The Adventures of Trik the Elf

“Alaquonde must not fall,” shouted the Lord Regent of the city. “I will not have it, not after six-hundred years of peace.” The Lord Regent, a middle-aged man with short gray hair and a thick white mustache, pounded his fist on a circular stone table. Around the stone table were gathered ten ministers, each sitting upon a leather-bound chair.

“My Lord Regent,” said one of the ministers, a fair young man with long dark hair and blue-green eyes. “We must request aid from Rule. The Emperor must send his troops.”

“This state of Alaquonde has been neutral for hundreds of years,” said the Lord Regent. “I cannot allow Imperial Troops to march into the capital city.”

“But, My Lord,” said the young minister, his blue-green eyes narrowing on the regent. “We have no choice.”

“That is enough, Minister,” shouted the Lord Regent. He leaned back on his throne, and diverted his gaze from the ministers.

There was a sudden knock on the door of the Lord Regent’s counsel room. The ministers faced the door. The counsel door opened, and a young man with a flushed face rushed up to the regent’s table. He placed a parchment on the center of the table. “My Lord Regent,” he said. “The dwarves have taken Ebregail.”

The Lord Regent placed his hand upon his brow. He did not look at the messenger as he breathed a deep sigh.

“Now nothing stands in their way to Alaquonde,” said the fair young minister.

The Lord Regent turned back to the table. He looked at each minister in turn, peering into each man’s eyes. The ministers neither spoke nor tuned away. “Call for the troops,” said the Lord Regent. “You’re dismissed.”

The ministers rose from their seats. All bowed to the Lord Regent before stepping away from the table and departing, all except one. The Lord Regent grasped the shoulders of his throne and turned to the fire burning in the hearth of the counsel room. Of the ten ministers, only the young fair minister remained. He was standing at the table with his arms at his sides. “It is the right thing to do, My Lord,” he said.

“Minister Trik” said the Lord Regent.

“Yes, My Lord,” said Trik.

The Lord Regent faced him. “When the dwarves besiege the city, will you fight?” His eyes narrowed on the elf. “Or will you flee?”

“I will fight, My Lord,” said Trik, “until the last.”

The Lord Regent nodded. “Until the last,” he said, and his expression hardened. “Let us hope it is not.”

*

Trik took his leave from the Lord Regent’s House and marched down the main street of the city. He passed the houses of the other ministers, white stone buildings that towered three stories above the cobbled red stone of the street. The city was divided between two levels, the high west-facing main corridor, and the low east-facing corridor. In the high corridor were the houses of the ministers, but in the low corridor were the single-story thatched-roof houses of the poor and middle-class. Beyond these buildings were the high stone walls of the city, towering several stories above even the tallest buildings.

Trik entered his house, a fine stone structure with blue windows. He made his way down several steps to a store room on the basement level. There on a shelf lay his leather armor, an iron helm, and his sword, all covered in dust. He donned his leather armor and strapped his belt on his waist. Over his leather armor he placed a silver breastplate with a red badge, a gift from the Lord Regent. But it was his sword that he desired most, his long elven blade that had served him for so long. He slipped his sword into a scabbard on his belt.

Dressed in his armor and carrying his sword, Trik departed from his house and headed out into the street again. The sun was beginning to slip behind heavy gray clouds. Trik marched down a cobbled roadway that led to the low corridor. About him the denizens of the city rushed by, not the crowd that had engulfed him on past walks through the city, but a sparse trickle of the city’s poor. A frightened old woman wearing boots and a scarf did not look at him as she crossed the street with a bucket of water. A young woman in a long coat with a swaddled baby glanced furtively at him as she made her way down the street to a thatched hut. A small boy with blond hair and a little girl with red pigtails played in the snow outside a dirty hut.

Trik approached a simple stone building located on the north side of the low corridor. A wooden sign hung from chains above its door. Trik opened the door and stepped inside a candlelit and smoke-filled room. Two city guards smoked wood pipes at a counter at the far end of the room. They did not look at him as he pulled up a stool at the counter and dropped two coppers on the polished stone countertop.

A gray-eyed old man approached Trik from behind the counter. “Minister Trik,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

Trik looked up at him. “Mick,” he said, “what have you got left?”

The old man turned to the sealed cedar barrels behind him. “What you see is what I have,” he said. “The City Guard has come through already. They took most of what little remained after the shipments stopped.”

“I’ll have a cup of ale, if you’ve got it,” said Trik.

“I’ll have a look in the back,” said the old man. He glanced sourly at the two city guards before turning away.

Trik’s elbows were on the counter and his hands were pressed against his forehead when the old man returned with a cup of a dark viscous liquid. “Grog,” he said. “It’s the closest to ale.”

“Better than naught,” said Trik.

The old man placed the cup in front of the Trik and stepped away.

Trik raised the cup to his lips, tasting the bitter liquid with his tongue, before draining the cup. He returned the empty cup to the stone countertop. As he searched in his change purse for spare copper, someone pulled up a stool at his left.

“This seat taken?” asked a guff male voice.

Trik turned to his left. A bearded half-dwarf with round blue eyes was sitting there. He wore light padded armor, a metal helmet, a thick leather belt, and a tie around his long white beard. A heavy battle axe was on the floor beside him. Deep wrinkles formed around his eyes in the tavern light as he grinned. “Trik,” he said. “Is that you?”

“Olfe,” said Trik, his arched eyebrows rising.

“Trik, my lad,” said Olfe, his right arm reaching behind the elf and slapping him hard on the back.

“It’s been ages,” said Trik, recovering from the blow. “I barely recognize you.”

“I’ve grown old,” said Olfe. His eyes widened on the elf. “Yet, you are as young as ever.”

Trik tapped his finger against his temple. “We have aged the same,” he said, “only in different ways.” His brow furrowed. “How did you find me?”

“A traveling merchant told me of a young minister of Alaqounde,” said Olfe. “An eccentric young man, fair skin, dark hair, but with eyes like the sea when the sun is on the water. I half-expected him to lie. A minister of Alaquonde? Quite a stretch for the rogue I knew.”

Trik laughed. “That was decades ago,” he said. “Tell me, what are you doing in Alaquonde?”

“The same as you, I presume,” said Olfe. “Here for battle.”

“But you are a half-dwarf,” said Trik. “Your father was Bellog the Conqueror. Yet, you fight for Alaquonde?”

“And my mother was human,” said Olfe. “I fight for my homeland. For Alaquonde.”

Trik raised his right hand with two fingers outstretched to the old man behind the counter. “Two cups, Mick,” he said. With his other hand he took four coppers from his purse and placed them on the counter.

The old man filled two cups with the same dark grog and placed them on the counter in front of the elf and the half-dwarf.

Olfe picked up the smaller of the two cups. “It gives me strength,” said Olfe, “knowing I will be fighting with a friend at my side.”

“Here, here,” said Trik raising the other cup in a toast. “To old friends.”

They both drank, draining their cups dry and smacking the empty vessels in unison on the counter.

*

Trik and Olfe walked the battlements of the East Wall, a barrier which stood two-hundred feet above a rocky valley nestled between mountains to the north and the south. There were a hundred bowmen along the battlement, and each wore a light leather chassis over a padded tunic. Short swords hung from scabbards on their belts. In the valley beneath the wall, there was the white of snow and the dark gray of stone and pine trees. The sun had risen to its zenith, warming the dark stone of the battlement. “So tell me,” said Olfe, as he walked along the wall with Trik, “how does a rogue become a minister of Alaquonde.”

“It was by accident, I assure you,” said Trik. “I did not intend it. As you know, I have a reputation to maintain.”

“That of a roguish thief and gambler,” said Olfe. “Yet, now you serve a Lord. You must tell me how this came about.”

“Seven years ago,” said Trik, “on a quest in the mountains I happened upon the caravan of the Lord Regent of Alaquonde. The caravan had apparently become lost, and I, being the only one to know the whereabouts of the road, pointed it out.”

“Kind of you,” said Olfe.

“An act of unintended goodness that portended fate,” said Trik. “For you see, not long after parting ways with the Lord Regent’s caravan, there was a great ruckus. When I pursued the source of it out of curiosity, I discovered that the caravan had come under attack from dwarven raiders.” Trik halted, and the half-dwarf halted beside him. There was a long bow and a quiver with many arrows leaning against the wall, and a vat of black oil nearby. On the wall, a flaming kettle hung from a metal hook. Trik stepped up to the embrasure between two crenels in the wall and pointed at a mountain far in the distance. “There,” he said. “That is the place.”

“What did you do?” asked Olfe.

“I had not wanted to get involved,” said Trik, “and I would not have, but for the beautiful lady in the Lord Regent’s caravan, the daughter of a minister.”

“Now I am beginning to see the truth in it,” said Olfe. “Not so kind an act.”

“But in that moment, I became a gentleman,” said Trik.

“The farthest from it,” interrupted Olfe, “but do continue.”

Trik half-smiled. “In my attempt to free this young lady,” he said, “I was forced to come to the aid of the Lord Regent and his men. And in that moment of courage, I slew no less than ten dwarven raiders.”

“No less,” interrupted Olfe.

“It happened near the end of the fight,” said Trik, “that I was one of just two men standing. The other was the father of the lovely young lady, but near his last breath.” Trik pointed to the silver breastplate he wore. On it was the red badge of the Minister of Alaquonde. “So it passed that the Lord Regent was short one minister, and I was light in coin. For my daring, the Lord Regent awarded me with the fallen minister’s title and his house in Alaquonde.”

“All for the love of one pretty girl,” said Olfe.

“One pretty girl,” said Trik, “who soon fled to Rule. That is the tale.”

“And because it is your tale,” said Olfe, with a wink, “I am sure it must be true.”

Trik faced the half-dwarf. “As true as any story I have told,” said Trik.

At that moment, a ram’s horn was blown somewhere upon the battlement, and there was a great cry of men. “Take your places,” shouted the Captain of the East Wall, a tall handsome man in shining armor.

Trik and the half-dwarf turned to the embrasure in the battlement and looked east toward the valley between the mountains. There upon the horizon was a great wave of darkness rising over the white rim of the valley. “The dwarves,” said Trik, his eyes widening.

Olfe drew his battle axe from the sheath at his back.“ Let them come,” he said.

“Your axe will do little good,” said Trik, “unless they breach the wall.” He bent near the wall to pick up the long bow.

“What of the city defense?” asked Olfe.

“There are four-hundred and fifty men in the City Guard,” said Trik. “One hundred men on the East Wall, fifty men on the West Wall, and three-hundred and fifty swordsmen in the lower corridor.”

“Against an army of thousands,” said Olfe.

“Yes,” said Trik, “but we are not hopeless. For you see, messengers have been sent to Rule to request the aid of the Legions of the East.”

“They must be days away,” said Olfe.

“At least one day’s march from the city,” said Trik. “But even that is not true, for you see, they must come behind the dwarves if there is to be any chance of aid. We must withstand a night and a day at the least.”

“A night and a day,” said Olfe, staring wide-eyed at the dwarves pouring into the valley. “If this is the end,” he said, “at least there will be honor.”

“Enough honor for both of us,” said Trik.

*

In the sunlight, the dark brown beards of the dwarves flagged in the wind beneath their heavy metal helmets. The army of dwarves had arranged itself in battle formations in the valley. Two long rows of dwarves had formed closest to the wall, and these dwarves were armed with long spears. Behind them were ordered rectangular formations of a hundred dwarves each, and they carried heavy battle axes. Large wooden siege towers and trebuchets had been drawn behind these formations.

Olfe peered over the embrasure between the merlons, and although he was much shorter than Trik, even on his toes, he could see the siege towers lumbering over the battlefield. “Look there,” he said, pointing at the siege towers. “Siege weapons.”

“They must not breach the walls,” said Trik. He dipped the tip of an arrow from the quiver into the vat of oil beside the merlon.

“They must offer terms,” said Olfe, “if they have any honor.”

“They have no honor,” said Trik. “King Orodrin believes Alaquonde belongs to him. He intends to slay every citizen and claim the city as a dwarven outpost.”

Down the line of bowmen marched the Captain of the East Wall, wearing a bright red helmet and a silver breastplate. “Hold steady,” shouted the Captain. “Do not waste your arrows when they are out of range.”

The rectangular formations of dwarves moved aside as a team of bull aurochs drew seven tall siege towers toward the front lines. “They wouldn’t dare attempt the wall in broad daylight,” said Trik, “not even these fools.”

Behind the army, dwarven engineers loaded three trebuchets with rocks and debris. As the last siege towers were drawn to positions behind the front lines, the first of the trebuchets fired. Rocks were lobbed over the high wall and into the city streets of the lower corridor, punching holes in thatch-roofed homes. While this went on, the dwarves dragged a siege ram toward the city gates of the East Wall.

“Look there,” said Olfe, standing on his toes, “a ram.”

“I see it,” said Trik, lighting an oiled arrow in the flaming kettle hanging on the wall. He set the arrow in the bow’s shelf, drew back the bowstring, and aimed for the wooden framework of the siege ram. As the siege ram lumbered toward the gate, he loosed the arrow. It flew, flaming, toward the siege ram and struck one of its wheels. As the siege ram lumbered forward, the flame went out.

“A miss,” shouted Olfe.

“One moment,” said Trik, bending to pick up another arrow. He dipped its tip in the oil and lit it with the flaming kettle. Once again, he placed the arrow in the bow’s shelf, drew back the bowstring, and aimed for the siege ram. The arrow flew, flaming, down from the battlement over the snowy field and pierced the bark-covered roof of the siege ram. A small fire broke out on the roof of the siege ram.

“Direct hit,” shouted Olfe.

The dwarves continued to roll the siege ram toward the gate, even as the flames spread. But as the fire reached the lower parts of the siege ram, the dwarves one by one abandoned their positions and left the siege ram to burn not forty feet from the main gate.

Trik leaned his longbow against the battlement. “This is only the beginning,” he said. “They will try again.”

Olfe frowned. “I feel of no use,” said Olfe.

Trik placed his hand on Olfe’s shoulder. “There may be use of you soon enough,” he said.

*

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, the army of dwarves busied themselves on the battlefield. Their heavy armor reflected the dying light of the day, a muddle of reds and yellows.

“What are they doing?” asked Olfe, standing on his toes to peer over the wall.

Trik watched the dwarven formations as they rearranged themselves on the battlefield below. The two front lines were drawing back from the battlefield. The rectangular formations of dwarves behind them were breaking up, and dissolving onto the battlefield. Dwarven engineers were carrying baskets of water from the small valley river to the siege towers. “They’re preparing for a great assault,” said Trik. “When the sun falls, that is when it will begin.” He glanced at the darkening horizon at the rim of the valley.

Olfe looked west over the city, where the sun was low between the mountains. The sun’s last rays made the brick streets appear as red as blood. “There are still many women and children in this city,” said Olfe.

Trik’s eyes narrowed on the long lines of dwarven soldiers in the valley. “We must hold on,” he said, “no matter what happens tonight.”

The Captain of the East Wall approached the two in their position along the wall and halted before them. “Sir Trik,” he said to the minister, “what are you doing here? You should be with the others in the city shelter.”

Trik faced the Captain. “My place is with the defenders of the city,” he said. “If the city falls, the ministers fall.”

The Captain glanced at Olfe. “A dwarf on the city wall,” he said, with a sour voice.

Trik stepped between the half-dwarf and the Captain. “This is my friend,” he said. “He has volunteered to defend the wall with me. I trust him with my life.”

“But a dwarf, sir,” said the Captain. “You can’t be serious.”

Trik’s eyes narrowed on the Captain. “Carry on, Captain,” he said firmly.

The Captain saluted Trik. “Sir,” he said. He glanced at Olfe once more, before turning away and continuing his march along the wall.

“Don’t worry about him,” said Trik to Olfe. “He has become sensitive.”

“It does not feel good,” said Olfe, “to be viewed an enemy in my homeland.”

Trik watched as the sun slipped behind the hills in the west. “Soon they will be glad to have your axe,” he said, “as they are to have my bow.”

*

It was not long after the sun had set that the barrage from the trebuchets began again, and this time with much greater force. The East Wall was illuminated with flaming kettles, lighting the positions of the defenders. But even so, it was not possible to see the rocks flung from the trebuchets into the city.

“Terrible,” shouted Olfe, leaning against the wall, as a shot flew over his head and into the city. “Where are the Legions?”

“The messengers departed early yesterday morning,” said Trik. “If they ride through the night, they may just reach the Imperial Legions in the east before midnight. But the army cannot reach Alaquonde before noon tomorrow.”

“We must pray that the gods are in good humor,” said Olfe.

Stone shot from a trebuchet smacked against the wall not twenty feet below their position, sending shrapnel bursting against the battlement and a cloud of dust rising over the wall. Trik and Olfe were jolted, but they did not fall.

“I trust more in men,” shouted Trik, “than in the gods.”

“Look there,” shouted Olfe, pointing over the embrasure to the battlefield below.

Trik turned and looked over the wall. Three of the seven tall siege towers were advancing toward the wall. Trik turned his back to the torch-lit battlefield. The Captain of the East Wall was not far from their position. Trik waved to him. The Captain marched up to his position. Trik pointed out the advancing siege towers to the Captain.

“Arrows,” shouted the Captain, turning to his men. “Light the arrows.” He marched along the wall, repeating this message.

Trik took an arrow from his quiver, dipped its tip in oil, and lit it with the flaming kettle. Already, there were several flaming arrows flying over the battlement toward the advancing siege towers. But Trik waited until one of the towers was in range before firing the flaming arrow at its base. The arrow struck the wooden framework of the tower near a wheel, and a small fire broke out there.

“Good shot,” shouted Olfe. But the flame was soon doused by a dwarven engineer.

“Odin’s bones,” swore Trik. “We must prepare for an overrun of the wall.”

“I am ready,” shouted Olfe, gripping the handle of his battle axe. “Let them come.”

As the first siege tower approached the East Wall, women carried buckets of tar to the defenders. The defenders waited for the siege tower to come into range, and then men hurled the oily tar onto the siege tower. Trik lit an arrow and sent it flaming into a bucket of tar inside the siege tower. The bucket burst into flames, and the dwarves fled from the flames, some leaping from the tower.

Of the three siege towers, only one of them reached the wall. As it dropped a bridge onto the battlement, Trik, Olfe, and the defenders of the East Wall rushed to the tower. Trik fired many arrows, and Olfe charged toward the invaders swinging his battle axe. Men threw buckets of tar at the tower, and Trik fired a flaming arrow. The tower burst into flames, and the dwarves abandoned it as it collapsed to the battlefield.

For a moment, the trebuchets were silent. A great roar went up from the defenders of the East Wall. Men hugged other men, and cheered victory.

Olfe looked out at the dwarves racing back to the army on the field below the wall. Many fell to the arrows of the defenders.

“Perhaps,” said Olfe to Trik, “this situation is not so hopeless after all.”

Trik smiled. “We’ve given them a reason to fear us,” he said.

*

The morning of the second day began with a rosy-fingered dawn. The dwarves had spent much of the night repairing and rebuilding their siege weapons. Many tents and fires could be seen on the battlefield. The men of the East Wall slept little through the night, an hour at most, and only in shifts. Fresh pots of oil were delivered by old women from the lower corridor. Trik was sitting with his back against the battlement, as Olfe slumbered with his head resting on his helmet. The sound of his snoring was pleasant noise. If Trik was tired, he did not show it.

The Captain of the East Wall was walking along the rampart and shouting orders at the men. As he approached Trik and Olfe, his voice grew louder. “Arise,” he shouted. “Arise, defenders of Alaquonde.”

Olfe turned over in his sleep, muttering something quietly.

“Arise,” shouted the Captain of the East Wall, stomping along the wall, as he walked past them. “Get up, you lugs. The morning is here.”

Olfe turned over, facing the elf. His eyes peeled open, and he looked up at the elf.

“Good morning,” said Trik, looking down at him.

Olfe frowned. “Bah,” he growled. “I was having a good dream.”

Trik smiled. “Tell me about it,” he said.

Olfe rose from the stone and backed slowly against the wall. “I dreamt,” he began, “I was at home with my wife. My children and grandchildren were with me, gathered around the hearth. We were celebrating with a great feast. There was a roasted pig, many loaves of sweet bread, and enough ale to drown an army.”

“A good dream indeed,” said Trik.

“Don’t get old,” said Olfe. “All you do is dream.”

Trik grinned. “I’m thrice your age already,” he said.

“You look a child to me,” said Olfe.

“An accident of my race,” said Trik.

Olfe glanced at the other defenders, who were just then rising from sleep. “What is there to eat?” asked Olfe.

“Not much,” said Trik. He went through his pockets and produced an object wrapped in cloth. He removed the wrapping. There was a dark dried piece of meat in his hand. “Salted beef,” he said.

“You call this a battle,” said Olfe. “No food and no ale.”

A woman carrying an oil pot stopped in front of them. Olfe looked up at her. “Have you got any food?” he asked.

The woman, an old maid with gray hair and soft blue eyes, glowered at him. “The Captain will bring you rations,” she said. “I am just here for the oil.”

“Bah,” said Olfe. “You tell your Captain to bring us meat and ale before we mutiny.”

“I am not the Captain’s mother,” said the old woman. She took the empty pot of oil from the wall and replaced it with a full pot.

Olfe turned to Trik as the old woman walked away. “You call this a free city?” he asked.

“Food has been scarce,” said Trik, “ever since the shipments were blocked by the dwarves.”

“I can’t fight a battle without food,” said Olfe.

“I promise you’ll get it,” said Trik, “We’ll have a great feast when the enemy is driven from Alaqounde.” But as he said this, a trebuchet lobbed a shot over the wall. Rocks whistled over their heads and landed with a boom in the street below.

“This again,” shouted Olfe, with a frown.

Trik grabbed his bow. “This again,” he said, turning to the embrasure. He peeked over the wall at the battlefield far below. The dwarves had rebuilt the siege towers, and there were additional towers being moved forward from the rear of the battlefield to the front of it. In total there were twelve siege towers, and there were now twice as many trebuchets lined up behind the army. The siege ram had been restored, and the dwarves had covered the roof of it with iron plates.

“What are they up to?” asked the dwarf.

“Preparing for another go at the wall,” said Trik.

“Like the last one,” said Olfe, laughing. “They must be fools.”

“Their last attempt was naïve,” said Trik. “Not enough infantry or artillery. They won’t make that mistake again.” His eyes narrowed on the half-dwarf. “Tonight, they’ll attack us in full, and we must be ready.”

“I’m as a ready as ever,” said Olfe, “if I can only get some food.” As he said this, one of the Captain’s men walked up to Trik and Olfe and placed two packages by their feet. He dropped a bucket of water and two wooden cups beside the packages.

“Your rations,” said the man, before walking away.

Olfe picked up one of the wrapped leather packages. He unwound the leather wrapper to reveal the rations within—a slab of salted beef, two sticks of hardtack, eight dried slices of an apple, and a handful of coffee. “For the day?” asked Olfe.

“I’m afraid so,” said Trik.

“Bah,” grumbled Olfe.

*

As the day wore on, the defenders regrouped. The wall had been supplied with fresh oil and fresh fires, many arrows, and a few additional bowmen, as many as could be spared from the West Wall. On the battlefield, the trebuchets continued to fire over the wall and into the city. But behind the front lines, the dwarven engineers had now assembled twenty siege towers. The sun was just beginning to slip behind the hills west of the battlefield when the blasts from the trebuchets stopped.

“This is it,” said Trik, peering over the embrasure. “If we fail to hold the wall tonight, the city and its people will perish. We must hold.”

“Let them come,” said Olfe, sliding his thumb along the edge of his battle axe. “My steel is ready.”

“You have a strong will,” said Trik, as he reached for an arrow, “one to match my own.”

Below the wall on the battlefield the dwarves moved rapidly into new formations. The front lines were quickly deformed for the passing siege towers and then quickly reformed. The dwarves began to beat on large drums, as the siege towers rumbled forward, driven by bull aurochs.

Trik turned to the group of young bowmen at the position nearest to theirs. The faces of the young men were filled with fear. One of the bowmen was a lad, a frail boy no older than fifteen with pale blue eyes.

Olfe peered at the battlefield below. The trebuchets had been moved to new positions, and the dwarves were busy loading them with projectiles. “Whatever happens tonight,” said Olfe, “if these are my last moments, let them be my greatest.”

“And mine,” said Trik.

The last light of the sun disappeared, and all that could be seen of the dwarves on the battlefield were torches and fires. There was a blast from a trebuchet, flinging rocks over the wall and into the city below. The Captain marched along the wall, shouting orders to his men. As he reached Trik’s position, he grew quiet and passed by in silence. Already, the bowmen were lighting arrows, and some were firing them from the embrasures onto the battlefield below.

Trik dipped an arrow tip in oil and lit it with fire. He placed the arrow in the bow’s shelf, and as one of the siege towers rolled close to the wall, he fired the arrow. The arrow sped through the dark gap in the siege tower’s framework, and caught a wooden beam aflame. Trik fired again, speeding another flaming arrow into the siege tower. By the time the siege tower reached the wall, it was in flames and the dwarves had abandoned it.

“That’s one,” shouted Olfe. “Nineteen to go.”

“So many,” shouted Trik, as he reached for another arrow. He lit it and fired it at another approaching siege tower. But the siege tower reached the wall not forty feet from their position, and dropped its bridge onto the battlement. Dwarven soldiers rushed out from the tower onto the battlement.

“At last,” shouted Olfe. He charged toward the position with his axe swinging. As the dwarves rushed onto the battlement, Olfe put his axe to use, dispatching many fighters. The young bowmen at the position had traded their bows for swords, but they were no match for the dwarven infantry. Already the lad with blue eyes was lying on the battlement with many wounds. Olfe placed himself between the lad and the invaders, fiercely defending the boy from the dwarven infantry, as the defenders sought to destroy the bridge. At last, the main beam of the tower snapped, and the tower fell back onto the battlefield and crashed into flames.

Trik rushed to Olfe, drawing his sword as he entered the fray, and reached the half-dwarf in time to defend him from the deadly strike of a dwarven battle against. There were more than a dozen well-armored dwarves fighting the bowmen on the battlement. But, the bowmen, with the aid of Olfe and Trik, pushed them back. The Captain of the East Wall fought with them, and he had sustained many cuts from the dwarven battle axes. Yet, he stood firmly.

“Captain,” shouted Trik, “call the City Guard to the wall.”

“The Guard must defend the city,” shouted the Captain.

“If the wall falls,” said Trik, his expression hardening, “there will be no defense for the city. Call the Guard onto the wall. Do it now, Captain.”

The Captain tipped his helm to Trik. He turned away from the wall and marched to the nearest turret.

One of the young bowmen was staring at Trik. He had sustained a cut across his face from a dwarven battle axe. Trik glanced uneasily at him.

Olfe joined Trik at their fighting position. Blood was dripping from the blade of his axe. “There are not enough men in the city to defend the wall,” he said.

Trik did not look at Olfe. He looked out at the battlefield, at the torches and flames below.

Eighteen towers rolled toward the East Wall at once, and each was packed with fresh dwarven fighters. Trik took two arrows at once from his quiver, lit both, and then fired them into one of the approaching siege towers, catching it aflame. He fired again, and again, but still the tower rumbled forward.

The swordsmen of the City Guard rushed from the north and south turrets onto the wall as three of the bridges from the approaching siege towers were dropped onto the battlement at once. The swordsmen rushed to defend the bowmen, but already the dwarves were spilling out of the towers and onto the walls.

“For honor,” shouted Olfe. He charged toward the dwarven soldiers, while Trik fired arrow after arrow at the towers.

For some time, the defenders held the wall against the invaders, slaying many of them. Yet, still the dwarves poured from the siege towers onto the battlement, an endless tide of iron glittering in the torchlight. Seven times the dwarves rushed onto the battlement, and seven times the defenders pushed them back.

Of all the defenders, none fought so valiantly as Olfe. His eyes were like fire, and the dwarves fled before his axe. And, for a moment, it seemed that he would be victorious. But then the dwarves rushed onto the battlement in a great wave and surrounded Olfe and the defenders. The defenders’ discipline failed, and they abandoned Olfe to fight alone. And Trik, being so engaged with the towers, did not see Olfe fall. But in that moment, there was the blaring of many trumpets, and Trik looked to the east. There, flowing over the hills, was a sea of torches moving toward the dwarven camp. “The Empire comes,” shouted one of the defenders, rushing toward Trik on the wall. “They come,” he shouted, and there was a great rejoicing from the fighters on the wall.

The siege towers halted in their advance, and the dwarves turned east toward the approaching legions of the Empire. The advancing trebuchets and towers were abandoned, and of the three towers that had reached the wall, all had been destroyed—at a great cost. As Trik walked along the wall, he stepped over many bodies, both of man and dwarf, until he came at last to the body of his friend Olfe.

There Trik knelt in the torchlight at Olfe’s side. The half-dwarf had been struck with many blows, and there was blood on his face. Trik glanced at Olfe’s chest. Upon his breastplate, a deadly blow had been struck by a dwarven axe.

Olfe looked up at Trik from the floor of the battlement. His eyes were hooded, and his breath was slow and labored.

“The Empire’s Legions have come,” said Trik to Olfe, feigning a smile. “The city is saved.”

Olfe attempted to smile. “Good,” he said, and his voice was weak.

Trik placed his hand on Olfe’s forehead. “We are saved by your bravery, my friend,” he said. “Your name will have a place of high honor.”

Olfe struggled to speak, but at last he said, “I should like an ale instead.”

Trik smiled, but he was unable to conceal his tears. “You’ll get it,” he said.

“I go now to join my ancestors,” said Olfe. “Farewell, my friend,” he said, and he breathed his last breath.

Trik bowed his head over Olfe’s body and remained motionless, even as others moved hurriedly about him.

*

By morning, the Legions of the Empire were in the valley. The dwarves who had not fled were slain or captive. The bodies of the fallen were removed from the wall and brought to the city streets below.

Trik stood still on the wall, looking over the snowy battlefield below. The sun was rising in the east, and it was a fair morning.

The Captain of the East Wall approached him at his position. His armor was bloodstained from the fight. “Sir Trik,” he said.

Trik turned from the battlefield to the Captain. His blue-green eyes were tired and pale. “What is it, Captain?” he asked.

“Many lives were lost,” said the Captain, “but the battle is won.”

“How many still live?” asked Trik.

“From the East Wall fifteen bowmen, seventy swordsmen, but some are wounded,” said the Captain. “Out of five-hundred, about half remains.”

Trik sighed. “That is a terrible loss,” he said.

The Captain smiled. “But Sir, we have won the day,” he said.

“Yes,” said Trik.

“Then why do you not come down to the city streets and celebrate with us,” said the Captain.

“I’m not in the mood,” said Trik.

“You are alive and unwounded,” said the Captain. “Your people wish to see you.”

“Why are you here?” asked Trik.

“I am to call you to the Lord Regent’s counsel,” said the Captain. “You will have a promotion.”

“A promotion,” said Trik. He removed the red minister’s badge from his breastplate.

“Yes,” said the Captain. “Because of you, Alaquonde stands.”

Trik turned the red badge over in his hand. “I will not see the Lord Regent,” said Trik.

“That is an order from the Lord Regent himself,” said the Captain. “You must bid his call.”

“Take this,” said Trik, placing the red badge in the Captain’s hand. “Give it to the Lord Regent.” Trik turned away from the Captain and began walking toward the wall’s south turret.

“Minister Trik,” asked the Captain, “where are you going?”

Trik halted. He looked over his shoulder at the Captain. “I am not a Minister,” said Trik. “Tell the Lord Regent the city is his. May it stand long.” He turned away and continued marching toward the turret, with his bloodied armor shining in the light of the early morning.