Even Gods Must Fall - Christian Warren Freed Page 0,91
with their own problems. Anything is better than spilling Dwarf blood for a pointless cause.”
“My lords, pardon the interruption!” Mearlis all but shouted as he sprinted the last few dozen meters to their meeting.
Thord was silently thankful for the disruption. His fingers ached to grab his axe and settle his rising differences with the Elf.
“Mearlis, what is it?” Faeldrin asked.
“There’s a large body of soldiers approaching from the west. They number several thousand at least. We were unable to determine who though.”
Krek’s flat ears perked. Rising to his full height, the Minotaur snatched his war bar in anticipation of crushing heads. “Good. We fight.”
“Our Minotaur friend might be correct. Thord, I suggest deploying your army. It seems the Goblins must wait till the morrow.”
Snarling, Thord spun away and bellowed, “Form ranks! Musketeers to the front. Prepare for battle!”
Horns sang out over the army.
TWENTY-FOUR
Destiny Awaits
Too familiar sounds echoed across the lightly forested plain. Men and women struggled to keep panic from taking over. Weapons were drawn. Battle lines drawn. Squad leaders snapped orders to their subordinates. Clearly at a disadvantage, the rebel army was stricken with the realization they were heading into a trap. Horses snorted excitement, their breath coming in crisp plumes of vapor that mingled with the rising mist.
The world turned dim. Light mist clung to the ground, growing thicker by the moment in unnatural ways. Trees appeared as demons, slender and wicked. Their branches turned to ripping claws threatening eternal pain. Sunlight filtered into the mist, turning their surroundings surreal. Every sound was amplified. The rebels could pick out the jangle of armor and…something else in the mist-shrouded distance. They looked to each other for comfort, finding none in the near terrified faces of friends and neighbors.
Orlek rode to the head of the column, sword drawn. His forest green cape billowed behind him as he flashed past the stunned rebels. Raising his sword high for all to see, Orlek shouted, “Calm yourselves! We are beset. The enemy is upon us. Ready weapons. Archers to the front!”
“I’m going to take a look,” Boen said after watching Orlek’s impulsive bravado.
Bahr frowned, unwilling to commit to jumping into the front lines of yet another battle. “I think we should get back and stay out of it. We’re too close to the ruins for mistakes.”
“He’s right, Boen. This isn’t our fight,” Anienam added. Blinded, the wizard seemed more attune with their surroundings than any of the others.
The Gaimosian cast an empty hand towards Orlek. “What makes you think we’ll be in the clear if they get into it? Like it or not we’re stuck here. You say the ruins are close. That means we can’t just go around and avoid whatever’s coming to us. Wizard, I am Gaimosian. War is what I do. Leave it to me.”
“Do you not recall the prophecy?” Anienam barked, his voice high pitched, broken. “We are all needed at the final hour if the dark gods are to be stopped.”
“Prophecy be damned! We’ll never make it to the ruins if there’s an army blocking the way! You can sit here and whine about it or run and hide in the night. I’m riding ahead.”
“I’m going with him,” Ironfoot seconded.
No one else moved. The long-awaited confrontation of wills had befallen them, leaving many wondering how to proceed. Bahr immediately noticed their group had divided, subconsciously, into two distinct groups. One wanted to be done with the quest and return to their lives while the other was ready to fight and become more than what they were meant to be. Both Dwarf and Gaimosian had been clamoring to fight since arriving in Delranan. Weeks of frustrations molded into aggression that could only be expressed through violence. Axe and sword, the duo headed off into the unknown confrontation.
Orlek crept alongside Boen, amazed at the way in which the bigger, heavier man moved. Never before had he witnessed such a simple yet remarkable sight. Vengeance Knights were masters of their trade. Boen was in his element. An element where he excelled. Orlek was hard-pressed just to keep up.
To his right marched the Dwarf. Ironfoot might be shorter and stockier, but his footsteps had yet to make a sound. Orlek dreaded ever having to go to war against such foes. Blackened steel waivered in the dwindling daylight. Their faces were painted, lending each a menacing appearance. Snow-covered branches brushed off their armor, white flakes peppering beards and hands briefly before they melted. Orlek’s heart beat faster. He’d never admit it, but he