The three-thousand Valleyan cavalry that General Spyra somehow managed to round up were a welcome sight to King Jarrek and his men. To learn that just as many infantry, both swordsmen and archers, were marching through the pass, bringing with them much needed food and supplies, was even better. Jarrek couldn’t wait for the foot soldiers to arrive, though. He had to attack the Dakaneese and drive them back through the bottleneck before their reinforcements got settled in. It was the only option.
Master Wizard Sholt had arrived in a startling flicker of sparkles a few days earlier, bearing messages. The sudden presence of Queen Willa’s high wizard unsettled Jarrek, but Sholt was welcome. So was the news that Queen Willa sent with him. Her missive stated that Queen Rachel was already organizing her troops to make the short march across lower Valleya to attack Ra’Gren at O’Dakahn. Her anger at having her men ambushed and slaughtered in Seareach, and the frustration of not knowing her daughter’s fate, seemed to bring out the aggressiveness in her. King Jarrek hoped her attack would keep Ra’Gren’s attention on the defensive and distract him from Wildermont.
The strangest news of all came with Sholt as well. A small army of dwarves was on its way to aid them and would supposedly arrive any day.
“Have they reached Dreen yet?” Jarrek asked Sholt after hearing the news.
“They’re not traveling overland,” said the wizard with a shrug. He glanced down at the front of his stark white robes as if looking for a stain. “They have tunnels. General Diamondeen, the commander of the force coming our way, assured me that he and his twelve hundred fellows would arrive here ready to fight by the turn of the season.”
“The turn of the season,” Jarrek’s mind went blank. “That is… that’s…” He realized he didn’t know when that would be.
“Summer’s Day is only three days away, Highness.”
“Three days?” Jarrek couldn’t believe it. “Almost a full year since this madness began. It seems like only a few months have passed, but then again, it feels like it’s been decades.”
“I understand,” Sholt agreed. He had fought Pael’s undead army from the walls of Xwarda too. His mentor, High Wizard Targon, had been snatched from the wall by the Choska demon. Sholt had walked the heaping piles of his city after Mikahl killed Pael. He’d helped restore a city that had more corpses than carrion in the streets. He’d exhausted himself of spells daily for months alongside Master Amill, trying to clear the rubble and stench from Xwarda’s districts so that the survivors might start again. For a while, time had lost all meaning, for all of them.
“I assume you will attack soon,” Sholt said, looking down at the maps strewn about the table.
Jarrek had moved the main body of their occupation south from Castlemont to an abandoned farming village north of Low Crossing. The stronghold there, which was really only a large rock house with a piled stone wall built around it, had become King Jarrek’s command center. It was crowded, but it sufficed. Sholt could tell that the man had long since given up the luxuries of his station. The King of Wildermont used the open privy pit like the other men, and ate most of his meals from a field tin with them. It was clear that they respected him for it. Hardly any of the men behind him were from Wildermont. The zeal and fervor with which a soldier will fight to defend his homeland wasn’t in them, yet King Jarrek’s determination, and the way he led them, caused them to believe in his cause wholeheartedly.
“On the morrow,” Jarrek answered Sholt’s unasked question, at first light, a company of breed giants will lead the attack.”
“Breed giants?” It was Sholt’s turn to be surprised.
“I took some liberties as the situation dictated.” Jarrek let an ironic smile creep across lips. “Had I known I’d be getting all of this help from Xwarda, I might have left them out of it.” He looked at Sholt seriously. “It will come as a blow, albeit a small one, for Queen Shaella to find a large number of her ferocious breed giants have betrayed her.”
“What does the High King think of this?” Sholt asked, showing genuine curiosity at what the answer might be. “It was reported that breed giants savaged the people of Northern Westland for some time.”
“Mikahl went off into Westland some weeks ago and no one has heard from him,” Jarrek frowned. “I have no men to defend with, and I can’t afford to wait.”
“That is grave news about the High King,” commented Sholt. He wiped again at the front of his pristine robes. “Queen Willa is under the assumption that the High King is in contact with either you or General Spyra. Queen Rachel thinks he is trying to rescue Princess Rosa.” Sholt shook his head sadly. “The realm needs Ironspike. If we lose Mikahl, we lose its power for all time.”
“I know, but I can’t afford to dwell on it, Sholt,” Jarrek said. “I have a country to protect and a kingdom to rebuild. Ra’Gren still holds thousands of my people as slaves. He has already slaughtered innocents in the street. High King or no, I’ll do what I have to do. I have to think of the greater good.”
“No one will doubt your judgment, Highness,” Sholt said with a nod of respect. “After I report back to Queen Willa, I will spend the rest of the day preparing spells for battle. I am at your service.”
“Sholt,” Jarrek stopped him as the wizard started out of the room. Jarrek found that he couldn’t find the words for what he intended to say. He settled for, “Let Willa know that I appreciate everything she’s done for Wildermont.”
When dawn broke, eighty breed giants stormed across the Wilder River at the village of Low Crossing. They didn’t use the bridge. Water that would be chest deep and encumbering to an armored human barely came up to a breed’s waist. For the most part, the primal beasts didn’t wear armor, only loose fitting trousers and vests made of layered elk hide. A few of them wore chest plates, scraps of mail, and helmets that they’d gathered from the ruins at Castlemont on the journey south. One of the hairiest of the breed wore nothing at all save his fur.
Right behind them, four hundred swordsmen stormed the bridge, while archers rained down steel tipped death to cover their crossing. In moments, the battle became heated. The surprise factor of the morning attack wasn’t nearly as effective as the sight of the battle-crazed tree-swinging breed giants. The Dakaneese soldiers were terrified of them. Battle Lord Ra’Carr’s men were driven back quickly at first, far enough that a thousand Valleyan cavalry braved the river to join the fray. A good half of the horsemen were mounted archers, and the amount of damage they sent streaking into the deeper ranks of the Dakaneese was substantial. As the day wore on, though, the backbone of Ra’Carr’s soldiers stiffened. King Jarrek’s troops were going nowhere.
Master Sholt rode cautiously over the bridge on a terrified horse. He was surrounded by half a dozen shield men whose sole job was to protect him from stray arrows and such. The Highwander wizard cast several spells. Lightning shot forth from his hands and arced over the main knot of battle into the unengaged troops beyond. Because of Sholt, Dakaneese fighters died terrible smoldering deaths by the handful. Then a great ball of flame appeared in his hands. He rolled it, and worried it, and caressed it, until it grew as big as a barrel keg and then he hurled it into the forward ranks of Dakaneese. An unlucky female breed giant got caught up in the explosion of flames that came when it impacted, but at least a score of the enemy fell into burning, writhing heaps. The breed giantess roared defiantly as she was consumed in flames. She continued to hammer away at the Dakaneese before her until she finally burned to death.
Jarrek commanded the rest of the crossing, looking as intimidating as ever in his red enameled plate armor. The ruby eyes of the wolf skull mounted on his helmet sparkled in the sun.
Day wore into night and, yard by bloody yard, King Jarrek’s force pressed the Dakaneese back. Sholt used the cover of darkness to gain a better position so that his line of sight spells would have better effect.
Men died, and breed giants fell. Steel clanged on steel and bone pummeled flesh by the light of the moon. By dawn, all of Jarrek’s main force was across the river and engaged. The bottleneck was in sight, and it seemed that victory was in their grasp. Then the screeching roar of some winged beast came from the skies to the west.
Flick, looking ever so much like Pael, was riding a great bat-like Choska demon. On either side of him was a terrifying looking hellcat. The horse-sized panther-looking creatures dove away and swooped down into the skirmish below. With tooth and claw, and severe lashes of their long treacherous tails, they cleared away soldiers and breed giants as if they were batting flies. Screams of terror erupted and Jarrek’s men had no choice but to fall back.
Sholt caught his breath and sent a series of streaking pulses of magical energy up at the Choska. One of them found its mark, causing the beast to roar and dive away. Jarrek raised his sword high and charged one of the hellcats. “Make way!” he screamed, trying to get through the ranks of men battling for their lives. “Make way!”
He yelled and charged his horse and came in swinging vicious arcs with his blade. He had to dodge a claw, but his sword bit flesh repeatedly. The hellcat roared, and a nearby breed giant, whose chest was striped with bright red dripping slashes, brought his tree-limb club down across the hellcat’s back with a crunch. Jarrek spurred his mount around and leaned down, thrusting his blade. It sank deeply into the hellcat and his men swarmed over it before it could recover.
“Do not fear them!” Jarrek screamed, holding his bloody sword high for all his men to see. “They bleed and die! They bleed and die!”
The men got the message and found some courage in the actions of the Wolf King.
The Choska, with Flick on its shoulders, came screeching down. Sholt saw its target plainly. King Jarrek’s red enamel armor with the glittering wolf skull helm made him stand out in the fray. Even more so, since he was standing in his saddle, with his sword raised high. For lack of options, Sholt calmly cast a spell, and blasted Jarrek right out of his stirups with a fist of wind. The Choska’s powerful claws would have closed on Jarrek from behind, but it missed.
Flick snarled and found the white-robed wizard at the northern edge of the battle. He cast a spell that caused an invisible web to fling across the Highwander mage. Then, while Sholt squirmed to get free, Flick assaulted him with swirling blasts of wizard’s fire. Due to the constrictions of the web, Sholt wasn’t able to cast a protective counter. He took the full brunt of the searing blast.
Flick brought the Choska around to attack again but was suddenly jarred from his seat and nearly tossed. A spear was embedded deeply in the Choska’s neck. The beast arched and writhed in the air and screeched out in pain, but it could do nothing more. It was all Flick could do to settle the demon beast.
Flick twisted back to see where the missile had come from and found himself looking down at Shaella’s Lord of Locar. Bzorch was surrounded by a dozen of his breed giants, each of them carrying big coils of rope. Bzorch was holding a… What? A giant crossbow?
Looking at the spear jutting out of the Choska’s neck with a dozen feet of rope dangling from it, Flick realized that the huge breed giant was toting a dragon gun.
“Shaella will make you pay for this, Bzorch,” Flick said to the wind. He urged the Choska away from the battle. He had no choice but to flee the area. The Choska was wounded and needed to land before it crashed. Each wing-beat ground the jagged spear tip into its tendons and muscles that much deeper. Shaella wouldn’t be pleased with Flick for retreating, he knew. But she would take her anger out on the breed giants of Locar, not him. Flick couldn’t believe they’d betrayed her after she set them free. He could only wonder what Jarrek and the Squire King promised them for their treachery.
The dragon gun didn’t matter. Queen Shaella and Vrot would soon lay waste to Locar for this, Flick was certain. The zard would relish helping her-they hated the breed.
If for some reason Vrot failed her, Flick was sure that the terrible thing that used to be Gerard would annihilate the whole city. Flick, even while watching Pael, charged and raging with his raw demonic might, had never felt anything half as powerful as Gerard. Kraw, Shokin, whatever Gerard was now, was the epitome of dark power. Flick almost felt sorry for the realm.
Jarrek didn’t know what hit him, but he saw the great dark shadow of the winged demon pass over as he was knocked from his saddle. He was immediately surrounded by Highwander men and Valleyans, who kept a protective ring around him. His horse lay twitching on the muddy ground, a pair of deep slashes across its back. Jarrek couldn’t help but shiver at the sight. A Valleyan captain held out the reins of a horse that had lost its rider. Jarrek found his sword in the muck and climbed on it. The other hellcat was dancing on its wings just over the battle. It would dip and claw and then rise up before a spear or a sword tip could find its belly. Several arrows stuck out of its hide, but it seemed unconcerned with the minor wounds. Jarrek was having trouble breathing-the hard fall had broken his ribs, so he made his way back to the bannerman. He was glad to see that his men were still pressing, but the cost was high. Everywhere around him, men who were fighting for a kingdom not their own lay dead or dying. They hadn’t died in vain, though. Once Jarrek could see the whole of the battle, he knew it. The rise of the rocky foothills was at their left, and the wide expanse of slow flowing river was at the right. They were at the mouth of the bottleneck. The day was almost won. It was all the Dakaneese could do to retreat without killing each other as they were forced backwards into the narrower field of battle.
Battle Lord Ra’Carr gave out a defiant cry and charged the lines of Jarrek’s force right behind the remaining hellcat. The call he gave was, “For Ra’Gren! For your king!”
The hellcat ravaged a path for the Dakaneese to fill and much ground was lost. Jarrek’s estimation had been premature, but then another battle cry rang out, a deep and savage call. Jarrek looked around to find the Lord of Locar trying desperately to get a clear line of fire for his weapon. Jarrek almost laughed at the welcome sight. Then he stood in his stirrups and tried to help the half-breed. “Clear back from it,” he screamed, urging others to repeat his cry. “Clear away from the flying beast.”
Whatever happened next worked for the breed giant because Bzorch fired a spear. The hellcat gave out a horrible shriek as the barbed bolt shot through its gut. It flew up into the air, but couldn’t get away. Three breed giants had the other end of the rope. The hellcat looked like a huge malformed kite, swooping and twisting in the wind as it tried furiously to get itself free. But the barbs on the spear, and the rope, held it true. The three breed giants on the ground, heaved and pulled, and heaved and pulled, slowly dragging the creature down to the blades waiting below.
While this was going on, the Dakaneese pulled out of the bottleneck. Jarrek’s men held their position instead of pursuing. Having lost the passage, the Dakaneese soon realized there was nothing left to fight for here. Slowly, the sounds of battle fell away. To punctuate the end of the bloody ordeal the Lord of Locar let out a deep primal yell as he bodily beat the last bit of life out of the skewered hellcat. It was a victory scream, and feeling the rush of conquest surge through them, King Jarrek, and many of the men, raised their swords and joined in the call.