Goron reached for the carved horn dangling from his neck and pressed it to his lips. The metal was cool and tasted metallic, like blood. He sucked in a great gasp of air and blasted out a note. The doleful sound filled the night and was answered by shouts and cries from within the castle.
The toadoks reached the wall. They didn’t need ladders. Their webbed feet worked just fine on perpendicular surfaces. Even if the other guards got there in time, a dozen men and women couldn’t stand against so many—it would be a death sentence. “Halwyn, Jasin,” he bellowed.
The two guards hurried to him, their faces pale and taut in the lunar light. Halwyn dropped his spear. It clanged on the stone of the wall walk then rolled off the side into the darkness.
“Sorry,” the boy gasped.
“Order a retreat to the keep, I’ll hold them as long as I can. Go!”
Halwyn took off at a sprint. Jasin turned to follow him, then spun around and grabbed Goron’s cloak. She pulled him roughly towards her and kissed him savagely. Then she too was gone. Only the smell of her musk leather and sour sweat lingered.
Goron inhaled and grinned. Memories of her flesh filled his head. Maybe there were still a few woman in Wichsault who couldn’t resist his charms. That was something worth fighting for.
Goron unsheathed the huge battle axe from his back. The well-polished steel shone as brightly as his eyes—violence was nearly his favourite thing.
Two green, webbed hands appeared over the edge of the wall joined by a set of bulbous, yellow eyes. The eyes glanced left to right. They saw no threat until they glimpsed the blur of an axe. The bulging orbs had no time to widen in horror. With its head cleaved in two, the toadok dropped soundlessly from the wall.
More hands appeared. Goron removed them from their arms. The hands stayed suction capped to the wall—a grisly decoration. He continued adorning the ramparts with toadoks’ body parts, but the demand for his services was too great. Soon dozens of toadoks had gained a foothold on the wall.
Goron was surrounded, his retreat down the stairs blocked. The toadoks, their numbers growing by the moment, taunted him. They brandished their crude wooden swords and spears and mocked him in their guttural language.
Enraged, Goron scratched at the ground like a bull. A low growl rumbled in his throat, and his eyes blazed like stars. He wasn’t going to die like this, not from a few tadpoles. Goron charged, three hundred pounds of fury kitted out in chainmail with an axe so sharp it could split a pubic hair—he’d tried and been successful.
A spear, no more than a sharpened stick, thudded into his chest but did not penetrate the links. Another clanged into his helmet with a loud ding that made his teeth rattle.
He did not falter when he reached the jeering mass but ploughed through them as if they weren’t there. Most of them he trampled underfoot, and the others he sent somersaulting off the wall and into the darkness. He emerged on the other side of the amphibious gathering cut and bloody—he didn’t recall the blows—but the cuts burned red-hot. The path to the stairs and escape was no longer barred.
Goron leapt down the steps two at a time, marvelling he was still alive. The toadoks rallied and gave chase, their angry croaks like firecrackers.
Halfway down the descent, Goron’s vision blurred and his head swam. He stumbled and was forced to steady himself on the rough stone walls. Sweat like a heavy rain poured from him, and he shivered.
He’d felt the aftereffects of battle before—tremors and an uneasiness that could be quietened only with beer and a good woman. This was different, though, he’d never experienced this. Something else coursed through his veins.
Poison! How could he have been so reckless? He’d forgotten the poison the toadoks smeared on their weapons. Poison that seeped from the glands on their backs. He’d seen its effects on his guards when one had been too slow to dodge a toadok’s weapon. Within minutes he’d become temporarily paralysed, entertainment for the fellow guards, but an extremely unpleasant experience for the sufferer.
He was covered in grazes from his encounter on the wall. It would be a miracle if he escaped the toxin. By the time he reached the last stair, Goron’s legs felt as if they were struggling through wet sand. His axe, too heavy for his numb fingers, dropped from his hands. Unsure if he had the strength even to lift it, he left it where it lay and stumbled on.
The bailey stretched before him. A vast stone courtyard, broken only by an ancient ruinwood tree sacred to Murdus, Father of Forest and Stone, which ended at the keep. The castle’s inhabitants still trickled in through the keep’s two doors. Time was running out.
Goron gritted his teeth and pushed on, but each step was increasingly difficult. The wet sand he felt as if he were struggling against before, now felt like mortar. Fifty feet from the keep, the mortar turned to stone.
With a groan, Goron dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl. Soon that became too difficult, and he was reduced to sliding along the ground on his belly. His body was so numb he could not feel the stone beneath him.
The last of the castle’s inhabitants crowded through the keep’s doors. One of the guards, he could not tell which one, paused and looked out at the bailey to see if there were any more latecomers.
Goron opened his mouth, or at least he thought it opened, and tried to shout. All that came out was a strangled gasp.
Not seeing anybody in the heavy darkness, the guards grasped a door each and pulled them shut with a bang.
Goron was alone, in the grips of paralysis with hundreds
