Red Sky At Dawn Part 5

He and many other dwarves would have to sleep near the river and be ready to coat themselves in mud early the next morning. Then, they would have to hide along the bank for longer than he had ever held still in his life. He liked the plan but was unsure if he could execute it as well as was necessary. He had never been trained for this sort of task.

In the distance, a light flashed four times from a hilltop, and still seated, Crushaw drew his dagger and glinted sunlight off the blade. Then, the light flashed twice more, and again Crushaw responded with one flicker. Finally, the light gleamed nine times. To this, Crushaw responded with two flashes and sheathed his dagger.

"They're nine miles due east," the general said. "Tomorrow we fight, so get your dwarves ready."

When he finished talking, he rose to his full height and stretched. With the sun in Roskin's eyes, all he could see was shadow, and much like that morning outside of Molgheon's tavern, Crushaw's silhouette was imposing. For a moment, Roskin imagined the general as a young soldier, and the Kiredurk was glad that Crushaw was on his side. Even though he was now older and less powerful, Evil Blade was not someone to fight against, and that thought gave the dwarf courage.

"Gather everyone together," Leinjar said to Roskin, his voice distant.

Keeping his temper in check, Roskin hopped to his feet and scurried from platoon to platoon, telling each sergeant to get moving. Once the dwarves were a.s.sembled, he took his place beside Leinjar and waited for him to speak. For several heartbeats, the captain stared at them, his crazy eyes wild with bloodl.u.s.t. Then, his voice uncurled in a primitive snarl.

"I'm not much on speeches. Tomorrow, we kill orcs. Be ready."

The dwarves cheered loudly, waving their axes and pikes above their heads. Roskin drew his blade and joined them, letting a guttural scream explode from deep within. He had missed the fight on the Slithsythe, and even though he had helped liberate several plantations since then, this battle was his chance to earn his freedom from the orcs and secure a safer route home to his father and his kingdom. Much as the need for the Brotherhood of Dwarves had burned inside, the desire to protect his family and his people consumed him. That moment was the first time he had thought of them as his people. He screamed again, and a rush of adrenaline washed through him. The orcs would regret having taken him as a slave.

The orc general sat on his pure-blood stallion and watched an old man ride a draft horse towards him. Behind the human, less than 600 slaves formed a thin line at the crest of a slight incline. The orc was disgusted by the sight, for he had been expecting 2,000 well-armed troops led by something immortal. As an ambitious leader, he had been hoping for a glorious battle that would make him famous as the one who quashed the great slave uprising. Instead, he would get to slaughter a handful of rabble, and this battle would scarcely be remembered even by those who fought in it.

"My lord," his aide-de-camp said aloud since the old man was still beyond earshot. "Should we send troops around the bluff to cut-off their retreat?"

"That would cost us an extra day," the general responded. "I've no interest in dragging this out longer than necessary, so let's simply overrun their position and go home."

"You're right, my lord. I give them too much credit."

"Against a formidable opponent, I would agree with your strategy, but here, it doesn't seem warranted. Quiet, now. He's almost to us."

The old man was alone a" as the slaves were so uncouth they couldn't supply an a.s.sistant to escort their leader a" and stopped his horse several feet away from them. The orc general walked his horse a couple of steps closer to the man, keeping both hands on his reigns as a show of trust. At least the human knew enough protocol to do likewise, the orc thought. He made eye contact with his foe, and for just a moment, terror seized him, for he saw a coldness in the other's eyes that warned of evil. He squelched the fear and cleared his throat. However terrible this one might be, he only had a few hundred slaves to protect him from 5,000 of the most well-trained warriors the land had ever known. No single person could overcome those odds.

"Surrender your weapons," the orc general said, not expecting the old man to understand a civilized tongue. "And we will make your death quick."

"I've no need to surrender," the man returned in orcish. "We'll leave these lands free people."

"You stand no chance against my army," the general said, more than a little surprised. "If you make me take you by force, your death will not be gentle."

"Move your soldiers a safe distance away to let us pa.s.s, and I will free the prisoners I hold unharmed."

"Your arrogance is amusing. You are in no position to offer conditions to me. This is your last opportunity to surrender."

"Then, come and take me," the human said, wheeling back towards the slaves and kicking his draft horse into a run.

The orc general watched the old man ride for a few moments, pondering the stupidity of someone who would choose a slow, tortured death over a quick, easy one. He motioned for his aide-de-camp to move beside him.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Ready the troops to charge. We will have their position by sundown."

Vishghu stood where the field blended into the bluff and watched Crushaw ride back to their lines. He had told her many times that she had to hold that spot at all costs. If she failed, the orcs would overrun their flank and envelope them. Since she was the largest and strongest of any in this battle, she would have to bear its most difficult point, for the orcs would drive at that spot with their best platoons. She would get little if any quarter the entire battle.

On one hand, she was proud that he thought enough of her skills to trust her with such a task, but on the other, she was terrified of letting down the army. What if she tired? What if she suffered a serious wound? She didn't want to cost them the battle, and truth be known, she wanted even less to disappoint Crushaw. They had grown to like and respect each other, and almost as much as she wanted to stay alive, she wanted to prove to him that his trust was well-placed.

He rode to where she stood and looked at her, then the elves behind her, and finally the ones to her left. Then, he walked the horse along the line, not speaking to anyone, just making eye contact with most of the soldiers. When he reached the river-flank, he returned to the middle and stopped the horse. Suddenly, his voice boomed over them: "Army of the Free Peoples, I'll not lie to you. Many of us will die here today. We face a larger, better-trained, and better-armed force. We might lose this battle."

A rustle of discomfort went through the lines, and several voices murmured dissent.

"I've led many battles, and in every one, I was certain of victory, until today. On this day, the odds are against us, but know this: I would rather die by your side here than win any other battle."

A cheer rose from the crowd.

"And know this, too," he continued when it faded. "While we might lose this battle, I would rather die today than live another second on their plantations."

Another cheer, this one even louder, erupted.

"They might have more soldiers, but we have more courage. They might have better weapons, but we have more rage. Fight them with all you have. Remember every morning horn and every overseer's lash, and let it fuel you. That is how we will beat them."

Another eruption drowned his words, but again he waited for the frenzy to subside.

"Fight well, Army of the Free Peoples. Fight them as you have dreamed of doing. Many of you have never tasted orc blood, but tonight we'll drink our fill."

Emotions overran her, so Vishghu threw back her head and bellowed. The noise rose like thunder, and those nearest to her joined the roar. Soon, the entire front lines howled like savages, and as they did, Crushaw rode back to the river and dismounted, taking his place to guard that flank.

Molgheon lay on the clay slate of the bluff and watched the orcs advance. From her experiences with the Resistance, she had seen many battalions of the Great Empire approach battlefields, and while those situations had been different, she was still unimpressed with these soldiers. Where the humans had been focused on the coming fight, the orcs seemed more like sightseers on a picnic. When they reached the pits and trenches, she could hear many of them laughing at and mocking the obstacles. Enjoy it while you can, she thought.

From her hiding spot, she had a good view of both forces, and the difference in sizes was astonis.h.i.+ng. The freed slaves looked small and vulnerable compared to the ma.s.s of orcs, but Molgheon wasn't worried. She trusted Red's plan, and so far, he had antic.i.p.ated their approach as well as could be imagined. From here on out, the battle would come down to how well they executed the strategy. If she and the archers could use their arrows well and terrorize the middle of the force, the front lines would have no reprieve from fighting and would become almost the same size force as the freed slaves. Then, when the rear lines tried to retreat, if Leinjar and the ambush party could hold the orcs well enough to prevent a major reorganization, the freed slaves could succeed.

Besides Molgheon, each archer had ten arrows to fire. Most were elves and as accurate a shot as she was. Their goal was to wound at least seven orcs each. When they ran out of arrows they were to move to the front line and supplant any exhausted troops. As for Molgheon, she had nearly a hundred arrows and would focus her fire on the orc leaders.h.i.+p. Even if she didn't kill them all, her hope was to create chaos in the command structure, thus weakening the orc army's reactions to the battle.

For several minutes, the orcs marched up the rise, inching closer and closer. Molgheon could not give her position away too soon, for if she did, the orcs would retreat before Leinjar got behind them. She would have to wait until the orcs moved far enough up the field that the ambush party could completely block the lower end. So she and the other archers lay still beneath their brush camouflage and watched the orcs march.

Early spring in the foothills was usually warm and breezy, but on this day, the air was fairly cool with very little wind. The first leaf buds had appeared on the dogwoods and poplars, and insects buzzed and fluttered from plant to plant, searching for food and spreading pollen as had happened and would continue for countless millennia. As winter gave way, the smell of new life was sweet and thick. Molgheon had always preferred fall and winter, since so much of her life had revolved around war and death, but on this day, she soaked in the seasonal rebirth and relished it.

The Great Empire had conquered and divided the Ghaldeon kingdom well before she had been born, so as a child, she had always aspired to join the War of Resistance and expel the enemy from her home. For as long as she could remember, she had trained for battle and was an expert with practically every weapon used in warfare. The bow was her favorite, however, because her eyesight was keen and her hands were steady. Even at forty-three, she was as deadly a shot as any, but she knew her skills were slowly eroding. Her joints stayed sore and stiff most of the time, and her hands had lost some of their strength. She didn't want to grow old and feeble, especially not alone with no real family or friends to care for her, but since she was hardly into middle-age, those worries could wait.

The orcs reached the front line and stopped about ten yards away from the freed slaves. Soldiers on each side called insults to the others, and some spat at their enemies. Many orcs beat their chest plates with the wooden shafts of their pikes, and the cacophony resounded up to Molgheon with ominous familiarity, as soldiers in the Great Empire did a similar thing with the pommels of their swords. She wanted to unleash a volley on them, but the rear lines were still moving into the kill zone, so she had to wait.

It wasn't hard to find the main leaders.h.i.+p, for while the common soldiers marched, the officers rode on exquisite horses that were adorned with ornate blankets. Within a couple of minutes, Molgheon roughly mapped their command structure and prepared a firing order for when she did attack. First, she would strike down the dozen that she deduced were the highest ranking because they were closest to the middle and had the most lavish adornments. Then, she would fire on the orcs near Vishghu to help the ogre hold the bluff flank. Finally, with any remaining arrows, she would aim for the river-flank and take down those officers. When she was out, she would join whichever front needed her worse.

Orcs stood mere feet from Vishghu, thumping their chests and chanting at the freed slaves. With her height, the ogre could see over their heads and down the incline at the rows and rows of orcs, and for the first time, she was truly scared. Even when the sand lion had attacked them on the Crimson Road, she hadn't been deeply afraid. Now, however, seeing the enormity of her foes, she wanted to flee the battle and run for the pa.s.s, and the thought crossed her mind that this must've been how the orcs trapped inside the barracks had felt before Roskin killed them. Despite the fear, she held her ground and focused on her training.

Without warning, the orcs lowered their pikes and charged. She set her feet and found her balance. When their pikes were almost to her body, she swung horizontally to block the ones before her, and shattered four poles. A fifth had its weapon knocked from its grasp. She brought the club back with a backhand and caught one squarely on the shoulder. It sprawled backwards, toppling those beside and behind. Vishghu crushed several before they could regain their feet. Seeing the carnage, the second wave hesitated and gave her time to recover. When they finally attacked, the result was much the same.

Behind her, the freed slaves cheered and shouted, but she had no time to celebrate as the third wave rushed in more courageously than the second. Six orcs climbed over the bodies of the first two waves and drove at her with their pikes. Vishghu drew back and swung a sweeping blow that killed three on contact and scattered the others. They crawled back towards their lines, searching for cover, but she pounced on them and finished them off before they could escape.

The fourth wave stopped its attack and dragged bodies away from the line. Vishghu took the opportunity to help the elves to her left. Together, they pushed back the orcs and gained several feet down the field. Once the orcs had regrouped, a new cl.u.s.ter rushed forward, this time stopping just short of her reach and stabbing at her legs. With her left hand, she grabbed a pike and snapped off the blade. Then, she hurled it towards the crowd. The ones in the front ducked the spinning blade, but two behind them were not so lucky. The orc that had lost its weapon retreated from the pack, but the others continued thrusting at her legs. She parried their attempts with her club and snapped another pole with her left hand. This time, she kept the blade and rushed the unarmed orc. It squealed in fear, but the noise was cut short as she drove the pike's blade into its chest. She then backhanded two others with the club. They collapsed against the bluff wall, and the remaining ones backed into their lines.

Roskin lay motionless in the mud, waiting for Leinjar's signal. His legs were in the rus.h.i.+ng water up to mid-calf, and occasionally fish would brush against him. Several crawdads had moved across his chest, and one had even burrowed into his beard. To his right and left, the other dwarves lay just as still as Roskin, and the orcs had not noticed them. Each dwarf was caked in sludge from their heads down to their legs, and their weapons were muddied to keep them from glittering. Even someone who knew where to look would have had difficulty seeing them against the bank.

When the rear lines of the orcs moved beyond the lower base of the bluff, Leinjar signaled for the dwarves to creep from the bank onto the field. Now, the orcs were trapped, and unless they could punch through one of the two lines, their only escape would be the river. Silently, the dwarves crawled behind them and formed a line three deep at a narrow point between the bluff and the river. They remained flat against the ground for several minutes, for they were not to make themselves known until the archers attacked.

Roskin scanned the bluff for motion, but he could not see a single person. Suddenly, the archers rose from the brush and unleashed a volley on the orcs. With arrows raining down, chaos rippled through the orc lines as they tried to maneuver to escape the archers. The leaders along the rear shouted at the soldiers, and they turned to retreat from the trap, but as they did, Leinjar ordered the dwarves to stand and hold the line.

Roskin scrambled to his feet and readied his sword in middle guard. The line rushed towards him, and he charged into it with a torrent of slashes. He killed more than he could count in the initial surge, and after a few minutes of furious fighting, each line fell back a few feet to regroup. On either side of him, dwarves were calling out encouragement to each other, for while dozens of orcs had been killed, their lines were barely bloodied mostly because they had caught the enemy without their weapons drawn.

Instead of waiting pa.s.sively for the orcs to prepare, Leinjar ordered the dwarves forward, and they rushed the orcs before they were organized. Again, Roskin drove into their line with all his fury, and again orcs fell all around him. This time, however, the other dwarves made little impact on the line. As Roskin hacked his way ahead, he soon found himself cut off from his own group, surrounded with no retreat.

When the archers ambushed them, Toulesche steadied his platoon and maneuvered them into a defensive posture that would minimize their exposed flesh. He knew the best way to counter archers was to charge them and get within pike distance, but with the bluff, that was impossible. Unable to rush straight at them, his platoon hunkered down to withstand the onslaught. Arrows thwucked into soldiers all around them a" including two of his platoon a" and orcs screamed in agony as they fell to the ground.

Fear consumed the ranks, breaking down discipline and causing many to flee their positions. In the confusion, scores of orcs stumbled into the crude ditches in the open, and their screams and moans joined the others. Even with the chaos, Toulesche remained calm and kept his platoon together. His training taught him to ignore the upheaval and focus on what he could control, so he ordered his soldiers to move towards the front line. To him, their best hope was to break through the freed slaves and engulf a flank. That would allow enough orcs to charge the bluff and dispose of the archers.

Since he was already near the river, he led his troops toward that flank, and they weaved through the swarming ma.s.s of terrified orcs. As they neared the vanguard, he saw Suvene's phantom, and the creature was just as his friend had described. It towered above the rock- and wood-brains, and its very essence emanated a gray shroud. Toulesche froze for a moment, terrified of the evil that held the flank, and considered driving for the other side. Realizing that he could never maneuver his platoon through the swarm again, he collected his courage and called for them to charge.

The words had barely escaped his lips when a blinding pain ripped into his left shoulder. He dropped his weapon and slumped to his knees. His soldiers continued forward, oblivious to his plight, and he was nearly trampled by another platoon from behind. Gritting his teeth, he rose to feet and got his bearings. To his right, the river was mere feet away and offered the safest refuge, so he stepped towards it and slid down the bank. As he tumbled into the rus.h.i.+ng current, he saw scores of orc bodies already in the water and realized that he was probably going to die.

Molgheon's last shot had missed the mounted orc nearest Crushaw and had struck a foot soldier in the shoulder. She didn't watch the result because commotion to her right caught her attention. At the rear line, a lone soldier had become surrounded by orcs. Despite overwhelming numbers, the dwarf's sword flashed violently, killing many and keeping more at bay. Seeing the sword, Molgheon realized who was trapped and muttered aloud at his foolishness as she slung her bow across her back.

Drawing a hand axe, she sprinted across the crunching clay slate to the closest point above him. Without hesitation, she leapt from the bluff into the crowd and landed on the back of a thickly-muscled orc that was about to strike Roskin. With one swift hit, she drove the axe into its skull. As it fell, she jumped from its back onto the ground beside Roskin. When he saw her, he paused for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face. Molgheon circled around him until her back was against his.

"This is the last time I'm gonna save you," she growled.

Roskin didn't answer, for the orcs were closing back in from his extended pause. She gripped her axe tightly and waited for them to get within reach. Together, they stood against the rush, and while she didn't think they had much of a chance to survive, she was glad to at least die with someone as skilled with a blade as this young dwarf. As the orcs neared, they began jabbing with their pikes, and Molgheon used the axe to parry the blows.

Roskin's shoulders rolled against hers, and she could feel the ancient throwing axes strapped to his back. She hurled her own axe at the nearest orc and then reached over her shoulders to grab them. Roskin didn't resist, and as she brought the blades forward, she marveled at their balance. They had been forged by Ghaldeons and fit her hands as if the smith had known her. As she sliced and chopped at her enemy, she watched for a way to escape behind the rear line, but there was none. The orcs were five or six deep at the narrowest point, and she was already tiring, her arms and legs growing heavier and heavier by the second.

Leinjar watched Molgheon leap from the bluff to Roskin's aid and was stunned by her grace and agility. From countless generations below ground, Tredjards were stocky and powerful, built for mining and fighting. The Ghaldeons, on the other hand, mostly lived above ground and, as such, were taller and more sinewy. Leinjar had not known many dwarves outside his own race, and he had never encountered one as nimble as Molgheon. He couldn't see her or Roskin in the crowd of orcs, but knowing how deep into the lines Roskin had pushed, he was certain they couldn't defend themselves for long.

"Push forward," he called to the platoons nearest him. "Make a wedge between them."

Then, he attacked with all his fury. From his years in the leisure slave cage, he had almost forgotten his family. On some days, he couldn't remember their faces, and lately, those days came closer and closer together. Each morning he had woken as a slave he had wished that he had died in the battle which had left him in bondage. For the amus.e.m.e.nt of his enemies, he had been forced to fight and kill fellow Tredjards in violent and disgusting bare-fisted combat. Those images and dreams made sleep difficult. From all of that and then some, his anger was not insignificant.

He flew into the orcs as a starving dog devours meat and almost single-handedly drove the wedge through the orc lines. When Leinjar thrust aside the last orc between himself and Molgheon, she saw the opening and dragged Roskin through it. They both collapsed behind the dwarves and gulped for air. Their faces and arms were gashed in dozens of places and were bleeding quite a bit. Dropping his pike, Leinjar knelt beside them and began dressing their wounds with strips from his muddy tunic. Despite all the blood, none of the wounds appeared too serious, and in no time, he had the worst ones bandaged.

"Rest here, tall one," Leinjar said to Roskin. Then, he turned to Molgheon. "You rest, too. Both of you are too brave for your own good."

"It was my fault," Roskin said, shaking his head. "I got ahead of my platoon."

"You lived to tell about it," Leinjar returned. "At least there's that."

Molgheon rose to her feet and asked Roskin if she could use the two ancient axes for the rest of the battle. He nodded and stood as well. Leinjar pleaded with them to stay put, but neither would listen. The battle was not over, and they were still able to fight.

Vishghu's arms were rubber, and she could barely raise the club to strike again. For nearly half an hour, the orcs had charged at her relentlessly, and she bested every wave that came. Now, she needed to rest and catch her breath, but the orcs had not yet abandoned hope of overrunning her position. Before the next group reached her, she collected her strength and prepared for one more wave. Either she would repel them, or they would beat her, but regardless of which, she knew this would be the last. Slowly, she raised the club into striking posture and waited.

From her position, she could see that Crushaw's plan had worked brilliantly. The field was strewn with hundreds of dead and wounded orcs, many of which had fallen victim to the archers and the pits. Still more had already deserted the battle, choosing to brave the river instead of the freed slaves. The ones that remained numbered less than five hundred with very few officers to organize and lead them.

The freed slaves had not yet won the battle, however, for their ranks had been thinned as well. Along the front line, less than three hundred were still able to fight, and in the rear, there were barely a hundred. From this point forward, the battle would be a matter of will. There were no strategies or tactics left to play. Both sides only had muscle and sweat, wood and iron, to decide the outcome, so Vishghu steadied herself and dug deep inside to find energy and courage.

The orcs had managed to retreat to the center, just above the pits, and organize themselves into one large unit that could attack the front line and protect against the rear. Once they were ready, they lowered their pikes and charged up the incline. Yet again, the brunt of their force drove at Vishghu and the bluff-flank, and as they neared, she moved forward to meet them, swinging her club to deflect their pikes.

At first, she scattered them as she had each previous wave, but from her fatigue and their primal fear, three orcs managed to elude her blows and drive their blades into her stomach, left hip, and right thigh. She howled as the weapons pierced the thick layers of fat that all ogres carry as insulation from the bitter cold of the arctic, and she stumbled backwards, clumsily waving her club at them to keep each at bay. Luckily, none of the blades struck deeply enough to damage muscle or bone, and while the pain was intense, the wounds were mostly superficial.

Regaining her balance and steadying her club, Vishghu let them approach, and those three were joined by a dozen more. With one broad stroke, she killed four of them and seriously wounded two more, but the other nine engulfed her, stabbing her with their pikes. She collapsed to her knees, and like rats, they piled on her body, some pus.h.i.+ng her to the ground and others beating her with the poles of their weapons. She lacked the strength to resist them and realized that death would come soon. As she fell onto her back, she howled from the pain of their blows.

Suddenly, a figure flashed above her, and the three orcs at her head and shoulders fell dead. As in a dream, she watched Crushaw raise his sword and strike the next one. His gambeson and face were already soaked dark with orc blood, and with each swing of his sword, his eyes danced with hate and joy. After he had killed six of them, the other three turned to flee, but Evil Blade chased them down and butchered each one. Their final screams rose above the din of battle, and Vishghu felt some satisfaction at knowing that they would not take her position after all.

Chapter 7.

Roskin the Diplomat.

His clothes were stained with blood and mud; his skin was torn and bruised; and his hair was greasy and tangled. He had been gone from home for almost a full year, and his body was a tapestry of scars from his mangled ear to his crisscrossed back. From the time in the leisure slave cage, he was thin and wiry, and anyone just meeting him would have had a hard time believing that he was heir to anything more than a rat's nest. Nonetheless, he was the most adept diplomat among the freed slaves, so he had been chosen to enter the Marshwogg Republic to request sanctuary.

He had washed himself and his clothes in an icy mountain stream, but without soap, it had done little good. The only real bright spot was that he no longer smelled like a barnyard in August, rather more like a dog kennel in winter. As he strode down a mountain trail towards a guard tower, he hoped the Marshwoggs were not courtly people. When he was within crossbow range, he held out his hands to show that he was not armed and stopped to wait for an escort from the tower.

After a couple of minutes, the door opened and a creature stepped outside. It was only a foot taller than Roskin, but its arms and legs were so long and muscular that it looked much taller. Its skin was drab green with large brown splotches, and its fingers and toes were webbed like a frog's. Its face was long and thin with a sharp nose and a pointy chin. As it walked, it seemed to bob up and down as its legs bent awkwardly deep. It stopped a few feet away and spoke to Roskin in a low croak. The language was completely foreign to the Kiredurk, so he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head to show as much.

"Our language is strange to outsiders. Forgive me," the Marshwogg said in the common tongue. "Would you like something to eat?"

Roskin was caught off guard by the question. He had expected a much ruder greeting because of his appearance and didn't know what to say. He was famished, as they had run out of food a couple of days before in the mountains, and forgetting the people waiting for him, he nodded yes. The Marshwogg motioned for Roskin to follow it into the tower where it produced a hunk of yellow cheese and a few strips of dried meat.

"That's the best we've got at this outpost, I'm afraid. When you get to town, you'll find much better hospitality."

"This is fine," Roskin managed between bites. He finished the meal quickly and thanked his host.

"If we were at my house, I'd feed you a proper meal. Would you like a change of clothes?"

"I don't have any money," Roskin responded. When Molgheon and Leinjar had divided up the pillaged gold, he had refused his share, not wanting anything more to remind him of the cage.

"My friend, please don't insult me."