His eyes kept focused on the fortress above, looking for the one target he was eager to handle personally, but the bastard hadn’t yet shown its face.
That’s fine, he was coming for him regardless.
Pushing his way towards the broken drawbridge; he crossed the wooden planks that’d been placed there by the enemy and began his advance through the outer wall. Cavalry swung behind them, clearing any stragglers, as the main force of dwarves entered Kamdeac.
A large keep towered over them on the other side of the inner ward, and as they pushed the enemy back through the inner gates, he saw a figure standing just before the keep’s ruined portcullis. His eyes narrowed at the black armored goblin and his face broke out in a sneer.
“Axe throwers!” he commanded, signaling for them all to climb the inner wall and begin focusing their fire on one target; the creature calling itself Pestilence.
Goblin corpses lay strewn about and he noticed that only a partial force was left between him and his target. Axes began to fly overhead and he felt the energy in him renew. This is what he’d been waiting for, a chance to redeem himself of his earlier failure, and seek retribution for all of their kin.
The horde had backed up and were forming a ring around their leader. He watched closely as Pestilence suddenly sneered, then began touching the goblins that provided him with their failing protection. Screams pierced the air, increasing in volume as the entire goblin horde suddenly began retching, plunging their way forward with eyes full of fear and confusion.
Pestilence had infected his own soldiers.
He knew now what he was truly dealing with and he would not suffer the monster to live any longer. The army around him rushed forward to meet the onrush of attackers. Even though the creatures were killed quickly, the plague began to spread, and soon the agonizing howls were from their own infected soldiers.
Growling with rage, he swept along the outside wall, circulating around the small town situated in the inner ward, and coming at Pestilence from the rear. He had spent a lot of his childhood here, it had been a second home, and there were still quite a few tricks up the fallen fortresses sleeves that he knew those ignorant monsters hadn’t discovered.
He grimaced as the cries of his men increased and wondered how long they’d survive before succumbing to the plague spreading amongst them.
He had to end this quickly.
He stepped over large piles of dung, the vermin apparently unable to handle their own refuse in a civilized way. He held his breath, came around the last building, and stared at the back of the enemy commander.
Making his way towards the keep as silently as possible, he watched the battle unfolding near the inner gates and noticed that piles of his own men had begun to stack up next to the last remnants of the goblin horde. He shook his head with despair. So many were dying from this fiend; he would not be allowed to make it out of here alive.
He stepped into the keep’s outer wall, the ruined portcullis discarded on the right, the air reeking of death and decay. Taking a few measured steps back, he gauged the distance the best he could, then threw his gaze up and hollered at the black armored freak.
“Pestilence! Ye missed a body!” he cried, making the goblin turn quickly with a confused look on his face.
Good; he was mortal after all.
“You thinks you’re safe in there? Other dwarves thunk so. They dead now,” Pestilence sneered as he began a slow march towards the awaiting dwarf.
He stood his ground, focusing entirely on his enemy, axe held ready just in case. “Yoo’re gonnae pay fur aw th' deaths yoo’ve caused. Ye hink yoo’re somethin' special? I’ve noticed 'at ye need tae tooch in order tae wark yer murderoos plagues.”
He smiled.
“So, run. Soon dwarves be dead, you be alone trapped in keep, me follow behind you. We…” Pestilence continued as he stepped through the damaged doorway and entered the keep.
It was exactly what he’d been waiting for.
Throwing his axe at the wall above the creature’s head, he heard a satisfying thud and knew that he’d hit his mark. A grinding noise filled the air and Pestilence began to sway, arms flailing, a look of fury wiping the sneer free in an instant.
A hole opened beneath the goblin’s feet and Pestilence swiftly fell from view. It was a hidden trapdoor that opened into a small pit thirty feet into the earth. There was no escape, no tunnels that would lead out of it. The only way out was up.
Howls of rage echoed up at him, and he stepped towards the edge smiling at the broken body of the goblin. He hadn’t landed well and that didn’t displease Riska at all. The more agony, the better. He edged along the edge of the hole in the ground and exited the keep, confident that Pestilence was dealt with for the moment.
The fight was over.
He had briefed his generals on what to do if any of their men were infected, and he winced as he watched the segregation begin. Those exposed would be moved to one side of the fortress, the other would house the remaining survivors in an enforced quarantine of the entire army. Now that they had retaken Kamdeac, he could not allow any of them to return home until he was sure that none would carry a plague back with them.
“General Riska!” a runner hollered, charging his way.
“Hoo bad?” he asked, before the other dwarf had a chance to relay his message. He could see the separating force and winced at how many were marching sadly towards the infected portion of the keep.
“Aicht hunder deid, two-fifty woonded, fower hunder an' sixty-seven infected, Sairrr!” the runner informed him.
Worse than he expected.
“Ah want a detail ower haur tae tak' those large piles ay jobby linin' th' inner dyke, an' fill thes hole behin' me wi' it,” he commanded the dwarf with a smile.
The runner looked over the edge at the screaming goblin, and smiled with pleasure. “Reit awa’.”
“Nae, tak' yer time, lit heem hurt a bit. Noo, what’s yer message?” he patted the dwarf’s shoulder as they began walking towards the hopefully uninfected portion of their army.
“Ah was tauld tae teel ye 'at th' cavalry has dispatched th' enemy alang th' ooter dyke, an' as commanded, ur keepin' sentry against further enemy patrols an aw as keepin' us in,” the runner relayed, and Riska nodded that he understood.
“Gang see abit ‘at hole noo,” he told his countryman; watching his kin limping north along the inner ward to what would surely be their death beds. He wanted to rush over there and help them, but didn’t dare. He had seen what this shit could do, and was not eager to experience it firsthand.
Still, they had won, he’d kept his home safe.
Regardless of what happened when he returned home, he knew that he’d done the right thing. That monster had wiped out Kamdeac, would have done the same to Branham, and might have continued on until every dwarf was exterminated from the lands.
No, it was a good thing he’d done this. That monster’s evil would be extinguished soon enough, and he’d take the rest as it came at him. Sighing, he sat on the outskirts of his kin, eyes watching them as they tended to their wounded, and watched the infected countrymen with despair. This was not a good way to die. They would have preferred falling in battle to dying from a disease. There was no honor in it.
This should have been a happy moment, victory over their foe causing exclamations of joy. Yet it was done on a graveyard of their murdered kin and it was possible they’d all be joining them soon as well.
Hardly something worth celebrating.
He sat there and watched as a group of dwarves carrying shovels of manure walked by. Regardless of the death surrounding them, he couldn’t help but laugh. He could think of no better end to that monster’s life; eating his own soldier’s shit.
He was laughing so hard that his sides hurt, and though he drew a few outraged stares, others saw what was going on and joined in as well. “Ye thaur!” he called to a dwarf between chuckles. “Gang see if there’s onie Grog left!”
Maybe there w
as cause for a celebration after all.
Chapter 13
Wrath
I
Tristan reached the stairs to the outer wall and began his ascent; almost afraid of what he’d find. He knew that Kylee had come this way, but after the scream he’d heard and Clint’s flight north—he feared the worst. How it’d affect Willow if her newly found sister was just as quickly taken away?
He didn’t know and dreaded finding out.
Stepping to the ramparts, he could see no sign of the ranger. Though he did hear a whine from the tower to the left. Walking through the tower doorway, he began his trek to the top of the tower; weapon sheathed and heart heavier than the armor he bore. The whining was growing louder and he took the last step slowly and entered the roofless room; prepared for the worst.
Kylee was on her knees, her white hair loose and covering her race, sobs shaking her body as she cried into her open palms. Tuskar lay by her side, whining softly with her, sharing in her apparent grief. Tristan felt quite the opposite.
She was alive!
Stepping slowly to her side, he knelt down and put an arm around her, trying to comfort her the best he could without crushing her with his armor. “I thought something happened to you,” he whispered softly, relief evident in his voice.
“Damn you! Damn you all!” she cried harder, hands balling into fist and softly punching her forehead.
“What? What did I do?” he asked confused, refusing to let her go.
She shook her head and he could see that genuine tears were dripping from her pink tinted chin. “If you people had let me alone, I would have found him on my own. I would’ve been able to kill him without your fucking quest getting in my way.”
She was angry, but it was the grief that drenched her voice that hurt him the most. His quest? “I called out to you as soon as I saw him. I chased after him with you. How did I—?” he tried, still fumbling his way, but having to pause when she shook his arm off her.
“When I got up here, he was waiting for that dragon of his to pick him up. He was standing on the ledge, ready to jump, and I had to make a choice; your sword or his life. If I shot him and he fell out the window and landed on the dragon, then the sword would be lost,” she sobbed harder. “Forgive me mother.”
From her left side slid a red-scaled scabbard with a golden hilt and pommel sticking out of the end. She had gotten Dragonslayer from Clint!
He put his arm around her once more, despite her resistance. “I’m sorry. I know Merlin has fulfilled his promise that he’d put you in front of your family’s butcher and that you think you’ve lost the only chance to kill that son of a bitch. But I will make you one myself. When we finish this sword hunt, when Excalibur is found and given to whoever it is destined to use it, I will personally go with you and hunt that bastard down. He took your family and he took mine, seems only right that you and I see him dead for it, together. Okay?”
She nodded, wiping snot on the hem of her cloak. Her eyes were swollen, the albino irises fixing on him with a shared determination. “Willow will not be able to do this much longer, she’s already starting to show. I will not let her risk my niece’s life by insisting on joining us. If we go, then she stays behind, or I go alone.”
He pulled his gauntlet off and extended his hand to the ranger. “I’d have it no other way.”
She slid one of her long knives free and slowly cut his palm, then after removing her own glove, sliced her own as well. Their hands clapped together, the blood oath binding as they stared into each other’s eyes with common purpose. “Don’t break your oath, or even my sister won’t be able to stop Tuskar from chewing your balls off.”
He gulped as the wolf’s jaw dropped open, his tongue lapping his upper lip.
“You have my word, as a Prince of Lancaster, future heir of Griedlok, and your future brother-in-law, I will help you hunt that bastard down. I make no promises though to which one of us gets to kill him,” he added at the end.
She snickered. “We’ll work that out later. We should probably be getting back. Here, take this.” She handed him Dragonslayer and he quietly strapped it around his waist; the victory he should have felt at its retrieval had been shattered by the ranger’s sobs.
Tuskar was up and out the door before they had even turned towards the stairwell. She just shrugged, then suddenly snickered, her moist cheeks twinkling in the moonlight.
“What?” he asked curiously. Had Tuskar done something he missed?
They were on the battlements before she would answer, her eyes following Tuskar’s sprint back up the road towards the distant palace. “You know, King Erik of Forlorn has changed the old laws pertaining to heirs so that his daughter will inherit the throne upon his death. So, doesn’t that make me the heir to Griedlok?”
He was stunned; he hadn’t thought of that.
She chuckled again.
You two want to get back up here or you going to continue lollygagging? Merlin’s stern voice scolded within both their minds.
He had been so caught up with Clint, the dragons, the sword, and the grieving ranger that he hadn’t even considered the others might still be fighting. They had two magicians, two warriors, a shapeshifter, griffins, a dragon, a telepath, Willow, and a brownie, surely, they could have handled thirty or so orcs.
Then he thought of Willow and began a sprint up the road after the fleeing wolf.
In a panic, he barely noticed the orc’s corpse as he dodged his way past. Even the remaining parts of the black dragon didn’t draw notice, as the sudden need to make sure his fiancé was okay filled him to the core.
Surely Merlin would have sounded a bit more urgent if something had happened to her? He wouldn’t have simply scolded them?
He saw her standing at the end of the road before the palace and his heart tugged with relief. Kylee was jogging by his side and both of them slowed when they saw the look on Willow’s face. Something had happened after all, but what?
Approaching her, he embraced her while checking with his hands to make sure all of her was there and unharmed.
“I’m fine,” she croaked in his ear, and he heard the sob just on the verge of breaking through.
“Then what?” he asked, then looked towards the others.
Corpses of orcs lay in heaps and Kore stood there, axe in hand, looking at the slain members of his race with a disconnected look. Unlike before, he didn’t seem at all interested in burying their remains; more like he just didn’t care. He saw Merlin standing near the orc, sorrow on his face, Melissa at his side. Trek was a cat once more and was swatting at a screaming brownie by the mage’s right foot.
Then his eyes drifted to the right and his breath stopped.
Jared was lying impaled by the large battle axe that he’d seen that red armored orc wielding. His quarterstaff lay in two pieces on either side of him and Reyna was cradling the boy’s head and crying. He had never seen the black knight so emotional and he knew instantly that it had to be bad. Not that an axe in the chest hadn’t been an instant clue that something terrible had happened, but the heart wrenching sorrow on Reyna’s face seemed to cement it in a way that made it undeniable.
The blind boy showed no signs of life and the blood that pooled beneath him had ceased its growth.
“Oh no,” he moaned in horror. They had survived so much that he hadn’t even thought—
Hell, Melissa ended up coming back from the dead, in her own way, and it never occurred to him that any of them would actually get hurt. He understood the danger that came with what they were doing, but they had scraped past unscathed for so long—
Willow began to cry then and he simply stood there; holding her.
“Did you get that fucking sword?” Reyna suddenly snarled at him, the anger mixed with grief contorting her face in ways he hoped he’d never see again.
“He did,” Merlin responded before he could answer.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Reyna snapped. “You’re the reason for all of this. This
damn quest of yours has cost my brother his life. If he had never answered your summons, if we had just kept heading east, he’d still be alive and we’d be together. This,” she roared, shaking Jared’s body, “is what your arrogance has cost us. Is it worth it? Tell me mage, why shouldn’t I stand up right now and end your worthless pitiful life? Give me one fucking reason!”
She was slowly rocking Jared as she thundered at the mage, and Tristan fought the urge to go to her, lest she take off his head instead.
Merlin’s grief was sincere and he could tell that the words stung the mage; largely in part to the fact that Reyna was absolutely right. In the end, it was Merlin’s fault, no matter what argument the mage could make; he knew it all amounted to the same.
“Give me some fire,” the mage told Melissa softly, breaking apart from Kore and Melissa’s side to come between Tristan and Reyna. She wasn’t threatening to cut his head off, why did he need the protection? Then he looked down at Jared’s body and the questions slipped away, none of that mattered anymore.
Kore disappeared for a moment and when he emerged from the ruined palace minutes later, he had an arm load of wood. Throwing it down in front of Merlin, Melissa flung fire into it and flames immediately leapt towards the heavens.
“No one can replace your brother, nothing will ever justify the loss of his life. But let me show you what will happen if we don’t continue on, if we don’t succeed regardless of the personal costs to us all,” Merlin offered, waving his hand over the waist high flames.
Images flickered into being, shifting with the movement of the flames. Close ups of the enemy hordes marching, of four vile creatures being transformed into armored monsters, one of which lay in pieces in the road behind him. Villages burned as a harpy began sucking the life out of the fleeing villagers. A golden armored elven female leaping into the sky and attacking the harpy, and the following battle that ended with the creature’s death.
Pure of Heart (the New Age Saga Book 2) Page 20