Beyond Dagothar (The Oraclon Chronicles Book 1)

by Jason Breshears

  Sensing the giant's inability to put up much fight over sixty orcs brought him down with their spears and hacking, though they lost several of their own.

  A giant picked up a sharp-edged battle cube of granite and threw it back at a group of pagai aiming another machine. The boulder hit the construction imploding it in splinters as pygmy goblin engineers were scattered in scrapes and bruises. A headhunter launched himself like a four-armed missile from off a passing wingmordh and landed on the giant's shoulder. Before the startled giant could swat him off the elf like a spider crawled rapidly across his trimmed beard onto his other shoulder, the giant's eyes following him as he moved across his field of vision. The giant roared and batted at the little dark elf but the nimble headhunter leapt away and disappeared into the battle as a burning pain spread across the giant's neck. Hot agony seized the timber giant's throat as it fell to its knees in disbelief, blood draining onto the ground. He fell forward whimpering as basilaks sank their teeth in his arms and legs, their orcan riders hacking at him with swords and axes.

  Over eighty feet away the Aelvatchi glanced back at his handiwork.

  The leader of the timber giants held aloft the bloodied flint axe that had just opened the underbelly of a swooping wingmordh. The flying beast folded in on itself and crashed hard into a tree, its rider adroitly leaping onto a thick bough. Under the giant's right foot a basilak struggled and croaked, even biting its orc rider who was also pinned by his leg. Together they were crushed under the immense weight. A hammertaur jumped up aiming its browbone at the giant's face but was swatted away by the flat of the massive stone axe. The animal yelped like a wounded dog and kicked erratically once lying on the earth.

  Seeing their hopeless circumstances the leader yelled to the other giants still fighting and the five of them together turned around and began running in the direction they had come. But the pagai were ready and with slight mechanical adjustments compensating for distance they fired their war machines, four and five pygmy goblins hanging from each lever. The tiny helmeted pagai cheered as three more giants fell violently, struck by iron spears and sharpened stone missiles like harpoons and cubes. The leader died instantly with an iron spear piercing his neck. One of the two surviving giants leaned down and retrieved the leader's axe of flint as they escaped into the woods.

  "Blow for silence?"

  "Yes," Ulusha replied as the orc herald blew the old cave buffulo horn. She was the only female orc general, a bloodborn tribal chieftain's daughter now commanding Legion Three. A hush followed and the underworlders listened. Nothing initially could be heard but an uneasy feeling spread throughout the host.

  Dark elves standing statuesque squinted in their search of the trees. Winged goblins took flight into the safety over the tree tops. Muscles along the flanks of the brawn hammertaurs twitched and their riders looked nervously from tree to tree. The only noises came from moaning giants and orcs wounded and dying on the valley floor.

  General Ulusha felt what all her host felt. Beneath their feet the ground vibrated. The heavy thumping grew informing them all of the rapid approach of something large. Many somethings. The thumping turned to pounding like a hundred huge mauls and the woods filled with a low rumble growing louder. The herald looked up through the branches at the sky and pointed at a single dark line rising high into the air. Another trail of inky smoke followed, and then a third. These were Aelvatchi signals showing the direction from which the enemy approached. The orcs turned slightly in the direction shown by the smoke tracer arrows.

  "Brigades one, two, three prepare to fire! Brigades four, five stand ready to cover frontline reload!" Ulusha barked as massive slave ogres obeyed the commands of the tiny pigmy goblin engineers. Machines were moved and recalibrated. The goblins of the archer brigades took up positions behind the seige engine brigades to provide more cover fire, and among them were quiet dark elven warlocks and serpentine draconian warsorcers attended by their elite mageguards. Six dusk giants wearing boneplate armor held iron-spiked maces and led eighteen smaller titan ogres that all stood between nine and a half and eleven feet tall. Each ogre had a single horn sticking out its forehead and wore thick hides over iron armor. These were no slaves, but the feared kin of the Taran Warlord.

  The Aelvatchi tending the umberslogs hissed and pointed their multiple arms forward. The slogs howled, drool splattering on the dirt as they lunged forward on all six claws. The raging herd plunged into the wood followed by the more reserved cavalries of orcs riding basilaks and hammertaurs.

  General Ulusha marvelled at the ferocity of the slogs and grinned maliciously when the sound of screams and metal on metal ensued. Pitiful wails, hellish howling, roars, trees splitting, the ground atremble with the colision of giants and umberslogs caused the hornback orcs to pause as they listened to what sounded like a battle between gods.

  The giants of Shadevale faught valiantly. The timber giants that rushed into this conflict numbered fifty-one, all males answering to the bellowing of their kin caught in ambush. At the onslaught of the umberslogs nineteen of these giants found themselves overcome as the hideous beasts scraped and clawed their way up their legs, waists and backs biting chunks off their bodies unlike any creatures they had ever faught. Timber giants pounded the slogs but the hellish beasts faught back feeling no pain nor fear. Hungry for blood the slogs weighed down these unfortunate giants and once on their knees, rears or backs, they found themselves rapidly torn apart under the press of several slogs at a time.

  The battle lasted only seconds. A few slogs had been killed or crushed but the rest of the herd continued onward. The ravenous creatures were more intent on feeding that killing. Nor did the remaining thirty-two timber giants stop but charged ahead seeking those who had invaded their woods. They next encountered the cavalry of rapid-running basilaks with their orc riders and the hammertaurs which were of little threat to the running giants. The aerial assault sent out by order of Ulusha found it difficult to combat running giants through huge trees. The dark elves and winged goblins could do little more than follow them over the wood.

  When the crowd of timber giants broke free of the thicker woods they saw the host of orcs, goblins, wizards, ogres, the underworld giants and the lines of machines operated by tiny figures. They slowed only for a breath before their eyes took in the scene between them and their enemies. Other timber giants were laying all over the field, bloodied, dismembered and bashed up. The giants glared at the underworlders screaming in wrath as they closed the distance with a few long strides.

  Terror rippled through the ranks of Legion Three as almost three dozen gigantic angry men charged them. The pagai cringed beneath their heavy helms and the goblins readied arrows with shaking hands. Some of the lighter war contraptions were in danger of moving out of position as the ground beneath them heaved and jostled.

  The signal horn was blown and the frightened pigmy goblins in threes and fours found heroic strength to pull down their levers. Engines shuddered and whooshed unleashing a storm of iron spears, sawblades the size of tables and boulders hewn into several jagged and sharpe points or edged cubes from ninty to three hundred pounds in weight.

  Warlocks blinded the giants while draconian warsorcers put a couple giants to sleep, froze shut one giant's eyelids and tore one giant's head off completely by magically redirecting a flying rock. Three draconians spellwove a pattern of enchantments totally incincerating another giant to ash...a dried husk that stood still before a boulder broke it apart in a shower of embers.

  But nothing did the giants more harm than the sting and threat of the darkish purple arrows launched by the goblin archer brigades. Thousands of arrows forged of some strange purple metal filled the air and every surviving giant screamed in surprise or pain as they sank deeply into flesh and bone. More than one giant died thinking that these were no ordinary arrows.

  Ulusha watched as timber giants fell like trees in a windstorm. One was impaled and staring sorrowfully at the ground at nothing in particular. Another
swung a large limb with twigs and leaves still attached as blood gushed out of his right shoulder, his right arm severed completely off.

  The pagai had no time to reload their seigecraft and screamed in terror as the line of giants, adorned in ribbons of blood from countless arrow wounds, trampled the front line of war machines, squashing the tiny pygmy goblins attending them. A slave ogre was kicked high into the upper branches of a tree. It moaned hanging in the foliage. The giants ignored most of the goblin engineers and slaves, intent on killing the goblin archers. As they passed through the front line the fourth and fifth seige engine brigades shot their loads at close range felling three more giants right before their line was broken, machines smashed and knocked over useless. The armored dusk giants and titan ogres then fell upon the timber giants as more and more of the terrible purple arrows hissed into their bodies.

  Four last giants still standing, all pierced by numerous arrows, stopped, their eyes widening in alarm. The orcs paused and goblins let loose no more arrows. The dusk giants hesitated not understanding. Far off in the wood the faint sounds of many screams could be heard. Howls followed. The four timber giants dropped their weapons and and began to run back to their village. In their bloodlust they had completely forgotten the threat of the herd of six-legged monsters they had first encountered. Their women and children were being attacked.

  "Kill them!" General Ulusha screamed and immediately the goblins loosed hundreds of arrows and the workable machines fired off their loads. Then the duskim and titan ogres gave chase. An edged boulder cube knocked down a giant and when he got back up limping the dusk giants hacked him to death. Another fell by long iron spear. The other two sprinted mightily but the underworlders did not worry. Two wounded and tired timber giants were not enough against so many slogs, basilaks and hammertaurs. With pteragaunts and Aelvatchi harrying them from the air they would most likely fall before getting back.

  "Three villages, general. Many females, and young. The fourth village is being eaten. There will be no further resistance," said a draconian warsorcer from the underworld Temple of Xakkiun. Ulusha disdained talking to the draconians because their serpentlike faces expressed no emotions but anger.

  "Will your enchantments keep the chains?"

  "Yes."

  Have the duskim gather the prisoners and get the lift to that hill over there. After the burning disk has fallen fire the signal. In the dark we move on."

  My people worship the Way Gods, the Outsiders as Cavin

  calls them. He says in Poltyria they are called the Lesser

  Enniad. Foolish talk. We Caereans of Arborealm keep the

  ways of TAL'ANIN, known as Elderboughs to sylvankind.

  We know Tal'Nik of the Beasthorn, the Leek who blesses

  our births and heals children. We burn candles to Korlu of

  the Gates, the Warden to Otherworlds. Our women dance

  to Lira of the Harvest. Five Gods, all known in ancient

  Caedoria. Cavin says the smallfolk in Poltyria also worship

  the Way Gods. This is good. I would rather be small in

  Poltyria than be great and worship lies.

  Josiah Arrowloft camping with

  five warriors known as a Fifth

  of Vrac

  Feymark'ul...Ranger Conclave in Old Watchtower

  I found the others waiting for me. For over two centuries the rangers of Borderealm met yearly in this old abandoned watchtower high above the floodplain of Feymark'ul. Though we stood atop the tower in its highest chamber, or what was left of its crumbling walls, the ruin itself was once a solid fortress. One of many built atop the several tors, circular artificial hills now all crowned with ruins. Ancient works of the Silthani elves long before the Devilspire Wars.

  Feymark'ul was a seasonal floodplain that turned into a shallow sea every spring with the meltwater from the mountains. The tors were about fifty circular islands at present and we had all arrived here by drake. We had met two months ago, on our annual schedule, to exchange intelligence and receive any new assignments that might be necessary. Sometimes we come across one another in our travels or pair up on important missions. But mostly we see one another once a year.

  And this year Cavin Knightshade did not appear.

  This meeting is called Conclave and Cavin would never miss it. We discuss news of particular importance, chase rumors, investigate reports and between the seven of us every year we construct a pretty good picture of everything happening in and around Borderealm. Our findings and conclusions are then sent through wards in Arborealm to the Hinterfolk who have dealings with merchants in Kings Bane that exchange courier pigeons with their business counterparts in Poltyria. Our ranger reports are received at Castle Demarsculd of the renowned Arcanacrafts and the Knightshades who then give them over to the Minister of the Outlands who in turn reports them directly to the crown.

  This is something we do as a courtesy. Cavin is the first Poltyrian to have ever been accepted into our brotherhood. The rangers of Borderealm have for centuries been Caereans and before we were Caedorians before that mighty kingdom fell so long ago. Otherwise our most important duty is to Borderealm. We keep the peace and serve the various races and civilizations as message bearers. We often communicate directly with chieftains, matriarchs, priests, overlords and kings. Few being human.

  Conclave was over sixty days ago when it was determined that I would go west in search of Cavin. This meeting today was a break from tradition. It was known that Cavin had last stated he was going to Dimwood, specifically to the ruins of a particularly ancient site known as Talan Dathar. It was mankind's earliest dwelling. It was said to be a sprawling metropolis of empty, half-buried buildings.

  I looked around the chamber heavy with the sense that we were incomplete. My agitation was shared by the others. The Order of the Rangers of Borderealm had since its Caedorian beginnings always been held by only seven men. Until Cavin's acceptance the unbroken tradition was that we were all Caerean. At the edge of a crumbling wall leading out to a balcony, I looked down as the others silently watched me. About sixty feet below was the base of the tower atop the surface of the tor. I knew there were levels of architecture inside and below the hill. The water of the plain was only about five to seven feet in depth, clear meltwater that had flowed away from orc strongholds in the mountains to the west. Our mountaindrakes and wardrakes rested quietly along the ledges as they had done two months ago.

  As First Ranger, Cavin's assigned territory of patrol was the far west. Dimwood and Darkfrost Peaks from the Stonebark Wastes in the north to the Citadels of Shannidar in the south. These were the most unexplored, unruly and exotic territories. In fact, outside of our order and some old books, few men had even heard of these lands.

  I clasped Michel's right arm and squeezed his shoulder. He is our desert ranger, his area of patrol being the frontiers of the Great Desert of Eternal Sands and the regions of the secretive Men of the Scorched Earth clans. When Michel was a boy of eight he was found hiding in the wreckage of a burnt merchant vessel beached along the coast of Hinterealm. The family and crew of the ship had been captured by the slavers of Edgehaven. As a Caerean he was adopted and trained and as his skill in archery grew he became the only other bowmaster in all of Arborealm aside from myself. Though I am descended of House Arrowloft, Michel was adopted and by training and merit had been accepted into our order. There are many other archers among our people, but the mastery of the bow involves more than just training.

  Michel is a man of few words, of unusual moral charactor and in all the ways that make a man he is older than his years. He is my closest friend. A brother.

  The two real brothers in our order are Abdias and Lucretius, or Luey. Abdias is the older brother and is assigned to the islands and coasts of the Spawnsea. He is well known and disliked by the slavers, smugglers and pirates of Edgehaven, Rivensail and Kings Bane. At any given time there are many who seek to kill him. He weilds a large, gem-encrusted cutlass and has harpoons strap
ped to his arms he can use expertly. His exploits in and out of the water have earned him the name Borderfish.

  Lucretius was his younger brother, called Luey by all of us except Cavin. The First Ranger, of Poltyrian blood but wed into a Caerean family of Arborealm, was very formal in all of his dealings with us. Luey was assigned to those lands close to the Jungles of the Silapenti. It is discouraged, but he has made journeys into the interior of the swamplands, marshes and jungles and is the only man alive I know who has laid eyes on the pyramid. I recall Cavin leaning on Luey to give him as many details as he could remember about that archaic structure. He weilds a glaive, an eight foot long spear with a curved steel blade. From a race of insect formians in the jungle eager to trade he had obtained much good information on poison lore and with concoctions of his own making he can kill one thousand pound creatures with a dart from his pipe.

  Probably the most unpopular ranger among men was the most respected by the dwarves. Matthias, also known as Thunder Hands, is a big man, taller and heavier than the rest of us. He was formerly trained by the Poltyrians in hand combat at their Three Bridges lake garrison in Lower Poltyria. We have all seen what he can do with his fists and knees to even the most armored combatant. Matthias fights with huge, dwarvencraft gauntlets having razored edges. He is a gauntleteer highly esteemed by the dwarves of Red Anvil, of Grol-galdir and those more friendly dwarves of Emim'gard. The Emim forged for him a very expensive warhammer that has the insignia of the rangers of Borderealm in bas-relief. When he strikes armor, wood, hide or earth with that hammer our symbol of seven stones encircling an arrow on a shield is imprinted upon it. The Emim are the same smiths that made my waraxe.

  In combat matters Matthias thinks much like a dwarf. He holds that valor is measured in personal conflict rather than shooting missiles or employing magic. He does admit that throwing a weapon is sometimes preferred but he is against the use of arrows and bolts because he sees in their use the unfair advantage of one who could inflict harm from a distance while suffering little threat to his person. We have spent many long hours discussing our philosophical differences in good humor. He has won the heart of the dwarves and he is a good friend. And though large and menacing, all know there is much more to Matthias than meets the eye.