The Doom of Dragonback, page 24
The mine grew.’
The rest of Gabbik’s night was spent in hectic retreat, running down the road with the others, ignoring the soreness of burned hands and face. His head was throbbing, the cut he had received in the first skirmish with the goblins feeling raw now that it was exposed to the night air. It was near enough to finish him but he gritted his teeth and put one foot in front of the other, pounding south along the paved valley. When his strength flagged all he had to do was look at Menghir and his lads – much more rested before that night’s events – and pride fuelled Gabbik’s next steps, propelling him onwards to the Lower Gate.
Daylight was a smear over the mountains when there was a shout of warning. Looking back, Gabbik saw the dreadful, telltale shape of the wyvern moving across the last of the night stars, sweeping back and forth, no doubt looking for them.
‘I can’t,’ Gabbik gasped. ‘I can’t fight no more.’
‘Steady there, lad,’ said Skraffi, falling into step beside him. ‘Let’s just keep running a ways and see what happens.’
Gabbik concentrated on keeping his footing, risking the occasional glance to keep track of the wyvern’s progress. It was now above the road, some way behind them, circling slowly. It was not fear that kept Gabbik running, not in the sense anyone but a dwarf would understand it. The thought of the wyvern attacking worried Gabbik tremendously, but even more concerning was the thought that the dwarfs around him, even Skraffi, might see he was worried and think less of him. The loss of honour this would represent outweighed the physical fear by a considerable margin, overcoming the natural self-preservation and dread that might otherwise have plagued Gabbik.
So it was that despite being exceptionally vexed by the thought of being eaten by a wyvern, and having risked the same not so long previously, Gabbik’s determination to show that he was in control remained resolute. He knew the others were feeling the same; it would be unnatural not to be concerned by a gigantic monster intent on devouring them. ‘Fear’ was, like ‘love’, a word and concept that was not spoken but taken as existing without a need to constantly refer to it. Every dwarf knew there were times when the heart beat faster and undergarments might feel a little uncomfortable, for either fear or love, but there was no need to go on about it.
A loud, rasping shriek of triumph followed the dwarfs on the wind, accompanied by a barely heard bellow. Beast and rider had both spied their prey and when Gabbik next looked back he saw the wyvern plunging low across the mountainside, following the curve of the road.
He stumbled to a stop and turned, drawing his axe. He sensed Skraffi stopping a few paces later and felt his father’s hand grip his shoulder.
‘Not this time, lad. Let’s keep moving.’
Gabbik looked over his shoulder and saw that Menghir and the rest of his warriors were continuing down the road without hesitation. A few of Gabbik’s clan had stopped, reacting to his halt, others were still following the dwarfs from the Lower Gate.
‘If it falls upon us when we’re not ready…’ Gabbik didn’t feel the need to explain further.
‘We got lucky last time,’ said Skraffi. He pointed down the mountain, to where Gabbik could see lantern lights like sparks in the twilight. ‘That’s the walls of the Lower Gate, lad. If we run now, we can make them before that thing catches up.’
With one more look at the wyvern, remembering teeth like swords and the wicked blade of the rider, Gabbik needed no further encouragement.
It was hard to stay relaxed and just let the road and mountainside sweep past knowing that at any moment a giant claw might close around him, but Gabbik managed to do just that. He breathed easily, almost resigning himself to whatever doom would come, neither hoping to reach safety nor fearful of being killed. In confronting his worst dread – the loss of his honour, not the wyvern – he had somehow come through and out the other side into a placid state of acceptance. Not fatalism, but a certain knowledge that what he was doing was the right thing and that he had given himself every chance of surviving. Knowing there was nothing else to do but run made his boots feel lighter and the road soft beneath them.
Another cry like the cawing of a gigantic crow shook Gabbik from his fugue. Sweat stung his scorched skin as he increased his pace, trying to listen for the telltale flap of wings, the scratch of claws on stone or perhaps the stentorian breathing of the monster bearing down on him. He dared not look back in case he lost his footing. Gabbik pumped his arms as though he was getting the last dregs from a barrel, mouth open to heave in as much air as possible.
Ahead the towers and ramparts that rose from the mountainside were alive with light. Lamps as big as dwarfs hung on chains from the parapets while a plethora of smaller lanterns were mounted on the ramparts.
Gabbik flinched as he heard something whistle overhead. It was only after a moment that he realised the sound had come from in front, not behind. It was repeated several times and he risked a look up to see iron shafts as long as the span of his arms hissing past overhead. Higher still, just about visible against the paling sky, boulders from stone throwers arced across the night.
A monstrous roar of pain greeted the fusillade, followed swiftly after by the crack and smash of stones hitting the road. Gabbik could see the war machine crews on the towers now, winching their engines around to track the incoming wyvern, while others hurriedly reloaded massive darts and wound down the arms of mangonels and trebuchets.
A heartening cheer welled up from the crowds of dwarfs thronging the battlements and turrets. Banners fluttered defiantly in the night air and golden icons gleamed in the flickering light of the lanterns and torches. Gabbik risked a quick peek behind, just long enough to see the wyvern no more than fifty paces behind him, dropping quickly, half a dozen shafts jutting from its chest, neck and shoulders.
Another hail of bolts hissed past and the following cheer was even more raucous. Gabbik saw the other dwarfs around him slowing, turning to look back, and he did likewise.
The wyvern was grounded, one wing broken, blood streaming from scores of cuts, its crest mangled by boulder impacts. Another trio of shafts slammed into the creature, punching into the flesh of its neck with sprays of blood and shattered scales.
As the wyvern slumped forward, its long, battered face crashed into the flagstones. The orc leapt from the back of the dying monster. Gabbik stood looking in awe at the huge greenskin coming towards him; in truth its skin was so dark as to be almost black. A baleful energy gleamed from its bared blade and its red eyes were filled with raw hatred.
With a crash that made Gabbik jump, a stone the size of a small shed landed on the orc, smearing blood, bone and pieces of armour across the splintered paving of the road.
With a last plaintive roar the wyvern shuddered heavily, raised its head one final time and then fell dead, rolling to its side. Gabbik watched it for some time, to make sure it was truly deceased, before he started walking towards it. Wyvern scales were highly prized by runesmiths and armourers, and its teeth would fetch a little coin too. If anybody was entitled to a cut of the proceeds, it was Gabbik.
‘Hoi! Where are you going?’ Gabbik looked back to see Menghir gesturing wildly at him.
‘It’s all right,’ Gabbik called back. ‘It’s dead.’
‘That one is!’
Gabbik wasn’t sure what Menghir meant by that until he saw that the war engines on the walls were in motion again, turning southwards and angling up. He followed their aim to see more gigantic shapes blotting out the stars.
The other two wyverns.
Spurred by this fresh threat, he turned and sprinted down the road. The Lower Gate was open and a sea of dwarfs pressed into the gap, cheered and urged on by their kin on the walls and gatehouses above. Gabbik was one of the last to go through, casting one more glance along the road. In the pre-dawn grey he could see little of the foot of the mountain, save for a living shadow, an ocean of warriors and beasts that swept over the foothills like a violent tide.
For the second time that night he stumbled over the threshold of the Lower Gate, grateful to hear the thud of the huge wooden portals closing and the clang of bars and locks being set into place.
The hall was awash with dwarfs, both newly arrived and those that waited for them. Skraffi emerged from the scrum and hugged his son, causing Gabbik to wince.
‘We made it!’ Skraffi declared.
Menghir joined them, grabbing Gabbik’s free hands in both of his to shake it vigorously.
‘Well done, Gabbik, well done!’ Menghir let go and pointed across the milling crowd, towards a pole hung with a silver bearded face above a bronze representation of a lightning bolt. ‘And look, the messengers reached my father in time. He’s brought his guard back from Gundak Karazin. We should be able to hold the Lower Gate without much trouble now.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Unknown to Grimbalki and his friends, his younger brother was not faring so well. His mine at Ankor-Drakk was drying up and after the Great Eastering most of the demand for the goods of his people was gone as well. King Grimbalki would never trade, and taxes from the road dropped because everything going to Garudak’s brother went by the southern route.
He might have been able to turn his fortunes around, but he was not well liked by the Drakkanfolk at this point. When miners broke into a goblin lair and Ankor-Drakk was invaded, many of the dwarfs fled. Garudak stayed and insisted that the mine could hold, but he was killed in a battle with the goblins and the rest of his followers were forced out.
His son took his father’s name, and vowed that Ankor-Drakk would be retaken and he would rule, but suddenly it seemed that the power in the mountains had shifted firmly back to Grimbalki.’
‘The gates will never hold,’ declared Lord Garudak, staring with a sour expression over the rampart of the High Tower.
‘They have giants…’ muttered the king.
Haldora saw the truth of this. From her vantage point amongst the entourage of Erstukar at the pinnacle of the fortifications overlooking the Lower Gate she could see south almost all of the way down to the wildlands, and if she turned around and looked east she could see a good portion of the pass leading up to the East Gate and the Second East Gate.
What she could see was a cause of some dismay, though she did not give in to it. The orcs had split into three distinct armies, heading to the western, southern and eastern roads. The greater portion of the horde seemed to be coming directly towards the Lower Gate, a host at least forty thousand strong. As yet the enemy were too distant and the morning light not yet strong enough to discern details, but it was clear there were several larger figures moving amongst the others, several times taller than any orc, troll or ogre. And of these last two types of creature there appeared to be a goodly number as well.
‘This is not coincidence,’ Prince Rodri growled. ‘This is an alliance of dark forces forged by some knowing mind.’
‘Do not attribute to intelligence that which can be readily explained by raw malice.’ Everybody turned at the sound of Nordok Stormhammer’s voice. ‘All creatures of darkness from the smallest goblin to the greatest giant have cause to despise our kind. It was us that drove them from the old mountains and scoured the plains and hills of their ilk. Such spite as we see today is the product of hundreds of years of resentment and bile building until it can no longer be dammed.’
‘But you cannot argue that they attack without a scheme of sorts,’ said the king. ‘See how they show rough organisation, the wolf riders scouting our forces, the main army dividing to attack from several directions at once. They did not follow the patrols back to Ekrund, it has been their intent to assault us for some time.’
‘That is true,’ said Nordok. ‘For now, at least, some warlord or council of such creatures holds sway over the horde, directing its purpose if not commanding as we would understand such a thing.’
‘That’s a good thing,’ said Prince Horthrad. ‘Isn’t it? If this horde has a general it can be killed. And when winter comes and they find themselves still camped outside our walls, freezing and starving, it will take more than brute force and charisma to unite such a fractious host.’
‘It is something for which we can hope,’ admitted the runelord. ‘If we last until winter.’
The mountainside rang with the shouts of teamsters and overseers, as caravans of war engines were being brought down from the upper fortifications and dragged out of the halls of the Lower Gate. With them came engineers, who fussed with lenses and counting stones and calculations, sighting the war machines at advantageous locations along the walls, and rigging pulleys and ropes to hoist bolt throwers and stone lobbers up to the highest towers.
Haldora was comforted by the noise of hammers driving home wedges and banging in fixing spikes, the hoarse chanting of apprentices hauling on block and tackle to raise the enormous arm of a trebuchet into position, the burr of saws and drills, and the chip of stone hammers as platforms and turntables were built and embrasures opened in battlements that needed them. The industry showed the Ekrundfolk at their best, united in purpose and bending all will to a task at hand.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Horthrad said quietly, joining Haldora at the rampart. ‘The labours of all Ekrund set to the job of killing orcs. Just wait until they start loosing their deadly ire!’
‘You really like the machines, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ the prince admitted with a shy smile. He looked down at a line of machines being assembled on the tier below where they were stood. ‘Down there, that’s history. Those two bolt throwers on the left, they’re called Windrip and Ironstorm. Designed and built by Thorgad Rinkeldraz, my great-grand-uncle. They first saw battle at the second siege of Barak Varr, where they sank two elven hawkships and drove off a dragonship. They saw battle nearly a score of times after, more than any single dwarf.’
‘But they can’t tell us what it was like, they don’t have memories like a veteran,’ Haldora said, and she was sad at the truth of this.
‘Not themselves, but there are those that can tell their stories for them,’ said the prince. He leaned out over the stones and encouraged Haldora to do the same. He pointed and she could just about see a mangonel being bolted to a turntable atop one of the towers near to the road.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Ask your father about Heartbreaker, one day.’
‘How would he…?’ Horthrad answered her with a wink, and she understood, leaning further forward in her excitement. ‘That’s one of the engines pa crewed? He never really talks about it.’
‘Most of the older folk need to reach a certain age before they can pass the time talking about old wars and battles. Perhaps there needs to be a minimum amount of grey in the beard, or maybe grandchildren, before they feel it is decent to talk about events where folks gave their lives.’
‘But once they start, you can’t stop them,’ said Haldora with a laugh. The prince did not share her humour and she felt awkward for a moment. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Just a feeling,’ said Horthrad. ‘This is history happening right now. Forget the conquest of the old mountains, that’s for the ancestors. Our fathers and grandfathers, they made themselves in the fires of the war against the elves. This day, these coming days, will be the battles of our generation. The orcs and goblins are returning. Two holds have fallen already. Our lives, our legacies, will be defined by the war against the greenskins.’
It was hard for Haldora to imagine an older version of herself looking back at this moment, or even children or grandchildren listening to stories of this day. Awdhelga had been larger-than-life and her stories, whilst never fabrication, had seemed to have an element of embellishment about them. Thinking about what had happened in recent times made her wonder if perhaps those fanciful tales had contained more truth than Haldora had credited.
‘Horthrad!’ They turned at Rodri’s call. ‘If you’ve finished flirting, there’s war-talk to be had!’
Haldora felt blood rushing to her cheeks and she quickly turned away, suddenly flushed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Horthrad similarly flustered. He mumbled something she didn’t quite understand and strode off along the wall.
A servant appeared at her shoulder and coughed discreetly.
‘You have visitors, Lady Angbok,’ he said.
‘Visitors? And, I’m not a lady.’
‘You are now, my lady,’ said the servant, nodding sagely. He stepped aside, allowing her to see past to the steps winding up from the storehouses below the tower. Three figures stepped out onto the rampart, blinking in the light.
‘Pa! Ma! Skraffi!’ Haldora burst past the servant and threw herself at her family, trying to give them all a hug at the same time, until all four of them were brought together in an embracing huddle. It was Gabbik that broke the reunion, parting them, his expression awed as he looked around. Beneath his helmet his head was heavily bandaged and there was a thick gel-like ointment covering his face and sticking in his beard.
‘That’s the king,’ he whispered, almost hoarse with exhilaration. ‘And the princes. And the council. Look, that’s Alderinni Galbokkor, the Chancellor Excellent of the Royal Estates. He’s the head of purchase accounts for the whole of Ekrund! If only we could get a contract…’
‘We’re not here on business,’ said Skraffi. He looked carefully at Haldora, one eye almost closed with a bruise. ‘Are you well, Haldi? About what I said earlier… If I was sharp…’
‘It’s Haldora,’ she said automatically. ‘I don’t know what you said earlier, it’s all quite a blur, but if I took offence at the time I don’t recall.’
Gabbik turned towards her, a look of sudden horror on his face. He grabbed her hand and patted it madly, fingers trembling.
