Chapter 32 TAAR
TAAR
The trolde warband swarms the giants like a flock of harpens.
Led by their king, they are vicious, fearless in the attack.
The monstrous morleth dodge blows from swinging war hammers, and brutal trolde blades slash at the giants’ green-gray flesh.
Though each cut is small compared to the vast size of the giants themselves, they are soon distracted from their task of assaulting the gate and struggle to defend themselves.
They won’t last long. Not against so many foes. We must do something to help them, or our greatest weapon against the Miphates’ spellwork defenses will be lost.
“Kildorath!” I cry. “Lathaira! Summon your riders and follow me!”
Elydark bursts into battleflame and leaps forward into the fray.
I hear the thunder of hooves as the others follow after.
Not all of them, of course—we cannot leave the bulk of our host undefended, knowing full well the vardimnar could fall at any time.
But a contingent of twenty or more licorneir race down from our held position, passing into the throng of rabid Noxaurians on our way to the barrier spell.
In a frenzy of excitement at sight of the Shadow King and his warriors, the dark fae have all taken virulium, and madness sweeps through their already disordered ranks.
They lunge at our mounts, but the soulfire blaze of the licorneir drives most of them back again.
Others, too mad and filled with bloodlust to think straight, throw themselves at us, and I am forced to swing my sword, severing heads and limbs as we cut our way through their midst.
The barrier spell looms before us, invisible but potent with pulsing energy. I can feel how that energy has been compromised with the giants’ breakthrough. My licorneir have nearly pushed through before—maybe now they can succeed.
Eight of us reach the barrier, while the others continue to fight their way through our lunatic allies.
Lathaira is on my left hand, Kildorath on my right.
Our licorneir bow their heads, their horns pressing into the spellwork, which sparks violently in response to their touch.
Surges of magic react to the song and flame which Elydark brings, and I glimpse concentric circles of scribbled spell-writing flash into sight and ripple away, one after the other.
The spells are still powerful, but they are not as strong as they were.
The muscles of Elydark’s neck and shoulders strain as he takes a step, then another, pushing deeper, deeper into the spell.
A sudden roar draws my attention back to the drama at the walls.
The giant hammering at the very gates of the citadel swings his great hammer, misses his mark.
I see the Shadow King’s morleth bank and dodge.
But then the giant’s hand flies out, and this time, the morleth is not fast enough.
That great green palm smashes into the morleth, which immediately vanishes back to its own dimension, leaving its crowned rider to tumble through the air and hit the ground hard.
Even as I watch, the giant’s huge foot rises, falls.
Comes down hard on the spiked armor of the fallen king, crushing him deeply into the soil.
Surely that must have broken every bone in his tough trolde body.
But no! Shahking hells, the moment that foot lifts away, the Shadow King pushes up out of the dirt, shakes himself off, and stands, still gripping his sword.
The next moment he takes off running after the giant. My disbelieving eyes watch as he springs from the ground, clambers up the fleshy calf and knee, catches hold of the edge of a ratty old loincloth, and uses it to hoist himself higher still, up into that snarled tangle of beard.
A burst of light and a scream on my left hand drags my attention from the battle taking place.
Heart leaping, I turn, gaze through the flickering of my own licorneir’s flames to where Lathaira’s licorneir’s light suddenly douses.
For a moment I can’t discern what’s happened; all is pure confusion to my eye.
Then I see it—the black fibers suffused in strange, silvery spell-light, fallen across both licorneir and rider, pinning them to the ground.
Morleth flash by overhead, and I see more nets dropping on other licorneir.
Gods-damn us all! The Miphates have armed their trolde allies with chaeora nets, the same as Shanaera used to pin down and kill the wild licorneir. The fibers, woven of corrupted ilsevel blossoms, work a powerful counter-magic, dousing licorneir soulfire and reducing them to shriveled husks.
I want to leap from Elydark’s back and run to help Lathaira.
She scrambles beneath the net, struggling to get free.
Her strength is compromised with her licorneir’s fire snuffed out.
She can neither angle her sword nor break the fibers with her hands.
Three huge, stone-armored trolde land their morleth nearby and move in toward her, swords drawn.
Before they reach her, however, rabid Noxaurians swarm in, clawing and tearing, gnawing at their armor with their bared, black-dripping teeth.
Bless the damnable fiends! At least they give Lathaira half a chance.
The world shakes. I look through the barrier again to see the giant collapsed, a crystal sword protruding from its eye.
The Shadow King leaps free of his prey, shakes himself off, as though he slays giants like this every day.
He bellows in his harsh, troldish tongue to morleth riders overhead, who leave him and move in to focus their efforts on the two giants remaining.
“Elydark!” I shout, seeing an opportunity before me while he stands there, momentarily isolated. “Elydark, vulmon!”
My licorneir puts on a surge of power. The spell-barrier resists, but with a last burst of song and flame, we pass through. Immediately the screams of the rabid Noxaurians are dulled. There’s still plenty of noise from the bellowing giants, but it’s almost a relief by comparison.
I fix my gaze on the Shadow King. He’s backed away from the corpse of his slain foe, momentarily unaware of my presence.
Sometime during the battle, he lost his helmet and stands there with his face turned away from me, close enough that I can see his features in profile.
He’s not what I expected. Not the hard, brutish, stone-skinned monster of legend.
Though his skin is blue-gray, it is not the texture of rock, but smooth and clear.
His silvery white hair is pulled back from his face in long, thick war braids.
He is strangely beautiful, but without glamour like the fae.
Beautiful and terrible and deadly. A creature without conscience.
Elydark snorts flame. The sound is enough to draw the Shadow King’s attention.
He whirls and faces us, his pale eyes bright with the spirit of battle burning in his breast. Beyond him, I can see the citadel gate, cracked under the giant’s assault, sagging from its hinges.
A weakness at last. One my people can exploit if I can just get them through the barrier.
But first I need to rid them of this obstacle.
“Hail, Trolde King,” I call out, my sword upraised. “Why do you defend these walls?”
He casts about briefly for his sword, which still protrudes from the cyclops’ ruined eye.
Realizing it’s too far to reach before I ride him down, he instead pulls a great, rough-hewn club from where it’s been strapped to his back all this while.
“I am bound to defend the walls of my allies,” he declares in a voice as dark as bedrock.
“Allies?” I spit the word and point my sword at his heart. “You are on the wrong side of this war.”
He shrugs, an expressive gesture in all that spiked armor. “I’m not the one attacking a peaceful center of learning.”
Elydark’s fire flares brighter. He takes an aggressive step forward, his head lowered, his horn bright and sharp.
My own fury swells with his. “Do you not realize?” I demand.
“Do you not see the truth? Once they’ve taken everything from us, they will not be sated.
The hunger of these humans will only grow.
They’ll be coming for you and your world next. ”
The Shadow King does not argue. Something in his face tells me he knows I am right.
He has not bargained with Larongar and failed to take the measure of the man with whom he’s joined forces.
And yet he braces himself, throws one arm wide, exposing his chest like a target.
“Enough talk, Licornyn,” he bellows. “Let’s finish this! ”
A ululating battle cry rips from my throat as I bow over the neck of my mount.
Elydark charges toward that towering figure, his horn aimed for a death blow.
That great club moves in a crushing arch, and if it strikes, it will shatter Elydark’s skull.
But my licorneir is nimble; he pivots at the last possible second, and my sword arm lashes out.
My varitar blade gleams, wreathed with Licornyn soulfire, hot as the sun. It cleaves the troll club in two.
The Shadow King ducks, rolls. Elydark thunders past him, hooves missing his head by inches. We roll back swiftly, but by then my enemy has found his feet. He stands there weaponless, and yet I know he is as deadly a foe as I have ever faced.
I urge Elydark forward. He lunges, a hurtling ball of flame.
The Shadow King heaves the broken piece of club still gripped in his hand, and I duck to avoid the missile.
He sprints then for the giant’s head, moving with surprising alacrity despite all that bulky armor.
He springs onto the broad, flat brow, propels himself out into empty air.