“That’s what it is; somebody’s walking around up there!” he remarked, certain of his explanation.
Then his eyes widened: it had to be somebody very huge. After all, there were people and even horses tromping all over in this city, and he hadn’t heard so much as a single little whisper from any of them. This was someone thumping the ground hard with each step.
Moptop looked up and down the tunnel. There was still so much to see down here-miles and miles of sewer remained unmapped, at least as far as he knew-but curiosity about what was going on up above got the best of him. He hurried back to where the beam of sunlight arrowed through the sewer grate and scrambled up the rusty metal ladder on the side of the pipe. At the top he was able to poke his head between the bars, though they were too close together for him to slip out.
And-drat his luck! — the giant walker had just gone past! He saw a glimpse of a rocky shoulder and great, dark head looming high above the ground, but they vanished behind a pile of stone rubble almost immediately. Well, it sure was huge! Huger than anything he had ever seen, and he almost wept in despair at the thought that he missed his chance to get a really good look at the elemental king monster.
Fortunately, Moptop’s climb to the grate was not entirely wasted; he was thrilled to notice heavy hobnailed boots approaching at a clomp. Lots of boots! Ogres! A whole army of them! At least, that’s what it seemed like as they came marching along, tromping right past where he hid down in the grate. The kender was almost ready to wave a cheerful greeting but, as he lifted his hand, his foot slipped off the slick metal ladder’s rung and he dropped a foot, out of sight from above. By the time he climbed back up, they were marching past, and he thought it best not to disturb them.
Next he saw a pair of boots that were even bigger than ogre boots. Beside them strode a set of legs as skinny as toothpicks, with oversized feet wrapped in old leather sandals. Moptop lifted himself up, and realized that he was looking at the half-giant, Ankhar the Truth, himself! He was accompanied by an old hobgoblin wench, a gray-robed warrior, and a couple of swaggering Dark Knights that looked like bodyguards.
“Where is the king?” Ankhar demanded. “Don’t let him get too far!” He sounded kind of upset, even worried, to the kender.
“If you listen, you will hear. He is crushing the humans in the plaza. But he has not moved into the city yet,” came the reply from the man who wore the long, gray cape. “We still drive him before us!”
“Then I must find a place to see-a place where I can watch this city die,” crowed the half-giant.
Suddenly the sewer wasn’t so interesting anymore. The kender looked around, recalling another grate a little ways back that might be big enough to let him get out.
It seemed like maybe he better go and find the lord marshal.
“Move up-charge there, forward, and to the left!” Ankhar was advancing at a run, chasing the ogres that had spilled into the city’s plaza and swiftly overrun the pitiful remnants of the human defenders. This time, Truth willing, he was not going to let the elemental king advance out of his sight.
“Where is Eaglebeak?” he roared. “I need him and his damned archers up here now!”
Surprisingly enough, the hobgoblin captain appeared at his side only a moment later. Eaglebeak’s feathered headdress was askew, his ruddy cheeks flushed with the excitement of battle. “What are your commands, lord?”
“Bring your archers up as soon as Spleenripper’s columns have passed. I want a shower of arrows to bracket our advance, sweeping like a hailstorm on each flank.”
“It shall be done, lord,” declared the hobgoblin turning smartly and loping away to put the commands in motion.
Ankhar strode out of the avenue of cleared ground and entered the great plaza. The elemental king remained in view, having kicked through the feeble breastwork that the humans had erected.
Already the ogres were charging, bellowing in fury, heavy boots shaking the ground as they swept across the flagstones. Hobgoblins and gobs spilled after them. Spleenripper’s troops paused to gut, scalp, and otherwise mutilate the bodies of the humans who had fallen. But their captain was diligent and vicious, and freely wielded his whip to prod them on.
Within a few more moments, the attackers were spilling into the streets of Solanthus, racing this way and that with no coherent defense standing in their path.
His head throbbed. Dry, gritty dust filled his mouth. Jaymes spit-or tried to spit, but found he had no saliva-and struggled to remember where he was.
The smell of smoke was his first clue. As the ringing in his ears subsided, he heard men groaning in pain. Somewhere nearby a child was sobbing, utterly distraught. The marshal was lying on hard paving stones, facedown. The fingers of his outstretched hand touched something wet and his first thought was a keen longing: water! But almost immediately he realized the texture was all wrong-this was a sticky, viscous liquid, warmer than the ground and the air.
Blood.
Then the memories returned. The elemental king had closed on the barricade in three steps, kicked it aside in one more. The planks had burst into flame and the old gray-haired veteran in the middle had been easily crushed when a massive, windswept foot had smashed down upon him. It was his blood, a smear on the plaza, Jaymes was touching.
He pushed himself upright, shaking his head and ignoring the ringing pain at the sudden movement. A weeping boy was nearby, huddled over the corpse of his brother. Drumming filled the air, and a glance beyond the smoking, smoldering barricade showed a whole rank of ogres advancing down the street. Their bloodlust raging, they roared in exultation as they poured through the shattered defenses, their drums’ rolling thunder urging them on.
“Come on!” Jaymes said roughly, staggering to his feet, lifting the boy by his shaking shoulder. “Run!”
The lad’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the lumbering ogres. When Jaymes started away, the boy followed, and the two raced together out of the plaza and into one of the many side streets connecting to the wide-open space.
Jaymes and the boy came upon the Sword Knight who had tried to recruit the lord marshal for the left flank of the wooden barricade position. The entire rampart was wrecked and burning, with many defenders dead, and the mustachioed warrior was wounded. He was sitting up, leaning back against a block of granite, wiping at a bloody gash on his head. A few other men, most of them bleeding, were picking themselves up and trying to reorganize.
The ogres were spilling through the gap in the middle of the wreckage, but none diverted from the main charge to come after these few limping survivors on the fringe of the battle.
“Get these men out of here,” Jaymes said, assisting the wounded knight to stand. “Find a bottleneck in one of these side streets and try to make a stand there.”
“Yes, my lord,” the man replied. “By the Oath and the Measure, they will not pass!”
“Good,” said the lord marshal, clapping the man on the shoulder. In a few steps they came to a side street, finding a dozen men-at-arms standing there, looking wildly from the lord marshal to the ogres, who lumbered down the avenue toward them barely a stone’s throw away. When he looked across the plaza, the lord marshal saw the elemental king had passed this way, smashing a crude swath through several rows of sturdy stone houses.
“You stay here; help these men fight the ogres,” Jaymes ordered the boy, who nodded seriously. “And for the sake of all the gods, form a line!” he barked at the men who were still staring, aghast, at the scene in the plaza. “Rouse yourselves! Hold this street!”