Red Sky at Dawn (7 page)

“We’re tired,” a voice called out from the middle of the crowd. “Why can’t we do this tomorrow?”

“Because tomorrow you may be dead on an orc’s pike. You can rest all you want then. Now, move to the bottom of this field and wait for me.”

At that, he strode towards the blacksmiths and cooks, not showing the pain that shot through his left ankle with each step. None could see that he still hurt, for that would create doubt where he needed absolute trust, so he recalled the smell of the food trough, which always reminded him that however unpleasant his current task might be, it could be worse. As he moved to the level clearing, Molgheon and Leinjar marched the army to the bottom of the field to await his next orders.

***

Roskin sat with Crushaw and Leinjar on the bank of the river, discussing details of the strategy. The army had finished digging pits and making stakes the previous night and had then gotten a good night’s sleep. Today, they had been left to themselves for the most part, only being asked to sharpen their weapons. Molgheon had already hidden the archers on the bluff, and from where he sat, Roskin couldn’t see them, even knowing where to look. As he listened to Crushaw explain the second line’s objective, he dragged the whetstone down his blade.

He and many other dwarves would have to sleep near the river and be ready to coat themselves in mud early the next morning. Then, they would have to hide along the bank for longer than he had ever held still in his life. He liked the plan but was unsure if he could execute it as well as was necessary. He had never been trained for this sort of task.

In the distance, a light flashed four times from a hilltop, and still seated, Crushaw drew his dagger and glinted sunlight off the blade. Then, the light flashed twice more, and again Crushaw responded with one flicker. Finally, the light gleamed nine times. To this, Crushaw responded with two flashes and sheathed his dagger.

“They’re nine miles due east,” the general said. “Tomorrow we fight, so get your dwarves ready.”

When he finished talking, he rose to his full height and stretched. With the sun in Roskin’s eyes, all he could see was shadow, and much like that morning outside of Molgheon’s tavern, Crushaw’s silhouette was imposing. For a moment, Roskin imagined the general as a young soldier, and the Kiredurk was glad that Crushaw was on his side. Even though he was now older and less powerful, Evil Blade was not someone to fight against, and that thought gave the dwarf courage.

“Gather everyone together,” Leinjar said to Roskin, his voice distant.

Keeping his temper in check, Roskin hopped to his feet and scurried from platoon to platoon, telling each sergeant to get moving. Once the dwarves were assembled, he took his place beside Leinjar and waited for him to speak. For several heartbeats, the captain stared at them, his crazy eyes wild with bloodlust. Then, his voice uncurled in a primitive snarl.

“I’m not much on speeches. Tomorrow, we kill orcs. Be ready.”

The dwarves cheered loudly, waving their axes and pikes above their heads. Roskin drew his blade and joined them, letting a guttural scream explode from deep within. He had missed the fight on the Slithsythe, and even though he had helped liberate several plantations since then, this battle was his chance to earn his freedom from the orcs and secure a safer route home to his father and his kingdom. Much as the need for the Brotherhood of Dwarves had burned inside, the desire to protect his family and his people consumed him. That moment was the first time he had thought of them as
his
people. He screamed again, and a rush of adrenaline washed through him. The orcs would regret having taken him as a slave.

***

The orc general sat on his pure-blood stallion and watched an old man ride a draft horse towards him. Behind the human, less than 600 slaves formed a thin line at the crest of a slight incline. The orc was disgusted by the sight, for he had been expecting 2,000 well-armed troops led by something immortal. As an ambitious leader, he had been hoping for a glorious battle that would make him famous as the one who quashed the great slave uprising. Instead, he would get to slaughter a handful of rabble, and this battle would scarcely be remembered even by those who fought in it.

“My lord,” his aide-de-camp said aloud since the old man was still beyond earshot. “Should we send troops around the bluff to cut-off their retreat?”

“That would cost us an extra day,” the general responded. “I’ve no interest in dragging this out longer than necessary, so let’s simply overrun their position and go home.”

“You’re right, my lord. I give them too much credit.”

“Against a formidable opponent, I would agree with your strategy, but here, it doesn’t seem warranted. Quiet, now. He’s almost to us.”

The old man was alone — as the slaves were so uncouth they couldn’t supply an assistant to escort their leader – and stopped his horse several feet away from them. The orc general walked his horse a couple of steps closer to the man, keeping both hands on his reigns as a show of trust. At least the human knew enough protocol to do likewise, the orc thought. He made eye contact with his foe, and for just a moment, terror seized him, for he saw a coldness in the other’s eyes that warned of evil. He squelched the fear and cleared his throat. However terrible this one might be, he only had a few hundred slaves to protect him from 5,000 of the most well-trained warriors the land had ever known. No single person could overcome those odds.

“Surrender your weapons,” the orc general said, not expecting the old man to understand a civilized tongue. “And we will make your death quick.”

“I’ve no need to surrender,” the man returned in orcish. “We’ll leave these lands free people.”

“You stand no chance against my army,” the general said, more than a little surprised. “If you make me take you by force, your death will not be gentle.”

“Move your soldiers a safe distance away to let us pass, and I will free the prisoners I hold unharmed.”

“Your arrogance is amusing. You are in no position to offer conditions to me. This is your last opportunity to surrender.”

“Then, come and take me,” the human said, wheeling back towards the slaves and kicking his draft horse into a run.

The orc general watched the old man ride for a few moments, pondering the stupidity of someone who would choose a slow, tortured death over a quick, easy one. He motioned for his aide-de-camp to move beside him.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Ready the troops to charge. We will have their position by sundown.”

***

Vishghu stood where the field blended into the bluff and watched Crushaw ride back to their lines. He had told her many times that she had to hold that spot at all costs. If she failed, the orcs would overrun their flank and envelope them. Since she was the largest and strongest of any in this battle, she would have to bear its most difficult point, for the orcs would drive at that spot with their best platoons. She would get little if any quarter the entire battle.

On one hand, she was proud that he thought enough of her skills to trust her with such a task, but on the other, she was terrified of letting down the army. What if she tired? What if she suffered a serious wound? She didn’t want to cost them the battle, and truth be known, she wanted even less to disappoint Crushaw. They had grown to like and respect each other, and almost as much as she wanted to stay alive, she wanted to prove to him that his trust was well-placed.

He rode to where she stood and looked at her, then the elves behind her, and finally the ones to her left. Then, he walked the horse along the line, not speaking to anyone, just making eye contact with most of the soldiers. When he reached the river-flank, he returned to the middle and stopped the horse. Suddenly, his voice boomed over them:

“Army of the Free Peoples, I’ll not lie to you. Many of us will die here today. We face a larger, better-trained, and better-armed force. We might lose this battle.”

A rustle of discomfort went through the lines, and several voices murmured dissent.

“I’ve led many battles, and in every one, I was certain of victory, until today. On this day, the odds are against us, but know this: I would rather die by your side here than win any other battle.”

A cheer rose from the crowd.

“And know this, too,” he continued when it faded. “While we
might
lose this battle, I would rather die today than live another second on their plantations.”

Another cheer, this one even louder, erupted.

“They might have more soldiers, but we have more courage. They might have better weapons, but we have more rage. Fight them with all you have. Remember every morning horn and every overseer’s lash, and let it fuel you. That is how we will beat them.”

Another eruption drowned his words, but again he waited for the frenzy to subside.

“Fight well, Army of the Free Peoples. Fight them as you have dreamed of doing. Many of you have never tasted orc blood, but tonight we’ll drink our fill.”

Emotions overran her, so Vishghu threw back her head and bellowed. The noise rose like thunder, and those nearest to her joined the roar. Soon, the entire front lines howled like savages, and as they did, Crushaw rode back to the river and dismounted, taking his place to guard that flank.

***

Molgheon lay on the clay slate of the bluff and watched the orcs advance. From her experiences with the Resistance, she had seen many battalions of the Great Empire approach battlefields, and while those situations had been different, she was still unimpressed with these soldiers. Where the humans had been focused on the coming fight, the orcs seemed more like sightseers on a picnic. When they reached the pits and trenches, she could hear many of them laughing at and mocking the obstacles. Enjoy it while you can, she thought.

From her hiding spot, she had a good view of both forces, and the difference in sizes was astonishing. The freed slaves looked small and vulnerable compared to the mass of orcs, but Molgheon wasn’t worried. She trusted Red’s plan, and so far, he had anticipated their approach as well as could be imagined. From here on out, the battle would come down to how well they executed the strategy. If she and the archers could use their arrows well and terrorize the middle of the force, the front lines would have no reprieve from fighting and would become almost the same size force as the freed slaves. Then, when the rear lines tried to retreat, if Leinjar and the ambush party could hold the orcs well enough to prevent a major reorganization, the freed slaves could succeed.

Besides Molgheon, each archer had ten arrows to fire. Most were elves and as accurate a shot as she was. Their goal was to wound at least seven orcs each. When they ran out of arrows they were to move to the front line and supplant any exhausted troops. As for Molgheon, she had nearly a hundred arrows and would focus her fire on the orc leadership. Even if she didn’t kill them all, her hope was to create chaos in the command structure, thus weakening the orc army’s reactions to the battle.

For several minutes, the orcs marched up the rise, inching closer and closer. Molgheon could not give her position away too soon, for if she did, the orcs would retreat before Leinjar got behind them. She would have to wait until the orcs moved far enough up the field that the ambush party could completely block the lower end. So she and the other archers lay still beneath their brush camouflage and watched the orcs march.

Early spring in the foothills was usually warm and breezy, but on this day, the air was fairly cool with very little wind. The first leaf buds had appeared on the dogwoods and poplars, and insects buzzed and fluttered from plant to plant, searching for food and spreading pollen as had happened and would continue for countless millennia. As winter gave way, the smell of new life was sweet and thick. Molgheon had always preferred fall and winter, since so much of her life had revolved around war and death, but on this day, she soaked in the seasonal rebirth and relished it.

The Great Empire had conquered and divided the Ghaldeon kingdom well before she had been born, so as a child, she had always aspired to join the War of Resistance and expel the enemy from her home. For as long as she could remember, she had trained for battle and was an expert with practically every weapon used in warfare. The bow was her favorite, however, because her eyesight was keen and her hands were steady. Even at forty-three, she was as deadly a shot as any, but she knew her skills were slowly eroding. Her joints stayed sore and stiff most of the time, and her hands had lost some of their strength. She didn’t want to grow old and feeble, especially not alone with no real family or friends to care for her, but since she was hardly into middle-age, those worries could wait.

The orcs reached the front line and stopped about ten yards away from the freed slaves. Soldiers on each side called insults to the others, and some spat at their enemies. Many orcs beat their chest plates with the wooden shafts of their pikes, and the cacophony resounded up to Molgheon with ominous familiarity, as soldiers in the Great Empire did a similar thing with the pommels of their swords. She wanted to unleash a volley on them, but the rear lines were still moving into the kill zone, so she had to wait.

It wasn’t hard to find the main leadership, for while the common soldiers marched, the officers rode on exquisite horses that were adorned with ornate blankets. Within a couple of minutes, Molgheon roughly mapped their command structure and prepared a firing order for when she did attack. First, she would strike down the dozen that she deduced were the highest ranking because they were closest to the middle and had the most lavish adornments. Then, she would fire on the orcs near Vishghu to help the ogre hold the bluff flank. Finally, with any remaining arrows, she would aim for the river-flank and take down those officers. When she was out, she would join whichever front needed her worse.

***

Orcs stood mere feet from Vishghu, thumping their chests and chanting at the freed slaves. With her height, the ogre could see over their heads and down the incline at the rows and rows of orcs, and for the first time, she was truly scared. Even when the sand lion had attacked them on the Crimson Road, she hadn’t been deeply afraid. Now, however, seeing the enormity of her foes, she wanted to flee the battle and run for the pass, and the thought crossed her mind that this must’ve been how the orcs trapped inside the barracks had felt before Roskin killed them. Despite the fear, she held her ground and focused on her training.