Chapter 7 - We're Under Attack!

Malfus’s lungs wracked as he wheezed, struggling to breathe the chalky, dusty air. He rubbed his ears in a vain attempt to get them to stop ringing as he peered through the cloud of settling dust. Bricks fell from the crumbling wall that used to separate the two jail cells. Sitting in its place was a massive granite boulder.

“Hey?” Malfus coughed. “Giles? That was your name, right? Are you over there?”

There was no response. Malfus looked closer at the pile of bricks and saw Giles’s head, shoulders, and arms sticking out from underneath the boulder, but the rest of him… “Alas, poor Giles…” Malfus bowed his head. “Thanks for the bread.”

Poor bastard was right… Somehow, knew it was coming, but there was nothing he could do. Malfus looked at the boulder and the pool of blood spreading out from under it, then took a few cautious steps back toward the far wall of his cell.

The boulder was gigantic, even for a catapult to launch, or at least, Malfus supposed. He was no siege expert by any means, although he doubted that the gnolls would have the collective brainpower to build a catapult, much less aim one.

A draft of cold air blew in from the newly remodeled tower window as a few more bricks fell from the hole and crumbled to the ground. Malfus shifted nervously as he stared at the new hole across from him and then back to the far side of his cell, while measuring his desire for safety against his curiosity. He groaned as his curiosity won and started slinking over to the opening. Curiosity killed the kobold. A mocking voice in the back of his head mewled, but he ignored it, staying low and creeping forward. If I’m going to be smashed to death by a flying boulder, I’m not going to spend my eternal afterlife wondering where it came from.

Malfus’s hands shook like a leaf in the wind, but he pushed forward, grasping at the bricks near the gaping hole for support. Malfus leaned over the edge, but as soon as he did, his stomach flopped around and his head reeled with vertigo. An abrupt gust of wind howled in his ears and whipped his long hair into his face as he stared down a cliff that dropped sheerly into a valley far below him. Malfus reached for a brick to steady himself, but it fell free from the mortar tumbling over the edge, bouncing off the cliff wall once and then disappearing into the void below.

Malfus stumbled backwards, falling onto his butt painfully. He kicked his legs and scrambled with his hands to put as much distance between him and the hole as he could. His breathing came in short, choppy gasps. Come on. Come on. No, no… don’t piss yourself again. Get it together, you sniveling, wilting coward. Go and take a look, dammit. With some effort, Malfus regained control of his breathing, then slithered on his belly like a snake back toward the hole, ignoring the sharp rocks digging into his ribs. Malfus swallowed and gripped the bricks on the hole’s bottom lip so tightly his knuckles turned white, then slowly stuck his head out over the ledge. Wind buffeted at his face and whipped at his hair as he looked down the sheer cliff below.

It was one of those nights with a full moon and a clear sky, still dark, but with just enough light to cast everything in dappled shades of gray. This side of the fort sat on a craggy cliff that dropped a couple hundred feet into a narrow valley below. The ground was a churning swarm of gray shapes that blurred together as they moved. His ears had stopped ringing now, but he wished they hadn’t. The chittering laughter of the gnolls sounded twice as maddening as it echoed up from below. I’d wager the Inquisition would triple their rates of extracting confessions if they forced their prisoners to listen to that dreadful noise all night long. Malfus couldn’t count or begin to even imagine the sheer numbers below him. There were no torches, no fires, just the occasional glint of sharpened steel, or yellow-green flicker of their bestial eyes reflecting the moonlight. Then Malfus gasped and blinked, rubbing his eyes, not wanting to believe what they were seeing. Looks like Giles wasn’t prone to tall tales after all…

It didn’t look at all what Malfus had expected a giant to look like. Giant, as the name suggested, but so lean for its height and with limbs so long that it looked like a gangly scarecrow. It moved with an unnatural grace and fluidity that belied its massive size, which made Malfus feel uneasy for a reason he couldn’t quite grasp. He could hear the loose bricks next to him shifting each time the lumbering giant took a step. He’d never seen a giant before, never seen anything this big before, only read about them in books back at the mage academy library. He was arguably even less of an expert on giantkin than he was on siege equipment, which meant not at all, but from the fragmented memories he could piece together in his fear-stricken mind, he guessed it was a stone giant. His faded memory of the book’s pictures didn’t do it any justice at all. He guessed the number of skilled artists that had a chance to return and draw pictures of giants from firsthand experiences was in short supply. Either way, no amount of artistry or study could have prepared him for the sheer magnitude of it, not even from this far away.

Then the giant abruptly stopped moving. The wave of gnolls ignored him, skittering past like a swarm of ants. Apprehension and dread clawed at Malfus as he watched the giant turn its bald head toward the hole in the tower, appearing to look right at him with its dark, beady eyes. It reached down and effortlessly picked up another boulder, shouldering it with ease. A tiny voice in the back of his mind was yelling at him to get up and move, but he was too transfixed by the giant’s strange, lithe movements to move a muscle himself. All of it seemed so unreal, like a distant dream.

The sharp, brassy chime of the alarm bell pealed through the air like a thunderclap, snapping Malfus back to his senses. The implications of the giant holding the boulder began to dawn on Malfus’s arcanull-addled mind.

“Oh shi-,” Malfus scrambled back to the far side of his cell.

******

Morten opened his bleary, bloodshot eyes. What was that? Had he heard something? He groaned. It couldn’t be morning already. His head was still cloudy, full of fragments of some strange, half-remembered dream. Something about being at a crowded tavern dancing with buxom dwarven women spinning him about violently.

“What the fuck was that?” A nasally, piping voice called out in the darkness. Finn, that weasely ginger from the slums of DeGaullis. His mother had always said, never to trust anyone from the city, and here he was, stuck bunking right next to one of the slippery urchins, practically peeled right out of the gutter and thrown in armor. He had so many freckles, it looked someone splattered horseshit across his face. Finn was only a year his senior, but made damn sure to let everyone know, so he dodged the arrow of being the youngest one on the squad, leaving Morten stuck with that bullseye on his back.

“You heard that too, right?” Finn asked again, but Morten didn’t bother wasting his breath on him.

“Heard it? It felt like the whole fort was shaking.” Big Duncan said in his deep, bass voice. The wooden frame of his bed creaked and groaned as the big man sat up. He had been the son of a butcher in a small town close to Morten’s village. From the size of him, it looked like he could carry a dead cow to the butcher’s block all by himself.

A sudden bright spark flashed in the darkness, making Morten squint and cover his face. Then the room was dimly lit by the warm, orange glow of a guttering torch flickering to life. Sergeant Donovan’s impassive face was lit by the flames. Sergeant Donovan, or Sarge, was the leader of what remained of their little squad. He was older than the rest of them, but not by much. Morten didn’t know where he was from, he had been too afraid to ask, and he didn’t know what he did before he joined the army either, but Morten couldn’t imagine him doing anything else other than being a soldier. He never seemed to be fazed by anything, no matter how many times the gnolls attacked.

“Come on, lads, get your kit on. Sounds like those furry fuckers are up to their usual shit. We best get up to ours.” Sergeant Donovan said in his steady voice. He was already wearing his armor somehow, Morten wondered if he slept in the damn uncomfortable stuff.

“Again? Damn those savage dogmen.” Corporal Heimrich sighed, blinking his eyes as he put on his dwarven-made spectacles. “They are the lowest rung of sentient life; they create nothing, only destroy.” Morten wasn’t sure what Heimrich was doing in the army. He had the mind and body of a scholar, not a soldier. He should have been a clerk copying legal documents behind some desk in DeGaullis, or maybe even studying to be a wizard in far off Akkadia. Heimrich rarely said much, but when he did, it was usually with at least one word Morten had never heard before.

“Come on! Get ready! You heard Sarge!” Corporal Higgins screamed out. Morten rolled his eyes at Sarge’s little echo. Little echo they called him to his face but called him plenty of other things behind his back. He was the fourth or fifth born son of some cloth merchant from Akkadia and would always go on about how rich his family was. Didn’t stop him from being out here in the middle of the Farlands with the rest of them though.

Morten yawned and looked wistfully at his pillow, almost on cue, the brassy toll of the bell shattered any hopes of going back to bed. He sighed, throwing on his slightly too big chainmail coat, then reached for his crossbow and bolt quiver next to his bed.

“It’s not fair! Can’t night shift handle this? It’s probably nothing anywa-” The rest of Finn’s protest went unheard as a thunderous crash shook the foundations of the barracks, knocking dust from the rafters. Morten had to grab his bedpost to steady himself.

“Alright, on the double lads! Grab your crossbows and get to the battlements!” Sarge yelled.

“Come on! You heard Sarge! Get to the battlements!” Corporal Higgins echoed in his raspy voice, hoarse from always yelling. Morten grabbed his crossbow, gripping it tightly to his chest, the rough piece of wood felt heavier in his hands than usual. Morten took a deep breath and made his way to the door after the others.

Outside… was chaos. Orange arms of flame lashed angrily from the roof of the building across from him, spewing plumes of thick, black smoke billowing up into the night sky. Other soldiers ran by in disarray, some armed with crossbows, others with buckets of sloshing water. The smoky air was filled with the frantic shouts of orders, cries of pain, ceaseless peal of the alarm bell, and staccato snap of crossbows. The harrying laughter of the gnolls could also be heard distantly. Flaming arrows hissed through the air like angry serpents, creating bright arcs that left fading trails of amber light in the night sky. Strange and beautiful, almost enough to make you forget how deadly they still were. Then he flinched as a flaming arrow hit a water barrel next to him, sizzling as it went out. Morten looked up, barely able to make out Finn through the smoke, already nearly two buildings ahead. Morten gritted his teeth and ran after the rest of his squad, crossbow bolts jostling on his back. He yelped a second later as another flaming arrow whizzed by, landing right in his path. Had he been two paces faster, he’d be as dead as Lieutenant Erikson. Morten pushed the thought from his mind and kept running for the wall, heart pounding in his chest, and oversized helmet bouncing on his head.

It’s funny the little things you notice at a time like this, when life is on the line. The finger of death was tapping at his shoulder, and all he could think about was his little toe and the hole in his sock. With every step Morten took, his little toe managed to find a new way to fish its way out of the hole and painfully smash against the inside of his boot. It didn’t matter how many times he scrunched his toes up trying to fish his disobedient, little toe back into the sock, it proved to be quite the escape artist, always finding a new way to confound Morten’s efforts. He did his best to ignore it as he ran, but could still feel it sliding around in there, slippery as an eel the entire way. The hiss of a flaming arrow ended in a dull thud as it landed point first in the ground next to Morten’s boot. Better a hole in the sock, than one in his foot. He’d have to worry about socks later. He was almost at the wall now.

“Come on Private Morten!” Sergeant Donovan yelled as stood by the ladder, torch in hand motioning to him.

Morten ran for the ladder with all he had left, cursing the hole in his sock the entire way. He had to reach up with one hand to stop his oversized helmet from bouncing about on his head, clutching onto his crossbow with the other. He wondered how much easier his life as a soldier would be if he had been just a bit bigger. He bet Big Duncan’s helmet wasn’t too big for him. Why is it some men get all the size and others get none of it? Between holey socks and bouncing helmets, being a soldier was a damn uncomfortable business.

“Up the ladder Morten, quicktime now. We’ve got a battle to win.” Sergeant Donovan gave Morten a reassuring clap on the back, then held the ladder steady.

“Y-yes Sarge.” Morten panted. The rungs of the ladder slipped in Morten’s sweaty hands as he started climbing. As much as he wanted to believe Sarge, he wasn’t sure how favorable winning looked tonight. Burning arrows flew overhead in droves, like a swarm of angry wasps. It wasn’t the first night he woke up to flaming arrows lighting up the sky, but he had never seen this many before, and that horrible crash from earlier… Morten had never heard anything like that before in his life. The closer he got to the top of the wall, the louder the barks, growls, and gibbering laughter of the gnolls grew. Morten threw an arm up over the ledge, nearly dropping his quiver as he did, but a large hand grabbed him, pulling him up on top with the others.

“Just Sarge left now!” Big Duncan bellowed over his shoulder as he crouched by the ladder, nearly as big, while hunched down as Morten was standing. Morten pressed himself up against the stone parapets with the others, close enough to smell their sweat. Arrows snapped hungrily against the stone wall, while the rest passed by overhead close enough to reach out and grab. Morten ducked his head, making sure his oversized helmet wasn’t sticking above the stone.

Big Duncan gave Sergeant Donovan a hand, pulling him from the ladder onto the wall with the rest of them. “Well? What are you lads waiting for?” Sarge yelled. “Start firing back at these fu-“

A thundering crash shook the wall with so much fury Morten had to drop to his knees to steady himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Morten saw an explosion of bodies and bricks fly from the far wall at the opposite end of the fort. Screams filled the air as men sailed through the air like children’s toys. Morten shuddered as the screams abruptly stopped once they hit the ground, right before the bricks rained down on them. A boulder three times the size of a man thudded into the courtyard, bouncing once before rolling lazily and coming to a stop.

“Where are those fucking rocks coming from? Do they have a bloody catapult or a, or a… t-trey-bucket?” Finn piped, his eyes wide as saucers.

“It’s trebuchet, you dolt.” Corporal Heimrich said.

Finn made a sour face, accentuated further by his ratty front teeth. “Well… do they have any of those?”

“Highly unlikely. First, those savages aren’t capable of creating anything, or more specifically, they aren’t capable of not destroying.” Heimrich pushed his dwarven spectacles back up on the bridge of his nose. “Second, even if they managed to steal one and not just burn it, they don’t have the mathematical acumen to fire it with that level of accuracy.” Finn just looked at Heimrich as if still waiting for him to finish. “It means no, Private Finn. It’s not a catapult or a trey-bucket.”

“Then what is it?” Finn stuck his ratty teeth out again.

“Come on!” Sarge yelled. “What are you all sitting around for? Return fire, or else we’ll be dead before daybreak!”

The chittering, mocking cacophony of laughter was growing steadily louder. By the gods, how Morten hated that damn noise. He peaked his head over the wall, not sure he really wanted to see what was out there. He swallowed as he saw masses of the gnolls spilling out of the tree line below them. More than he had ever seen, and certainly more than he had crossbow bolts for. The ones at the front shook their weapons in the air or pounded them on shields, as they howled and danced in a frenzy to some unheard song of violence. The flickering orange dots amongst the trees betrayed the positions of the archers, which Morten noted as he ducked back behind the wall. Morten started cranking the windlass of his crossbow, joining in with the ratcheting chorus of his squad mates as they did the same.

“Where’s the fucking Commander and First Sergeant at?” Corporal Higgins yelled, still crouched down behind the wall.

“It doesn’t matter! You know what to do.” Sergeant Donovan lifted his loaded crossbow over the battlements. “Start firing!”

******

The alarm bell rang its shrill cry into the night, ringing right overhead. Commander Peshka lifted a hand to his throbbing head, hammering to the same cadence as the bell’s brassy peals. We already know there is a bloody attack… do we really need that bloody bell ringing the entire damn time? That was one less soldier with a crossbow in his hands, for that matter. Hazy orange orbs streaked lazily through the night sky above him. A bit blurry to his inebriated vision, but he knew well enough what they were, and the smell of smoke was already in the air. Third bloody night this week… couldn’t those damn gnolls give it a rest?

“Are you sure?” Commander Peshka asked, as he stifled a belch, clutching at his sour stomach. “They really have a d-damn giant with them?”

“Yes, sir.” First Sergeant Goren said. “I saw it with my own eyes… turns out Private Giles was telling the truth after all.”

“Gods bloody dammit…” Commander Peshka looked across the courtyard at the damaged section of wall to the west and the massive boulder lying amongst the bricks and rubble. He let out a rumbling belch that filled the air with the smell of soured grapes and stomach acid.

“Well… what do you want to do, Commander? What are your orders?”

Peshka absently lifted a hand to his face, wishing it was holding a glass of wine, or something stronger… but settled on nervously twisting at his frayed mustache instead. “Make sure every bloody body that can hold a crossbow is up on that wall and firing! I don’t care if they’re in the infirmary! I don’t care if someone has to bloody carry them up there first so they can start shooting. We can’t spare a single man, Goren. You hear me? Not a single bloody man to spare!”

Goren nodded, then paused. “I’ll see to it sir, but…”

“What? Out with it, man!”

“Can a crossbow bolt kill a giant?”

“I don’t bloody know! I’ve never fought against a damn giant before. Maybe… enough of them will.” First Sergeant Goren looked unconvinced. Commander Peshka scratched at his chin errantly, then a few seconds later, his eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers. “Wait… Go find Corporal Heimrich. He’ll know what to do.”

First Sergeant Goren paused, looking even less convinced now, then he glanced over his shoulder. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir? With the Inquis-“

“Don’t you worry about that. You leave him to me. Just get it done, dammit!” Peshka snapped.

“Yes, sir.” The metal plates of First Sergeant Goren’s armor clattered together like an elaborately set banquet table during an earthquake as the big man trundled off toward the wall.

“And get that damn bell ringer down from the tower and out on the wall with a crossbow!” Peshka yelled after him.

He burped again and clutched at his stomach. “Damn bloody gnolls.” He muttered, then continued walking. He didn’t want to admit how much that boulder’s crash reminded him of the siege of DeGaullis. Even though they had won, even though he had even been the one to save the city, it was still the worst three weeks of his life. His stomach seemed to have no trouble recalling that fact and was tying itself in knots over the memory of it. He burped again, this time tasting the acid and bile in his mouth. “Damn, bloody indigestion.” He groaned. Some days, he thought about drinking less, but then again… perhaps it was more he needed to drink. He only felt this vile after he stopped drinking, never during. And he couldn’t imagine leading a siege defense while sober, especially one against a giant. He stifled another acidic burp, then looked over at the wreckage by the western wall. “Damn bloody giant…” Peshka muttered, then started walking towards it. He believed Goren more than Giles, but he still needed to see the damn thing himself.

“Commander Peshka.” A prickling, monotone voice called out from behind him. Peshka turned and saw the Inquisitor, he looked pale and was short of breath.

“Inquisitor Deza, why are you so… sweaty? You look like you saw a ghost.” Peshka saw the Inquisitor’s face betray an expression of surprise as he lifted a hand up ineffectually to wipe at his sweating forehead.

“I, uh…”

Peshka didn’t wait for him to finish, turning on the Inquisitor, finger pointed at his face as close as he dared. “Well?! Still need a sign from your goddess on whether or not to let your prisoner lend his aid? How about a bloody giant?” Peshka motioned to the crumbled bricks and giant boulder to the west. “They have a giant. We need magic.”

“Absolutely not.” The Inquisitor said coldly, looking like he regained some of his composure and returned his breathing to normal. “I’m going now only to ensure that he is still secure.”

“So let me get this straight… During the middle of a bloody attack with a giant, instead of letting your prisoner use his magic to help us, you’re going to go check just to make sure he’s still locked up?”

“Yes.”

Commander Peshka couldn’t stop his voice from rising and felt his face getting flush as he continued. “Even though he’ll just be tortured to death by the Inquisition if he somehow manages to survive the night… you’re going to go ensure his safety?”

“No, Commander. I am ensuring our safety.” The Inquisitor spun around and began walking off.

“Our safety? Our safety?!” Commander Peshka bellowed after him, but the Inquisitor just kept walking. He didn’t even flinch as two flaming arrows landed only a few paces in front of him, just continued walking toward the tower, his black cloak trailing behind him like a funeral veil.

Peshka growled, wanting to yell something laden with more profanity at the Inquisitor, but clutched at his stomach as another painful, acidic burp stopped him from yelling anything he would regret.

“Damn bloody Inquisitor.” He grunted as he looked toward the battlements. If the Inquisitor wasn’t going to help, he’d have to take matters into his own hands.