Chapter IX: Drums of War
Lord Nasher strode the battlements and surveyed the field. It had been five days since Dernhelm and the others had left for Evereska and all had not gone according to plan. Deekin's kobolds had arrived, thirty-one in number, a ragtag band of miniscule reptilians that spent most of their time fighting amongst themselves despite all of Deekin's cajoling. They each wore a metal skull cap and held short spears used for throwing, but he wondered if they even knew how to use them. Lord Nasher was obliged to permit them entrance because they had come to Neverwinter's aid, but it soon became apparent that they had a huge propensity for destruction. Deekin took them to the Trade of Blades for their first night and they quite nearly burnt it to the ground. He was forced to relegate them to the aqueducts for their stay in the city; as a race of prolific miners they were used to subterranean dwellings and thankfully considered the spacious underbelly of Neverwinter lavish accommodations, despite the water and waste. Nasher could not understand what Dernhelm had been thinking!
Behind him, he could hear his engineers feverishly working on their trebuchet, erecting them in empty spaces throughout the city core, which had been cleared of all non-essential traffic. He didn't bother to turn around. He had seen the impressive collection of large marble blocks that morning, laying nearby in neatly stacked piles, quarried ages ago from the Sword Mountains and meant for a new addition to the Academy, now repurposed for war. The trebuchet, his engineers assured him, would be ready in two days at the earliest, smiling as if this should cheer him.
And of course thinking of Aribeth did little to improve his mood. Even with the best ministrations she still lay gravely wounded, and though Neurik assured him that she would recover, he could not help be troubled. He had elevated Sedos Sebile to acting Knight General – she was competent – but every time he saw her walk the battlements, it seemed somehow out of place and wrong.
The only bright spot had come yesterday, when, true to his word and working faster than Nasher would have thought possible, Khelben Arunsun had sent three ships of troops, fully six hundred in all, raising the complement of the city to a respectable five and a half thousand. Khelben had sent word that three more ships were on their way, with more being prepared.
His own reinforcements, which had been sent to Luskan, had only half returned, the second ship still two days journey north. The Northern Drift brought warm water up from Waterdeep to Luskan – the main reason he was quickly able to aid that city – but this hampered southerly travel along the coast.
As he traversed the parapets above the gates, he glanced at his bodyguard. Two of the Nine stood nearby, girded in the full plate they had adopted as their standard, the bear of a man, Lord Rhangabe, with his massive battle axe held loosely over one shoulder, next to the diminutive Lord Gennereth, a short sword on either hip. Out of the five that would remain with him during the coming battle, he had selected them this day as they were the most reserved, affording him the solitude he so coveted in the time left him.
The four others of the Neverwinter Nine were leading the defenses of the district walls. Though those sections were likely to be less contended – the enemy would concentrate its energy on the main gates to the city core – they were of no less importance, and Lord Nasher installed his most competent lords as their protectors. The methodical Lord Orhan had command of the Beggar's Nest, while his equally deliberate counterpart, Lord Wingold, held authority over the Docks, two hundred soldiers in each garrison.
The wealthy aristocracy of the Blacklake District had Lord Bornhald as its protector. Lord Nasher had specifically appointed him to that district for the shrewd, cocksure lord would ever make the aristocracy remember the agent of their deliverance, twisting the short leashes to which the nobles would be bound to the benefit of the city. As much as Nasher thought it should give him a pang of guilt at his cunning, he couldn't help seeing it as a godsend.
"An unavoidable crisis leads to a fortuitous benefit," Nasher had said smiling as he discussed his plan with the lord.
The garrison in the Blacklake District was of exactly equal size to those in the Docks and Nest – Nasher was not about to draw accusations of class favoritism in the midst of this crisis – made up of exactly the same complement of archers and swordsman. It had been his most tedious but most necessary task to remove any possible ammunition from the soon-to-be-beleaguered city.
Leaving nothing to chance, Lord Nasher had even outfitted the Peninsula district with a minor garrison overseen by the affable Lord Hadrian – who stepped into the role without complaint – to protect against the unlikely event that the enemy would try for a sea assault. But not all planning was easy. An expert tactician, Nasher still had difficulty in determining how to use his troops to best effect, defending over thirteen thousand feet of wall all while keeping a reserve and a force in the field.
Sedos Sebile had command of the forces along the gate wall. Technically, as acting Knight General, she had command over the entire army, but Nasher withheld full control because of her lack of experience with a force that size. He knew it was a slight to her capacity to command, but he would rather wound her in that way than threaten the city. The bulk of his forces were controlled by Lord Daniril Angevin, a grizzled veteran of the Horde Wars and the only other noble in the city to have war experience. Currently, he was stationed in a small field tent surrounded by thirty-five hundred soldiers outside the gates of Neverwinter.
And Lord Austrion…
The lone rider charging across the field from the north gave him pause, scattering his thoughts: it was one of their outriders tasked with watching enemy movements. Eyes locking on the posting form, he watched the rider for a long moment as it drew closer, moving through their pickets and heading straight for Lord Angevin's tent.
And then his gaze was inexorably drawn to the way the rider had come.
The sun was at his back giving him a commanding view of the field, nearly two miles along the north road before it passed over a small rise. But nothing was there, not a speck on the horizon.
An unsettling feeling filled his stomach.
Had the orcs arrived already?
The rider dismounted quickly, but Lord Angevin was already outside, having been warned by his pickets, his grizzled face staring grimly beneath a nearly bald pate, a few wisps of hair blowing in the light breeze. The rider spoke animatedly, but not loud enough to be heard from the wall, and pointed off to the north. To Lord Nasher, his gestures suggested something too close for comfort.
And then the faint sound of chanting could be heard on the wind.
His eyes snapped back to the empty horizon even as a messenger raced from Lord Angevin's tent toward the city gates.
Where was the enemy? To hear singing from that distance they had to be close… or very big.
After a moment he saw them, a line of large marching shapes just at the edge of vision, too far away to be identified but definitely heading for the city. Runners raced out from Lord Angevin's tent, sent to the field captains to direct them in regard to the soldiers they surely saw coming toward them.
But strangely, as Nasher watched for deployments to tell him the nature of their foe before the messenger reached him, they did not form up lines.
It was a good omen. He didn't even need the message-boy who had now reached the stairs up to the parapets to tell him that.
And then, as they closed the distance to the city, the chanting gained in volume until he could make out the words. It was a battle call to Tempus sung by several hundred human voices.
Daelan's Uthgardt Red Tigers had come, as he had hoped they would, over five hundred miles of hard ground solely for the chance to fight the orcs.
For the first time in a while, he relaxed.
The night passed in relative quiet, Lord Nasher getting some of the soundest sleep he had in over a month. Four hundred Uthgardt barbarians – easily worth at least twice that in his trained men, he was forced to admit – had come to swell his ranks, and the army stood at over six thousand. Whatever the enemy threw at them, they were at the best strength they could hope for, considering.
When he woke the next morning and ate his breakfast in the castle, he felt refreshed and ready for the coming fight. And he knew it would be this day that the first blows would be struck between man and orc, for he could sense the world stirring, feel a change in the air. It was exhilarating and unnerving as battles always were; even knowing that men would die – men he knew – did little to change the dichotomy of emotions. Saying a quick prayer to Tyr for his friends' safety somewhere in the wilds to the east, he had his squire gird him in armor, and strode purposefully from the castle to the battlements, five of the Nine at his back.
Making a circuit along the wall, he encountered his commanders, greeting each lord – and his acting Knight General – in turn. Part of him wanted to see his real subordinate, but as she still lay in the infirmary, he felt that meeting her may distract him for the day.
And then he took his place along the parapets atop the main gate.
The field before him was empty of the enemy, but it could not have felt fuller, for the Uthgardt barbarians were singing a marshal chant to their patron Uthgar, the Battle Father. The sound broke the stillness of the morning in truth but it still felt right and fitting, and acted to raise his spirits even further. Around them, their energy seemed to wear off on his soldiers, for some of them tried to join in, but thankfully, they were drowned out by the more experienced northmen who were too occupied to teach them.
And through many variations they continued as the day wore on.
By about midday they had still seen no sign of their enemy, but the overwhelming activity of the outriders presaged their coming. The news they brought was of a large host – big enough that an accurate accounting was irrelevant – still hidden under the eaves of the Neverwinter Wood a mile to the east. It was an organized host: the army around Luskan had joined forces with Dernhelm's coterie of besiegers and were marshalling as one in the forest.
"Ah, my kingdom for a good, old, stupid orc," he said to himself as he stood there waiting. But then he squashed the thought.
"My kingdom for an army of good, old, dead orcs," he corrected.
As if sensing his thoughts, a voice, deep and resonating, came to his ear from the right, causing him to turn.
"Waiting is the hardest part of battle, is it not, my Lord Nasher?"
Jent Austrion, Lord of Helm's Hold, stood against a crenellation to his right, staring at the elder lord from behind the barred faceguard of his helmet. His plate and mail was burnished though it had clearly seen use in combat, and the eyes of Helm stood out smartly on the backs of his studded, steel gauntlets. Absently, he fingered the hilt of his hand-and-a-half sword hanging in a scabbard at his left hip.
Practically never appearing in public without being girded as if for war, the middle-aged lord was like a rock of confidence and Nasher had taken to him instantly. He had ruled over the rebuilt and garrisoned hold of Helm for nearly fifteen years, encouraging its repopulation after Desther had despoiled it. Under his stern guidance, though small, the outpost had ascended to a prominence never before known in its history and it served as a sure stopover in the craggy lands of the southern Charwood for trade bound for Waterdeep.
And because of his skill, Lord Austrion would command the defense of the city core and their reserve units.
Lord Nasher nodded at his comrade. "It is indeed."
An hour later, the sun having past the zenith moving on its downward journey into night, just long enough that the defenders started getting anxious at the delay of the impending battle, a drum sounded from the Wood, a resounding boom that echoed off the walls.
It was loud enough that it momentarily drowned out the Uthgardt, their attention drawn to the Wood. But the cessation of their marshal joy was short-lived. Not to be intimidated – barbarians never were – as the sound faded away, they took up their song again, even bolder now that the enemy had come. On the wall, however, a hush pervaded as all eyes were locked on the trees.
As the peal faded into silence, the drum sounded again. This time however, it was joined by a host of other drums, beginning a steady rhythm: doom, doom, doom. It was truly a marshal beat, one customarily and therefore eerily human, indicative of a disciplined march. And with that the orcs broke from the cover of the trees.
A line nearly a quarter-mile wide, marching to the beat of the drums, moved toward Neverwinter. As the orcs moved forward, more lines stepped into view, one after another, forming into a wall nearly sixty deep. The orcs were wielding weapons of every sort, wicked-looking sickle-swords to huge awl-pikes, and their armor was equally motley. Scattered amidst them were smaller goblin-kin and huge ogres, ten-foot tall brutes wielding medium-sized tree trunks like clubs.
But the thing that drew every eye on the walls was the siege equipment.
Six giant wheeled vehicles rumbled amidst the orcs pushed and pulled by a small host of ogres. They stood thirty feet tall with peaked roofs covered in animal skins, and thick, wooden walls that looked as if they had been soaked in water. A flat section sat just below the roof, like the floor of an attic, and doors in the crown could be opened for archers to fire while screened from overhead attacks. Below this was a humongous tree trunk suspended on large metal chains. They were cunningly engineered – too cunning for the simple, fell humanoids.
And then they noticed the scaling ladders.
Expectedly, in his almost-whine that so grated on everyone's nerves, Lord Handlebach asked, "How did the orcs get so smart?"
Lord Nasher rolled his eyes, but his face was grim. "Obviously the ogre mage wasn't truly the one in control of this army," came his reply.
"And we find ourselves facing a more cunning enemy than we had expected," Austrion stated, surveying the field below. The size of the host was at least the ten thousand that Dernhelm's scouts had estimated. Unperturbed, he added "Let us see if he takes the field."
Across the open fields they came as a wall, advancing in neat columns, their feet marching in step to the drums. The siege weapons stayed at the rear of the force, surrounded by a guard of huge orcs and several ogres, waiting for the army to reach the city. It was so neatly ordered and therefore so alien. It was the strangest thing any of the defenders had ever seen from a host of orcs and some looked at each other uneasily.
"Will the order hold, do you think?" Eltoora Sarptyl asked, coming to stand beside Lord Nasher on the wall. Her Many-Starred cloak blew smartly in the light breeze, the sunlight reflecting off of the tiny sequins sewn in to the fabric. Her angled face and pronounced cheekbones gave her the look of a bird of prey as she surveyed the field, and her hair, done up in the simple yet elegant pinned twist atop her head, added to illusion of danger at the sheer casualness with which she conducted herself.
Nasher stroked his mustache a long moment before answering. "If it does, then be ready. There will undoubtedly come a crucial moment when we need you."
She nodded simply.
The edge of the Wood stood less than a mile from the intercepting army. When the orcs had reached the halfway point, they divided into three brigades of roughly even size, with pikemen to the front interspersed between orcs wielding axes and swords. To the center of each group were a sizeable number of archers wielding short bows.
Lord Angevin, a veteran experienced in wars both human and orcish, was unperturbed. Snapping his men to attention, he called out orders in rapid succession, creating a shield wall in a line in front of the gates with his pikemen and a number of dismounted men-at-arms. The rest of the cavalry he placed on the right flank toward the back, the Uthgardt barbarians at the left. The archers stood out in front of the infantry, each bearing a small armful of stakes sharpened at both ends, which they began to hammer into the ground, angled outward at their attackers. It was a simple defense, easily moveable if the enemy changed tactics, but it would act as a bottleneck as the orcs would be forced to evade, and give the archers time to fire.
Suddenly the tempo of the drums increased and the orcs began to move in double time, their feet shaking the ground. The archers finished their work, the shield wall separating just long enough to allow the archers to retreat to the rear. The distance closed to two thousand feet, then to fifteen hundred. Finally, from over ten thousand throats, a scream went down the line, a guttural, animalistic sound that only orcs can make, and they began to charge, an ordered stampede of pig-faced humanoids.
When the orcs reached three hundred feet from the stakes, Lord Angevin raised his hand and the archers of Neverwinter let their longbows sing, a flight of nearly fifteen hundred arrows. Many of the orcs fell only to be trampled by their comrades, but the charge came on without the slightest falter, the orcs driven and unflinching. Again the arrows flew and again, fully three waves of arrows before the orcs struck the stakes. If they were slowed, it was barely perceptible, and it was only due to the bodies that had fallen in their way. The press of the orcs forced the stakes and the impaled aside, the screams of the dying drowned out by accumulated rage of the battle-ready orcs, nearly thrice the number of defenders.
"One good thing is that they still are single-minded like orcs in thrall," Austrion shouted.
And yet, no commander could be seen on the battlefield.
With a crash, the two armies came together, the larger intending to crush the smaller by sheer weight in numbers. The orcs lashed out with their swords and a hail of arrows fell among the defenders; several score were slain. A portion of the brigade on the left, nearly five hundred strong with several large ogres at their center, made to wheel around the shield wall and come at their flank, but the barbarians were ready. Highly disciplined, they braced their ever-ready three-pointed "tiger claws" and drove into the enemy with incredible force.
But the enemy was not so easily routed.
Completely outclassed in skill, the enemy made it up in sheer ferocity, meeting the barbarians head on, devolving that section of the battlefield into pandemonium. Similarly, the right flank soon became a target and Lord Angevin committed his cavalry in a series of charges that threw the orcs into confusion. But the main press still was focused on the center.
Though an incredibly effective field fortification, the sheer numbers of orcs slowly ate away at the shield wall. Each time gaps formed in the line, Lord Angevin reformed it, shortening the shield wall and making it more into a half circle. The barbarians on the left flank soon gained the upper hand, driving the orcs backward. The pigmen turned and ran in complete disorder. Maintaining discipline, the barbarians followed their enemy for a short distance, driving in a wedge in the midst of the fleeing orcs.
Seeing the barbarians get all but surrounded by their opponents, disordered as they were, Nasher made ready to send a signal to Angevin to warn them of their danger. He had seen this arrangement too many times to take it lightly, especially given the order the orcs had evidenced earlier.
"If these truly are a competent enemy, or a tightly controlled one, I might fear this to be a feigned retreat," said Lord Nasher. Lord Austrion, coming to stand next to him, shook his head in agreement.
But their fears quickly proved unfounded. Some of the fleeing orcs got tangled with those advancing in the center, causing part of it to fall apart, and the barbarians capitalized on their confusion, their daggers stabbing. Bodies fell thickly about the Uthgardt Red Tiger's.
And the shield wall held.
The orcs could gain no ground, pressed against the determined defenders, and their bodies began to pile up against the wall. Though decidedly outnumbered, the training of the humans was superior even to the enforced discipline of the enthralled orcs.
But then it came, whizzing over their heads, a shadow that nearly froze Lord Nasher's blood.
Shrieks piercing through the din of battle, a Varax streaked out of the sky, cutting a long line in the shield wall with bolts of electricity. Men began to smoke even in their armor and many of the lightly clad archers simply burst into flame. So close together were the defenders that the small fires quickly spread, sparks and embers threatening to turn the shield wall into a conflagration. Moments later, a second swooped low over the battlefield, scattering horses in terror and throwing riders amidst their enemies, its long wings spread wide.
The orcs were unfazed by the presence of the Varax and capitalized on the confusion by slamming in to the fear-stricken defenders. The already weakened shield wall shuddered and a hole opened in the line, orcs pouring through. Several groups of archers, yet unscathed by the aerial assault, unleashed volleys of arrows right into their faces and then drew their swords in an effort to plug the breach, but Nasher knew it would not be enough. Panic loomed, an enemy far greater than a division of orcs.
Even on the wall, many of the militia cowered in fear behind the parapets but Sedos Sebile was quickly at their backs, yelling at them to restore order. Chaos reigned among the small group of lords surrounding Nasher and Eltoora as well, but from surprise aside from fear, the clamor of voices mimicking the battle below as they warred to be heard.
"Not Varax!" Lord Handlebach shouted – not from fear, assuredly – this new development simply not fitting in to his limited expectations about the battle.
"I thought Dernhelm had killed them all?" Lord Abril Devon said in disbelief, his voice nasally as it became when he was excited. Beneath his faceguard, his eyebrows were raised halfway to the widow's peak of his receding hairline, his round face betraying his surprise.
"Three left and I never thought to see them here!" Lord Aldebran Sethan said as if in reply though it overlapped with his senior comrade. As coolly confident as any of the Nine, his skill lay in the fact that he was the master of stating the obvious without actually annoying anyone.
Lords Rhangabe and Gennereth stood as composed and silent as always, only their eyes suggesting surprise and alarm, but Lord Nasher easily made up for them with a bellow of rage.
"Eltoora, you must stop them!" he shouted, his face nearly white.
"If I kill them, they will only explode, and that will just as easily tear apart the line!" she replied, even as she watched the creature turn for another deadly pass. Of all the tricks up their enemy's sleeve, she did not expect to see two Varax take the field against them. They were creatures out of legend, summoned from some alien plane by the Valsharess. Though she felt her magic sufficient to the task of dispatching them, the danger they posed even in death caused her firm confidence of earlier to shudder.
"If we do not, this will turn into a rout!" he retorted, but he knew she was right. The whole situation suddenly looked dire.
And then Lord Austrion grabbed his arm and pointed.
Off to the south, a rider came tearing across the field at breakneck speed, his mount lathered and nearly stumbling in its haste. So reckless was his ride that though he saw the intense battle before the gates, he charged ahead anyway as if intent on shouldering aside the combatants by sheer force of will. As he closed on the outskirts of the orc force he at last turned his horse, angling toward the walls, trying to reach the limited safety of a bowshot. The rider's cloak flowed out behind him, displaying the crescent moon over sparkling water, the sigil of Waterdeep.
Nasher's eyes widened. Any message that could be so important that a rider would risk certain death boded ill.
And then the rider's hood flapped back, exposing a round face with a bushy red beard.
Shock covered Nasher's face at the sudden recognition, and he grabbed Eltoora pointing at the rider.
"Him! Him! You must save him!" he roared. "A scout from Waterdeep!"
Startled at the sudden change of her lord's focus, Eltoora looked first at Nasher and then at the rider. She almost asked how a single man and his messages could be more important than two Varax. And then she too recognized him.
It was Demas.
Several orcs at the fringes of the battle moved to intercept him, but he flailed about him with his sword to keep them away and ran them down. And then one of the Varax broke off from harassing the line, which continued to weaken, and made straight for the rider. Moving into a shallow dive, it stretched out its long, razor-sharp talons to catch the rider and drag him from his horse. He ducked low and the talons passed harmlessly overhead, but his horse stumbled in fear, and he was thrown forward over it to land on his back.
For a moment he lay there unmoving, breathless. Capitalizing on the opportunity, the orcs moved to close in around him even as the Varax rose to turn, the glow of lightning building in its mouth.
"To the Temple!" Eltoora screamed and disappeared in a flash.
Struggling to his feet, Demas drew his sword but it was clear that he was too shaken to put up much of a fight. He barely parried the lead orc's axe, its companions not a dozen steps behind; the Varax started to dive, having completed its turn.
And then Eltoora appeared at Demas' side handing him a small white stone the size of a fist – the Stone of Recall – even as an arrow from the wall felled the orc before them. Drawing the second one from the folds of her cloak, the stones briefly flashed and they disappeared; orc arrows all but sailed through their afterimages. Overhead, the Varax, committed to the dive, realized their departure too late, and let loose its breath, igniting nearly a score of orcs.
But this was the least of its mistakes.
So close was it to the wall, so intent on its victim, that the Varax was separated by a goodly distance from the center of the fighting. Sedos jumped into action and a hail of arrows slammed into it from the battlements, driving it toward the ground. Spreading its wings, it tried to gain height, but several arrows tore through the delicate membrane and it foundered, crashing into the wall.
Any northerner would have known the result of slaying a Varax. Dernhelm had even reiterated it to them when he had discussed their adventure in the Crags. And therefore Sedos must have known. Nasher could only surmise that she had calculated its position as being the least damaging on the beleaguered defenders.
Which put it right in front of her.
"Get down!" Nasher screamed, but it was too late.
With a deafening roar, the Varax was torn into millions of pieces.
The concussion knocked most of the defenders on that section of the wall from their feet, some falling from the parapet into the inner courtyard. The top of the wall, just above where the Varax had exploded, leaned outward ominously and then gave way, several tons of rock and soldiers dropping onto the field below.
Sedos was no longer visible.
His eyes wide, for a moment even the battle-hardened Nasher was struck dumbfounded, but the sounds of the remaining Varax drew his attention back to the battlefield. The shield wall had shrunken to a distorted ellipse, with the center in a constant retreat, but it held somehow, Angevin corralling his terrified men with amazing precision. Even the flanks maintained a loose organization. But the farthest soldiers were nearly within a short bowshot from the walls and it became blatantly apparent that they were soon going to lose the field.
Grabbing Austrion by the shoulder, he said "Get the men into position for a sortie. We need to get everyone back inside."
For a brief moment Austrion stared at him through his faceguard in disbelief and then he leapt for the stairs down to the courtyard.
The lingering dust above the broken section of wall did more to indicate Sedos' fatal decision than the sight of any dismembered body could. Many of the guard therefore stared at the dissipating cloud in utter disbelief at the passing of their commander – the first serious loss in their minds. But their attention, however justified, distracted them from the battle and Nasher dispatched Lord Sethan to restore order along the wall.
He was surrounded by only four of the Nine therefore – Handlebach, Devon, Gennereth, and Rhangabe – when that same dust cloud drew the attention of the remaining Varax. Having completed a withering pass through the beleaguered shield wall, the line threatening to buckle at the formation of another hole, it turned to see the settling dust that bespoke the destruction of its unearthly comrade. An ear-piercing shriek escaped its open mouth, an emission of pain at the loss that struck the defenders dumbly, suggesting a higher level of consciousness than the magical, mindless killer they had all envisioned.
Such thoughts were quickly dismissed as it pulled back its wings and dove straight at the defenders on the wall, getting as close as possible to the top of the parapet. Surprised soldiers attempted to leap aside, but its long, razor claws caught them and knocked a goodly number from the walls; many more were consumed by its breath, igniting in their armor. Several soldiers moved to intercept it, their bravery viewed with surprise – and alarm from their compatriots at the thought of a successful blow eliciting an explosion – but the fury of the creature swatted them aside or burned them down as it completed its pass.
And then its eyes – if one could attach the term to eldritch red orbs – fixed on Lord Nasher as if perceiving him rightly to be the leader.
Lord Nasher and the Four drew their weapons even as it came at them, veterans of countless battles facing this nightmare all but unmoved. The Four were in front, the sworn protectors of their Lord to the end. This proved their undoing. Letting out another pent up breath, the Varax caught Lords Handlebach and Rhangabe directly, electricity sprouting from the chinks in their armor as they were consumed, falling to the ground in piles of ash and agony. Lord Rhangabe stood stalwart the longer of the two, his large axe held defiantly, prepared to swing in the opportunity that never came, the clanging of the axe head on the stones of the parapet telling evidence of his demise.
But now the creature was momentarily out of energy, with its momentum as its only weapon. It spread its arms wide as it made to pass through the falling motes of the two incremated Lords, bent on skewering Lord Nasher and his two royal guards. They could see its open mouth building for another electrical volley through the settling dust but it was evident that they would first meet under brute force.
And at that moment, Lord Gennereth struck.
The diminutive Lord had been the only one of the guard to move from his forward position in front of Nasher – to the very edge of the rear parapet – preparing himself for the creature's approach. Reclusive in speech, he was nevertheless crafty, and as the creature passed in front of him, he launched from the stones with all his weight behind him, sinking both of his short swords into the creature. The Varax was surprisingly light for one of such violence, yet tough and stringy, and only by the force of his weight did his swords penetrate the skin of leather and cartilage. Caught by surprise, the Varax had little time to react before Gennereth's momentum carried them both over the wall.
Lord Austrion sat his mount in front of the small group of soldiers – a cavalry troop and a company of militiamen – as the crossbars rose via pulleys to lie against the inner wall. It had taken mere moments to arrange the party, the under-lieutenants having prepared their subordinates for just such an event; yet when the time came for action, a feeling of trepidation stole over the assembled. With a heave, a dozen guards pulled on the two great doors, a platoon of archers arrayed at the center to cover their maneuvers.
Ever the sight of dread for the soldier, the doors opened onto a scene of barely controlled chaos, the archers at the rear of the shield wall firing directly over the heads of their allies. The center of the fortification bulged dramatically inward, the orcs less than forty feet from the gates, and the flanks were hidden from view. For many of the gathered men, this was their first sight of the slathering pigmen since the start of the battle. Blood and gore spraying from the front ranks of the defenders underscored the penalty for allowing the orcs to gain the city.
With the gates open, the archers – some completely exhausted of arrows and forced to scrounge from the dead – began to retreat first, flowing back between the assembled ranks of horsemen and infantry, all the while attempting to keep a steady barrage of arrows at the enemy. Then the shield wall started a measured retreat – a difficult tactic at best, especially considering its currently distorted shape. The flanks withdrew making the shield wall even tighter, slowly draining away at the number of people left on the field.
But the retracted gates had an unintended consequence. Seeing the doors open, the orcs attacked with renewed ferocity, trying to gain the city, pushing the ellipse backward, and all but separating the flanks who already suffered the difficulty of trying to gain the city through their thin connection with the center.
And then the right side of the line exploded, just out of sight.
It was an amazing concussion, twin to the one that had killed Sedos Sebile and a score of defenders not minutes earlier. Orcs, soldiers, and pieces of wall were blown into view, knocking down a swath on both sides. The deafening boom rolled into the courtyard, smothering the sounds of bodies being crushed by falling rocks. The shield wall crumbled. In mere seconds, the order that had been maintained for so long devolved into understandable bedlam. Huge holes opened in the line, only to be filled in seconds by swinging orcs, and soldiers began running through the gates in their haste to get away from the carnage, sometimes nearly trampling fallen comrades.
The cavalry that had once protected the right flank, now greatly reduced in number and scattered due to the explosion, tried to control their startled mounts and regroup, but they were forced off to the south, cut off from their beleaguered comrades. So many orcs had rushed to fill the gaps, standing between them and the safety of the city that the gates were effectively lost to them. With a rapid series of firm commands, Lord Angevin – who had somehow maintained his position atop his horse – managed to hold the left flank together by sheer force of his grizzled will; however, they too were cut off from the gates, pressed against the wall and surrounded by orcs.
At the same time, orcs began pouring into the city, even under withering fire from the wall, and by infantry and archers from street level. Austrion's assembled men, bolstered by the soldiers that had retreated under control, held their ground with an intensity, the thought of orcs entering and befouling the sanctity of their city driving them on. A soldier may show fear at facing an orc on the field of battle but fighting for hearth and home erases such thoughts with wild abandon. In the end, this proved successful. Several tense moments passed, but they managed to stop the orcs at the gates, creating an effective bottleneck, aided by some of the wall guard Lord Nasher had diverted to their aid.
And then Lord Austrion ordered a cavalry charge.
"For Helm and Neverwinter!" he shouted.
Spurring his horse and surrounded by a small guard of Helmites, they ground into the orcs before the gates, catching them off guard and driving them backward. His goal was to link up with Angevin's forces to provide them a way to gain the city; infantry and archers poured out to support him and many volleys sung overhead. But the advance was soon slowed. Even for an unenlightened orc, they could clearly see what Austrion was attempting, and the orcs moved in to stop them, their short bows trying to maintain the wedge even as they hacked at Austrion's infantry. Several Helmites fell, their horses pinioned, and the charge ground to a halt.
But the sight of comrades from the city reenergized the left flank. A group of barbarians, still singing to Tempus, fell upon the orcs, crushing all that stood in their way. Their Neverwintan comrades – who had lost their vocal enthusiasm since the start of the battle – again took up the cry, their inexperience with the words drowned out with the sheer energy of the song. It was out of a glorious love for battle that the barbarians sang; for the city soldiers, they saw their deliverance in Austrion's men and sang out both to encourage themselves and to offer their thanksgiving.
Under such opposition, the orcs were forced to retreat and in moments, the link between the two forces was formed. Angevin started pulling in the edges of the army, streaming behind the fresh troops. After several agonizing minutes, only Austrion's troops, the barbarians – reluctant to break off battle – and Angevin's guard were left on the field. Austrion signaled for the retreat and backed his cavalry unit, under cover from the infantry and the archers on the wall, into the city. It was a stunning piece of military maneuvering.
The orcs, however, were not willing to give up their prey that easily and again pressed the attack, heedless of their destruction by the barbarians. Several of their arrows hit home, however, and Lord Angevin tumbled from his horse, pierced by no fewer than three arrows. Instantly, his men were beside him, risking themselves to grab his body and drag it into the city.
Finally, Austrion gained the walls, the force was through, and the gates swung closed. The force which had started out at more than thirty-five hundred defenders had been diminished to less than two thousand, not counting the approximately two hundred cavalry that had regrouped in the Charwood. Fully four thousand orcs and ogres had fallen on the battlefield, but to many of the defenders it seemed like a flood still surrounded the city and all their efforts had been like peeing in the ocean to change its water level. As twilight began to fall, the battering rams moved ponderously forward.
"He will live," Neurik said for what felt like the thousandth time today, the wounded and the dying all around him. The red bearded man lay on his back on a small pallet, his right upper arm wrapped in linen where he had been struck by an arrow.
"Guess the disappearing act wasn't fast enough," grunted the man with a grin.
"Demas! What are you doing here?" Lord Nasher asked, kneeling beside him. For the time being, the orcs were content to drag their siege equipment forward, retreating well beyond bowshot to prepare, and Nasher had used this opportunity to see to the man from Waterdeep.
"Trying to get a piece of all this sweet action. You almost got away with it," he said with mock seriousness.
"I have given him an unguent to heal the wound and ease the pain, but it can do nothing for his sarcasm," Neurik said gravely.
After a moment, with Neurik helping him to sit upright, Demas adopted a more staid tone.
"You have more trouble coming up the road," he said at last.
"Oh?" Nasher sighed heavily, expecting as much from the scout's frantic ride. "How many?" he asked resignedly.
"Remember the Cult of the Dragon?"
"Those fanatics consumed with making dracoliches and other undead horrors," Nasher asked, his skin growing pale as he caught the suggestion. "What of them?" he queried hesitantly.
"I was on my way up from Waterdeep – Khelben had one of his 'strange feelings' and he wanted me to do some overland scouting to help you out – and I ran across a band of them."
As Nasher opened his mouth to ask the dreaded question, Demas cut him off.
"About fifteen hundred in total, three hundred humans controlling the remainder in undead."
Nasher did a quick tally in his head. Beginning the day with a numerical disadvantage, they had closed the gap somewhat, and he had in hope believed their numbers sufficient to hold off a siege. With this news, he was not so sure.
"Orcs, ogres, undead, Varax… What's next?" he thought. "A dragon?" And then he mentally kicked himself. No need to wish worse than the hand already dealt to you.
"How does it look?" he asked. He needed to formulate a long-term plan as fast as possible. The rams would soon be in place; he gave the first assault fewer than three more hours – in the dark of night.
"Never before have there been so many cultists in one place, aside from maybe at the temple they call the 'Well of Dragons.'" Most of their cohort are skeletons, zombies, and the like, but they have some heavy-hitters in there: bone golems, ghasts, wights."
Nasher hung his head, his fists clenching.
"Damn this Enemy," he growled.
"And," Demas started and Nasher's head came up, his eyes all but glued to the scout's mouth. "They are bringing siege towers."
"Shee-it," he said, before he could stop himself. He must be tired to have voiced such a thing aloud.
Demas seemingly understood because he gave him a weak yet comforting smile.
"Dernhelm," Nasher said internally, the thought coming unbidden. "I'll do everything in my power to protect your wife... and your city."