Red Sky at Dawn (16 page)

Leinjar grabbed Roskin’s shirt and pulled him towards the back while the outcasts scrambled to get their axes. In a matter of moments, Roskin and the freed slaves were filing out the door and back into the darkness of night. Gathering his wits and corralling his temper, Roskin moved to the point and signaled for them to follow him forward. Behind them, the crash of metal on metal erupted in the tavern as the soldiers charged inside.

Out of the Shadows

With the sounds of battle behind them, Roskin and the others ran up the narrow street toward the town square. Nearing a group of archers, Roskin motioned for the Ghaldeons, whose night vision was not very refined, to wait behind a stack of crates. Then, with the dark as cover, he and the Tredjards crept close to the humans and struck them down before they even knew an enemy was near. When that group was eliminated, they moved around the perimeter of the square and cleared out the other archers hiding in the alleys. Once the threat of arrows was gone, they returned to the Ghaldeons and prepared to attack.

At the edge of the shadows, Roskin examined the square and saw that Molgheon was still guarded by two dozen guards, six facing each direction. In the middle, Jase stood beside the cage and fidgeted, scratching his beard and wiping his hands on his silk shirt. Roskin’s anger rose again at the sight of him, and he signaled for the group of dwarves to form a tight huddle.

“There’s still too many of them for a straight attack,” he whispered, dulling the t and s sounds.

Leinjar agreed.

“One of us should move to the opposite side and get Molgheon from the cage. The others should draw away the soldiers.”

“You should get her,” Leinjar returned.

“I’d rather fight.”

“You’re the fastest one. You have the best chance.”

“Okay,” Roskin whispered after a moment. “But don’t stay engaged long. Once I’ve got Molgheon, I’ll go back for Bordorn. We’ll meet in the woods.”

With that, Roskin and Leinjar shook hands. Then, Roskin looked each dwarf in the eyes, trying to thank them for their loyalty. The odds of all of them surviving this fight were fairly slim, and before anyone fell, he wanted them to know how deeply he loved them for their allegiance. They returned his gaze, and for a moment, Roskin knew what it would feel like to be king, for in each dwarf’s eyes, he saw the unfaltering will to die in his service.

Before his emotions could best him, he turned and raced for the opposite side of the square. There were still soldiers hidden between buildings, so he had to make a wide arc around, and as he ran, he refocused on what he would have to do. Once the others attacked, he would only have a few seconds to get to the cage, bust the lock, and kill Jase before the soldiers could react and overwhelm him. After standing in the cage for that long, Molgheon might not be able to run, so he might have to carry her at least part of the way, which would mean they would have to get back in the shadows as quickly as possible to have any chance of eluding the pursuers. All in all, there was little room for error.

As he approached the place he would start from, he drew one of his throwing axes to use on the cage. The weapon was one solid piece and a much better grade of metal than the lock, so it offered the best chance for busting open the door. Gripping the handle, he stopped in the shadows and waited for Leinjar and the others to charge from the opposite side.

From his experiences in battle, he had come to dislike fighting itself: the abandon to primal urges, the sounds and smells of death, the complete absence of compassion; but he loved the moments just before the fight began. His eyesight and sense of smell became much sharper, and time slowed so that he was more aware of everything around him. These sensations made him feel more alive and more complete than at any other time, and he hated enjoying them that much.

Suddenly, Leinjar and the other freed slaves erupted from their hiding place and charged the soldiers. Caught by surprise, the humans hesitated at first, and given an opening, the dwarves exploded into the closest line, cutting down four of the six before anyone reacted. The hesitation also gave the dwarves time to retreat a few steps and draw the guards away from the cage. As soon as the last soldier made it beyond the stone pavilion the cage sat on, Roskin sprinted towards Molgheon, his axe ready to smash the lock. He was only a few feet away when Jase turned in his direction and spotted him.

“It’s a trick!” the traitor screamed. “Guards! Guards! It’s a trick.”

Only three soldiers heard him, but they each turned and charged Roskin. Without thinking, he hurled the axe at the first one, striking it in the chest with a wet thud. The man continued forward a couple of steps but then collapsed to the ground. The other two readied their halberds and continued, so Roskin drew his sword to meet them.

These soldiers were from the tiny outpost at Murkdolm and had little experience in actual battle. Their fear was obvious as they thrust their weapons at the Kiredurk. The one to his left lunged too far forward, throwing himself off balance, and the one to his right misjudged the distance and struck the ground at Roskin’s feet. The halberd’s blade bounced off the packed earth and nearly vibrated out of the soldier’s hands. With a quick stomp, Roskin snapped the pole near the blade and then drove his sword into soldier’s stomach.

Trying to regain his balance, the one to the left backed up, but Roskin pulled his sword from the unarmed man’s belly and pivoted to his right, spinning towards the clumsy one. As he spun, he swung his blade with a sharp backhand and sliced across the other’s throat. The man dropped his weapon to clutch at the gushing wound but soon fell to the ground. As he fell, Roskin hurried to the first soldier to retrieve his axe.

***

After catching the soldiers off balance and thinning their ranks, Leinjar and the others retreated down the main street in the direction of the tavern. As expected, the soldiers gave chase, calling out to their ambush units in the alleys. The ten dwarves formed a line twenty yards from the cage and braced for the onslaught. The clash of metal on metal as the lines collided was deafening, and despite being outnumbered nearly two to one, the dwarves absorbed the attack with hardly a scratch. Three more humans were killed, however, and four were wounded too badly to fight anymore. The remaining men retreated a few steps to regroup before attacking again.

Normally with that advantage, Leinjar would have rushed their line and overwhelmed them, but knowing that the remaining ambush units would be appearing at any moment, he wanted to give Roskin more time and free space, so he called for the dwarves to retreat ten more yards and reform their line. As the freed slaves backed towards the tavern, the hidden soldiers came rushing from the alleys and joined the others. The new formation was well over two dozen strong, so the dwarves hunkered down and waited for the charge.

Behind them, the sounds of battle in the tavern had gone silent, and fearing an attack from the rear, Leinjar turned to see if any soldiers were coming towards them. The door of the tavern flung outward, and instead of humans, the person who appeared was the stocky dwarf from earlier. His face was coated with a veil of sweat, and his breath came in deep gulps. His clothes and white beard were stained with dark splatters of fresh blood, and the thick muscles of his arms bulged from swinging his axe. No one else, dwarf or human, appeared from the tavern. Leinjar had seen his fair share of battle and had known many tough warriors, but as he watched this dwarf stride down the road towards them, he had never before seen a more menacing figure. Something in the dwarf’s eyes and swagger warned of bloodlust and fearlessness.

“Let’s drive these pigs back south,” the dwarf boomed as he neared the line.

The Tredjards and Ghaldeons cheered at the statement, and Leinjar turned back to face the humans. They had formed into two rows and were moving towards the dwarves, more slowly and with more control this time. The soldiers with swords were in the middle, and the remaining ones with halberds were on the ends. Leinjar saw that they were going to try to outflank them and pin them in with the longer weapons, so he called for the dwarves to spread out and not give up the outside. They widened the spacing between each other and took up most of the street.

“Let them get a little closer,” Leinjar said, peering over the humans for a glimpse of Roskin.

The dwarves gripped their weapons and stamped their feet in anticipation.

“Rush them!” Leinjar called, charging ahead. “Drive them to the plains.”

Screaming wildly, the dwarves stormed the soldiers for the second time, again catching them off guard. These humans were all too young to remember the time before the Resistance had been defeated, so their experiences with dwarves consisted of beaten down workers with broken spirits and exhausted bodies. They had expected a foe like that, not fierce and seasoned warriors who attacked with relentless fury. This time as the lines neared each other, the soldiers – especially those who had survived the first two waves – were ready to break and flee before blades even touched.

***

After getting his axe, Roskin turned back towards the cage. On the opposite side, Jase was calling into the darkness for someone to hurry, but Roskin paid him little attention. His eyes were riveted on the lock as he examined it to determine where best to strike. Like most dwarves, he had been well-trained in the basic physics of engineering, so he could tell from the design where the weakest points would be. As he reached the door, he raised the axe to smash the lock, but before he could swing, Molgheon called to him:

“Behind you, the captain from Murkdolm.”

Roskin turned and spotted the man just on the edge of the shadows. He had seen the captain one time before in Murkdolm on the morning when he and Crushaw had been chased from town. The captain had been in Molgheon’s tavern, interrogating her as to Roskin’s whereabouts. Switching the axe to his left hand, Roskin drew his sword and stepped towards the man.

“I’m guessing you’re the man that killed Grussard,” he said, gripping the pommel of his sword.

“And I’m guessing you’re the renegade I’ve been chasing.”

“He made this sword,” Roskin said, turning the blade from side to side so the man could see it well in the flickering light of the square. “Just so you know, it’ll take your life like you took his.”

“Enough,” the captain returned, drawing his sword.

Roskin wanted to return the axe to his back, but the captain was too close to risk it. For a second, he thought about tossing it to Molgheon at the cage, but then Jase might get to it first and strike him in the back. There was nothing to do but grip it with his left hand and wield the sword with his right. Once again, he was grateful for Grussard’s craftsmanship, for the sword was both light and balanced enough to use one-handed. Two hands would be better for blocking the larger foe, but he could manage.

The captain raised his sword to middle guard and crept forward, and his footwork was very familiar. For many weeks, Roskin had trained with Crushaw, and this man’s movements were nearly identical to the old general’s. Roskin also moved into middle guard and stepped forward. The captain struck first, thrusting at him in a flash. Roskin parried the thrust and countered with a rake at the captain’s forearms. The man moved just beyond the dwarf’s reach and smiled.

“You’ve been well-trained,” he said, returning to middle guard. “So the old man can still teach, even to a dwarf.”

Roskin responded with a horizontal slash that the captain blocked and countered with another thrust. Roskin avoided that one as well and circled to his left. They continued in this manner for a few minutes, feeling out each other’s strengths and weaknesses and searching for an opening. With the exception of Crushaw, the captain was the most skilled swordsman Roskin had yet faced.

For those first few minutes, the blows were not very intense, almost light-hearted like two old friends catching up after many years apart, but suddenly, the captain launched at Roskin with a flurry of downward strikes that smashed against Grussard’s blade with a shower of sparks in the faint light. Roskin matched the other’s intensity, and they circled around the town square, their blades clanging and ringing. As they fought, their breathing grew to deeper and deeper gulps, and finally, each one stepped backward to catch his breath.

Roskin lowered his sword until the tip was against the ground to rest the muscles in his arm, but he kept his attention focused on the hilt of the captain’s sword, watching for the slightest movement that would indicate an attack. For his part, the captain held his sword with his left hand and stood still, save the rise and fall of his breathing. They stood like that for a full minute, but then, without a word, the captain rushed forward, raising his sword to high guard, and struck at Roskin with a powerful downward blow.

Roskin raised his sword just in time to block the attack, and as the weapons locked together, he swiped with the axe at the captain’s exposed stomach. The blade tore into the thick hauberk and caught flesh, cutting him from one side to the other. The captain winced in pain and scrambled backwards, gathering himself into a defensive position. Seeing blood, Roskin pounced his enemy and assailed him with a series of blows from both sword and axe. Using his own sword and the vambrace on his left arm, the captain managed to block each swing. Still, the pain from his wound showed on his face, and his strength waned with each block. Roskin knew it was just a matter of moments before he found an opening and ended the fight. Suddenly, the dark fear rose inside him, but wanting to finish off the captain, he ignored it and pressed the attack.

Then, Molgheon called out, but before he could discern her warning, a blinding pain exploded in his left shoulder blade. He collapsed to his knees and dropped both weapons. Gasping for air and clutching his left arm against his side, he fumbled with his right to recover one of them, but his vision had blurred, so he couldn’t distinguish the blades from the ground. After what seemed an eternity, his fingers found the handle of the axe, and he scrambled to scoop it into his palm.

As he waited for the final blow to fall, Roskin thought about all that had happened since he had left Dorkhun. He remembered the three orcs at the vanishing trails, how the life drained from their eyes as they died. Then, there were the soldiers that chased them from Murkdolm, and the soldiers at Black Rock. For a moment, he could still hear the terrible sounds of the slave block at Koshlonsen and smell the stench of the leisure slave cage. There was the Battle for Hard Hope, and then the Marshwoggs. Finally, he could almost feel the hot breath of the dog-beast. As these memories overtook him, he pushed them aside and thought about his mother. At least he had met her. He didn’t want his last thought to be about anything else, so he focused on the memories of her face and touch as he braced for the blow.