by Pedro Urvi
“Who dares to interrupt us?” brayed General Odir with a flash of rage in his belligerent eyes. “I hope it’s a Nocean emissary. I swear I’ll take his guts out and send him back tied to his horse.”
“You’re always so subtle in all your suggestions,” said Rangulfsen. “That’s just what we need now, confronting the Noceans…”
“I’m not afraid of them, they’re just desert cockroaches. And we, the Men of the Snow, will squash them under our boots,” Odir said disdainfully, and spat to one side.
“I’m sure the Rogdonians would cheer like mad to see us killing each other in front of their besieged city, like mere apprentices in the art of war,” Rangulfsen said ironically.
“That I forbid!” Count Volgren ordered, very annoyed.
“We’ll soon find out who it is,” said General Olagson, stretching his big body. He shrugged, dismissing the question.
Rangulfsen shook his head. Gesturing to his map, he went on explaining his plan of attack and the possible threats to it.
A soldier in a uniform of golden scales entered the command tent and announced:
“Attention! His Royal Majesty Thoran, King of Norghana!”
They stood to attention at once.
King Thoran entered the tent after the soldier. With firm steps he came to stand in front of the four Generals and Count Volgren, who were looking at him with disbelief.
“Your Majesty… we weren’t expecting…” stammered the Count, falling to one knee. The four Generals followed his example immediately.
The King, an imposing man, was more than seven feet tall. His hair was long and blond and his appearance as Nordic as all his lineage. His strong build and presence were overwhelming. His face, always sullen, bore a golden beard and eyes as clear as ice, which stared at Count Volgren.
“I’ve been forced to travel to this insipid land of the West. And you know why, Volgren?” he asked in a voice as cavernous as it was fearsome.
“No, your Majesty… I don’t know what we owe the honor of your presence to...”
“To your unbelievable incompetence!” he howled, with such force that for a moment it seemed the tent would collapse.
Nobody dared move a muscle. They remained on their knees, heads bowed.
“My Ice Mages tell me that not only have you so far failed to assault the city, but that the siege weapons have been destroyed by the enemy… How has a catastrophe like this come about…?”
Count Volgren began to explain.
“You see, your Majesty…”
King Thoran took his war axe from his belt. With a tremendous blow he drove it into the table and broke it in two.
“I granted you the command of my armies so that you would bring me Solin’s head on a pike. And have you done so? No, don’t answer if you want to keep yours,” he threatened, twisting the axe in his hand. Volgren looked down and kept silent for his life’s sake. “That treacherous halfwit Solin killed my brother Orten. I want his head and all his family’s! I want this city razed to its foundations, with not even the ashes of the embers left. Are the King’s wishes understood?” he said, and laid the edge of his axe on the Count’s neck.
Nobody dared to speak.
“I see I’ve made myself clear.”
Without looking at his King, Rangulfsen whispered:
“And the Nocean forces, your Majesty?”
King Thoran walked up to the General and laid the head of his axe on his shoulder.
“You’ve already dishonored your King once, Rangulfsen. If you’re still alive today it’s because I need your intelligence and military skill to conquer this city. Don’t try my patience… I’m not a temperate man. If the Noceans turn against us ‒ and they might, like the treacherous vipers they are ‒ then we’ll destroy them. They’re not even half the man a Norghanian is. If they try to betray us, we’ll turn against them and squash them like worms.”
Rangulfsen gave a short nod.
“And now, attack and raze this filthy city to the ground until there’s not a rock standing! I want not a single man, woman or child left alive!”
From the battlements Gerart, his spirits heavy, was watching the immense red and white tide which was beginning to advance towards the wall. A sea made up of thousands of fearsome men of the snow who were coming to deliver death and destruction to his people.
“They’re coming…” he said, deep sadness in his voice.
Haradin too, by his side, contemplated the terrifying Norghanian host.
“Yes, and what’s surprising, they’re not waiting for the Nocean army.”
“They want to conquer the city for King Thoran,” Solin said. He was looking south, where the Nocean legions had not yet finished taking up their positions. “They won’t wait for the Noceans, they want all the glory for Norghana. They want my head. Urien had already foreseen this; he warned me this would be their course of action.”
“Good, good,” Haradin said. “This is very good news.”
“Good, Haradin?” Gerart asked in puzzlement as he watched the Norghanians shouting like enraged white bears, filling the plain with their deafening din. Thousands of throats roared, terrifying the hearts of the defenders.
“It’s not a joint attack from both hosts. If both armies attacked the wall simultaneously…” said King Solin.
Gerart immediately understood.
“We must take advantage of this clumsy decision and make them pay dearly,” said King Solin. “While distrust and greed reign among our enemies, we have a possibility of victory.”
Haradin nodded.
“It’s time to defend our land, to shed enemy blood,” the Mage said, watching the hosts advance.
“Archers of Rogdon, to the walls!” the King ordered at the top of his voice.
Swiftly and efficiently, the archers in blue and silver took their positions along the wall. The whole northeastern section was now crowded with the Rogdonian forces, bows tense and ready. Gerart scanned the faces of the men. Fear and anguish were visible, as if they had taken possession of those good souls. The Prince looked out at the immensity of the Norghanian hosts, marching on with unstoppable strength, indestructible, and his spirit fell too. He could perfectly understand his fellow-countrymen’s unease.
“Don’t let fear cause your courageous hearts to sink!” King Solin harangued them, as if he had read Gerart’s thoughts. “You are brave defenders of Rogdon! Today you will fight to protect the last Rogdonian redoubt. Today you will fight with courage, with the valor known to the men of Rogdon. Today we shall deliver death to the enemy!”
Gerart saw the faces of his countrymen lighting up. The flame of courage had taken hold inside them, fanned by the King’s words.
“Today we shall repel the enemy! We shall oust the invader! Their blood will bathe our battlements! Not one of them will set foot in our city!”
The soldiers began to cheer the King’s words, enthused by their monarch’s fervor.
“Death to the invader!” the King roared like a lion.
“Death!” all the soldiers replied as one, their awakened enthusiasm filling the walls with deafening cheers.
“For Rogdon!” the King shouted.
“For Rogdon!” they cried with all the strength of their lungs, so that the sound of their cheers drowned the cries of the enemy army.
“Death to the Norghanians!” roared Solin.
“Death!” the whole wall thundered, sending forth their message to the enemy.
The King turned around and looked at Gerart:
“Now, Prince of Rogdon, I give you command of the defense of the wall. Defend it with your honor, with your life. The enemy must not overrun us. I shall defend the great gate.”
Gerart looked into his father’s eyes. Filled with pride and respect, he accepted the responsibility and bowed to the King, who left with a dozen Royal Swords. Three of them remained behind to protect Gerart.
“Get ready!” the Prince shouted, his eyes on the enemy.
The Norghani
ans advanced in close formation, and the thunder of thousands of boots on the ground seemed to make the foundations of the wall shake.
“Wait for my order to shoot!” he said, seeing that the first lines were now close.
He could now make out the enemy he knew so well. He could already see the winged helmets covering the blond manes and beards of men pale as snow: tall, robust, broad–shouldered and strong–armed. All wearing full scaled armor, carrying swords and battle axes, with round wooden shields in one hand to protect themselves against arrows and spears. After the host, came the two siege towers, slowly. Thousands of ladders and hooked ropes were also carried by the soldiers of the snow to climb the magnificent wall which protected Rilentor.
“You will fail…” Gerart said to himself. Rage was spurring him on. He gazed at the plain at his feet once more, flooded by an ocean of Norghanian soldiers. “Not this time…” he repeated.
“They won’t,” Haradin assured him, standing calmly beside him.
The enemy was less than a hundred paces from the wall.
“Release!” Gerart ordered raising his sword. “Release!”
At the Prince’s order the archers launched thousands of arrows at the first enemy lines. Gerart knew they would not stop the advance ‒ nothing would ‒ but he saw the first men fall.
“Keep shooting!” Gerart shouted, as the archers discharged an incessant rain of death on the tide of attackers.
A roar came from the first Norghanian rows, and the shields rose to protect them from the arrows. The archers kept sending arrow after arrow against the sea of shields, but the enemy reached the foot of the wall, roaring like a monstrous beast with a thousand eyes, wounded and enraged. That beast from the deep abysses of the snowy mountains advanced unstoppably. Only the regal wall and the courage of the defenders on the battlements could reject it.
“Defend the battlements!” Gerart shouted when he saw the first assault ladders appear against the wall.
Thousands of hooked ropes soared over the battlements to find their hold along all the northeastern section of the wall. The winged helmets appeared close behind them on the battlements, and furious fighting ensued on the wall. The brutal Norghanians were formidable opponents, tough and ruthless. The defenders repelled them with spear and sword, knowing they were their people’s last line of defense. Behind them, in the highest part of the city, women and children were in hiding, sobbing with impotence and fear.
“Drive them back!” Gerart shouted, fighting without respite, flanked by his three Royal Swords, dealing death to all the Norghanians who reached his part of the battlements. The fighting on the wall turned desperate in a heartbeat and the thunder of the shouting became deafening, with cries of rage, despair and death. Blood bathed battlements and wall: Norghanian blood, Rogdonian blood, staining soldiers and rock alike.
“Fight! For Rogdon!” Gerart shouted after skewering an enormous soldier of the Thunder Army. He glimpsed a battleaxe out of the corner of his eye and ducked to the right. The weapon grazed his head and buried itself in the back of a Rogdonian soldier. Gerart took a step forward and in a fury, slit the Norghanian’s throat. Enemy blood spattered his golden armor. Gerart fought and fought with all his skill and all his strength. Chaos took over the battlements, death reigned on the wall. The Norghanians were too many, their brutality unstoppable. They would not be able to drive them back for long. The fearsome Men of the Snow went on climbing, tireless, immune to the fear of death which awaited them above. His Royal Swords helped him clear the section, but he knew it would soon be filled with enemies again.
Haradin came to stand in the middle of the wall behind the parapet. “Protect me,” he said. “The moment has come for me to act.”
He closed his eyes and seemed to fall into a trance. Disconcerted, Gerart turned to his three Royal Swords and ordered them: “Protect him with your lives!”
Haradin concentrated; he was well aware of the risk he was about to take, but there was no other option left to him. The Norghanian hosts were too numerous, the defenders would not be able to drive back wave after wave. He had not been able to pinpoint the location of the Ice Mages amid that sea of Norghanian soldiers, but he could feel their power and he knew that with the numbers in their favor they had the upper hand. Unfortunately, he had to do something, since the situation on the battlements was getting desperate. He knew the calculating Ice Mages must be too close now, camouflaged among the soldiers, but he had to risk it. He closed his eyes and searched for his source of inner energy, the blue pool which lay inside his chest. Don’t fail me now, he begged his Gift. Although much improved, his magic was still not responding as it should. He invoked a Spell of Earth Magic and cast an enchantment on himself; a spherical shield formed around his body, enveloping him completely. The sphere was made of compact hard earth and rock, but it appeared almost translucent.
He walked to the parapets. Looking down at the sea of enemies he began to cast a powerful spell, raising his staff of power and moving it in circles above his head. Two Norghanian soldiers, massive and grim-faced, reached the wall. Haradin ignored them, as he could not interrupt the spell. The three Royal Swords killed them swiftly, keeping him safe as he had known they would. He went on conjuring, impassive, making sure his magic was responding.
Suddenly a missile of pure ice reached him with great force. The defensive sphere repelled the attack, resisting the blow, but fragments of rock flew from the sphere, it was weakened. Haradin kept the spell going; he needed more time, he had to stand firm. Out of the corner of his eye he identified the origin of the missile among the first Norghanian lines: apparently a soldier of the Invincibles of the Ice. He was wearing their snow-white uniform, winged helmet and scaled armor, except there was a single detail about that soldier that did not fit: he was not holding a spear but a staff, white as snow. He was an Ice Mage and now Haradin knew where he was.
The Ice Mage launched a frozen javelin at him which buried itself in the protective sphere, throwing off chips of rock.
“Protect him!” Gerart cried from his right. He was driving back a group of enemies who had climbed over the wall and were establishing themselves.
Haradin looked at the tip of the ice javelin which had penetrated the defense to a few inches from his face but he did not flinch, he kept up his concentration. He had to continue with the spell, it was vital. He glimpsed the glacial Mage hurling a dozen icicles at him at high speed. That startled Haradin, and he nearly lost the concentration he needed to keep up the spell he was making so much effort to cast. Would the defensive sphere hold? He was not at all sure. The missiles kept coming…The first one hit the sphere hard, weakening it still further. Three more followed almost instantly, and chips of protective rock began to fall to the ground.
It would not hold…
At that moment two metal shields appeared in front of the Mage, covering him. The remaining icicles crashed against the shields which two of the Royal Swords were holding up. One of them dropped his shield and fell, in pain. Haradin saw that the icicles had pierced the metal, taking away the brave soldier’s arm. He cursed to himself but went on conjuring; he almost had it, just a bit longer. The third of the Royal Swords picked up another shield and took his fallen comrade’s position.
A bolt of frost flew towards Haradin from out of the snow-white tide. Another Ice Mage camouflaged among the Invincibles of the Ice. The bolt of frost fell on the battlements the Royal Swords were holding. Just a little more, a little more, Haradin thought to himself, carrying on with the spell. The bolt of frost began to freeze the shields, covering them with a thick layer of ice. The Royal Sword on his right fell, half his body frozen. The one on his left was speared by a hundred small stakes of ice.
And at last Haradin finished his spell.
In front of the wall, fifty paces away, in the middle of the enemy hordes, the earth split in two with a deafening rumble, as though an evil god were rising from the deep. The enormous crater of a volcano rose, dislodging earth, rocks
and men, all within an area of twenty paces.
Haradin gave a last twirl of his staff and pronounced the final words of power.
The volcano erupted, in the midst of the mass of enemy troops.
There were violent explosions of fire and lava over the Norghanian forces, and black smoke rose to the skies. The men of the Thunder Army burned everywhere, caught by the fiery terror, unable to escape, surrounded by their own fellow-soldiers. The cries of the victims filled the air.
Haradin took three hurried steps back from the parapet and left quickly. Several ice missiles brushed past him, and the bolt of frost hit the merlons in front of him.
“By a hair’s-breadth…” he muttered in relief.
The battlefield filled with the terrible screams of the soldiers caught by the volcano. Hundreds of men were burning alive with no means of escape, while inside the crater the rhythm of the explosions sped up, widening the area of horror and death. A rain of fire began to fall in the midst of the Norghanian troops who were trying to escape from the chaos, crushing their comrades in the stampede. The volcano began to throw up gobbets of lava in all directions in a giant eruption. The incandescent tide advanced slowly, spreading across the plain and approaching the wall. The Norghanians died, burnt by the scorching magma amid horrific screams of suffering, or else crushed by their own panicking fellow countrymen.
Gerart came to Haradin’s side and said in astonishment:
“That spell is more powerful than I could ever have imagined.”
“It is indeed. It’s used up a great deal of my energy. But it’ll soon run its course, unless it’s destroyed before that.”
“The tide of lava has already come up to the walls. The Norghanians are fleeing as best they can, trying to save their lives.”
“Prepare twenty archers,” Haradin told him.
“As you wish, Battle Mage,” Gerart said.
Suddenly, above the volcano, a freezing storm began to take shape. A winter blizzard enveloped the crater and the temperature began to drop rapidly. Torrential, freezing rain, glacial wind and ice began to devour the volcano in a battle between fire and ice. The storm grew in intensity as the volcano lost power. As the storm grew, so did its area of action, rapidly putting out the burning lava around the crater.