Shadow Prowler Part 38

The orcs had attacked suddenly. No one had been expecting this war, and during the first days of the catastrophe that overwhelmed the land of Valiostr, the army had been defeated in battle after battle. And now there was only one hope left. Hargan and his men had only one goal-to detain the enemy for as long as possible, until the main human forces could dig in at the new capital of Valiostr. The retreating army was already far behind them, and in front of them, beyond the curtain of mist, the army of the enemy was waiting.

The orcs were in no great hurry. What difference did it make if they spilled the humans' blood an hour earlier or an hour later? They were the Firstborn, they would conquer all the lands, and men ... Men would be dispatched to feed the worms. First the Valiostrans, then the men of Miranueh, then it would be the turn of the gnomes and dwarves, and finally of their detested relatives, the elves.

The rain eased off somewhat until it was no more than a gentle drizzle. The air was filled with fine drops of water. It was early morning and mist was rising from the ground in thick white streamers. Three hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the ravine, the road was concealed in a dense white shroud and they could only guess how far away the enemy was. Yesterday the scouts had reported that the advance units of the orcs were at a distance of one day's march. But that was yesterday. ...

The bottom of the ravine was hidden from sight. Its walls were not actually sheer, but they could certainly not be called shallow. If you were careless going down, you could easily break your neck. Somewhere far below there was a stream tinkling; sometimes you could hear it above the rain. So after they dismantled the bridge, the orcs would first have to climb down one slippery clay slope and then climb up another. That was the only way they could reach the fortifications.

The brigade had only been named that morning, when the final soldiers of Grok's army retreated, leaving the volunteers alone to face the foe. n.o.body at all was hoping to survive the fighting, they all knew what they were doing when they volunteered. They were saying good-bye to life.

Waiting is the worst torture of all. It has broken many men, even destroyed them. And what could be worse than standing behind a low wall of logs covered with earth and peering into a dank haze for an entire day, with only one picture in front of your eyes the whole time-a road cut off by a thick white wall of fog.

The day was approaching its end, and there had been neither sight nor sound of the enemy. True, about an hour earlier something that sounded very much like the booming of the orcs' battle drums had been heard from behind the curtain of fog, but everything had gone quiet, the alarm had come to nothing, and the oppressive silence of antic.i.p.ation had descended once again.

On the slope of the ravine itself, just below the line of fortifications, the builders had set long, pointed stakes into the ground. The attackers would find it very tricky to get past this obstacle with any speed. They would probably get stuck trying to squeeze between the stakes, and the bowmen would have time to reap a b.l.o.o.d.y harvest.

"They haven't decided to wait for darkness, surely?" the commander of the Dog Swallows asked apprehensively. "But since when has the race of the Firstborn ever been so cautious with men? They regard us as talking monkeys."

"I'll tell you what I'm afraid of," croaked Fox, who was sitting beside Hargan. "What if they've found another route to Avendoom? Maybe through the forest or the swamps ..."

"Through the swamps?" The commander shook his head. "No, there's only one road here. If the orcs decide to try the swamps, they won't reach Avendoom before next spring. This whole area's such a wild tangle you could never find your way out, even sober."

"So we'll wait, then," Fox concluded philosophically.

And they waited.

"They're coming! They're coming!" The cry went up, and then a lone bugle sounded the alert.

Hargan lifted up his head and rubbed his eyes.

"Everyone to their posts!" the commander ordered, putting a light helmet on his head.

Like all the other soldiers, Hargan was never parted from his chain mail even for a moment. If the enemy attacked, they weren't going to wait while the soldiers put their armor on. So he wore his mail all the time and even slept in it.

This was no time for the standard three royal lines, and certainly not for the four lines of the elves. Those formations were good out in the open, but here, hiding behind a wall of wood and earth, it was best to fire a salvo up and over first and shoot directly at the enemy afterward. When you could be certain. With a clear aim. So that every arrow hit its target.

The powerful battle bows had already been strung; the trusty mittens, tattered by thousands of blows, had been donned; the quivers were bursting with arrows.

One arrow in the hand, another two stuck into the ground. Each was as thick as a man's thumb, with solid, armor-piercing heads-not just the standard cutting edges that would bring down only light infantry, but battering rams that could pierce good steel.

A dour line of soldiers with swords and huge rectangular s.h.i.+elds formed up seven paces behind the bowmen. Unlike the archers, they were well s.p.a.ced out, with a gap of two paces between each man. If the enemy managed to get through the hail of arrows, the sword-swingers would give the bowmen time to get behind them and exchange their weapons for something more effective at close quarters, while they themselves closed ranks and set their s.h.i.+elds together.

"Is my help required?" asked Siena, who had approached the consulting officers.

The enchantress was wearing steel armor and her head was covered with a chain-mail hood. Overnight the armorers had managed to hammer together some reasonably good protection for the short girl out of whatever was available. Like yesterday, Siena had no weapon, just the amulet gleaming on the chain round her neck.

"Your help, Lady Siena, will be required in the very near future," Hargan said, and s.h.i.+fted his gaze to the sergeant of her guards.

Several figures slid forward out of the wall of fog.

"Orcs!"

"Make rea-dy!" The sergeants' calls ran along the ranks of bowmen.

"Raise the banner," Hargan said curtly.

His order was immediately carried out and the yellow panel of cloth began fluttering above the fortifications. The material for it had been donated by Siena, who had allowed them to tear off part of her own tent. Although the brigade had just been formed the previous day, it had to have a banner, no matter what, even if it was only an ordinary rag nailed to the trunk of a young aspen instead of a flagstaff. Some unskilled hand had drawn something on the cloth that looked vaguely like a dog with wings and a swallow's tail. And also written something in orcish. Hargan felt quite sure that the polyglot artist had crammed these incomprehensible squiggles with the most terrible of insults to the race of the Firstborn.

The men watched in silence as the enemy wave advanced. Now it would begin. ...

Three soldiers came forward out of the ranks of the enemy. The one in the middle was carrying a white flag, the one on the left was blowing a bugle in an appeal for negotiations.

"Since when do orcs come to negotiations with bugles instead of drums?" Hargan muttered as he drew on his armored gloves.

"Strange ... ," said the soldier standing beside him, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his eyes to peer at the strangers. "They're ... not orcs ... they're men! Yes, they are! They're men!"

The whispers ran along the ranks of the defenders: "Men? Where from? The entire army fell back ages ago! Are they ours? Reinforcements? But why from the south?"

Meanwhile the trio of negotiators walked up to the edge of the ravine and halted.

They really were men.

"Hey, you! Can you hear me?" shouted the one standing on the right, a tall, solidly built soldier with a full, thick beard.

"We hear you! We're not deaf!" Wencher answered from somewhere over on the right flank of the fortifications. The harsh voices dispelled the charm of the summer morning.

"We are the valiant Sixth Southern Army of Valiostr, now the First Human a.s.sault Force! Formed on the orders of the orcs from valiant warriors who desire the well-being and happiness of all humankind."

"Hang on there, hang on! What's this First Human a.s.sault Force? And you're lying about the Sixth Southern, none of them survived, they were caught in the thick of it at Boltnik!"

"Ah, come on, lads, don't you get it?" shouted a voice from the ranks of the bowmen. "They're turncoats! Traitors! Renegade sc.u.m! They do the orcs' work now!"

"Fighting their own kind?"

"b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

"Don't they realize that afterward the orcs will cut them to shreds?"

"The glorious army of the Firstborn, worthy of ruling the whole of Siala, offers you the chance to lay down your arms and join the First Human a.s.sault Force. Resistance is useless; there are far more of us than there are of you. In a few hours the main orc forces will arrive, and we will crush you! Why simply throw your lives away? The war is lost, even a Doralissian can see that! Join with us and you will stay alive and perhaps even make good pay! The orcs are just."

"Our reply is no!" said Hargan.

"Fools!" the bearded man roared. "How many of you are there behind those flimsy sticks of wood? Two hundred at most. And there are almost a thousand of us! We'll wash our hands in your blood!"

"Come and take it!" yelled Wencher, incensed. "We've enough arrows for the lot of you!"

Hargan had total confidence in the loyalty of his men and he was not afraid of being stabbed in the back, but it was time to put an end to the conversation with this vociferous traitor.

"And now you listen to me, peace envoy! I'll give you just one chance, too! You are a coward who had betrayed his own people! I hope you're a fast runner! Try to outrun our arrows! That's my answer to you!"

As he turned away, he saw the standard bearer toss aside his useless white flag and go running back, while the bugler started das.h.i.+ng about on the edge of the ravine and the bearded man followed, shaking his fist.

"Soldiers!" Hargan barked. "We're about to fight a battle with our own kind, not orcs! With men! With traitors who have forgotten the taste of their own mothers' milk and gone over to the enemy! Do not let your hands falter! Kill the turncoats, show no mercy!"

And the phrase rang along the ranks of men, determined to fight to the death before they let the enemy pa.s.s: "NO MERCY!"

Bugles sounded on both sides. The attackers bolstered their spirits by shouting and brandis.h.i.+ng their weapons as they ran. A thousand of them. A thousand men who would stop at nothing, since they had already gone over to the side of the orcs. There was no way back for them now, so they would fight to the last man. But Hargan had no doubt that his lads would hold out. After all, these were not orcs who were attacking them. ... And the Dog Swallows also had the slight advantage of the ravine and the wall above it.

The first wave of the enemy came rolling on, getting closer and closer. The soldiers ran, hoping to get through the danger zone exposed to arrows as quickly as possible and leave their comrades-the men running twenty yards behind in the next wave-as the targets.

"What kind of idiot is commanding them?" Hargan muttered.

Running in a crowd, simply inviting the arrows to strike, without even holding up your s.h.i.+elds in front of you, was stupid. Very stupid. But now the traitors already had no choice.

"Arc five fingers upward! Together, fire!" Blidkhard commanded, shouting above the howls of the attackers.

The bowmen raised their bows, there was a sharp crack, and the arrows went whistling up into the leaden sky.

"Arc seven fingers upward. Correct for wind half a finger left! Together, fire!"

The new swarm of deadly bees took to the air at the very moment when the first wave of arrows came cras.h.i.+ng down on the attackers' heads. Some managed to hold their s.h.i.+elds up to ward off this deadly rain; some were simply fortunate enough to escape being hit. But the greater part of the first wave knew the bitter taste of death. His scythe sliced through the ranks of traitors as arrows fell on heads and shoulders. Their impetus drove them straight through cuira.s.ses and chain mail, deep into men's chests, finis.h.i.+ng off the wounded who had already fallen.

More than eighty bodies were left lying on the ground, and the survivors ran on doggedly in an attempt to dive into the fog of the ravine as quickly as possible and conceal themselves from the eyes of the bowmen.

The second swarm of arrows had been launched along a steeper arc and it fell on the men almost vertically. Screams ... Now there were only thirty men left in the first wave-all the rest had met their death on the other side of the ravine. And they still had about fifty yards to run to safety.

"Number twos! Three paces back! Arc six fingers upward! Number ones! At the survivors! Choose your target! Fire!"

The line of bowmen trembled and split into two halves. The second line fired along an arc, sending death to the new wave that was already advancing. The first line fired directly, picking off the remaining soldiers of the first wave.

The bowmen shot down the men who were left-not a single soldier from the first wave managed to reach the safety of the ravine. Black bodies bristling with white-feathered arrows littered the brown ground.

Meanwhile the arrows of the second line were already falling on the heads of the new wave of attackers.

"Number twos! Three paces forward! Close ranks! All together! Arc eight fingers upward! Fire!"

The reconst.i.tuted line of bowmen all fired their arrows at once.

"At the enemy! Choose your target! Correction for wind half a finger left! Shoot at will!"

The arrows stuck in the ground had been used up long ago, and now right hands were lowered to the quivers hanging on men's hips. The arrows rustled out and were set on the strings. ...

"Fox! Get ready! The ones who have broken through will be here soon!" Hargan shouted.

"No they won't!" Fox laughed. "They're not stupid enough to try breaking through with just twenty men! They'll wait for the others!"

Blidkhard issued a constant stream of commands, altering the direction of fire every second, setting the arrows flying, first upward in an arc that seemed impossibly steep, then straight across, sowing death in the ranks of the attackers. There were even fewer fortunate fellows in the third wave than in the second: No more than fifteen men reached the shelter of the ravine.

"Look out!" one of the soldiers cried.

The commander of the attackers had kept his bowmen back until the fourth wave. While Blidkhard's lads were dealing with the third wave, the fourth, which was armed with short bows that could not fire as far as the Dog Swallows' weapons, came within firing range. ...

Before he ducked behind the huge wooden s.h.i.+eld that had been cobbled together out of planks from the wagons for just this occasion, Hargan caught a glimpse of the flock of hornets heading toward them through the air.

The swordsmen fell to their knees, raising their s.h.i.+elds above their heads, protecting themselves and covering their comrades. Blidkhard's men came off worse-not all of them were quick enough to put down their bows and pick up the wooden arrow s.h.i.+elds lying at their feet.

Hargan felt one arrow strike the board, then another. Another buried itself in the ground beside his foot. The soldier beside him, trying to take cover behind a small round s.h.i.+eld, cried out when one of the arrows. .h.i.t him in the thigh, uncovered himself for an instant, and took a second arrow in the neck. He wheezed hoa.r.s.ely and tumbled to the ground.

The bombardment finally ended, and Hargan cast aside the board bristling with arrows. The enemy's arrows were everywhere-in the ground, in s.h.i.+elds, in the wall of the fortifications, and in men.

"Crush those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" Blidkhard yelled hoa.r.s.ely. "Come on then, you sons of wh.o.r.es!"

The bowmen took up their bows again.

"Fire at will!"

"Wencher!" Hargan roared. "What are our casualties?"

"Eighteen killed!" the answer came back after a while. "Mostly Blidkhard's lads! I haven't counted the wounded yet!"

"Fire!"

Slap! Slap! Slap! The bowstrings thwacked against the mittens and the arrows whistled through the air, drowning out even the howls of the dying. The bowstrings thwacked against the mittens and the arrows whistled through the air, drowning out even the howls of the dying.

The fifth wave of attackers had taken advantage of the pause in the bombardment by Blidkhard's bowmen and fused with the fourth. They were running toward the ravine, with the sixth wave already following them. The enemy's bowmen were no longer firing; they didn't want to become a target for the Dog Swallows. The Wind Jugglers began choosing their targets. One of the enemy fell every second, but time had been lost and a large body of men disappeared into the ravine, bolstering their courage by shouting.

"Wake up, you wh.o.r.es! Keep your eyes open! As soon as the enemy appears, move back behind the swords! Target the sixth line! Together, fire!"

"Stop them shooting!" shouted Siena, bounding up to Hargan. Her chain-mail hood had slipped back off her head, her light brown hair was tousled, her face was pale and determined. "Let them get down into the ravine! And as soon as that happens, move back from the wall!"

"Cease fire!" Hargan roared. "Withdraw behind the swordsmen!"

"Cease fire! Withdraw! Withdraw!" The order ran along the line.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Lady Siena?" Hargan would be taking a risk by trusting in the young enchantress's talent.

"Yes! Now just don't interfere!"

The only ones left by the wall were the enchantress, the two s.h.i.+eld-bearers from her bodyguard, and the centurions.

The sixth wave slithered down into the ravine, shouting triumphantly. The seventh and eighth waves were on their way.