Between Dark and Light (5 page)

“The Great Empire is here already,” he said, indicating the majority of Rugraknere. “So they’ll want to march north, clip the ogres’ western flank, and then turn against the Kiredurks. You must convince enough matriarchs to hold them here.” He dug the stick deeper into the dirt.

“I know that area well,” Vishghu returned. “I’ll convince my mother, and she holds sway with many others.”

“Good. I’ll approach from here,” he said, drawing an arrow from the east. “General Strauteefe is in command. He’ll want to wait for the spring thaw before advancing, but if you press forward in winter, he’ll be forced to meet you. I’ll arrive on the Winter Solstice.”

“Does that give us time to train the army?” Kwarck asked, uncertainty tingeing his voice.

“No, but it gives us the advantage of bad weather.”

“I don’t know,” Kwarck said. “Extra time would be a better benefit.”

“I agree with that,” Vishghu said. “My people could use the time to build better fortifications.”

Crushaw dropped his stick and rose to full height. Despite his age, his presence became commanding and imposing. Clenching his jaw, he stared at them for several heartbeats, and their expressions changed from questioning to submissive. He exhaled sharply and pointed his right index finger first at Kwarck and then at Vishghu:

“Do you know why I’ve never lost a pitched battle?”

“I don’t doubt your judgment,” Kwarck said, lowering his eyes.

“You’ve charged me with leading this army,” Crushaw snarled. “So do me the courtesy of answering me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Because I always choose the time and place,” he said, his voice a low growl. Shifting his attention to Vishghu, he continued, “Control those and you dictate the kind of battle fought. Strauteefe is cautious. He’s planning a siege up a mountain in the spring and summer. Do either of you know what that means?”

Both shook their heads. Behind them at the gate, Vishghu’s buffalo stamped its front hoof, the sound startling in the quiet of morning.

“He won’t have many long bows. Mostly crossbows for close range. And catapults and trebuchets. And infantry, heavily armored.”

Vishghu nodded, a look of comprehension coming over her.

“One thing the elves already know how to do is fire long bows accurately. That’s about our only advantage, and in heavy snow, I like long bows against armored infantry. I like knowing that catapults and trebuchets will be hard to maneuver. And I really like hitting my enemy before they want me to.”

“You’re right, Crushaw,” Kwarck said. “I’m sorry.”

“If you want me to lead, we do things my way.”

“Understood.”

“I like it,” Vishghu added. “And I’ll make sure we’re in place a few days before the solstice to draw them out.”

Crushaw relaxed and breathed deeply. Of all the warriors he had trained, she was one of his favorites because she saw the larger canvas, much like he always had. Just over a year before, she had confronted him at this same gate, prepared to die to fulfill her duty of keeping him on the farm, and now, she was one of the few he trusted to execute a duty as imperative as this. Reconciling the forty years of violence against her people with the respect he had for her wasn’t easy, and part of him was ashamed of the hate he had carried against her kind. He knew there was no making amends for the ogres he had killed and tortured, but he hoped that helping them expel the Great Empire would ease his shame slightly.

“Get moving,” he said, extending his hand.

She bypassed the handshake and hugged him, wrapping her massive arms around his shoulders. He returned the gesture as well as he could, his hands barely reaching her back, and pressed the side of his face against her chest.

“I’ll see you both after the battle,” she said, stepping back.

“Take care of yourself,” Kwarck said. “On your trip and on the battlefield.”

“Remember your footwork,” Crushaw added.

She nodded, reaching for the tether that bound her buffalo to the gate. As she mounted, Crushaw opened the gate and waited for her to ride through. She waved goodbye, and he closed the gate, watching her until she was out of sight. In his life, he had led and trained many soldiers, but that had always been business, devoid of emotion. Before Molgheon, other than a few elves on the plantation, no one had shown him much compassion, and as a result, he had always believed mercy the lowest of weaknesses. Then, Roskin had saved his life twice, and Kwarck nurtured him back to health. Now, he saw clearly Vishghu and Roskin were the closest things to children he would ever know, and he had watched both leave, uncertain if he would ever see them again. The feeling weighed on him foreign and heavy. Old age was making him sentimental, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. When he turned around after gathering himself, he was surprised to see Kwarck still standing there.

“Do we need to clear the air?” the wizard asked.

“We are friends. Nothing will change that, but if you want me in charge, never again question my leadership in front of someone. If you have concerns, talk to me privately. If these elves are going to follow me to the end, my authority must be absolute.”

“You’re right,” Kwarck said, patting him on the shoulder. “You know far more about war than I do. It was foolish to question you.”

“Do you want to make it up to me?”

“Of course.”

“Do that thing you elves do and send a message to this army.”

“What message?”

“I need all of the ones who fought at Hard Hope to divide into a separate group, and from the others I need the best twenty-five leaders to present themselves to me. Can you make that happen before they arrive?”

“Easy enough,” Kwarck said, smiling. “Are you ready for some breakfast?”

Crushaw rubbed his growling stomach, and they headed for the house. Inside, the others were still sound asleep, weary from their hard journey, so the two ate alone, chatting about the day’s chores and the pending harvest. The weather had been nearly perfect all summer, and the crop, especially the corn, looked bountiful if they could get it reaped in time. Kwarck’s nomads would arrive soon to assist, but before they were due much work needed completing.

“I do have one concern,” Crushaw said, before taking the last bite of his eggs.

“Only one?” Kwarck grinned.

“Only one that matters. I can see from your silos and smokehouses and this harvest, that we’ll have plenty to feed the elves, but we’ll need quite a few of them to serve as cooks. That will weaken our force, and we need every sword and bow we can muster.”

“My friend, you’re not the only one who plans ahead.”

“How so?” Crushaw asked, arching an eyebrow.

“The humans who help with the harvest have done so on two conditions. First, each year, they receive enough food to get them through the winter, but second, and more importantly for us, one day they would owe me a favor. Now, that favor comes due. They will serve as our cooks for as long as needed.”

“You are quite the schemer. You would’ve made a great general.”

Kwarck laughed and shook his head. Crushaw gathered their empty plates and washed them. Then, he excused himself and went to his room. From his closet, he removed the uniform the dwarven tailor and blacksmith had fashioned for him on the way to Koshlonsen. The ash gray of the pants and gambeson were stained brown with blood, save where the mail cuisse and vambrace had covered them. He ran his fingers over the Great Empire’s insignia, remembering a time when that symbol meant more to him than his own life. Now, he hated Emperor Vassa and her insatiable greed. She and her kind were why he and so many others had suffered slavery, and he would make her army pay for that torment.

He grabbed one of his daggers from the closet and painstakingly cut each stitch that bound the insignia to the gambeson. When finished, he wadded up the embroidery and used it to polish his dark tan boots, mail cuisse, and vambrace. On the left arm guard, he ran his fingers over the indentions from the sand lion’s bite, marveling at the dwarven craftsmanship that had saved his arm. He laid each piece of the uniform on his bed and looked at it, unsure if the blood stains would inspire confidence or diminish the desired effect. He had to make an immediate and lasting impression on the elves, and it would start with the sight of him.

The second part of earning their respect would be more difficult, but he would have to prove to those who hadn’t fought with him at Hard Hope that he was still tough enough to lead them into battle. Each day, he felt his age. The ankle he had broken on the Slithsythe ached often, and his joints mostly ground bone on bone from a lifetime of hard labor and warfare. His muscles still held a fair level of strength, but his reactions had slowed over the last several months. More than once, Kwarck had almost caught him off guard in the fields, and he doubted whether he was up to this final challenge.

But if the plan had any chance of success, the elves would have to believe he was still Evil Blade, the bane of ogres, whether or not he actually was. He would have to get their attention swiftly for them to obey the rigorous training he would force upon them in the brief span of three to four months before they would leave for Rugraknere. The slightest doubt would create dissention, and they would not endure the daily pain he planned to inflict.

Grabbing his sword, he strode outside in the growing daylight and went through his old routine of practice slashes, parries, and rakes. From the summer’s labor, his physical stamina impressed him, and he completed the routine hardly breaking a sweat. While his legs didn’t have the bounce of youth and his arms had slowed, he hadn’t felt this agile in years, and that gave him an idea for how to win over the elves. It would be risky, but that was a chance he would have to take.

***

Two days later, Crushaw stood on a small rise beyond the farm, facing south and waiting for the elves. He wore his full uniform, blood stains and all, and held his sword in his left hand. The tip of the blade rested on the ground so as not to weaken his arm. The wind blew from the west, whipping his gray hair across his face and shoulders. He stood motionless, staring into the distance and focusing on his plan. His scar-flecked face remained stationary, a mask of unquarried stone, and any sane person seeing him for the first time would’ve believed even the most outlandish rumor about his ruthlessness.

When the elves came into sight, a twinge of nervousness overcame him, but he pushed it aside and held his stoic gaze. They could see no hint of uncertainty or weakness in him. They marched across the open plains, ten thousand strong, in perfect unison, and their precision lifted his spirits. If they could march so fluidly already, they could learn all he had to teach. As long as his plan to gain their submission worked, they had a chance to become the army he needed to face the Great Empire.

They stopped a few yards from him, and the silence of their footsteps ending punctuated their arrival. Crushaw recognized many faces in the first two rows from the Battle for Hard Hope, and he called for them to come forward. Both lines moved ahead and followed his gesture to stand behind him. Then, he summoned the twenty-five leaders from the others, and half of the third row stepped forward. Raising his right hand, he halted them a few feet from his position.

“You have been chosen as the best of your kin, but before you can join me,” his voice boomed. “Send me your three best swordsmen.”

The twenty-five looked at each other, and then, three from their ranks moved forward one step. Each was at least half his age, their bodies long and lean with muscles like tight ropes.

“You will fight me one at a time,” he bellowed so all could hear him. “And if any of you can disarm me, I am not worthy to lead. But once I’ve defeated each, my word is law for as long as the elves remain in my army.”

Behind him, the elves who had served with him remained silent, but a murmur ran through the mass in front of him.

“Do you all swear an oath to abide by this?”

“Yes,” the elves responded in harmony, the sound thunderous on the plains.

“Then, decide who faces me first.”

The other twenty-two rejoined the rest, and the three swordsmen moved back a few feet, whispering amongst themselves. Finally, the tallest and strongest one, a male roughly Roskin’s age drew his sword and approached. He was a Koorleine elf, with long blond hair and clear blue eyes. In one swift movement, Crushaw readied himself in middle guard, placing his feet and bending his knees for balance. His pulse and breathing slowed in anticipation. The elf also chose middle guard, his eyes studying Crushaw’s posture as he neared the old man. Crushaw held still, waiting for the elf to strike first.

With a flash of steel, the elf drove at him with a forward thrust. Crushaw slipped to the side, not moving his own blade. Agitated, the elf thrust again, faster and more powerfully this time, but again, the old man simply stepped away from the charge. Enraged, the elf slashed horizontally. This time, Crushaw stepped into the blow, blocked it with his sword, and with one twisting parry sent the young elf’s blade flying.

“Back in line,” Crushaw said, only audible to the disarmed elf.

The second soldier came forward, a female Loorish elf whose face seemed strangely familiar. Without hesitation, she attacked, swinging from high guard. He easily blocked that strike, but she spun around faster than seemed possible and slashed at his right leg. Instinctively, he used the mail cuisse on that leg to block the blow, but before he could counter, she spun the opposite direction and thrust at his left ribs. He moved just in time to avoid a fatal blow, but the blade sliced open his gambeson and raked his mail hauberk. Using his left arm, he trapped her sword against his body and placed his blade at her throat.