The Blackfire Annals: Chasing Ghosts

Fortress behind Vadhyl

Next day

Olaf rushed to the top of the wall, hurriedly putting on the last plates of armor as he did so. He had been notified of the sight of the approaching force an hour before the general call to arms, though not by the captain of the guard. No, his wife had told him, as soon as she had woken up. As much as the two of them hated to part, Enlin had cast an apportation spell to transport her back to Issavea’s castle. Before she had left, though, she had whispered a few words in his ear, among them a warning.

“They will arrive before dawn,” she had said. “You must have your men ready.”

“Many,” he had surmised. “In the hundreds?”

“Perhaps the thousands,” she replied. “I cannot see clearly.” She stepped away, her eyes glistening. “Let me know when you finish. I want to know that you survived.”

He had nodded. “Of course.” The dwarf picked up his jerkin off the floor and slid it on over his nightshirt, followed by his mail vest and the baldric that carried his axes, which he had recently named Divide and Conquer. He had done so in perhaps an ironic twist, recognizing that this strategy had been employed by the Outlands’ current persecutors, and in the hope of one day doing the same to them.

“You might need this,” she had said, sliding a ring off her finger. “It will increase your strength tenfold.” He took the gift, placing on his right hand. Ambidextrous like his cousin Carsten he might have been, but Olaf still favored his right hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “But our time is running out; you need to go.”

She had nodded, leaning down to kiss him one last time. “I know,” she said, pulling away. “And I am truly sorry for it.”

“We’ll make up for it later,” he had replied, tightening the belt he wore around his waist, with two short-swords tied there. Enlin smiled broadly at the thought.

“Yes,” she murmured. “We will.” And, with that, she vanished in a flash of azure light. Olaf sighed. He wished they might have had more time together, but there was little to do for it now but to win the war currently embroiling him. Olaf looked around; he knew he left that war horn somewhere.

That was the hour before, and in that time, Olaf had grabbed some hard bread to eat, grabbed some extra knives from the armory, and sounded the call to arms. That call involved a series of notes blown on his war horn which, when echoed by the wall watch, would bring every able-bodied warrior to the defense of the fortress. Once he was on the wall, it did not take long for others to join him. Enlin had indeed been correct; an entire troop of the marauders had somehow gathered outside the mountain fortress, despite its distance from Vadhyl. For a moment, Olaf entertained the dark thought that Enlin might have betrayed them. No, he realized, she could not have, as he had seen her in Issavea’s castle several days prior using his astral projection spell. Even with an apportation spell, the raiders could not have gotten into position in time if she had delivered the news. There was an ice storm outside, despite the fact that it was midsummer outside; this high up, the landscape was almost always covered in ice.

“There’s a lot of them,” Qural said. He had arrived on the wall, armed with his large fighting staff. Although it was made of wood, the weapon had vanquished more than its share of metal implements. “Taking so many in an assault would be a close-run thing.”

“But we might be able to,” the dwarf said, staring out into the howling blizzard. “It’s not as though they have siege weapons with them.”

“Can we be sure of that?” Qural asked. “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t negate their presence.”

“True.” Olaf’s eyes narrowed. “No, I see no siege weapons. A few ill-fashioned ladders, but no weapons. If we get them on the wall, we might be able to repulse them.”

“Perhaps, if we had a troll with us,” Qural growled. “But we don’t. And getting that many men on the wall is a bad idea, especially with the women and children behind us. Against a full force, we might lose.”

Olaf twisted the ring on his right hand; the action sent a tingle up his arm, and he suddenly felt as though he could battle an army. “If the full force never reaches the walls, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Qural swore. “We don’t have long-range defensive weapons, and the armorers could only find a few bows.” Olaf shook his head.

“That’s not what I was talking about. Bring me the sharpest knife you can find, and then spread our men along the wall, taking great care to leave one spot underdefended.”

“Why?” The dwarf grinned.

“I sigiled a few of them into oblivion once; maybe I can do it again.”

“A rock slide,” Qural said. “Wouldn’t it be wise to crush them before they reach us, though?”

“The overlook?” Olaf asked, following the thought. “I like the idea.”

“Yes, the overlook,” Qural replied. “Leave the defense of the walls to me. You take care of their approach. Join us when you’ve quite finished. How long do you think you will be?”

Olaf shrugged. “Perhaps twenty minutes. Tell the wall watch to send up a call if they move. How many men can we muster?”

“In the hundreds. Three at the most.” Olaf stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“Then I’ll see to it they lose twice that,” the dwarf told him. “Are they arming now?”

The minotaur nodded. “Are you planning on cutting them off?”

“Why bother? I’d much rather seal them in.”

“Even with their forces so reduced, we might still lose,” the minotaur pointed out.

Olaf smiled at his good friend before he turned away. “Possibility does not equate to a certainty. And besides, they are fighting us backed into a corner. Believe it or not, that might give us an advantage.”

Qural turned, looking over the troops now streaming up the ramp to the walls. “I know. I would just rather not watch any of these men die.”

“Neither would I.”

“Here.” Qural handed him a wickedly sharp, single bladed dagger. “You need another.”

“Thanks,” Olaf said. And with that, Olaf rushed down the staircase, mentally reviewing the turns to the old observatory, further up the mountain pass. Two left, one right, straight on until the broken stalagmites, and then up. The staircase through the tunnel was rough-hewn, with neither side passages nor windows. The stonework could not be dwarven, he thought, barreling through the passage. Dwarves have better attention to detail. He counted the windows. Twelve…fourteen…sixteen…and eighteen. Olaf skidded to a stop in front of the arched door to the observatory, his boots sliding along the frozen stone. He stepped out onto the parapet of the mountain observatory, his eyes adjusting to the storm conditions. The fortress’s observatory stood right above the pass, and currently above the front portion of the advancing siege force. He drew the knife Qural had handed him and started carving. This particular sigil was going to require a lot of work. Here was hoping they did not set anything important on fire before Olaf finished.

Qural organized the gathering men into several groups, pairing infantrymen with archers. Each segment of the wall had about twenty men manning it, half archers and half warriors. Some of them had hammers, some spears, and some axes, but all looked battle-ready. They probably look more ready than they feel, the minotaur thought.

“Keep a weather eye on their army,” he ordered the watchmen on the wall. “If they so much as twitch in the wrong direction, let me know.”

“They are initiating a double flanking maneuver,” called one of the watchmen from the eastern parapet. “A second force is moving up the east side of the pass, toward the overlook, and a third approaches from the west side. The ladders aren’t meant for the walls; they’re trying to get to the mountain spurs above us. If they can, their arches can simply rain arrows down upon us. We’ll be surrounded and annihilated.”

Qural shook his head. “The spurs should be inaccessible in a storm like this. They’ll fall for sure.”

“Perhaps,” one muttered. “But if they bury the ground in bodies, they could just use the corpses as a bridge”

“That would…be just the macabre thing they might think of.” Qural looked up. “Is there any way we might be able to dislodge them?”

“There are tunnels above the pass,” one of the watchmen said. “We might be able to send a force to dispatch them.”

The minotaur nodded. “I will take twenty men with me.” He pointed to one of the watchmen. “You lead the ones down here. Send up a horn call if things get worse.” He nodded.

“I will.” Qural chose twenty men, ten archers and ten warriors, which he led to the east side of the parapet and the tunnel beyond. He nervously tossed his axe from hand to hand, wondering what exactly was going to happen. These raiders had defeated many Outlanders before them, and they could potentially do the same here. Caution, not force of arms, would win the day.

“Stay quiet,” he instructed his men. Whatever you may see, refrain from striking until I give the signal.”

“What would that be?”

“Attack,” the minotaur replied. “What else?”

It turned out that their arrival preceded the raiders’, and Qural took advantage of this to dig them in. While the wall that rounded the top of the pass had long ago been ruined, recent building projects by the Outlanders had raised it far enough to protect anyone crouched behind it. Straining his eyes, Qural could see that the force assailing them was about fifty men strong; not enough that they would be defeated, but they would certainly have trouble. Fortunately, though, he did not see any bows. At least they had one advantage. Once they had closed to about bowshot range, the minotaur shouted, “FIRE!”

While the volley of arrows streaked into the snowy oblivion in front of him, he could see both that the archers had accounted for the wind and the damage that the barrage did. Half a dozen raiders stopped in their tracks, collapsing to the snowy ground. The others kept on, even as the second round of fire took four more of the attackers down. They had now gone from snow-covered earth to frozen rocks, which were much harder to navigate. Their clothes, while designed to keep out the elements, were of little help overcoming them. Some of them fell and got back up; others, less fortunate, collapsed without rising again. Even with fifteen of the raiders out of the fight, though, they were still outnumbered. The archers knew this, and they fired a third volley of arrows to try to reduce the enemy’s numbers further. Another five of the enemy fell, but they kept on. Now they had closed to melee combat range, Qural could see that there were two archers among their number. One raised his bow, but an arrow sliced through his fur-lined jerking and pierced his chest. Another tried to line up a clear shot, but three Outlander bows twanged and the barrage of arrows mowed him down. The minotaur vaulted over the wall, his massive battle axe in hand. Though the weapon easily weighed eighty pounds, the seven-foot tall warrior wielded it as though it were made of wood. The weapon spun in a deadly circle of white light, white that rapidly turned crimson as he waded into the fray. Some of the warriors joined him, spears and swords thrusting, hammers and axes whirling. Both sides yelled battle cries and strained against one another. Qural started hammering against a raider’s metal-bossed wood shield, praying that Olaf would not be overrun.

Being overrun was the last thing on Olaf’s mind. He could see the approaching attack force, but he hardly classified them as a threat. After all, their archers had no skill whatsoever, and he had a sigil to finish anyway. All right, he amended, as an arrow sliced a notch in his right ear, maybe they’re not rubbish with bows after all. He managed a few final runes, and then the arrow hit. A turn of his body was all that saved him, as the tip of the projectile punched through his left shoulder instead of his heart. Reaching up, he tore the offending object from his arm and smeared his hand in the blood that poured from the wound. Satisfied with this, he tossed the arrow away and placed his gory hand on the sigil. Not without price, though; a second arrow slammed into his right side, just above his belt. He grimaced, but then smiled as he felt a surge of energy flow through his fingers and into the earth. A spider’s web of red fissure lines spread out from the center, enveloping the entire mountainside in a latticework of crimson light. Nor were these lines patterns of light alone; the ground literally split wherever the red energy spread. The raiders kept up their advance for several agonizing seconds; then the explosion hit. The mountain underneath them reared up in a torrent of force and noise, catapulting stone, earth, raiders, and ice into the air. The tidal wave of frozen obliteration ended just at the edge of the massive sigil, but that distance was not far enough for Olaf to escape unscathed. Small bits of shattered mountainside pounded around him, and more than one smacked him. Moving at that velocity, those projectiles should have broken more than a few bones. However, he barely felt any of the impacts. Any of them, that was, except for the last, which sent him sprawling. He tried to stand, but it was a struggle; the piece of stone had actually managed to draw blood on him. Then the second piece hit, and he fell, hard. Struggling, he managed to prop himself up on a piece of rubble, watching the violence that ensued.

He could see now the destruction that his spell wrought; half the raiders’ forces had been swept away, and the other half turned frantically, trying to find some way of escape. The spell’s true horrors, though, had yet to be realized. Burst after burst of magical energy sent more and more of the mountainside tumbling down, sealing the pass behind them. The raiders frantically looked for some way out, but none presented itself. They were trapped. That was when the first spear came down; it struck the raid commander through the skull, killing him instantly. Olaf stared, wondering where the projectile had come from. The familiar sound of dragon wings beating filled the air, and then the Airknights swept in. Olaf had watched them work before, and yet he still never found himself less shocked by their efficiency. The units moved in a well-disciplined wheel, methodically annihilating the raiders by the dozens. Bodies fell like heads of grain before a winnowing fork; in a matter of minutes, the Outlander forces wiped the raiders from existence. A horn call went up on the wall, several rising notes in succession. The message was clear: the fortress was safe. Satisfied that the battle was over, Olaf slowly pulled himself upward and began to stagger back down the tunnel.

Qural laid the last raider out with a solid axe-blow to the stomach. As the odd-looking creature fell, he heard the horn-blast go up from the wall. One of his men raised his weapon and sent up a cheer.

“We’ve done it!” He shouted. “Our people are safe.”

“HAI!” The men shouted back. This exclamation was not uncommon among warriors, and universally signified glorying in a conquest. Another cheer went up, and then Qural shook his head.

“That’s enough, boys. Tend to the wounded, and carry the dead. Let’s at least give them a proper funeral.” They nodded, tending to the bodies. Qural picked up one of the fallen, a young man he recognized. The fellow had been newly married, just before their village had fallen. His wife had been killed in the attack, and now his children were left fatherless. Yet another travesty of the war, he thought. Then, he shook off the thoughts and trudged back to the tunnel.

The aftermath of the battle was one of subdued satisfaction. No celebration could follow the victory; even if they had the provisions, none of them had the will. Qural’s force had suffered five casualties, and the forces defending the wall had no trouble at all. Still, they could not help but tread with some temerity. The arrival of the Airknights brought much news, both good and bad. Their leader, a dark elf named Luthe Thornroot, had brought his men inside the fortress’s walls and proceeded to unload the extra provisions he had brought with him. Once his men had finished, he looked around.

“Who is the leader here?” He asked. “I must speak with him immediately.”

“He’s not here,” the minotaur answered. “He was the one who destroyed the mountainside. He must have been caught…”

“He wasn’t.” The voice was clear and strong, and it came from the top of the parapet. “He’s right here.” Qural’s head snapped up, and he saw Olaf there, his shoulder and armor bloodied, but his face set in grim satisfaction.

“You?” The dark elf sounded incredulous. “You’ve been leading these people? Where’s Thorvald?”

“My father is dead,” Olaf replied. “The raiders killed him when they destroyed our village. There are about a thousand of us still alive, but not for much longer. We’re running out of food and water, and we’re also short on morale. Our people are suffering, and there’s not exactly much we can do. So yes, I’ve been leading, if you can call it that.”

Luthe nodded. “I see.” Olaf gingerly descended the stairs, catching himself on the carven stone rail before he fell. “Well, you certainly don’t look well.”

Olaf looked down at his bleeding arm, and felt a jolt of pain in his spinal cord. “I don’t feel well,” he said. Then he made one last effort to stand, but failed. And, after that, he collapsed.

Haven

Carsten stood in front of the city gate, looking at the people arrayed in front of him. Therians, dark elves, dwarves, and men, all ready for war. Thanks to some connections Deyann had managed to pull, they had gathered weapons, as well. Not the highest quality implements, perhaps, but they would serve for the task at hand. He was about to give the order to head out when he noticed Deyann motioning for him to come back inside the gate. Carsten dutifully did so, and he saw that the other village elders were gathered there.

“How many men have we assembled?” Thalserr asked.

“Several hundred,” Carsten replied. “Haven can afford to spend no more. Even with Mycal’s Therians and the others she has gathered, we can furnish little more than half a thousand.”

Deyann lowered his eyes. “It will not be enough,” he murmured. “Not if the news I have heard is true.”

“What news is this?” Gorme asked.

“The raiders are raiders no longer,” Deyann said. “A friend of mine passed through town yesterday, and she brought grievous news. They have come again, now with an invading army. An army at least five thousand strong at that.”

“What?!” Thalserr exclaimed. “How…how can this be? Where could such a force amass that we could not know?”

“Frostspire,” Carsten said. “Issavea gathered this army, and she’s responsible for unleashing it on the Outlands.”

“No, she merely outfitted them.” The dark elf began to pace. “And they are, indeed, well-equipped. They wield deadly magical weapons, ones with mortuary sigils designed to kill even the strongest of men in a single blow. Even you, with your mark, would not be immune. Make no mistake, they cannot strike you down; but a wound from one of these weapons would be devastating. And that is not even the worst of it. Apparently, there is something going before their army, some kind of black fog. Wherever it goes, destruction follows.”

Carsten’s face assumed a look of concern. “This fog. What is it, exactly?”

“No one is quite sure. All we know is that they appear to have some kind of massive weapon with them, and that is what does the damage. Anything in their path seems to be annihilated, living or no.”

“So what does this mean?” The dwarf asked. “In fairness, a weapon of this magnitude isn’t something we can counter.”

“Perhaps not now,” Deyann said, “and certainly not alone. But we aren’t alone, you know.”

“Of course not,” Carsten answered. “I know Oriem’s army is moving. But is it really large enough to fight them?”

“I believe it is. Our reports indicate that the Nagai have joined him, which brings the number of his forces up over four thousand.”

“Four thousand won’t win this fight,” the red-haired dwarf growled. “We both know that.”

“No, four thousand head on won’t,” Deyann agreed. “Strategically applied force, though. That might make a difference.”

“I take it you have a plan.”

“I do. But it requires a lot of marching and late nights. Are you up for it?”

Carsten cracked his neck. “When do we start?”