Wycaan Master: Book 02 - The First Decree

by Alon Shalev

  Umnesilk frowned. “If urgent, why walk? Pictorians run. Sun move little in sky.”

  “I need your boars to arrive ready to fight. They can’t rest when they get there.”

  “Rest? We see battle, we roar.”

  “A messenger of General Shiftan’s unit will lead you there.”

  “He slow us,” Umnesilk replied.

  “He’ll ride a horse,” Tarlach smiled again. “The elf and the Emperor’s nephew are there. If you can finish them off, do so, but make sure they’re dead. I need to be sure.”

  “We rip off heads. Bring them. That good?”

  “That works,” the general replied.

  SIXTY FOUR

  Seanchai took a brief respite and surveyed the battle. Tarlach had not sent as many troops to this side as he had hoped. Rus’ik Armsgarten had sent small groups to draw soldiers away from the main army that was descending on Hothengold, but it seemed that the general was focused on the capital. He grimaced; Shayth had been right.

  Ballendir came up to him, breathing hard and covered in blood. Seanchai looked closely, trying to discern if any belonged to Ballendir.

  “I’m fine, laddie. Having a great time. But look: I nicked mah axe on some idiot’s helmet. No respect for a dwarf’s weaponry.”

  Seanchai smiled. He was happy with how the battle had gone, but the way the dwarves reveled in the bloodshed was unsettling.

  “What’s wrong, son?” Ballendir asked, sensing Seanchai’s unease.

  “I’m worried that there aren’t more troops here. It means there are more bearing down on Hothengold.”

  Ballendir surveyed the fighting. “You’re right. But they’ll hold until we get back. Don’t worry. She’s a tough lass, even if she isn’t a dwarf.”

  Seanchai smiled. He was caught. Ballendir knew him well. They heard calls, and Shayth came running up with a breathless dwarf.

  “Pictorians,” Shayth said. “Tarlach has dispatched two regiments, at least. We need to move on.”

  “But we can finish this,” Ballendir protested.

  “They’re fast,” Seanchai said. “We won’t get to the fog marshes before they catch up to us.”

  “Blow the horn,” Ballendir said to a dwarf that kept close to him. “We head for the swamps.”

  The dwarf brought the horn to his mouth and sent out two short blasts, followed moments later by another two. Seanchai watched as the dwarves began to move off, and then turned to Shayth.

  “Find Sellia and the archers. Take them up onto the ridges. They might need to slow the pictorians down.”

  Shayth nodded and moved off. Seanchai turned back to Ballendir.

  “How far to the marshes of Oblinzt?”

  “Four miles.”

  “Let’s move,” Seanchai said. “Tell the wounded to hide in the mountains and return to Hothengold when they can.”

  Seanchai put his ear to the ground to try and hear the pictorians’ pounding feet, but with the battle still raging below him, it was not possible. He sighed and shook his head. He had been underground for so long, wanting only to come above ground and now he desperately wanted to get back underground to Hothengold. He wanted to get back to Ilana. It was that simple.

  The army of General Tarlach did not attack Hothengold with waves of soldiers. Instead, the first detected intrusion was a dozen conscripted dwarves and scouts laying explosives.

  Rus’ik Armsgarten was furious with himself. He had been bracing for a full frontal attack. His guards had not detected these incursions, and now he wondered how many explosive devices had been hidden already. He was in command. It was his responsibility to maintain a defense.

  The older dwarves, the sick, and the young had been taken deep inside the mountain. There was a good chance that there would be no way out for them now that the Emperor’s army was also on the south side.

  He looked down at the city from his balcony in the barracks. It felt so empty, so foreboding. Here and there, a couple of dwarves walked, carrying arms or supplies, but this was a far cry from the bustling marketplace it had been.

  He turned and saw Rothendir approaching with the two young elves. He had met the Wycaan’s mate briefly, but not the other. He was well built and carried an array of swords and knives. Was he her bodyguard, the war chief wondered?

  “Greetings, Rus’ik Armsgarten.”

  “Well met, Clan Leader Rothendir. How may I help you?”

  “We’ve been discussing the enemy’s explosives. Rhoddan has an idea.”

  The big elf stepped forward.

  “Well met, Master Rhoddan,” Armsgarten said and bowed.

  “Likewise,” Rhoddan replied with a nod.

  “Alas, we’ve no time for pleasantries in these uncivilized times. What are your thoughts, elf warrior?”

  “I was wondering whether Hothengold has defensive explosives planted as Rothendir’s clan did at Mount Zu’Reising. I’m guessing you do. Why not detonate them now? Collapse the entrances and deny the Empire the chance to detonate theirs.”

  “It would deny us an option to leave,” the old dwarf general said, but his tone suggested that he was considering it. “And it would deny Ballendir’s troops the opportunity to come to our aid.”

  “But at the same time, it’ll buy us more time to hold out until that aid comes – if it comes.”

  Everyone stared at him with varying degrees of coldness, but Rhoddan stood firm.

  “We need to consider every option,” he insisted.

  Rus’ik Armsgarten tugged his massive beard. “I was hoping our explosives could take out many of the Emperor’s troops. If we use them now to slow them down, they’ll dig their way through, or lay siege. If Ballendir cannot get back, we’re trapped and we’re dead.”

  “We have to assume they’ll succeed and get back to us,” Rhoddan answered. “It would be better for them to engage Tarlach’s army from the other side.”

  Armsgarten shook his head. “I don’t like it.” Then he turned to Rothendir. “But we should suggest it at the war counsel this evening.”

  Rothendir nodded. “Let Rhoddan join us and address the council with his thoughts.”

  Rus’ik didn’t answer. His eyes moved to the roof of the cavern, where they could hear fighting above them. Then came the first explosion. It was a deep rumble that shook loose little more than a few shards of rock, but it resonated throughout the city.

  Then they heard a slow, persistent beating.

  “What is that?” Ilana asked, seeing fear in the dwarves’ eyes.

  “The Hiyenmut,” muttered Rothendir. “Dwarves bang their axes on their shields before charging into battle.”

  “But it’s coming from outside,” Rhoddan said.

  “That,” Rothendir replied, “is why we’re so shocked.”

  “The battle of Hothengold has begun,” said Rus’ik, and he brought a huge golden horn to his lips.

  SIXTY FIVE

  Seanchai stopped to sip from his flask. The bitter liquid was potent, and he felt his muscles reinvigorate. He looked behind him and with his sharp elf eyesight could make out the dust being kicked up by the pictorians.

  There were two traps set for the army chasing them, in addition to the archers. None were going to be particularly effective, but Seanchai needed to buy them time to get the dwarves into the marshes.

  He wondered about the Fog Marshes. It was unclear to him how they would fight once there. Was the place big enough? Was it foggy enough to conceal them? Would they scatter?

  Shayth joined him. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” Seanchai said. “Listen. When we get to the swamps, stay close, okay.”

  “Sure.” Shayth looked at him waiting for more.

  “If it looks like we’re winning and everything becomes scattered, I might make a run back to Hothengold.”

  “I’ll be with you,” Shayth said, patting his arm. “But make sure that Ballendir knows. Come with me now. They are hoping to trap a few pictorians in that crevice. The dwarves call it The Thr
ee Crags.”

  “You know where to go?” Seanchai asked.

  “No,” Shayth replied. “But that’s never stopped me yet. Come on.”

  They ran together for another half hour and found a dwarf to take them to the place. They hid away from the path and rested. Two more dwarves joined them, one of them Seanchai recognized as Thorminsk, the young craftsman.

  “How’re you doing?” Seanchai asked.

  “I’m good,” Thorminsk answered after he had caught his breath. “I’ve had a few close calls, but it seems there’s always someone around to save my skin. Still, what’s important is that you survive long enough for me to fix that King’s Mail. You can’t have two separate metals in it. It’s just not done. I’m so embarrassed.”

  Seanchai laughed. “I like it. Not done? It’s one of a kind, like me. But if that’s what’ll keep you going, so be it.”

  “Shh,” Shayth hissed from ten yards away.

  They heard the heavy pounding of pictorians meet the cries of attacking dwarves. Seanchai and the others crept up to join Shayth.

  One giant pictorian led the group. He wore a gold leaf and swiftly dispatched three dwarves.

  “That’s probably their leader, their First Boar,” Shayth whispered. “See the gold leaf? It would be great if we could take him down.”

  At least three sixers of pictorians followed the dwarves up the path of the Three Crags, roaring with rage. An explosion rocked them and was met with more roars and the battle cries of dwarves.

  “Come on,” Shayth said and jumped down to the path.

  They hid behind rocks and pillars of stone as the pictorians approached beneath them, snarling to each other. Six had survived, and, as they passed, Shayth and Seanchai jumped down and tackled the two bringing up the rear. Seanchai then felled the two closest to him with his swords, instinctively seeking their necks or their sides, both vulnerable despite their thick armor.

  Feeling a growing sense of urgency, he reached for his blue stone as two more pictorians decapitated a dwarf each and turned to him. Seanchai saw behind them that Thorminsk was suddenly alone and facing the massive pictorian officer. He had to help his friend.

  Holding the blue stone, he cried out “Mereksur.” Blinding blue light smashed into one of the pictorians, and, as the other watched in amazement, Seanchai leapt with deadly speed and with one blow sent his head rolling. The body remained standing, while its thick, purple blood spurted up like a fountain.

  The First Boar also stared as Seanchai confronted him. Thorminsk was lying on a rock within striking distance of the giant boar.

  “Leave him,” Seanchai roared.

  The pictorian smiled. “You Special One? Must take head to general. Show you dead.”

  “Who are you?” Seanchai snarled, “So I can say your name as I kill you.”

  “First Boar Umnesilk. Am ready to die, always ready.”

  “You know,” Seanchai said as he drew his second Win Dao sword, “that pictorians once fought for their own freedom. Do you know who came to their aid? It was the Wycaans, the special ones. Look into your legends, First Boar. You were once a proud and free people.”

  “Still proud,” Umnesilk replied.

  “No, you’re not. You’re the hunting dogs of the Empire, sent far from your tribes to do the bidding of an evil leader. You kill those who crave the freedom that you, too, have lost.”

  Seanchai thought he saw a flash of doubt crossed the First Boar’s face, but then the giant roared and leapt at Seanchai with amazing speed. A lesser elf would have been crushed, but when Umnesilk landed and swung his huge axe, Seanchai was gone. Umnesilk reeled round in surprise and saw that Seanchai had sheathed his swords.

  “Why?” Umnesilk taunted.

  “Because I want you to live. I saw on your face that you know my words are true. Go back to your tribes, reconnect to the proud race you were, and join the Alliance as we fight for everyone’s freedom, including yours.”

  “You rebels hate pictorians.”

  “Of course we do. You kill and maim many freedom fighters: human, elf, and dwarf. But you can change that. You’re First Boar.”

  The pictorian stared at him and then charged again. Seanchai moved out of his way and held out a palm, sending the huge boar flying into the rock face. Shayth noched an arrow and pulled his bowstring taut.

  “No, Shayth.” Seanchai approached the pictorian, who was struggling to stand. “Remember my words, First Boar. I won’t kill you because you know I’m right. Think upon my words. Be the one to free your own people.”

  Seanchai leapt into the air and smashed a boot into the back of the pictorian’s head. The great boar collapsed to the ground.

  “We should kill him,” Shayth yelled, hate spewing out with each word. “He’s First Boar.”

  “No,” Seanchai swung round. “There’s a Second Boar, and a third, and a fourth. This one’s intelligent. I saw on his face that he was listening. I saw that he knew his people’s legends.”

  Seanchai turned as he heard a groan and ran to Thorminsk, whose breath was now a wheeze.

  “Easy there, my friend,” Seanchai said, cradling the young dwarf’s head in his arm.

  “Might not . . . get to . . . fix your . . .”

  “You will,” Seanchai said, trying not to show his concern. “You’re going to be okay. We . . . we’ll come back for you.”

  Thorminsk shook his head. “Back snapped . . . heard it. Fight on, Wycaan. Show them . . . my greatest work . . . Please. My tools go to Orenminsk.”

  “Who’s that?” Seanchai asked, confused.

  “My son . . . will be . . . great . . . crafts . . .” the dwarf broke off, wheezing. He struggled to continue. “He’s three. Give him . . . my tools. Tell him . . . I died well.”

  Thorminsk took a long rasping breath and then went still.

  “No!” Seanchai cried out and hugged the limp body. He rose, shaking his head, and drew one of his swords. “You didn’t need to kill him,” he yelled at the First Boar, who was awake and watching with a glazed expression on his face. Seanchai advanced on him. “He wasn’t even a warrior. He was a craftsman. Where is your honor in killing him? He wasn’t even a warrior.”

  Seanchai swung the sword down to split the pictorian’s head. But Shayth’s sword blocked him only inches from the horn of the First Boar. Seanchai staggered back, and Shayth moved in front of the helpless giant.

  “Let me kill him,” Seanchai screamed.

  Shayth raised his sword, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. “I’ll kill him for you – sever his head if you wish. But remember what you offered him when you spoke as a Wycaan. He’s First Boar. This could help the Alliance. It’s more important than your personal need for revenge. It won’t bring Thorminsk back.”

  Seanchai glared at Shayth, struggling for a moment to control himself. “That’s coming from you?” But he turned his back on the pictorian and heard Shayth speak to Umnesilk in a clear, emotionless tone.

  “Remember this moment, First Boar. Witness the difference between the Emperor and the Wycaan.” Seanchai turned to watch as Shayth pointed his thick broadsword at the elf. “He’ll put the freedom of Odessiya before his personal desires or his personal grief. You killed his friend, but he’s sparing you because he serves a higher purpose. Remember this for as long as you live.”

  There was no fear on the face of First Boar Umnesilk. The pictorian looked from Shayth to Seanchai and nodded.

  SIXTY SIX

  The battle for the outer entrances of Hothengold had been intense. Having to face other dwarves in battle was a first for all but Rothendir’s clan and it infuriated them. It was not just about defending the capital, and the King. They took the assault by conscripted dwarves as a personal affront, and the sparks flew from axe blades.

  When the fight was between dwarves in the narrow corridors, then the conscripts seemed less committed, and many fell as a consequence. However, when the battle took place in exposed passages, it was hard for the defender
s as they faced more humans.

  Ilana and Rhoddan were critical at these moments and constantly in the thick of the fray fighting the human soldiers. Rus’ik Armsgarten soon realized the value of sending them to where the fighting was most desperate, and soon both elves were exhausted and carrying multiple wounds.

  A horn blow was followed by a huge explosion that rocked the great cavern. Rothendir walked past and stopped when she saw Ilana.

  “We have collapsed the outer entrances,” Rothendir said, wiping away a tear. “It is Mount Zu’Reising all over again.”

  “But this time we have a solid plan and the numbers to defend the city,” Ilana replied.

  Rothendir stared at her and noticed her bandage. “Are you okay, Ilana?”

  “Just a scratch.”

  “I’m told the priestess said you were special. We all see your strength and courage. You’re a worthy mate of the Wycaan.”

  Ilana smiled, and watched Rothendir leave. When she pulled her eyes away from the Clan Leader, she saw that Rhoddan was staring at her.

  “What is it?” he asked. “You look so down.”

  “I don’t like war,” she snapped.

  “But you’ve been fighting all of your life. What makes it different?” Rhoddan countered.

  Ilana shrugged, holding back the growing certainty she felt that she would never see Seanchai again.

  She didn’t have a chance to respond as another enormous explosion had all the dwarves staring up. Its lack of preceding horn indicated it was the enemy’s work. It was followed by several more. The blasts seemed concentrated on the far end of the cavern, where Ballendir had led them in.

  A strained silence followed and then they heard a sickening, drawn out crunch, and the far wall began to buckle. The dwarves screamed and gasped. They were attuned to the rock’s voice. Now they heard its pain, and it was a terrifying sound.

  Huge slabs fell onto the wide floor of the cavern where most of the dwarves lived. The side of the mountain had been breached. Hothengold was exposed as sunlight poured in. They heard the cheers coming from the far side and watched in stunned silence, as troops made their way in over the rubble.