The tide of unmaking, p.34
The Tide of Unmaking, page 34
part #3 of Berinfell Prophesies Series
“Really?” asked Kat.
“Yes, really,” said Mr. Green.
“What things, exactly?” asked Tommy.
“Creatures with wintry white hair and blades for fingers,” he said. “And monstrous trees, near tore our house to pieces.”
“What did you do afterward?” asked Kat, still incredulous.
Mrs. Green stood up off the side of the chair. “What could we do? We either went insane, trying to piece it all together, or we took Mr. Spero at his word. After all, we saw what we saw. Austin buried the dead creatures on the property.”
“Maybe we’re crazy,” said Mr. Green. “But I guess being Christians like we are, we believe in some pretty crazy things anyway. At least that’s what the world thinks.”
“We call it faith,” said Mrs. Green. “And that counts for an awful lot in life. So we prayed. And waited. Publicly, of course, we continued to use the media to try and get Jett back because…well…that’s what the world expected of us. My husband is well known, you see. Our whole family is well known. Since Jett wasn’t dead, and there was no body, we had to continue to act like concerned parents.”
“Even though you knew there was nothing you could do about Jett being taken to another world,” concluded Kat.
“Precisely, my dear.”
There was a long pause in the room. It would have been awkward had not so many minds been processing so much valuable information. Finally, Tommy walked back to the center of the room and spoke up.
“Mr. and Mrs. Green,” he said, now very curious, “if you don’t mind me asking, you said you believe most of our story. What part don’t you believe?”
“We take a lot by faith,” Austin said, winking to his wife. “But there are some things you just have to see with your own eyes. Follow me.” Austin and Hazel swept out of the living room and waved for the Lords to follow.
Holding hands, the Greens took to the stairs. They waited for the Lords to catch up and then turned down a long hallway. They passed several open doors: guest bedrooms, and a sewing room from the look of it. But they came at last to one door that was shut.
Mr. Green glanced at Tommy and gave a sharp knock. “This,” Mr. Green said, “is the only part of your story that doesn’t add up.” He turned the knob and pushed open the door.
32: Furious Flying
THE FIRE WALL WAS AN impressive tactical feat of Elven engineering. Spread along Berinfell’s defensive perimeter sat large crossbows fed by specially banded clusters of arrows. One arrow in the bundle deployed a parachute upon reaching its flight apex; three arrows held lightweight flasks that sprayed a pressurized oil over the long, ten-minute decent to the ground; and a fifth arrow in the center was tipped with flaming dremask so that it set the oil aflame as it spewed from the flasks.
The effect was a constantly cascading wall of fire that swept below each bundle of arrows. When set in sequence with other bundles beside it, and replaced with newer bundles above it, the effect was a wall of glowing fire that risked dowsing flying enemies, like the Nemic, with a nearly inextinguishable, napalm-like coating.
Because the Elven invention was fairly recent, inspired to combat the Warflies in the wake of the Spider King’s rule, the Nemic had never encountered it, and were caught by surprise. The first wave of terrain bombers closed within two-hundred yards of the city before the first volley of clustered arrows was sent skyward. The Nemic viewed them as any other bow attack, and steered clear.
That’s when the wall appeared.
Only a scant few made it to the other side before the wall of liquid fire burst to life. Those beneath the clusters were immolated in a shower of flames. Every beating wing that attempted to extinguish the blaze added more air to the fire’s fury, until each flier had been engulfed in a pulsing shroud of angry red and orange.
The Nemic fell from the night sky like bloody comets, plummeting to the ground just in front of the walls. Terrain bomb after terrain bomb exploded upon impact, jarring the heavy fortifications and jouncing the archers atop the ramparts, but doing little real damage.
Those Nemic not engulfed in the first round watched their brothers perish in fiery explosions but pulled out of their approach to avoid the same fate.
As new arrow-clusters took the place of those descending to the ground, Ghrell realized his army would need a new strategy. “Higher still!” Ghrell spat to his Commanders. “Their shafts cannot out-climb us! I want half our bombers to scale the heights. The rest, encircle the perimeter. There must be a breach in their fiery net. Find it, and exploit it!”
“But sir, won’t dividing our attack make it more vulnerable?” asked a Lieutenant named Chorlic.
“If we divide,” Ghrell said, chewing on his calloused lip, “they must divide to counter. We will stretch them to the point of breaking, and then swoop in for the kill.”
The new orders were delivered, and the next wave of fliers were split into three groups: one that would assail the right flank, the second over the top, and the third to the left flank.
But the Elves were waiting.
The first group that climbed over the fire wall had a dizzying descent to overcome, all the while keeping hold of their terrain bombs. The force of gravity alone made pulling up after the rapid drop-and-release, necessary for an accurate explosion, nearly impossible. Many Nemic aborted the precision they had practiced and opted for a blind drop from a thousand feet.
Some few survived long enough to release their weapons. But most found a forest of arbalest shafts flung up to meet them, followed by a swarm of arrows. Impaled Nemic fliers fell like some morbid downpour. But each falling Nemic still managed a parting gift for the Elves. Terrain bombs shattered walls, gouged buildings and scoured the cobbled stone streets.
The Elves managed to reduce the damage somewhat, utilizing bolo-nets to catch some of the terrain bombs in midair and detonate them prematurely. Finely woven from cables of lightweight kassek fiber and perfectly weighted with round stones in the four corners, the bolo-nets were normally used in trapping and fishing. But when fired from an arbalest or the larger ballista, the nets served as a swift catch-all for the enemy terrain bombs. The weighted nets forced the weapons to loose their fury long before they reached the ground. A similar invention captured the bombs and pulled them unexploded, dangling from the walls on spring-loaded tethers.
Still, there were far too many bombs to get them all, and each shot required pinpoint accuracy. Berinfell began to feel the Nemic attack, enduring an assault such as it hadn’t seen since the Spider King’s invasion.
Grimwarden watched from atop the palace ramparts with Goldarrow, surveying their defenses through her telescope. With the waterfall of fire at the southern-most point, hundreds of Nemic spilled into the sides of the city like swarms of cluster flies descending on an animal carcass.
“This may take every arrow we own,” said Goldarrow. She zoomed in on a battalion of furiously firing archers, sending shaft after deadly shaft into the naturally hardened, exterior shells of the Nemic fliers.
“Good thing we have a reserve of Gnomes,” Grimwarden replied with a grin.
“And Bear,” said Goldarrow. The giant wolf did his best to join the fray, racing along open stretches of the ramparts and snagging any Nemic that flew too low in a death grip.
Grimwarden smiled, then set off down the stairs. “Seems I’d better get Thorkber’s plan situated.”
“I, uh, don’t understand,” said the crossbowman. He fumbled with the awkward plank of wood Thorkber handed him.
“Just do as he says,” said Grimwarden. “And tell all the other operators to do the same.” He leaned in to the crossbowman’s ear for added emphasis, “And trust me, you don’t want to make a Gnome angry.”
The operator raised his eyebrows, then stared at a smiling, winking Thorkber. “Yes, sir.”
As Grimwarden walked away, Thorkber scrambled up onto the thick beam of the crossbow, then stood on the center of the curved bow. “Here,” he said. “To me, hand it.”
The crossbowman offered the strange-looking plank to the Gnome and watched as Thorkber laid it along the central beam. The lower portion terminated in a tail piece exactly like the end of a bolt, while the front was rounded to a point. Folded along the sides were spring-loaded wings that extended once airborn. A wooden block rose from the plank a third of the way from the bottom, while a dowel protruded toward the top. Once it was securely in position, Thorkber climbed onboard. He lay on his stomach, feet braced against the block, hands wrapped around the dowel.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said the crossbowman.
“Me,” Thorkber thumbed his chest, “aim!”
“You’re not serious.”
“Serious he is,” said another Gnome standing beside the crossbowman, his own plank in hand; and behind him was a line of Gnomes filing up the rampart stairs.
The fire wall was no doubt raised in anticipation of the Nemic attack, no thanks to the unfortunate announcement of their arrival. Unfortunate only for those youthful spawn, thought Ghrell. Still, Ghrell had sent his minions over the top, knowing the Elves would never expect it, though also knowing it meant certain doom for those who were ordered over the top. Assaulting the flanks would be a far less tragic objective, though still riddled with danger. And other projectiles.
The most frustrating part of the fire wall was not being able to see what was happening in the city beyond. So Ghrell moved his hovering Conclave of leaders to the left flank, hoping to get a better view of things as he rose higher into the night sky.
The fire cast a warm, orange glow over the southern portions of the city and, with his multi-occular vision, Ghrell could see the legions of Elven Archers posted along the ramparts, on building summits and further down into the streets, making good the evacuation of Berinfell’s citizens to the north.
It was then he noticed that many of his glorious terrain bombs were not detonating. His fury grew as he squinted against the chaos to see some sort of spring loaded netting reaching out to snag the bombs and often the fliers too, pulling them to safety along the wall. He ground his teeth, and without realizing it, was flying closer and closer to the front.
Dangerously close.
“Send them in faster!” Ghrell roared.
“Faster?” questioned a Commander. “But they are already—”
Ghrell’s temper got the best of him. He pulled his bolt pistol from his hip and fired a pin-pointed stone dowel into the Commanders forehead. The Nemic warrior flipped backwards and disappeared in the darkness below.
“Any other questions?” The remaining Commanders shook their heads. “Good, push them. We must flood the city until the Elves suffocate under our weight!”
Ghrell had no sooner got the words out of his mouth when a piercing heat drove between his shoulder blades, the force of which spun his body in the air. He roared in pain, shock getting the better of him. He managed to correct the spin, but his wings were failing, and he was losing altitude. That’s when he realized something was on him. And it was alive…and screaming.
Thorkber saw a lone warrior in the southwest sky descend from a cluster of Nemic fliers. His rich battle garb and the fact that he had hung back from the battle seemed to mark him of some importance, so Thorkber directed his crossbowmen to aim in that flier’s general direction.
“You sure about this?” asked the operator.
Thorkber nodded, then said, “Loose!”
The crossbowman shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself,” he said, then pulled the lever. The braided cord snapped taught with a thwack! and sent the Gnome-bearing plank hurtling skyward, wings extended.
Thorkber suppressed his desire to yelp, knowing it might alert his enemy. Instead he held tight to the plank and leaned right to correct a subtle change in trajectory. Flying closer, he prepared his body for the leap. Muscles tensed. He only had one chance.
Thorkber lunged away from the plank, his little body in free-flight, plummeting toward the unsuspecting Nemic warrior. Thorkber reached for the knife in his belt, and clutched it—blade out—with both hands.
The blade sank between the flier’s shoulder blades before Thorkber’s body even made contact. But when he did, his momentum twisted the Nemic warrior in midair. Thorkber held onto the knife for dear life, praying it was deep enough to hold. When his target finally righted itself, Thorkber sat upright and let loose a terrible war cry.
Still in near-debilitating pain, Ghrell started skittering across the sky in a vain attempt to rid the terrifying creature from his back. How had he been bested so easily? Despite his violent efforts, the thing would not relent, and the pain between his shoulder blades grew more fierce. With every twist and turn, the burning spread, driving deeper and wider. And still the beast wailed with a terrifying shriek.
What demonic spawn have the Elves loosed upon us? Ghrell thought as he descended lower and lower.
“Where’d you send him?” Grimwarden came back to ask the crossbowman.
“There!” the crossbowman said, raising his finger.
Grimwarden looked at a lone Nemic flier now hurtling toward the city with Thorkber clearly holding on for dear life.
“That’s him,” Goldarrow stated. “That’s Ghrell.”
“You’re sure?” Grimwarden asked, his voice tense. “But how could Thorkber have known?”
“Known what?” asked the crossbowman.
“You sent him to the Vault Minister of the Nemic race,” Grimwarden informed him.
“Thorkber knew what he was getting into,” said Goldarrow. “It’s crazy enough as it is.”
“Right. And he didn’t need to make it worse by mounting the most violent warrior in the lot!”
Ghrell was fighting to stay aloft now, unable to control his direction. That’s when he noticed he was flying over the city. The archers looked up at him, but refrained from delivering a barrage of fatal arrows. Why?
Suddenly the archers from below started to howl…in triumph. Raising their fists at Ghrell. Shouting. Cheering. The Vault Minister was incredulous. How had these Elven spawn identified him and lured him out so easily? And now they praise my demise. It was confounding.
Suddenly the beastie upon his back began chanting, and the Elves echoed his cry…
They aren’t cheering for my demise, Ghrell realized. That’s when the travesty of it all prevailed upon him. They have no idea who I even am! They’re cheering for the spawn on my back!
Just when things couldn’t get any worse, Ghrell cast a fleeting glance behind him. Nemic were falling from the sky everywhere. And not a single arrow was sent up toward them. That’s when he noticed a small colored lump on each Nemic’s back.
Gnomes.
Some hung from wingtips, knives shredding the thin Nemic skin. Others dangled from legs or arms. Still more rode precariously, knives embedded deep into the shoulder blades—just as the Gnome was on Ghrell’s back.
“GNOME SPAWN!” Ghrell roared in a desperate attempt to rid himself of his passenger. But the Gnome would not be dissuaded. Ghrell saw he was headed for a tall building. If he could not wrest the beastie from his body, he’d make a go of crushing it, even if it meant perishing himself. From the amount of blood soaking his chest he figured he was dead anyway.
The Nemic leader was alive, but flying out of control. Grimwarden knew this was not going to end well, and estimated the point of impact. He bounded down the rampart stairs four at a time, turned at the bottom and raced into the streets.
The flet soldiers started cheering, and Grimwarden looked up to see Thorkber pass between buildings, hooting and hollering from atop his mount. Ghrell looked weak, heading straight toward a tall building just ahead. Grimwarden forced himself faster.
A sickening thud echoed down the street ahead and to his right.
“I’m right behind you!” yelled Goldarrow.
Ghrell managed three more beats from his weak wings, then tucked his knees in, rolling on his side. The move presented the Gnome to the broadside of the building, followed by a bone-crushing collision. He hit harder than he imagined, knocking the wind from his lungs. But he felt the Gnome share the impact. The pair fell to the stone street below.
All was quiet.
Ghrell coughed, sending shooting pains throughout his cracked ribcage. The taste of blood filled his mouth. He blinked, trying to get his bearings.
The Gnome.
Ghrell rolled over, lifting his head. The street was empty save for the flickering glow of the fire wall in the distance. He attempted to rise to his hands and knees, but the pain was overwhelming. That’s when he noticed the Gnome laying beside him.
“It seems the tables—” Ghrell coughed, then spit blood to the side. “The tables have turned.” The Gnome had just enough life in him to open one bloodied eye. Ghrell grinned against the pain it took to lift his clawed hand to the Gnome’s throat. “You have bested me, Gnomic spawn. But not before I kill you first.” Ghrell squeezed his claw, pinching off the airway and making the Gnome’s eyes bulge.
Grimwarden took the corner too fast and slammed into the stone building. Just ahead of him lay Ghrell, one arm reaching over to Thorkber’s motionless body.
Grimwarden raced forward, seeing Ghrell squeezing Thorkber’s throat.
That’s when Thorkber saw Grimwarden, his eyes widening.
Ghrell suddenly realized the Gnome’s bulging eyes were not from his strangulation, but from surprise. Something flashed in the Gnome’s dilated pupils.
Jolted by a new blast of adrenaline, Ghrell released his grip on the suffering Gnome and rolled to his opposite side. He recognized the two Elven leaders from the Conclave. Grimwarden, and behind him was Goldarrow. Wretched spawn! They raced toward him, swords raised above their heads.
