Even Gods Must Fall (3 page)

The young king had already gone through desperation, fear, regret, and the faintest glimmer of hope since having Maleela ripped away from the sanctity of his castle. Vengeance was all that remained. Vengeance and the prospect of avenging all wrongs committed. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly as he entered the shadows of the pass. Delranan awaited, and with it a new phase in this seemingly unending war.

Venten stood and watched until Aurec entered the cold shadows of the pass. The Murdes Mountains were nightmarish on the best days, but this deep into winter they were near impassable. Cuul Ol and the other Pell Darga tribal leaders reluctantly offered up their secret ways in order to facilitate the army moving rapidly back into Delranan. Trust remained an issue between both factions, but Aurec was confident enough not to let it interfere with the movement of nearly twenty thousand combat soldiers.

“I’ll watch over him. Don’t worry.”

Venten turned to look at Command Sergeant Major Thorsson. The greying veteran was filled with scars, oddly contrasting the freshly sewn-on insignia denoting his recent, and unexpected, promotion. “He needs to stay here in Rogscroft and let one of us act as his proxy.”

Thorsson shrugged. “He’s king. If you couldn’t stop him who can?”

“He’s headstrong and young. Two elements necessary for a quick demise,” Venten countered. He failed to keep the bitterness in his heart from bleeding into his tone.

“Venten, Aurec is all grown up and you’re responsible for the person he’s become. Take it as a compliment. I’m comfortable with him leading the army. You should be as well.” Thorsson turned his head and spit a wad of brown phlegm before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “We can win this war. Hopefully the mountains will be clear by the time we come home. I’m tired of winter.”

“Winter? Thorsson, there are more inherent dangers in what you’re about to attempt than the prospect of another storm.”

The lifelong soldier grinned savagely. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Take care, Venten. The war may be finished here but Rogscroft is not a safe place.”

“Stay lucky, my friend.”

They shook and Venten finally headed back to his company. They’d set out for the capital in the morning, giving Aurec and most of the main body time to begin their short journey back into combat.

New Allies

The Dwarf army from Drimmen Delf, nearly four thousand strong, continued the long march towards Delranan. King Thord strode at the head of the winding column. It had been many years since the Dwarves last went to war with any other race than their own. Thord harbored no personal feelings on the matter, insofar as he was concerned he was simply repaying a debt.

The rebellion of the dark Dwarves cost Drimmen Delf dearly but the toll would have been much higher if not for the intervention of Anienam Keiss and Bahr of Delranan. Their combined efforts helped drive Thord’s enemies from the field and secured a lasting friendship between the Dwarf Lord and Bahr, the Sea Wolf. Thord agreed to send an emissary along with Bahr on his quest to recover the Blud Hamr. When the Elf Lord Faeldrin informed him of the dire need to march west to the wars of Man, Thord was honor bound to accept.

Cool winds blew across the Dwarf’s face, at least the parts not covered by the thick moustache and beard. Marching across frozen plains was not in the Dwarf’s best interests. He was infinitely more comfortable spending his days underground in the warmth and familiarity of his halls. Life above ground was meant for others. Still, Thord almost relished the freedom of having an entire world open and exposed before him. The sounds of his army marching behind him comforted him in ways only a soldier would understand. The jostle of armor. The accidental clank of steel on steel. The grumbling, cursing, and joking of soldiers as they marched. All were sounds so ingrained in the Dwarf Lord that he managed to take comfort in uncomfortable situations.

Wagons laden with spare weapons, feed and grain for the animals, and supplies for the army trundled along behind agonizingly slow. The cannons came next. Each was pulled by four oxen and followed by three additional wagons carrying the newly invented ammunition and gunpowder. Armorers roamed the camps at night, repairing the black-powder pistols and axes as necessary while the infantry recovered strength. The road to Delranan was long and Thord planned on having his army arrive, in fighting condition, by the end of ten days. Five had already passed.

Elf scouts of the Aeldruin ranged the fields and forests for sign of the enemy. Reports of the initial battle along the banks of the Fern River reverberated throughout the army. One hundred Dwarves gave their lives against an army estimated at more than fifty thousand. The Dwarves made the Goblins pay but not even Thord’s main body was strong enough to repulse an army that strong.

Dwarves and Elves shared no love lost yet were far from being considered enemies. Most of the Elves on Malweir were too aloof, self-absorbed in their own ways, to bother caring what the other races did or didn’t do. Thord was taken off guard when Faeldrin and his mercenaries arrived in Drimmen Delf offering to assist the Dwarves in their civil war. Very few individuals in the modern world offered aid without expecting something back in return. True to their word, the Elves performed scouting and light raiding duties without asking for more than food and shelter. Dwarf and Elf bonded almost immediately.

Dusk found the army breaking down into camps. The wagons were pushed into the center of four separate defensive squares. Fires were lit, for Dwarves held no fear of any living creature. They brazenly invited enemies to come closer. Guards were set. The army settled in for the night. Soon the smells of roasting meat invited grumbling stomachs and salivating mouths. Thord and his generals made their rounds among the rank and file. Nothing boosted morale for the lower ranks than seeing their leaders struggle alongside.

Exhausted but unwilling to admit it, Thord finally trudged back to his tent and readied to collapse shortly before midnight. He’d done all he could to get a gauge on the state of the army, stopping to fill his belly along the way. He’d checked the guard lines and the strength of the defenses in what was becoming a nightly ritual. No sign of the enemy had been spotted as of yet but he knew it was only a matter of time. An army the size of the Goblins was unheard of and moved much slower than his meager one. It would take time for the two to clash.

The Dwarf Lord tugged his boots off and leaned back on his cot. His rest was immediately interrupted by the gentle rap of knuckles on the wooden door pole. Grumbling under his breath, Thord reluctantly sat back up. “Enter.”

He frowned upon seeing Faeldrin sidle in. “King Thord.”

“Hmm, why am I not surprised? Don’t Elves ever sleep?” he growled.

The Elf Lord cocked his head. “A curious notion. We are told from an early age that there will be enough time for sleep when we are finally put in the ground. Life offers so much it is a shame to miss a single moment.”

“Would that I shared your sentiment,” Thord said.

“We are each different.”

Thord wasn’t sure if he appreciated the irony of the statement. “What brings you here tonight?”

Faeldrin gestured towards the empty stool uncomfortably close to the ground. “May I?”

Thord gestured with his head.

“My scouts have returned with their nightly briefings. Normally I don’t bother you or the other commanders with their tales of finding nothing of consequence,” he said and paused. “Matters discovered this night have changed that. We’ve run across large tracks converging on our course. We should meet sometime around midday tomorrow.”

“What sort of tracks?” Thord sat straighter, suddenly more interested.

Faeldrin held up a staying hand. “Not Goblins. My apologies. It appears our Minotaur allies have finally arrived in force.”

The Dwarf scratched his beard, running his stubby fingers through the tangled weave of thick hair. He’d heard of the giant bull warriors but, like most of the world, had never seen one. They were a race belonging to historical records and myths. When Faeldrin first brought word that the Minotaurs were willing to join the war Thord took it with a grain of disbelief.

“I guess hooves move faster than boots,” Thord grumbled.

“It would be unwise to taunt them so. I have worked with their king, Krek, before. He is a humorless creature. The two of you should get along nicely.”

Thord pointed a finger. “Dwarves have plenty of humor. It’s just you surface dwellers don’t get it, is all.”

“That may be, but Minotaurs have notoriously quick tempers,” the Elf countered. He enjoyed their mild sparring. It was a product of the campaign trail.

“I’ll remember that when I’m staring up at them,” Thord said. “What can you tell me of this Krek?”

“Krek was a young bull when we accompanied Dakeb the Mage on his quest in Thrae. His aid was immeasurable, though we ultimately failed in our quest. The Minotaurs have no love towards the Goblins. Even a small number is capable of removing unprecedented amounts of enemy soldiers.”

Thord’s eyebrow peaked. “Enough to beat fifty thousand?”

Faeldrin paused before answering. “Perhaps not that many but their numbers will be sorely diminished once the battle ends.”

“As pleasant as that sounds I don’t relish the idea of being killed for no reason.”

“We all must die, Thord.”

He closed his eyes. “In due time. I’d like to see this war through first. That cold throne needs my ass on it for a few more decades.”

Life or death were both real possibilities for the meager army. Faeldrin had lived for centuries, narrowly avoiding Lord Death a hundred times. He’d never bothered concerning himself with such thoughts, until now.
The war for the soul of Malweir. Long prophesied and now it finally approaches. If Thord knew a fraction of what I’ve been shown would he still march glibly towards the inevitable conclusion? What fool would? Were I a lesser Elf I’d have fled back to Elvenara to await the end
.

Thord noticed the Elf’s consternation. “You’re troubled.”

“We all should be. This is no easy task we have set ourselves to. I fear many a friend will not be among us when the last sword falls. Perhaps we should have all remained neutral.”

“What talk is this? I’ve never heard an Elf sound so depressed in all my days,” Thord chastised. “Go and hide in your trees or me in my caverns? I don’t think the gods, dark or light, care for what we wish. If what you believe is true, this is the hour in which our combined might will either win the day or see us all enslaved for eternity. Running from the problem won’t help a damned thing, Faeldrin. No. We march to war even if it means none of us return.”

Rebuked, the Elf Lord could do no more than smile. “You’ve had me fooled for a long while, Dwarf. I didn’t think your taciturn nature had such an expansive vocabulary. Very well. We shall continue on. I can only hope the kingdoms of Men in our path are just as willing to accept what’s to come. This will be a war unlike any ever fought.”

Thord leaned closer. Bits of chewed meat were visible between his teeth when he grinned. “What better place for a Dwarf to be?”

“They are moving faster than yesterday,” Faeldrin remarked.

Euorn folded his hands over the saddle horn and continued to watch the approaching army go from a dark stain on the distant snow to distinguishable figures. “Big beasts. Bigger than I recalled.”

“They are formidable to say the least. Dakeb spoke of Krek’s involvement in that business with the dragon. They are most welcome to this fight,” Faeldrin added.

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise, Faeldrin.”

The Elf Lord sighed. “Don’t worry about it. Perhaps the Dwarf was right. A little rest might do us all good.”

“Ha! I’ve been with you for more than two hundred years. I don’t seem to recall you ever slowing down. Should I go out and meet them?”

Faeldrin stared for a moment longer. “No. There’s little point in moving in the wrong direction. Krek and his legion will be along shortly. Head back to the main body and alert them of our impending arrivals.”

“I only hope the Minotaurs have brought their own supplies. There’s no way we can feed that many extra mouths,” Euorn said and rode off.

Faeldrin’s wait proved far shorter than anticipated. The Minotaur army moved fast, as if they were in a rush to reach the final battle. The Elf closed his eyes and recalled the last time one of their armies took to the field. Outside the gates of the Mage citadel of Ipn Shal, the Minotaur army was charged with defending the gates. Goblins and wicked men made charge after charge only to die by the hundreds on Minotaur tulwars and stone axes. The great bulls reaped terrible vengeance upon their foes while losing great numbers of their own. Ipn Shal held, if barely, and what remained of the Mages honored the bulls in Paedwyn. That honor echoed down through the years, transposing onto the current generation of warriors.

Fond memories often warmed the Elf. His own Aeldruin rode the flanks for the Minotaurs, preventing the enemy from rolling up on the sides and overwhelming the steadily outnumbered force. Those were days of glory and sorrow. Too many friends and familiar faces were buried in the aftermath of the battle. The war continued for another five years, reaping tens of thousands of souls. Lord Death strode Malweir at will. What remained of the old ways spread out. Alliances disintegrated as war-weary soldiers returned to their ancestral homes. Magic was rooted out. Any bearing the signs were hunted down and murdered in blind rage. Faeldrin took his few surviving Elves and returned to the forest haven of Elvenara where they remained for an entire generation.

The Elf Lord knew that no other kingdom had reached out to the Minotaurs in all the years since. The quest to kill Ramulus the dragon brought the inevitable collision of races. Unexpected as it was, Faeldrin knew Krek, then a young bull who had yet to earn his first kill, was highly praised for his efforts by Anienam Keiss’s father, Dakeb. He hoped the ferocity of a single Minotaur was a hint of what an entire legion held.

He watched as the legion ground to a halt. Steam poured from their nostrils. Cold sunlight reflected from freshly polished horns. The Minotaurs were breathing heavily. Plain, boiled leather armor clung to each bull. Weapons were sheathed or slung. There were no natural predators in the northern kingdoms for the vast legion to fear. Faeldrin admired their arrogance.

“Hail Krek, Lord of Malg!” he called out.

Krek, tallest of the bulls, strode towards the Elf. His great cloven feet were the size of small boulders. His horns thick, powerful. Muscles corded every inch of his nine-foot frame. Scars from individual combats ran diagonally down his face. Much of his mane had turned grey. He was old, almost at the point where a successor would be named. The old never lasted long in warrior societies.

“Elf Lord. It has been long,” Krek replied. “Malg comes.”

Faeldrin gazed out upon the army, judging their numbers to be close to two thousand. “You are well represented. I pity the Goblins that come upon us.”

Krek coughed and spit. “No pity for grey skins. All must die.”

The Elf feigned a smile. He held no personal desire to kill, not even a Goblin, but knew when necessity demanded otherwise. A reckoning was upon them. Only those with martial prowess could possibly survive. Little known to Faeldrin, the war had already claimed thousands of lives and was continuing to grind more souls towards Lord Death daily. His brief meeting with Anienam Keiss failed to present an adequate sense of urgency in the Dwarves. They were solely concerned with confronting and defeating the massive Goblin army.