by Paul Dale
Chapter 52 Dracolich
You should not seek glory in battle. Only victory.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Edwin struggled with what he was witnessing, a mixture of fear for his sister and loathing for the enemy. The Dark Lord had ridden out and come to a stop a short distance from Griselda. He could only imagine what was being said. Then there was a spark of familiar fire as a sword was drawn. She intended to fight. Pride combined with the fear in Edwin’s heart, and he kicked his horse forward into a gallop. He took a quick look back to see the elves had followed his lead and spurred their horses on as well. They were like a wave of silver crashing down the hillside.
Then from ahead there was a puff of smoke from behind the Dark Lord, followed a second later by a sharp crack. By now, they were on the flat and he could not see his sister anymore. From the nearer army came a wail of anguish and dismay, followed by a roar of anger that made Edwin’s heart skip. They were calling his sister’s name. What had happened to her?
From the dark host came more cracks of thunder and an answering wall of sound that was filled with hate. Across its width, as one, the Dark Lord’s army surged forward. There would be no fancy tactics today. Battle would be joined in a straightforward clash.
They were galloping hard now and the rear of the Firena army was clear to see. The sound of battle was on the air. The earth shook beneath the hooves of his mount and the elvish host around him. Edwin could feel the long-buried bloodlust starting to rise in him and he drew his sword. He would have blood today. No matter what happened, whether glorious victory or crushing defeat, he would usher the enemy into whatever afterlife awaited. His blade would taste bone, and though he may die, it would be a blood-drenched death.
Around him, the elves had started to sing again. Edwin had no idea of what they sang, but if it was of death in battle, then they made it sound like the greatest joy in life, as great a joy as that of parents to a newborn, or lovers at their wedding. It lifted Edwin’s heart and brought tears that streamed down his face.
Then, as he urged his mount to even greater speed, from behind came a blazing light that burned away the cloud, a light so fierce his eyes closed as if he had looked into the sun. Blind, he fought to keep his balance. Faced with being unhorsed, he opened his eyes, shielding them with one hand. The Fae passed overhead to meet the Dark Lord’s army. Above the Dark Lord’s army, black shapes rose, fire belching into the sky as they did. He would have loved to watch them join battle but his own fight awaited him, close ahead now. The clash of steel and the cries of the dying filled the air. Already there were those who’d had their will broken and were streaming off towards Firena. As Edwin and the elves approached, some stopped in wonder, others turned and headed back to fight. Others fell to their knees and cowered.
The Dark Lord’s army was enveloping the Firena army, and in doing so had exposed its own flank to the onrushing elves. Edwin found himself crashing through the packed ranks, slashing to his left and right, trying to remember in which direction his sister lay. Around him, the elves continued to sing as they fought. With terrifying efficiency they cut a swathe through the orcs, though not without loss. Slowly but surely, they lost their momentum and their mounts. Edwin lost his own mount and fell tumbling to the ground. Orcs in black armour closed in on him, heavy blades in hand. This was not how he was meant to die, on his back in the mud. Then came a flash of white fire and the orcs staggered back, shielding their eyes. Namu was there, her spear brilliant in her hands. She moved as though she was dancing, the spear flashing out to slash and burn where it met an orc. He felt arms pull him up. Ga’brel greeted him with a smile.
“No time to rest, Edwin. We have a battle on our hands.”
And so saying he joined Namu in her dance, cutting a path with a sword in one hand, a staff in the other.
Edwin stood for a moment and looked around. The stench of blood and death filled him. His hand was sticky on the hilt of his sword, his hair matted with sweat and blood. The dead and dying littered the ground around him. Horses cried their agony to mix with those of humans, orcs and elves. In the sky above, another battle raged. Dragons swamped the moth-like Fae. They spewed fire and thrust with serpentine necks to snap at the Fae’s wings as they passed. The Fae, for their part, twisted and turned, darted and feinted, avoiding the flame and raking claws while striking a wing here and leg there with weapons made of light. Screeching cries of pain came from the dragons as they were hit. One took a slash to its throat and went tumbling down. The earth shook when it hit the ground.
“Edwin!”
Namu’s warning almost came too late. Edwin barely managed to duck the swing of an orc’s sword that would have taken his conveniently exposed throat. His riposte to the orc’s armpit as it overextended ensured there would be no second chance. Blood spurted into Edwin’s eyes and the orc toppled to the ground.
Namu leaned on her spear next to him. Elves fought around them, forming a pocket of relative quiet.
“Hard work,” she said. “It’s been so long. I feel completely out of shape. Are you all right?”
“I have to reach Griselda, but what hope have we in the face of this?”
For every elf that fell, ten orcs had preceded them. But it was still a lost cause. Morden’s host was endless. They were being whittled down, slowly but surely.
“There’s always hope, Edwin. I think she’s this way. Ga’brel, come!”
The three started their butcher’s progress towards where they thought Griselda may be. The knot of elves around them followed and their bubble of light burned its way through the dark horde. Edwin had little hope of finding Griselda alive, but he had to try. It was the one thought that kept his sword arm going, to see her one last time before he fell.
*****
Morden’s first thought was he was galloping to his doom unless he could stop Rampage living up to his name. His second thought was for Griselda and what had happened to her. That she had been hit by a cannonball was in little doubt. That she had survived being hit was more the question. Even though her last intention had been to see him dead, he hoped beyond hope she was not dead. For all that had happened, for all that had been said, he was sure it wasn’t anything they couldn’t have worked out. All marriages went through rough patches. Some longer than others, perhaps. His father had been married for five hundred years despite chilling of relations that on occasion had lasted decades. He and Griselda were both young. They were bound to have their problems, like any young couple did.
Only they weren’t like any young couple. He was a Dark Lord and she was his queen. And right now he was galloping headlong into a line of knights who were screaming her name and looking to take out their fury on him. He was unsure how he was meant to steer a horse when it was going this fast. He presumed it was no different from normal so he tugged on the left rein. His horse’s head jerked to one side briefly, and then back to the front. Rampage kept on rampaging forward. The riders ahead were scarily close now. He had to do something fast.
One thing Morden had learnt when he was taught to ride was that he had to control his Dark Lord power even to get on a horse. His natural tendency to terrify any who got close to him applied doubly so to animals, proving fatal to smaller creatures, like mice and cats (much to Griselda’s consternation when she had decided she wanted a kitten). Morden was able to control it to some extent and did so almost without thinking when he rode. Now, he let that control go. Maybe that would stop Rampage.
And it did. Dead in his tracks. Quite literally.
Rampage went stiff beneath Morden. The horse’s legs splayed, and it belly-flopped to the ground, sending Morden careening over its head and into the ground. If he’d had breath in his lungs, it would have been knocked out of him. From the crunch when he hit the ground, he’d broken a few bones. Morden looked up and could see the line of knights close now. If he didn’t act fast, he would be ridden down. His mace had fallen to one side. He grabbed the handle and pushed himself to his fee
t. They were fifty yards away and closing at a gallop. Lances lowered and he was lined up to be skewered.
Not today.
Morden drew himself to his full height, spread his arms wide, and let his full power flow, strongly enough that the dragon inside woke to take an interest. He was the Dark Lord Morden. He would not be ridden down like some peasant. A pulse of darkness spread from him, sucking the light from the air. The dry grass around him blackened in a wave that radiated from where he stood, and the earth cracked. When it met the line of advancing knights, the horses followed Rampage’s example of sudden shock, followed by death, their riders following Morden’s example of being thrown hard to the ground. Unlike Morden, they wore armour that was hard, and had sharp bits all over it. There was a tremendous crash as they fell. The strangled, shrieking whinny of dying horses mixed with the curses and screams of men. The ranks behind crashed into those in front, and in no time there was a pile-up of magnificent proportions.
Morden stood and watched the proceedings, twirling his mace. None advanced from the mess to confront him. Those who could stand, and were not screaming while they pulled armour off their blackening flesh, ran, tossing weapons aside as they went, all notion of nailing a Dark Lord having fled their minds to be replaced with abject fear.
From behind him, Morden heard the familiar war cries of orcs. His army had come as fast as they could to be at their master’s side. Or close. As they got near to the sphere of gloom that surrounded him, they split to either side, like a wave breaking on a rock, to spill round and meet the enemy.
Morden had never been so immersed in a battle. He had always commanded from a position well in the rear—normally from his field throne in a comfortable tent. He was not one for fighting. He knew men and orcs fought but had tried not to think too much about what that meant. Now he was seeing it first-hand. He’d never imagined it was anything glorious, but he was still not prepared for the sheer brutality in the way man and orc tore each other apart. There was no honour or fairness. There was no single combat with everyone pairing off to have a good fight. This was fighting to survive any way you could at the expense of the enemy. It didn’t matter how. It didn’t matter why. All that mattered was to make sure that you remained attached to all your body parts while separating others from theirs. Morden watched his orcs descend on the fallen knights and tear into them, using their teeth to rip open throats like he had seen on the wall hangings in Grimtooth’s tent. It had seemed like folklore then. Now it was real and Morden had a new sense of what being a Dark Lord meant. It was something he would have to brood on later; in the middle of an epic battle was probably not the right time and place.
The battle raged around him. It didn’t take long for his army to start pushing the enemy back, by sheer weight of numbers if not ferocity. He found himself at a loss as to what to do. He was in a bubble of his own making, which none dared to enter. Those who stumbled and fell into his sphere of darkness screamed and leapt out again. It made moving difficult. As he walked, he enveloped those in the direction he moved, and they were mainly on his side. Given that imminent peril had lessened, he eased back on his power, shrinking both the strength and area of his dread aura. Having done so, he started to make his way to the rear where he hoped he would find his father. He wanted words with him about the whole cannon thing and what had happened to Griselda.
He had started to make good progress as his army thinned out towards the rear, and had organised itself more into distinct units waiting their turn for mayhem, when he felt a sudden wave of pain—which was unusual in itself, as pain had become a thing of the past now that he was undead. At the same time, the shadow around him tore apart in the air, blown away by a brilliance that lit all around. The orcs around him shielded their eyes and cowered back from the intense light that covered them.
Turning, part of Morden knew what the light must be but was still not prepared for what he saw. Rising above the battle to the northwest were creatures both beautiful and terrifying. Brilliant wings lifted half a dozen beings into the sky. With slow beats of their nebulous wings, they rose above the battle. Each carried a weapon that burned with blue fire.
These were the Fae. They had come. And there was no doubt who they had come for as they began to beat their way in his direction. And then his dragons were there, screaming their rage and belching fire at their ancient enemy. A furious aerial melee ensued. Blue fire burned dragon wing and body. Dragon flame scorched bright wings. Claws raked at pale flesh. A dragon fell, tumbling as it went, spewing black blood from a tear in its throat. Orcs rushed to get out from underneath it, but many were too late and were crushed when it hit the dirt. All around Morden orcs stood dumbfounded, the battle forgotten. Most were enraptured by the battle in the heavens above. Some, Morden noticed, looked his way. What was their Dark Lord going to do?
The dragon inside him clearly had its own idea. The sight of the Fae had been enough to bring it to full wakefulness. It was keen to join the fight. Morden hadn’t felt like this since … since he had been able to take on his dragon form. Before he had died on that beach. Or had he? He had won the battle to live that day and in doing so had lost something else. Whatever had kept him going since then—his will, perhaps—had also kept the dragon asleep. Most of the time. Ever since his unfortunate accident, the dragon had remained in the deepest slumber, only occasionally taking a passing interest in the world. Now that had changed. Now it could see an ancient foe and it wanted in.
It had been so long since Morden had tried he wondered whether he was doing it right. He concentrated on his inner dragon, willing it into its true form. He could feel it struggling against dark bonds, trying to break loose, but his undead self would not let it free. Morden sank to his knees as the dragon raged. It had been asleep too long. It wanted to be free. It wanted to fight. Morden could feel its pain as it was smothered in death and decay. No matter how hard it strained, the bonds that held it were too strong. Death had claimed Morden and it was not about to let go so easily. The dragon’s pain became his own as the conflict inside him raged.
And then it was joined by a new pain. He looked up to see what torment had gripped him. Above him, one of the Fae had broken free of the melee and was streaking towards him. Dragons tried to follow, but the remaining Fae blocked their path, doing all they could to keep the dragons at bay. Morden forced himself to his feet to face this new threat; all the while, the battle inside continued. The Fae was close now and Morden could see it for what it was: a naked, sexless man, wielding a sword of blue fire. Where it flew over Morden’s army, orcs scattered or flattened themselves to the ground. Morden raised his mace for all the good it would do. He could not stand against this thing from legend. He tossed his mace aside.
The Fae was above him now, hovering in all its glory, its soft features plain to see. Morden was transfixed by its purity and beauty, and powerless as it approached, sword raised, its light burning away at Morden. He could feel it tearing at his inner being and it took all his will to stop the fire consuming him.
“Wait.” It took all his effort to speak. “Who are you?”
“I am Kezef, Morden Deathwing, and I am your doom.”
And suddenly the dragon was free. Perhaps it was the Fae’s words, or the Fae being so close and its fire had burned death’s bonds. He would never know for sure, but the dragon was set free. Death lost its grip and Morden felt the surge of life fill him.
He was a dragon lord once more.
The change came in a rush. Morden cried with the pleasure of the feeling, almost forgotten. His cry became a roar as his form became that of a dragon, though not the same dragon he had been before. He had suffered much in those intervening years, not least in the flesh, and the dragon reflected this. He was a beast of scales, rotten flesh, and bone. His wings, as he spread them, were skeletal with ash-coloured skin pulled taut, and in places torn. And he was bigger than before. Much bigger. He had grown in power and the dragon had grown with him. It was well-rested and eager.
<
br /> “Well, Kezef, I think doom just switched sides.”
*****
Edwin was beginning to tire when the Fae flew over him. He thought it was Kezef, but he couldn’t be sure. The Fae flew off towards where Edwin thought his sister was, though in truth it was more of a feeling driven by a whisper in his mind. Namu and Ga’brel were at his side, the three of them their own little island of chaos in the battle. Only the most foolhardy, brave, or crazed orcs came near them. The passage of the Fae filled Edwin with renewed energy.
“This way,” he called to his companions.
The enemy thinned as the main battle front passed beyond them and they moved towards the rear of the army. It was with surprise and consternation the orcs in their path found themselves attacked by two elves and a man, in full armour, their weapons and magic slaying all in their way. It was no surprise many chose to let them by rather than hinder them. They came at last to a spot that was being shunned, at the centre of which a sword stuck in the ground at an angle, next to a body wrapped in silver armour. The armour had been smashed and torn. Golden hair lay across the ground. Edwin immediately recognised both for what they were and fell to his knees. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Edwin,” said Namu.
An unusually brave orc from the horde, which was generally giving them wide berth and pretending they were not there, broke apart from his fellows and, with a snarl, launched himself at the elves. Ga’brel’s hand shot out and incinerated its head with pale blue fire. The orc fell, without time to scream. The rest of Morden’s orcs continued past, choosing to ignore the three of them and their smoking comrade. Ga’brel went to stand by the sword. He reached out a hand, but then withdrew it.