Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [68]
“When you fight the metal-skinned humans, remember that the metal is not skin,” Joram told his people. “It is a type of armor, such as that worn by the knights in the old House Magi tales. There are gaps in this armor—the largest between the neck and the helmet.”
Mosiah, changing into a werewolf, knocked a strange human to the ground and sank his sharp teeth into the unprotected throat. With one blow of a massive paw, a were-bear caved in a helmet. A were-tiger dug her claws through the silver skin, shredding and mauling.
“These humans know little of magic. They are frightened of it. Use their fear against them, particularly their subconscious fears, which are similar to our own,” Joram instructed.
Illusionists created gigantic tarantulas that dropped down out of the trees, their hairy legs twitching, their many-faceted red eyes burning like flame. Blades of grass turned into swaying, hissing cobras. Skeletons clutching pale swords in their bony hands rose up out of the ground.
“Call upon the creatures of our world to come to our aid.”
A force of centaurs was summoned. Consumed by the wild excitement of bloodlust, they attacked and killed the strange humans, then rent the bodies limb from limb and began feasting on their victims’ raw, mangled flesh.
Dragons swooped down out of the skies, bringing with them flame and darkness. Basilisks and cockatrice used their own lethal stares to freeze the deadly eyes of the creatures of iron. The serpentlike tail of a chimera swept the strange humans to destruction. The snapping heads of the hydra caught up its victims and devoured them whole.
Perhaps the oddest happening on the field of battle that day was the report by several wizards of seeing a ring of mushrooms suddenly appear in a glade. A band of the enemy, changing into the ring, found that they could not get out. One by one, the strange humans were sucked down into the ground. The wizards reported, not without a shudder, that the last sounds that could be heard were the raucous laughter and gibbering voices of the faeriefolk …
When their attack began in the morning, the creatures of iron must have been certain of victory. By late afternoon, the magi had turned the tide. But they had not managed to stop the flood. The iron monsters kept coming, the armies of silver-skinned humans threatening to drown the beleaguered wizards in sheer numbers. The magi were weakening, their Life draining from them, their catalysts dropping insensible. The creatures of iron rolled on without the need for rest or food, crawling over the land, breathing their poison fumes, casting their deadly light beams.
It was then that the miracle occurred, according to later tellings and retellings of this great battle. The Angel of Death himself took the field, or so it was said. In his hands, he wielded a sword of death, and it was this sword that eventually brought the enemy to its knees.
In actuality, no one was more astounded by what happened than the Angel of Death himself, but that part of the story was never told, it being known only to Joram and Prince Garald.
The two had just finished destroying one of the iron monsters when their position was overrun by a squadron of the Strange humans. Garald’s magic was nearly gone. Drained of Life, he drew his sword and faced his enemy with grim hopelessness, knowing he could never survive the beams of deadly light that these silver-skinned humans were capable of shooting from the palms of their hands. Joram, too, drew his sword, prepared to die beside his friend. He, too, knew that to fight this enemy with a sword was a ludicrous, futile gesture. They would be dead within seconds, without even the chance to strike back. But, at least, they would die with weapons in their hands….
As Joram