by C S Marks
Such a blow might have cleaved Orrion’s armor had it found its mark. Regrettably, it found only empty air until it struck the block of ice in which Duinar was imprisoned, causing a great crack that spread rapidly throughout.
“Oh, dear…” said Fima, even as the three combatants separated for a moment, staring at the ice. The sound of it was alarming. All at once it began to fall apart. Large, heavy pieces tumbled at random, and everyone had to move out of the way. Duinar remained standing for a moment, freed of the ice, before collapsing in a forlorn heap.
“So much for delicacy,” said Fima, who most sincerely hoped that he had not brought about the death of Duinar all by himself.
Orrion was distracted by the liberation of Duinar, as were they all. Kotos took advantage of the opportunity to invade Gorgon’s unguarded mind. You must make certain Duinar is dead, he said. No matter what else you do this day, we must not leave him alive.
Gorgon did not know of Duinar, he only knew that none in the Company would leave the struggle alive.
“Do not invade my thoughts while I am at war,” he growled, just before a blinding pain struck his left arm above the elbow. Galador had taken his second shot, aiming for Orrion’s heart, but it had gone to the right of his intention again. The third shot would be true. “Do you see what you’ve done?” Orrion gasped through clenched teeth. “Do not distract me again!”
The cracks in the floor of the chamber had widened, and with the release of Duinar the air grew warm, melting the ice. The destruction seemed to have set off more tremors within the mountain, alarming Rogond, who had not trusted the security of the floor from the beginning.
“Get back, Gaelen!” he cried, as several additional cracks in the black magma appeared, venting hot, foul-smelling steam. An orange light could be seen beneath them. Orrion had attempted to tear the arrow free of his arm, but it would not budge. He roared and ripped the amulet from around his neck, thrusting it into his belt. Now the dark armor of Gorgon appeared, with Gorgon inside it. He roared again and leaped at Gaelen, even as the mountain trembled beneath her feet.
Gorgon weighed nearly as much as the rest of the Company put together, and he was not concerned with being light-footed. When he came down upon Gaelen, the fragile, cracked floor gave way, spilling Gorgon, Gaelen, and Rogond into an unknown fate below. The cries of Fima, Nelwyn, and Galador were lost in the rumbling of the collapsing floor. When it had calmed, there was a nearly perfect hole in the center of the chamber, glowing with red-orange light. Fima knew that light well…it was like the forges of Cós-domhain. Yet there were no forges beneath Cold Mountain. Apparently, it was cold no longer.
Fima approached the edge of the hole with Nelwyn and Galador, but they could not yet determine the fate of their friends. Nelwyn cried out in grief and terror, grasping Galador’s arm. “Oh, Lord of Light…they are lost! They are in that horrible, dreadful place, trapped with the Elfhunter. We must go after them…and pray that they have not burned alive.” Her hands twisted upon Galador’s arm. “It cannot end this way!”
Galador’s face was grim, and he could not console her. “Even if they have survived, they must now deal with Gorgon alone,” he said. “I would imagine that sulfurous abyss is more to his liking than to theirs.”
“Indeed,” said Fima in a horrified whisper. “I would guess that they are in some corner of Hell.”
The report that came back to the commander of Wrothgar’s northern army was not up to his expectations. The loss of Drach was no surprise, as everyone either saw, heard, or felt the dragon’s fall. But now the commander learned that his trolls and Ulcas he were being decimated. The commander was concerned, but not yet dismayed. He knew there was another dragon waiting to be sent aloft, and he had other forces that he could deploy now that there was a way through the south wall. He had to act quickly, before the Elves sealed the breach.
“Send in the cavalry,” he ordered the lieutenant who had brought the news. “Send them through the wall. Let’s see how the Elves enjoy dealing with them, and with their mounts.”
Then he summoned his second dragon-rider. “They do not as yet know of you,” he said. “And my guess is that they no longer fear attack from the air. Therefore, you must wait a short while and let them deal with the cavalry. When that damage has been done, and they are weary, you will strike. Take Magra, and Ordath if you can.”
“My lord,” said the dragon-rider, bowing and backing out of the command tent. He would not turn his back to anyone of importance in Wrothgar’s legions.
Hallagond and Azori aided Farin’s dwarves in sealing the breach, assisted by the Elves. Farin watched as Magra lifted a stone of about twice his own weight and hurled it deftly into place.
“Hmmmph! They’re stronger than they look,” said the dwarf.
The Ulcas had retreated for the moment, which disturbed Magra—he did not understand why they would allow the defenders time to seal the wall again. The beautiful granite slabs of Mountain-home were covered with dead Ulcas, making footing treacherous. They had fallen faster than they could be dragged away.
Why have they retreated? Surely their captains would drive them until they were completely spent, or face the wrath of those above. They fought like typical Ulcas, relying on overwhelming numbers rather than on skill or courage. Magra could attest to this, as he had slain thousands of them in his life. There is something else afoot…
Had Gaelen been present, she would have detected the cavalry on the west wind. Nearly a hundred fierce riders on savage mounts converged on the south wall, and their scent was not a subtle one. Yet it mingled with the stench of a thousand dead Ulcas, and therefore went unnoticed.
Magra was first to hear the cries of dismay coming from outside the walls. Since the retreat, a few of Farin’s folk had gone to work on the breach from outside, but now they ran back through as fast as their sturdy legs would carry them. “Riders!” they cried. “They have sent forth their black cavalry!”
“They must not gain entrance,” cried Magra in a booming voice. “Wellyn! Field your archers!”
The archers of the Greatwood were more skilled than any in Alterra, especially in darkness. They seemed to have an innate sense of their enemies, and they rarely missed a shot once given. However, they were most adept with light hunting bows, not heavy war bows. At this distance, light bows would not do. They had been pulling war bows for hours now, and they were weary. It took away some of their power and spoiled their aim. The targets they faced required precision to bring down—enormous, thick-skinned, bristle-backed boars—arrows would slay them only through the eye, the mouth, or just behind the shoulder.
Many arrows found the riders and their mounts, but whereas the riders were killed, the boars were only made more savage. Now that they were on the attack, they no longer needed to be silent. Their horrible, squealing roars froze the blood of the defenders.
Bred in the Fell-ruin, they were shorter and broader than a horse but weighed the same. Swift over short distances, they could rush an enemy with lightning speed. They would kill by trampling, tearing with sharp, curved tusks, or savaging like dogs. And, of course, many still had armed riders aboard when they leaped over the stones of the breach. The boars were agile and sure-footed, trampling the bodies of the fallen with neither difficulty nor regard. Though intelligent, they had first and foremost been bred to kill, and when they were excited they did not always discriminate between one army and the next. This explained the retreat of Wrothgar’s Ulcas, for they were just as likely to be taken. For the riders, a fall often meant death.
The boars overwhelmed the breach, killing all who stood in their way. Archers had taken a few, and many were now riderless, but they were a fearsome sight. The beasts would charge through the Elven-realm, running headlong through the winding paths and stairs. They would not bother with bolted doors as long as there were victims in plain sight, otherwise they would batter down all but the heaviest barriers. In fact, many of the dwellings of Mountain-home had no doors at
all.
Magra, one of the few remaining Èolar in Alterra, was an unparalleled warrior. He was also an ancient and powerful being, and he had not yet called upon his inner light, for to spend it would exhaust him. Now, however, it seemed he had little choice. He stood before the onslaught of beasts and riders, raised his sword high over his head, and uttered words that he had not spoken since the Third Battle. His blade flared a bright blue-white, like a bolt of lightning, and his tall, broad form became the center of a glowing mass of light.
Elves and men averted their eyes, as the riders and their fearsome mounts reeled back, the riders shrieking in agony. The great boars, blinking and snorting, appeared stunned and confused for the moment.
The defenders took immediate advantage and rushed forward. The dwarves swung their bright axes and heavy hammers, cleaving the throats and crushing the skulls of the animals. This proved to be a very effective way of killing them, though they would still stand for several seconds, looking around in bewilderment before they fell. The Elves attacked with blades and bows, for at such close range hunting bows would serve, and many a yellow-tusked veteran fell with an arrow of the Greatwood in its eye. The Elves of Tal-sithian and Mountain-home stood upon the battlements, for they were deadly with their heavy war-bows, and they repelled the ranks of Ulcas that now came in from behind the cavalry.
Hallagond and Azori found themselves in the thick of things. They tried to do as much damage with their curved blades as they could without being trampled, but it was the most difficult few minutes of hand-to-hand fighting that Hallagond could recall. The stench was overwhelming. The footing, slick with the blood of Ulcas, Elves, and wild boars alike, had become treacherous.
Hallagond caught his left foot as he lunged forward to drive his blade behind the shoulder of one of the wild pigs. The leg twisted, and it broke as he fell upon it. He gave a strangled cry of pain and frustration as the animal turned its vicious, tiny red eyes upon him. It had not long to live, but it would exact pain and death upon its attacker ere it fell.
“I’m sorry, Estle,” Hallagond whispered, as he prepared his last defense.
Azori saw Hallagond’s fall from the edge of his vision, and he heard his friend’s cry of anguish. Although leaping to the defense of anyone except himself or his own family was not in Azori’s nature, he rushed to aid Hallagond without thinking, brandishing his two blades as the mortally-wounded boar lowered its head to charge. It took every scrap of courage Azori possessed to keep from leaping aside, but he stood firm. He drove both blades into the beast’s brain, killing it at once, but not before it had driven its dagger-like tushes into his midsection. The wild pig fell hard, taking Azori with it, barely missing Hallagond, whose cry was so loud and full of loss that even Lady Ordath might have heard it in her sanctuary.
Hallagond’s face twisted with pain as he jerked his shattered leg free of its entanglement. The boar was dead, but Azori was not. His bearded face was sweat-soaked and pale, his strong teeth bared in a grimace of agony. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again Hallagond was at his side, assessing the wounds with despair.
“So now I go to join my brother Azok,” said Azori, managing a weak smile. “This is what comes of trying to be respectable.” His body shuddered, and he gave a heart-wrenching moan. His belly had been laid open…there was no hope. Hallagond tried to lift him, but Azori was pinned beneath the boar’s head.
Hallagond could not free him. He shook his head, refusing to leave his dying friend, and covered Azori with his own body, hoping that someone would come to aid them.
Magra’s light had faded, and though he was now drained of power, he stood forth against the dwindling cavalry, swinging his bright sword with his remaining strength. He had not seen the fall of Hallagond, nor the sacrifice of Azori. He was engaged in rallying his defenders and dispatching the few riders that still threatened them. He did not see or hear the approach of the night-flier until the beast’s shadow fell upon him.
Rogond gasped as the acrid, poisonous air stung his eyes and filled his lungs with burning. He coughed, wiping his streaming eyes on his sleeve, looking around in confusion. The fall from Duinar’s chamber had stunned him, but now he remembered it, and began looking for Gaelen. He tried to call to her, struggling to his feet and staggering away from the red, steaming volcanic vent that he had fallen near. He was fortunate not to have landed a few feet to his right, or he would have perished.
He found one of the rock walls, and leaned against it. The air here was better, but not good. Still, he breathed as deeply as he could manage, coughing and clearing his lungs and his throat.
He regained his breath and looked around, though he could not see clearly for more than a few yards. This was at once the strangest and most terrible place he had ever beheld. It appeared to be a labyrinth of honeycombed walls filled with chambers and pillars and corridors, pervaded everywhere by deep clefts of bright, red-orange molten rock. It was difficult to see, and even more difficult to breathe.
He tried again to call to Gaelen, but he was overcome by a fit of coughing. He shook his head. It would be all but impossible to hear Gaelen calling back to him over the echoing roar of steam and the rumbling of the mountain. They had fallen together…she could not be far away. And where was Gorgon Elfhunter?
In fact, Gaelen was not far away. She had thankfully not fallen into one of the vents, but she did not see Rogond, having landed upon a pillar of black rock almost immediately above him. Her lungs and her voice were less vulnerable, and she called to him, but he didn’t answer. She leaped from the pillar of stone onto a ledge that led into a twisted passage, intending to make her way downward in search of him.
Gorgon had also fallen into the abyss, and although he was uncomfortable, he was not dismayed. Now you’ve done it! You must find your way back to the chamber above, said Kotos. Duinar is alive, and he is now free. You must return and finish him, do you understand?
“All in good time,” said Gorgon as he looked all around for members of the Company. He knew that Gaelen, at least, had fallen with him. But where was she? He rose to his full height, brushing the ash and bits of black lava from his armor, grimacing as Galador’s arrow drove itself a little deeper into the flesh of his arm.
There’s no time for the killing of that She-elf, said Kotos. We must salvage something from this useless endeavor. The death of Duinar might just pacify Lord Wrothgar…ever has He wondered as to Duinar’s fate. If we do not see to his death, we are doomed.
“If we cannot escape this place, we are doomed anyway,” said Gorgon.
We will escape, and we can still prevail, said Kotos. Don’t lose your courage now—we can still achieve victory. The She-elf still lives…I know that you want to make an end of her. It should be easy in this place. Let us do it, and be done. Then you must deal with Duinar.
“I will do it without any help or interference from you, thank you very much,” said Gorgon.
Get on with it then. Every minute that we delay the death of my long-lost brother unsettles me. Now, do something about that arrow.
Gorgon winced at the thought of his next act, but Kotos was right—the arrow would hinder him. He grasped it with his right hand, pulled the shaft through the plate armor to the extent that it would come, and then opened his fearsome mouth and bit through it as close to the steel as he could manage. The remainder of the arrow withdrew into the flesh of his arm. Gorgon gripped the hilt of Turantil and smiled at his reflection in the blade. Then he crouched like a night-hunting beast and went in search of Gaelen.
In the chamber above, Galador, Nelwyn, and Fima made ready to aid their friends. Fima sat beside Duinar, trying to revive him. He had opened his eyes, to Fima’s relief, but there was nothing but emptiness and confusion within them. “We must go at once and aid Rogond and Gaelen,” said Galador. “We do not have time to tend to Duinar—our friends are in dire need.”
“And where will you look for them? How will you aid them?” asked Fima. “If I can revive D
uinar, it is likely that he knows the mountain. He should be able to guide us. Have patience!”
“If Gorgon attacks in that place, they will not survive for more than a few minutes!” cried Nelwyn, wringing her hands. She knelt beside Fima and looked into Duinar’s blank gaze. “Duinar, come back to us, please!” she said in a plaintive tone, and then she took his face in both hands. “Duinar…you must help me. Please, for the sake of the Light, you must hear me!”
Duinar’s eyes flickered like a spark that brings forth a flame. He blinked twice, and then focused his eyes on Nelwyn, who began to weep. “An Elf?” he said. “Yes…you are an Elf. And you are weeping. This cannot be a good thing. Why are you weeping?”
His voice was so gentle and full of wisdom that Nelwyn and Fima both looked upon him in awe. They were in the presence of one of the ancient Light-bearers. Nelwyn had dared touch him! She bowed in reverence, quelling her tears.
“Please, Master, we have freed you from the ice,” said Fima. “Now we need your aid, for two of our most valiant friends are lost, and we must find them before a great evil takes them. Will you help?”
“What evil? Where? What place is this?” asked Duinar in confusion.
“We are deep under the mountain…the one that set off the fall of Tuathas,” said Fima. “You tried to quell it, remember?”
“Tuathas…fell?”
“I’m sorry, Master. You put forth all the effort you could muster, but it was not enough,” said Fima, his eyes full of grief for Duinar and the people he had failed to save.
All at once, awareness flooded back into Duinar’s eyes. He gasped and wrapped his arms about himself in horror. “Oh…the memory!” he cried. “My people were lost. I could not save them…the memory of it drowns my spirit.” He turned to Fima. “How much time has passed?”