Red Sky At Dawn Part 2

She would lead four other archers to the western side of the house to cover the five who would strike from the northern side. Leinjar, a veteran Tredjard who had been captive with Roskin at the Slithsythe, would lead the strike team. Under cover of darkness, they would position themselves outside the big house and attack just as the sleepy orcs exited the modest barracks. Molgheon's archers would take down any overseers or lowly orcs or even slaves that tried to a.s.sist the soldiers. With any luck, the entire plantation would be taken in a matter of minutes.

From the tall gra.s.ses, Molgheon led her team across a cotton field and onto the tops of two work buildings near the big house. Leinjar waited until the archers were in position before leading Roskin and the others across another field. Even though sunrise was a couple of hours away and the entire plantation seemed sound asleep, Roskin feared every rustle of gra.s.s or leaf would rouse attention and spoil their surprise, and the slow walk through the field, though barely three hundred yards, felt as if it took an hour.

When they reached their hiding place, Roskin's mouth was dry and his legs were rubber. The four dwarves dug in behind a water trough between the big house and the barracks. The ogre hid behind a small shed. He had been in several battles, but this was his first ambush. He didn't much like the stealth, for he preferred an open battle on equal terms. However, Crushaw believed that the chaos of marching the entire army onto the plantation would leave too much opportunity for orcs to escape and have troops waiting for them at the next plantation. A surprise attack by a small force had the best chance to control the situation, he reasoned.

Time crawled by, and boredom weighed on Roskin like dew on the cotton leaves. The young Kiredurk, filled with rage and shame at what the orcs had done to him, was ready to attack them at first sight, but the tedium lulled him into a memory of home, causing him to lose focus on the doorway of the barracks. The others must've fallen into the same trap, for when the door opened, none motioned to get ready. The first orc to emerge sniffed the air and mumbled something in orcish to the soldiers still inside.

When he heard the orc's voice, Roskin's heart froze and his limbs turned weak. For a moment, his hip and back ached at the memory of the Slithsythe, but just as fast, the ache mushroomed into rage, and without waiting for Leinjar's signal, Roskin jumped from behind the trough and drew his sword.

The orc looked at the Kiredurk as if seeing an unexpected friend, but the expression quickly changed to agony as Roskin drove his blade into its belly. As it slumped to the ground, dark blood flowing onto the worn path of the doorway, Roskin greeted the next orc with a horizontal slash across the throat. That orc collapsed onto the first, and both died within seconds.

The third orc emerged with its pike ready and drove at the Kiredurk with a ferocious lunge, but Roskin, much too deft for such a clumsy attack, stepped to the side and drove his sword into the orc's exposed ribs. In that instant, a fourth orc was about to reach him. Roskin tried to withdraw the sword but found it stuck fast in the thras.h.i.+ng body. He grunted and tugged on the hilt, but the blade was wedged too tightly and wouldn't release. The fourth orc stabbed at him with a halberd, and Roskin let go of his sword and dove sideways to escape the blow. As he scrambled to his feet, he drew from his back a pair of ancient throwing axes that Crushaw had given him. They were light as air in his hands, and instead of hurling them at his foe, he used them like regular hand axes and exploded into the fourth orc with a series of slashes. The orc staggered backwards, squealing from the lacerations on its arms and chest, but Roskin closed in, his fury boiling in the faint light of dawn.

Since Roskin had control of the main entrance to the barracks, Vishghu moved to the rear of the building and, using her ma.s.sive club, crushed the skull of an orc trying to crawl out a window. Inside, the remaining soldiers stood back to back in a circle, their hands trembling from fear of death. As she peered through the window, Vishghu felt a twinge of pity for the beasts. They were all about to die, and they knew it, were powerless to stop it, and she would be, at least in part, a cause of their demise. Unlike the Tredjards who all knew someone killed by them and unlike Roskin who had endured several weeks of torment and torture at their hands, Vishghu had no reason to hate them. Her lack of hate left room for sympathy, and she considered letting them slip by and run for the fields. But emotions aside, Vishghu was a dutiful soldier, and to let these orcs escape would put all of them in danger. She stood her ground and readied her club to strike any that might attempt the window again.

To her left, she noticed a group of orc field hands, armed with hoes and crude machetes, running to the barracks, but most of them didn't make it, for Molgheon and the other archers cut them down as they crossed the open ground. The ones that did avoid the arrows were greeted by Leinjar and the other two Tredjards. Whatever dreams of honor and glory the field hands might have harbored were dismissed quickly by the vicious dwarves.

Vishghu had led these Tredjards into battle at the Slithsythe and had seen firsthand just how ferocious they could be. They had spent many years as slaves, fighting in hand-to-hand battles against other dwarves to amuse the orcs. From torment, starvation, and their years as what the orcs called "leisure slaves," these Tredjards had become even more bloodthirsty than most of their kin, and for them, any opportunity to kill an orc was greeted warmly. As they tore apart the hapless field hands, Vishghu had to look away.

After seeing Vishghu out the back window, the remaining soldiers decided that their best chances were through the Kiredurk, so they formed a tight line and charged. Roskin backed from the entrance and crouched defensively to receive them. With a powerful right backhand, he struck the leader in the chest and pirouetted in the opposite direction to avoid the stampede. The leader crumpled to the ground, and the next two tripped over it and smashed face first on the hard earth.

Roskin danced and chopped through the remaining four, spinning and grunting as the ancient axes sliced flesh. Before any of the four could even swing its pike or halberd, the dwarf had mortally wounded them all. Then, he extinguished the two on the ground. When he was done, his clothes and beard were damp with sweat and orc blood, and the Tredjards, finished with the field hands, gathered around the carnage.

"Impressive," Leinjar said, his wild eyes scanning the scene. "We'll secure the big house."

Once they left, Roskin found his abandoned sword and ripped it from the orc's ribcage. After wiping it clean on another orc's s.h.i.+rt, he sheathed the sword and then cleaned the axes and slipped them into the straps on his back. He had expected to feel better after killing them, as if their deaths would avenge the anguish from the Slithsythe, but the emptiness had only widened with the battle. Now, the thrill of battle spent, he simply wanted to be home.

While the others secured the big house, he sat on the damp ground and sharpened his sword. Once the masters were subdued, Leinjar, Vishghu, the Tredjards, and the archers led the prisoners strong enough to march to the main camp where Crushaw waited. Molgheon remained behind to watch the older and feebler orcs who would be left at the plantation. After securing them to the porch, she sat beside Roskin and watched him run the blade along the whetstone.

"You fought well," she said. "Not much impresses me, but you have skill."

Roskin nodded his thanks.

"But as the leader on this raid, I can't ignore two things."

Roskin looked her in the eyes, and for just a moment, her expression melted from cold and distant to warm and almost motherly. He quickly looked away.

"First, you were daydreaming when the orcs came out. You can't lose focus like that. If they'd been a more dangerous lot, you guys would've been in trouble."

"I'm sorry," Roskin said, flipping his sword to sharpen the other side. "I'll do better."

"Second, you charged before Leinjar gave the signal. Again, if they'd been better, you might've been overwhelmed. Be more disciplined."

As heir to the throne, Roskin listened with amazement. He had rarely heard such forthright criticism. While his teachers had taught him well and had attempted to correct his poor behavior, their critiques had usually been gilded with praise, for none wanted to incite the ire of the king or the heir. At first, Roskin's temper flared at her brazen speech, but instead of lambasting her in return, he held his tongue and let her words sink in. After a few minutes, he looked back at her, wanting to say something kind in return, but her face had already returned to its distant mask, shutting him out completely.

Using the orcish he had known as a childhood slave, Crushaw spoke to the newly freed slaves, most of whom were, like him, slaves from birth. He explained the overall situation, how the makes.h.i.+ft army from the Slithsythe Plantation was marching towards the Pa.s.s of Hard Hope to enter the lands of the Marshwoggs. They would probably be met by a ma.s.sive army and needed as many soldiers as possible to have any chance of victory. Any who wanted to join were free, he told them, but they would be bound to follow his leaders.h.i.+p. Any who chose to follow the army but not fight would be bound to provide whatever hard labor was necessary to prepare for battle. Any who chose not to join them at all would be left at the plantation with the orc masters too feeble to travel.

En ma.s.se, the freed slaves joined Crushaw and took an oath to do their part in reaching the Marshwoggs. Most wanted to battle, even those much too old and frail for warfare, and Crushaw had to force more than one to accept a more pa.s.sive role. As a slave, Crushaw had seen slaves snitch on others and keep themselves under orcish rule out of fear and low self-esteem. He was both surprised and pleased by the spirit these people showed.

At once, he put them to work. Another mobile forge was a.s.sembled, and new blacksmiths went to work refitting armor and weapons for the freed dwarves, elves, and humans. New archers joined the hunting party, and the daily drills became even more raucous.

Over the next two weeks, the basic scenario of capturing the plantation was repeated ten times, and the number of freed slaves grew from just over a hundred to around fifteen hundred. The ones healthy enough to fight numbered nearly a thousand, and as the number got larger and larger, Crushaw's leaders.h.i.+p became more and more evident. When necessary, he delegated authority to Molgheon and Leinjar, who were his captains, and allowed them to handle small problems and maintain routine activities. But like any good leader, every major decision and each unusual endeavor was handled directly by Crushaw himself.

One noontime after the eleventh plantation had fallen, Crushaw called Vishghu and Roskin to his wagon. His ankle was healing well, and although it couldn't quite bear weight, the elfish healer taking care of it was certain it would be fully healed within a couple of weeks. Even so, Crushaw knew that he wouldn't be his most effective during the coming battle, so he wanted the ogre and dwarf to understand their roles.

"Roskin, you'll fight under Leinjar. I'm counting on you to serve him well."

The Kiredurk nodded, but his eyes showed his disappointment at not leading a unit.

"Don't take it personally, young master. You just lack battlefield experience. Soon, you'll lead an entire army. Vishghu, you'll fight near me, helping me hold the center. You'll have to inspire the others to keep the line."

"You're their inspiration," Vishghu responded.

"For now, but once we get to battle, they'll need someone else."

"You're the leader," Roskin said. "They'll fight and die for you."

"They want to fight for me today, but I haven't forced them to march through the night yet. I haven't made them dig trenches until their hands bleed and their backs ache. Then, we'll see how badly they want to fight for me."

The dwarf and ogre were silent, each showing that they understood his point, and he gave them a brief overview of his plan. They would find suitable terrain that would squeeze the orcs into a narrow formation, one where they couldn't overwhelm either flank by sheer volume. Then, while Crushaw, Vishghu, and the main force held the front line, Molgheon would use her archers to thin the interior of the orc ranks. Finally, Leinjar would lead a secondary force to the rear, hopefully cutting off any retreat. The two biggest obstacles to the plan were finding the right terrain and suckering the orcs into the disadvantage.

"Now, I need the two of you to really put these new troops through their drills today. We don't have much time to get them ready, so work them hard every day."

With that, Crushaw dismissed them and quickly ate his lunch of fresh deer and winter berries. There were many preparations to be made, and he had scarce time to have this group ready for battle. His mind swam with thoughts, and he tried to organize each task by priority. Foremost on his list was resuming the march, followed by scouting for good terrain to defend. His needs were so specific that he alone knew what to look for, so he would have to ride ahead, maybe with a couple of elves for protection, to find the right spot. His ankle felt much better, but he didn't relish the idea of trying to control a horse with it. To prepare himself for the coming pain, he thought about the food troughs from his childhood, how the half-rotten food stank as they scooped it into their mouths by hand. With that image fresh in his mind, he could steel himself against the discomfort of his ankle.

Chapter 4.

The Storm Brews.

The first Ghaldeon blacksmiths had arrived in Dorkhun that morning, and already, King Kraganere had them at work fas.h.i.+oning weapons. Since the proclamation of war with the ogre clans, word had spread through the kingdom rapidly, and willing soldiers were traveling to the capital by the hundreds. The fervor of war had taken hold of the kingdom, and most of the citizens had been swept up by it, a madness that terrified Master Sondious.

Almost overnight, dwarves who had been peaceful and studious became bloodthirsty and vengeful, especially as news of Roskin's fate followed the words of war. Master Sondious had expected the Kiredurks to reject the king's rush to war and Kraganere to realize his rashness before events progressed to actual battle. Now, after seeing the eagerness with which so many had embraced it, he expected a long, tedious campaign that would claim many lives.

Nonetheless, he had remained in the king's favor, offering advice that appeared on the surface to be sound preparations for war, but in reality, he had been stalling for time, hoping that more news of Roskin would arrive and end the madness. Now, his hope had run out, for the ogres were gathering at the base of the eastern gate mountain. Unless King Kraganere recanted and offered a full apology for his accusations, by ogre custom, they would attack one complete cycle from the full moon after the accusations were made. By Master Sondious's reckoning, that meant nine days.

From his study chamber in the Hall of Gronwheil, Master Sondious watched a group of young soldiers gather in a courtyard below. Their jovial laughter betrayed their actions as they took turns stabbing a straw effigy of an ogre. As one would stab, the others would offer grandiose predictions of how many ogres they would each kill. The scene sickened Master Sondious.

None of those young dwarves had seen a battlefield before. In fact, other than their training, they had barely been in more than a fistfight. While he himself had not fought in a battle, he had seen warfare in person as a young dwarf. During his tenure as Special Advisor to the Governor of the Deep, he had traveled as an envoy into the free Ghaldeon lands while the Resistance was at its strongest. The Great Empire, while ultimately unable to hold those lands for long, had pushed near Kehldeon, and the Special Advisor's convoy had been stranded between two surprise attacks.

Master Sondious, who had been sheltered his entire life because of his intellect, would never forget the screams of both humans and dwarves as the battles raged around them. When the attacks subsided enough for his convoy to make a run for the mountain trail, he had been forced to run through a field strewn with dead and dying and body parts of all kinds. The images and smells still woke him in the night.

These soldiers had no idea what fate awaited them if they indeed found themselves in battle, and Master Sondious pitied their ignorance. The greatest a.s.set the Kiredurks had ever possessed was their peaceful isolation, but the side effect of isolation was that many thought war glorious and romantic. Few of them had experienced the realities of destruction. Master Sondious now believed that if more Kiredurks had been exposed to fighting, then fewer would be so eager to send off their young ones.

His thoughts were distracting him from his tasks at hand, so he closed the shutters to the window and returned to his desk. He had to calculate production rates for the blacksmiths to determine how many troops could be moved from Dorkhun to the eastern gate within the next two days. It normally took seven days to walk the distance, but the soldiers could quicken their pace to make it in four or five. That would give them time to rest and prepare for battle.

Given their tactical advantage with the terrain and the fortifications of the gate, the Kiredurks wouldn't need more than a few dozen soldiers to withstand the initial onslaught. The biggest difficulty, however, was that most Kiredurk weapons and armor were of too poor a quality to last in any kind of sustained battle, so every soldier needed to be equipped with at least Ghaldeon axes. By Master Sondious's estimate, the blacksmiths could have three dozen axes completed in two days. While certainly not enough for a prolonged campaign, that number of soldiers could hold the eastern gate for a couple of days until reinforcements arrived.

A knock came to his door, and he called for the person to enter. When the door opened, he was greeted by the captain of the king's personal guard, an imposing dwarf with thick arms and a long, full beard. Even though Master Sondious held higher rank within the kingdom, the captain always humbled the frail advisor. He motioned for his visitor to enter the room and take a seat.

"How may I serve you, Captain Roighwheil?"

"We need to talk," the captain responded, closing the door.

"My ear always welcomes your council, Captain. What is your need?"

"First off, Master Sondious, you know I'm not much on manners and such," Roighwheil continued, standing behind the empty chair across from the advisor's desk. "So forgive me if I breech some diplomatic etiquette."

"Nonsense, Captain. Let's drop the courtly garbage and talk like dwarves." For all of his intellect and education, Master Sondious was still a dwarf of the Deep, and at will he could slip into the informal dialect of his youth.

"Well, you and me haven't always been on the same page, and I'm sure you think I'm just a dumb old battleaxe..."

"Nonsense! Your beard is the same as mine."

"Well, anyway, I've been watching how you've handled this whole call to war, and I know that you've done everything in your power to stop it."

"I am loyal to the king, Captain Roighwheil," Master Sondious said in his most serious voice, suddenly fearful of what might happen next.

"We're all loyal to him. That's not questioned. I'm here because you and me are on the same page this time."

"How so?"

"I think the king's rus.h.i.+ng. War is serious, probably the most serious thing there is, but we're going into this all wrong."

Master Sondious relaxed a little and leaned back in his chair. He wasn't sure what to say to the captain.

"The way I see it," the captain continued. "Maybe you could travel to the eastern gate and talk with the ogres. Maybe we can stop this foolishness."

"Captain Roighwheil, what you are suggesting could be deemed treason."

"I don't know about that, but it's our only hope to end this without bloodshed. My oldest boy is in the Elite Guard. He'll be at the gate in no time if this continues. I can't..."

The captain's eyes filled with moisture, and he fell silent. Master Sondious rose from his seat and moved to the other side of his desk. He stood before the captain and reached out his hand.

"We'll try our best," Master Sondious said, shaking the captain's hard, calloused hand. His own felt soft and weak in the firm grasp. "We'll try our best."

Two nights later, as the first units of newly equipped soldiers said farewells to their families and sweethearts, a festival was held on the steps of the palace. The best singers and musicians of Dorkhun lavished the young soldiers with songs of heroic deeds and warriors from earlier kingdoms. Many beautiful speeches were made by important dignitaries, including the king himself, and everyone there believed wholeheartedly that the Kiredurks would quickly defeat the ogres.

Master Sondious was conspicuously absent from the festival, and more than one dwarf asked the king where his top advisor was during such a monumental event. Kraganere repeated the story dutifully, explaining how Master Sondious had requested an opportunity to travel to the eastern gate to inspect the preparations for himself and to boost morale among the guards already there. The king had resisted at first, but Master Sondious had convinced him of the importance of this trip, so Kraganere had relented.

Without the council to a.s.sist him and without his most trusted and beloved advisor, the king felt the enormity of the kingdom on his shoulders. Despite the fact that he had ruled for twenty years, he doubted his own leaders.h.i.+p at this critical time. In fact, he enjoyed listening to the council's ideas and deciding which one made the most sense. He preferred running ideas by Master Sondious for advice before implementing them as law. While the council members had remained in the capital and could be called to order at any moment, his proclamation of the state of peril had changed their role from one of shared governance to one of subservience to his will. That changed the dynamic of their meetings, and the king could sense their reluctance to put forth ideas.

Once the soldiers were on their way, the festival dissipated away from the palace, and the king returned to his study. Reports had come back on the strength of the ogre clans gathering at the gate, and he needed to read them before turning in for the night. Even with such important business to occupy him, his thoughts returned to Roskin again and again.

Other than when he had been struck by the arrow and had feared death would take him, Kraganere had known only fleeting fear. Now, with his son suffering an unknown fate, terror flooded him like melting snow in spring. Every time he tried to focus on something necessary and important, the sensation would rush through him, and his thoughts would turn to poison.

Alone in his study, with portraits of Roskin and Roskin's mother across the room, the terror enveloped him, and Kraganere compared their features, staring from one portrait and then back to the other. Roskin had his forehead, nose, and chin. No one could deny that, but he had his mother's eyes, wild and unrelenting, the kind that cut through facades and made the weak turn away. The king's love for the wild elf and his son was overpowering, and the conflicting emotions, terror and love, filled his chest and made it hard to breathe. Unable to control himself, he rose from his desk and called for Captain Roighwheil.

"Yes, my king?" the captain said as the king strode out of his study and down the hall. Roighwheil turned and followed.

"Prepare your unit to travel," Kraganere, who usually spoke warmly to the captain, barked.

"Yes sir, but where to?"

"We're going to the eastern gate." The king turned down the stairwell that led to the palace's armory.

"Is that wise?" the captain asked, following him down the steps.

"Your approval was not sought, Captain. Only your compliance."

"Yes, my king."

The captain stopped on the stairs and went back up to gather the king's guards together to give them the orders. The king continued to the armory, where he called for the chief steward to a.s.sist him. The steward, a chubby and somewhat dim-witted dwarf who was rarely asked to do more than keep the king's weapons and armor clean and well-oiled, stared at the king as if he had been asked to fly across the mountains.

"Move your backside," Kraganere bellowed.

The steward clambered to his feet and opened the rack that held the king's best axes. While Kraganere chose the weapons he would take, the steward unpacked a suit of mail suitable for battle. Pleased with both his weapons and the mail, Kraganere ordered the steward to deliver them to the livery. Then, he returned upstairs to instruct his wife and other children that he was heading to the eastern gate.

Master Sondious rode for three days, barely sleeping more than a couple of hours a night and changing ponies frequently as he pa.s.sed through cities and towns.h.i.+ps. When he finally reached the eastern gate, he had at least four days before the moon cycle ended to talk with the ogres and lower tensions, so he slept for a full night and spent half of the next day grooming himself to greet the clan matriarchs present.

At the gate, these soldiers acted much the same as the young ones in Dorkhun outside the advisor's window, a lot of bl.u.s.tering and bravado about how badly they were going to defeat their enemy. Master Sondious ignored the pretense and focused on what he wanted to say to the ogres. First, he would apologize on behalf of the council. This apology would not violate any ethical boundaries because he had the authority to speak for the council. Second, he would offer tribute to the matriarchs as compensation for their time and energy in traveling to the eastern gate under these circ.u.mstances. He would use his personal wealth as the capital. Third, he would request a reprieve of one moon cycle to allow him to gather more information on the fate of the heir, which might prompt the king to recant his accusations, thus staving off war. Given his knowledge of ogre customs, he believed that these three acts would appease the matriarchs' anger and provide the needed time.

That afternoon, once he knew his speech was well enough rehea.r.s.ed, he dressed in his best silken clothes and walked through the eastern gate. The soldiers called for him to stop and return inside, but with his position, they could not force him to do anything. A mile in the distance down the mountain, he could see the ogres' camps, so he marched steadily towards them. At the gate, which was over 8,000 feet up, the spring snows were still deep and powdery, and the going was slow. As he neared the camps, a platoon of several young ogres blocked his path and ordered him to halt.

"As a dignitary from the Council of Dorkhun, I request an audience with your matriarchs."

"That so?" an ogre asked, patting down the advisor for weapons.

"I bring news from the capital."

"Give us the news, and we'll see it gets to them."

Master Sondious was appalled at the impudence of these ogres. For thousands of years, they had been peaceful allies, and in any dispute, both sides had without fail honored the right of a dignitary to speak to his or her counterpart. When he got in front of the matriarchs, he would voice his displeasure with this rudeness.