Fortress of the Forgotten: Book One of the Swordmaster Series

by Rutger Krenn

  Eventually all the Trolls were killed and from that moment the battle clearly turned. Less and less Goblins came against them till suddenly they were no more. Their madness had ebbed and they retreated in a sullen mass like a tide back into the sea. Everything became still and brooding.

  Kenrik was breathing so heavy he thought he would faint. His heart raced in his chest and blood throbbed in his ears but gradually his vision cleared and he looked around him.

  He was appalled. The defenders had thrown off the attack, but at what cost! Bodies lay everywhere. Goblins and men alike were sprawled atop the battlements. In places they were several bodies deep. The Goblins lay in hundreds, yet the Northmen had paid a terrible price. There were dead and wounded men everywhere.

  Too few were left alive thought Kenrik. Too few. They could not survive another attack. The next time the enemy came they would overrun the walls with virtually no opposition. There were insufficient men left to stop them. The Northmen would all be killed and then Aren Daleth would suffer the same massacre.

  Kenrik felt despair. All the work that had been put into this fortress, all the soldiers, all those who had died before. It had all been for nothing. They may as well have given up from the beginning and saved themselves the trouble. He leaned on his sword and felt as though his once tall frame was bent and broken in the middle. His hands and arms were bloodstained. He made no attempt to clean himself. He could only look at the death around him.

  His glance shifted to Arandur and he saw the Wizard walking toward him as though through a haze. They had failed after all and not even Arandur would say otherwise now. They were beaten. He was beaten.

  But he felt something rise up inside him. Something that whispered denial. Something that said he would never be beaten. Had he not lived with the best of men? Had he not known the best of women? Alanya! How he longed for her but she was gone. She was gone, but she was not forgotten, the voice said. Never. He could hear her voice now, delicate as an autumn breeze, warm as the summer sun and determined as only a woman could be. What they had once had could never be taken away. Not all the dark hosts of Eruthram could take it away.

  Kenrik threw back his head and laughed. The voice inside him rejoiced. He would defy the Turgil. Mortal man though he was, he would not give up. Ever.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and saw that it was Arandur. At the Wizard’s touch he felt dizzy, almost as though he were looking out of two sets of eyes. One view was all blurred by shadow and in the other things appeared clear and true.

  The shadow fell away from his eyes and he felt almost as though he were waking up. He was fresh and alive and knew his resolve to fight was unshakeable.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “It was the Turgil, O Duke. Despair is the way of the shadow and those who serve beneath it. They always seek to lower the spirits of their opponents.”

  Kenrik shook his head to clear it further. “What did the Turgil do to me?”

  “It was a small spell. Small, but incredibly dangerous because it was cast at just the right time. You are the key to the defense. The men look up to you. They follow you and go where you lead.”

  A hint of anger crept into Kenrik’s voice. “I see. And should I have succumbed to despair, then my men would be leaderless, and without hope. I understand.”

  Arandur’s eyes were bright. “That is so, O Duke. But you did not succumb. You endured a test that would make even Wizards falter. The Turgil will not try that again. He has failed, and worse, his failure has added to your strength.”

  Kenrik looked at the carnage and the Goblin host with fresh eyes. It was true what he had thought before. It was an abhorrence. There were so many men dead, so much wasted life. Defeating the frenetic onrush of the Goblins had cost them dearly, but they were not entirely destroyed. There were soldiers left. Enough, perhaps, to defend the walls for a little while yet.

  Defending them was one thing though. He knew now that they would, and should put up a fight, but that didn’t mean they would win it. Their time was drawing very short indeed. If Talon did not return with the Army very soon it would all be over.

  “You must remember, O Duke,” said Arandur, “that you remain a target for the Turgil. You are the head of the army. Should he destroy you, the army may fall apart. He has attacked you once, and he may well do so in another way again. You must be careful.”

  “I will, Arandur. I will,” Kenrik promised.

  The Goblins did not attack again for some time. Their attempt had been thwarted and not even a sorcerer could continue to hold them all to his will for a long period.

  The next attack came eventually, but when it did it was normal. They were no longer driven by the Turgil, yet even so it was in the nature of the Goblins to be ferocious. They gave no quarter and they fought with the everyday yet effective motivation of fear of their captains.

  They swarmed up the battlements, scimitars waving in the air, ropes and scaling ladders flung up the walls, siege engines casting missiles that could not bring down the walls but killed men where they stood.

  The Northmen held them all off. There were no longer any reserves. There was no longer any chance of rest or sleep. There was only these survivors to defend the walls and no others. But it was, for the moment, enough.

  The defenders held the enemy at bay through successive rushes during the course of the day. They did not leave the battlements as there was no one to replace them.

  They ate a little during momentary lapses between attacks. It was a fitful, lifeless way to fight. It was more than could be expected of a soldier, but they were more than soldiers now. They were the last hope. They were the only thing that stood between the hordes of the Goblins below and the women and children of their country. They clenched their jaws, blinked gritty eyes, and waited grimly for the next charge.

  “The men are holding steady,” said Cadrafer in a quiet spell between attacks.

  “They no longer have hope for surviving this siege,” said Kenrik, “but it hasn’t made them despair. Instead, the certainty of their fate has taken away their fear. And they’ve seen so much death that it doesn’t hold the dread it used to. Their minds are numb.”

  “I guess they wish for only one thing now,” said Cadrafer. “They’ve given up on living, but they’re determined to last as long as possible.”

  Kenrik smiled grimly. “By fire and ashes!” he said with pride, “that’s what they’re doing. No one could have stood longer. Neither the Elves nor the Dwarves or any army in Andoras could have survived longer. I’m lucky to be one of them.”

  The Goblins came again at dusk. Dark shadows drifted from the mountains as the sunlight wavered. Fires sprang up in the pine forests swathing the valley slopes. It was normal fire, not summoned by either Wizard or Turgil, but its intent was clear. It was the Goblin’s response to Arandur’s silver flames. They had not yet been able to raze the fortress so they destroyed what they could.

  Night stole into the valley as though it were the rightful owner and had no intention of relenting to tomorrow’s dawn. The sky was growing overcast as clouds, barren of rain, scudded across the heavens. A sense of inevitable destruction came with the Goblins as they thronged before the walls, climbed the ramparts and swarmed onto the battlements once more.

  “Aren Daleth! Aren Daleth!” yelled Kenrik as he led a rush against some who had broken through the Northmen’s ranks. It was an insurgence of maybe thirty of the enemy who had slipped through the defenders on the ramparts and now posed a danger. They had broken through, and then turned back to attack the defenders. These were caught between the two groups, those behind that assailed them unexpectedly, and those in front, still climbing the ramparts and seeking to clamber atop.

  The Duke’s sword flickered in the darkness, at times glinting with light, at other times dripping with blood. Cadrafer fought beside him and so too did another dozen or so men. The battle raged in confusion. Should the Goblins not be killed the defenders would be drawn off their
main task at the front. More and more Goblins would therefore gain the rampart, and then nothing would stop them.

  “Aren Daleth! Aren Daleth!” cried Kenrik, once more letting lose the battle cry of his homeland.

  “Aren Daleth! Aren Daleth!” responded the men who had joined him and took up his call. Their swords flashed as did his, the breath tore in and out of their lungs as they sought to breathe in just a little more of the life giving air. Their arms, heavy as lead from long hours of fighting, were unfeeling and slow.

  And yet they made an impression on the Goblins. Some of them were cut down but even as they were others sprang up the sparsely defended ramparts.

  With speed the others couldn’t match Cadrafer was suddenly among them. His sword swept out in great circular arcs, sweeping heads from necks and limbs from bodies. He seemed to be everywhere at once.

  Kenrik looked around as the battle began to turn. For the first time there were more defenders than Goblins and those that were left shrank back in fear from the fiend who had come for them. They pressed back toward the battlements, away from Cadrafer, and toward Kenrik.

  “We have them!” he yelled, encouraging his men once more. He deflected a wicked blow from a Goblin sword only a second before Cadrafer ran him through.

  Kenrik turned and time stood still. A Goblin war hammer was flying for his head. Thrown by one of their captains who even now was being cut down by a Northmen soldier, he watched it spin through the air. The great head, made of raw iron and the wooden handle turned on its axis as it spun toward him. He began to duck, noting as he did so the leather thong attached to the end of the handle and the pitted surface of the iron as it came toward him. It was all happening as fast as the eye could see, and yet he was amazed at the sudden detail, the clarity of vision that he possessed as death hurtled toward him. He seemed to be watching from someone else’s eyes, almost helpless as the hammer sailed through the air, knowing that even though he was moving out of its line he would not be quick enough.

  With a shocking thud and a grunt from Kenrik the war hammer caught him a blow on his head and shoulders and all went dark. Night fell in the valley, the assault of the Goblins petered out, and the Duke lay upon the cold stone, still and unmoving.

  The fire burned warmly in the hearth of the Duke’s meeting room. Several lanterns hung on the wall, their light spilling out to every nook and cranny so that it was bright as day. It would have been a cheery setting under other conditions. The large oak table was covered with a white cloth and various wines poured out in crystal decanters. Food had been prepared, served and consumed. Now the men sat back and talked.

  It was a council. A war council to decide who would lead the last defense of Thromdar, and that meant ultimately, the last defense of Aren Daleth.

  Arandur was there. Quiet through the meal, sipping at one of the sweet wines, and thinking thoughts only a Wizard would understand.

  Cadrafer was there also, grey of face, barely touching his food and nursing the wine in his glass as if deciding whether it were poison or an elixir of life.

  Mecklem sat beside the Captain of the Guard, pensive also, his face flushed red with too much wine. He glanced between Cadrafer and Arandur as though he could divine their thoughts by looking at them, but neither had revealed their thinking.

  Two others were there also. They were both captains in the army, the only two left alive, and both were men of experience and good nerve. They also gave nothing away of what they thought. Both were dressed in the dark blue tunic of Aren Daleth’s soldiers. They each wore the customary black cloak, clasped with a silver brooch in the shape of an oak leaf, which was the sign of their rank.

  One was a tall and lean man. Gildar was his name and his raven black hair just showed the first streaks of grey. His long moustache was the same color. His eyes were grey as his hair would one day be if he lived long enough. At the moment they reflected steely resolve.

  The other man, Balanar, was younger. He was somewhat shorter, with pale brown hair and clean shaven skin. He seemed young in that room, full of serious men, burdened by responsibility and the weight of the decisions they must make. He alone ate and drank freely, making good natured conversation with the others in the room, but Arandur noted the look in his eyes. Whatever else people may think of him, he was an intelligent and capable man.

  “Gentleman,” said Cadrafer. “We can put it off no longer. We must now choose ourselves a leader. The men must know who it is to be, and they must be ready to obey him in every order, to fight for him as they fought for the Duke.”

  “It is time,” agreed Arandur. “You must choose. The Duke is not yet dead. It is possible that he may live, but at the moment he sleeps a sleep close to death. I have done for him what I can. He could wake in a few minutes, or never at all. In the mean time we have a battle to fight, a fortress to defend, and a nation to protect. We must choose the leader who will best serve those purposes.”

  “I do not see,” said Mecklem, “that any choosing is necessary. I hold the highest rank, being the son of a Duke. The course is clear. I will lead the army.”

  “Perhaps,” said Arandur. “There is no doubt about your bloodline. Nevertheless, it is not to ideas of nobility that we must consign ourselves now. We must have a leader who is best able to inspire the men, who is best able to lift the morale of those who fight, and grasp the tactical situation. He must be able to draw out this siege as long as possible. There is not much time left to us, but we must make every day, even every hour, count. Our only hope lies in this. We must give Talon the time he needs to bring us help.”

  “So you say,” snapped Mecklem, “but the truth is obviously different. Talon has either been killed by now, or long ago slipped away from this whole situation and made his way to somewhere safe. We cannot place our hopes on the army returning. We must face the fact that it won’t happen.”

  “I cannot say for sure whether the army will come in time or not,” said Arandur. “I can only say this: they are needed here. Talon knows it and will do all in his power to bring them.” He paused and looked at Mecklem with searching eyes. “What hope would you offer the fighting men, if not the army?”

  Mecklem fidgeted and took a hasty gulp of wine. “There’s another way,” he said eventually. “We could buy the Goblin’s off. The Duke is a wealthy man. There is a treasury of gold and silver here. With that, and the promise of more from Aren Daleth, even Goblins could see that it would be better to take loot and not risk their blood and lives in a fight. I think we can negotiate.”

  Cadrafer’s freckled face went white. His eyes locked on Mecklem. “It is well for you that the Duke is not present to hear you say that. Is there really the blood of nobility running through your veins, or are you a coward?”

  Mecklem rose to his feet and his face flushed red. “Do you call me a coward?” and as he spoke his hand grabbed, but did not draw his sword.

  “Enough!” said Arandur. “Sit down, Mecklem. “This is no place for a duel. There are more important things at stake than your honor.”

  Mecklem stared at Cadrafer a little longer and then sat down. He looked stonily at the table and clamped his mouth shut.

  “Know this,” said Arandur. “There is no negotiating with our enemies. They are not a band of mercenaries, or a foreign army of men seeking plunder. They are led by a Turgil. The Goblins do his bidding, or they die. It is as simple as that. And the Turgil is a servant of Eruthram. What meaning does the wealth of the world hold for him? He is not interested in gold or silver, in jewels or gems. He is not interested in things of beauty, or things crafted by hard work and skill. He is interested in one thing alone. The domination of Andoras and the subjugation of all the free peoples of the land. There is no negotiating with him, or his servants. There is only resistance. To surrender is to die. To lose is to die. There is only hope in winning, and our only hope of that rests with Talon and Arell. Remember it well,” he said, looking at each and everyone in turn, “for not only your fate, but the fate
of your county and of Andoras itself, rests on your decision today.”

  The room fell quiet as the weight of Arandur’s words weighed upon them. It was a great burden. A burden that none of them wished except Mecklem, and one that they knew the Duke had carried with doubts. But he had not shirked his responsibilities, however hard they were, and neither would they.

  “I agree,” said Balanar. “There’s no negotiating with the enemy. We must resist as long as we can, and if the army arrives, then there will be a fight of it. If they do not, then at least we will have done all that could be asked of us by those we protect. I say this also; Mecklem is not a man that the soldiers will willingly follow. Oh, they will obey his orders because he is the son of a duke, but he will not inspire them as did Duke Kenrik. There is no one here who can take his place, but there is one of us whom the men greatly respect. There is one for whom they have a liking, and for whom they will fight. I speak of Cadrafer. He is the man we need at the moment.”

  Arandur stirred. “What say you, Gildar?”

  “I am also thinking of Cadrafer. I will follow him, and the men will follow him too.”

  “And you, Cadrafer?” asked the Wizard. “Will you take the leadership if it is offered to you?”

  “I do not wish it, Arandur. I think of us all, you are best to lead us. You have more knowledge of warfare than any of us here. You have experience that we cannot match. If you lead us the men will follow you. You have saved them more than once.”

  Arandur nodded. “Thank you, Cadrafer. Perhaps there is something to what you say. But there is more to this fight than military strategy. Wizardry is contesting sorcery as well. That alone must occupy my mind. Should I be diverted from that the Turgil may overcome us all. I cannot lead. The leader must be another within our group.”

  Arandur paused and held them all with his eyes again. Finally, his gaze rested on Mecklem. “What say you? Think wisely, for there is much at stake.”

  Mecklem looked as though he were going to give a quick answer, but he held his tongue and sat back in his chair. A long time it seemed that he pondered his answer. The room was still and the only sound was the occasional crackle from the fire. After some time he looked back to the Wizard.