Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [147]
Then the Beast saw the Firbolgs, lumbering heavily, emerge from the black and swirling smoke. A dozen of the creatures raced down the castle road in sheer panic. Kazgoroth could only deduce that the rest of the monstrous company lay dead in the gatehouse or the castle proper.
And finally the Beast’s careful control snapped.
Involuntary shudders of rage flexed Kazgoroth’s body, warping and shifting his shape. Although few northmen were near enough to see this, those that did drew back in fear and astonishment.
First, the Beast grew several feet taller, while retaining basically a human shape. With a force of will, Kazgoroth brought its size back toward the earth, but could not prevent an outbreak of scales across its exposed arms and face. Snakelike, a forked tongue emerged from the grotesque face and the eyes grew red hot in anger and frustration.
With an inarticulate scream, Kazgoroth released his anger in a blast of explosive magic. The fleeing Firbolgs, led in their panic by Groth, disappeared in a thundering explosion as a great chunk of the castle road blew up. Chunks of paving stone, clods of dirt, and small pieces of Firbolg flew upward through the air, arcing out to land hundreds of yards away from the road.
The thundering eruption brought the fighting to a momentary halt as the warriors on both sides gaped in shock. Two hundred feet of the castle road had vanished, replaced by a crater twenty or thirty feet deep. Not a single Firbolg lived, nor could the body of any of the creatures be located. Fortunately for the morale of Kazgoroth’s army, few witnessed the Beast’s loss of control or realized the source of the explosion. But even as the battle raged, rumors of the king’s mysterious nature continued to spread throughout the army of raiders.
Tremendous willpower allowed Kazgoroth to regain control of its human body, and once again the form of Thelgaar Ironhand strode forward among the ranks of northmen.
“Send fire, and more fire!” he roared, and the raiders hastened to obey their king. Trailing streaks of black smoke, another barrage of missiles sped toward the high wooden walls. With satisfaction, the Beast watched many of them strike the timbers, igniting a half dozen new fires.
Perhaps yet, thought the Beast, Caer Corwell would burn.
*****
Acrid smoke burned her eyes, and the din of battle became a constant, dissonant theme in her ears as Robyn did what she could to help contain the fires. Now the missiles from the enemy catapults struck with alarming accuracy, and it seemed that fires erupted faster than the Ffolk could quench them.
Robyn’s long black hair, confined into a long braid, twirled around her head as she ran from one crisis to another. Despair threatened to overwhelm her, but she drove the emotion back.
In a momentary lull, she looked around and saw Gavin nearby, straining to operate a pump designed to be run by six men. He nodded and gave her a slight smile. She nodded back as she wiped a sweatsoaked strand of hair from her face, heartened by the strength of her friend. Stumbling wearily, she stepped to his side and strained with him to raise and lower the heavy lever. All around, the fighters of the Eastern Cantrevs followed Gavin’s occasional shouted commands.
But the fires threatened to strip the palisade from the castle and expose the inhabitants to the attackers.
“You fight well, my lass,” grunted the smith through clenched teeth as he strained at the pump.
“I have little choice,” responded Robyn.
“As do we all,” said Gavin, smiling. “You! Pick up those buckets and move!” he bellowed at a group of firefighters who had paused to catch their breath. Several more men joined the smith at the pump, and Robyn went back to the palisade to direct the water onto the fires.
A spattering ball of pitch struck the top of the palisade, soaking one of the defenders in blazing flame.
The man staggered backward, and Robyn quickly chanted the words to a simple spell – one she had learned from her mother’s book. Cool water appeared, in the air above him,