Chương 7: The Siege of Sweetwater Keep

The dwarves were a sad shadow of themselves. Hidden within an acacia briar, Burbak Breakbow, Hilg Stonesthrow, and Bobbert the Apprentice peered down at their goal. Bobbert was little more than a lanky boy with shaggy hair and tattered robes. He served Prescote the Sage, a once-great wizard. As an army of traitors drew near Sweetwater Keep, Prescote sent young Bobbert south to beg the dwarves of Dagbellow Dell for aid. Over the course of two days, Bobbert ran through ten leagues of Goblin country.

He was chased by Wolf Riders and had to leap into a raging river to escape. Drenched and spent, the apprentice arrived at Dagbellow Dell and found a smoking ruin. The garrison was gone. A ragged crew of heartbroken Dwarves wept in the ashes. To Bobbert's surprise, the beaten Dwarves agreed to help immediately. All Dwarvenkind owed Prescote a great debt. Moreover, the survivors of the massacre badly needed a foe. Hilg and Burbak would lose their minds if they couldn't find someone to fight.

There was no time to prepare, they set forth at once. After a brutal slog across the Yellowsnake Basin, the Dwarves reached the steep rise of Cogswell's Caldera. Sick from bad water and the unrelenting sun, the weary dwarves climbed on and gained the summit. Hidden in the acacia thicket, they saw a dark plume rise from the center of the depression, as if the ancient volcano stirred. The smoke and cinders were so thick, they could barely make out the ramparts. The Siege of Sweetwater Keep was underway.

Even at this distance, the outcome was plain. Without aid, the fortress would fall before sundown.

"Not again," Burbak growled. Another doom, another Dagbellow. The Dwarves gave their all to reach Sweetwater and arrived just in time to watch it burn. Burbak's grip tightened around his axe. The defenders on the walls were pinned behind by the merlons by a steady hail of black arrows. The besiegers had drawn their catapult insultingly close. They knew Sweetwater did not have enough men to mount a counterattack. Secure, the catapult's arm ticked as steady as a clock and lobbed loads of burning pitch over the wall.

The barrage was devastating. Searing tar spattered across the inner keep and caught fire. Half the garrison was occupied with buckets, desperate to quench the blaze. The strategy was plain. The traitors had no need to storm the keep. They could simply rain down flames until the singed Imperials dropped dead from exhaustion. There was nowhere to run. Sweetwater Keep rose over an oasis. The verdant hills of the caldera were the only green for leagues in any direction.

The keep was built to guard the life-giving springs against nomad bands and Goblin raiders. It was never meant to stand against an army. Now, the Desert Renegades had encircled Sweetwater. The northern pass was sealed by footmen. A picket line stretched across the east. From the west, Renegade bowmen peppered the defenders. The plotters enjoyed a traitor's edge. Who better to besiege a keep than the men who'd sworn to defend it? Jarelion the Cur knew all of Sweetwater's weaknesses and secrets.

His command tent stood just downhill from the Dwarven force. His rear was unguarded, protected, he supposed, by the high caldera wall. What fool would march through the open desert? With nothing to do, Jarelion's Traitor Knights feasted at a long table before the command tent. Their horses grazed in the shade of the eldarica trees. Should the defenders try a suicide charge, the knights would have plenty of time to mount up and mow them down. This novel is published on a different platform.

Support the original author by finding the official source. The Dwarves exchanged grimaces. The breeze they'd dreamed of for days blew at last, from the east. It blew the stench of burning flesh in their faces. It would be wisest to simply retreat. For the traitors, triumph was all but assured. The Desert Renegades were flush with success. Uncontested, they'd torn through a string of holdfasts and mining colonies, plundering as they went. Sweetwater would be no different.

A victory feast was already laid on the table before the command tent and a revel was underway. Burbak pointed his Thousand-Scored Axe at the command tent. The silken sides flapped from the merriment within.

"There's our mark. One chance, cut off the head and hope the besieged can find their spines before we're routed." Hilg Stonesthrow's beard twitched as he scowled. His eyes led from Jarelion's Knights to his own ailing dwarves. Some of his Shieldbearers could barely stand. The dwarves had trooped North with all possible haste. They were ill-equipped for the long march through Yellowsnake. Their pack animals wilted in the heat and the only water came from sulfur-reeking springs that sapped their strength.

Less than half their force was fit to fight. Burbak knew it all, he did not care. Cold blue eyes blazed back at Hilg. There would be no retreat. Hilg was too proud to suggest it, Burbak was too crazy to agree. They were rolling into a catastrophe.

"There are too many," Bobbert bleated. Burbak's eyes flashed with fury. The apprentice flinched, but he did not shrink. A man would have tasted the back of Burbak's hand, but Bobbert was just a lad. He was soft-spoken, with peach fuzz on his cheeks.

"Truly," Hilg agreed. He met Burbak's hard gaze with his own. The two Dwarves had known each other for ages. Whole conversations could pass in a glance. With a stiff nod, Burbak bottled his wrath. This boy wasn't much of a magician, but he was no coward either. Veteran Dwarves had fallen on the march, but the boy pushed on. There was steel within the apprentice.

"Boy, where is your master?" Burbak demanded. Unlike the Shieldbearers, Burbak and his Berserkers were still hale. They drank only whiskey.

"He went north for the Wysterwood, to raise the Hawkmoon. Surely, aid is on the way." Burbak snorted at the idea.

"You dream. The Elves won't help anyone, not even Prescote the Sage. The longears will hide in their precious glades until the whole world burns away," Burbak pronounced. A thousand years of bitterness grumbled behind his words.

"It's now or never, us or nothing. Run, boy. When you find Prescote, tell him the old debt was repaid, in spades. Tell him we died a glorious death."

"Let me fight. Jarelion is in the sway of a Sorceress. Without a mage to counter her, you're double-doomed."

"You're no mage! Flee, fool!" Hilg raised a shaky fist. Now, it was Burbak who bid Hilg to hold. He leaned in close.

"Boy. Your family is in that keep?" Burbak asked.

"My mother and cousins."

"Will you die for them? Will you stand beside us and never break, come what may?"

"I swear it," Bobbert vowed. Burbak watched the boy try to shoulder a man's burden. Perhaps he could do it. Humans were useless, but what did they have to lose? He looked up at the perfect blue afternoon. It was a fine day to die.

"You fight with us, boy. If the gods are good, perhaps the traitor pickets will rush to their master's aid. The woman and children may escape as we spend ourselves. Hide in our ranks and keep your head low until the Sorceress shows. Distract her and I'll cleave her in half." Burbak lifted his ancient axe. Many, many mages were scratched into the Thousand-Scored Axe, but there was still plenty of room left. The dwarves formed into a wedge with Burbak Breakbow at the spearpoint.

They rumbled downhill, aimed at the traitor heart of Jarelion the Cur.