Read Even Gods Must Fall for Free Online

warmed the Elf. His own Aeldruin rode the flanks for the Minotaurs, preventing the enemy from rolling up on the sides and overwhelming the steadily outnumbered force. Those were days of glory and sorrow. Too many friends and familiar faces were buried in the aftermath of the battle. The war continued for another five years, reaping tens of thousands of souls. Lord Death strode Malweir at will. What remained of the old ways spread out. Alliances disintegrated as war-weary soldiers returned to their ancestral homes. Magic was rooted out. Any bearing the signs were hunted down and murdered in blind rage. Faeldrin took his few surviving Elves and returned to the forest haven of Elvenara where they remained for an entire generation.
    The Elf Lord knew that no other kingdom had reached out to the Minotaurs in all the years since. The quest to kill Ramulus the dragon brought the inevitable collision of races. Unexpected as it was, Faeldrin knew Krek, then a young bull who had yet to earn his first kill, was highly praised for his efforts by Anienam Keiss’s father, Dakeb. He hoped the ferocity of a single Minotaur was a hint of what an entire legion held.
    He watched as the legion ground to a halt. Steam poured from their nostrils. Cold sunlight reflected from freshly polished horns. The Minotaurs were breathing heavily. Plain, boiled leather armor clung to each bull. Weapons were sheathed or slung. There were no natural predators in the northern kingdoms for the vast legion to fear. Faeldrin admired their arrogance.
    “Hail Krek, Lord of Malg!” he called out.
    Krek, tallest of the bulls, strode towards the Elf. His great cloven feet were the size of small boulders. His horns thick, powerful. Muscles corded every inch of his nine-foot frame. Scars from individual combats ran diagonally down his face. Much of his mane had turned grey. He was old, almost at the point where a successor would be named. The old never lasted long in warrior societies.
    “Elf Lord. It has been long,” Krek replied. “Malg comes.”
    Faeldrin gazed out upon the army, judging their numbers to be close to two thousand. “You are well represented. I pity the Goblins that come upon us.”
    Krek coughed and spit. “No pity for grey skins. All must die.”
    The Elf feigned a smile. He held no personal desire to kill, not even a Goblin, but knew when necessity demanded otherwise. A reckoning was upon them. Only those with martial prowess could possibly survive. Little known to Faeldrin, the war had already claimed thousands of lives and was continuing to grind more souls towards Lord Death daily. His brief meeting with Anienam Keiss failed to present an adequate sense of urgency in the Dwarves. They were solely concerned with confronting and defeating the massive Goblin army.
    “Allow me to lead you to King Thord. The army of Drimmen Delf awaits you not far from here,” he said.
    Krek nodded and bellowed orders in his brusque language. The Minotaur legions slowly took up the march again.
     
     
     
    “What do you mean gone?” Thord demanded.
    Anger filled his tone. He clenched his massive fist so tightly the knuckles bled white. The others assembled fell silent, knowing all too well their king’s wrath when angered. The Dwarf Lord ground his teeth while looking to each of his generals and advisors.
    “Well?”
    “Sire, the Elf scouts report there is no sign of the Goblin army. They have…vanished.” The younger Dwarf cleared his throat, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot.
    Thord leaned menacingly closer. “An army that size cannot just disappear without any trace. The scouts must be wrong.”
    Aleor, tall and slender as most Elves, stood passively with hands folded in front of him. He regarded the smaller Dwarves as curious, yet capable of great violence. For an entire clan to fall to darkness didn’t take much imagination. Any race willing to exercise violence must hold natural instincts towards fouler paths.
    “King Thord, may I offer