Even Gods Must Fall (30 page)

“We stand a very real chance of losing this battle. Thrask’s Goblins are of little real use,” Kodan Bak said, his pale eyes never leaving the sacrifices.

Amar Kit’han frowned. Bringing the Goblins in had been a gamble from the beginning. His hopes of presenting a major military power to cow the other kingdoms into submission backfired twice. If they couldn’t hold the lines long enough for him to complete the ritual it would all be over. A thousand years was a very long time to wait for the next opportunity to free the dark gods, even for an immortal.

“The Goblins are strong when need be. Give them the chance to hold,” he replied.

Reaching into his robes, the Dae’shan produced an onyx athame. Fear brightened the eyes of the five victims strapped to the stones.

Pelthit Re, ever eager to prove his value, added, “They will not hold. Those new weapons of the Dwarves are an unforeseen complication.”

Frustrated, sensing it was nearly time for one of them to make their play for leadership, Amar Kit’han drifted around to face his kin. “Send forth the Gnaals. We will make quick work of our enemies.”

Ignoring the threat from his peers, Amar turned back to his victims. Their deaths would open the path between dimensions and usher forth a new age for all Malweir.

Counterattack

Maleela’s stomach tightened as she watched the wholesale slaughter of Goblins on the western flank. She’d never dreamed of such violence from the Dwarves, having been sequestered deep inside Drimmen Delf when Bahr and the others had gone out to fight at Bode Hill. The cannons were impressive and world changing. She tried to calculate the implications of these new weapons and failed. Hundreds of Goblins were murdered in those first few moments. Close to a thousand by the time the Minotaur army attacked.

She watched her new army as it threatened to break under the onslaught of so many different foes. Her gaze reluctantly tore from the horrifying Dwarven weapons and centered on the Wolfsreik to her east. Aurec was there, standing in resplendent battle armor under a sea of waving banners. He’d grown to become a true king, despite her earlier protestations. She bore no doubts that he would soon take up the sword and join his army in the attack. Aurec often suffered from an excess of honor. Maleela didn’t particularly want him dead, but she wouldn’t hesitate to cut him down if he stood in her way. Badron was out there and she wanted him dead.

Her defense against the Wolfsreik was much stronger than against the Dwarves. Without those infernal weapons the Wolfsreik was forced to execute their attack the way it had always been done. She was prepared for that, or so Thrask assured her. The Goblin war machine had fought their way across the northern kingdoms for months, slaughtering and killing along the way. Maleela had no stomach for it. There was no glory to be had in killing. Her alliance with the Goblins was one of convenience. Amar Kit’han promised her the blood of her father before the end, leading her to the inevitable conclusion that Badron was on the field.
Most likely skulking in a soldier’s uniform no doubt.
Her hand idly tapped the blade strapped to her right hip.

Too many thoughts swirled in conflict. Goblins. Aurec. Badron. She slowly felt her sanity being dragged away. Feelings of vengeance dominated her waking moments. Dreams had become nightmares threatening to consume what remained of her soul. She wondered how she had become evil. Had it always been there? Lurking in the hollow corners of mind and spirit? She only felt marginally different, as if these feelings were natural.

Far too late for her to care, Maleela watched the Wolfsreik smash into the Goblins. The press of bodies was massive. Despite the gnawing displeasure in her stomach, she couldn’t take her gaze away. Bodies fell. Weapons rose and dropped, their crisp silver catching sunlight in menacing angles. Slowly, almost casually, the ground turned a dark shade of red. Blood. She shuddered. What made her cringe was seemingly commonplace amongst the combatants.

Frantic movement from the Wolfsreik lines drew her attention. Fresh units were being hurried towards the attack where those poor initial units were being torn asunder. If…if the Goblins could hold, there was the very real chance to win this battle. Surely the Dwarves would run out of whatever they used for ammunition soon. Once they did, she had numbers on her side. No amount of natural savagery could beat back the vast amount of Goblins waiting to get into the battle.

The east secured for the moment, Maleela turned back to the Dwarf front. Aurec would live or die without her interference. She noticed with dismay how much destruction had been wrought to her lines. Thousands of Goblins lay dead, twice that were wounded and trying to drag themselves away from the fighting. Plenty of Minotaurs were down as well, their near gigantic forms almost an aberration of nature. She marveled at the bull warriors. Until now she’d thought them to be myth, an extinct race having long since exited the world.

No matter how many enemy casualties littered the trenches it was paltry compared to the losses she was suffering. The battle had gotten close enough to render the Dwarf cannons obsolete but the constant report of smaller, centralized explosions continued to bother her. Puffs of grey-black smoke drifted away from ranks of Dwarves at measured intervals. Whatever fell sorcery the mountain dwellers employed went well beyond the cannons. She reluctantly deduced they had found a way to make smaller, handheld versions of the weapons. If Thord’s army had enough of them….

Heavy boots thumped up the stairs of her observation tower. She didn’t bother turning, knowing who it was. Maleela’s only curiosity came from how long it had taken him to approach her.

“General Thrask, what is your report?” she asked, her voice smooth, polished.

Ignoring her, the Goblin Lord went to the edge of the tower and stared hard at the Dwarf line. He’d seen what a pair of their weapons was capable of and the cost was appalling. The battle along the Thorn River crossing was swift and exceptionally brutal. Nothing he had seen prepared him for the full fury lashing into his army.

“We must find a way to stop them.”

Maleela clutched her sword, aching to plunge it into the Goblin’s heart. “Can the army hold? Amar Kit’han will not tolerate failure.”

“The demons are your concern, not mine. Kill Dwarves,” Thrask snarled. “I must kill all of the Dwarves.”

She knew there were another ten thousand warriors waiting a short ride north. The ruins were a massive, sprawling complex but not large enough to house the entire fifty-thousand-strong force. With the northern flank secure and relatively quiet, Maleela figured it would be wise to funnel fresh troops in from the perimeter to counter the massive assault by the Wolfsreik on the east. Enemy forces were strongest there. The complications of the battle frustrated her. The Dwarf attack on the southwest was reaping massive casualties but their army was substantially smaller than Aurec’s. There was no easy decision.

A flap of wings stole her attention. Rising from the center of Arlevon Gale were a dozen Gnaals. She’d only encountered the foul beasts, creations of dark magic, once in the moments before being captured by the Harpies. The very memory robbed her of strength. Gnaals were nothing short of the physical manifestation of hatred and evil. They appeared no more than bulbous, black masses flying through the sky but she knew the truth. Easily as tall as a Minotaur, the Gnaals had wide, leathery wings. Their bodies were the darkest shade of black, making individual characteristics almost indiscernible. Closing her eyes invoked vivid memories of puss-filled lesions, incredibly disproportioned muscles, whip-like tails, and eyes the color of pure malevolence.

She watched them soar into the sky, tucking their wings back and diving towards the Dwarf and Minotaur armies. Not even Boen or Groge had been strong enough to kill the Gnaals that had attacked her in the Jungles of Brodein. What could Dwarves do against a dozen of the killing machines? Maleela regretted the loss of life that was about to happen but felt relief at having one less problem. She could now direct her attention to the east, where she suspected her father cowered.

Thrask snapped his jaws together with appreciation. His warriors had strength in numbers but nothing comparable to the raw fury of the Gnaals. He quickly decided it was time to lead his troops into battle.

Maleela agreed. “Summon the reinforcements. Have them attack the Wolfsreik from the north. Between them and the Gnaals we can sweep our foe from the field and win this battle.”

Thrask tapped a fingertip on one of his tusks as the notion of killing her entertained him. He didn’t need her, despite what assurances the Dae’shan gave. She was weak, like the rest of her kind. The new world had no place for weakness. Thrask itched with the desire but knew it would only invoke the ire of Amar Kit’han. Instead he decided to wait until the battle was almost won before slicing her open and tearing out her heart.

“I go to fight the Dwarves. The army will attack your Wolf soldiers. This will be glorious day for the Goblin race. We will kill them all!” The Goblin Lord thumped a fleshy fist to his chest and stormed off. Killing Maleela could wait…for now.

With the foul Goblin gone, she resumed her mental quest for her father. Killing raged around her but her mind sequestered it away, lost behind the growing desire to see Badron broken and bleeding on the ground at her knees. The world dulled and faded until she saw but one figure. A solitary fighter lost amidst a sea of iron and armor. Badron. Oh how she wanted to slit his throat and bathe in his blood.

Gnaals dropped heavily into the massed Dwarf cannons. Weaponless, they attacked with tail and claw. No amount of Dwarf ferocity was enough to prevent bodies from being shredded. The battle raged as Gnaals cut their way through the Dwarves and reached the cannons. They bled from hundreds of cuts. Broken arrows and axe blades were embedded in their flesh yet not one had gone down. Close to a hundred Dwarves were already dead, torn apart without delay.

A few brave Dwarves managed to fire a final round into Arlevon Gale before their weapons were thoroughly destroyed. Gnaals crushed the barrels, snapping them like kindling. One blew up as the Dwarf valiantly lit the fuse in a last-ditch effort to launch another round. Both Dwarf and Gnaal disintegrated in a flash of smoke and flame. Temporarily dismayed, the remaining Gnaals recoiled and regrouped.

Fresh Dwarves drew ranks and prepared to fire. General Brug stood beside them, battle axe waving in the choked air. Having already withdrawn from the front lines, Brug’s musketeers were busy rearming and preparing to head back into the fight when the Gnaals struck. Any terror he felt was deep-rooted but he barely managed to contain it. The Gnaals were evil on Malweir, a distant truth of vengeance and destruction stretching back generations. Few were strong enough to stand against them. The vast majority of races balked at the very sight as their nerves abandoned them. Dwarves, Brug reminded himself, were made of sterner material.

“Front rank kneel! Prepare to fire!” he barked.

Dwarves dropped into their well-rehearsed roles. Training took over.

“Fire!”

Muskets roared. Bullets struck the Gnaals in head and body. More than one screamed but they did not fall. As one, the Gnaals turned and advanced on the Dwarves. With no time to reload, Brug ordered axes drawn. He swiftly shifted to the center of the line and took his place among his warriors. Many cast sidelong glances to each other but none fled. If this was to be a battle to the death, so be it. Brug led the roar and charged. His musketeers followed step for step. Dwarf and Gnaal clashed in furious combat.

Using the Gnaals for cover, Thrask led fresh battalions of untested Goblins into the battle. They attacked the Minotaurs, still reeling from the force of the Gnaal assault, with belligerence. Krek kicked a Goblin knife thrower in the face. Bone and cartilage shattered as the Goblin dropped dead. Breathing heavily, the Minotaur king tried to withdraw and help the Dwarves but it wasn’t possible. There were too many Goblins for the Minotaurs to pull away. His heart was torn, knowing the stout Dwarves were no match for the evil of the Gnaals.

Renewed cries announced the arrival of fresh Goblin troops. Thousands flooded towards the Minotaurs. Thousands that turned the tide of numbers. Krek was forced to forget his Dwarf allies and face the army threatening him. Chunks of flesh and hair coated his war bar with dried blood. His muscles were tight, heavy from exertion. His eyes burned from the smoke. Krek focused and calmed his breathing. There was fresh killing that needed to be done. It was only proper for the king to lead his warriors.

Morale remained high among his warriors. They’d suffered losses, several hundred as he figured, but were strong enough to repulse any attack the Goblins tried. Whatever pain the Minotaur army suffered was felt thrice over by their enemies. So many corpses littered the battlefield new units were forced to climb over mounds just to reach the Minotaurs. That made easy work for the taller, longer-reached bulls.

The line held for a while before so many Goblins arrived in force that Krek had no choice but to retreat. Combined with the loss of the Dwarf musketeers, Krek was heavily outnumbered and running out of vigor. Retreating would give him the time needed to recover and attack again. Bodies continued to pile up as the Minotaurs fought an organized withdrawal. Every inch of ground recaptured was paid for with many lives.

With the retreat came the sudden expansion of lines. Goblins were able to dash past the Minotaurs, suddenly eager to return the favor of carnage to the Dwarves. Nothing could be done to prevent that as Krek’s bulls were faced with near overwhelming numbers. His bulls were hard-pressed to remain cohesive fighting units. Any breakup would mean death. Staying together was the only way his army was going to survive.