Between Dark and Light (24 page)

Bordorn screamed for one more volley, and as the soldiers turned to flee, twenty-eight more arrows found their marks. Krondious broke from his position, chasing the panicked soldiers and calling for the swordsmen to charge. The dwarves raced after, gaining on the armor-laden troops. Halfway down the clearing, the Ghaldeons caught them and finished them off. Before more soldiers from the camp could react, Krondious called for retreat, and the dwarves raced back to the forest. All along the slope, men lay strewn on the ground, most dead and some ccrying out in pain from the arrows in their stomachs and chests. As the dwarves reached the forest, Bordorn commanded everyone back to camp, in case more soldiers gave chase. The dwarves marched steadily up the mountain, congratulating each other and shouting aspersions at the fallen men. Bordorn waited for Krondious to join him before heading up himself, and as the white beard reached him, they smiled at each other and patted each other’s backs. While successful ambushes had been good, this was the first pitched battle the Ghaldeons had won against the Great Empire in nearly fifteen years.

***

As the sun set and the air cooled, Leinjar listened to his scouts describe the Great Empire’s camp at the base of Mount Khendar. Only a handful of sentries patrolled the road and less than a hundred soldiers guarded the rear. The scouts described a large tent where it appeared they were setting up a party. Leinjar asked them if they were certain, and both scouts nodded. He looked at his sons and then the other two leisure slaves, who all sat around a small fire.

“You dwarves up for a battle tonight?” he asked.

“Yes,” Zhenjar called out, jumping to his feet.

Tehnjar and the other two smiled and nodded. Leinjar turned to his captain, a stocky Tredjard roughly his own age, and told the dwarf to send the other officers forward and ready the troops to attack. Smiling, the dwarf saluted him and moved towards the army, which snaked down the road as far as the eye could see. Leinjar walked over to the fire and collected his armor. Zhenjar helped him strap on his chest plate and vambrace, and once his helmet was on, Leinjar walked down the path to where the officers gathered.

***

As the shadows grew long on Mount Lokholme, the energy in the Ghaldeon campsite crackled with joy. The oldest ones, most of whom had been driven from their homes to the east, danced jigs from their youth, and the others, farmers and carpenters and blacksmiths, told and retold stories to each other about the battle. Bordorn smiled as he watched them. Occasionally, groups of two or three would come to him and slap him on the back. He thanked each graciously but, despite the festive mood, couldn’t stop worrying about Roskin, who had been gone for a week.

Krondious also seemed distracted by thoughts of the heir, for he sat alone, staring to the east in silence. Bordorn gave the Kiredurk space because it had been Bordorn’s decision not to go after their troubled friend. While the victory this evening had confirmed the decision had been correct, he still felt guilt for not doing more to help Roskin. Perhaps if he had told Krondious about what had happened in Horseshoe Bend, they could’ve stopped Lorac from leading him away. This was, after all, Roskin’s idea, and he should be the one leading these dwarves against the Great Empire. At some point, Bordorn would need his knowledge and experience, for up to this point, he merely had been making up strategies as he went. That could only last so long.

Behind him up the mountain, he heard a noise and jumped to his feet, looking for his sword and shield. Krondious must have heard it, too, because the Kiredurk had also risen and hoisted his axe. Bordorn strapped on his shield and slid his sword from its sheath, which he left on the ground. The noise grew louder and more distinct, and Krondious hissed for the Ghaldeons to look alive.

“People are approaching,” Bordorn whispered to the dwarves behind him.

The volunteers gathered their weapons and formed up around Bordorn and Krondious. As the footsteps came closer, Bordorn distinctly heard the sound of clinking metal. He gripped his sword and glanced at Krondious, who peered intently at the approaching foe. The twin braids of his beard fluttered in the breeze, but otherwise, the Kiredurk stood frozen, his feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, and axe drawn back to strike. Bordorn refocused on the sound, staring up the slope for the first glimpse of whomever drew closer.

At the clearing he had crossed a week earlier, Ghaldeon soldiers appeared, heavily armored and marching double-file. Bordorn couldn’t believe they had found him so quickly, and for a moment, he feared for Krestreon’s safety. The soldiers must have passed through Horseshoe Bend and gotten the information from him, and Bordorn was certain the former slave wouldn’t have betrayed them easily. Gritting his teeth, he raised his sword to high guard and prepared to call for a volley from the archers.

“Who’s your leader?” a Ghaldeon soldier asked, stepping ahead of his troops with no weapon drawn.

“I am,” Bordorn replied, not lowering his sword.

“We are soldiers from Kehldeon,” the dwarf continued. “And we’re here to serve you, if you’ll have us.”

“I don’t understand,” Bordorn said. “The king is no friend of mine.”

“We no longer submit to him,” the dwarf said, looking back at his troops. “If you are brave enough to fight what’s down there, we’d rather die with you than collect taxes for the likes of him.”

Bordorn lowered his sword and called for the others to do the same. He told Krondious to wait there but remain alert and then strode forward to meet the dwarf face to face.

“You must be Bordorn,” the soldier said, extending his hand. “I’m Prolgheon, General of Kehldeon.”

“Pardon my suspicion,” Bordorn returned, shaking the dwarf’s hand. “But what led you to this choice?”

“We’re Ghaldeons,” Prolgheon said, sticking out his chest. Behind him a cheer rippled through his troops. “Our dads and papaws gave their lives fighting the Great Empire. We can’t shame their memory anymore.”

“How many are you?” Krondious asked, walking forward and lowering his axe.

“Five hundred,” Prolgheon said. “You must be the Kiredurk I’ve heard so much about.”

Krondious stood beside Bordorn and shook the general’s hand.

“They say you fight like the warriors of old,” Prolgheon continued. “Where’s the son of Kraganere?”

“Fighting his own battle,” Bordorn said, his tone sharper than he intended. Softening, “Come, join us. We don’t have much but are happy to share.”

“We have supplies,” the general said, turning and calling to his aide. “Krestreon sends his regards.”

The aide approached with several other dwarves, carrying racks of freshly cooked meats. The volunteers moved forward as the meat was carved from the bone and handed to them. The general asked Bordorn to brief him on what had been happening, and he, Bordorn, and Krondious moved away from the feast and found good rocks for seats. Bordorn removed his shield before sitting. As he relayed the successes of the ambushes and also the battle that evening, the general smiled and nodded at him. When Bordorn finished, the general stroked his beard and glanced at the volunteers.

“When I was a boy,” he said. “My papaw told me the greatest soldiers are citizens fighting for their homes. He would be proud of you dwarves.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bordorn said.

“He also said our spirit was still alive, just wounded. On his deathbed, he promised me it would rise again.”

“My dad said the same,” Bordorn whispered.

“More will join us,” the general said, looking him in the eyes. “You’ve awakened that spirit.”

“I’m no warrior,” Bordorn muttered. “These dwarves are the fighters.”

“I disagree,” Krondious said, putting his hand on Bordorn’s shoulder and squeezing.

Bordorn blushed and looked down.

“Let’s get some rest,” the general said, rising from his seat. “There’s still much to do.”

Bordorn watched the general walk away and then turned to Krondious, who eyed the last of the meat still on the bone. Bordorn nudged him with his left arm and told him to go eat. Without hesitation, Krondious jumped up and promised to bring back some. Bordorn gazed east, thinking again of Roskin. Whatever glory anyone received from this campaign belonged to the heir, for all this had been his plan. One day, he would make sure everyone knew the truth, that Roskin had set this in motion. As darkness descended, the wind shifted and low, gray clouds formed along the horizon. Bordorn gathered his cloak around him and pulled up his hood. Winter approached quickly, and by the looks of it, they might be in for snow that night.

***

In the twilight, Leinjar stood in front of his officers and explained what his scouts had seen. He told them of his idea to attack that night, catching the humans off guard. Most of them cheered, but a couple raised questions about fighting after a full day’s march. Several officers hurled insults at them for being scared. Leinjar hushed the ones who jeered and told them the concerns were valid.

“We may never again have this moment,” he added. “Right now, they don’t expect us. Tomorrow, a scout could spot us, and their lines might shift. They’re also planning some kind of party tonight, so they’ll be even less prepared.”

“You’re right,” one of the dissenters said. “We can see better at night than they can, too. My soldiers will be ready as soon as you give the word.”

The other dissenter nodded his agreement, and the officers broke into a loud cheer. Leinjar raised his arms to silence them.

“I’m not much on speeches,” he said. “You’re the finest warriors in these lands and know what to do. We’ll drive straight into their camp and fan out as the road allows. Let’s push them from this valley.”

Again the officers cheered wildly, and Leinjar dismissed the crowd, calling for them to be ready to march in two hours. Then, he turned and strode to the top of the rise. His sons and the two former slaves followed closely. Below him, a couple of miles away, hundreds of campfires flickered around the valley. He stood silently, imagining the charge into the camp. The humans were arrogant for believing they controlled this road and didn’t need a rear guard. As a young soldier, his instructors had instilled in him a deep understanding that a position is only as secure as its weakest point. To his west, low clouds drifted down from the mountains, and a cold breeze pushed against him. From all the years on the plantation, he had nearly forgotten real cold, mountain cold. He inhaled deeply, feeling the sharpness of the air in his lungs.

***

Captain Polmere sat in his tent with his scout, an aide, and two sergeants. He described to them what he had learned of the debacle earlier that evening, and the men listened without interrupting. He explained that he had requested more troops to negate the longbows and encircle the dwarves before they could disappear up the mountain. His companions shook their heads and muttered about the general’s incompetence. The captain leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Nearly two hundred good soldiers were dead, the rest wounded badly, and even though he had argued against the plan, he still felt guilty for following the order.

“You sensed an ambush,” his scout offered. “We just searched the wrong location.”

“Those dwarves will pay,” one of the sergeants added.

“And do you want to know what the general is doing right now?” Captain Polmere asked, looking up.

“Don’t tell me they’re still having that party,” the other sergeant muttered.

“I know this is insubordinate, but I no longer trust his judgment,” the captain said gravely.

The three men agreed, and he started to admonish them that this conversation didn’t leave his tent, but a noise caught his attention. Grabbing his sword, he rushed from his tent, followed by the others. From the camp’s rear, in the vicinity of the grand tent, clangs of metal and screams filled the air. He told the sergeants to gather troops and ordered his scout to follow him. Throughout the camp, soldiers rose from their card games and beds, scrambling to grab weapons. As he ran towards the noise, Captain Polmere screamed for them to move faster.

Nearing the grand tent, he froze. Pouring down Mount Khendar, hundreds of dwarves charged them. The rear guard and the grand tent had already been overrun, and the soldiers closest to the rear, who hadn’t even strapped on armor, were being pushed back. Running back towards his post in the center of camp, he called to the troops nearest him to retreat and form up. In the chaos of darkness, some listened to him, but others charged into the battle. As he ran, he continued barking orders at the confused soldiers, trying to assemble a regiment. Behind him, the screams of agony and terror rose as the dwarves drove through the panicked soldiers. Finally, he reached his post and began to establish order. Platoons gathered around him, and he created a defensive line facing the rear. Through the ranks, sergeants screamed at troops to rally around the captain, and soon, the formation took shape, resembling a military grouping more than a crazed mob.

***

Captain Roighwheil rushed to the gate and peered through the iron bars. He couldn’t see anything except the flickering campfires, but he could hear the sounds of battle from deep in the valley. He called for troops to open the gate and ran to the general’s quarters, which were little more than an orderly pile of rubble with a curtain for a door. The captain burst through the fabric and yelled for the general to come to the gate. Grabbing his axe, the dwarf climbed from bed and followed him back. Captain Roighwheil ran through the open gate to the road’s edge. Outside, the sounds of battle were even louder, and he turned to the general and exclaimed: