Blood on Stone

1

“THEY’RE SWARMING THE BRIDGE!” a shout, from the from the eastern side of the bridge, alerted all to the danger approaching. They had been fighting this battle for almost two months now, every soldier, mage, warrior, horse, and even messenger birds exhausted from the taxing fight. They had been pushed back nearly one-hundred-ninety miles from the original building, fighting through plains, swamps, mountains, streams, and towns. The seemingly never-ending horde of goblins hardly faltered, where one fell, many more rose over the corpse to avenge the fallen.

             The sun shone hotly overhead, further intensifying the smell of decay. Bodies clogged the river, lined the streets, and stacked in piles. Houses, trees, and grass all burned, adding a thick, choking ash to the air, smothering any who crossed its path. Arrows and large boulders peppered the landscape, shot from bows and crossbows, and slung from catapults behind the main lines. The cobblestone roads were crimson and slick, running with the lifeblood of friend and foe. The moans and cries of the wounded were drowned out by the yelling of those still standing, the clashing of blades, arrows and rocks landing all around, and the sounds of spells being sent back and forth.

             The village they were fighting in had once been a proud farming town, but had now been reduced to ash and rubble. The tall houses and mills and fell from stones and fire, store houses erupting into searing heat, black smoke from the wood and grains contained inside. The people who had lived here had time enough to escape, the front lines slowly being pushed back gave runners enough time to warn them.

             A tall warrior, who was waiting with a group to relieve the front line – or plug whatever hole formed from allies falling – turned to the source of the shout. His grey plate armor was stained red from blood, both his own and other’s, and the long golden cloak pinned at his shoulders was dirty and singed from battle. He had a long, thin sword sheathed at his side, the pommel and cross-guard in the shape of a dragon.

             “Come on, we have to stop them from crossing, or it’s all over,” the warrior, Sindriel, said, drawing his sword. He charged with a shout, and he and his men crossed the square to the bridge. Others had heard the cry and saw the group rushing, and moved to join them. They continued over the bridge, meeting their foes at the halfway mark.

             The bridge was grand, spanning the quarter-mile width of the river. It served to transport materials, crops, and livestock from the fields to the town, and across the lands. It had not been a point of worry, as there was a long journey from the closest bridge to this one. The skittering of claws and clang of armor against the flagstones of the bridge were the only sounds out here, two opposing forces rushing to meet each other. The small band of defenders were outmatched, the horde of green, scaly creatures practically climbing over one another. Here and there were the occasional figures that rose above their shorter companions, spell casters and other fighters that had joined forces.

             As the two waves met in a clash, Sindriel’s sword made arcing sweeps, the large elf effortlessly cutting down his foes. The goblins were not armed or protected very well, being cave dwelling creatures. The better of their warriors had the weapons and armor they collected from combat, and a few of them littered the otherwise soft sea of flesh. Sindriel and his men were holding back the swarm with little trouble, the unskilled goblins finding trouble in their skilled foes.

             “There seems to be no end to them!” One of the fighters, Erngraz, a darker green half-orc, shouted, swinging his battle axe in arcs, slicing goblins in pieces. He was right, this horde was never-ending, their half of the bridge clogged and brimming with creatures ready to fight. “We need to find a way to clea-”