The stream of attackers surged onward like a mighty river; all eyes were on the battlements. That was their target. That was where they were headed.
“What are they up to?” Girgandor’s expression was one of disbelief. “Have they got invisible ladders?”
The ghaist was motionless in the middle of the army’s flow, still holding the burning vessels. Then it hurled them towards the fortress.
It did not surprise Balyndar that the burning amphorae made it all the way to the base of the gates, but they broke at the foot and their blazing fire spread over the stone.
As soon as the petroleum and small amount of pitch had burned away, the flames went out. There was never any danger of the granite being affected. Granite was used to higher temperatures than that. The black smoke drifted away north with the remains of the fog.
“Exterminate the scum!” Balyndar commanded and the catapults released their deadly barrage as soon as Girgandor gave the signal. I wish we had our “dragons.”
Just as Balyndar had envisaged it, the liquid fire burned holes and corridors through the throng. At one stroke, a catapulted projectile could fell dozens of them, before rolling on and crushing countless others. The grey of the rocks gradually turned red or black or green, depending on what kind of blood had flowed in the veins of the fallen. Fragments and lumps of victims were tossed high into the air.
“They don’t scream,” Girgandor shouted against the noise of the catapults that were being constantly reloaded to send out more death and destruction. “What are they on? What’ve they been dosed with to make them walk into annihilation as if they had no will of their own? How can they not react?”
They are out of their minds. Balyndar had no explanation. Even dwarves yelled and bellowed when they were burned. Or they shouted the name of Vraccas to give each other courage to face and defeat the enemy. “They don’t seem to care what happens to them.” An old saying had it that these were the most dangerous of opponents—the ones who didn’t care. “Open up the sluices and get the clinker and hot water ready.”
Balyndar climbed up onto the wall, holding on with one hand so as not to be blown off by the wind. He could see the horde was pressing closer together. The pressure was breaking the bones of those forced together at the front. There was a smell of blood. Soldiers were dying at his feet although not under direct attack from the fort. The catapults were aimed further back at the great mass of the army advancing towards the gates.
“It’s not stopping,” Girgandor called. “The more the fog retreats, the more of them there seem to be.”
What kind of general wastes soldiers in such a senseless way, even if they do seem so unsuited for battle? It occurred to Balyndar that this was no more than a rehearsal for the main attack. The true adversary had not yet emerged and might well be watching proceedings through a telescope in safety far away from the fatalities. He’ll be gathering knowledge about our defences and our weaponry.
They had never made a secret of the weapons they deployed. The information was of little use to an attacker. The dwarves reloaded swiftly and there was practically no end to their stock of ammunition. It would be many an orbit of a siege before the fortress began to run out of arrows, spears and petroleum.
Is that the intention? They want us to waste our resources? Standing on the wall, Balyndar looked along the approach road to the north. Is that where a more dangerous army is waiting?
“They’re making a ramp out of their own bodies,” Girgandor observed. “Look! They’re scrambling over each other to get over the top, like red-handed cave crabs.”
In Balyndar’s opinion this was not a technique promising any success. The battlements were a good hundred paces above ground level. We will have swept them away long before they get near. He realised the ragged bunch of monsters, starving humans and miscellaneous creatures were heaping themselves up with extraordinary rapidity and the peak of the wobbling tower was near the middle of the gates. It seemed like a living forest creeper or the arm of an octopus, jerking its way ever upwards.
“I’ve not been served crabs for some time,” was his response to Girgandor’s comment. “You know, there are far fewer of them in the mill ponds nowadays.” He gave the signal for the liquid slack to be released onto the attackers.
A bugle sounded.
The huge cauldron was ten paces in diameter and kept heated on the next level down from where Balyndar stood. It was now slowly tipped by means of pulleys and chains and the contents were poured into various distribution channels.
The bubbling, melted slack, the waste-product of iron making, surged down through the openings, swamping the growing mound of assailants as if they were troublesome vermin. The trembling tower of bodies collapsed and disintegrated, falling at the same rate as the burning slack. Steam and smoke rose up, making it impossible for the dwarves to see what was happening. There was a terrible smell of burning flesh.
Balyndar expected screams but still heard nothing apart from the hiss of the falling slack, the sound of the chains unrolling and the constant hum of arrows flying to their targets. I still wish we had the “dragons.” They have a far greater range than our catapults.
He turned his eyes to the gateway road and was amazed at what he saw.
The army had gathered all the boulders and stones the fortress had bombarded them with and they were using these to form a more stable ramp; it looked like the beginnings of a bridge. It was already forty paces high and ten in length, but it was too far distant to be any threat.
“Concentrate the heavy catapults on this attempt of theirs to build a ramp,” Girgandor ordered, laughing. “They’re not doing badly, given the conditions. But they’re too far off. Bad planning.”
But this time Balyndar was convinced the whole thing was a trial run. The army was working out its techniques, and seeing how quickly the fallen projectiles could be transformed into a construction. They were not concerned about aesthetics. It had to be high. It had to be fast.
“Forget the bridge,” he countermanded. “Let’s get these monsters burned to cinders. Then we can send out troops later to demolish their work. I’m not leaving all that material in their hands.” Balyndar was determined to completely wipe out the attackers.
There was something happening underneath the bridge. The creatures were working together to construct a kind of seesaw affair out of planks tied together. One end was pointing upward underneath the bridge.
And on the other end …
“By Vraccas, don’t tell me there’s two of them!” Girgandor had seen the two copper-helmeted figures on the lower end of the seesaw. “Give it all you’ve got!” Balyndar shouted, narrowing his eyes. “Drown them in petroleum and send them a sea of burning pitch!”
The long steel barrels swung round, and even the largest of the heavy-duty catapult platforms moved quickly thanks to ball bearings. The crews swiftly accommodated their new targets.
The attackers had not been idle: the front half of the bridge-ramp was broken off by a band of beasts and the rubble that ensued fell directly on to the higher end of the seesaw, forcing it abruptly downwards and sending the two magic ghaists hurtling into the air as projectiles. Half an eye’s blink later and both ramp and seesaw contraption had disappeared in the devastating storm of fire and rock. Too late. Balyndar gauged the trajectory of the two giant figures. “Their momentum will be sufficient,” he muttered. Jumping down from the parapet wall, he drew Keenfire.
“Watch out,” he called to the guards, alerting them to the attack. “They’re coming down now!”
“They’ll smash themselves to smithereens when they hit the deck,” said Girgandor. “Idiots.”
“No, they know exactly what they’re doing.” Balyndar lifted the axe. “They can only be destroyed through great heat. Had you forgotten?”
“They’re flying … nearly one hundred …” the other dwarf started to reply.
Then the first of the ghaists landed feet-first onto one of the catapults, splitting
the heavy hurling-arm beam. The half with the counterweight plummeted down and the half with the basket attached crashed on to the fortifications, crushing several dwarves.
The gigantic warrior landed on the walkway with a dull snort, some thirty paces from Balyndar.
The other ghaist flew right over the parapet wall.
The steel barrels followed his arc and long tails of light from the burning earthenware pots painted the sky, but none of them hit their target. Whether or not it was intentional, the creature managed not to hit any obstruction and landed behind the massive portal. As it landed, the impact caused the granite to splinter, and cracks spread throughout the courtyard. The figure itself had sustained no damage to legs or spine.
“By Vraccas!” Girgandor yelled out commands but the catapult crew had to stop firing because their own forces were now crowding the area.
The ghaist in the yard stood up and—not even looking back to the parapet—raced for the entrance to the Grey Mountains and the Fifthling realm. It thrust attacking dwarves aside and was unaffected by the barrage of axes, morningstars and war clubs.
“Close the inner gate!” But Balyndar’s order came too late. The ghaist had already dived into the tunnels, disappearing from sight.
With a curse, Balyndar turned his attention to the other ghaist. “I shan’t let you through!” He ignored the fact that his opponent could just leap down.
With his axe raised, Balyndar rushed forward, ready to deliver a mighty stroke. “Let’s see whether Keenfire has fire enough to strip the runes off your helmet,” he shouted. “I bet it will have.”
It looked as though the ghaist was up for the challenge. There was a white glow behind the copper mask’s eye slits. The being did not waver or step aside.
Balyndar had nearly reached the foe. He uttered an ear-splitting battle cry, swung round and struck hard at the copper helmet. The diamonds on the axe’s blade awoke with a blaze of light.
Note to self:
• Use thimin root extract to write up parts of the Shameful Script. That way only älfar eyes will be able to read my true opinion and the real facts.
• Find some thimin root. Very little of it around in Idoslane.
• Source some needles, too fine to be noticed when they enter the flesh. Mallenia and all the others who deserve to die will carry the mark so any älf will know who to aim at first.
Secret notes for
The Writings of Truth
written under duress by Carmondai
XII
Girdlegard
Kingdom of Tabaîn
6492nd solar cycle, late autumn
On the estate belonging to Tabaîn’s abdicated ruler, Phenîlas was seated on the generously proportioned roof terrace of the square stone building, where he had a good view over the surrounding fields and the low-growing fruit trees. A canvas canopy protected him from the strong heat of the autumn sun.
The upholstered armchair was comfortable, and the silk garment he wore under his leather armour kept him pleasantly cool. His host was taking his time, it seemed: the platform lift that had taken the elf to the roof terrace was still waiting at ground level. Servants proffered fresh fruit, tea and various sweetmeats.
With the taste of the wonderful fire apples still on his tongue, Phenîlas tried to make sense of the sensational changes that Girdlegard had recently undergone, not least the now widely-publicised gift of land that Mallenia had mystifyingly agreed to make. He had attended Dirisa’s coronation celebrations in Wheattown and had somehow been appointed the official representative for the Naishïon and the whole elf race.
Natenian and Dirisa had put on a stupendous spectacle for the occasion, first at the temple and then on the steps of the public square where thousands of well-wishers had gathered. In their speeches they made reference to the heroism shown by Raikan and his troops. At this, Phenîlas expressed deep regret and sympathy.
After that Natenian explained how fragile his health had become and how he could never hope to fill the gap left by his brother. Therefore, he was thus choosing to abdicate, and no one was more suitable to replace him on the throne than Dirisa.
Then the incredible happened: the crowd was ecstatic.
What Phenîlas had feared did not come to pass. There was no unruly behaviour, no rebellious rumbling, no defiant insults, and nobody chucked eggs or rotten fruit at the new monarch. One or two aristocratic faces showed incomprehension at Natenian’s choice, but as long as the people were so taken with the new queen, there was little point in objecting.
In the council session that followed, Phenîlas made it clear that the Naishïon endorsed the new appointment and offered Dirisa the hand of friendship—this was intended as a warning to anyone planning to withhold cooperation. By then Natenian had withdrawn; he didn’t appear again until after the coronation.
So it was all the more surprising, Phenîlas found, that he had been invited to Natenian’s estate. There was nothing to discuss. Natenian no longer had any say in events touching Girdlegard.
What does he want? Sheer curiosity had brought Phenîlas here to the terrace, where he waited with his tea, fruit and biscuits.
The sound of cogwheels clanking announced the arrival of the lift.
Phenîlas replaced the apple he had been about to eat and stood up to greet the man who was now simply one of the nobles of the land, a noble born of a line of kings. Historians would mention his name only briefly and then he would be forgotten. And no one would know that he had his own brother murdered.
Phenîlas bowed slightly as the crooked man in the wheaten yellow robe approached, gasping.
The invalid made his own way over on two crutches without help, then let his misshapen body fall into the specially-designed chair. He was brought pieces of fruit and juice in a precious goblet. He dismissed the servants.
“Go downstairs,” he ordered them.
Phenîlas saw them exchange surprised glances and hesitate.
“But, sire,” one of them started to object. “We …”
“Go. Even if I am no longer king, you owe me obedience,” Natenian berated them, brushing sweaty locks from his brow.
The servants retreated to the platform lift. Again, the cogs and chains clanked.
At first Natenian took no notice of the elf. He used his crutch to bring certain dishes closer and bits of food fell on the table or the floor. He tried all the dishes with obvious enjoyment, then closed his eyes, giving little moans of delight.
Phenîlas cleared his throat and drank some water. My time is too precious to waste watching him guzzle. He was carrying the contract between Tabaîn and the elf realm that the Naishïon was so keen to receive; another reason for haste was the weather. Dark clouds were gathering in the east. As the warm air rose from the harvested fields, thunderstorms and tornados were always likely. This was why Tabaîn’s citizens built their houses out of heavy blocks of stone. A lone elf on horseback would be swept away by the high winds. I should set off now.
“You’re wondering why you are here.” Natenian’s mouth and chin were covered in juice and smothered in crumbs.
“Exactly.”
The nobleman pointed at the plates and dishes. “My physicians have been forbidding me all these delicacies. Apparently they weaken me. And I was supposed to stay alive for a long time to rule over Tabaîn.” He placed a reddish-hued gooseberry in his mouth, spurting out juice as he bit into it. “I was a good monarch and would have been a better one than Raikan or Dirisa.”
“All the more reason for my Naishïon to appreciate how you have abdicated to ensure peace for your land.”
Natenian laughed out loud. “I still don’t understand what I was thinking of. I can hardly believe it, and yet strangely, it feels somehow right. Unreal but right.” He belched and selected another piece of cake.
“And now you can enjoy these things without worrying about how they will affect your lifespan,” Phenîlas continued the train of thought. This is a known trait of human behaviour.
>
“I was your ally once, elf,” Natenian went on, licking his fingers clean. “I entered into a pre-contractual agreement and sacrificed my own brother and his companions for the welfare of my kingdom. What am I left with?” He indicated the stubble in the harvested fields. “Grain that doesn’t belong to me.” His saliva-damp finger pointed at the fruit trees. “And fruit that will kill me if I eat it. A fantastic life, isn’t it?” He slapped himself on the chest with his right hand. “What a good thing I am healthy and in excellent physical shape. Otherwise I’d have nothing,” he said with a bitter laugh.
“I am certain my master will compensate you for your losses.”
“How can he? My actions would only have been worthwhile if I were continuing to rule Tabaîn,” Natenian whispered sharply. “I’ve got a heap of rubbish, that’s all. No, I’ve got a heap of shit.” He grabbed the bowl of gooseberries and hurled it over the edge of the terrace in a fit of temper. “Shit!” Cakes, apples and flagons of juice followed in the wake of the gooseberries, while the demented monarch kept swearing.
Phenîlas got up. He did not want to risk getting fruit juice stains on his expensive silk garments. “You can shout and swear and throw your food around just as well without my help.” He nodded, taking his leave. “I must go. My Naishïon is waiting for me.”
With immense effort, Natenian forced himself up onto his crooked legs, supporting himself by holding on to the corner of the table.
“You were my downfall. You were the death of my brother,” he said darkly. “And I can see not even the faintest gleam of remorse in your eyes and on your arrogant face. You have perfected this game of intrigue at others’ cost.”
“It’s about something more important than merely the life of kings,” Phenîlas countered. “I would have gone further than that to secure my own people’s survival.”
“Blood wheat!” Natenian shouted in his outrage. “It is blood wheat your elves will be eating. May it distend their stomachs and may their guts explode. May they all die.” He staggered along the length of the table, gripping the wood for support. “This is my curse.”