Red Sky at Dawn (6 page)

“Have a seat, tall one,” Leinjar said, motioning to the ground beside him.

“Thanks,” Roskin said, sitting.

“Care for some pecans? They’re left from breakfast. Don’t care much for them myself.”

“Sure,” Roskin said, holding out his hand. From the excessive hunger as a slave, he couldn’t pass up food when it was offered. “How are you, Molgheon?”

“Fine,” she mumbled, not looking up from her meal.

“She’s a little tired today from making arrows all night,” Leinjar said after several seconds of awkward silence.

“Can I help with those?” Roskin offered, wanting to be helpful. Of all the dwarves he had known, he respected her as well as any.

She shrugged, stood up, and then without speaking walked away. Roskin watched as she disappeared over a rise.

“What did I do?” he asked.

“Forget it, tall one. She’s got a lot on her mind. It wasn’t meant at you.”

Roskin lingered for a few more minutes with Leinjar, asking mundane questions about what tasks needed done. Molgheon had dimmed his hope, and he stayed with the other captain just long enough not to be rude but then returned to the rear. He had gone to the others to find comfort but went back more distressed than before. Molgheon had fought against the Great Empire in the bleakest days of the Ghaldeon Resistance. It took more than a trifle to shake her, but something had gotten under her skin. He could only suspect that it concerned the battle, and that was anything but comforting.

***

Five days after escaping, Suvene reached the fortress at twilight. He was hungrier than he had ever been, for since catching the one fish, he had barely been able to scrounge more than a handle of berries. His face was gaunt, his clothes tattered rags, and his exposed flesh scratched and scraped from branches and briars as he fumbled through the wilderness. When the watch saw him approaching the iron gate, they sounded the alarm, and a platoon of heavily armored and well-armed soldiers surrounded him. He blurted out his warning to the sergeant and then collapsed on the dirt.

“Must be some lunatic,” one orc said to the sergeant, poking at Suvene with a halberd. “Should we dispose of him?”

“Not yet,” the sergeant said, motioning to halt the prodding. “He looks familiar. Take him to the barracks and get him food and water. If he is a lunatic, we can be rid of him later.”

The orcs lifted him from the red clay packed hard from centuries of marching and mostly dragged him to their barracks. Once inside, they held open his mouth and poured in cold water, and Suvene coughed and spat as too much went down at once. He was given a piece of meat leftover from supper, and even in his delirious state, he tore into the chicken leg and devoured it. After a few minutes, he felt a little better, and the sergeant asked him to repeat what he had uttered.

“The slaves have revolted. They’re marching this way.”

“Nonsense!” a soldier cried from behind the sergeant. “He’s insane.”

“Where are you from?” the sergeant asked.

“I am stationed at the Slithsythe Plantation.”

“No, I mean where did you grow up?”

Suvene cocked his head and looked at the sergeant with a puzzled expression.

“You’d better answer,” the sergeant said, his right hand resting on his dagger’s hilt. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“The Sorthosan Province, south of the capital.”

“You fought in tournaments, didn’t you?”

“Swords mostly,” Suvene responded.

“That’s how I know you. I’m from the capital. We fought in many matches, Suvene.”

“Toulesche?”

“Yes,” the sergeant answered. Then, he ordered two soldiers to fetch better food and more water.

Suvene was shocked and figured himself just delirious from hunger and fatigue. Like him, Toulesche came from common birth, and because neither had been allowed to fight in the closing rounds of tournaments, they had spent many hours of their childhoods sparring in practice yards away from center ring. Toulesche had been much better at grappling and boxing, but Suvene always beat him with swords. When they grew up and joined the military, each had been sent to different plantations for service. Suvene hadn’t seen his friend in at least eight years and barely recognized him.

“How did this happen?” Toulesche asked.

“It started on the Slithsythe. There was some kind of phantom...”

“Phantom?” a soldier interrupted.

Toulesche turned to his platoon and warned them that another interruption would be dealt with harshly.

“It was some kind of phantom. It looked a little like a human, but no man could fight like this. Alone, it charged in and butchered most of the force. It bested me and many others hand to hand.”

“It beat you with a sword?” the Toulesche asked, his interest piqued. “Go on.”

“It organized the slaves and marched them east, taking down more plantations as it went. There are at least a couple thousand now, armed and marching this way. I think they’re heading for the Pass of Hard Hope.”

“How did you escape?”

Suvene told the story in as much detail as he could remember. Toulesche listened intently, shushing the soldiers whenever they grew restless. When Suvene finished the tale, Toulesche stood and called for someone to bring a fresh uniform.

“We have to get you cleaned up and take you before the masters. You have to be presentable for them.”

Outside the barracks at a water trough, Suvene washed away the month’s grime, noticing how lean his arms and legs looked from the meager meals the slaves had fed them. Back inside, he dressed in the fresh uniform and then ate the meal that had been brought from the leftovers. Despite still being exhausted, he felt much better and was ready to tell his tale to the masters.

Toulesche led him through the fortress’s maze of stone walls, beyond many wooden doors that led to foreboding chambers, and into the main hall. There, seated around a massive, oak table polished to a high gloss, were the secondary masters who had reassembled for a special session at the behest of Toulesche. None looked pleased to have been called to a meeting so late in the night. Toulesche guided Suvene to where they should stand at the far end of the table so that all could face them.

“What is this about, sergeant?” the highest ranking master asked. He was an older orc, at least seventy, and his face was pinched and sinister.

“There is an army of escaped slaves marching in this direction. My friend, Suvene, risked his life to escape their clutches and warn us of their treachery.”

“An army of slaves? How could that be?” the elder asked.

“They are led by a creature not of this world.”

“What are you saying?”

“There has been great evil unleashed on our lands,” Suvene interrupted. “We must send out as many troops as possible to stop it.”

“You were their prisoner?”

Suvene told the entire story to the secondary masters, who gasped at the details. He told them of the carnage around the big house, of the ransacking of the entire plantation, of the weeks of marching and capturing more plantations. When he finished his story, the eldest master rang for his page and ordered the young orc to call forth the primary masters at once. Only they could send out the troops, and time was of the utmost importance if they had any hope of intercepting this army of evil.

Suvene was thanked for his service and dismissed from the meeting. Toulesche led him from the chamber and back to the barracks, where a bed had been readied for him. He argued with his friend at first, not wanting to miss the battle, but Toulesche ultimately convinced him otherwise. He was in no shape even for the march, never mind the fight, and the army would have to move swiftly. None would be able to help him if he got too tired. The best place for him was in the fortress, where he could rest and regain his strength.

“You’ve already done your duty for this one,” Toulesche said. “Leave a little glory for the rest of us.”

Suvene managed a smile.

“Don’t worry,” the sergeant continued. “I’ll bring you this phantom’s head.”

“Be careful,” Suvene returned, wagging his index finger at his friend. “Great evil surrounds it. It won’t die easily.”

“Like I said, don’t worry.”

With that, Toulesche turned to his troops and barked for them to prepare to march. At first, a couple groaned their displeasure, but the sergeant silenced them quickly with several short bursts of profanity. The soldiers stopped chattering and focused on preparing their weapons and gear for an extended march. Suvene wanted to help them, but the exhaustion was too much. He stretched out on the bed, a rickety cot from a storage closet that at this moment felt like a feather bed from the big house, and was asleep in seconds.

The Battle for Hard Hope

Crushaw had been gone for five days, and the restlessness of the army was evident as meals took longer and each march covered less ground before the freed slaves demanded a break. Leinjar and Molgheon preserved fragile leadership, and Roskin and Vishghu had grown more and more vocal as they helped maintain order and discipline. In short, the army was near its breaking point when, as they prepared for that night’s camp, one of the elves who had accompanied the general appeared at the crest of the next hill and approached at a steady run. The news of his arrival spread from the front to the rear quickly, and as soon as Roskin heard it, he rushed through the mass to reach the two captains.

When he got there, Molgheon was already barking orders at her sergeants to send word that everyone needed to pack and prepare to march through the night. The group groaned their complaints, but she silenced them with a stare that none dared argue against. Then, they dispersed into the army to convey the orders. Once they were on their way, Molgheon turned to Roskin and said:

“Red has found his spot. It’s three days away, but we have to reach it in two. Get back to the rear and keep the stragglers in line.”

“Anything else?” Roskin asked sharply. From his upbringing, he didn’t like direct orders.

“That’s all I know,” Molgheon returned even more sharply. “Red needs us there in two days, so we’ll get there in two days. That okay with you, Roskin?”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he said, trying to control his temper and soothe hers at the same time. “I was just hoping for more information.”

“Me too, but that’s what we got. Now, please get back there and keep order.”

After nodding his understanding, he moved back through the ranks, growling at groups of five and six to get ready to march. Nearly all of the freed slaves had seen him fight either in the leisure slave cage or at the recently liberated plantations, so his words stirred them to motion. By the time he reached the rear, the advance had already begun, so he gathered his few belongings and stuffed them into his pack. Then, he summoned Vishghu and the other leisure slaves to him.

“Spread out and keep everyone moving through the night. It’s going to be a long walk.”

They nodded and murmured their acceptance of the charge. Then, they fanned out across the width of the formation while Roskin remained in the middle. Darkness came to the foothills early that time of the year, and as twilight turned to night, many of the freed slaves voiced their displeasure at still walking. Instead of barking at them this time, however, Roskin began to sing a slave song he had picked up during his bondage. While unable to overcome the thumps, clomps, and rattles of so many marching, his smooth baritone reached those closest to him.

The song was an elfish ballad, and even though he didn’t know what it actually meant, he did know that it captured the sadness of bondage as well as any song he’d heard. Except for Molgheon and Vishghu, all of them shared that emotion, and as he sang, Roskin tried to make those near him feel it. They marched through the dark, climbing hills and descending into dales, and all the while, Roskin sang, sometimes that one, sometimes a different song. At first, the dwarves closest to him ignored the singing, but as he started into the elfish ballad for the fifth time, one of them joined him.

Very soon, a few more joined in, and as the number of singers swelled, the song transformed from a doleful lament of slavery into a celebration of freedom. In short order, most of the regiment gave up complaining and took up the melody. In the darkness of the foothills of the eastern mountains, the army marched away from the plantations but towards an uncertain battle, yet any who might have heard the sound in the distance would have believed they had already won. That night passed without incident.

At dawn, they stopped for a short breakfast and then resumed the march within half an hour. The morning was clear and pleasant, with a breeze to keep them cool, but after lunch, the day turned warm. Roskin’s tunic soaked with sweat as they plodded up and down the rolling inclines. Throughout the day, more and more of the oldest and unhealthiest struggled to keep pace, and by the time they stopped for supper, several dozen were being carried.

They rested for an hour, and Roskin moved along the rear, assessing the situation. He was exhausted himself and knew that even the healthiest would crack if they had to carry someone through the second night. Soon the mass would refuse to go farther, so he called Molgheon to the rear. Within a couple of minutes, she appeared, her face drained and pale.

“This won’t work,” he said, pointing to the elderly who lay on the ground, some already asleep. “We should continue forward just with those of us who are healthier.”

“Who’ll protect them?” Molgheon asked, scanning the crowd.

“We can leave a couple of platoons with them.”

“I don’t like that. We’re already outnumbered.”

“How many of them do you think can fight, anyway?” he asked. “The ones who can will catch up before the battle begins.”

“I guess you’re right,” she responded. “Make it happen.”

With that she returned to the front, and Roskin quickly moved from platoon to platoon, spreading word for the old and feeble to stay there and telling the healthy to get moving. For several minutes, the camp seemed lost in chaos, but as the strong marched away from the resting point and regained formation, the disarray subsided. Before they had gone too far, Roskin halted two dozen elves and told them to lead the weak at a pace they could manage for as long as possible. Then, they would have to make double-time to reach the battlefield. The elves obeyed without question, returning to the more than four hundred elderly and weak at a steady run. His intuition offered no feeling, good or ill, so Roskin watched the elves run and hoped that he had made the right decision.

***

Crushaw sat in the late afternoon light and surveyed the terrain of his battlefield for the hundredth time. To his left, which was north, a narrow but swift river rushed by the open field. To the south, a bluff that had been carved by a glacier thousands of years before rose twenty feet above an open field. The lowland was itself a slight incline that crested even with the bluff. It was nearly three hundred yards long but scarcely more than fifty wide. With the river to the north and the bluff to the south, the field would offer both of his flanks protection, and the orcs would have to narrow their formation to meet his. The landscape was better than he had hoped for.

In the distance two days walk away, the Pass of Hard Hope was visible between the two ridges that dipped towards each other to form it. In the summer, the weather through the pass was calm and predictable, but in the other seasons, the shapes of the ridges and the natural air currents worked against each other to produce dramatic ranges of weather. In a matter of hours, conditions in the pass could go from somewhat warm and dry to frigid and icy. Many travelers, even veterans of those mountains, had lost their lives because of an unfortunate shift in conditions. As such, it made a formidable natural boundary between the orcs and the Marshwoggs.

From his vantage point, Crushaw barely noticed the beauty of the pass and the mountains. His mind was focused on where he would place the different elements of his force. In order to draw the orcs to this spot, he needed them to think their size would be enough to overwhelm the freed slaves, so he would hide many of his soldiers. From what Molgheon had told him, they had about a hundred skilled archers and had managed to fashion crude bows for all of them. They wouldn’t have many arrows each, but if they were hidden on the bluff and not discovered too early, they would have enough to weaken and demoralize the orcs.

Then, he wanted to hide another 250 or so troops along the river’s southern bank. The slope was sufficient that dwarves could lay against the mud with their legs in the river and not be easily noticed. The biggest problem would be that they might have to remain there from before dawn until late afternoon. If the day were particularly cold, they might not be able to endure it. However, if they could maintain the subterfuge, they could emerge behind the orcs and cut off any retreat.

Finally, he wanted to dig shallow pits and trenches in the middle of the field and fill them with sharp stakes and water. The orcs could easily avoid them on the initial charge up the incline, but when they turned to retreat, not only would they find the second line behind them, but the traps would claim many panicked orcs during the chaos of battle. As long as the dwarves didn’t push too far up the field and tumble in themselves, the traps might prove as valuable as the archers.

From his experience, Crushaw knew that the plan could implode with even the slightest unexpected turn, but he believed it gave them the best chance to defeat the much larger force. As long as the orcs approached from the east and drove straight for them, it could work. His biggest concern was that the Tredjards who had consulted with him on orcish warfare had given him bad information. Obviously, they wouldn’t do so on purpose, but they fought with orcs from the west, and these were from the east. Geography and necessity can alter cultures tremendously. His entire plan hinged on the assumption that orcs loathed archery in pitched battle and, therefore, would not be able to thin out his ranks from a distance. Even if they just brought a couple dozen archers, the plan would fail. Given that he hadn’t seen the first bow or arrow at any of the plantations they had liberated, he was fairly certain the dwarves were right, but he still worried about it.

His thoughts were interrupted when the second elf returned from scouting for an overlook to serve as a watchtower. He explained that he had found a steep hill to the northeast about a mile away and across the river that provided a panoramic view for many miles. He would return to it when the others arrived and wait until he spotted the orcs. Then, he would signal the army with a small mirror he had taken from a plantation. He and Crushaw worked out a crude system of flashes that would allow them to communicate across the distance. First, he would flash four times rapidly when the orcs were spotted. Crushaw would respond with one short flash from his own mirror. Then, the elf would use a certain number of flashes to indicate which direction the orcs were coming from, and again Crushaw would respond with a single flash. Finally, the elf would flash once for each approximate mile the enemy was away from the main camp. That would give Crushaw plenty of time to get everyone organized and positioned and then ride out to meet with the orc generals.

Soon after the system was worked out, the elf heard noises from the west and rushed to the crest of the field to scan the horizon for motion. As soon as he saw the first of the freed slaves come over the next rise, he called to Crushaw that they had made it, and the general rose from his resting place to greet them. His ankle was mostly healed, but it was still sore and weak, so he moved gingerly to where the elf stood. When he saw how many were missing, his heart skipped a couple of beats, and he thought that they must’ve been attacked. Then, however, he realized that none were freshly wounded.

The army crossed the last hill to reach him, and as they moved within range he called out an enthusiastic welcome. When the front rows heard him, they responded with a loud cheer that the long walk was finally over. Crushaw ordered the blacksmiths to set up their forges and the cooks to prepare the kitchen in a clearing that would hopefully be away from the battlefield. Then, he told the rest to assemble in front of him.

The ones that formed ranks numbered less than a thousand, and they looked more like refugees than soldiers, as they were filthy and exhausted. Still, Crushaw was proud of them for making that march in two full days. Having done it would allow them to prepare their fortifications and still get to rest for two full nights and most of another day. The respite would improve their organization and get their legs back under them. He had won many battles because his soldiers had gotten to rest well just before the battle and had more energy than the enemy. While the march had been difficult, he was certain that the long-term benefits would outweigh the short-term negatives.

Still, he was curious about the ones missing, so before he addressed the entire army, he called Leinjar and Molgheon to speak in private. The two captains came forward, their eyes puffy and bloodshot, and stood before the general. He thanked each of them for their efforts and then asked about the missing people. Molgheon explained what had happened, describing how Roskin had seen so many being carried and how they had agreed that their only hope to reach Crushaw in time was to let the ones who couldn’t continue rest and move at their own pace.

“Roskin made that decision?” Crushaw asked.

“No,” Molgheon returned. He could see in her eyes that she hadn’t yet forgiven him for the other day. “He only suggested it. I take responsibility for the decision.”

“And you left two dozen elves to protect them?”

“I thought that was all we could spare.”

Crushaw looked over the two dwarves’ heads, scanning the faces of the soldiers in his new army. He knew that Roskin and Molgheon had made the right decision, and he was glad that they had overcome his mistake at not anticipating that problem. He should have thought of it himself, but he was glad that they had acted of their own accord instead of blindly following a flawed order.

“You did well,” he said. “Move back into formation and let me speak to everyone.”

They stepped back to the line, and as they did, Crushaw stood more erect to address his troops. What he had to say would not be popular but it had to be done, so he needed to project as much authority as he could muster. He cleared his throat and spoke, his voice booming over the crowd:

“Army of the Free Peoples, you have made me proud. Lesser soldiers wouldn’t have made it here that quickly.” A weak cheer went through the crowd. “But your day’s work is not complete.” The cheer quickly changed to soft boos. “We must begin digging pits and trenches on this field behind me if we are to have them ready for the battle. We also need to carve sharp stakes. We can use the prisoners for some of the labor, but you’ll each have to do a part before you can rest tonight.”