CHAPTER 13 - THE COWARD
A swift glance of green eyes surveyed the burning expanse of Muddy Peaks, situated to the south on that last hooked piece of land, known as the devil's finger. Kevin beheld a vision of an impending battle that would surely become unforgettable. From the mountain's peak, the Drakonites appeared less formidable. They were diminutive creatures, just as they ought to be. Many of them lay sprawled across the battlefield, their lifeless forms left to the scavenging ravens, their decaying bodies returning to the earth in a torrent of blood for Mother Earth to feast upon. However, twice as many of our soldiers were scattered across the land, crushed beneath the reptilian foot of the dragons, incinerated by their deadly breath, their bodies never collapsing like the salt statues from the ancient book of Genesis.
Kevin could feel thousands of men and women staring at him, their mouths muttering silent curses. There was only one shadowy figure like that in these lands, only one person with a head full of fiery hair, and they hated him. Rage took hold of every soldier as they saw him in the distance, and for a brief moment, they fought with such fury that victory seemed within reach. Kevin was hated because he had fled from the QuasiFinger training camps.
"A nest of vipers," he would often call that place as he escaped to live in the mountains, bringing shame to his father and his ailing mother, who wouldn't survive much longer after his abrupt departure. Forever doomed to be branded as a quitter, a cowardly rat. Now, from the mountaintop, he would watch their imminent defeat, and they would wrong him once again.
Greenberg was far from a coward. He fully understood the impending danger the southern border faced in a Drakonite attack like this one. He stood ready to battle, just like any other soldier. However, he could not condone their commanding officer's tactics and the brutality of their training.
"Look before you die, Muddy Peaks. On top of that mountain is the face of a coward," a soldier screamed. His lifeless body, pierced by a lance, was lifted into the air and hurled into the distance by a Drakonite.
"He will die like all the others," the Drakonite spat on the floor.
"Move ahead, push further into the land, and take what is rightfully yours, Drakonites!" shouted a tall figure at the top of his lungs. His golden mane danced in the wind, and his long blade gleamed in the sun. Dressed in a leather suit, Njal Sten was the fearless lord commander of the Drakonites.
The large-caliber bullets of war machines were reserved for use in slaughtering dragons, as they were unlikely to be brought down definitively otherwise.
A brave woman leaped at Njal Sten, brandishing her sword. He sent her flying with a backhanded blow.
"No! Ronna, leave it be. The battle is lost, and we can't stop them from taking the land," Marcus Abbe screamed.
"Kevin is here. Look!" Ronna cried, pointing her crimson-stained sword at the mountains.
"Forget that coward. He only came to spit on our corpses," Marcus rushed to help Ronna to her feet.
"He promised he would bring an army of elves with him," tears ran down her cheeks in desperation. Marcus cupped her face with his hands.
"It's over, my love. Let's face death with some dignity," he wiped away her tears.
"We're surrounded by death. There's no fairy tale that ends like this," Marcus said.
"Let's die fighting."
"Look, he's about to engage," Ronna said, her voice faltering.
The day was far from over. Atop the mountain, a resolute man gripped the hilt of a sword. Its silvery blade hissed as it left its scabbard and pointed toward the sky. It was the signal the 10,000 elven soldiers had been waiting for, concealed and ready for battle. Many of them rode fearsome Direwolves, their gritty teeth bared for combat.
"Let it be known that Kevin Greenberg always keeps his word," he bellowed towards the field. His voice was said to sound like the trumpets of Armageddon. The battlefield froze in silence for a long moment. "It's Greenberg," a voice broke the deathly hush. "He brought an army."
"Kill ‘em all!" Kevin shouted, pointing his silver sword at the field.
At the command of the red-haired giant, a veritable tsunami of elves and direwolves flowed through the trees of Muddy Peaks and down the hill, crashing onto the battlefield like surging waves hitting a wooden brig. Direwolves tore through bone and flesh, while the elves' silvery swords sliced through scales and sinews of the dragons that landed to finish off what remained of Muddy Peaks' army.
"Stop these damn little dwarfs!" shouted Njal Sten. "Exterminate every form of life that walks the earth." From his vantage point of arrogance, the Lord Commander witnessed the tide turning before his eyes. Day suddenly turned into night as a deadly cloud of arrows rained down upon the battlefield, striking down dragons by the hundreds. With eyes bulging out of their sockets, Njal Sten felt his blood freeze in his veins. Two of his formidable beasts crashed to the ground with a resounding thud, lifeless, brutally ending anyone who was too near.
"What has this lunatic done?" Marcus Abbe screamed. "He unleashed an army of madmen onto the field."
"This is the help we needed," Ronna shouted back at him. "Fight!"
"We're out of ammunition, Commander Abbe," a soldier warned Marcus. "Use swords; we can still repel the Drakonites' attack." A spear was thrown toward Marcus' chest, but just as it was about to pierce him, an Elf riding a huge Direwolf leaped into the air, breaking the spear in two with his glittering sword and saving Commander Marcus Abbe's life. "Who saved me?" Marcus exclaimed. "Who are you?"
"I am Halv-Har, the king of the elven nation. There's no time for introductions. Order your men to rekindle the fire and heat the tar cauldrons," he commanded.
"Relight the tar cauldrons. Aim for the dragon's legs and wings." The battle was far from over, as the dragon's flames turned Devil's Finger into hell on earth. The smoke and the smell of burning bodies made the name of that place even more ominous. The Drakonites had not yet engaged with the elves in close combat. They now understood the unique abilities and dexterity of these people, whether with a sword or spear. The expression on Njal Sten's face shifted from impatience to fear. This fearless lord commander couldn't bear to see his men and his entire campaign go to waste.
"We are being defeated by dwarfs," he said, clenching his fists, grinding his teeth, and filling his eyes with tears of pure hatred. How could he return home with such a defeat weighing on his shoulders? How could he explain to the King Ukrit Zoltar that they had been defeated by an army of elves?
"Dropping like fleas, all of us," Njal Sten shouted as he pierced another victim with his long black sword. "Sir, we must retreat while we still have dragons to take us back," a soldier shouted at Njal's side.
"You won't need any Dragon." The commander's arm and his sword slashed through the air, the blade opening his subordinate's throat. Njal felt a strong blow to his back, throwing him violently to the ground. It was Kevin, mounted on a powerful destrier, with the blade of his sword pointed at a terrified Drakonite.
"Remove your fetid carcass from our lands and don't come back," he said, holding tight to the reins of his black horse unnerved by the heat of battle.
"We came here today to die defending our homes. I came to show that we do not fear you; this place belongs to us, and we will never hand it over to you without many of you dying trying."
"So says he who comes with an army of elves behind him," Njal Sten spat on the ground.
"Yes, an army of elves on the backs of puppies broke the swords and tactics of an organized army. The skill and dexterity of my men made yours look like foolish little children. Go back and tell your king that a coward was leading an army of elves," replied Kevin, struggling to control his horse, which wanted to return to battle. These strong words shook Marcus Abbe and Ronna, who were just beside them in battle. The shame of defeat and the fear of dying made Njal drop part of his armor to make himself lighter and run away in a tremendous sprint, his eyes bulging out, moving his head nervously side to side, desperately trying to find in the heat of the battle any dragon that could take him away, back to the calm waters of Drakonia. Kevin calmly sat on his horse, watching as Njal moved desperately, trying to avoid what would be his certain death.
Halv-Har spurred his Wolf and stopped when he reached Kevin's horse. His hand reached for an arrow in his quiver and he knocked it on his bow, aiming at the Drakonian who had just found a wounded dragon. Njal knocked away two elves who were trying unsuccessfully to bring down the dragon with their ropes. "Greenberg, if you're going to let him escape, I'll finish him off myself," said Halv-Har, taking an arrow from his quiver.
"This arrow I reserved for him."
"Wait—" Kevin made a gesture with his hand, but it was too late. Before Kevin could stop Halv, the arrow was already in mid-air, its aim accurate. The arrow penetrated Njal Ster's shoulder, and he screamed in pain. Even so, the infamous commander mounted his mount, and it began to take flight.
"Your men fight like mad dogs. Look at what you're doing," Marcus Abbe also spat on the floor.
"We're doing what must be done," Kevin shouted.
With his heart pounding with urgency, Kevin tightened his grip on the reins, leaned forward in the saddle, and kicked his horse's sides. His powerful steed lunged forward, its muscles rippling beneath its coat. The thundering sound of hooves echoed through the battlefield, stomping on piles of Drakonites' dead bodies as the horse surged ahead, its nostrils flaring and eyes wide with determination. Together, they raced toward the dragon, the warrior and his steed, a perfect partnership in the chaos of battle.
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