Demoweir's Rise (Great War Chronicles Book 2)

  The dwarves had no objections, though they did become rather loud as they embraced Kemoth and welcomed him home. The older dwarves knew who the dragon was, and the younger dwarves knew they were witnessing something special.

  “Very well then,” Fogrolir said. “Gather around, men. The time is nigh!”

  The men moved in so that they formed a big circle. They began to smile and bounce on their toes as they awaited Fogrolir’s words. They knew what was coming, and it was an honor to hear him shout the phrase once more.

  “Storm Rider’s!” he yelled out with a booming voice.

  “What, sir!” they yelled back – their faces shone with pride.

  “Who are we?” he shouted even louder.

  “We are riders of the storm!” they, in turn, grew louder as well.

  His eyes shone with renewed vigor as pride swelled within himself and all his men. Being a Storm Rider was to be something special.

  “And what is our calling?” he screamed at the top of his lungs as he looked at the men in the circle.

  “We are one with the world! Defenders of creation!” they screamed back.

  Their shouts could be heard all throughout Thirndor as the dwarves and elves readied themselves for their journey to Hegh Thurim. The only time the Storm Riders were inaudible was when the dragons themselves joined in the voracious cheering.

  “Grab your saddles! Buckle yourselves in! It is time for war!”

  Fogrolir looked around him as the men yelled and screamed with pride – it was good to be an actual Storm Rider once more.

  25

  Metakon called out orders to his cyclops army. For days, they had torn the ships apart, leaving only one giant ship in the water. Tross insisted it was not enough if the need to retreat were to arise – Metakon reiterated time and again that there would be no retreat.

  “Dig the holes at an angle! I want these ladders braced!”

  The skinder leader of the Chaotic clan stormed about the beach, yelling out orders to his cyclopses. Tross, for the most part, simply stayed out of Metakon’s way.

  As he watched Metakon give orders, he realized just how much his distrust in the skinder had grown over the last few days. He no longer trusted the skinder at all, and was half tempted to board the lone ship, alongside his men, and head out to sea – leaving Metakon all alone on the island.

  “Ready your men.” The words caught Tross off-guard as he was deep in thought.

  “Are you deaf, Tross? I said ready your men!” Metakon bellowed again.

  Tross cast a look which showed his annoyance at Metakon. He said nothing but turned and stalked away to gather his men.

  Metakon waited, rather impatiently, for Tross’ elves to gather their harnesses. They would ride on atop the shoulders of the cyclopses. The reason, Metakon had argued days beforehand, was simple:

  “Elves have better eyesight. If your men peer over the top of the cliffs first, they can take out any potential threats that are in the immediate area. If they are on the shoulders of cyclopses, they do not have to fear losing their balance and falling to the earth below.”

  “If there is an enemy above and they manage to kill one of my elves – you do realize that your cyclops will die as well when the elf’s weight yanks the beast off the ladder.”

  Metakon looked up the cliff side and let out a deep sigh.

  “I do not wish to lose any men in this endeavor, but alas, it is a risk I am willing to take. We must find our goddess and help her escape this foul land.”

  Now, as he stood on the shores, staring into the sky, he could feel the coldness of winter closing in. He had no doubt – it would start snowing soon, and this would provide an excellent cover for his men as they made their way up the huge rocky bluff. In less than a day they would be topside, and they would slaughter any dwarves that stood in their way.

  The sound of wood being dragged across the sand was like a symphony to Metakon’s ears. He grinned as he pictured within his mind the various faces and looks of shock that he would see once he could move topside.

  “Brace those ladders!” he yelled out.

  He pointed to a set of ladders, roughly four-hundred yards long. The task of making the steps was no easy one, as they had less than a hundred yards of land to work with. So as the ladders were built, workers stood and held the wood at an angle. The ladders were quite literally being raised as they tacked on new pieces of wood.

  Vines of rubber plants were used to help strengthen the steps which were far and few between. The cyclopses were the only ones with a gait broad enough to climb the monstrosities. The wood was heavy, and so a routine change of men was needed to hold the ladders up while the workers tacked on new pieces of wood. When the day was over, the ladders were left leaning against the bluff, where they waited in the weather for the next day to begin.

  Before starting the construction of the beastly contraptions, the elves carved out half-moon shaped pieces of wood. Two pieces per ladder, at the top of the ladders – loosely bolted on so they could slide across the rocks and not get stuck as the cyclopses pushed the ladders upwards. The more they pushed, the further out from the cliffs they had to move to avoid the heaviness of the ladders from leaning backward and crashing down into the shores below.

  Tross reappeared at the side of Metakon.

  “Are we ready?” the skinder asked.

  “We are,” Tross replied.

  “Good. As soon as the sun sets, our men begin their ascent to the top. It will be snowing by then so I suggest they dress warmly.”

  Tross said nothing but nodded. He left once more to relay the message to his men.

  As the sun began to sail across the water’s edge and disappear over an invisible waterfall – the elves made their way out of their tents and for the ladders.

  It seemed they were always dressed in black, as even now they stood on the sands, covered to the hilt in black jackets made of thick wool.

  Metakon was correct in his assessment of the weather. Snowflakes began to fall from the sky, draping everything in a shiny white coat. The cyclopses wore no coats – the weather did not bother them.

  The morning was chilly and full of fresh snow as the dwarves and company marched through the gullies and stopped at the outskirts of Megh Borim. Mange and Barth led the way as they gave orders for the inhabitants to start digging a trench.

  The residents wasted little time as they grabbed shovels and hoes from the carts and began digging. They would dig a trench to ensure that the fires went no further than Megh Borim. Several men and women became teary-eyed as the realization that everything they had ever worked for would soon be gone. They knew it was a necessity, but they did not like it.

  Darkness was beginning to wane as the sun started its early morning trek back over the horizon to light the world for another day. Daylight would be bleak on this day, however, as the storm clouds cast the entirety of northeastern kingdom in a downtrodden gray.

  The Storm Rider’s circled about Megh Borim but avoided the immediate cliff-side area. They did not wish to be seen before the attack, and so their attention remained focused on ensuring no enemies snuck up on the dwarves and elves from other directions. After a couple of hours, the day appeared to be as bright as it would get, which was not saying much as the fog required lanterns and torches to see more than a few feet ahead in the snow.

  The elves, however, could make out objects quite a distance further, and it was just as they finished digging the trenches when one of Vulred’s men yelled out in a clear and distinct voice:

  “Dark Elves on the horizon!”

  Immediately Vulred’s men dropped their digging tools and grabbed their bows. They notched arrows dipped in oil and began firing them into the town. They aimed for nothing in particular but rather set out to spread the oil as far as possible across the horizon to ensure the fire would spread quickly.

  ‘thwooot!’ the sound of an arrow whizzed past Vulred’s head and broke when it hit the rock of the gully wall behind
it.

  “Return fire! Royal Brigade of Omabanise – shoot to kill!” he screamed.

  His men immediately began to rain down arrows from the sky as they aimed for the dark elves coming over the top of the cliffs.

  Fogrolir and his men were too high up to realize that Vulred’s men were no longer just soaking the town: they were in the midst of a battle. Mersoth circled around, and as she did, she saw a ball of fire lunge through the air toward Megh Borim. The flames illuminated the sky, and she spotted the cyclopses as they began to pull themselves over the top of the cliff.

  “ATTACK!” Fogrolir heard her yell as she shot forward with all her might. Another dwarf sat behind Fogrolir in the two-seater harness, ready to pull the trigger and release the arrows from the drums attached to the underside of the dragon’s wings.

  The sounds of the Storm Rider’s dragons rang out and echoed through the air as all twenty of them surged over the cliff-side and began dropping the balls, which Kragjaw had built in the forest.

  Some cylinders opened, and the webs dipped in oil began to cascade to the ground, while others remained closed – waiting to be activated by water.

  Elves accompanied the Storm Rider’s on the backside of every dragon except for Mersoth and Kemoth. The dragons circled over the shores and came back, allowing the elves to launch arrows at the beasts as they climbed the ladders. For as far as the eyes could see down the rocky walls, there were nothing but legions of warriors climbing the ladders.

  “Time to light the fires!” Fogrolir said. Mersoth wasted no time as she flew overhead once more. She opened her mouth and let hellfire rain down on their enemies.

  The sounds of elves screaming as they were doused in flames was unnerving. The cyclops cries were pure bone shattering as the beasts began to fall off the ladders and plummet to their deaths. Megh Borim as ablaze, and from the ground below, Metakon watched as his men fell from the sky. It looked like large fireballs plummeting to the earth.

  “Those bastards!” Metakon screeched. “They were ready for us! What trickery do they use to make such fiery darts!”

  He did not have a chance to answer as the first elf set afire slammed into the ground in front of him. The sand sizzled for a moment before everything in sight erupted into flames.

  ‘Kaboom!’ the sound reverberated against the cliff-side walls.

  “Those balls! It is the balls! They released fiery webbing from within! Grab the ones still intact and throw them in the sea! We cannot allow more fire to erupt or we will be trapped!”

  Tross ordered his men to run through the flames and start grabbing the balls which were unopened. In the chaos, it appeared to the dragon’s that above that the beasts below were over matched and out maneuvered.

  “They are grabbing the cylinders!” Kemoth shouted.

  “Storm Rider’s – get back over the cliff-side!” Fogrolir shouted.

  The dragons heard his orders even if the Storm Rider’s themselves did not, and they banked hard and flew over Megh Borim, ensuring they were out of harm’s way.

  They flew over the trenches and waited – they knew at any moment they would hear the telltale sounds of men dying as metal would pierce through their skin the second the balls were tossed into the ocean water.

  Mersoth landed on the street so Fogrolir could speak freely to the men without fear that they would not hear him. He stood in the saddle and addressed everyone:

  “Right now, the shores are on fire. Megh Borim, as you can plainly see, is burning. They shall not make it up the side of those cliffs and onto our land!”

  A chorus of cheering erupted from the dwarves – even a few elves joined in the celebrating.

  “However,” Fogrolir interrupted them with his hands raised to signal for quietness, “we must now head to Hegh Thurim where the real battle awaits! Load your weapons into the carts and begin the journey. We still have work to do here, but you should be safe. A scout will follow along and watch for trouble from the backside of a dragon.”

  The inhabitants began to move and load their things for the next leg of the journey. Fogrolir looked on with pride. He waited for his people to gather their things before lifting back into the sky with Mersoth.

  “Get to the ship!” Metakon screamed as he ran headlong into the only ship still afloat. He dodged the fires as best he could as he ran for his life. Bodies fell from the sky above as the ladders themselves were now afire.

  “Prepare to exit!” he screamed. He watched on as the dark elves began throwing all the balls that had not opened into the water. Moments later his eyes became wide with shock as the water erupted and shards of metal began flying in every direction.

  “Take cover!” he screamed. No one listened to him. They were too busy trying to avoid being burned to death.

  The metal shards shot through everything, leaving a litany of destruction in their wake. The dark elves closest to the water were ripped to shreds by the devices. Cyclopses still on the shores had their ranks cut in half in less than ten seconds.

  The remaining beasts ran for the ship – they would evacuate and go home. Their goddess would have to free herself. The only inhabitants not harmed were the skinder’s themselves, as they never left the boat.

  As the ship pushed out into the sea, Metakon realized there was considerable damage to the sails, and the mainsail sat sliced in half, being held up solely by the ropes tied to the other poles.

  Tross looked on from the shores as he realized Metakon was leaving without him or his few remaining men. The elves were not robust enough to brave the harsh waters and make it to the ship. They were left to fend for themselves as the remaining cyclopses bolted for the water, trampling anything in their way as they ran for the ship.

  Metakon scanned the sky above, looking for any enemies. He saw none. His anger was tremendous, and his wrath would be felt on another day. He closed his eyes and concentrated:

  ‘My goddess, we have been stopped. The dwarves work with elves, and their traps are unlike anything we have ever seen before. They used no magic, yet they fought with the skill of battle-tested warriors. Their numbers are few, but they fight as though they are a legion of men! We have pulled away from the shores and are setting sail. Give us orders, my goddess. We are yours to command.’

  He continued to pray – unsure whether his words would be heard, or ignored.

  26

  She stopped in her tracks as the desperate words from her underling penetrated through her mind. Metakon was screaming, and his voice made her head pound.

  ‘Be quiet!’ she yelled in reply. Though her response was non-verbal, the anger in her caused dirt and water to stir in the stream she followed along with her path.

  ‘My goddess! We are under attack! Our main sail has been ripped to shreds by some device! We cannot make it back to our island. Tell us, my master – what shall we do?’

  Her steps quickened as her mind raced for an answer. Everything had started to fall apart, and she could not have that; she had plans to rule this kingdom forever! The words of her eternal enemy plagued her mind and clouded her judgment. She shouted aloud; it did nothing to ease her pain, though she felt better with the release of fury she let out.

  ‘Give me a minute, Metakon. Stay the course and get away from the shores. Storm Riders do not wish to have a battle over the seas. They will leave you alone once you are a safe distance from their coasts. Tell me, how many men remain?’

  She changed her direction – heading to Megh Borim was no longer an option. Alormeda Grumbane was dead, and so too was her connection to the Storm Riders through the dwarf she used to control with her power. She knew the attack was the work of Fogrolir Grumbane; he had sworn to dedicate his life to thwarting her plans.

  As she moved through the forest, she trounced the grass and leaves underfoot. Her mind was a flutter with ideas, but none of them seemed feasible. She was on the verge of desperation when the idea hit her mind:

  “I will speak with the ogres and giants.” She said aloud.
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  “Yes – I will make them my ally. They want land, and they are willing to slaughter every dwarf in the kingdom to get it. I will display my power to them, and they will soon realize that aligning with me is their best option. I will give them the land they so desperately want; in return, they will ensure my rule over the kingdom for all eternity.”

  She smiled at the thought of Fogrolir preparing for a war against such simple beasts, not knowing they were at her disposal.

  ‘Metakon – I want you to listen and follow my order very carefully. Once you see the Storm Riders returning to the land, turn your sails, and plot a course southeast. Keep the coast in sight, and when the green brush and lush scenery give way to desert land – drop your speed and find a place to lay anchor. Do not leave the ship until I give you the order to do so. Keep the cyclopses ready for war. They will be needed soon, as will the rest of your men. Be ready for my command – our enemy will not yield easily. Their pride will be broken, and they will become our allies. Do you understand the commands I give you, my protégé?’

  She stopped for a moment to conserve her energy. The commander of the giant army, Blodbarg, was not easily impressed by anything smaller than himself. To get him to agree to her terms, she knew that her magic may come into play. She prepared her mind to be ready to cast specters and other apparitions if the need arose.

  ‘As you wish, my goddess.’ The reply came from Metakon without hesitation. The demon woman sensed apprehension within his mind – it was not a feeling that lasted long, however, and her focus returned to forcing a meeting with the giants.

  Metakon’s attention turned back to reality – a reality in which his ship was still under attack by Storm Riders as they circled in the sky above like vultures waiting for a weakened animal to die and grant them a feast.

  “I shall not be defeated!” the skinder closed his eyes and conjured forth a poisonous spirit to mount a counter-attack.