Even Gods Must Fall - Christian Warren Freed Page 0,123

up as the Dwarf valiantly lit the fuse in a last-ditch effort to launch another round. Both Dwarf and Gnaal disintegrated in a flash of smoke and flame. Temporarily dismayed, the remaining Gnaals recoiled and regrouped.

Fresh Dwarves drew ranks and prepared to fire. General Brug stood beside them, battle axe waving in the choked air. Having already withdrawn from the front lines, Brug’s musketeers were busy rearming and preparing to head back into the fight when the Gnaals struck. Any terror he felt was deep-rooted but he barely managed to contain it. The Gnaals were evil on Malweir, a distant truth of vengeance and destruction stretching back generations. Few were strong enough to stand against them. The vast majority of races balked at the very sight as their nerves abandoned them. Dwarves, Brug reminded himself, were made of sterner material.

“Front rank kneel! Prepare to fire!” he barked.

Dwarves dropped into their well-rehearsed roles. Training took over.

“Fire!”

Muskets roared. Bullets struck the Gnaals in head and body. More than one screamed but they did not fall. As one, the Gnaals turned and advanced on the Dwarves. With no time to reload, Brug ordered axes drawn. He swiftly shifted to the center of the line and took his place among his warriors. Many cast sidelong glances to each other but none fled. If this was to be a battle to the death, so be it. Brug led the roar and charged. His musketeers followed step for step. Dwarf and Gnaal clashed in furious combat.

Using the Gnaals for cover, Thrask led fresh battalions of untested Goblins into the battle. They attacked the Minotaurs, still reeling from the force of the Gnaal assault, with belligerence. Krek kicked a Goblin knife thrower in the face. Bone and cartilage shattered as the Goblin dropped dead. Breathing heavily, the Minotaur king tried to withdraw and help the Dwarves but it wasn’t possible. There were too many Goblins for the Minotaurs to pull away. His heart was torn, knowing the stout Dwarves were no match for the evil of the Gnaals.

Renewed cries announced the arrival of fresh Goblin troops. Thousands flooded towards the Minotaurs. Thousands that turned the tide of numbers. Krek was forced to forget his Dwarf allies and face the army threatening him. Chunks of flesh and hair coated his war bar with dried blood. His muscles were tight, heavy from exertion. His eyes burned from the smoke. Krek focused and calmed his breathing. There was fresh killing that needed to be done. It was only proper for the king to lead his warriors.

Morale remained high among his warriors. They’d suffered losses, several hundred as he figured, but were strong enough to repulse any attack the Goblins tried. Whatever pain the Minotaur army suffered was felt thrice over by their enemies. So many corpses littered the battlefield new units were forced to climb over mounds just to reach the Minotaurs. That made easy work for the taller, longer-reached bulls.

The line held for a while before so many Goblins arrived in force that Krek had no choice but to retreat. Combined with the loss of the Dwarf musketeers, Krek was heavily outnumbered and running out of vigor. Retreating would give him the time needed to recover and attack again. Bodies continued to pile up as the Minotaurs fought an organized withdrawal. Every inch of ground recaptured was paid for with many lives.

With the retreat came the sudden expansion of lines. Goblins were able to dash past the Minotaurs, suddenly eager to return the favor of carnage to the Dwarves. Nothing could be done to prevent that as Krek’s bulls were faced with near overwhelming numbers. His bulls were hard-pressed to remain cohesive fighting units. Any breakup would mean death. Staying together was the only way his army was going to survive.

THIRTY-TWO

Brutal Survival

“What have we gotten ourselves into?”

The scene being played out before them was one the world hadn’t seen in a thousand years. Very few living could recall an hour of such unmitigated darkness. Many of the one-hundred-strong company felt the old stirrings come back to life. Long had it been since the Giants of Venheim last went to war. Long since they were forced to give in to base instincts and take lives. Leaving their mountain forges was a difficult decision to make but one that couldn’t be ignored.

So they came, with sword and axe, marching to a mournful dirge as vows of peace and non-interference were shattered upon the rocks. The long march from Venheim afforded each