“Lord Starg!” the king called back. “Inside you will find the bodies of three dead rebels to add to this one,” he said, pointing at Bervard’s burning husk. “Upon my return, I expect you to have found the people aiding them and made arrests!”
The steward stumbled over his own words. “It will be done, your Grace!” he promised.
Alijah didn’t much care for his promises. Instead, he ascended Malliath’s back, his pained climb hidden by the dragon’s wing, and readied himself for flight. It took only seconds to put all of Verda behind as they rocketed into the heavens.
With every beat of Malliath’s wings, Alijah found his memories of The Pick-Axe fading away. It was, in fact, Malliath’s words that echoed in his mind.
The past must die, so that the future may live.
18
Battle of The Moonlit Plains
A dwarven horn cut through the cold morning air just as it cut through Doran Heavybelly’s head. He shot the blower a look so fierce it moved him on, deeper into their ranks and away from the War Mason’s sensitive ears. It wasn’t the first horn that had bombarded his sore head - the morning’s march had been filled with them. Every time a new tribe of Centaurs joined their forces, both elven and dwarven horns would celebrate.
Doran hated them all just as much as he hated the one that had pierced his tent and roused him, hours earlier.
He had quickly come to regret joining in the evening’s intemperance his people always enjoyed before a battle. He wasn’t the young warrior he liked to think he was anymore. But now, astride Pig, as he looked out from the small rise in the plains, the most sobering of sights banished any and all ailments from Thraal’s home brew.
Gone was the lush green of the everlasting Moonlit Plains. Instead, there was an ocean of black steel. Reavers, amassed from every corner of the realm, surrounded the enormous dig site. The inner-most ring, by the edge of the hole, was occupied by a camp of enslaved dwarves.
If only that was all the son of Dorain could see. He cursed under his breath upon sighting the lumbering Trolls. They easily stood out against the smaller Reavers, who controlled them with chains and spears. Indeed, Doran spotted two of the wretched beasts lying still in the western flanks, their jagged hides like hills on the flat land. They had clearly proven unruly and been slain by their undead masters.
Good, he thought. That was two less monsters to deal with. Of course, the remaining dozen or so, dragged from their dark dwellings, would create quite the problem when the real fighting began. That’s if the real fighting ever began, for the Reavers and the Trolls were not their only foe. Scattered throughout were numerous ballistas and catapults, some of which were still in the process of being constructed.
They were dwarven in design.
That fact broke Doran’s heart. Was there any greater humiliation for a dwarf than to be forced to build your enemy’s weapons, weapons that would be used against your kin? He could only hope that some had been sabotaged.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he was pleased to see that his army - a collection of clans - had remained in formation. They would be relying heavily on their ancient battle strategies if they were to beat a superior foe. That all began with rigid formation. Of course, the elves made the whole affair seem effortless in their shining armour and with their stoical expressions. Even the Centaurs, who stood above them all, had found some kind of organisation that worked for them.
“I don’t see him,” Faylen stated from atop her horse.
Doran looked up at her and followed the elf’s sight to the sky. “Well there’s nowhere else for a big black dragon to hide out ’ere,” he remarked, turning left and right. “Grarfath must be hurlin’ a strong wind in his direction.”
“If you are correct,” Faylen went on, “then the same thing delaying Alijah and Malliath is also delaying Inara and Gideon.”
That didn’t sound right to the dwarf. “Perhaps it’s jus’ as Gideon said: Malliath’s injured.”
Galanör jumped down from his horse and walked a few steps ahead. “Dragons or not, this battle possesses challenges all of its own. Catapults, ballistas, Trolls. Add them to the Reavers and who knows what else awaits us out there.”
Watching the Reavers rally on the southern side of the dig site, spreading their line out to meet the rebels, was more than enough to give Doran doubts about any victory. “We ain’ ’ere to win, remember. We jus’ need to keep ’em busy until we ’ave the numbers to defeat Alijah. Bring ’im down an’ they all follow.”
“Sounds gruelling,” Aenwyn commented.
“Aye,” Doran agreed. “An’ that’s before we face the damned Trolls.”
“Leave them to us,” Kelabor asserted, trotting over to their small group ahead of the army. “My people have experience with their kind.”
Doran cast his only eye over the Centaur and decided, rather quickly, that he wouldn’t disagree. Like many who had emerged from the plains to join them, Kelabor wore an armoured coat over his horse body, similar to the battle-wear of iron plates and chainmail the dwarves clad their Warhogs in. It all lent to the already menacing appearance of his kind, given their significant tattoos and large weapons.
“If ye can bring ’em down then ye’re welcome to ’em.”
“We need to rethink our strategy here,” Faylen suggested. “Charging at them, flat out, will see many of us perish by those catapults. And if they unleash the Trolls before we reach their front line, our formation will be compromised.”
“Is there time for that now?” Aenwyn posed, her sharp eyes fixed on the Reavers.
“They’re not advancing,” Faylen replied. “And since surprise was never an option, I suggest we take the moment to decide our best course of action.”
“Ye’re not wrong,” Doran added, before turning to
