Dragon of ruyn, p.13
Dragon of Ruyn, page 13
part #3 of Legends of Gilia Series
Unfortunately for him, his words were cut short by a wall of fire that consumed the tops of the trees they were standing under for protection.
Everything turned red as cinders began to fall among burning tree tops and branches. The goblins began to run in a panic away from the flames. Some of the smaller and weaker ones ran to the walls, not wanting to face the fires or the bigger goblins. Most who were left in the forest began to run deeper into the woods.
But the fire was too strong. Too big.
Stinkrunt knew this was no normal fire.
He had seen it leap from the hands of robed figures who stood on top of the wall. They called forth the flames even now. Fire spread and seemed to leap before them. Some of the slower ones fell into the flames and hollered as it burned their skin.
Most tried to avoid doing something similar.
Stinkrunt stood as others around him panicked. He refused, if more stubbornly than normal, to let his second attempt to raid a castle fail.
“Arrahead!” he yelled over the panicking goblins and crackle of the flames above them. “Shoot somebody!”
The first arrow he loosed caught Veinripper in the shoulder. The large goblin howled and pulled the missile out of his thick armor, seeming none too hurt. Arrahead notched another to his bow and shot wildly at the wall.
Whether by good fortune or a twist of fate, the arrow flew straight into the neck of one of the Speakers casting their spell. A group of warriors, who had been protecting the wizard with shields, stood shocked. They were celebrating the seemed retreat of the goblins too much and not attending to their job.
Stinkrunt had an idea.
“Goblins! Red Fangs! Big Scars! Dread Cliffs!” he shouted as best he could. To his surprise the din of running goblins subsided, even in the flames and chaos.
“If we can take the wall, we'll be safe from the fire! Run to the wall!”
For the first time in his miserable life of being unheard, ignored, mistreated, and abused, Stinkrunt had managed to capture the attention of his troops and have them follow his orders.
Additionally, the fire spread so far back so quickly that it looked like the wall of fire was returning to the spot where he stood.
Thousands of goblins began to rush the wall all at once. This was the siege Stinkrunt had hoped for. Many carried trees on their backs and propped them against the wall to climb up. Some even picked up trees that weren't mostly on fire.
As one, they crashed against the wall.
Whatever trees that were burning some goblins threw against the castle gates. Boiling water rushed down on them, scalding away the attacks. More replaced them with new burning trees as soon as the water relented.
Stinkrunt was using most of the larger goblins as shields as he ran up to the wall. He figured as long as he couldn't see the archers and Speakers at the top of walls, they couldn't see him. It was mostly true. An arrow bounced off of the shield of the goblin in front of him. Stinkrunt did a double take, because the wall had been clear there just moments before.
A woman with dark, short hair looked down with both anger and fear as the goblins began their true assault on the wall. She had taken specific aim at Stinkrunt. He made the rudest gesture he could think of in her direction and then continued his business of hiding behind bigger goblins.
Unfortunately, most of the biggest started climbing up the tree ladders.
Begrudgingly, Stinkrunt followed with his knife waving around wildly. He wasn't much for leading from the front.
At the top of the tree, which lay propped up against the castle wall, several goblins were doing all of the hard work in fighting back the troops along the wall and trying to hold a section between the ladders. He saw a Speaker, who looked weary enough to pass out, held up by two other soldiers. The robed woman attempted to raise her hands and began muttering a spell. Stinkrunt dove forward, more out of an inner desire to survive and not be melted to the spot than bravery, and found himself standing over two dead soldiers and a Speaker within a moment's time.
A cheer from below reached his ears.
His troops had seen him fight and they were shouting for more.
Over the wall and down in the street, a call to retreat had been issued just as the resounding crack of wood echoed out just below Stinkrunt's feet. The gate had been destroyed.
Stinkrunt was beside himself with glee. The siege was going perfectly!
His smile didn't last long, however. The same woman who had shot at him with a bow now approached him and the other goblins who held the wall with red in her eyes and two swords in her hands.
Stinkrunt looked down at his knife and then up at his attacker.
This was a fight meant for someone else. He looked to his left and saw Veinripper, club held high over his head and a snarl on his lips.
He stepped behind him and gladly pushed him forward into the fight as he slunk back behind him.
The goblins may have taken the wall, but bravery still wasn't his strong point.
24: The Traitor
“You really don't need to worry so much about us,” Abigail said as she braided Blume's hair. “I mean, the ship still smells awful and the food hasn't improved at all. Oh, that's right, I was going to ask you to bring us something better to eat. Have you been eating the fancy things all of the other important people have been?”
Blume's elf friend had been chattering away for the last forty-five minutes, hardly giving Blume any time to tell them what had transpired over the last few days. She didn't mind too much. It was good to see her friends again. Jeremy sat in a corner, nose deep in notes he had made about ships and ship designs and every other piece of knowledge he could garner from those who would give him the time of day. Someone had given him a book a few days ago to stop him from pestering them.
Not everyone on board the ship was willing to talk well to a dwarf.
Jeremy and Abigail had come with Blume on a long journey that hadn't ended the way any of them would have liked.
They had been accidentally transported by magic from Thoran in the midst of battle, to Conny, the capital of the Southern Republic. There they managed to go from innkeeper's assistants to orphanage residents to servants of the Southern Republic's army.
Blume's head spun simply remembering all of their trials up to this point.
Of the group they had ridden with from Conny in horse drawn slave carts, only the three of them remained together. The other boys and girls had been put to work among the soldiers. Abigail and Jeremy, however, were kept under strict orders not to leave the ship's hold, nice as it was.
They were aboard Androlion's flagship. There were few houses and castles Blume had been inside that compared to its beauty. Everything was intricately crafted. Even this room, which was little more than a jail, held two well-made beds, a chair, a dresser, and window made of glass that looked out over the plains of Beaton.
From that window, the army could be seen making preparations for war.
As nice as it was, however, it was still a prison to Jeremy and Abigail. Three guards stood by their door both day and night. These were prisoners of Androlion himself. Though they were treated kindly for Blume's sake, they were still jailed.
Each moment spent with the leader from the south was a chance to be reminded that the lives of these two depended on her obedience and loyalty to a man she hated.
Looking out of the window to the army preparing for war was not something Blume wished to spend her time with friends doing.
She saw enough soldiers on a daily basis.
“They've had ample time to make themselves ready. When will the siege begin?” asked Jeremy, looking up from his notes and book.
Blume felt Abigail's hands stop their work. She looked at the dwarf sitting on the bed across from her. His face was serious.
“Tomorrow,” Blume said. “As soon as the sun rises.”
She didn't throw in the part about potentially preventing a siege by tossing all the elves and dwarves out of the city. This was partly due to her hopes that it didn't happen.
But to not sacrifice the other races meant a long and drawn out siege.
Both options made Blume hate Androlion more, though she knew of few ways to actually put into words her disgust for the man.
She was about to ask them about something else, anything else, when a knock at the door interrupted the start of a thought.
“Miss Dearcrest,” came a voice she hated nearly as much as Androlion's. “It's time.”
Knowing that arguing was futile and that the life of her two friends depended on her cooperation, Blume rose without words and hugged them both before departing.
“I'll see if I can't get you something better to eat,” she said to Abigail on her way out of the door.
A small smile crossed the mouth of the elf.
“Thanks, Blume,” she said.
Then her face was gone as the door shut between them.
“They don't appreciate their rations?” Cory asked as he led Blume away from the only two people she cared about in this country.
Don't make small talk with me, traitor, Blume thought as she ignored him and walked the familiar path to the stairs of the ship.
She emerged from the holds of the ship and wiped a tear from her eye. She never would have guessed that an hour every few days would be too little time to spend with the friends she had made along her journey from the south to Beaton. The time between visits seemed to endlessly drag onward.
As they typically did, Blume walked toward her own room. Hers was a smaller cabin, but no less elegant and located near Androlion's own quarters.
She made to turn one way, but was stopped by Cory's outstretched arm.
He cleared his throat and gestured with his other hand.
“This way, please,” he said.
Blume stared at him, wishing she could incinerate him on the spot. Lacking her Rimstone, however, she obeyed and walked in the direction he motioned. The last few days had given her enough time to familiarize herself with the ship. Cory was leading her to Androlion's main meeting area, or The War Room as she called it. Several meetings had occurred in here since their arrival, of which she had been an unwilling participant. He held the door open to her and she walked inside.
There were several chairs and couches with green cushions and pillows along the walls. A banner hung on the wall to her left, prominently displaying Androlion's symbol: the hated white griffon.
A rectangular table set upon an ornate rug took up a large space in the middle of the room. On the table, a map of Ruyn was laid with pins and other markers placed on it. Most of them now lay on or around Beaton. Several strings drew lines from that focal point to a place far up north and two far to the west.
Blume cared for none of it. She walked to the table and clasped it with her hands, hard. There was no desire in her heart greater than to see it all go to ruin, save for the prospect of saving her friends from death.
Her knuckles burned as she clutched the table. Behind her, she heard the door shut as well as a click, indicating that Cory had locked the door behind them.
She suddenly became very aware that they were alone.
With one hand she reached for the heaviest object she could see: an inkwell.
“Miss Dearcrest, I do hope you're not planning on ruining this fine outfit I have,” Cory said with a voice that made cold sweat race down her neck.
I'll ruin more than that, she thought, anger burning within her. Take one more step toward me.
She waited to hear his foot fall behind her and swing around to punch, scratch, kick and do anything else that might cause him bodily harm. She didn't care if they did anything to her after that. She would not allow herself to be mistreated by a man she loathed.
But no sound came, save for the creaking of a couch and the soft movement of a pillow.
She turned to see that Cory had sat himself in the chair nearest the door, eyeing her with a look she had not yet seen. Above him was a painting of Androlion himself, riding a horse into battle. It would have been a regal painting, were it not for the subject of it.
It wasn't anger, nor curiosity. Was it doubt?
“You'll be surprised to know, Miss Dearcrest,” he began, not moving from his seat. “That you and I desire the same thing.”
Blume scoffed.
“I seriously doubt that,” she replied, still clutching the inkwell.
“Miss Dearcrest–” he began.
“Stop calling me that,” she spat back at him, interrupting whatever he was about to say.
He stopped for a moment and considered her. It was as if there was something, a beast down inside her, trying to escape. The hatred she had for this man, what he had done, the country he had betrayed, the hate and violence he had allowed to continue, was fighting inside her chest to burst out at any moment. She had stuffed down her feelings long enough; she had to let the creature loose.
“Don't you dare sit there and act like what will happen doesn't add more blood to your hands!” she shouted, not caring who heard or what happened. “I met your brother! I know what you did! I heard how you betrayed and killed friends just because you wanted to follow this lunatic! Because of him my family is dead! Because of him, thousands will die! Maybe tens of thousands! And you just sit there and follow him like he's the savior of the world!? He's not! You all deserve to die!”
With this last statement, she threw the inkwell at the framed painting of Androlion. It shattered into a thousand pieces and sent black ink spilling out all over the wall, the picture and the couch Cory sat upon.
Despite this last act, he sat motionless, not even blinking, as he held his gaze on Blume.
“Stop looking at me!” she shouted, angered by the lack of any reaction from him.
Cory smiled.
It was not a twisted and wretched smile, the kind someone of the army usually gave Blume or her friends.
Instead, it was kind and understanding.
He stood with slow purpose, taking out a cloth and dabbing off the ink from one of his sleeves.
“I'm glad to know how you feel, Blume,” he said as he walked over to the table with its large map and pins.
Looking down, he closed his eyes and spoke softly.
“This was not how I intended to fight against the enemies of Thoran, but it's the path fate dealt to me.”
His words were heavy and sad. Blume, still not wanting to let her guard down, was hesitant and unable to let herself let down her defenses.
She couldn't bring herself to look at him, but she listened.
“Narvi and Finwe were my friends. I would have died for them rather than have them killed. But, I knew that if I was to be able to infiltrate Androlion's army and sought to undo him from the inside, I would have to do what I did. They knew, too. We spoke of what it would take to escape from our bonds. It was really their idea. If Androlion gave us a chance to pledge allegiance to him, I should do it. No matter the cost.”
Blume felt sick.
How could anyone say they would be willing to die for a chance, however small, to spy on the mad man without knowing exactly what it could mean for them?
Words died in her throat, even as she tried to form coherent thought.
“They all called you a traitor,” she said finally, after a few moments of silence. The words fell out of her mouth without conviction. Was he telling the truth, or was he lying? She brought herself to look at him. To see if in his face she could tell if there was any hint of falsehood.
She only saw a single tear.
“I know. They would have to think that of me,” he said remorsefully. “But if what I've got planned works, if the ones I have now on my side, the side of sanity and of peace, are able to do what it'll take to undo the violence and hate spread by Androlion, I may be able to atone for all of my sins.”
He turned to Blume. His face was serious and his eyes narrowed.
“You're more important than Androlion lets you know, Blume. More important to him than I think he even wants to admit himself.”
Cory let a smile edge onto his lips.
“There's something about you, Blume. Something...”
He stopped short and held his breath. There were feet walking down the hallway. Heavy footsteps and many of them.
“Under the table, Blume,” he said quietly and quickly, looking at her with urgency.
“But,” she protested. “I'm allowed to be here, aren't I?”
There was, apparently, no room for arguing. Cory took her by the shoulder and pulled her down. She fought the urge to punch him in the face.
“Quickly!” he said, still more frantic. “It might be...”
The door began to creak open and Cory stood up quickly.
Blume did as she was instructed and crawled under the table a bit. There was some parchment that hung off of one end. She scooted over behind it and lay flat so that she could see out, but not be seen.
In walked three pairs of boots Blume did not recognize, all the same color black as was common for those in the Southern Republic's army. There was also a pair of black armored boots that she knew very well.
Rayg.
Blume barely dared to breathe.
If everything Cory had said up to this point had been a lie, she could tell they at least had one thing in common: both of them feared this man.
“General Rayg,” Cory said in as casual of a voice as he could. “Ready to discuss tomorrow's plan?”
For a moment, there was no answer from any who had just come into the room, just the sound of Rayg's boots pacing back and forth.
“What's troubling you, Rayg?” Cory asked again, his voice betraying his uneasiness.
“I haven't a care in the world,” he said, as Blume saw the tip of the sword that was once pointed at her. Rayg's sword was the largest one she had ever seen. While she shuddered at the thought of how many lives had been ended by that blade, Blume also had the wild notion of trying to get at Rayg while he was unaware.
She began to think of words to say that would do him bodily harm, only to be reminded that her necklace was far from her and that she didn't have the key to the chest it was in. A feeling of helplessness began to creep over Blume.
