Chapter 10: The Siege of Dragon\’s Peak

The crooked sign stood at the very bottom of the mountain forest’s edge; its wood was weathered and splintered.

The words were carved deep, crude but clear, and someone had painted them in what looked disturbingly like dried blood. Yet, the first wave of soldiers ran past it without slowing down at all, their boots trampling the warning into the mud. One man’s shoulder had caught the post, and the entire sign toppled sideways into the dirt.

Lord Parsmuth watched from astride his mount, his armour polished to a mirror shine despite the long march. He was a minor noble, yes, but ambitious for more than that. A dragon’s hoard would change everything and the fame from slaying it would make him as powerful as a king.

Recognition. Wealth. Power. All he had to do was kill one overgrown lizard. How bad could it be? After all, if all of them were extinct, that means they’re very killable.

“Forward!” he commanded. “The beast cowers in its den!”

The army surged through the forest.

The trees of the forest were wrong.

A captain noticed it first. The trunks were too thick and too close together, their branches interlocking overhead in patterns that seemed almost deliberate. It’s like they had woven themselves together to create only a single path through the forest. The underbrush grabbed at boots and armour, thorns catching on leather and cloth. What should have been a clear way up the mountain had become a tangled mess.

“Keep formation!” he shouted, hacking at a vine that had wrapped around a soldier’s leg. “Don’t spread out!”

It was very strange. No man could define it, but they all had the feeling that the forest itself seemed to be changing and moving in real time, as if to stop them.

Natural clearings closed off behind them. Roots rose from the ground to trip the unwary. Twice, scouts reported paths that led nowhere, circling back on themselves in impossible loops.

And then after that, the mountain itself seemed hostile too. Slopes that had looked manageable from below revealed themselves as near-vertical climbs upon approach. Firm rock almost seemed to turn into loose stones that shifted underfoot, sending men tumbling backward. The obsidian gateway at the peak of the mountain was visible from kilometres away, gleaming black and ominous at the peak, but reaching it took hours longer than it should have.

Men began to mutter about curses. About dark magic.

Parsmuth silenced them with a glare and drove them onwards.

They reached the obsidian gate as the sun climbed toward noon.

The gateway was more impressive up close. Jagged black fangs rose in elegant arches, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the army back at itself as grim distortions. The glass doors were sealed tight, smooth and seamless, with no visible handles or hinges.

“Bring the ram,” Parsmuth ordered.

Twenty men hauled the massive log forward, its head capped in iron and shaped like a fist. They positioned it before the gate, stepped back, then charged.

The first impact rang like a bell. The doors didn’t budge.

The second strike created a hairline crack.

The third shattered the ram’s iron cap and sent splinters flying, but the doors finally gave way, swinging inward with a sound like grinding bones. It was almost too easy to open, considering the size and thickness of the fortifications.

A noxious gas poured out.

It rolled down the mountain in a thick yellow-green cloud, heavier than air, clinging to the ground. Men screamed as it reached them, clutching their throats, their eyes streaming. The front ranks stumbled backward, gagging and collapsing.

Then, from deep within the darkness of the cave, came a spark.

A single point of flame, small and bright.

The gas ignited.

The explosion tore through the gateway in a roaring wave of fire and force. The obsidian doors blasted outward, one of them torn completely free and tumbling down the mountainside, crushing soldiers beneath its weight. Flames rolled over the front ranks, incinerating men where they stood. The shockwave threw bodies into the air like rag dolls.

The dragon’s gate itself had roared fire.

Parsmuth’s mount reared and bolted. He barely kept his seat, sawing at the reins, his face pale beneath his helmet. Around him, men were screaming and burning.

“Reform!” he bellowed. “REFORM THE LINES!”

It took many long minutes to restore order. The survivors clustered together, shields raised, staring at the smoking gateway with wide eyes.

“Shield bearers forward!” Parsmuth commanded. “Knights, with me! We’re going in!”

The central chamber was very quiet.

A knight-captain led the advance, his shield raised, his sword drawn. Ten men of lesser rank followed him through the shattered gateway, stepping over debris and scorch marks. The interior was larger than it should have been, the ceiling lost in darkness above, the walls carved smooth.

And everywhere, scattered across the floor, were bones.

They were strange bones. There were skulls and ribcages. Long bones and small ones. Some were human-sized; others were massive and misshapen. They crunched underfoot as the men progressed inside.

“What in the hells -?” one knight started.

An arrow took him in the throat.

He gurgled and collapsed, blood spraying, and suddenly the air was full of arrows. They came from above, from carved embrasures high in the inner walls of the entryway chamber that none of them had noticed in the darkness. Goblin archers leaned out of the firing positions, loosing shaft after shaft with precision and easy aim at the intruders who were silhouetted against the light of the outside world.

“Shields!” the knight-captain roared, raising his own. Arrows clattered against steel. Men screamed as shafts found gaps in armour, punching through leather and into flesh.

“Get back! Fall back to the entrance!”

But before they could retreat, a figure stepped into the chamber behind them.

The mage wore robes of deep blue, his staff topped with a crystal that glowed with gathering power. He raised one hand, spoke a word that made the air shiver, and hurled a fireball at the nearest embrasure.

The explosion was deafening. Rock shattered, sending debris raining down. The embrasure collapsed, and the goblin inside screamed as he fell.

The mage turned and fired again. And again. Each blast carved chunks from the walls, destroying the defender’s firing positions one by one.

The surviving goblins retreated down their upper tunnels, vanishing into the darkness.

“Press forward!” Parsmuth entered the chamber, stepping over bodies. “We have them cornered!”

The knight captain wanted to point out that they’d lost thirty men just reaching this room, but he bit his tongue and advanced.

One of the soldiers stepped on a pressure plate hidden beneath a skull that he kicked out of the way.

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The grinding sound started immediately.

The boulder was massive, as wide as several men standing shoulder to shoulder. It rolled out of a side passage, gathering speed, crushing everything in its path. Soldiers scattered, diving aside, but not all of them were fast enough. The boulder caught five men and carried them along, bones breaking, armour crumpling, until it rolled straight through the shattered gateway and continued down the mountainside.

The grinding sound faded into the distance.

The knight-captain turned toward Lord Parsmuth. “I suggest we make camp here at our won territory and plan a more effective siege. Our losses are too great for something like the young beast we’re allegedly hunting.” He swipes a hand along the floor, pinching some of the fine stone dust between his fingers and looking at a glint in the flakes of material. “This isn’t just a cave. It’s a dungeon. There is magic in the air,” he explains. “We must contact the adventuring guilds, my lord.” He lets the dust fall. “They’re more versed in delving into such places than we are.”

Lord Parsmuth looks at him, knowing that he is right from a logistical standpoint. But he can’t let someone else have a chance of stealing his glory.

“Press on. Gather the men. We’re going deeper,” he orders.

“…Yes, my lord,” replies the knight-captain.

The corridor ahead was filled with thick, hot steam.

It vented up from somewhere below, reducing visibility to a few feet. The soldiers advanced in a tight cluster, weapons drawn, eyes straining to see through the mist.