Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [146]
“We have to try,” grunted Tristan, too busy fending off attacks to look at his friend.
A rattling clang sounded through the gatehouse, and the prince recognized the sound with a numbing shock.
Someone had reached the crank and winch, and was now raising the only barrier between the Firbolgs and the courtyard of Caer Corwell.
“The portcullis! It’ll let them into the courtyard!” shouted the prince. “Get to the stairs! Fall back!”
“Run, you overgrown bags of blubber!”
The harsh voice, ringing through the gatehouse, sent a thrill of hope through the prince, He saw that the portcullis had been raised only about four feet from the ground before being stopped. Instead of letting the giants out of the gatehouse, it let Finellen and her dwarves in.
“Now, get back to Myrloch, where you belong!”
The prince could not see why, but the Firbolgs began to bellow and yell, both fear and frustration in their voices as they milled about in the gatehouse like a herd of sheep that have scented the hungry wolf. One cried out in pain, another dropped to the ground, slain.
Tristan and Daryth gasped as they leaned against the door, momentarily forgotten by the Firbolgs. An occasional dwarven curse sounded from the courtyard, confirming Tristan’s guess as to their rescuers.
“I told you,” said Keren, struggling to his feet. “A few minutes!”
“And not a second too soon,” admitted the prince, relieved to see the bard apparently recovered.
“Now run, you stinking cowards!” taunted Finellen, punctuating her cry with a vicious thrust into the groin of a retreating Firbolg. The monsters fell back more quickly than ever, slipping and scrambling across the gory floor.
“Charge!” cried the dwarven warrior, her beard bristling aggressively. Immediately, she and her company sprang forward, their steely spearheads advancing as a glittering and impenetrable wall of death.
“Go!” cried Daryth, sagging against the wall in relief.
Tristan grinned weakly at the Calishite, as they were ignored by the Firbolgs. Together they watched the rout as panic spread among the hulking creatures and they turned, en masse, and fled the gatehouse.
Two dozen dead or badly wounded Firbolgs lay sprawled and bleeding about the small structure, while a smaller number fled down the castle road.
The fight for the gatehouse was won.
*****
Clouds of black smoke spiraled skyward from the flaming walls of the palisade, obscuring the Beast’s view of the castle. The monster recalled the ease with which the Firbolgs had broken into the gatehouse.
Kazgoroth wondered how the battle following the break-in had fared. Were the Firbolgs in the courtyard yet?
Angrily, the Beast compared this swift success to the plodding progress of the raiders against the palisade.The steep and rocky slopes leading to the wall had proved too sheer in many places for men on foot to climb. In other places, a few hundred northmen had managed to reach the top and hurl themselves against the wooden walls, which, the Beast noted in anger, still stood.
Now, Kazgoroth could see the walls smoldering and smoking in many places, but nowhere did a truly massive conflagration blaze.
And what of the female druid? She had not yet used her power during this part of the battle. Surely she would be there, with the defenders, during these darkest hours in Caer Corwell’s history. The Beast hoped that she would strike soon, revealing her location. Once this was done, she would belong to the Beast.
Frustrated, Kazgoroth could barely restrain the urge to use the unbridled power of the Darkwell. A blast of savage magic could blow away an entire section of the palisade, giving the raiders easy access to the heart of the castle.
Cursing, the Beast knew that such a display would have a disastrous effect upon his own troops. The superstitious northmen might very well flee the battlefield in confusion and panic. They would realize that something powerfully magical