Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

Corde reached Parham’s body and pried the rings from his right hand. The one with which he had redirected the lightning still stuck in the ground, and she left it there. She examined the rings, giving each a raspy whirl against its mates, then looked up and bowed her head to Gramn.

The Murosan canted his head to the right. “Those trinkets did him no good, woman. Get your staff and we shall battle.”

“‘Tis not the spell or the staff, but the sorceress, Muroso-twc.” Though Gramn might not have known what the Aurolani suffix meant, Corde’s tone and the way she clipped it off made it clear that it was not a term of endearment. “I am prepared.”

“Do your worst.”

She shook her head as Gramn once again adopted the stance he had used to face Parham. “I shall do my best .”

She fanned the rings and the third glowed scarlet. The red disk again flashed to life and arced in at Gramn. The Murosan contemptuously triggered the green spark that glanced it aside, this time knocking it up and out into a grander arc. He nodded at her, then twitched his finger in her direction, inviting another attack.

The rings rang and spun, then locked down into the fire cylinder. The flames poured out hot and fast. The stream was smaller, but flowed more quickly and drove Gramn back two steps as his staff came around. He spun it quickly, summoning a golden shield that splashed the flames high and wide. Through them Isaura could see him straining, but his spell held.

Corde yanked the rings apart, abruptly terminating the fire stream. Gramn rose from a crouch at the base of the dolmen, smiling. His staff was not burning, nor was his robe. The people on the wall cheered loudly, and that broadened his smile.

Then that smile froze.

The people’s cheering sank into wails.

The scarlet disk that had been so easily deflected had arced back down. As had its predecessor, it sliced through the dolmen, this time fully bisecting the stone. The upper portion slid forward on molten rock. Its leading edge hit the soft ground and sank in until it hit frozen earth, then pitched forward.

Gramn spun and stabbed his stick against it. Blue fire shot from the staff’s base and pierced the earth. The stone slowed, then stopped, held there by magick. Gramn’s back bowed with the strain, but he held even as muddy ground oozed up and around his feet.

Corde rustled the rings against each other.

Gramn shot back over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t…”

“No need.”

The Murosan’s right foot slipped in the mud.

The stone slammed down heavily enough to shake the earth even where Isaura stood. Thick mud streaked with blood splashed out. Brown water had darker tendrils seeping through it, and bubbles rose thickly.

The wails of horror from the walls lasted longer than the bubbles.

Corde casually wiped mud from her tunic, then tossed the rings away. They crashed loudly against the stone and lay there, shining on its broad black face. The sunlight reflected off them, painting four white rings over the walls of Porjal.

Toward the center of the Aurolani position, an order was shouted. Before Corde had crossed even a quarter of the distance back to her lines, dragonels spoke, splitting the air with fire and thunder. A dozen iron balls hammered the walls within those rings. Masonry crumbled, and people fell.

The conquest of Muroso had begun.

Shouting from the cork’s common room brought Kerrigan awake, and he sat upright before a wave of vertigo hit him. Bok reached out to steady him, then dragged him from his pallet and propelled him through the small round opening. Silide-tse stood there, gesticulating toward the doorway. Resolute tossed Will a heavy pouch that clanked with bladestars. Crow slipped from the room he shared with Alexia, tucking tunic into trousers, and she followed several seconds later already clad in a short-sleeved coat of gold-washed ringmail that fell to her knees.

Thunder blasted from the hall, and Kerrigan’s sleep-befuddled mind had a hard time handling the incongruity of thunder within the mountains. In a heartbeat he realized it must be the roar of a dragonel.

He raked fingers back through his hair. “Silide-tse, how did they get inside?”

“Traitors!” She spat another word, which sounded very much like “ kachadikta” though he had no clue what it meant. “When our families moved south from Boragul, centuries ago, we left signs for others to follow. Those paths and entrances have long been forgotten as grander roadways supplanted them. Now our ancient sisters have brought the enemy!”

Resolute grabbed Silide-tse by the shoulder. “How many? Where? What do you need from us?”

“Kill the Aurolani; leave the greys to us. We need to hold them, slow them. We are retreating to the Grand Gallery.” She glanced at Kerrigan. “They want him there.”

The Vorquelf pointed at Bok. “You get Kerrigan there. Everyone else, kill things!”

Resolute’s command struck Kerrigan as blatantly obvious, but it wasn’t until he headed out that he understood its import. As they came into the Long Hall, small knots of male urZrethi keened and fled back toward the Grand Gallery. Female warriors with arms ending in sword blades, axes, or maces—with armored plating contorting their bodies and spikes sprouting everywhere—urged their males along and turned to face the oncoming enemy.

A flood of gibberers filled the hall and in their midst rolled small dragonels. At Fortress Draconis Kerrigan had seen how devastating dragonels could be. There Aurolani balls slammed into walls, bouncing high and long before coming back down and expending their energy. Here, in the close confines of the hallway, poorly aimed shots ricocheted from walls, bouncing through retreating urZrethi. One ball vaporized a male’s chest, scattering his arms and head in a bloody mist. Others tore off limbs and crushed bodies, leaving their victims bleeding and screaming until more thunder drowned them out.

Lombo shouldered his way past Kerrigan, then bounded toward the advancing gibberers on all fours. He leaped, arms spread, claws flashing. His battle roar filled the hallway, and some gibberers gave way.

Behind them, however, a rank of draconetteers raised their weapons and pulled the triggers. A staccato cacophony of thundercracks accompanied the lancing of fire into the air. Lombo’s body jerked and began to spin, then he crashed down hard. He smashed several gibberers to the ground beneath him, shattering bones, but lay still on his side.

A jolt ripped through Kerrigan as the Panqui went down. He stepped forward, willing his friend to rise again. He wanted to run to him, to cast a spell to check on his wounds and then another to heal them, but those spells required him to bridge that hundred-foot gap.

That gap into which flowed more and more gibberers.

Beyond Lombo’s body the draconetteers began to reload their weapons. The gibberers’ mouths hung open in satisfied smiles, their keening laughter piercing the din. One spat on Lombo as he worked, raising a powder horn to refill the weapon with firedirt.

Kerrigan balled his left fist, raising it to shoulder level, then shoved it forward and opened it. Green sparks, like a swarm of angry bees, rose from it. They shot straight out at the gibberers. Some hit the advancing warriors, stinging them and burning black patches into the mottled fur. Others dipped and cut, then reached their true targets.

One penetrated a powder horn, igniting the handful of firedirt at once. It exploded, taking the gibberer’s paw with it. Others poured with the firedirt into the draconette’s barrel, causing fire to flash out. One flaming jet seared a face, blinding that gibberer, while the others just leaped back, dropping their weapons.