“The reason for its construct is a mystery to me.” Gaelan admitted. “But it cannot bode well for us.”
D’Yana raised her hand. “Listen,” She whispered cupping her hand to her ear.
Gaelan listened; he heard the whistling wind and popping of the torches. In the distance a man coughed and a few others joked quietly. He was about to speak when the faint sound of creaking timbers and grunting Trolls reached his ears.
In the distance a Morne campfire disappeared as something moved in front of it. After a few moments several more fires vanished, one after another. What ever was approaching was enormous and its weight was cracking stone beneath ironclad wheels.
“Sound the alarm!” He shouted, breaking the still of the night.
He strained his eyes against the darkness trying to see what new threat they faced. Behind him horns blew and a bell rang. Within minutes the wall was bristling with hard faced men who’s skills had been honed by many battles.
“What is it?” D’Yana wondered aloud staring into the darkness.
A harsh battle cry erupted from the gloom as arrows by the thousands rained down upon the defenders.
The men lining the ramparts sought what cover they could from the hissing cloud of steel and wood. Volley after volley fell from the sky. With only a few seconds between them Gaelan’s archers could do little to halt the screaming onrush of Morne below.
Wooden ladders smacked the stone and the arrows ceased to fall. The defenders rallied and Gaelan’s archers rose to the occasion slaying the enemy by the hundreds.
Gaelan used a spear to dislodge a ladder and winced as a Morne arrow glanced from his helm. He watched with some satisfaction as several arrows pierced the enemy archer.
Morne died by the hundreds, then by the thousands and yet they came. Climbing over the bodies of their fallen in a frantic rush to gain the wall.
In several places they had done so, but these footholds were short lived as the defenders rallied and cut them down. The men hurled the bodies of the fallen down upon the milling mass of warriors below.
Out of the gloom came two lines of powerful Trolls. They pulled thick hawsers of hemp dragging a massive cart that supported a battering ram of staggering proportions.
Fashioned from four tree trunks bound together by thick iron bands. The head of the ram was cast of iron and shaped by artisans to resemble an enraged bull. The horns were thick and curved sharply forward. Smoke and flame poured from its eyes and nostrils.
The ram had been forged in the fires of V’rag and the power it held filled the air with electricity.
Gaelan recovered from his shock and looked to the towers top. “Kill the Trolls!” He shouted hoping Wolhan had heard him.
A moment later one of the two Ballista they had recently constructed fired. The spear sized bolt flashed through the air piercing through one of the trolls. The iron head blasting out of it’s back and into the stony ground, pinning the dead beast upright.
The second Ballista clanged; a flaming spear lit the dark and embedded itself into one of the great wheels of the cart. Fire spread quickly along the wagons side.
The Morne were prepared and with both water and sand they raced to extinguish the fire as the Trolls continued to pull their burden towards the western gate within the towers base.
“Seal the gate!” Gaelan shouted to his messenger.
The man turned and rushed into the tower. A few minutes later the entire keep shuddered as heavy iron pins were extracted and tons of stone slid down into place behind the wooden portal.
More Trolls fell to the ballista but for every one that was slain another would rush forward and take its place.
Slowly the ram approached, the iron wheels grinding the stone and crushing the bodies of the dead beneath them.
The Morne had gained the wall and their numbers swelled with each passing moment. They fought fiercely forcing the defenders back.
The Ram would have to wait; Gaelan gathered the men about him and rushed to drive the Morne back.
Swords rang loudly as Gaelan’s men slammed into the Morne. The Morne advance faltered and they were forced back. Men attacked them from both sides now hacking at them mercilessly. Men and Morne alike screamed in anger and pain. The flagstones of the battlement grew slick with their blood.
Gaelan’s sword flashed in the gloom its blade dripping blood. The Morne fell back, their blades useless against his prowess. Although he was far less skilled than Connell he had profited much from King Wolhan’s lessons and was regarded as one of the greatest swordsmen alive.
He was enraged and fought as a man possessed. He offered no quarter and slew any Morne who was foolish enough to come before him. His vision was sharp and the strength of his arm fortified by the righteous anger he felt towards these inhuman beasts that would slaughter his people.
His arm burned with exertion but his anger drove him beyond his limits. Sustained by his furry his sword shattered blades and sliced through armor and bone alike. Blood covered him from head to toe making his visage a terrible thing to behold.
Dispatching the warrior before him he found himself surrounded by his own men. The wall had been cleared of the enemy. Battered and bloody the men raised their swords and yelled his name.
Gaelan shook the gore from his blade and kicked one of the fallen Morne. “Toss this rubbish from the wall.” He ordered the warriors. “The smell of their dead offends me.”
The entire keep shook as a thunderous boom sounded in the comb. All along the wall men had fallen to their knees. It was a miracle that none had fallen from the battlement. Gaelan gripped the merlon for balance and looked on as the Trolls swung the ram forward once more.
The Iron head flashed brightly as the horns slammed into the stone once more. The entire mountain shook with the power it unleashed. Dust and small stones rained down from rock above.
Glancing upward Gaelan prayed that it would not bring the mountain down upon their heads. “Archers!” He shouted pointing down to the Trolls.
Bows thrummed and arrows bristled from the brutes’ shoulders but the Trolls swung the ram forward once more. The stones heaved under the defenders feet and the stone of the tower groaned beneath the onslaught.
Blow after blow the Trolls delivered shaking the very foundations of the comb. The gate had fallen aside revealing the stone barricade. The hard rock face had been deeply scored by the ensorcelled horns of the ram.
Another powerful blow and the entire outer face of the tower slowly sagged downward as the rock gave way. Massive stones tumbled down into the comb. The heavy blocks crushing the Trolls beneath their weight, the ram vanished in a cloud of dust.
Gaelan watched in horror as the outer facade of the tower fell. Men upon the battlement went to their deaths falling with the massive blocks of stone.
The men of Trondhiem had built the fortress well. The tower yet stood only the outer layer of stone had collapsed and part of the upper most level lay in ruin. The keep was sound and the Morne scrambling up the rubble found only tightly fitted stone before them.
Men rose from within the debris, only a pitiful few had survived the collapse and many of them bore wounds. With knives, swords and bits of debris they fell upon the climbing Morne. From within the rock emerged King Wolhan he stood upon a large section of stone and called the survivors to him.
Gaelan leaned against the merlon; he looked to Wolhan and their eyes met. Wolhan nodded once in understanding and shrugged off his heavy cloak. His chain hauberk glittered brightly in the gloom, reflecting the light of a hundred torches.
“We have to save him!” D’Yana pleaded. Rushing to Gaelan’s side she pulled him around to face her.
Her face was ruddy with anger and smeared with blood and soot. She had fought hard and had slain many Morne today. “You can’t just let him die!”
“There is no way.” Gaelan snapped in desperation. “The gate is buried and he would be killed by archers should we try and haul him up with ropes.” Gaelan watched a
s the survivors prepared for a last stand. “He knows he is lost D’Yana.” Gaelan turned to face his men. “Those with arrows yet in their quivers,” He pointed to the doomed men. “Give them what cover you can.”
“Then I shall go to him.” She said hotly looking about for a long rope.
Gaelan grabbed her by the arm. “I will not allow you to throw your life away as well.”
“Damn you!” D’Yana said yanking her arm free. She knew Gaelan was right and she slapped the hard stone of the wall in frustration.
The Morne advanced their iron crossbows cutting the men down one by one. They held back keeping just beyond the reach of the archers upon the wall. The slaughter continued until Wolhan stood alone on the blood soaked rubble.
King Wolhan pulled a battered shield from the rubble and slipped it on his left arm. He stepped towards the enemy striking the shield with his blade. “Come on you cold blooded bastards.” He said in a firm voice devoid of fear. “I am only one old man.” He smiled fiercely daring them to come forward.
The wall of Morne before the King parted and a dark figure stepped put of the ranks. A warrior clad in full plate armor the color of midnight. He towered over the Morne, nearly seven feet in height he was only over shadowed by the lumbering trolls.
His great helm was crested by two horns of bronze. From within his visors slit a sickly emerald light shone. He stepped forward, slowly raising a Great War hammer that steamed in the cold air; its massive head glowed as if it had only just been pulled from the forge.
King Wolhan squared his shoulders and faced his doom defiantly. Resting his sword tip on the ground he removed his helm and tossed it aside. His eyes glittered brightly, no sign of fear could be found within them.
Silence fell within the comb as both armies watched the confrontation.
“I know you.” He said to the evil standing before him. “Balhain, scion of Sur’kar.” He spat the words as if they soiled his mouth. “I stood at the gates of Thorunder’s keep when your sibling met his fate. A pity you were not with him then.”
The dark warrior hissed, tightening his grip upon the hammers haft until smoke and fire flared from between his fingers. “Plead for your life little King.” A haunting voice full of hate and malice echoed from within the helm. “I may make your end a quick one.”
“I would not go so easily.” Wolhan replied. “I am Wolhan, King of the spire. I have stood within the light of Aytor, your darkness does not frighten me.”
The Balhain laughed. “Greater men than you have fallen beneath my hammers might.” He raised the weapon higher allowing flames to enshroud its head. “The blood of man has thinned over the ages. There are none alive now who can hope to withstand me.”
“Yet Timosh still stands.” The old King remarked. “Mankind may be less than it once was Balhain, but our courage has never faded.”
The light within the helm flared brightly. “Courage will not spare your life old fool.”
“I will die a free man,” Wolhan countered raising his shield. “Another will rise in my place.” He said gritting his teeth against the aura of fear the Balhain was projecting about himself.
As fast as a striking serpent the Balhain struck. His hammer screeched as it clove the air where Wolhan had stood a heartbeat before. The hammer slammed into the ground shattering the rock with a thunderous roar.
Wolhan dove forward narrowly avoiding the blow. He rolled and was on his feet before the Balhain could turn. Too fast for the eye to follow his sword leapt forward cleaving the armor and biting deep into the Balhain’s thigh. Steam escaped through the opening in a whistling hiss.
The Balhain cried out in both pain and anger. Bringing his hammer about in a vicious swing aimed for the Kings head.
Wolhan barely avoided the blow, but the heat emanating from the weapon seared his cheek and scorched his hair. He staggered backwards his vision blurred as his eye watered profusely. The leather bindings on his shield were on fire. He quickly let it drop.
The Balhain laughed, a horrible sound that sent the Morne scurrying backwards a few steps. To say it sounded evil was to fail to do it justice. It dripped with all the foulness found in the darkest places of the world. “You weep at the slightest touch of my hammers power? Char was forged in the furnaces of V’rag. Blessed with my master’s power and tempered for centuries. Infused with his hatred of all things living. What can your puny blade of steel do against such might?”
“This!” Wolhan shouted. Leaping forward onto the astonished Balhain, he delivered a mighty blow. Using both hands to drive his blade he swung upward catching the Balhain across the side of his helmet.
The steel rang and one of the bronze horns flew high into the air, cleanly severed at its base. The force of the blow was so powerful it lifted the warrior from the ground and hurled him back into the Morne ranks.
The men upon Timosh’s walls cheered in awe. While the Morne retreated from the King, crying out in despair. After all they had just witnessed one of their god’s most powerful servants knocked from his feet by a mere mortal.
“It is merely a blade, forged by a man and tempered by the strength of a father’s love for his son.” Wolhan mocked the warrior as he rose to his feet.
With a swing of his hammer he slew a score of the closest Morne in his rage. He moved forward with more caution now. The man before him was well past his prime and yet he had humiliated him as no man had ever done before. Perhaps he had spoken to hastily, for here was a man the likes of which he had long thought vanished from this world.
Wolhan tried to slow his breathing but he could not help but gasp. With each breath lances of fire raced through his right side. In his fall from the tower he had evidently broken several ribs, but he dared not show any weakness.
He looked to the blade in his grasp, how he longed to hold his own sword but he knew it was safer with Connell. It would be a terrible loss should the blade of Bel’Vir fall into the hands of the enemy.
The Balhain charged, the flaming war hammer sweeping through the air with frightening speed. Slowed by exhaustion and pain Wolhan could only bring his blade up to meet the blow.
There was a flash of light as the weapons met. The ear splitting roar of a thunderclap broke the silence as the steel of his blade sprayed into the air as a thousand droplets of molten metal. Morne retreated further burned by the fiery metal.
Wolhan was blinded by the flash, his arm hung useless at his side the bones shattered beyond mending. Somewhere he could hear the Balhain screeching in anger. The haft of his mighty hammer cut in twain the weapons power lost in its rending.
Wolhan fell to his knees, his broken ribs having pierced his lungs. He smiled as the shadow of death came over him. His last thoughts were for his family and with a prayer for their safety he slipped away into the life that lay beyond death.
Chapter Eight
They rested on the escarpment for a short while before scrambling down the steep slope and into the foul wood at its base. The bitter smell of burning wood lay heavily in the air. The reeking smoke stung their eyes and scratched their throats.
Hot ash fell from the sky starting new fires and stinging their flesh with small burns. Using much of their remaining water they soaked the Morne cloaks and huddled within them for protection from the burning debris.
They moved as quickly as they could forcing their way through the thick brush. At times they were forced far to the north to avoid burning fires and thick fields of gurgling mud and boiling pools of water.
For more than half the day they journeyed before coming to a rise in the land. Ahead of them stood another high ridge of black stone. It descended down from the mountains flank and stretched far into the distance before disappearing beneath the yellowed treetops.
They rested briefly in its shadow, the falling ash not reaching this far north.
Marcos sat against the stone rubbing at his temples with an expression of pain etched upon his features.
Casius handed him a water skin. “What
bothers you?” He asked. He had never seen Marcos in such distress before.
Marcos drank sparingly and passed the skin back to him before replying. “Do you remember the day that we met?”
Casius nodded. “It seems like a lifetime ago.”
Marcos smiled at the remark. “I could hear the trees then.”
Casius suddenly understood. “What do these trees say?”
“Nothing,” Marcos answered sadly. “They are screaming in torment, mad raving things that have been twisted by Sur’kar’s might. Their shouts are incoherent, what sanity they possessed has long since left them. Even the youngest among them wails incoherently.”
“You have listened to this since we entered this forest?” Connell asked joining them.
Marcos shrugged, “It is the first time that I have wished to share in your deafness.”
“Your gifts are a two edged sword.” Connell stated patting Marcos’s upper arm in support.
“It has always been so.” Marcos said standing erect. “The sooner we leave this place the better.”
They climbed the loose stone and entered valley beyond. The sickly trees crowded against the mountains base. A few even managed a precarious hold on its lower reaches.
The Fuming volcano’s stone turned southward disappearing into a deep gloom that seemed impervious to the weak that touched the ground were they now stood.
The vegetation was thicker here, the trees taller with heavy boles that bore no signs of charring. Thick vines slowed their progress. They grew everywhere, hard barked and laden with long thorns that tore at their clothing and flesh without mercy.
Hacking their way forward they came quite unexpectedly to a narrow dirt track that ran arrow straight through the fetid wood running northeast from the mountain.
Crouching low to the ground Yoladt ventured out onto the hard packed earth. He studied the ground carefully for a few moments before rushing back to the cover of the wood.
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