The Last Satyr: The Two Paths Part 2
Attack!

All hope was lost.

“It’s no use,” said the boy, giving up to defeat. “There’s no cure in this city for ‘Lolth’s Kiss’. I have looked everywhere!”

Ronthiel’s condition deteriorated rapidly. His hourglass was running out, his body a canvas tainted with the encroaching black death that resembled an ink spill, emitting a foul stench. Despite his cold, clammy skin, the elf was drenched in sweat and cried out in unbearable agony. The boy, unable to bear witness to his friend’s torment any longer, had drawn his knife with shaking hands.

To contemplate ending Ronthiel’s suffering was inconceivable, yet the prospect of not plunging the blade was equally unimaginable. It had to be done; there was no other way. With determination, he grasped the hilt with both hands, ready to aim for the heart. Then, just as he was about to act, Leradien’s hand caught his.

“Wait!” Leradien said, steadying herself with what she was about to say. “There is a cure.”

Meanwhile, Arnen Fang led his men across the mossy plains. The dwarves had to find their way to Thera Pass in the pitch dark. Otherwise, the enemy would see any torches and give them away. To keep from getting lost, each dwarf had his hand on either the dwarf in front of him or on his side. They were moving on the run, something dwarves were unused to doing.

What lay ahead, they hadn’t a clue. And perhaps it was for the best that they did not know.

With a sense of pride, the Keeper Sar watched from above as his two thousand satyrs moved to take up their positions on the northern rocky cliffs of Thera Pass. Their goats’ hooves easily handed the steep slope that no man-orc could. As they readied their double spears, they could make out the voices and occasional shapes of the enemy below. The man-orcs clearly considered an attack from above impossible for not a single guard or sentry faced them.

“The moment of our revenge is upon us,” Sar told his satyrs. “For thirteen years we have been made slaves. But now we are free! Free to avenge that which enslaved us. Free to strike a blow at tyranny! Free to fight our way back to the surface and our homes! Free to breath fresh air again! Free to see the light of day! But our enemies? No! Our enemies will see nothing and breathe nothing. For today we close their eyes forever—they will live no more! They say thirteen is an unlucky number. And today that number is for them! Let them not forget it. And least of all, let them not forget us!”

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Before Thera Pass, Shinayne now ordered her two hundred Black Dragons to form line abreast. Ahead of them, they could easily make out the man-orcs manning the pass’ defenses. There were so many of them waiting, there was standing room only for their ranks and their numbers bulged outwards from both sides of the long, narrow Pass. Oddly, the man-orcs could not see them in return. Though, if the Black Dragons advanced much further, they would.

There had to be five anthills of man-orcs in front of them! They were outnumbered fifty to one! The Black Dragons could see no future for themselves, only death, and in just minutes. Yet not one took a step back. Like ancient oaks they stood against the enemy’s storm, rooted in their determination and unyielding, their resolve a burning flame in their elven eyes.

They held their ground.

Together, Graybeard, Amien, young Joe, and Marroh stumbled along the south side of Thera Pass. Unlike the satyrs, they had neither hooves nor years of their eyes becoming accustomed to the dark to aid them. They too held on to each other for fear of slipping and falling. But, unlike the others, they did not have to get close enough to attack. They only had to close enough for Graybeard to use his light staff.

Yet Graybeard had almost no idea when he was close to the enemy, for he too was blinded by the dark. He was simply advancing gropingly, waiting for the enemy to raise the alarm. That would be when either Shinayne’s assault from the front was spotted or when the man-orcs detected the dwarfs to their rear or, worse, spotted them.

Time now was of the essence. Although Shinayne had her orders to wait for Graybeard’s light, it was not an order she could obey. Whether or not Graybeard was in place, it was time for the assault to begin. With a whispered order, two hundred light crossbows were raised and aimed at the man-orcs.

A second later, two hundred poisoned darts were on their way.

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