by Cory Barclay
Fueda waved at him. “Well, come on you lazy oaf. We’re almost to the tunnels!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The battle raged throughout the forest as the sun was beginning to set. Orange light bathed the trees gold and yellow. Because of the wooded landscape, there was no way for the two forces to engage on the open field.
When the Brethren’s main force found the Vagrant’s vanguard in the maze-like forest, the clash of steel and screams was horrific. Geddon and Selestria tried to keep hold of the operation from afar, but their line of sight was too impeded. If they wanted to get a better lay of the land and the scattered battlefield, they’d have to move closer.
Geddon’s vanguard consisted of fifteen Nawao warriors, twenty imps, the same amount of elves, a mix of sixty goblins and brownies, and a few other creatures.
Together, his force was two hundred men and women strong.
As the battle began, he feared the worst. The majority of his troop was not battle-hardened. The imps were detectives—people of intellect and inspection. The goblins were diminutive farmers and goatherders. The brownies were servants. Only the elves and Nawao gave him any hope, and they were few.
Standing in a small clearing, he watched the scene unfold in front of him. Three elves stood to his right, behind a copse of bushes, unloading arrow after arrow into the mass of blackness beyond. Four Nawao warriors did the same thing from Geddon’s left. He couldn’t see where any of the arrows landed.
Pursing his lips, he leaned to the left and right, trying to find a nice vantagepoint. His attempts were fruitless.
With closed eyes, Selestria used her Myth Hunting abilities to make sure their force was not getting surrounded.
When she opened her eyes, Geddon was staring at her. “Well?” he asked.
“Their wall of men is wider than ours, but they do not yet flank us. However, on either end of the lines their men are curling around ours. It won’t be long before they engulf us and we’re no longer fighting back-to-back.”
“Dammit,” Geddon snarled, squeezing the pole of his spear. He ran over to the Nawao warriors and yelled, “You four, follow me.”
They glanced back at him, curious and a bit annoyed at having to move their position.
Geddon ran over to the elves. As he ran, he saw one of the elves poke his head up over the bushes. An arrow from the depths of the woods whizzed by Geddon’s face and stuck itself in the elf’s forehead. The elf let out an inhuman gurgle and toppled backward.
Geddon’s eyes went wide. He’d had no idea the enemy’s arrows could reach his position. That meant one of two things: they had greater ranger than he’d thought, or they were closer than he’d thought.
The two remaining elves went to their dying kinsman’s side. His eyes had rolled into the back of his head.
“Leave him!” Geddon yelled. “We will find time to give him a proper burial. For now, you two must follow me.”
The elves scowled at Geddon, but they obliged him. He was their commander, after all. Though they didn’t like it. No one did. Every Vagrant Kinsman in Soreltris knew what Geddon had done to Tetsuo. He had killed in cold blood, they thought. Though in actuality Geddon had killed Tetsuo in very warm blood, in an act of passion.
As Geddon sped by Selestria, he said, “Keep yourself safe. Surround yourself with as many men as you can. I couldn’t bear to think what—”
“Just go, Geddon,” Selestria interrupted. She picked up her staff and, to Geddon’s horror, ran toward the clashing and screaming.
Geddon took off down a muddy pathway, his four Nawao and two elves in tow.
“Where are we going?” one of the elves asked.
“To reinforce our left flank before it gets overrun,” Geddon said. He ran as he talked, around stumps and fallen branches. He was overweight and out of shape, but his adrenaline was keeping him going.
As he moved, the fit Nawao and elven warriors fanned out behind him.
He ran alongside the treeline, following the path as long as it took him toward the battle. When it began to veer in the wrong direction, he cut away from the path and sprinted deeper into the woods. He saw the backs of his soldiers and announced his presence so he wouldn’t get shot or killed.
A large part of the Vagrant vanguard had hunkered down in hand-built trenches or behind trees.
He saw a small troop of goblins peeking through an opening in the greenery. They hopped through the opening and charged a pair of blackguards who had found themselves on the wrong side of the battle lines.
Geddon joined the goblins, leaping into the clearing, his spear leading the way.
With a grunt, Geddon stabbed as one of the blackguards was turning to face him. His spearhead punctured the man’s stomach, and the force of the charge sent the man sprawling a few feet back.
Geddon didn’t bother to confirm his kill. He kept running through the clearing, spinning his spear to send slick blood from the blade. He knew he was getting near to the heart of the battle, where his waning left flank would be holding back the enemy.
When he reached the flank, he realized how dire the situation had become.
His left flank was slowly retreating: sending arrows into the enemy, ducking from return fire, and then taking steps back. Geddon came up behind them.
“Hold your ground!” he shouted, pumping his spear into the air.
Arrows whizzed past his face. He cursed and ducked, moving to find another tree to stand behind. His shouting had given his position away as an officer of the group, and now he knew he’d be a target.
“So be it,” he said to no one. The elves and Nawao were still following him.
He found an empty space between a few goblins and pointed. “Stick yourselves there and give them hell!”
The elves nodded, crouched, and reached into their quivers.
Geddon didn’t watch. He kept moving as another arrow whistled by him. The Nawao turned as they ran, shooting wildly to give their leader some breathing room.
Geddon’s eyes bulged. He skidded to a halt and leveled his spear.
Three blackguards were running in his direction. This was what he’d been afraid of: his allies should have been in those trees. The enemy was beginning to wrap around his forces.
Geddon gritted his teeth and rushed the approaching blackguards.
Two of the Nawao stopped and nocked their arrows, while two of them followed Geddon into the fray.
An arrow sunk harmlessly into one of the blackguard’s shoulder plates. Geddon swung his spear across his body and smacked the lunging blackguard’s sword aside. The parried sword opened up a gap between his armpit and side.
Geddon gripped high and thrust, catching the blackguard in the side before he could react. His spear must have pierced the man’s heart, because he dropped immediately.
One of the other blackguards confronted the two Nawao and tackled one of them to the ground. As they went down and tumbled, the blackguard reached back and punched, crunching the Nawao’s throat.
Geddon winced. He snapped to the blackguard in front of him and was able to leap back before his head would have been dislodged. Standing away from the blackguard, he now had reach. He slid his hands lower on the spear, toward the end, and stabbed wildly.
The blackguard parried the spear and stepped forward into Geddon’s guard.
Geddon didn’t have room to use his spear in close quarters. Time slowed as he saw the blackguard’s sword rising to meet his belly.
Then an arrow took the blackguard in the neck. A second one took him in the eye. He fell wordlessly.
Geddon peeked over his shoulder to thank the Nawao archers, then he spun toward the grappling men on the ground. One of the Nawao was dead, the one whose throat had been crushed. His friend fought on the ground with mad abandon.
Geddon raised his spear to plunge it into the blackguard’s back.
An arrow hit Geddon’s exposed thigh and he cried out in pain. His gaze shifted forward.
Fear struck him as
he saw five more blackguards heading in his direction.
The two Nawao archers behind Geddon shot the blackguard on the ground. They shifted their aim to the approaching group.
Geddon was forced to sidestep behind a tree as another arrow went by him. He grimaced, found the arrow in his leg, and broke it off with a grunt. He growled and turned out from the tree, ready to meet the five charging blackguards and his inevitable fate.
A chorus of screams rose from the foliage to his left. It caused a moment of pause in the blackguard’s charge as they checked to see what awaited them.
A group of five imps burst from the greenery with their little weapons raised high.
The blackguards turned to defend against the enraged little people. The imps ran around the blackguards, bobbing and weaving against the slower enemy.
While the blackguards were distracted, Geddon took the chance to run back into the melee.
He positioned his spear over his shoulder and shoved it into a blackguard’s back.
Another blackguard spun and punched Geddon in the face.
The leader of the imps, an angry female, hopped on one of the blackguard’s backs.
One of the imps went down from a lucky strike to his temple.
“Bilboo!” Zeta cried, watching her timid, courageous friend fall. She latched onto the blackguard’s shoulders with all her might, then found his neck. The blackguard screamed like there was a rat in the house, spinning around, trying to get Zeta off his back.
A bigger imp, Pigmar, ran up and thrust his sword into the spinning blackguard’s groin.
The scene became madness—a full brawl with no rhyme or reason or strategy.
Geddon’s head pounded but he kept moving, trying to avoid anything sharp that was headed in his direction.
The two Nawao archers were no longer able to shoot, lest they risk striking their allies.
As Geddon dropped his spear and threw a blackguard down with his bare hands, he glanced over the man and cursed.
Another group of blackguards approached from the trees.
Geddon took two seconds to survey the battle: two of his four Nawao were dead; two of the five imps had fallen. He was limping along haphazardly from the arrow in his thigh. His group was still engaged with three blackguards, and five more were approaching . . .
“Retreat!” Geddon called out in a hoarse voice. He knew anything else was folly.
This was only one pocket of action. All throughout the forest similar scenes played out, as Mythics killed each other in civil war.
Geddon gazed to his right, where he’d be retreating, and then he saw it—
A gold helmet whirred past some trees, a red cloak billowing behind. Brethren nobility colors. A leader of the Brethren was running deeper into the heart of his army.
Geddon chased the gold helmet and hoped his people followed.
They did—disengaging and tailing their commander.
The burly imp Pigmar took a tumble and somersaulted forward, landing to rest on his belly with an arrow sticking out of his back.
“No!” Zeta cried again. Tears whipped past her face as she ran behind Geddon.
In the distance, a new sound joined the raucous fray: a light, piercing melody. It seemed to envelop the entire forest. It was oddly serene and surreal—a tantalizing tune floating on the bloody breeze.
Geddon looked over his shoulder as he ran and limped along. The blackguards were in close pursuit and gaining on them, due to his wound and the little legs of the imps. The two remaining Nawao stop-started to defend his retreat with arrows, but it was futile. They couldn’t get any clear shots through the trees.
Geddon’s left flank had fallen. More Mythics saw their commander and followed him away from enemy lines.
The melody gained a harmony as it danced in Geddon’s ears. He could tell it came from some kind of flute.
He glanced back one more time as he ran, to see how close the blackguards were. At a certain point, he’d have to turn around or be run down . . .
Shapes moved on the trees around him. He squinted, trying to see what was running off the limbs and branches.
As the blackguard company ran past one of the trees, tiny shapes jumped from the branches.
Squirrels and ferrets and other small animals of the woods lunged at the enemy. Half the blackguards stopped their pursuit as they were bombarded by suicidal rodents.
Geddon couldn’t help but laugh. He faced forward to see where he was going. His laugh stopped in his throat.
A hornet’s nest hung from a tree ahead, the angry insects buzzing around, waiting.
As Geddon and his group passed under the nest, none of them were stung. But as the blackguards neared, the hornets unloaded their fury.
The forest animals were coming to the aid of the ailing Vagrant army, thanks to Lord Jasper and Lady Amber’s music.
Geddon sighted the gold helmet again, far in the distance. He finally got a good, clear view of whom it belonged to: Lord Obsidian, the dwarf commander of the Brethren army. He led a large group of blackguards and dwarves, charging deep into the Vagrant Kinship’s lines.
Geddon gritted his teeth and followed Lord Obsidian, unable to wait to see who would follow him.
As he ran, the forest itself started to come alive. Tree branches smacked into the faces of the enemy. Vines slithered and wrapped themselves around necks and legs, pulling screaming blackguards to the ground.
Lady Moonstone had entered the battle. As she had promised, she brought the full fury of Mother Nature with her.
Footsteps surrounded Geddon. He realized many Vagrants were running alongside him—nearly twenty—as he bravely charged into Lord Obsidian’s company.
Geddon knew he had to take this opportunity. To kill the commander of the enemy’s army at a pivotal time like this would shake the Brethren to their core. They could very well retreat if Obsidian was dead . . .
“What’s he doing way out here?” Geddon asked. It dawned on him that Obsidian likely thought the same thing he’d been thinking: strike fast and hard at the heart of the Vagrants. If you kill their leaders, their army will crumble.
Out of the corner of his eye, Geddon caught a familiar face.
Selestria.
Geddon gaped in horror. Lord Obsidian and his troop were headed right for Selestria and her ragtag team of Vagrants.
Geddon clenched his jaw and pressed on. As the blood pumped in him, he no longer felt the arrow wound in his thigh.
He concentrated and roared. His clothes stretched and his arms and legs bulged, ripping his shirt and pants. Black fur sprouted all over his body. For a moment he lost vision as everything went white. Then he could see through an animal’s eyes.
In transit, he completed the transformation into his natural form, an ugly, gorilla-like bugbear.
The Vagrants beside him gave their leader a wide berth as he roared and crashed into the back of the blackguard force.
Lord Obsidian spun around. He was separate from Geddon by a sea of dark helmets and cloaks. In front of him stood Selestria and her group of elves and Mythics.
The dwarf faced Selestria and pushed forward, swinging his hammer with expert accuracy. Sharp thuds collided with soft skulls and enemies went flying.
Geddon’s huge fist grabbed onto a blackguard’s helmet. He squeezed and yanked the helmet off, nearly taking the blackguard’s head with it. He flung the dead man aside and roared, punching his fists into the next nearest enemy. He ignored any and all weapons that made contact with him, lost in the tangle and umbrage of war.
Geddon cut a path through the blackguards and neared Lord Obsidian. At the same time, the dwarf found his way through Selestria’s bodyguards.
The gold-helmeted dwarf charged at Selestria.
She raised her quarterstaff and mumbled a few words under her breath. A yellow light weaved around the wooden staff, enchanting it with energy.
Obsidian swung his hammer across his body like a bat. Selestria yelped and put her enchant
ed weapon out. The hammer jarred against her staff and sent her flying backward, to the ground.
Geddon screamed at seeing the woman he loved knocked down.
Obsidian meandered to Selestria, who was trying to regain her footing. She stumbled and fell again, her equilibrium shot from the rattling connection.
Geddon kicked a blackguard out of the way. Obsidian was just ten feet from him—
Obsidian stood over the dazed Selestria and raised his hammer over his head.
Geddon launched himself with his hands and feet, like a silverback gorilla.
Obsidian brought the hammer down.
But it wouldn’t budge over his head.
Geddon held the hammer sternly in his strong grip.
Lord Obsidian growled and turned, pulling at the handle of the hammer like he was playing a game of tug-a-war.
Geddon felt the hammer give way—the smaller, stockier dwarf was very strong. So, Geddon abruptly let the hammer go from his grip.
Lord Obsidian stumbled, unbalanced from the momentum and shock of retrieving his weapon. He grinned devilishly.
Then Geddon clapped his hands as hard as he could on the dwarf’s head. The golden earguards caved and embedded themselves in the side of Obsidian’s face.
The dwarf wailed.
Geddon clapped again, this time with a sickening crack.
Lord Obsidian dropped, his skull crushed.
Selestria used her staff to help herself stand. She gazed into the ugly, sagging face of Geddon as a bugbear. He was a child’s nightmare come true.
“You . . . saved me,” she muttered, as if she couldn’t believe it.
War raged all around them, but they stared only into each other’s eyes.
“The dwarf king has fallen!” a Nawao warrior bellowed across the field.
Geddon grinned, his yellow, crooked teeth showing. He nodded and held his hand out, to comfort Selestria.
He was already changing back into a human—his fur melting away into his body, his body shrinking to its normal size . . .
He glanced past Selestria and froze. His lank hand turned into a pointing finger. He opened his mouth just as he saw the turban fly off.