Worldbinder

A BATTLE JOINED

In Cantular, Warlord Madoc stood upon a tower wall and peered to the north with nothing to give him light but the stars and a slender crescent moon that clung tenaciously to the horizon.

Wyrmling troops sprinted en-masse in the distance, starlight glinting off helms of bone and off of flesh that was paler still. Among them, something monstrous crawled, a creature huge and humped, like a living hill. Hundreds of wyrmling lords rode upon its back. Madoc could see a head, vaguely adder-like and triangular, larger than a house, low to the ground. Kezziards stumped along too, like giant lizards among the wyrmlings, their warty skin as gray as a toad’s. They towered above the normal troops, like oxen among toddlers. The wyrmlings roared as they came, beating hammers against their shields. The sound snaked over the miles and reverberated among the hills like a groan, as if the very earth cursed at the folly it was forced to bear.

Above the dark throng, three huge black graaks wallowed through the air. This was not a battle that Madoc could win. He knew it. His men knew it.

But neither could they run. The people of Luciare needed their sacrifice this day. The preparations had all been made, the conclusion foregone.

The wyrmlings were still two miles away, rushing forward, their battle cries becoming a dull roar. Warlord Madoc took one last moment to utter defiance against the oncoming horde.

“Men,” he shouted, “let us be called brothers henceforth. For here in our hour of darkness our deeds shall make us brothers, and the bonds we form this day on the battlefield shall make us stronger than brothers.

“This is the twilight of our race. And if this be our final hour, let it also be our finest hour!”

His men cheered and for a moment their battle cries rose above the din of wyrmling troops, the incessant clash of arms.

“Back home our sons and daughters can huddle in fear, wrapped in the arms of our wives and sisters. They can hope that our stout hearts and sturdy arms will be enough to turn back the deadly flow of wyrmlings. Let their hopes not be in vain!”

His men cheered wildly, but the sound of enemy troops nearly drowned them out. Madoc peered across the fields. The wyrmlings were running faster now, sprinting into battle. The pounding of their feet made the earth shudder. They’d soon be at the fortress walls, breaking against them like the sea in a winter storm breaking over rocks.

“I will tell you the truth,” Madoc cried. “We are marked for death this night. Perhaps none of us will escape.” At his back, his son Drewish made a frightened little moan, as if he’d never thought of that. “But I will tell you a greater truth: Dying is easy. Anyone can do it. A babe can die in his cradle in his sleep, seemingly from nothing at all. Dying is easy. All of us will do it.

“But living is hard! Staying alive tonight-that will be a battle royal. So I challenge you, dole out death tonight. Let the wyrmlings take the easy path. Let them die. Make them pay for every moment while you yet live!”

There was a thunderous roar as his men cheered, but Warlord Madoc could see that the cheering would be short. The wyrmlings were charging, less than a mile away now. He could make out individual troops in the starlight, their bone helms gilt with silver, painted with evil symbols.

There was a flaring of light as archers put their arrows to the pitch pots, then let loose a hail. The arrows soared out over the battlefield, landed in the dry grass. It would give his men some light to fight by and dismay the wyrmlings.

Madoc stood tall on the battle tower, then turned and looked down at his sons. He could not bear to watch them die.

“As soon as the wyrmlings break through the wall,” he said softly enough so that others could not hear, “I want you out of here. Get to the south end of the river, and then head through the woods. Those giant graaks will kill any man who dares the roads.”

Connor licked his lips and said, “Yes, father.”

Madoc glanced toward the coming wyrmlings, then back down to his sons. “You cannot rule if you do not live out this night. Go and warn that fool Urstone what has happened here. Tell him how his men died gloriously, but in vain. Make sure that when you reach him, you have respectable wounds.”

Drewish nodded cunningly. “And what of you, father?”

“I’ll direct the battle for as long as I can,” Warlord Madoc said. “And then I will try to join you.”

Madoc turned back. The grass was afire now a hundred yards out. The wyrmlings reached the wall of fire, with flames leaping thirty feet in the air, but did not stop. They roared in defiance and hurdled through the flames, while humans made targets of them, hurling war darts.

Clouds of smoke were rising over the battlefield, filling the air with ash, reflecting the firelight back down to the ground.

Wyrmlings took poisoned darts to the chest, bellowed in rage, and continued rushing on. Here and there, one would stagger and drop, but most kept coming. The poison would be slow to work.

Many wyrmlings rode upon the backs of kezziards, great lizards some fifty feet in length. The monsters were fierce in battle, fighting with tooth and claw, lashing with their tails. The kezziards’ claws could easily get a purchase on the walls of the fortress, and then the monsters would scurry in, carrying attackers. Madoc began crying out, ordering his dart-throwers to target the kezziard riders.

The walls of the fortress were high, but at only thirty-two feet, they wouldn’t be high enough. The kezziards would reach his men easily.

Suddenly the battlefield was white with skull helms as the wyrmling troops filled it. Poisoned war darts began whistling up from them through the smoke.

Some of Madoc’s men cried out while others merely fell back and died without a sound, heavy iron darts sticking from their throats and faces.

The troops were roaring now, his men singing a death hymn while the wyrmlings hurled back curses.

Madoc spared a glance toward his sons, to see if they had stayed or if they had already fled.

He saw them scuffling in the shadows. Drewish had a knife that flashed in the reflected firelight, and he lunged with it. Connor staggered away, blood flowing black from the back of his tunic. He grunted softly, fearfully, as he dodged his brother’s blade.

Madoc did not think. He leapt from the tower into the midst of the fray, used his round war shield to club Drewish across the face.

“Damn you, you brat, what are you thinking?”

“I will inherit!” Drewish said. “I’m most fit to rule! First I’ll kill him, then I’ll take down the king!”

“Not if I get you first, you damned coward!” Connor roared, finally gathering enough wits to clear his war-hammer from its scabbard.

He tried to leap past Madoc to get at his younger brother, but Madoc stopped him with an elbow to the face. Connor staggered under the impact of the blow.

Drewish took the opportunity to lunge, his knife lashing at his brother’s throat, until Madoc punched him in the ear.

Both boys fell to the ground, beaten.

Warlord Madoc put one foot on Drewish’s shoulder, holding him down, while he grabbed Connor by the throat and wrestled him around to get a look at his wound.

Blood stained Connor’s back just above the kidney, but the wound did not look deep. Already the flow was clotting.

“Not too bad,” Madoc judged. “The armor foiled it, just by a bit.”

“I nearly had him,” Drewish spat, trying to struggle up to his feet. “But he ran away.”

Madoc glowered. It was bad enough that Drewish tried to murder his brother. It was made worse by the fact that he had bungled it.

“Here’s the deal,” Madoc growled. “You will both live to reach Luciare. If either of you dies-either at his brother’s hand or at the hand of a wyrmling-I’ll kill the survivor. And, believe me-I’ll take my pleasure doing it. Understand?”

“Yes, father,” Connor sniveled, fighting back tears of rage.

Madoc stomped on Drewish’s shoulder. “Got it?” Madoc demanded. He swore to himself that if this one didn’t understand, he’d slash the boy’s throat with his own blade for being too slow-witted.

“Got it,” Drewish finally agreed.

“Good,” Madoc said. “When I get home, we’ll have a council, figure out how both of you can have a kingdom.” He thought fast. “There are these small folk that will need someone to rule them with an iron hand. They’ll need big folk to be their masters. It will require great work to subjugate them, to properly harvest their endowments. I need both of you alive. Understand?”

Both boys nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Madoc said. He heard screams along the castle wall, one of his men shouting, “Get them! Get them. They’re coming over the wall!”

“Now, drag your asses back home,” Madoc growled. “I’ve got a battle to fight.”

He turned and studied the castle wall, searching for the source of the commotion, even as a huge shadow fell over him, blocking out the starlight. An enormous graak soared over the fortress. And there he saw it, a kezziard’s head rising over the north wall, its face covered in a barding made of iron chains, its silver eyes reflecting the fires.

Warlord Madoc listened to his sons scuttle away even as his mind turned to war.

Now comes the hard part, he thought: staying alive.