snore23

If only Marthong could have seen what was happening in the mighty capital of Calso, he might have cheered. The human king had received his message and was bellowing for his generals to make haste for the planning room.

The King of Calso was a blazing red-bearded giant with shoulders as big as an ox and a temper to match the color of his hair. It had been said that as a youth, the King had ripped the head of an orc off with his bare hands and hurled it more than a hundred yards to strike down the fabled Orc King Marzrog. Few would dare cross him, or do anything that might incur his wrath. So, as he strode down the halls towards the planning room, servants practically ran out of sight or dodged behind the nearest column or plastered themselves against the wall in the hopes that he did not see them.

Thorson, for that was his name, ignored them. He was kind and fair to his servants, and rarely walked past without a jest or compliment about their labor. The fact that he did so now, and was in that mood, frightened the servants more than anything.

He swirled into the Planning Room without announcement, making the generals inside hurriedly turn and salute him. He scowled at them so fiercely that several quailed and the few servants in evidence did their best to fade into the walls.

“Would any here like to tell me how such a large fleet was able to beset our closest neighbor without us having an inkling?” he roared.

No one spoke for many long seconds, until a voice spoke from the far side of the room. “I know not, Your Majesty. I suspect that it may have been a powerful spell to hoodwink so many.”

Thorson’s eyes narrowed as he looked to the speaker. It was Pricilla, that rarest of oddities in the world, a female general. None could match her stratagems, however, and Thorson respected her advice. Now he tilted his head and gestured for her to continue.

Generals melted away from his gaze to reveal her, clad in her gold-plated armor that glinted in the torchlight, revealing high cheekbones and raven hair. She was unimpressed by his stare, however, and continued.

“We were completely caught by surprise when that messenger bird came. I myself only received warning a few minutes ago of what had happened from one of our agents in Mirthonia. He did not go into specifics, but he indicated their fleet was huge and well-stocked with more men than we thought the Vikors could possibly field, which points to some interesting assumptions.” She began ticking points off on her fingers; “One: that their fleet, which we suspected numbered some scores of vessels, is in fact larger than any we had ever seen or fielded before. Two; they must have conquered lands far across the sea to support and recruit so many warriors. Surely that ice-covered land they call home in the North Sea could not allow so many, or and this is most likely, Three: They have managed to create alliances with several kingdoms to provide men while they created ships to take Mirthonia.”

She looked levelly at the King. “In either case, they have enough men to be able to strike and burn any city on the coast, and even push as far East as the Dar’Kor Mountains and the Dwarf and Dark Elf cities there.” Her eyes held a death sentence. “We cannot afford to weaken our defenses in the slightest to go to Mirthonia’s aid. We can only pray that the bounty they find there will be enough to sate them and make most of them go back to their homes before they come here.”

“If that is to be some sort of joke, Pricilla Goldensword, I find it in very poor taste.” Thorson growled.

“It is no joke, Your Majesty. I speak the truth. If we send our army to Mirthonia’s aid, we risk losing it and leaving ourselves open for any manner of assault. I seriously doubt that the Vikors will be satisfied with their raid on Mirthonia and will ride their inevitable victory as far as possible. We must sacrifice Mirthonia to buy us time to unite the other cities and create an army that will be capable of meeting the Vikors in the field.”

“That may not be possible either.” Another of the generals rumbled. “I just received a message,” he held a scrap of parchment that a servant had brought him. “from one of my agents. He tells of strange beasts that have been employed against Marthong. They were able to defeat them before they got prepared to use them, but such creatures are most likely not the only thing in the enemy’s train, and they are still unloading. Marthong may not be able to hold long enough for the cities to band together.”

“We might be able to hasten the efforts if we―” another began.

“ENOUGH.” Larson roared. The chandeliers seemed to shake with the power of his voice. Everyone fell silent and several shrank back from the heat of his glare as he swept the assembled. “How dare you.” He said slowly and forcefully. “Marthong has ever been our friend and ally, and now you would abandon him and his people to these wolves of the sea?” His fury settled on Pricilla and he was rewarded by the beads of sweat on her brow, though her face remained placid. “We are NOT cowards, and we will NOT abandon our friends.” He declared. His eyes challenged anyone to contradict him. None spoke.

“General Goldensword, General Archer, you will take as large a force as can be assembled in the next fifteen hours and you will march to Mirthonia’s aid. If you feel that your force cannot assist in battle, you will send a pigeon to me and to Marthong informing him of your plight. Then you will take to the nearest defensible location and await further instructions. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The two murmured and bowed. They hastily made their exit, practically running by the time they reached the doors. Several of the others looked like they wished to have gone with them, rather than face their sovereign’s ire.

“Now,” All eyes jerked back to his face. “You will begin making preparations for us to join the others in pushing back this foul army, and I will not hear of any talk of abandoning ANYONE to this foe.” His face was a mask of rage, and his hands moved restlessly before he could get them under control. Several men licked their lips nervously and slowly began to speak. Soon a babble of voices came as plans were created and rejected for the defense of their homes. All the while Thorson watched and stroked his great warhammer that hung at his side. And in his heart, he urged Pricilla and Archer to move ever faster.

Marthong groaned in despair as the great ram made it to the front gate. On the battlements archers sent their last arrows down on it trying to strike the oxen that pulled the contraption, but it was hopeless. The roof of the machine extended over the oxen, protecting them from the arrows. Now, he could hear the great trunk slamming into the door with a teeth-chattering THUD!

“Who all is left to man the gate?” he asked.

“No one, Your Majesty.” Tory said quietly. The last of the generals of Mirthonia, his armor was black with soot and his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. “We sent the last of the troops to the break in the wall to hold back the flood of Vikors. I have not heard from them in some hours at least.”

Marthong felt his shoulders slump in despair. Six days! Six long days of endless fighting, of assault and counter-assault. They hadn’t even breached the walls until the fourth day, and had been held in the outer ring until now. Marthong realized that further defense here was useless. There was no way to hold the outer rings of the city, it was time to retreat to the inner keep.

“Give the order.” He whispered. Tory reached down to his side and brought his ox-horn to his lips and blew the signal. Around the city Marthong could dimly hear answering horns. So few, so few. It was a disaster beyond reckoning. On the walls above he could see the last of the elves and men running for the stairs and up the streets. The gate splintered as the jagged ends of the battering ram hit it again. Another blow and the gate would fall.

“Fall back!” he shouted. “Retreat to the keep! To the keep!” soldiers rushed faster, spurred on by his words.

The gate gave way with a thunderous crack, the doors slamming into the stone walls of the tunnel. The iron portcullis was a twisted rack of metal that speared several of the Vikors before it was pushed over. Black-armored men rushed through the fallen gate, spreading out like the sea into an inlet. Marthong stood in horror at the sight until he realized Tory was pulling on his arm.

“Come on! We’ve lost sire, we need to go!”                                                             

It was like a bad dream, Marthong thought numbly as he turned to run. Tory gave him a push to get him started. Shaking his head Marthong forced the tide of despair back. He could mourn later, for right now he had to plan the last stand of his city.
“We must get to the Keep. Climb on.”

Tory stumbled and looked at him wide eyed. “Sire?” He squeaked. He looked so comical that Marthong wanted to laugh, if the ability had not been beyond him now.

“We do not have the time for you to run. They are nearly here now. Climb on.” As if to add emphasis to his words a pair of arrows streaked past them.

Tory grimaced and swung up on Marthong’s back. The added weight of the satyr and armor was shocking to Marthong, who had not had to carry anyone in his life, but he quickly adjusted and ran for all he was worth.

Houses blurred past and the shouts and curses of the Vikors lessened as they fell behind. In minutes they were at the great walls and gate of the keep. Anxious guards surrounded them and helped pull Tory off Marthong’s back. He started to see the black arrow jutting out of Tory’s shoulder. He had apparently been hit while they had run and had not mentioned it.

Nurses were already coming to pull the arrow and heal the wound, the haggardness in their eyes a mute testament to what they had already endured. Malthong desperately wanted to give his people the rest they so badly deserved, but that would only happen when the Vikors were defeated or pushed back, and Marthong held no hope of that.

He pushed past the milling throng of people, on his way to the upper walls of the keep. It would not take more than a few minutes before the Vikors surrounded the keep on all sides and fought to make it in. He would last maybe a day before they broke in. Plans to delay or hold them swirled in his brain, but were rejected as soon as they came in. He did not have the resources to mount any kind of attack or defense. He did not even know how many soldiers he had left.

He came into the tower that overlooked the city and stood on the balcony. From there he could see the Vikors looting his fair city, pulling treasure and valuables from homes and shops. Here and there they pulled struggling figures from the buildings, herding them away towards the fleet. Slaves, he realized. His heart yearned to go and free them and bring them back to the safety of the keep, but he couldn’t. So, he stood and wept silently as he watched the people that had been left behind were rounded up and driven out of the city.

“I have nothing left.” He whispered quietly. It was true, he realized. The city was lost, his army gone.

A soft sound behind him made him turn around. A young Pur stood silently with her head bowed and her hand outstretched.

“This message just came for you, Sire.” The child squeaked nervously.

Marthong took the message from her gently. “Thank you.” He said seriously. “You have done well.” The child swelled with pride, but continued to look down. Marthong admired her aplomb. It was rather remarkable for one so young. He realized that he hadn’t lost everything. He still had his duty, and his people to look after, and that would always be more than enough.

The note in his hand crinkled slightly as he unrolled it. The words on it made him stand in shock. He read it aloud to himself.

“Greetings on behalf of Thorson, King of Calso from his servant General Pricilla Goldensword. I have brought four thousand men of Calso to the mountains above your city, but cannot break through the host. Do you have an escape plan? Pls Respond!”

The writing was so spidery and tiny it was hard to make out, but the words were clear. No help would come this day. Four thousand men made for a poor reinforcement against a hundred thousand. However…

Marthong raced to his desk, leaving the flabbergasted girl where she stood. Rummaging through his drawer, he found the secret button and pressed it. A hidden panel fell away with a click, revealing several tightly rolled scrolls. He quickly pulled the one he was looking for from the cache and unrolled it.

It was a secret plan of the city, and as his eyes hungrily roamed it he found what he was looking for. A secret passageway was marked from the bottom of his cellars out the side of the castle and all the way to the mountains. It was a long route, and narrow. It would take several hours to move the thousands of people through it.

Well, then it sounds like I had best get started. First thing is first, and that is to get the people moving to the cellars.

He looked up at the servant girl still standing there. He found himself wondering what her age was; seven, eight? Very young in any case. “What is your name, my child?” he asked.

“Murrrsa, my lord.” The child said cautiously.

“Murrrsa. I have a task for you.” Marthong told her seriously. The girl looked up. “You must take this map to General Tory and tell him to lead the people through the passageway marked on the map and into the mountains. There he will find additional reinforcements that will take them to Calso.”

“What about you, sire?” the girl whispered. Marthong smiled. A remarkable child indeed!

“I will follow as soon as I am able. I must distract the enemy, after all. Now, hurry! Before all is lost.”

The child turned and scampered away. Martong watched her go before going to his desk and penning a message to Pricilla Goldensword and her army. He hoped it would reach her before it was too late and she marched away. He also added a little note to the end before sealing it tightly in a small tube and passing it off to a servant in the hallway. As the human hurried off, dressed in rusted armor, Marthong swept towards the courtyard. His calm face was in stark contrast to the panicked motions of the people as they raced by him, heading for the cellars. Above him, the sky was black with the smoke of thousands of torches. Yet, like a miracle from Mira herself, a ray of light broke through and illuminated the courtyard. It was a sign, he thought to himself.

In the courtyard he found soldiers setting fire to stores and coming off the walls. “What are you all doing.” He bellowed. All motion ceased as they stared in amazement.

“Someone said we were retreating.” A voice came nervously. “The king and generals are dead, but there was a way out of the castle.” Several voices sounded in agreement.

Marthong nodded. “It is true that there is a way out. The people are taking it now, led by General Tory. It will take them as far as the mountains.”

“Then why hold?” the voice asked. “Why don’t we take it and get out of here before those Mira-cursed Vikors break-in?”

“A valid question.” Marthong answered. “The passage is narrow, too narrow for anyone to make much headway. They are slowed by the ill and very young. Those tunnels will become a charnel house if do not stop the Sea Robbers from finding it.” His gaze swept the assembled. “You know what it is that I ask of you. If any of you want to throw aside his weapons and run with the people, they may. However, I beg of you to reconsider. The longer we hold the Vikors here, on us, the longer our families have to escape. The better chance they have for freedom instead of slavery, and life instead of death.”

He jabbed a finger at the quivering door. “There are the scum that have defiled our cities, dragged our friends off to their boats in chains. Now they seek to do the same to our children and our wives. They will take from us everything we hold dear and spit on our corpses. WILL WE ALLOW IT?!”

A roar echoed off the walls. Men shook their heads and gripped their spears, centaurs stamped their hooves and elves gripped their bows with grim fervor.

“We will not!” Marthong said determinedly. He was in his element. This is when everything made sense, the veil of deceit was lifted. “We WILL hold them, and our families WILL escape. Songs and stories will tell of this day, the day when the free people of Mirthonia stood against the hordes and HELD THEM BACK!”

Cheers shook the walls anew, and elf and man raced to man the walls while in the courtyard centaurs and dwarves raced to smother the flames on the stores and rearm. Malthong accepted a lance and walked to the front of the remaining chargers. Soot-stained, bloody and bandaged, their faces set and their lances sharp, they were a frightening sight to behold.

Above they could see men and elves falling here and there into the courtyard as the enemy archers found their mark, but Malthong had no doubt at all that the streets outside were piled with Sea Robber corpses. The gates shook as they brought their siege weapons to bear.

“Get ready!” he shouted. A pair of dwarves nodded and stood by the barred door. They waited. Another thud as the tree hit the door.

“Set!”

The dwarves took hold of the bar and waited. Malthong counted under his breath.

“Now!”

The dwarves pulled the bar out and yanked the door open. The ram shot in and paused at the height of its swing, before going backwards. Cries of pain and shock came from the surprised besiegers as the log smashed into their ranks.

“FOR MIRTHONIA!” Malthong screamed as he rushed forward. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the others as they followed.

His mere hundred followed on his heels as he crashed into the Sea Robbers that were running over their wounded comrades to get in. Warriors went down under his lance and were trampled by his hooves. He roared as his lance shattered and he drew his sword. A stroke, and the Sea Robber in front of him lost his head. A back swing sent the arm of another flying. Those he did not cut down he ran down, and those that faced him screamed in fright.

The sheer mass of bodies in front of the gate slowed his charge to a stop, and the main avenue that led to the keep became a slaughterhouse as centaurs and men hacked at one another. Here and there a centaur went down, and arrows continued to rain around them from the keep as the bowmen struck down the Vikors. Bodies littered the ground like leaves in autumn, and the air stank of blood, sweat and decay.

Malthong fought as hard as he could against the foe. His blade cut through their armor like it wasn’t there, his mind’s eye drawing pictures of his wife and daughter in chains to urge him on past endurance. Beside him a score of brave centaurs fought stubbornly to protect him, striking down any that made it past his spinning blade.

Malthong did not know where the blow came from. All he knew was that at one moment he was fighting a young soldier in black, his sword sinking into his chest, and then a blinding pain in his side. He looked and saw an arrow had pierced his armor and had punched into his heart. Even as he stared another came and joined the first. He went to his knees, head spinning and the sky starting to go dark.

I’m dying. He realized calmly. He felt a strange detachment as he watched his lifeblood pour out onto the street.

In front of him, the Sea Robbers attempted to push past him, confident that he would soon be dead. He’d show them how wrong they were. Regaining his feet, he pulled his sword out from the body while grasping the dead man’s blade in the other hand. With a heave, he sent it spinning into the chest of another Sea Robber with such strength, the blade punched through the man’s back and stabbed the soldier behind him. Both went down in a tangle of twitching limbs. Thrusting his sword forward, he cut the head off another before turning the blade down and cutting into the side of another. The man screamed and fell, and Malthong drew his blade free.

Another arrow punched into him, this time on his human chest. His lungs were burning and his ears were roaring loud enough to drown out the sounds of the battle. He ignored it and swung his blade up to block a blow that was aiming to remove his head. Batting the blade aside with what strength he had left, he stabbed forward and took the man through his eye. Yanking his blade free, he realized that a ring had formed around him, the Sea Robbers not daring to close with him.

“Come on!” he roared. “I can still take you.” He swayed drunkenly as his glare darted around the ring. It was then he realized all the others had fallen, and no arrows fell from the heights. He raised his eyes upwards and saw the last of the elves and men fighting on the battlements against ten times their number of Vikors. In moments, that battle was over as the elves and men were cut down. Not a single one surrendered.

The sound of clapping reached Malthong’s ears, and he pulled his eyes down and saw a single large Vikor had stepped into the ring. It was the leader, he realized dimly.

“I am impressed, Your Majesty.” The man said loudly. His black beard and massive shoulders, not unlike a bear, quivered as he moved. “Your people fought to the last, and you yourself have stood far longer than any I have seen. You have gained much honor this day.” He sneered.

Malthong cursed him.

“Now now,” the man said chidingly. “What have I done to deserve that? We have not met before just now.”

Malthong glared at him, but why did he have to look up? It was then he realized his legs had collapsed, unable to support his weight. He grasped his sword desperately.

A shadow fell over him, and he realized the other man had come up to him and leaned over. Now was his chance! He tried to drive his sword forward, but it barely twitched. The man glanced at it and kicked it out of his hands. Malthong slumped over backwards, blood burbling from his lips. The sky was growing dim.

A voice whispered into his ears. “You have fought long and honorably, O king. So, I will grant you this boon. My army will rest here for three days before chasing down the rest of your people and making slaves of them.”

Malthong’s eyelids flickered in surprise. What a generous gift! He should do something to repay such generosity. Marha would kill him if he did not. Where was she anyway? She…should…be…here― The thought trailed off as the last light of the sky turned to night.