Even as he watched, the darkness seemed to readjust. Shadows that should have fallen from the east now twisted, coming from the north or west.
Whatever hid in that fort, it did not want to be seen.
A handcart sat out front, one of the heavy kind that wyrmlings used to haul equipment to war, with huge wheels all bound in iron. A stone box lay spilled beside it, tossed on its side, the heavy stone lid lying upon the ground.
There was no sign of the hostages, no sign of battle. The old fort was deathly quiet. The soldiers surrounded it, and the High King and his counselors stood peering at it, considering.
“Shall we put the torch to it,” Madoc asked, “smoke them out?”
“No,” King Urstone said. “It might harm the hostages. Nor can we batter down the wall or risk them in any manner.” He nodded toward a captain. “Take down a good stout tree. We’ll need a ram to get through that door.”
He turned and searched the crowd, until his eyes came upon Alun, who was bent over, panting from exertion. The king strode over to him, and there was hardly a sheen of sweat upon his forehead. He peered at Alun with deep blue eyes, and asked, “Alun, may I have the use of the sword?”
Alun drew it from the scabbard and was dismayed to see that the sword, which had reflected light like a clear lake this morning, was dulled by a layer of rust.
“Milord,” he apologized. “I’m sorry. I should have oiled it.”
“It’s not your fault, Alun,” the king said gently.
He turned to the troops.
“Gentlemen, there are wyrmlings in this fortress, and I mean to have their heads. Most of you know that the Knights Eternal are most likely holed up with them, like a pair of badgers. We’ll have a hard time of it, digging them out. But if all goes well this day, we shall rid ourselves of the Knights Eternal once and for all.”
There was a tremendous roar as men raised their axes and cheered.
Vulgnash stood over the bound bodies of the small ones. He stood in what had once been a kitchen. There was a chopping block in one corner, for the hacking of meat, and a pair of stone hearths to one side. At his back was a window that had been boarded up long ago. He had checked it, in order to make sure that there was no clear passage. Blackberry vines grew beyond the window to a height of twenty feet, blocking out the light.
Outside, the sound of chopping stopped. The warrior clan had their battering ram now, and soon would be at the door.
His wyrmling guard stood ready to receive them.
Outside, there was a shout. “You in there: release your prisoners and we will let you go free.”
Vulgnash knew a lie when he heard it. The humans were only seeking assurance that the small ones yet lived.
He considered taking the small wizard outside, holding him up with a knife to his throat, letting them know the danger of pressing this attack. But too many things could go wrong. The wizard could grasp the sunlight, use it as a weapon. Or the enemy might fire an arrow, killing the hostage, and leaving Vulgnash to suffer his master’s wrath.
So he crouched and drew his blade. All the while, his mind was occupied, reaching out to the shadows, drawing them close, wrapping them around the old hill fort.
There was a crashing at the door, and painful light cut through the room.
“Now,” Vulgnash shouted, and his warriors shoved the harvester spikes into their necks. Instantly the bloodlust was upon them, and they began to howl and shriek like creatures damned as they lunged from the shadows.
The warrior clansmen charged the breach, fear in their pale eyes. Their breath fogged in the cold air of the room, for Vulgnash had blessed this place with the touch of the tomb.
The wyrmlings grabbed the first warriors to breach the door, long pale arms snaking out of the darkness, and each used a meat hook in one hand to drag a warrior back while hacking with the other-thus clearing the path for more victims. A volley of arrows sped through the doorway, taking one of his over-eager wyrmlings in the eye. The big fellow fought bravely for several seconds before he staggered to his knees. A human lunged through the door and split his skull like kindling with a single blow from the ax.
With the first blood spilled and the first death, the ground was now blessed, and Vulgnash felt his own powers begin to gape wide, like the mouth of a pit.
The first wave of warriors burst into the room in earnest and found themselves lost in the suffocating darkness, unable to spot a target before they were slaughtered.
The dark fortress filled with screams.
Rhianna kicked Fallion’s leg, waking him, and Fallion came awake slowly. They were lost in blackness as the screams of warriors and the clash of arms rang out.
For long minutes, Fallion lay, desperately trying to clear his mind.
The sorcerer had his hands full for the moment, and Fallion reached out with his mind, questing for a source of heat. He could feel the bodies of creatures living and dying nearby, but dared not draw from them. To do so might alert the sorcerer. Fallion realized now that his questing touch had alerted the sorcerer in times past.
But there was a roof to this building, a stone roof, and the sun had been shining full upon it all through the morning. The warm stone held the heat.
Ever so carefully, Fallion reached out with his mind, searching, and began to draw the heat into him.
There is a saying among wyrmlings. “In a well-built fort, a single warrior should be able to hold off a thousand.”
Vulgnash knew of such fortresses-the sea fort at Golgozar, the old castle upon Mount Aznunc. This was not such a fort.
Still, as the first wave of human warriors faded, he was proud of his warriors. Only one wyrmling had fallen in battle, while dozens of the war clan lay slaughtered upon the floor.
“Drag back the bodies,” he shouted during the lull in battle. “Leave a clear killing field.”
His wyrmlings complied as best they could, throwing the bodies back, heaping them to the roof. But they weren’t able to finish the job before the second wave burst upon them.
A dozen men rushed the door, each bearing torches, war cries ringing from their throats. The light cut through the shadows, and in that instant, his wyrmlings were vulnerable. The gloom lessened, and the humans launched themselves into battle.
One of his warriors took a killing blow. An ax slashed through his armor, and guts came tumbling out. But the bloodlust was upon the wyrmling warrior, and he fought on. Another took a spear to the neck, and too much blood was flowing. A third got cut down through the knee.
Still his men fought-not with bravery, but with madness in their eyes. Vulgnash threw his energy into deepening the gloom, and men screamed and died in the smoky air. The smell of blood and gore perfumed the old fortress. Corpses littered the floor; blood pooled beneath the wyrmling’s feet.
Vulgnash used his powers to feed the frenzy. Death was in the air. Death surrounded them. As one human warrior took a blow, the ax slashed through the armor and grazed his chest.
Vulgnash stretched out a hand, and the skin flayed wide. Ribs cracked and a lung was exposed. The human cried out and fell gasping to the floor before a man could touch him.
His wyrmling warriors began to roar in celebration, dancing upon the bodies of the dead.
Only three of his men had expired, and two hundred humans lay in their gore.
Death ruled here.
There was no time to rest before the third wave hit.
A hail of arrows announced the attack, came blurring through the doorway. Even in the shadows they found some marks. His men could no longer retreat far from the door, for their path was blocked by the dead.
Five good wyrmling warriors took arrows. Three of them sank slowly to their knees.
And the humans did not rush in. They gave the arrows time to do their work.
The wyrmling soldiers roared in frustration, screaming curses and insults at the humans, trying to lure them
