Even Gods Must Fall (31 page)

Brutal Survival

“What have we gotten ourselves into?”

The scene being played out before them was one the world hadn’t seen in a thousand years. Very few living could recall an hour of such unmitigated darkness. Many of the one-hundred-strong company felt the old stirrings come back to life. Long had it been since the Giants of Venheim last went to war. Long since they were forced to give in to base instincts and take lives. Leaving their mountain forges was a difficult decision to make but one that couldn’t be ignored.

So they came, with sword and axe, marching to a mournful dirge as vows of peace and non-interference were shattered upon the rocks. The long march from Venheim afforded each time for personal reflection, to decide if what they had volunteered to do was worth the cost of their soul. Belief in the old gods was gone, replaced by a lone deity who was both benevolent and demanding.

In the end there wasn’t much of a choice. Whether the gods of light and dark were still around, lingering in the shadows just out of reach, didn’t matter. All that mattered was the current war threatened to destroy the way of life of every single race on Malweir.

Blekling hefted his sword off of his right shoulder. “It is as the Dae’shan said. This is a most grievous affair.”

“Perhaps we should turn back? Return to Venheim and forget all of this.”

The Giant elder shook his head slowly. Long, black locks of hair dragged across his shoulders. “No. We gave our word. Groge is down there, lost in all of this. He is our only hope of stopping the dark gods. Should he fall…well, at least there are more of us to pick up the Blud Hamr and stop this war. We continue to march. It is time for the Giants to return to war.”

“Which front do we attack? South or east?”

Blekling studied the battlefield from atop the small rise the Giants had halted on. Tens of thousands of Men and Goblins battled desperately on the right but they seemed almost evenly matched. His attention was drawn to the south, where Minotaur and Dwarf battled Goblin and…he froze as recognition dawned on him. He refused to believe what his eyes showed. Gnaals. Here, in Delranan. Until now he’d believed they were extinct, all killed during the Mage Wars when the dark Mages finally fell. Seeing so many at work now inspired dread.

“We go to the Dwarves,” he said, his throat dry.
They need us the most. Once again our kind will engage those vile Gnaals. How many will die this time?

Artiss Gran materialized at his side, gossamer robes simmering refracted rainbows from the sunlight. Face eternally obstructed behind the shadows of his cowl, the Dae’shan took in the scene being played out below and felt regret. Regret for not acting sooner. Regret for not standing up to his wayward brothers when they broke their pact with the gods. Regret for allowing the world to get to this point. He had much to make up for and, in his eyes, there could be but one possible outcome.

Blekling bowed curtly out of reverence. “Dae’shan. We have arrived, and it appears in the nick of time.”

“That remains to be seen. Our allies are beleaguered. The Giants have not gone to war in a very long time. Are you sure you are prepared for this?” Artiss asked. He knew that by abandoning their principles the Giants would be fundamentally changed. There was latent danger in that. Vague memories of how terrible the Giants had become during the Mage Wars disturbed him. Unfortunately a great deal needed to change if hope and freedom were to survive the day.

Blekling, sensing the Dae’shan’s doubt, grimaced. Fresh sounds of battle assaulted his ears. “This is not a matter of being prepared. Life is in the balance here. Great evil is at work down below. We have come to the aid of the free peoples of Malweir in the past when always the need was greatest. That pact continues to stand. Let no one say we do not honor our agreements. The Giants will go to war. Now.”

Inwardly pleased, Artiss Gran nodded his consent. Perhaps there was hope for tomorrow after all. However pleased he might be, Artiss knew that the only way to defeat his brothers was through direct confrontation. The time of reckoning was at last upon him. Here, on this final day as the sun began to set, Artiss Gran was forced to find the destination to his long journey. It all ended tonight.

Blekling led his one hundred Giants down the slope and into the back of the Dwarf camp. Human and Dwarf stopped what they were doing and gaped as the force marched purposefully to the front lines without pause or comment. A cheer arose through the mire of desperation. Swords beat against shields. The army found new hope. Fresh life pumped into them as the Giants headed directly towards the Gnaal threat. What threatened to become a rout turned into defense. Hopefully, defense would lead to offense and the scouring of Delranan.

The Gnaals snapped to as they sensed their ancient enemies. Mindless with berserker rage, the Gnaals abandoned their slaughter of Dwarves to attack Blekling and his Giants. One hundred against eleven. The outcome was anything but certain.

Blekling led the charge. His blood ran hot. His heart pounded like the mighty forge hammers. His vision darkened. Nothing else existed except this battle. This moment. Picking up speed, he crashed into the nearest Gnaal. Limbs flailed as both bodies tumbled to the ground. Blekling gagged as an incredibly powerful tail curled around his neck and squeezed. Claws dug into his iron-like flesh. Intense pain washed over the Giant leader. He’d never been in a real fight before and it was threatening to be his death. Eyes burning, his vision swam.

Blekling reached deep into his heart and snatched hold of his inner strength. The Giant drove his right elbow into the Gnaal’s exposed ribcage. It wasn’t particularly strong, but enough to force the Gnaal to release its grip. Blekling slid from beneath the monster, continuing to slam elbows into exposed ribs. Enraged, the Gnaal whipped its tail about. Each blow broke the ground, kicking mud, snow, and dirt up.

Heavy, running, footsteps announced a trio of Giants rushing to help their leader. Axe and hammer struck the Gnaal repeatedly. Blood, so dark it appeared black, ruptured through broken flesh. Puss and ichor leaked from the monster as it was slowly, oh so slowly, beaten to death. Blekling managed to roll free, drawing his dagger in the process and plunging it deep into the Gnaal’s heart. Exhausted and woefully underprepared, Blekling took the brief moment allotted to scan the battlefield.

While he might have killed a Gnaal, others were less fortunate. Several Giants lay dead or dying. The sight horrified him. A series of emotions erupted at once: hate, sorrow, despair, anger. Blekling snatched his weapons from the ground and led his host back into the fight. Eight of the dark Mage demons remained.

Inspired by the sudden appearance of Giants, Dwarves and Men launched back into the fight. Their weapons did little against the nightmarish hides of the Gnaals and more often than not they simply got in the way. Blekling didn’t mind. The evil unleashed upon the world should have been eradicated centuries ago. That it had been allowed to endure was an affront to every sentient race on Malweir. Blekling intended on removing the stain for all time.

He watched, helpless, as Tobin’s head rolled away from his already toppling corpse. Yarg grunted as a razor-sharp tail burst through his chest. His large hands desperately tried to keep his blood and organs from spilling out but it was of no use. He was dead before he struck the ground. A group of Giants systematically tore a Gnaal apart. Body parts littered the area at their feet. Blekling winced at the horrid screams coming from the dying creature. Madness had descended upon the world and he was but a small participant.

“Come brothers, let us end this brutality,” he told those nearest him.

Each was panting and clearly struggling with committing acts of violence. He saw it in their eyes. Doubt lingered in the corners. They were hesitant to take that first step.

“This is not right. We should not be aiding in this slaughter.”

Blekling fumed. His people were dying and these few suffered from lack of faith. “We did not begin this war but it ours to help finish. I did not wish to leave Venheim but the Dae’shan was correct. This war must end, here and now. We must do our part if life is to continue. Now, cast aside your doubt and fear. Follow me!”

Faith restored, at least somewhat, the Giants lunged forward to put an end to the remaining Gnaals. The Giant leader was immensely grateful for their cooperation. He asked them to do what he himself didn’t feel right doing. Giants had once been mighty warriors, but those days ended and with good reason. Watching a Giant kill was a terrible sight to behold.

The battle had shifted away from him, forcing Blekling to run faster in order to reach his brothers. The Giant elder struggled for breath. Intense pain racked his sides. He knew some ribs were broken. The Gnaal nearly did him in and he knew it. Blekling decided to remain in the safety of numbers.

His first sign of trouble was the massive shadow suddenly drowning out the sun. Blekling looked up sharply in time to watch the largest Gnaal imaginable plant both feet on his shoulders and drive him into the ground. Bones snapped. Organs burst. Blekling withheld his scream though the pain was nearly unbearable. His weapons clattered away. Those flanking him were knocked aside as if mere children. Darkness swarmed his vision.

The Gnaal slithered off and wheeled quickly. Wicked rows of teeth, sharp and long, menaced from within the darkness of its mouth. Blekling looked upon the monster and knew death. Ignoring the crippling pain, he crawled and pulled towards his weapons. There would be only one chance. One chance only to salvage what remained of his name and legacy.

Overconfident, the Gnaal titled its head back and roared. Plants died at the sound. Rocks crumbled into dust. The Gnaal took a ponderous step forward. Its tail snaked behind, whipping back and forth. It was then Blekling realized what he was facing. This was their leader. The toughest, meanest creation of dark magic alive in the world today. He snorted at the irony of it all. His head drooped. Eyes fluttered close. Tender relief flooded him as his fingers curled around the haft of his war bar. The Gnaal charged.

Blekling managed through great difficulty to prop himself up moments before the Gnaal struck. The stench of death hit first. The Giant vomited but held strong. Nearly two tons of genetic monstrosity slammed into him, driving both to the ground. Blekling grit his teeth at the moment of impact and was rewarded with his war bar impaling the Gnaal. Inch after inch of Giant-forged steel drove deeper into the Gnaal’s vital organs. There was a terrible scream as the weapon burst through the heart and then spine. The Gnaal was dead.

Blekling lost consciousness as hands dragged the corpse away.

Three of the shamans were dead, slain by crossbows during the retreat. Krek ordered the remaining nine huddled in the center of his army where they’d be safe. For even one to have died showed great carelessness on all of their parts. The shamans were not physically overpowering but they were the secret weapon in the ranks. Few of the other races had active magic users. With the shamans, Krek was able to maintain the balance of the battle until his numbers won out.

Fresh waves of Goblins poured towards them. The Minotaur king enjoyed fighting. It was the cornerstone of every good warrior, but he was tired. His muscles felt rubbery, overused for too long without a break. His mind, while sharp, was unfocused and almost lost in a haze. The battle continued to rage around him without pause or concern for those involved. It was an all-out slaughter. Any who survived would be scarred for life.

“Form ranks!” he barked and his bulls obeyed.

What was left of the Dwarf musketeers limped to their side. Less than a hundred remained and many were broken, ravaged shadows of what they’d been before the Gnaals struck. Krek looked for Brug but didn’t find him. He hoped the Dwarf died a warrior’s death. The ranking Dwarf saluted him and requested to join the lines. Krek was in no position to say no, despite how poor their condition was. Even a wounded Dwarf was deadly, he’d been told once. This was the hour in which to prove it.

Thord cursed and spit angrily. Too many of his kind were dying, slaughtered like sheep on a holy day. The Goblins possessed greater numbers. This had become a war of attrition and, if he didn’t do something to change the trend, his army would be on the losing side. Hefting his axe, the Dwarf Lord collected his retinue and prepared to meet battle in the hopes of his presence inspiring the army.

Already the tide had shifted several times. The arrival of the Gnaals nearly broke the allied army fatally but then an unexpected force of Giants had showed up. Thord wasn’t one to question help when offered and used their arrival as a beacon to rally his beleaguered forces. The Dwarves and Minotaurs had already suffered greatly and there was still much more to come.

He’d watched as Bahr and his team slipped into Arlevon Gale and disappeared on their quest to stop the Dae’shan from completing their ritual. Normally that would have resulted in mission success and he would have pulled his army back to maintain a blocking force. The sheer size of the enemy army prevented any thoughts of that happening. Goblins continued to pour out of the ruins with murder in their eyes.

“You will only get in the way,” Faeldrin said to him as the Dwarf stormed past.

Thord halted. “These are my warriors. What kind of king would I be to let them die without me by their side?”