Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

Chytrine’s troops never recoiled from employing even the most blasphemous methods to force the defenders from their sanctuaries. Fortress Draconis’ tallest tower still stood. The Crown Tower had been decorated with the skull of a dragon that had died there decades before. To that skull had been tied the body of Dothan Cavarre, the late Draconis Baron, and day by day-carrion birds had feasted upon him.

At least two resistance squads had attacked the tower in futile attempts to rescue the baron’s remains. They had been cut down ruthlessly, and now their bodies hung from the remaining sections of walls. Chytrine meant for that display to intimidate the remaining defenders, but instead the survivors just took it as a challenge.

Erlestoke had stopped his own squad from making a similar rescue attempt by pointing out that their jobs at Fortress Draconis had not changed. The reasons they had been stationed there—men, elves, meckanshü , and urZrethi alike—was to protect the Southlands from invasion and to safeguard the fragments of the DragonCrown. “The best way we show respect for the Draconis Baron is not in saving his bones, but in continuing to perform the task to which he had devoted his life.”

The others had agreed, and their dedication to that mission had resulted in Erlestoke’s current predicament—one that was likely to cost him his life. Prior to its fall, Fortress Draconis had been positioned to prevent Aurolani troops from heading south. The garrison might not have been large enough to destroy any army itself, but cutting off the lines of supply would have been simple. Chytrine had to eliminate Fortress Draconis before any southern invasion could take place.

She had, and her troops streamed southward day and night. Erlestoke’s company watched the troop movements, tallied the information, then relayed it south via arcanslata —a magical slate that would send to its twin any information written upon it. Erlestoke had no idea where the twin of his unit’s arcanslata was—though Jilandessa was leaning toward Alcida or Valicia based on some of the brief replies to their information. His squad only sent troop information and had not let anyone know he lived, for fear that information might cause Chytrine to hunt him down for use against his father.

Two days earlier Erlestoke’s people had taken up one of their usual vantage points to watch troop movements and had seen new banners appearing within the ranks of the Aurolani hosts heading south. They’d gotten used to the large banners proclaiming the identity of a unit, but of late smaller pennants had flown above these. As they were studying the units, a storm had rolled in from the north, bringing with it a quantity of snow, which drove the troops into Fortress Draconis for shelter and sent Erlestoke’s people down into the warm bowels of the earth.

When the storm let up a day and a half later, passing to the south with its fury unabated, Erlestoke had led Ryswin and Pack Castleton up to scout things out, entering a nearby ruin they used as a lookout. As was common, a patrol of gibberers came through. All would have been fine, except that they paused to use the building Erlestoke sheltered in to protect them from a rising breeze.

Even their waiting there would not have been a problem, for the gibberers often lingered until the coming dawn signaled the change of a watch. The man-sized beasts had jutting muzzles and stout fangs, with mottled-fur coats of tan and black that served them poorly for hiding in the snow. Their tufted ears rose from thick skulls and flicked forward and back, though they seemed to rely on their sense of smell more than sight or hearing. The way they snorted in the room below him suggested to Erlestoke that the falling temperature was hard on the delicate tissues, helping to hide his scent from them.

He expected them to move on while it would be dark enough to get his men to safety, and their enthused yips seemed to indicate they would be doing that. But then a harsh bark that echoed down the street cut them off.

Their gibbering died quickly, and Erlestoke chanced to look out, barely peering around the corner of a shattered window casement. He saw a tall, slender creature stalking down the center of a snow-choked avenue. The wind swirled around it, dancing snowflakes curling its wake. It wore a white cloak that matched its snow-white fur. The being stalked forward slowly, turning its head side to side. While the strong jaw gave it the illusion of a muzzle, the creature’s face appeared far less bestial than that of the gibberers.

And the eyes . Erlestoke knew he’d seen their like before because they had no color to them. They were akin to a Vorquelf’s eyes, with no whites, no discernible pupil, but in this case they were entirely black. Even as he made that determination, however, he caught movement in those eyes, as if some malevolent force were trapped in their inky depths.

The creature’s head came up and Erlestoke jerked back, but he knew he’d been seen. As the creature hissed a command, Erlestoke blew on the slow-match of his four-barreled draconette. In response to the order, the gibberkin snarled and started up the snow-strewn steps to the building’s second floor. Carrying an unsheathed longknife in its right hand, the lead beast came up and around the corner, charging straight at him.

Erlestoke pulled the trigger on the quadnel and the weapon belched flame and lead. A ball the size of an olive shot from the thick cloud of grey smoke and smashed into the gibberer’s belly. The impact spun the creature around and the longknife flew from its hand. Red blood splashed over white snow, then the creature crashed against the second gibberer.

The Oriosan Prince rose from his crouch and drew the saber he’d worn strapped across his back. The blade came easily to hand and weighed far less than it appeared because it once had belonged to one of Chytrine’s sullanciri and had been enchanted. Erlestoke cast the quadnel aside and engaged the onrushing gibberers.

The blade’s magick made fighting the gibberers all too simple. In his sight, color drained from the world, save where a golden glow, or red or blue, suggested the flow of energy. As a gibberer drew a longknife back before a thrust, red power would gather in the muscles needed to make the attack. Forewarned by the shift of color, Erlestoke could counterattack.

And counterattacking, or just attacking, was something the blade made easy. The edge did not seem sharp, and the blade’s light weight would have suggested it could not deliver a heavy blow, but it sheared through thick limbs as if they were bundled straw. A quick cut would sever a wrist, flicking the paw and longknife away, and a blow with the saber’s handguard would crush a face.

His first slash spun a gibberer away with its face half-cloven, then a return cut stroked open another gibberer’s belly. It pitched through an open hole in the floor, crashing below while another leaped up the stairs at him. That gibberer had a two-handed grip on its longknife, looking to use it like an ax.

Erlestoke moved in toward the gibberer and ducked down so that the blow carried the creature over his back. It crashed down hard, but bounced up quickly, regaining its feet on his left with its back at the window. As he flicked his saber out to the right, the sword cut bit deep into another gibberer’s hip, dropping him to slide back down the stairs and ball up at the first snowy landing.

The prince turned toward the unharmed gibberer, but remained low, with his right foot actually a step down the stairs. The saber told him that a quick slice as the beast attacked would cut its legs from under it and send it through the hole in the floor. There was a chance he would be wounded, but the sword’s sense of the matter was that his foe would be dead, so personal injury was immaterial.