the trolls dive out of the dragon's path, leaving the other two to take the brunt of another blast of crackling liquid lightning dragon breath. Where the two had just stood, there was nothing but charred husks and swirling ash.
The dragon left the area, leaving Davvy, a simple hunter and farmer, to face the king of the trolls by himself.
"Come on then, you filthy varmint," said Davvy.
Krookin Bloodthorn picked up a club with his bloody arm and raised it high over his head. He let out a primal howl that left Davvy unnerved. Before he could think, the troll charged him.
The few dozen rock trolls that still lived had fled down the lane away from the dragon and were starting to regroup. Krookin Bloodthorn's battle call had been heard by them all. When the troll came charging at the human boy, it seemed as if all of the fighters near the scene paused to watch.
The wood trolls that survived the dragon used the lull to gather behind their king while several red sashed gothicans and dwarves, as well as a few humans and a wild looking feline, filled the lane behind Davvy.
All of them watched as the human boy ducked and dodged the troll king's first blow. Davvy jabbed his sword and nearly caught Bloodthorn in the side when he stumbled past him. The big wood troll turned and came down with a crushing overhead blow that caught Davvy on the top of the shoulder and nearly buckled his knees. Davvy was sure his collarbone was broken, but it was his left shoulder, and he held his sword with his other hand. His will to survive kept him on his feet and allowed him to answer with a slash that sliced deeply across the top of the troll king's thigh.
No one seemed to notice, but the whole battlefield had feel eerily silent. All eyes were captivated by the mismatched battle taking place in the middle of the bloody lane.
The troll faked to the left but swung to the right, and once again, Davvy's left side took a crushing blow, this one to the ribs. Davvy fell to one knee, gasping for air, but blocked the troll's next blow with his sword and managed to dig his blade's edge into the troll king's knuckles and rake them to the bone. King Bloodthorn didn't lose his grip or falter. Instead, he let out another defiant roar.
Davvy rolled his neck, feeling things crackle and flare with pain, but he spat dark blood at the troll's feet in response. He’d watched a wood troll bash in Braxton's father's head, and then stomp Parl to death right in front of him. He'd found his own father at the end of a long trail of butchered bodies, and Braxton's other brother half-eaten in the forest. He'd seen his whole village torn apart and watched the people he'd known forever forced from their homes to flee the destruction. He'd watched his friends and loved ones die trying to save what they'd built, and he wasn't about to give in. This troll in front of him, no matter how important he was, was going to pay for all of that. Davvy was going to collect what vengeance was owed, even if it killed him.
Gruval, and even the dragon, had their eyes on the fight below as they circled slowly overhead. The dwarven prince wished he could help the young man. He knew Davvy was Lord Braxton's childhood friend, and so did the dragon, but the dwarf knew there were times that you didn't interfere, and this looked to be one of them. Still, the dwarven prince reached into his pouch and fumbled out one of the egg-sized stones he'd been throwing at the trolls when the dragon swooped by. The rocks, while not actually doing much damage, had stunned or surprised more than one unsuspecting enemy fighter long enough for its opponent to gain a small advantage.
Davvy charged, but nearly stumbled to the ground, favoring his battered left side. It was a trick, though, and as soon as the wood troll committed to a swing, Davvy spun the other way and buried his blade in Bloodthorn's upper arm. The sound of crunching bone echoed across the cold, silent battlefield. Many of the onlookers cringed at the sound. The howl the wood troll made was horrendous. His arm was left dangling by two, finger-thick pieces of flesh, and thick blood ran down the ruined appendage in a pulsing stream, but still he fought on.
Every gothican on the battlefield stood in awe of the young man's will. They knew exactly who Krookin Bloodthorn was, and that he was one of the largest and most feared wood trolls alive. Davvy's head only came up to his chest, and the simple fact that this human boy's pride and will to defend this village kept him standing after the troll king's two staggering blows was unbelievable. The idea that the boy looked as if he were about to win the battle was nothing less than a sign from Goth himself. The god of warriors was on the side of this ragtag group of dwarves, half-breeds, and humans, there could be no doubt.
This could only mean that the half-blood's words had been true, for even dragons fought alongside these warriors. Lord Ulrich's gothicans were starting to feel the shame of their deeds.
In Antole, the
y had killed innocent children, raped women, and tortured men all for the battle lord and his demon god.
Krookin Bloodthorn's next blow nearly killed the boy and put him to the ground. The troll's club had caught him in the head. He looked to be unconscious until his face hit the snow, and he rolled out of the way just in time to avoid being brained. Instead of getting up, he kept rolling, but stopped while still in sword range. With a groan, he twisted his body around and swung a blow from the ground. His sword sliced deeply into the back of the troll king's ankle, nearly taking off its foot.
When the troll king tried to take another step, he started to fall, and several of the wood trolls behind him surged forward. To everyone's surprise, they were stopped by the gothicans on their side of the battle. The wood trolls were left standing angry and helpless as the boy struggled to his feet and moved toward the howling troll clutching at a foot that was barely connected to his leg. The troll barked out curses and threats as the boy stumbled toward him. Davvy kicked Bloodthorn square in the face, then spat more black blood on him.
For a long time Davvy just stared at the defenseless creature. In the end, instead of dealing a death blow, he just laughed and limped away.
A sudden flurry of battle took place on the enemy's side. Davvy walked toward those who had fought with him and saw the feline creature shift back into Dendle. This scared a few of those around them, but not Davvy. He’d seen it at the battle to free the dwarven slaves at the forge.
Demon of Destruction (Fantastica Book 3) Page 10