Red Sky at Dawn (5 page)

“Friends? Is he accusing us of fraternizing with the enemy?” the first ogre asked her companions.

“I believe so,” a third answered.

A club struck the back of Master Sondious’s legs, and he collapsed in the snow, blinding pain shooting from his legs up his back.

“We’re not friends with any treacherous rock-brains,” the first ogre said, standing over him.

Master Sondious tried to crawl from them, but as he clawed at the snow with his hands, the ogre that had struck him scooped him up and tossed him over her shoulder. The platoon marched back to their lines, and Master Sondious stared in the direction of the eastern gate. His nearsightedness, the result of a lifetime underground with little need to see beyond half a mile, would allow him to make out only a blurred outline of the gate’s fortifications. For the first time he saw that the war was beyond control, beyond reason, a realization that came much too late. He was certain he would never again see home.

***

King Kraganere arrived at the eastern gate with his guards and the first Ghaldeon-armed soldiers a full day after Master Sondious had been taken prisoner. Upon hearing the news, he raced to and burst through the gate, determined to charge down the mountain and attack the ogres himself. Captain Roighwheil tackled him from behind and restrained him till the initial rage wore off. When Kraganere calmed down, the captain led the distraught king back inside, and once they were safe, he kneeled at the feet of the king and spoke:

“I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Nothing to forgive,” the king answered, sensing the captain’s fear. “You saved me from my rage.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Stand up, Captain. Tell me what you
do
mean.”

Captain Roighwheil told him the entire story of how he had met with Master Sondious and discussed sending the advisor to negotiate with the ogres. The king listened, his face twitching as the rage boiled again. He couldn’t believe that in such a short time, barely two months, so much could unravel around him: his son sold as a slave by his closest allies; the first Kiredurk war in two Kingdoms; betrayal by his best, most trusted warrior; and his friend and closest advisor a prisoner to the enemy. The entirety of it staggered him. He found a stool and sat.

“Captain Roighwheil, when this war is over, you will appear before the council to answer for your actions.”

The captain lowered his head in shame, and his head was so low, his beard almost touched the floor.

“Until then,” Kraganere continued. “Can I count on you? Are you still on my side, or has even that been taken from me?”

“My king,” the captain said, kneeling back at the king’s feet. “I’ll serve you till my death.”

“Then, prepare the troops for battle. We have much to do.”

The captain rose and looked Kraganere in the eyes. The king stared back and, for a moment, saw himself as Master Sondious and Captain Roighwheil must have seen him these last few days. He
had
let his emotions override the etiquette, logic, and sound judgment a king should follow, and he
had
accused his allies and neighbors of an outlandish crime based on the secondhand news of one spy. Regardless of what had happened to Roskin,
he
had brought his kingdom to this point, and
he
would either lead them through it or fail.

Oddly enough, he found comfort in the last thought. No one else had been as well-educated and well-trained as he had for governing a nation. He was the tenth king of his line, and each before him had faced his own crisis and had had the strength of character to overcome it. He was one of them, shared their blood and their strength. He could and would face this challenge and lead his kingdom through it.

With that, he rose from his stool and found Captain Roighwheil, who was organizing the soldiers into stations for defending the gate. The king stood behind his captain and watched the dwarf lead them with confidence and purpose. Kraganere would not hold a grudge against what Roighwheil and Sondious had attempted. Instead, he would probably honor them for serving the kingdom ahead of the king.

***

In the dark of midnight, Master Sondious lay on the snow, both legs broken from the club’s blow. He was well behind the front line but not near the matriarchs, and there was little hope of gaining an audience with them. He was certain they were going to kill him, probably just before the battle began and probably in full view of the gate. The ogres liked to do that to the humans of the Great Empire to diminish morale before a fight.

He wasn’t saddened by the knowledge, and while he didn’t want to die, he wasn’t scared either. Instead, he was more ashamed at his own poor judgment of the situation. Ogres rarely forgave an indiscretion, and whether or not Roskin had befriended their most hated enemy, the perception was that he had done so. Perception was reality, in most cases, and Master Sondious had only considered King Kraganere’s accusation as the cause for this war. As it were, he deduced, the ogres were more upset with Roskin and his perceived treachery than the king’s declaration. That action had merely been the last catalyst.

Master Sondious saw now that he could have done nothing with either side to prevent this war. He found it curious that events were somehow steered to this course, almost as if by some person or some force. Regardless, he would die soon, never to know the outcome of this postulation. His only consolation was that he would die a loyal Kiredurk, for he had used all his skills and energy to protect the kingdom. Even though he had failed, it was not from wont of effort.

The battle would begin sometime the next day, which meant the ogres would come for him early in the morning. From what he had read about the custom, his death would be slow and would involve many clubs. He had to keep his wits so as not to cry too pitifully during the pain, but he was weakening from lack of food and water. The ogres had offered him nothing, and all he had been able to get for himself was an occasional mouthful of snow.

Most of the ogres surrounding him were asleep, and the few still awake were preoccupied with readying their weapons and discussing strategies. Through the darkness, Master Sondious saw a figure moving through the camp, but none of the ogres noticed as it darted in and out and around the sleeping platoons. At first, the advisor thought he was hallucinating out of pain or hunger but as the figure neared, he recognized the dwarf and almost called out in joy. He bit down on his lip, enough to draw blood, to stifle any sound as Captain Roighwheil knelt beside him.

“Can you walk?” the captain mouthed, not actually speaking.

Master Sondious shook his head and pointed to his crippled legs. Captain Roighwheil didn’t hesitate as he scooped up and laid the frail dwarf on his back across the captain’s shoulders. Master Sondious, knocked nearly unconscious by the explosive pain of his bouncing legs, allowed no sound to escape his lips. The effort took almost more will than he had left. In a moment, the two, burden-bearer and burden, slunk back through the camp. With each step, lightning tore through the advisor’s legs, and he wasn’t sure if he could remain conscious.

He turned his head to see if anyone was following them and, to his horror, saw about two hundred yards away a group of three ogres staring in his direction and motioning to each other. He turned the other way and saw that he and Roighwheil were clear of the front line, so he whispered that they had been noticed. Roighwheil quickened his pace, but in the deep snow and up the steep incline, each step was an ordeal. With each jostle, nauseating pain raced through Master Sondious’s legs. He looked back and saw that the three ogres were trotting in their direction.

“Drop me and run, Captain,” Master Sondious said. “Save yourself.”

“No,” the captain puffed. Each breath he took was deep and arduous.

One of the ogres called out, and others roused from sleep. In a moment dozens of ogres had joined the chase, which had quickened to a steady run. The distance had closed to less than a hundred yards, and the captain and the advisor were still a quarter of a mile from the gate. As the ogres neared, their shouts and calls grew clearer, and Master Sondious screamed at Roighwheil to save himself. This time the captain didn’t answer.

The ogres were within twenty yards, and one had hurled its club at them, missing Roighwheil’s back by a couple of feet. They were near the gate but far enough away that Master Sondious knew they would be overtaken by the charging mass. The pain in his legs was nearly unbearable, and part of him hoped that the ogres would kill him quickly to end it.

The ogres were upon them now. Their ragged breathing from running up the hill sounded wild and brutal to the advisor. He had known ogres his entire life, and not once had he ever thought of them as anything but kind, reasonable people who were – while not as cultured and sophisticated as the Kiredurks – a race that respected law and upheld justice. Now, with a pack of them clamoring to rip him to pieces, he hated them with a fervor he had never known. In this moment, they were crazed animals as far removed from civilized beings as the cave trolls of the wild deep.

The nearest ogre raised its club to strike the captain’s legs, but before it could swing, an object whistled just over Master Sondious’s head and struck the ogre in the throat. The massive beast stumbled forward a couple of steps and fell in the snow. Suddenly, the air was alive with whistling, and several ogres were hit by crossbow bolts from the archers at the gate. In the next instant, a line of Kiredurks charged down the mountainside and exploded into the stunned ogres with their axes flashing in the moonlight.

Calculating

Crushaw was almost ready to ride ahead of the army to scout for his ideal terrain, but he had called Molgheon and Leinjar to him to give them last minute instructions. Once he found the place, the army would have to march steadily, without much rest, if they had any hope of getting prepared. His two captains would have to keep the mass organized, and forcing them to march through one and possibly two nights would not be easy. Molgheon had almost as much battlefield experience as he did, but most of it was as a member of an elite squad of archers that would strike a target and then disappear into the wilderness. She had not led many troops before. Leinjar had led scores of Tredjards into battle, but his years of isolation in the leisure slave cage had eroded those skills. Crushaw’s biggest fear was that, without him there to guide it, the army would fall into chaos.

“We are held by a thin bond,” he said, staring at them with an intensity that made each uncomfortable. “Take the gold we’ve captured and pay them equal amounts. That should keep them loyal until the battle.”

“Loyalty isn’t an issue,” Leinjar said, scratching his thick beard.

“I’ve led many battles, and a little gold in a soldier’s pocket goes a long way.”

“I agree,” Molgheon said. “We’ll start during supper.”

“When you give them orders, be respectful but firm. If any get lazy, remind them of the orc’s lash. That’s why we really march.”

“That should do it,” Leinjar agreed, his eyes glossing deep in memory.

“The oaths they swore are feeble, at best.”

“Red,” Molgheon said, pointing her thumb in the direction of the camp. “They’ll follow us because we follow you. Stop worrying. It ain’t you.”

“There’s a lot that has to go right for us to survive this fight. I’ll stop worrying when we cross the Pass of Hard Hope.”

***

Suvene scanned the guards and saw that all of them were enthralled by the drills. The runaway and the ogre were each putting on quite a show, and if he had not been so intent on escaping, he too might have watched them. A dozen slaves encircled the runaway, and at random two at a time would charge him from different directions, a game that reminded Suvene of one he had played as a boy. Without any wasted effort, the runaway would parry their blows and disarm them, which by the apparent rules of the game sent them back to the ring. The little bit that Suvene did watch impressed him. For a rock-brain, the runaway was skilled with a sword, and Suvene wished for an opportunity to draw blades against it.

The ogre, meanwhile, had another group trying to get her off her feet. She was obviously trying to teach them about leverage, and in her drill the entire dozen would charge her at once. As they would pry at her legs and arms to pull her down, she would squat lower and lower to show them how a solid center of gravity could overcome their force. Suvene was more than a little scared of the ogre and her immense size and strength. As much as he wanted to strike down the phantom, he wanted to avoid her at least that much and probably more.

But he was not concerned with watching those two dazzle the dim-witted slaves. His only care was reaching the army before the fugitives could slip by the Pass of Hard Hope, so as the drills kept the attention away from the slaves, he began loosening himself from the leather strap. As he had practiced so many times over the last few days, he shed the binding in less than thirty heartbeats and then, without anyone noticing, stepped from the wagon into a thick grove of scrub pines.

The needles scratched and tore at his skin as he moved through the brush, but he was so focused on putting distance between himself and the camp that he barely noticed. Within a couple hundred yards the grove ended and open, rolling grassland opened before him. He would be completely uncovered for nearly two miles, and if his luck didn’t hold, even a mediocre archer would be able to hit him. Still, he had no other choice. This was his best and last opportunity to warn them. Taking a deep breath, he broke into a full run across the field.

***

Molgheon saw movement behind Crushaw and lost his words as she focused on what she saw. One of the prisoners had gotten away from the camp and was running for the east. Calmly, she took her bow from her shoulder and notched an arrow. Then, aiming to account for its speed and the wind, she prepared to kill it, but just before she released the string, Crushaw grabbed and held her fast.

“Get off,” she grunted, trying to shake him.

“Let it go,” he returned, keeping a firm hold.

“Are you nuts?” Leinjar asked, grabbing at Crushaw’s arms. “It’ll warn others. They’ll know our path.”

“I’m counting on that,” Crushaw said. “That’s our best chance.”

“Let go,” Molgheon said, her voice filling with rage. “Let me go, now.”

“Trust me,” Crushaw said. “I’ve thought this through.”

Leinjar let go of Crushaw’s arms and backed away, a look of disgust and bemusement on his haggard face. As the orc got out of range, Crushaw released his grasp on Molgheon. She raised her bow as if to fire but, seeing that all hope of hitting the prisoner was gone, lowered it and returned the arrow to her quiver. Then, she turned away from the other two and walked a short distance away, obviously shaking.

“If that orc doesn’t warn the army and lead it in this direction,” Crushaw said. “We’ll have to face them on their terms. This way, we control when and where, as long as we get to a spot first.”

“You’re cunning, my lord,” Leinjar said, a smile erasing all the disgust from his expression. “I just hope this works.”

“Me, too,” Crushaw replied. “Don’t let anyone know. When you get back to camp, get rid of the strap that held it to the wagon. We don’t need a panic.”

Molgheon still stood away from them, so he moved behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder as if to comfort. He half expected a punch in the jaw if not a knife in the ribs, for in all the years he had known her, he had not once seen her allow anyone to touch her for more than a handshake. Many a drunken Ghaldeon had been beaten bloody in her tavern for making unwanted advances, and now in a short span, he had grabbed her in a bear-hug and touched her tenderly. Instead of attacking, however, she shivered, jumped away, and then turned to face him.

“If you ever touch me again,” she said, her face a stone mask. “It’ll cost your life.”

“She acts mean,” Crushaw said to Leinjar, trying to laugh off the threat. “But she’s not so bad.”

“Try me,” she said, not blinking.

“We don’t have time for
this
,” Leinjar barked. “You have to get moving, and we need to get back to the drills.”

Crushaw wasn’t conditioned to ignore a threat, and had it come from nearly anyone else, he probably would have struck them down. He would forgive Molgheon, however, because she had been through so much at the hands of the humans after the Resistance had been broken. He shouldn’t have touched her either time, and he knew it.

“Leinjar’s right. I’ve gotta get going,” he said to her. “Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking right.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, still not blinking. “Forget it.”

With that, she turned and marched swiftly back towards camp. Leinjar lingered for a moment and muttered something to him about smoothing things over while the general was gone. Crushaw nodded his thanks and then also turned away to find his horse and the two elves who would accompany him. When he reached the horse, he gritted his teeth and, using mostly his arms for support, hoisted himself into the saddle. As his injured ankle slipped into the stirrup, he groaned audibly from the pain. The elves, who would follow on foot, rushed to assist, but he stopped them cold with a glare that only a soldier who has endured unspeakable hardships can give.

***

Suvene ran across the open lands for as long as he could. His body was weak from the meager amounts of food he had been given since the uprising, and because he was well beyond even the most skilled archer’s range, he slowed to a brisk walk to conserve energy. Darkness was a couple of hours away, and he wanted to walk until midnight to get plenty of distance between himself and the hunting party that would probably be sent for him at dawn, if not sooner.

He came to a swiftly moving stream and stopped for a few minutes to get a drink and search for supper. Along the far bank, a formation of worn, mossy rocks created a shallow pool. In the evening light, it rippled and churned as fish fed on surface insects, and he crossed the stream and climbed the rocks to look down on the scene. Dozens of fish of all sizes darted and glided through the clear water, and even in his weakened state and without a net, he had little trouble snatching one from the pool.

He didn’t dare light a fire and had no tools of any kind, so the meal was disgusting, even to a common soldier such as him. As part of their survival training, from time to time the regular infantry would be taken into the wilderness and left to fend for themselves, but in those situations he had always had at least a knife and a tinderbox. Eating a raw fish with scales and bones was a new experience. Still, it was better than hunger, and after a few minutes, he was ready to continue.

Darkness came upon him quickly and with it came a feeling of aloneness. He had only a vague notion of where he was, and other than a handful of plantations, the nearest civilized settlement was the fortress, which was at least four more days away. Between him and it were wilderness and untold dangers. Behind him was an army of slaves that would assuredly end his life if he were caught. The isolation enveloped him like a sudden fog, almost overwhelming him, but he walked on through the emotions, trying not to let the fear stop his feet from plodding one step after the other.

***

Roskin sat in the dark away from the camp. His fear no longer lingered on the edge of his mind; it had become a real and nearly constant vision of peril descending on his father. It also saturated his dreams, keeping him from more than a couple hours of sleep a night. As a result, he had taken to standing sentry and allowing the guards who had been assigned the task to get extra rest.

He wanted more than anything to be home, beside his father to quell whatever danger had befallen the kingdom. Being two nations away, having terrible visions, and sitting alone through the night were torturous, and he had written several poems as a catharsis. He hadn’t written anything since leaving Dorkhun and had lost his leather-bound journal when captured at Black Rock, so he had to write with an ornate instrument on loose scraps of fabric and parchment that he had taken from the plantations. At first, the words dribbled onto the page with uncertainty, but after completing a couple of mediocre villanelles, he rediscovered his voice and composed one that was good enough to be presented at the spring planting festival, which would occur in just a month or so.

As he wrote, he thought about the freed slaves. Crushaw had been gone for two days, and an anxious anticipation had overcome most of the army. Everyone obeyed without hesitation the orders Leinjar and Molgheon issued, but the anxiety was palpable. Roskin knew they had at best three more days of unquestioned obedience without Crushaw, and sitting there alone in the early morning dark with his newest poem in hand, even he wondered what chance they really had to escape this land.

Those thoughts were futile and distracting, so he put away his writing instrument and the poem and pulled out his sword and whetstone. He dragged the stone along the blade, faint sparks jumping out in the dark, and turned his mind to the coming battle. Crushaw had told him that he would be in the second regiment that would attack from the rear, so he understood his rudimentary role. He imagined the situation as Crushaw had described it and envisioned the coming battle to prepare himself. It was a technique he had learned in goshkenh ball, and on more than one occasion he had helped win a game because he had imagined making a certain play before the match. Now, he hoped the technique would work as well under these circumstances.

As he sharpened the blade, he remembered Grussard, the dwarf who had fashioned it. He had barely known the blacksmith, but this sword had become such a part of Roskin’s life that he felt as if Grussard had been a dear friend from childhood. He knew that was an absurd feeling, but as his father often said, a person can’t be judged by their feelings. Actions are what determine character, and Roskin’s had cost the smith his life, so he was bound to the sword by a blend of guilt and admiration.

From Grussard, his thoughts drifted to Bordorn, who
was
a friend from childhood and who had been abandoned in a logging camp in the land of Kiredurk outcasts. Before Roskin could go home, he had to find Bordorn and get him away from that hovel. While the elfish intuition warned him of his father’s danger, a different feeling whispered that Bordorn was not safe among those dwarves.

The eastern horizon showed the faintest signs of dawn, and Roskin put away his sword and went to where Leinjar and Molgheon slept to wake them. Knowing better than to rouse either one by touch, he stood a few feet away and spoke their names aloud. At his voice, each bolted upright – dagger drawn – and searched for the enemy at hand. Having grown up in the most peaceful kingdom in the known world, Roskin wondered at the experiences that had forged such reflexes, and he hoped never to know them firsthand.

The captains grumbled and stretched against their stiff joints until each was awake enough to rise and begin waking the camp. The terrain had become much more hilly and broken as they neared the eastern mountains, and that day’s marched threatened to be the most difficult so far. Within half an hour, the cooks prepared and distributed the breakfast of pecans, dried venison, and cheese, and within another half hour, the army was on the move.

They marched nonstop until noon, and as expected throughout the morning, the inclines turned more and more severe as the rolling grassland became the foothills. During lunch, Roskin joined Molgheon and Leinjar, who marched at the point. Vishghu and the other leisure slaves marched at the rear to watch for deserters or possible escapees, and on most days Roskin ate with them because he felt a bond with those dwarves from their shared experiences in the cage. Today, he wanted to determine the captains’ moods as the battle neared, for while Crushaw had given him a vague notion of the strategy, the captains probably knew more. With his intuition overwhelmed by the images of home, he couldn’t focus on a feeling of this one. He needed to know if they believed there was a good chance to cross the pass.