by John Marco
‘Almighty God,’ whispered Richius. He glanced over at Voris. ‘We’re in trouble.’
‘How many are there?’ asked Dyana incredulously.
‘Too many,’ said Richius. ‘We’re going to need help.’
‘Help? From where?’
‘Anywhere. Anyone who can pick up a weapon. God, Dyana, look out there. This perimeter can’t hold against that many men. Not for more than a day at best. We’re going to need reinforcements. Fast.’
Dyana stared at him. ‘Richius, this is everyone. There are no more men in Dring.’
‘Then they’ll have to come from somewhere else. Tatterak maybe, or the Sheaze. Hell, anywhere. But we have to send for help now, before we’re completely overrun.’
Voris, who had been listening intently, stepped between them. He glanced at Richius questioningly.
‘Tell him, Dyana,’ urged Richius. ‘We don’t have enough men to stop them. He can probably see that for himself. Tell him we need help.’
Dyana explained it to Voris and Dumaka Jarra carefully, then waited for the warlord’s response. Voris looked thoughtful and ran a hand over his bald scalp. He conversed with Jarra for a moment, sighed, then shook his head.
‘Voris says that it is impossible,’ said Dyana. ‘He says the only warriors near enough to help are in Tatterak, and that they are also under attack.’
‘Dyana, listen to me. That’s a host of Nar’s ground forces. And if they’re here, then they can’t be in Tatterak, too. I don’t know what kind of numbers Arkus is landing on the shores, but I’m sure it’s nothing like what’s here in Dring right now.’
‘He will not do it, Richius. He will not ask Kronin for help.’
‘But we need it. Damn it, Dyana, there isn’t time for this nonsense. Now you tell him we need Kronin’s help fast, or those troops are going to overrun this valley in a week. Tell him, Dyana. Every word.’
Dyana did as Richius directed, and when she was done the warlord folded his arms over his chest and shook his head again. Dyana listened to his response then started to translate, but Richius interrupted her.
‘Stop. I don’t want to hear any more of his excuses.’ He scowled at Voris, stepping right up to him and saying fiercely, ‘Warlord, I’m ordering you in the name of Tharn to send a messenger to Tatterak at once. We need help, and I don’t give a damn where it comes from. I’m supposed to protect your valley. I don’t want to, but that’s the way it is. So if you don’t give me what I want, understand that you’re disobeying your Lord Tharn, and that whatever happens here is your own bloody fault!’
Voris seemed stunned. He demanded an explanation from Dyana, and when it came his face purpled. But Jarra was at his side, calming him with his smooth, authoritative voice. They argued for a moment, until finally Voris grunted and went to the edge of the deck.
‘Ki easay,’ he said begrudgingly.
Dyana let out a relieved breath. ‘He will do it. The Dumaka agrees with you, Richius.’
‘Thank God,’ said Richius. ‘And thank you, Jarra,’ he said to the Dumaka.
Jarra bowed, but seemed to take no pleasure in the victory. He summoned one of the warriors on the deck and gave the order to ride to Tatterak immediately. The warrior accepted the charge without challenge and disappeared down the rope ladder. Jarra then went to the railing to stand beside Voris.
‘I don’t understand him at all,’ remarked Richius. ‘We need help. Can’t he see that?’
‘He sees,’ said Dyana easily. ‘But what you have asked of him is a great dishonor. Now come. You must see to things.’
They went to stand beside the warlord and looked out over the field. The greegans were closer now, too far to see well but close enough to gauge their numbers. At least fifty, Richius concluded. And just over a hundred war wolves to stop them. It would be a difficult feat. He had counted on having at least three wolves to bring down each greegan – a creature a Naren poet had once compared to a mountain. With their plated flesh, greegans were practically immune to arrows. Only the powerful jaws of the wolves stood a chance of puncturing their hides.
Down near the trench, the wolves picked up the musty scent of their prey and a wild baying issued from their throats as they strained against their bonds. They would be able to run under the ropes and blades strung along the field, and the greegans, far too late to outmaneuver the traps, would have to deal with both. So too would the infantrymen, who Richius was sure had never faced such a bedeviling adversary as the war wolves of Dring. A wicked sense of satisfaction raced through him. It would be good to be on this side of their teeth for a change.
‘When the war wagons enter the perimeter,’ he said to Voris, ‘that’s when we’ll let the wolves go. Have your archers in the trees make ready. We’ll fire off a few volleys when they get in range.’
Dyana translated and Voris agreed, calling out the order to the hundreds of bowmen along the network of catwalks and in the trench below. The warlord himself picked up a bow from the deck and handed it to Richius, who accepted it with a smile. They each chose an arrow from the quivers strung haphazardly about the platform and notched them in their bows. Richius pulled back on the string to test its tension.
‘When I give the word, we let ’em fly,’ said Richius.
Amazingly, Voris grinned at him. ‘Kirh ata Narr,’ he said.
Richius looked to Dyana. ‘What did he say?’
‘Do you not know those words by now?’ asked Dyana. ‘He said ‘‘Death to Nar.” ’
Richius nodded soberly. ‘Kirh ata Narr, indeed.’
For long moments they watched as the greegans pulled the war wagons closer, and soon the weapons poised on their roofs were clearly visible. Most had flame cannons. Others, perhaps ten in all, were outfitted with acid launchers. These would be the real danger. But the men in the trenches had all been given shields, and when the peculiar whistle of an acid cannister was heard overhead, they were instructed to hide beneath their shields or any other object large enough to cover them. Richius remembered Edgard telling him that there was always a dull thump when an acid launcher fired. He hoped that sound and the whistling of the projectile would be enough to warn them.
‘Get ready,’ warned Richius. The greegans were almost in range. The flame cannons and acid launchers began tracking upward. And in the trench and trees, the Triin of Dring braced themselves against the bizarre death machines rolling forward, as defiant and hard as Richius had ever seen them. In the far-off haze, the banner of Blackwood Gayle snaked in the breeze, and the long sabers of his proud horsemen shimmered in the new morning. The black-armored infantrymen drew up their maces and swords and marched in flawless order behind the greegans.
When they reached the perimeter Richius tilted his bow into the air. ‘Ready?’ he called to Voris. ‘Hold for my word . . .’
The warlord passed the order down the line, and the trees sang with the squeaking strain of tightening bowstrings. Plumes of smoke roiled up from the flame cannons. The greegans lowered their horned snouts to charge. Richius closed an eye and with the other drew a bead on the closest war wagon. Inside it, he knew, a sweating operator was deciding when to charge. It was like deciding when to die.
‘Ready . . .’
On the roof of the wagon was a flame cannon. It tracked its long nose toward the trench. Richius held his breath. First the blast, then the charge, that’s what he would do. The wolves would have to be loosed now.
‘Yulans!’ he cried.
Outside the trench, the wolf keepers loosed the bolts on the collars of their pets and sent them streaming forward like a hundred-fingered hand.
‘Fire!’
Every man with a bow sent an arrow screaming into the air, over and ahead of the charging wolves, straight for the hearts of the infantry. The legionnaires stopped and each fell to one knee, bringing up their shields against the coming rain of shafts. The wolves rushed forward, slipping effortlessly under the wires strewn across the perimeter, racing in howling trios toward the inva
ding greegans. Inside the first iron wagon, the cannoneer squeezed his trigger. There was a flare and a rumble as the liquid fire shot across the battlefield. The men in the trench ducked behind ten-foot walls of wood and skins. Arrows rained down on the infantry. The river of fire poured across the field, blasting the wooden barricade. Orange heat exploded and tore at the animal hides, scorching them and sending up a bright chain of acrid smoke.
The shield held.
Behind it, the men joined in Richius’ cheer, readying themselves for the next blast.
The infantrymen were up again – fewer now, but not by many. Richius ordered the Triin to lower their bows. It was time to see what the wolves could do. The beasts were all over the field now, throwing themselves onto the giant greegans. An awful braying rose as the horned monsters tried to charge but were stopped by the lines of rope and the relentless teeth of the wolves. Snapping jaws wrapped around thick legs, tearing open the gray, wrinkled skin where it was thinnest. The greegans kicked at the wolves and swiped at them with their horns, impaling some but missing most. From somewhere back near the cavalry a trumpet sounded, and the infantry rushed forward.
There was a sharp cracking, and the air turned red. Richius called out for the men to cover themselves. He brought up his own shield as a shaft of flame cut through the trees, shearing off a clump of nearby branches. Richius grabbed Dyana, dragging her down onto the deck and covering her body with his as another stream of fire blasted overhead. But the aim of the cannons was made random by the war wolves, who were now climbing onto the backs of the wailing greegans and sinking their dagger-like teeth into their stout necks. One greegan fell and then another, and Richius could see the infantrymen racing to the rescue of the war wagons, which had almost come to a standstill in the labyrinthine rope maze of the perimeter. A handful of wolves collapsed under the heavy maces of the soldiers before they realized what was happening. But they were wise, these beasts, and quick, and in a flash they had analyzed these new enemies and set upon them with vigor. They jumped on the infantrymen, pushing them onto their backs and pulling off their helmets with their teeth.
Richius rose and pulled Dyana to her feet. Voris and Jarra were hanging over the rail, ignoring the shower of sparks coming down like rain as they shouted orders down to the trench. Around them the trees rustled as men busied themselves notching arrows to bows. Richius raised his own bow and ordered another volley. The arrows screamed skyward over the greegans and wolves and into the far columns of infantrymen, who were now charging the perimeter. Inside the battlefield the ropes and traps were tangling greegans and soldiers alike. The air filled with the hiss of wooden shafts and smoke and terrible, inhuman shouts.
And then another sound reached the deck. Richius cocked his head to listen. The acid launchers were in range, their huge, baglike bellows expanding and collapsing with a sucking thump. In the sky a metal cannister was twisting toward them, whistling as it sprayed out a thin, yellow rain. Richius raised his shield over his head and shouted into the trees.
‘Shields!’
‘Basa!’ echoed Voris, understanding Richius’ mime. ‘Basa!’
Less than a second later the men on the catwalks disappeared behind their hand shields. Overhead the cannister shivered and burst, and from the sky came a burning shower, hissing and steaming.
‘Hold your breath,’ Richius ordered Dyana. ‘Don’t breathe until I tell you!’
But others did breathe. An agonized moaning rocked the catwalks as several of the defenders dropped to their knees and put their hands to their throats, coughing up mucus and blood. Richius felt a sizzling on his leg and bit back a holler. He glanced backward and saw a drop of yellow liquid burning through his boot and boring into his calf. Around him the deck cooked, sending up faint wisps of pale smoke, while beneath him Dyana was perfectly still, too terrified to move or breathe. Men were falling off the catwalks, tumbling to the hard earth below as they screamed and scratched at their blistering throats.
Finally the yellow rain ended. Richius hurried to his feet and looked at Dyana. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘I am,’ she answered, but she was clearly shaken. Across the deck Voris and his Dumaka were rising also. The warlord raced over to Dyana, who gestured quickly that she was fine. Then Voris turned to Richius with the same concern in his eyes. Richius shook his head.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It just caught my leg.’
It wasn’t nothing, but there was no time to tend to it. The acid had already stopped working its way under his skin and now there was only pain. Richius ignored it and went back to the rail. On the perimeter, the wolves were still worrying the greegans. Several of the mammoth beasts had fallen into the ditches pocking the field, the wagons they were pulling half-buried. All about the field soldiers hacked at the ropes, desperate to reach the barricade before a wolf or quarrel caught them. The unluckiest were caught in the fire of the flame cannons, which were detonating constantly now, strafing the barricades and slicing through the trees. Fireballs cascaded off the shields and bounced backward onto the field, catching men and animals alike, and all the while the Triin of Dring loosed arrows into the air with inhuman speed.
But the perimeter wasn’t holding. The ropes were coming down and the wolves were thinning. Richius strained to see past the smoke clogging the field. Maybe twenty wolves were left, and the Naren numbers were swelling. A handful of wagons still lumbered forward. Another bolt of fire crashed into a trench shield, and the thump-thump of acid launchers popped in the distance. Skyward came a trio of fizzing cannisters, spraying down their watery poison on the trench and disappearing into the trees. The rain of arrows ceased as the Triin sought cover, ducking under shields and holding their breath till their faces blued. There was more choking as the searing acid seeped into lungs, and on the field men were vomiting blood. Above him, Richius could hear leaves steaming. His eyes stung, and he covered his face with his hands. Rivers of tears gushed down his cheeks. He heard Voris roar in agony and struggled to open his eyes. The warlord was still firing into the field, holding his breath as he plied his bow like a madman.
‘Voris, get down!’ Richius shouted, chancing a breath. He tasted the bitter fumes on his lips. Another cannister was sailing through the air, heading directly for the deck.
Richius sprang to his feet and raced toward Voris, barreling into him and pushing him down. Together they sprawled across the platform just as the acid cannister crashed against the deck. There was a popping hiss and the cannister burst. Dyana screamed for Richius. Richius covered Voris. And then, as if a surgeon were peeling away his skin, he felt the back of his shirt melt away and a thousand burning needles puncture his flesh.
Richius screamed, scrambling toward the end of the deck. The pain was agonizing. Someone was pulling off his shirt. He opened his eyes and saw Voris’ giant body smothering him, rolling him over and ripping off his garment. On the other side of the deck, Dyana was fighting to reach him. Jarra was pulling her backward. And in the middle of the deck the acid was eating through the planking, spitting and smoking as it chewed like termites through the wood.
‘Richius!’ screamed Dyana, struggling against Jarra’s insistent grasp. Voris turned and growled at her, then lifted Richius off the deck and hoisted him over his shoulder. Richius felt the world spinning. Out on the field a flame cannon was leveling its nose toward them. Voris dashed for the deck’s other side. The wooden platform groaned. Jarra was pulling Dyana toward the rope ladder. The flame cannon fired. A bolt of fire ripped overhead. Voris jumped.
He landed heavily on the far side of the deck, his weight splintering the platform. Voris’ foot went through the weakened wood and he stumbled. Richius sprawled headlong across the deck. Quickly he turned, his scorched back throbbing as he stretched out a hand for Voris and pulled him out of the hole. Behind him he heard Jarra begging Dyana to leave.
‘Go,’ Richius ordered her. ‘Go! We’ll follow.’
Dyana obeyed, hurrying do
wn the ladder. Jarra waited a second longer, then descended himself. Next came Richius. He could hardly control his muscles, but he managed with Voris’ help to slip onto the swinging ladder. Beneath him Jarra was close behind, waiting and guiding his every step. When he was halfway down the ladder Voris followed, and one by one they dropped gratefully to the ground. Above them, the deck collapsed.
Amidst the falling rubble, Richius fell breathlessly to his knees, doubling over in agony. Dyana rushed up behind him and inspected his back.
‘How is it?’ he asked, almost unable to speak. Dyana was silent for a very long moment. Richius could see her worry reflected in Voris’ face.
‘Richius, we have to get you back to the keep,’ she said carefully. ‘Your back is . . . bad.’
‘I can’t leave, Dyana. Not yet. But I want you to go. Have one of the warriors take you back before the shields fall.’
‘I am not going without you,’ she said. ‘And there is nothing left for you to do here. Your back needs tending.’
‘No, I’m needed here!’ Richius glanced up at the ruined platform, then searched the trees for another reasonable vantage point. ‘I have to see what’s happening.’
Voris said something harsh, making shooing gestures at Richius.
‘He says you should leave, Richius,’ said Dyana. ‘You are hurt. You have to go now.’
‘No. We have to stop those acid launchers. The line won’t hold if we don’t. I have to get to the trench.’
He was on his way to the line when Dyana grabbed his arm. ‘Richius, listen to me, please. It’s over. The trench is lost. There’s nothing more to do. We have to go, call retreat and fight from the forest like you planned.’
But Voris was already heading toward the trench, with Dumaka Jarra on his heels. Richius had to follow.
‘Dyana, go back to the castle,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you as soon as I can.’
‘Richius, you promised. There is nothing you can do. You will only be slaughtered like the rest of them.’