Read Online Dragonhammer: Volume I by Conner McCall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Conner McCall
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can stop me I run up the stairs to the top of the wall. The sight is chilling.
The army stands on the enormous bridge connecting the city to the rest of the world. Most of them have large rectangular shields held above them to block arrows. A great many of them lie dead in front of the gate, though there are plenty to take their place. Arrows pierce them where there armor is weak: at the neck and armpit. Some standing on the sides of the bridge are hit with such force that they fall over the edge to the river far below.
Their ram is doing little damage. Those who carried it in are now buried underneath their fellow soldiers. Many are being shot down, but the ram is always picked up and hurled back into the gate.
Then I notice that our arrows are not only coming from the tops of the wall and towers, but from inside of them as well. Tall narrow slit-like windows line the Clifftowers and the wall. Enemy arrows clack harmlessly around them, but our arrows shoot with deadly accuracy from within. Similarly, our archers on top take cover behind crenellations.
Two objects at the other end of the bridge part the enemy army. The men move aside, cheering and shouting as they pass them.
As the things come closer, I realize they’re each being pushed by two large humanoid creatures.
“Where did they get trolls?” I hear someone mutter.
They’re about ten or eleven feet tall, even though they’re hunched over to push the dark shapes. In the dim light of dawn, I notice they’re muscular and have long, lanky arms, though they must be brutishly strong. Their skin is scaly and some arrows merely skim over them, but they seem unaffected by those that do puncture their skin. One of them takes an arrow just under his right shoulder and rears with a roar of agony. His face is long, as are his teeth. Large bat-like ears flap behind his bald head. The noise he emits makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end: it’s much like the snarl of a mountain lion mixed with the screech of a hawk. Despite his wound, he takes hold of the object and continues to push it forward.
They objects are wheeled, like carriages, but instead of seats and doors, they each have a mechanism of some sort lying across them, with some gears and levers and springs. Only when they reach the wall and activate them do I realize what they are.
“Ladders!” someone yells. Men holding ropes pull with all their might as others release the mechanism. A thirty-foot ladder unfolds from each of the contraptions and each of them comes into contact with the wall with a clang!
Here we go, I think.
Within moments soldiers are coming up the ladders. The first few are simply shot down to the ground, but then they reach the top. With roars they greet us and the first swordplay of the battle commences.
I am filled with adrenaline. As an enemy swings his sword at me, all that I had learned about swordplay the previous day clicks into place. My hammer quickly parries his blow and smashes into his chest, throwing him backwards off the wall. Once again I am almost overcome with disgust at myself, but shake it off and say silently, That would have been you .
My hammer begins swinging almost of its own accord. I lose track of the number of lives I take, though it cannot be more than five.
A horrific clang sounds from the right ladder. In only moments I see the source of the sound.
One of the trolls, now carrying an enormous spiked club, throws himself onto the walkway and roars maliciously, throwing spit and showing his sharp yellowing teeth. With a single blow from his club, he throws three men from the wall and down into the crowd below. He seems completely oblivious to his bristling coat of arrows.
His legs are short, though his arms are much longer than I would have expected. He wears only a loincloth and an iron breastplate, but his abdomen remains uncovered to maintain mobility. In the late
The army stands on the enormous bridge connecting the city to the rest of the world. Most of them have large rectangular shields held above them to block arrows. A great many of them lie dead in front of the gate, though there are plenty to take their place. Arrows pierce them where there armor is weak: at the neck and armpit. Some standing on the sides of the bridge are hit with such force that they fall over the edge to the river far below.
Their ram is doing little damage. Those who carried it in are now buried underneath their fellow soldiers. Many are being shot down, but the ram is always picked up and hurled back into the gate.
Then I notice that our arrows are not only coming from the tops of the wall and towers, but from inside of them as well. Tall narrow slit-like windows line the Clifftowers and the wall. Enemy arrows clack harmlessly around them, but our arrows shoot with deadly accuracy from within. Similarly, our archers on top take cover behind crenellations.
Two objects at the other end of the bridge part the enemy army. The men move aside, cheering and shouting as they pass them.
As the things come closer, I realize they’re each being pushed by two large humanoid creatures.
“Where did they get trolls?” I hear someone mutter.
They’re about ten or eleven feet tall, even though they’re hunched over to push the dark shapes. In the dim light of dawn, I notice they’re muscular and have long, lanky arms, though they must be brutishly strong. Their skin is scaly and some arrows merely skim over them, but they seem unaffected by those that do puncture their skin. One of them takes an arrow just under his right shoulder and rears with a roar of agony. His face is long, as are his teeth. Large bat-like ears flap behind his bald head. The noise he emits makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end: it’s much like the snarl of a mountain lion mixed with the screech of a hawk. Despite his wound, he takes hold of the object and continues to push it forward.
They objects are wheeled, like carriages, but instead of seats and doors, they each have a mechanism of some sort lying across them, with some gears and levers and springs. Only when they reach the wall and activate them do I realize what they are.
“Ladders!” someone yells. Men holding ropes pull with all their might as others release the mechanism. A thirty-foot ladder unfolds from each of the contraptions and each of them comes into contact with the wall with a clang!
Here we go, I think.
Within moments soldiers are coming up the ladders. The first few are simply shot down to the ground, but then they reach the top. With roars they greet us and the first swordplay of the battle commences.
I am filled with adrenaline. As an enemy swings his sword at me, all that I had learned about swordplay the previous day clicks into place. My hammer quickly parries his blow and smashes into his chest, throwing him backwards off the wall. Once again I am almost overcome with disgust at myself, but shake it off and say silently, That would have been you .
My hammer begins swinging almost of its own accord. I lose track of the number of lives I take, though it cannot be more than five.
A horrific clang sounds from the right ladder. In only moments I see the source of the sound.
One of the trolls, now carrying an enormous spiked club, throws himself onto the walkway and roars maliciously, throwing spit and showing his sharp yellowing teeth. With a single blow from his club, he throws three men from the wall and down into the crowd below. He seems completely oblivious to his bristling coat of arrows.
His legs are short, though his arms are much longer than I would have expected. He wears only a loincloth and an iron breastplate, but his abdomen remains uncovered to maintain mobility. In the late
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