Red Sky at Dawn (8 page)

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 cluster 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 rushing 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 passively 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 – including two of his platoon – 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 mass 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 rushing 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 amusement 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 pushing 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.