This enraged the sentinels, and had Kragjaw not already been prepared for their future assault, he would have been killed without Praghock’s dragon ever being called upon. That was not, however, the way events unfolded on that day.
The sentinels used a unique set of gloves imbued with magic to open a small screen and speak with Praghock. Kragjaw interrupted their conversation and demanded that Praghock come forth and deal with him, face-to-face. Instead, Praghock commanded his dragon to go forth and kill the young Tuminar.
The sentinels decided to beat Kragjaw while they awaited the dragon to arrive. Kragjaw, however, had other plans. He pulled a small ball from his leather pouch and tossed it at the two sentinels.
The bigger sentinel expected the ball to be a trap – when it touched his hands and did nothing, he was momentarily confused. It was all the time Kragjaw needed to act. He yanked his rapier from its sheath and drove the blade through the upper part of the sentinels’ neck and pulled it backward, ripping his jaw. Before the smaller sentinel had a chance to react, Kragjaw grabbed a piece of thin wire from the table and wrapped it around the guard’s neck – he squeezed it tightly until the sentinel ceased to move.
A short time later the sounds of dragons’ wings could be heard – alongside the screams of dwarves as they ran from the marketplace to avoid the fiery beast that was Firehock. She landed in the street and ripped the rooftop from their small cottage home. Praghock, using his connection to the dragon, commanded her to drag the Tuminar’s into the street and devour them for all the city to see.
As she swept her claws forward, Kragjaw and his father darted through the doorway and into the streets. The pursuit began through the marketplace as Kragjaw dodged between stands with the dragon snapping at his heels. Structures were demolished, food destroyed, and dwarves injured as they clamored to get to any haven away from the action.
After a lengthy chase in which the marketplace was utterly decimated, Firehock managed to trap Kragjaw – her victory was near. As she closed in, Kurikjaw called out to his son and tossed a trap in his direction. Praghock, controlling his beast and having the ability to see and hear everything, commanded Firehock to intercept the flying sphere.
It had been a trap – never intended to reach the hands of Kragjaw. As soon as the trap touched the dragon’s skin, it unleashed a barrage of chains and spikes. The central spike shot through the bottom portion of her jaw. The chains swung about and wrapped themselves around her snout. She was unable to move, and though her power was mighty, she stood little chance against the dwarven trap. The weight of the chains slammed the beast to the ground and fatally wounded her as the spike pressed further through her skull.
The townspeople stood in complete shock as Kragjaw proceeded to berate Praghock with truths such as the validity of his reign over Umuosmar.
That day was the actual start of the war. The day the Tuminar’s met Skalmaena – former royal brigade leader – and their journey began.
Now, as Kurikjaw led two towns full of dwarves into the main streets of Hegh Thurim, he wondered whether their actions were worth the turmoil that was to come. He had chosen not to fight when the dwarves first attempted to overthrow Praghock. Now, Praghock was dead, and the dwarves were set to battle an enemy that did not fear magic or death. The question repeated itself within his mind: ‘Was it worth it?’
“Yes – it was worth it.”
Mange looked over at Kurikjaw: “What was worth it?”
“Everything, Mange. Every. Damn. Thing.” His eyes narrowed and his jaw set with a newfound look of determination. This time around, he would not just sit idly by as the world crumbled around his friends and family.
If it were a war the giants and ogres sought: they would soon get their wish.
“Someone approaches from the north! Sound the horns!” the call rang out among the soldiers as a dwarf on the central turret spotted the large group as they topped the hill on the main road which led to the center of the city, and the castle itself.
The horns echoed throughout the castle walls – their sound beckoned all warriors to ready themselves in the event that the enemy approached.
“What is it? What do you see?” Skalmaena’s authoritative tone could be heard clearly as she dashed through the arched doorways and into the courtyards.
“A large group approach us from the north. They are not close enough to tell if they are friend or foe.”
Skalmaena bolted for the nearest stairwell and began her ascent to the top of the castle walls. She ran through the battlement and passed the walkway of embrasures on her way to the donjon. Out of breath and legs aching from the short yet arduous climb, she reached the precipice of the tower and looked toward the northern road.
“Give me the spyglass!” she demanded.
The sentry handed the gold colored device to her, and she raised it to her eye.
“They are not big enough to be cyclopses. I believe those are the men and women from Megh Borim, along with the others from Thirndor. Gather a couple of men and ride out to meet them. If they appear to be enemies, return at once. If they are friends, however, help them with whatever they ask.”
The sentinel nodded and ran down the stairwell, calling out orders as he descended to the courtyard below. Moments later, six men set out on their leolf’s to meet the travelers.
Skalmaena continued to watch through the spyglass – her muscles tensed in anticipation as the six men approached the travelers. After a spell, her muscles relaxed as she watched one of the men dismount from a leolf and embrace whoever led the travelers.
Carts, which carried weapons, were tied to the harnesses of the animals to ease the burden on the dwarves and elves. The men dismounted their leolf’s so the only weight they levied was that which came from the carts.
The mood appeared to be much more jovial than it had been just moments earlier as the dwarves, many which had never left their own home city, gazed at the magnificent structure made for the king of dwarves.
Murmurs and whispers of adulation could be overheard as the dwarves rounded the last turn and made their way across the long bridge that separated the castle from the rest of the city.
“Kurikjaw!” Skalmaena’s excitement was evident as she saw her friend and ran over to greet him and the others.
“It appears you are back where you belong, Skalmaena. Right in the heart of the castle, leading the troops.”
“I do a lot more talking than I do leading.” She said with a laugh.
“I have no doubt that you can do both if the need arises. Tell me, have the Storm Riders returned?”
Skalmaena shook her head with concern, “No, they have not, and that worries me. I was hoping you could tell me how the attack unfolded in Megh Borim. Were we successful?”
Before Kurikjaw could answer, Mange and Barth approached and asked for directions to where the dwarves would be sleeping.
“You are looking at it, Barth. We have room in the castle, but not so much room to house everyone unless they wish to sleep in the halls, upon the hardened stone. Otherwise, this is it.” She opened her arms and looked from one side to the other.
“So, the dwarves lose their homes, and their recompense for helping is to sleep on the grass in the courtyards. I am sure they will love this.”
Mange shook his head as he listened to his brother speak. The trip to Hegh Thurim was harsh enough, but now the inhabitants would have to sleep outside. It was not right – even he understood that much.
“We have prepared tents and storm sheets to ensure everyone stays dry. We have added straw to the towers to help keep everyone warm if they decide to stay outside. I am sorry, Barth, but it is all we have to offer.”
Barth shook his head in frustration – “I suppose this will do. Perhaps we should start their training to keep their minds off this current situation.”
The others agreed, and so they gathered the troops and divided the dwarves into groups to train. Kurikjaw and Skalmaena continued to speak as they watched
the men and women – they reaffirmed aloud that the untrained dwarves would not be needed, but each knew in their heart that eventually, the coming war would engulf them all.
The day moved along without incident as the dwarves and elves worked together to ensure the basics of fighting – and more importantly, defending oneself, were learned adequately.
Tents were being assembled under the evening sunshine when the dwarves heard an all too familiar sound: a dragons’ call as it echoed throughout the skies.
Lundy placed her tools on the grass and pushed her way through a sea of dwarves to get a better look at the skyline. A tree in the courtyard provided shade to some degree, but it also made it near impossible to see anything through its thick canopy of dark red and green.
She was scouting the horizon when several elves began to cheer – with their keen eyesight; they spotted the Storm Riders long before the others.
Skalmaena and Kurikjaw made their way into the southern courtyard to see what all the fuss was and soon found themselves swept up in the moment. The Storm Riders were now in full view, and that meant one thing: their endeavors were successful.
The dragons, led by Fogrolir and Mersoth, circled the humongous castle before descending into the stables on the northeast side. The seemingly endless wall of dwarves in the courtyard began to open like a sea being parted as Kurikjaw, Skalmaena, Mange, Barth, Lundy, and King Vulred all pushed their way through the crowd on their way to the other side of the castle to meet the warriors.
“You have returned safely!” the elven King spoke up as he watched his men dismount and land softly on the grass. They were finally back on solid ground.
“Not everyone,” Fogrolir said with a grunt as he pushed himself out of the saddle on Mersoth’s backside. “We lost two of our own, Vulred. One, a brave dwarf who stood toe-to-toe with a cyclops – the other, an elf that was unable to unlatch his harness as one of our dragons, paralyzed, plummeted into the sea.”
Vulred stopped and looked at his men. His eyes searched theirs, looking for the tiniest hint that his men were not comfortable or happy with how they were led into battle: he found none.
“Are they gone? The cyclopses and skinders, and those dark elves? Have they left?” Lundy asked as she stepped forward. Her tone came across very authoritatively, though that was not her intent.
Fogrolir fixed his eyes upon the young woman. He was familiar with Lundy, though he had never had the opportunity to speak with her.
“The skinders abandoned the island alongside their cyclopses. They left the dark elves to fend for themselves in the barrage of fire. I doubt that any of the elves are still alive, as the fire spread like a dragon’s wings in the cold air. A few cyclopses did not make it off the island. However, our enemies have not left – not entirely.”
The others began to murmur amongst themselves as they wondered what Fogrolir meant by his comment. Fogrolir held up his hands to calm his friends.
“They set sail and left. However, as we followed in pursuit to ensure the creatures left, their leader, a skinder named Metakon, unleashed a spell like none we have ever seen. It engrossed one of the dragons and paralyzed the beast. This is how the brave elf died. As the dragon tore through the sky and toward the water below, our rider unseated himself and jumped from the saddle.”
Fogrolir stopped speaking as the sight of what happened played throughout his mind again. He looked at the ground and shook his head from side-to-side.
“What happened, Fogrolir?” Skalmaena asked.
Fogrolir did not answer. He could not answer – the horror of what he witnessed was not something he wished to have recounted.
Kragjaw stepped forward and placed his hand on his grandfather’s shoulder –
“The Storm Rider fell from the sky and tried to break his fall by grabbing onto the mast of the ship. It appeared that his idea worked, but it was merely a trap. The fog was too thick to see everything, but from what we could see, the skinders unleashed upon him the biggest cyclops in their command. He killed the Storm Rider – the rider fought valiantly, but it was not enough.”
Kurikjaw knew his son was withholding something, but he did not want to pry.
“That is it? He simply killed the Storm Rider. If the fog was thick, how do you know he is dead?” Skalmaena demanded with incredulity.
“The cyclops tore him limb from limb, and I mean that literally. He ripped his arms and legs from his torso before eating his head. He then threw the remains through the air at us. The chest almost hit Kragjaw and Kemoth.” One of the elves stepped forward and relayed the incident.
Fogrolir was none too happy. The story would only serve to frighten the dwarves.
“Well, now we know how strong they are,” Barth said to his brother. His comment caused the others to turn and stare at the brothers.
“What? What did I say? It is the truth, and it is a good thing. We now know what kind of strength we are dealing with.” Barth shrugged as the onlookers continued to stare at him, astonished at his insensitivity.
The exasperation in Lundy’s voice showed her disgust. “Have you absolutely no decency about you? A man was killed today, Barth. One of our own at that!”
“Everyone man dies, Lundrise. But not every man truly lives.”
Mange raised an eyebrow and looked at his brother with a smirk upon his face: “Did you just quote Braveheart? Really?”
Barth shrugged nonchalantly once more, “Meh. It seemed apt.”
None of the others had an inkling as to what Braveheart was, as their only reality was the very life they lived. Mange shook his head and laughed in spite of the situation.
Lundy spit at the feet of Barth as she pushed by him and headed back toward the main hall.
“You are an asshole, Barth!” she called out as she passed.
“Perhaps, but I get shit done!” he replied as he lifted his palms into the air and proceeded to give a sheepish shrug to the onlookers.
31
Crystalmist Bastille – just weeks ago, it was the home of the most thriving dwarven trading center in the south. Now it looked like a wasteland as stone buildings were reduced to rubble when the giants and ogres advanced through.
Blodbarg looked on as his men picked up rock after rock and shaved them down to be used as weapons in the future.
“Hurry up! We do not have all day!” his gruff voice reverberated off the few walls that had not been destroyed during their initial attack.
Scores of ogres continued to dig through the rubble and toss aside anything not worth using, as the giants made a makeshift assembly line to pass stone after stone into a pit the size of a small home.
“Bring out the prisoner!” Blodbarg bellowed.
Seconds later, the cries of a dwarf filled the air as an ogre stepped out of the woods, dragging a dwarf bound in chains behind him.
“Let me go! We have done nothing to anger you!” the dwarf cried.
“Shut up, stupid dwarf!” Blodbarg said as he snatched the chains from the ogre’s hand and lifted the dwarf into the air.
He chuckled, smelled the poor dwarf, and looked her over. She cringed as his breath hit her face – she struggled to get free of his grasp. The leader of the giants continued to laugh before sticking out his tongue and licking her face. She screamed. He laughed harder.
“Be glad I have not eaten you, dwarf. That will change if I do not get the answers I seek.” His voice was deep though gruff, and his size intimidated everyone, including his men.
“Tell me, with Snardeck and Praghock dead – who will lead the dwarves into battle? Hmm?” he stared intently at her face.
She was scared for her life, but she did not have an answer. Her life was a simple one of trading. She did she not know who Snardeck was, and her recollection of Praghock was confined solely to being used to seeing his image cast on the screens about town.
“I…I do not know, honestly.” She said.
“LIAR!” he roared in her face.
He let go of her chai
n, and she began to fall. It was a long way down, some seven foot or close to it. Blodbarg yanked the chain before she hit the ground, snapping her head back. It did not kill her, but she soiled her pants and began to shake uncontrollably.
“I will not ask you but once more, dwarf. Who will lead your kind into battle now?”
She was just a commoner in Umuosmar – nothing special. She did not have the slightest idea who worked for the king or what powers in the kingdom anyone held. She shook her head in despair, and as her lips quivered in fear, she choked out the words once more: “I do not know.”
Blodbarg took a deep breath and let it out. “Kill her.”
An ogre rushed forward and snagged the dwarf by the back of her neck. She cried out in pain as his claws wrapped around her throat and began to squeeze.
“Release her!” a booming voice called out from inside the woods.
Blodbarg spun around and faced the blackened forest: “Who dares give the leader of the free giants a command?”
His eyes narrowed, and his pupils became slivers, just barely detectable as they hid behind his ironclad faceplate. He continued to stare into the forest, waiting on whatever fool dared to challenge his authority to step forward – and then it happened. She was not hidden amongst the trees any longer but now stood just outside the forest, staring at the miscreants that she aimed to use for her own personal gain.
“I gave the order, Blodbarg, and – how was it that you said it? I will not tell you but once more – release her.” The Demoweir played with her hair – twirling a bit of her hair around her index finger as she smiled mischievously and approached the giants.
“Bloody hell, this elf is deranged!” Blodbarg pulled off his helmet and tossed it to the ground. He bent over to get a better look at the Demoweir and smiled.
His yellow stained teeth were cracked in several places from years of chewing through bones. His upper lip was missing a piece of flesh – a reminder of what a dwarven trap could do to the unprotected skin of a beast – even that of a giant.
Demoweir's Rise (Great War Chronicles Book 2) Page 24