Douglas Niles - Circle at center

“I don’t like the look of that,” Rawknuckle declared, indicating the massive raft. “Why don’t you give us some room to fall back-say a few hundred yards? We could use your covering fire if that big thing floats in on our flank. And it’s just possible we’ll have to get out of here in a hurry.”

“You got it, Chief,” Deltan agreed. He crossed to his men and started them filing onto the causeway toward the city, while the giant turned around and watched nervously as the raft, and the rank of Crusaders on the causeway, moved steadily closer.

N atac and Karkald stood atop one of the towers flanking the end of the causeway. From here they could get only a vague sense of the true vastness of the raft.

“They must have taken the breakwater out of the harbor,” the warrior observed. “Just pushed the damned thing right into the lake!”

“Are we ready for a two-pronged attack?” Karkald asked, looking along the miles of exposed shoreline on the city’s fringe.

Natac frowned. There were elven companies placed throughout the city, and a small, mobile force of Gallupper’s centaurs and the few dozen elven riders who had mastered the art of horsemanship. But these forces were spread thin, and the only sizable reserves he had were the huge regiments of goblins and gnomes. These were deployed to either side of the base of the causeway, with the goblins on the Mercury Terrace and the gnomes on the other side of the road. If the raft could not be stopped, those untested troops would have to bear the brunt of the first attack.

“The caravels are ready,” the general observed, gestured to the ships that sat, sails limp, in the protected anchorage beside the terrace. “Best send them out, now.”

The signaler, a young elfwoman who had trained herself to anticipate her commander’s orders, quickly pulled out a blue banner scored with lines of white to represent billowing sails. With a crisp command of magic she sent the standard fluttering aloft, where it attached itself to the top of the flagstaff and streamed outward.

The reaction in the harbor below was instantaneous. Immediately the druids in the stern of each caravel started their casting, and wind puffed into the limp sails. Slowly, but with steadily increasing speed, the little ships scuttled past the breakwater and turned onto the lake. They made a brave display as they deployed into line abreast, steel batteries gleaming from the prows of no less than half of the dozen ships.

“But I still don’t like the size of that thing,” Natac confided, as the racing ships, even spreading into a wide fan, did not make as wide a formation as the flat prow of the great raft.

“And trouble on the road, too,” remarked Karkald.

The enemy phalanx of giants attacking down the causeway had almost advanced to Rawknuckle’s islet, and that massive raft-apparently propelled by hundreds of polers in the stern-had nearly reached as far into the lake. The metal and wooden walls protecting the floating platform were clearly visible, while the fore and both flanking faces bristled with weapons.

“They’re going to get around behind Rawknuckle,” Natac said. He shouted to one of his signalmen. “Run up the green flag-I want the giants to withdraw!”

The banner swiftly soared up the long shaft, supplanting the sailing orders to the caravels, streaming into the gentle breeze. But when he looked down the causeway, Natac wondered if they weren’t already too late.

From the main battle tower he could see the whole causeway of the Metal Highway, as well as the great stretches of lake to either side of the smooth, wide road. Rawknuckle Barefist’s company of giants were forming an orderly line on their islet in the middle of the causeway.

A cloud of dust billowed into the air, marking a swath along the Avenue of Wood.

“Here comes that centaur again,” Karkald noted with a frown. “Maybe we’d be better off just to let him charge and be done with it.”

Natac shook his head, though he shared his comrade’s frustration. Gallupper came into view as he and his company cantered across a wide market. The young centaur led a band of perhaps fifty hoofed, thundering chargers. Half the number were centaurs, disowned youngsters of the Blacktail, Craterhoof, and other clans, while the rest were elves mounted on horseback. Natac had to admire the speed of the racing advance, even as he recognized its futility in the tangled streets and buildings of the city. “Sometime we’ll find a use for them… until then, we’ll just have to keep talking to him.”

“Can we charge yet?” hailed the young centaur, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up from the base of the tower.

“Not yet! Just wait there a minute,” barked Karkald. He turned to Natac. “I’ve been working on another invention, a little device I’m about ready to try-I’d like to give it to the young fella. It’s something that could use a speedy wielder.”

“Give it a try,” Natac said, immediately curious. Still, Karkald, as always, tended toward secrecy while his inventions were being developed-he very much relished revealing them with a flourish. So the warrior turned his attention to the enemy’s progress while the dwarf went down and spoke with the centaurs for some time.

R awknuckle roared a challenge, allowing the by-now familiar joy of battle to suffuse his body and inflame his temper. He and his giants straddled the road, retreating slowly against the press of their kinfolk who had been corrupted by the Crusader knight. With a flexing of corded sinew, he brought his axe through a vicious overhand swing, cleanly splitting the wooden shield of the nearest attacker. The deadly blade continued unabated, cleaving the enemy giant from chin to belly. As the dying Crusader tumbled into the steaming heap of his own guts, Rawknuckle was already striking a different target, wielding the axe in great back and forth swipes that felled another attacker and halted the rest in a respectful arc around the huge chieftain.

Tremendous noise surrounded him, the cries of grievously wounded giants, the crushing blows of steel and stone against wood and metal-and, sometimes, flesh and bone. Giants pressed back and forth, limbs tangling, brutal blows landing against both sides. A heavy body fell against Rawknuckle, and as he pushed it away he recognized Broadnose. His companion grasped at his shoulder, mouth working soundlessly, until a gush of blood gurgled forth, smearing the chieftain’s side as the dying giant sprawled onto the road.

His sturdy legs planted like tree trunks, Rawknuckle sliced at the attackers with renewed fury, grimly exacting vengeance for his slain friend. The steel axe carved into a thick neck, nearly decapitating one attacker, then swept back to take the arm off another. But even in the press of his deadly blows he was forced back, sensing the weight of the massive column of attackers as an inexorable tide. Comrades to either side fell or retreated, and Rawknuckle was forced to go along-else he would have quickly been surrounded and cut down.

Even so, he stepped back slowly, begrudging each bloody, precious pace. Gore spilled from his axe, and many a bold Crusader quailed from the slash of his deadly weapon. Others of the attackers, those in the rear ranks, howled and cursed as arrows showered onto them. Shields were raised, and many of the steel-tipped shafts thunked harmlessly into the wooden barriers. But more fell through the gaps to strike deep into shoulders, thighs, necks, and chests.

The shower of arrows grew thicker, and now many of the missiles were falling among Rawknuckle’s own company. He trusted the aim of Deltan’s elves, but with a quick look to the side he saw that the great raft was creeping slowly past his position. Another volley of arrows darkened the sky, scattering indiscriminately among both the attackers and the defenders, as Crusader archers sprayed the causeway with their dangerous missiles.