by Daniel Dydek
The line of hellhounds finally reformed; the kobolds had yet to reappear. Muttering to herself, Sarah leaned forward and peered into the mist. With a suddenness that even made Geoffrey jump, a line of jagged lightning stabbed into the midst of the fog, and abrupt, strangled cries came from within.
The goblins, advancing behind the kobolds, hesitated at the edge of the mist; another shower of lightning in their ranks pushed them into the fog with a start, but not before hundreds fell dead.
The kobolds finally stumbled from the front edge of the fog in great disarray, and as a group were massively disoriented.
“Hold your arrows!” Sarah shouted as Pladt raised his hand. Glancing at her quickly, he held steady; she gripped the edge of the ramparts and shouted into the wind. Her face was red, and Geoffrey could see the veins standing out on her neck. When the last word came out, she collapsed suddenly.
A howling shriek yanked his attention back to the army below. Under the din of the howling, he could hear the frantic yipping of the kobolds; as he watched, their shields were pulled sideways, and the entire line of kobolds were gradually yanked to the north.
“It’s wind!” Pladt shouted, pointing with glee. “She’s blowing them away!” Exactly what he had suggested to her, he thought exultantly. He glanced down, saw her almost unnaturally still. “Oh no,” he said, kneeling down; had she killed herself too, as he had suggested she might? As he rolled her over, he heard Geoffrey mutter something; he glanced up, but Geoffrey was looking over the wall at the army. When Pladt looked down again, Sarah suddenly gasped, and her eyes opened a fraction and she sighed. She did not come fully alert, but she was breathing.
“That’s why he waited!” Geoffrey seethed.
Pladt glanced back up. “Did you…?”
“Get up,” Geoffrey said. “She’ll be fine; you need to be ready, now.”
Pladt stood warily, not taking his eyes off the sorceress until Geoffrey gripped his arm hard and pointed.
The golem had stood, and was approaching the gate.
The hellhounds continued approaching, charging at the gates and hurling themselves against it; but it had been built solidly and did not even sway inward. Above the gate, men with buckets of stones gained from the mason-work on the walls dumped their loads onto the beasts below.
Some of the goblins had approached the walls where the wooden fortifications extended closest to the ground, and with razor sharp talons began attacking the wood. It was toward this threat that Pladt’s archers directed their attentions now; some of the goblins made valiant efforts to scale the walls, but those were singled out and quickly shot down.
But onward came the golem; Geoffrey searched frantically for the manipulator. Suddenly, he noticed a cluster of kobolds who had not approached the walls. He squinted; in their midst, an old man with a white beard that trailed to the ground stood, his hand outstretched, his head bowed.
“Pladt!” Geoffrey cried, pointing. “The circle of kobolds! The manipulator is within them!”
Pladt’s head snapped up to where Geoffrey pointed. He held up his fingers, measuring the distance; the manipulator was nearly within range, yet well beyond what Pladt felt confident attempting. He cast a frustrated glance at the approaching golem, then turned back to the manipulator. He drew an arrow and nocked it; with a deep breath, he pulled the string back as far as he dared, aimed upward, and let loose.
The arrow sang through the air, burying itself into the kobold directly in front of the golem master. His head bent in concentration, viewing the battle through the eyes of the golem, the manipulator did not know the kobold before him had fallen. The other kobolds, terrified, shrank back.
“Again, Pladt!” Geoffrey cried.
The golem thudded closer. Pladt drew another arrow; the old man twitched his fingers as the golem approached the gate. Pulling back once more as far as he dared, and knowing the string would be weaker from the first pull, Pladt let loose the arrow. It arched through the air, its course true.
The old man’s eyes snapped open as the arrow embedded itself. At the city, the golem’s clenched fists crashed into the gate, splintering it like kindling as it exploded inward. The old man reached down and pulled the arrow from the ground, thumbing the dirt off the head as he inspected it.
At Jyunta’s gate, the beasts which had been pent up outside now strained to get in. The golem, its job now finished and the manipulator distracted by the arrow, stood to one side as hellhounds, goblins and wolves poured through the gate.
Geoffrey watched in horror as the beasts swarmed in. His fist clenched around his sword, and he drew it swiftly forth.
“Corith!” he cried. “Bring your men below!”
A terrific crack of thunder just then jolted him, and he turned to see Sarah clinging to the wall; in the field below, the bearded old man now lie huddled, his cloak a bonfire. She looked at Geoffrey, her eyes weary and rimmed in red.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Without responding, Geoffrey left her there and turned to the fighting within the city.
The beasts had broken off into detachments and angled down every street; this part of their battle plan had been perfected over months of attacks. But in addition to building ramparts, Geoffrey had overseen the construction of narrow walkways, where needed, for the archers on the walls to go from rooftop to rooftop to support Corith and his men as they now ran for the castle hall. Outside its door, the men formed a large circle; there was no other way into the hall, and here they would defend the remaining townsfolk until help arrived or they were killed to the last man.
The detachments of beasts, which had worked so excellently in times past, worked against them now as they approached the hall in small groups which the soldiers could handle with relative ease. Soon, however, the beasts knew the city was empty, and they quickly converged on the last stand of men.
Pladt stood with his archers above the houses, and could see the beasts approaching. He shouted the warning to Geoffrey, and directed his men to begin shooting at the beasts whenever a good opportunity arose.
Like a tidal wave, the hellhounds and goblins swept into the small square that had seen so much celebration only two nights ago. Instead of cheers, animal yells and valiant shouts echoed across the cobblestone; instead of fists pumped in joy, swords and halberds thrust in defense. Arrows from above entered the melee with deadly accuracy; Pladt had trained his archers well, and for a time, the circle of men was well defended.
Then, Pladt heard a scream from one of his men; he glanced over, and the two men with scimitars that he had recruited – Arik and Filly – had their weapons bared, and were attacking the other archers. It took him a moment to react, and three more fell; in two swift movements, snarling anger, Pladt shot the traitors, emptying his quiver.
Below, the arrows had suddenly ceased, and the tide of beasts rolled toward the encircled soldiers. Steel flashed, and a wave was broken, but another was on top of it. Faltering under the sudden lack of support, the circle of men drew tighter against the door of the hall. Geoffrey stood back to back with Corith and a young boy wielding a mace that was nearly as tall as he was. A hellhound leapt, jaws agape, and the mace clattered to the street. Follus hummed; another beast came on, and was struck down by Corith’s blade. A goblin split the human ranks and advanced on the door, crashing against it with all his weight and might; the door shivered, but held, and four swords thrust inward. Two more goblins charged, and another human weapon fell uselessly to the ground. The oaken door to the hall was struck again, and forced inward a few finger-breadths, but still held. Steel and Follus returned the blow, and for an instant the wave of beasts receded. The men at the door were barely able to draw a breath before the beasts surged forward once more.
A horn sounded down at the gate, and the wave faltered. The horn winded again, stronger this time, and hooves could be heard thundering against the pavement. The cry arose from the rooftops: the dragon-slayer had returned.
Haydren led his army w
ith Aerithion drawn, urging his horse to more speed as they rounded the corner and saw the plight of the Jyuntan army.
“To our brothers!” he shouted. The goblins and hellhounds turned to face this new threat too late, and were swept away by the charging horsemen. With a shout of rage, Haydren whirled his sword, felling foe after foe with vicious strokes. The haggard men at the door could only stand and watch as the bestial army was swept aside in a current of mercenaries and horses.
When the square had been cleared, the mercenaries broke off into detachments to clear the city; Haydren trotted his horse over to Geoffrey and saluted with his sword.
“I thought I told you to hold them,” he said with a grin. Before Geoffrey could retort, Haydren wheeled his horse and rode after the mercenaries, to finally rid Jyunta of beasts once and for all.
Geoffrey stood with Corith and his men, surveying the corpses piled in the square as their chests heaved for air. It had been a good fight, but many men and women had lost their lives. Geoffrey looked up to the rooftops, but saw no one; probably they had gone to support the mercenaries with what arrows they had left.
By Evening, as the sun began lowering in the sky, the work was finished; all of Jyunta had been cleared of the living beasts. The only task that remained was to clear it of the dead. The beasts were piled far outside the city to be burned, and the humans were carried to a nearby field for burial. Old men, women, children – even lord Garoun helped to dig the graves for the fallen soldiers. Not one unarmed citizen of Jyunta had fallen, that day.
Haydren found Geoffrey, Corith, and Sarah standing by, watching solemnly as the graves were being dug. The young man with the mace who had fallen behind Geoffrey was being lowered gently into the ground now; an elderly woman sat by the grave, weeping. Haydren dismounted and stood beside the other three. After watching the proceedings for several moments, Haydren turned to Geoffrey.
“Where’s Pladt?” he asked quietly.
“I assume he went to help support the mercenaries,” Geoffrey replied.
Corith turned to them, his expression grave. “Geoffrey,” he said quietly, hesitantly.
Both knew immediately by Corith’s expression; he blinked a few times and swallowed. “Just as Haydren arrived,” he said. “I saw the young archer surrounded by kobolds. But Pladt had no arrows left…”
Sarah bowed her head as silence fell over the four of them. “I saw it too, from the battlements,” she confirmed. She gazed at Geoffrey and Haydren, her eyes shimmering. “I was too weak to do anything—”
“No,” Haydren muttered, shaking his head forcefully. “No, he couldn’t have; not Pladt too! He’s stood up to hydras his whole life; a Cerberus, a dragon, and a goblin couldn’t take him, a yapping kobold can’t either!”
It was Kitrel, again while Haydren was off somewhere else, unable to be near, and unable to help. That same darkness that opened beneath him in his room in Hewolucs opened now in the plains near Jyunta. Haydren fell to his knees, pounding his thigh with a fist. “It can’t be,” he said, his head wagging as tears dripped to the ground. “Not again.”
Geoffrey knelt beside him, pulling Haydren’s head to his shoulder as he continued to weep. Geoffrey, too, swallowed hard and blinked as the sun steadily set.
Later that night, Haydren, Sarah, Geoffrey and Corith were gathered around a mound of earth; the tomb was empty except for a bow and a quiver. The building upon which Sarah and Corith saw the archer’s last stand had burned, and few of the bodies that had stood on its roof were found. The bow had been retrieved a little way down the street, and was easily recognized as Pladt’s; the quiver was taken from the armory.
The sky was purple, silhouetting a small stone with Pladt’s name engraved upon it. As they sat, Corith pulled an object from his cloak; it was a flute of many reeds, which he began to play; Haydren started, as it was the same song remembered on his harp the night after Kitrel died. He fought back tears once more, as he still could not remember words to go with the tune. Just as he was about to ask Corith to stop playing, Geoffrey began singing; Sarah soon joined in, and together they sang:
“Do you know where robins go?
Or the color from the leaves?
Can you see the winds that blow?
Or the wounds of hearts that grieve?
But this we know,
The seasons come and go.
“Why do children cry and scream?
Why is there no rest at night?
What is it that’s in our dreams?
That draws our young men out to fight?
For this we know,
The seasons come and go.
“Why is hoisted flag and shield?
Why are swords and halberds drawn?
Why do conquered never yield?
Till all men are dead and gone?
But this we know,
The seasons come and go.
“Why do mothers stand alone?
Why are none seen at the plow?
Why do seeds remain unsown?
Why are there no young men now?
Because this we know,
That life will come and go.”
As the last of the notes floated on the wind, the sun disappeared below the horizon. Torches once again ringed the castle in fiery halo, casting flickering shadows across the graveyard.
“I felt good when I was leaving Estwind,” Haydren said, looking at Geoffrey. “I thought we would make it back in time.”
“You did, Haydren,” Geoffrey replied. “If that last wave had come at us, you would have returned to a castle run by goblins.”
“I suppose,” he said. “Interesting, sometimes, how things just barely work out for us; one moment one way or another and events would have turned out far differently, wouldn’t they?”
“We could all wish things had happened differently, Haydren,” Sarah said, her eyes still on Pladt’s grave. “If I had saved my energy, I could have killed the golem manipulator before he had the chance to breach the gate.”
“If I had taken the time to train more men, we might have had some to post behind the gate,” Corith added.
“That’s my point,” Haydren said, glancing at all three. “What had to conspire for Pladt to die?”
“Look around you, Haydren,” Corith said angrily. “Are you the only one who lost friends? Look at where you sit; good men die, Haydren, all the time. They are not to be missed more greatly because you knew them; or missed less so because you didn’t know them. We sang a dirge for your friend, the greatest honor that can be bestowed by a Rinc Nain; I know you must grieve, but don’t think you grieve alone.”
Haydren bowed his head; what could he say? When he looked up, Corith and Sarah were gone, and Geoffrey alone gazed at him.
“You missed a tremendous battle, Haydren,” he said quietly. “And your return was sorely needed; but now we must look ahead to the Earl’s mission. Sleep tonight; we will approach Corith in the morning.”
*
A pearl sun rose the next day, finding Haydren, Geoffrey, Sarah, and Corith – along with the mercenary leader, Hrothgar, and his lieutenant Logdthar – in the hall of lord Garoun. Reaching into his pack, Haydren produced the letter from the Earl and handed it to Garoun. The lord opened and read it quickly, set it down, and glanced at Geoffrey and Haydren with a sigh.
“Well, at the very least you brought us the army to defend our city first,” he said, not entirely without bitterness.
“What is it?” Corith asked.
“Orders, for you to lead this company into the Kalen Woods in search of the mage’s village,” Garoun replied.
Corith set his jaw, and nodded at Haydren.
“Very well,” Corith said. “I have been hoping for a chance to search the Woods once more. It would honor me to guide the dragon-slayer and the city captain on such a search.”
“The city captain title was honorary, and temporary,” Garoun replied with a glance at Geoffrey. “When you return, Corith, the title will be yours.” He turned
to Hrothgar. “I am uncertain what terms Haydren offered when he purchased your services, captain,” he began; but Hrothgar cut him off.
“I am paid until they return from the woods,” he said.
“Good, excellent,” Garoun replied. “Well, Haydren; I will supply you with horses to get you to the Woods, and a man to return them after you have done so. Gather what supplies you need; the merchants will undoubtedly recognize you, you may tell them I will compensate them for their wares. The God go with you all, and may you find what it is you seek.”
Upon exiting the hall, Hrothgar and Logdthar returned to their men. Instead of risking any chances, Lord Garoun had ordered repairs on the walls to resume, and the mercenaries currently manned them. Corith turned to the other three.
“As I told Lord Garoun, I have been hoping for this chance,” he said. “I have most of the supplies we’ll need, minus food.”
“You won’t need torches,” Sarah interjected, stepping forward. “I have a substitute.”
“It would be nice to not have to carry fuel,” Haydren said.
Geoffrey opened his mouth to retort, but then closed it. “What about water?” he asked instead.
Corith grinned at him knowingly. “Despite what I assume your experience was, there are places to get water when it isn’t raining. Lord Garoun will have his man at the stables; you two may gather him and our horses, and meet us at the front gate; I will be there shortly.”
“As will I,” Sarah promised, and both turned and departed.
Lord Garoun’s man, Rifkar, was indeed waiting with all of their horses. Shaking his head, Geoffrey muttered: “I will never understand how that man gets orders out so quickly.” They rode to the gate, and very shortly Corith and Sarah arrived, each with packs on their backs. Corith led a donkey laden with food.