A Whisper After Midnight (25 page)

“Why are we stopping?” Bahr asked.

Grey Beard sneered. “We can’t make it. The enemy is too close. Prepare yourselves. We must fight.”

“Shit,” Nothol muttered under his breath and drew his sword.

They formed a tight semicircle and waited. Clashing steel rang out from the darkness, followed by a deep groan and then shouting. The same was repeated from another part of the forest. Bahr flexed his grip on his sword. His muscles trembled from over exertion. Heart pounding, he prepared for battle. The wait wasn’t long. Short, squat shapes of more than one hundred Dwarves emerged from the dark. Rekka and Ironfoot raced ahead, narrowly avoiding being swarmed by the enemy.

Nothol dropped his sword and set an arrow to string. Finding no point in taking time to aim properly, he fired into the massed enemy soldiers and was rewarded by seeing one pitch backwards. Enraged, the others broke into an all-out charge.

“Get down!” a deep voice roared from behind Bahr, prompting him to obey unquestioningly.

Crossbow bolts sliced through the space where Bahr and the others had just stood. The front rank of advancing Dwarves was decimated by the unexpected assault. A second salvo followed quickly. Then a third. The surviving dark Dwarves fell back, taking cover behind rocks, trees, and ravines. Any thought of pressing their attack died with half of their force. The remaining leaders ordered retreat.

Bahr finally looked behind him, surprised to see hundreds of Dwarves emerge from concealed positions.
Prepared positions, too. Thord had this planned all along. Sneaky bastard
. His first real sense of relief washed over him and it was all he could do not to break out in tears. Tired beyond belief, surprised and elated at having survived such an ordeal, Bahr gathered his dignity and wits and pulled himself up out of the snow. From the opposite side of the defense he watched Dorl and Nothol share a laugh and embrace. Even Boen had a smile. Victory tasted good. Only the Dwarves seemed un-phased by what had happened.

Ironfoot dusted himself off and met the Dwarf responsible for saving their lives. “Sergeant, you are a most welcome sight.”

“Captain, the king sent us shortly after you were seen leaving Drimmen Delf. We feared we weren’t in time. The explosions took us by surprise.”

Ironfoot actually laughed. “They took many by surprise! How many Dwarves did you bring?”

“A battalion. I have two hundred Dwarves spread out through this part of the forest in case the enemy decides to counterattack.”

“They will. We’ve bloodied their nose but failed to deliver the crippling blow,” Ironfoot said and nodded. “We need to hurry and return to Bode Hill. Dawn is fast upon us.”

The sergeant gave a shrill whistle and his forces began pulling back to the base of the mountains. Heavy pine boughs kept the sharp winds from slicing into the tired raiders. Walking single file so as to conceal their numbers and make movement easier, and having an established path, they quickly found themselves out of the combat the zone. The claustrophobia of the forest gradually gave way to open skies. Thick clouds obscured the moon and stars, deepening the shadows of the mountains in the process but Bahr had never felt freer. Almost.

He gave a final look back to the forest and the flames engulfing a large portion of the enemy camp beyond. Satisfaction finally set in. They’d accomplished what he was never truly certain could be done and all of his people had returned. The deaths of those brave Dwarves who dared to believe the cannons should be destroyed instead of revered were added to a lengthening list of the fallen and stored in a special place in his mind. He’d never gotten their names, nor had time to make friends with any of them, but they gave their lives all the same. Bahr was proud to have fought alongside the Dwarves. His thoughts turned towards finding Thord and securing their passage east to the Fern River and then south.

Preparations

“They did it!” Thord bellowed. His beard bounced across his chest armor as he broke into deep laughter. Months of waiting for the tide to shift had finally ended. Without their cannons, his enemies were vulnerable. Legions of Dwarves itched to be set free, to sweep the valley of their twisted cousins. But Ironfoot and the others hadn’t escaped yet. Thord was forced to watch through the looking glass as the enemy encampment devolved into chaos. As much as he wanted to loose his armies he knew he couldn’t, not while Ironfoot was still behind their lines.

Turning to his field general, a bitter-looking Dwarf with a long grey beard and a perpetual scowl, he said, “General Brek, form ranks. I want the legions ready to attack at first light. We’re going to break these bastards here and now, by Krug!”

Brek slammed a fist to his chest armor. “Yes sire. The Feral Axe battalion will assume point. The field shall be ours by nightfall.”

“Don’t take unnecessary risks, Brek. The Dark Hammer Dwarves are just as fierce as we are. This will not be an easy battle.”

Brek grinned, displaying a row of silver-capped teeth fixed after a Goblin hammer caught him in the mouth years ago. “No battle is easy. Besides, that would take the fun out of it.”

Thord watched him depart with great pride and a pang of jealousy. He wanted to don his armor and take up an axe for the cause but his place was here, in the command center on Bode Hill. He wasn’t a warrior anymore, not unless absolutely necessary. Any attempt to sneak into the lines would be met by a handful of guards forcibly dragging him back into the command center. He was a king and it was his place to rule, not fight.

The irony of it insulted him. His fathers had forged Drimmen Delf from the Goblins and mountain Trolls. They led charges and held the center of the line in countless battles. Time and laxity all but shoved him into lethargy. Thord wasted away, the sword at his hip all but useless as his armies fought in his name.
Curse this crown. I belong out there, with my army. A true king would stand at the break, leading by example. This is akin to cowardice
.

Already Dwarves were moving. Roused from unsteady slumber thanks to the cannonade, most were dressed and armored. Axes and swords were sharpened. Crossbow bolts and quivers were fletched and filled. The massive army of five thousand slowly spun into motion. At last, they were able to go to war properly, without fear of being pummeled by cannons the moment they left their trenches. Smiths stoked their forges. Surgeons prepped the hospital tents for the inevitable influx of wounded.

The general excitement of the camp flowed through the army, sweeping everyone away. The prospect of ending the war and reclaiming what belonged to them filled hearts with joy. Battle songs as old as the sun drifted up from around the camp. The Dwarves of Drimmen Delf were ready to go back to war and deliver the fury of their forefathers. The dark Dwarves had broken a sacred covenant among the clans. They turned their backs on justice, intent on vengeance for some perceived slight no one could explain. They came burning and killing as they took their war to the very gates of the great Dwarven kingdom. It was only through sheer determination that the defense held. Now Thord and his army stood on the brink of reversing their fortunes. Each Dwarf knew his orders. Every last Black Hammer Dwarf was to be killed outright. No surrender. No prisoners. Such evil shouldn’t be allowed to fester lest it return with even more strength.

Engineers and cannon crews pulled their weapons out of the protective bunkers and, using an elaborate system of pulleys and levers, moved the cannons close enough to drop rounds behind enemy lines. The additional range would throw the entire camp into chaos while covering the infantry advance. Without the threat of return fire, the battle was expected to devolve into a complete rout.

Another set of explosions broke across the night sky, much closer. Tacticians and strategists on the command staff instantly focused on the small part of the forest edge where great balls of black smoke billowed. Scouts used spy glasses to identify the source. Thord paced the bunker nervously. He couldn’t attack while Ironfoot and the strike force were still unaccounted for. His hands were tied. Frustrated, the king exited the bunker to get some fresh air. His guards hurried to catch up.

“Not a word,” he snarled without looking back.

Rebuked, the guards remained silent and shadowed their king.

Thord’s frustrations suddenly got the better of him and he punched the cruel rock wall as hard as he could. “Damnation! I want to attack but can’t out of fear of cutting off some of my most valuable assets. My damnable commanders are too stuffy to even think to allow me down onto the field like a true king and I am reduced to having nursemaids again! Which one of you four would like to wear the crown for a spell?”

They passed nervous looks, none daring to speak. Bad things happen when a king loses his temper. Fortunately each hid behind the partial facemasks of their helmets. Thord snorted and kept walking. The first jets of pain shot up through his wrist. He figured he’d broken at least two bones, if not more. By morning the hand would be swollen and a sickly combination of black and purple.
But it was worth it. Anything to vent some of this nonsense I’m feeling inside. Only it wasn’t worth it, was it, you old fool? Punching that wall was the dumbest thing I’ve done since allowing my commanders to convince of my value. I never should have listened. A king needs to be seen leading, not watching. Ironfoot needs to get back here so we can finally end this dithering and go back to our lives.

“You are a Dwarf with much on your mind,” Faeldrin said, coming up from behind.

Thord stopped and turned. “You expected less? I am a Dwarf hidden behind bureaucracy instead of a shield.”

“There are times when a king’s life is more important than a battalion of soldiers. I have seen it a hundred times over the centuries, mostly in Men. They do seem to enjoy touting the successes hard fought by subordinates,” the Elf mercenary said.

“What made you break away from your traditions, Elf? I’ve never heard of Elven mercenaries before. Don’t get me wrong. I’m damned glad to have you. Your Aeldruin have proven invaluable in terms of intelligence gathering and screening our left flank.”

The Elf lord let loose a slow breath. It was a question he’d avoided answering for the first hundred years since leaving the city of Elvenara. None of his family and only a few friends understood his need to be more than just another Elf. Malweir was ripe with injustice. “There was a time when I was happy, content ignoring the troubles of the world. This was before the order of Mages rose. Before the dark times claimed us all. I laughed and sang like many of my kin. The world held no other promise than a very long, peaceful life. It was a better time, I think. Then the Goblin army came. So vast they blotted out entire valleys. They came killing and pillaging from their dark mountain holes.”

He continued quickly before Thord could take offense. Secret histories had proven that the Goblins were once Dwarves, but that was a tale for another time. “No one race was prepared to withstand their might. Kingdom after kingdom fell before a coalition formed. We stopped the Goblins on the edge of the Jebel Desert. The slaughter was horrendous. So many lives were shattered that day. Several of the smaller races all but died out. What little remains of them are secluded in places long forgotten. It was in that moment, staring out across the ocean of bodies, hearing the weeping of hardened warriors, and seeing others wander aimlessly, broken in mind and spirit, that I knew our world was never going to be the same. So I gathered as many of my people to me that were willing to follow my command and formed the Aeldruin.”

“A harsh tale,” Thord grimaced. While far too young to have been there, the Dwarf king had read all of the old histories and knew full well the amount of carnage in that first war. This war paled in comparison.

“It was a harsh time,” Faeldrin replied softly. “What corruption claimed your fellow Dwarves, I wonder?”

“Greed. It’s an old tale, my friend. I’ve never understood why some just can’t be content with what they have.”

Faeldrin shook his head regretfully. “They are the same who want hand-outs, mistakenly thinking life is easier if someone else does all the work for them. Only, life has other plans, so their wishes devolve into a series of successive failures. The world needs strong beings to rule it. And if there aren’t enough of them there will always be orders like the Aeldruin to step forth and see justice done.”

Thord looked up at the taller and decidedly leaner Elf with curiosity. They had more differences than similarities but he felt a connection with Faeldrin. They were brother warriors, soldiers who had seen and done too much to smile often. Because of that shared emotion Thord felt like he could tell the Elf lord almost anything in confidence.
I can’t believe I’ve never told a soul this before
. “Faeldrin, I detest being king.”

If the Elf was surprised, he kept it secret. “Very few actually enjoy it. The idea is more promising than the achievement. Great kings struggle through this dilemma from day one and seldom live to see the truth of their legacy revealed. One day your praises will be sung, Thord. Do not fret. The future is more forgiving than the present.”

“Reputation be damned! I’m talking about grabbing an axe and making the charge with the front rank. I’m a Dwarf, Faeldrin, born and bred for war. Instead I find myself mired in politics and caught between opposing factions.”

He continued to stew as Faeldrin stayed silent. Briefly, he considered having his commanders strung up for blocking his desire to join the battle.
What legacy will I have? A doddering old fool who let history pass him by?
It was through great reluctance that he came to conclusion his advisors and commanders had his best interests in mind. They couldn’t afford to let him risk being killed against the dark Dwarves. Leaderless, Drimmen Delf would be exposed to attack from too many sides. Thord needed to be the king, not the warrior.