Red Valor

by Shad Callister

The Silverpath warpack broke from the trees in utter silence and raced across the open ground, a full hundred of them.

  Ahead of them the walls drew closer. Uthek ran with his heart in his mouth, a mounting exhilaration lending wings to his feet. No sentry challenged them, no alarm sounded. The fools! The blind, stupid fools!

  A single gate had been built in the exact center of the semicircle. It was well protected by squat towers on each side, and Uthek never gave it a second glance. It was the obvious point of attack for a ram, but the Silverpath would use no ram tonight.

  Five logs to the right of the gate stood two adjoining upright logs, shorter than their fellows on either side by three or four cubits. Uthek surmised that, in their haste to complete the wall, the Kerathi had simply run out of longer logs. He led the way to these now; although thicker than the other logs in the wall, their shortened height would make scaling them a little faster, and speed counted now.

  Still making no sound, the Silverpath warriors sped past the standing barricades like dire-wolves running down an elk. The walls loomed over them, fronted by a steep-sided ditch. Uthek sprang into the ditch and clambered up the far side, where he flattened himself against the palisade wall. The un-barked logs rasped against his bare skin. The sharp scent of resinous pitch filled his nostrils.

  The bottom of the ditch was covered with dried brambles and grasses bound in bundles; Uthek laughed soundlessly. Doubtless a clumsy attempt to warn of approaching enemies. A heavy-footed fool would noisily trample on the bound twigs and alert the sentries above. But the woodcraft of the Silverpath warriors was without equal in the world, and the ploy failed.

  Around their prince the assault team clustered, moving down the walls, taking their places. The bowmen crouched in the ditch or on the outer rim, arrows ready, scanning the parapet above for any sign of a sentry.

  There was a pregnant hush. Uthek raised his hands. When he dropped them the rope nooses would fly upwards.

  He never got the chance to drop his hands.

  “Loose!”

  The word rang in the air, followed instantly by the thrum of bowstrings overhead. The night air was envenomed with the hiss of arrow shafts and the deeper whish of javelins. The whirling of slings followed, and suddenly the air was filled with smooth pebbles hurtling downwards with terrific velocity.

  The ditch at the base of the wall erupted in panicked screams. No light had shown, no enemy had manifested, but death had come and cut them down in the very darkness they thought to be their cloak and ally.

  Again the call came, and another volley hissed in, raking the outer rim of the ditch and slamming the Silverpath archers down to writhe and kick in the dirt.

  “Back!” Uthek screamed. “Back to the trees!” He stared in disbelief at an arrow shaft transfixing his left palm.

  “Light!” a cold voice answered from the ramparts.

  Out of sight inside the walls, arrows had been kindled from small boxes filled with glowing coals, and now fiery shafts blazed down, overshooting the Silverpath men. A grating prayer of thanks to the spirits for this volley’s misflight died on Uthek’s lips as flame rose all along the ditch.

  The arrows had been aimed for the great bundles of twigs and dried grasses in the ditch bottom. Now the source of the resin scent was clear: it came not from the newly hewn logs but from the bundles themselves, liberally smeared with pitch. The arrow marks had been carefully measured and rehearsed for days. Few shafts missed their target even in the silvery light of the half-moon.

  Flames billowed upward in twisting pillars of red light as the night became day. The blazing piles revealed scores of shapes. Many lay dead in the ditch already, mingled with the thrashing wounded, men screaming and tugging at the long shafts piercing them, ripping into their guts, puncturing limb and joint. One corpse lay on its back, an arrow sprouting from one eye socket, a javelin from the other, mouth opened in surprise. Slippery gore was beginning to fill the bottom of the ditch where bloody sling stones rolled, their velocity spent.

  But the Silverpath clansmen were seasoned warriors, and the ones that hadn’t fallen in the initial volleys fought back savagely now. In the light of the bonfires they began to return arrow for arrow. They had smaller marks to aim for—the mercenaries were mostly hidden behind the log parapets—but Silverpath marksmanship was easily the equal of the Kerathi, having been honed over a lifetime of hunting and brutal competition in the field.

  Armored men began to drop from the wall, some soldiers of Kerath and others Ostoran villagers, struck in throat or face. These were immediately replaced, however, and the rain of arrows and javelins from the wall stayed constant. Even the hardy Silverpath warriors could not withstand that kind of barrage for long. There simply was no place to hide, no cover, no relief from the rain of death.

  First one man and then others broke and ran for the trees. Uthek waited a moment longer for one last javelin to hurtle past his head, then threw himself across the burning ditch and ran.

  From the wall a bone whistle sounded two sharp blasts. Uthek barely noticed the sound, but he was confronted by its effect immediately beyond the ditch.

  Long ropes of twisted grass sprang up and went taut, pulled from within the fort’s walls. These were not mere triplines, however: they were fastened to the underside of each of the spiked barricades. The lengthy barriers that had been placed in seemingly random, open patterns now were pulled quickly inward, forming a closed wall that cut off the retreat. Several warriors charged headlong into them, desperate to plow through and evade the deadly rain from the fort’s walls, but a fence of sharpened stakes now blocked them all along the line.

  Ghormonga watched it from the trees and cursed in wild, helpless frustration. Screamed warnings would not be heard over the clamor of slaughter at the walls, and to emerge now and attempt to topple the barricades would be to expose his own fresh men to arrows from the walls.

  Even in the desperation of the moment, Ghormonga knew that the greatest Silverpath advantage now lay with his own half of the warpack, still hidden in the trees and unguessed at by the pawtoon. So he must wait, helpless, and pray that Uthek survived.

  The warriors in the ditch were now trapped between spiked barricades before and flaming death behind. To a man, they chose the barricades, rushing them in desperate haste. But clambering up and over the barricades took time. Spikes, stakes, and slivers of sharpened wood were everywhere, stabbing into hands and feet, hampering attempts to climb.

  And still the arrows came, riddling the bodies of the climbing warriors. Unseen river pebbles, heavy and smooth, hummed in from slings on the walls, smacking into flesh and cracking bones.

  Some of the warriors attempted to push a barricade out of the way, but its log feet seemed immovable, dragged into pre-positioned holes in the ground that locked them in place. In the wild, flickering light and incessant raking arrows, men died before they understood what was happening.

  Ghormonga snarled. It was obvious now that the commander of the fort’s defenses meant to make up for his disadvantages by providing as many targets for his archers as they had missiles. Instead of being drawn out into an open battle or a brutal siege, his plan depended on a sudden crippling slaughter in the trenches.

  And slaughter it was. Near fifty corpses now smoldered in the ditch; more lay in their blood along the ditch’s outer edge, including most of Uthek’s archers. Still more were falling in their panicked flight to the trees, hemmed in by barricades and pierced from behind by skilled archers. Some had now penetrated the barrier and were reaching the trees, but they were a bare fraction of those that had gone out into the night.

  The leaping fires reflected off the backs of the fallen men of the warpack, and silhouetted those still upright. Dead and dying were draped over the barricade logs. Survivors slithered through gaps or climbed over the cushioning bodies of their dead fellows. An unlucky few still crouched desperately at the base of the wall, scorched by the fires just below them, unable to move without drawing arrows from t
he walls. Already the skirmishers were finding these and throwing their javelins straight down, punching through skulls and shoulders.

  Ghormonga bit his lip till the blood came as he watched Uthek’s survivors stagger toward the trees. He scanned each form outlined by the distant fires, looking for the profile of the prince. Finally, seeing one of the last approaching figures still holding a large axe with feathers hanging tattered from its handle, the old war chief breathed a sigh of relief.

  Relief soon gave way to anger, however. He waited for Uthek to stumble into the treeline, then sauntered over.

  The prince stood leaning against a tree, breathing hoarsely. He gave a great, racking cough. “Phagh! That smoke!”

  Ghormonga could see, in the moonlight filtering through the leaves above, that the prince carried the broken shaft of an arrow in one hand. But other than that and a few minor burns, the young warrior looked unscathed.

  All around them the survivors collapsed to the ground, chests heaving, many gritting their teeth as Ghormonga’s men helped to pull out arrows and bind wounds. Ghormonga made a quick count, jaw muscles clenching in rising fury. The scent of charred flesh was carried on the breeze, and a ragged cheer came from the distant wall.

  Uthek tore out the broken shaft with a grunt; the effort left him panting and moaning in pain. Fortunately the missile was only a fire-hardened point with no bronze head. Otherwise his hand would have been crippled.

  The young prince raged and swore, eyes wild. “The dogs! The treacherous dogs! They waited for us, knew we were coming!” He coughed again. “They shall pay for this, I swear it! Ai! My brave wolves!”

  Ghormonga studied him dispassionately, keeping tight rein on his own fury. “I warned you of it, prince. The fort was too quiet.”

  “Is this how you counseled my father?” the prince snarled. “Pointing too late at the obvious? We will yet prevail. Our numbers are still more than double theirs!”

  “We cannot approach the walls now. They are ready for us.”

  “We can wait until the fires burn out.”

  Ghormonga shook his head. “You have much to learn, young Uthek. This commander you face, he is a canny one. Do you think that he who anticipated our scaling his walls will have neglected to anticipate our next move as well?”

  “One concerted rush will overwhelm whatever he has in place,” snarled Uthek, holding a wad of leaves against his bleeding palm. “As soon as I staunch this blood I will plan how it is to be done. They haven’t the numbers to man all points of the walls, and we took toll of them.” He grimaced. “Somewhat.”

  Ghormonga stepped forward and shoved the prince up against the trunk of a tree with sudden viciousness, one arm holding Uthek firm, the other pointing a finger into his shocked face. “You bleating fool! Have you counted our dead? Do you know what you’ve done?”

  All around them, warriors froze, motionless. Even as a venerable war chief, Ghormonga could be slain for thus treating a prince.

  “Have you lost your—” Uthek began, but Ghormonga cut him off with a snarl.

  “Brat of Kultan’s! Keep your puffy little mouth shut and listen!”

  Dumbstruck, face contorting with rage despite the pain of his injury, Uthek began to struggle, but the older man held him fast.

  “Young fool! They measured you well, they did. No doubt you breathed out constant threatenings against them while in captivity, laying bare your brashness and naiveté. They knew you’d rush blindly in, too arrogant and impetuous to restrain yourself. And now, after losing nearly everything to your idiocy, you would oblige them further by returning to the same trap? No! Not with men of my clan!”

  Uthek howled his rage, finally breaking free. He paced for a moment, waving his axe back and forth, speechless with fury but still too wary of Ghormonga’s prowess to throw himself upon the older man. Finally he found his voice, croaking hoarse with bile.

  “You dare! You would dare to insult me? I am a prince of the blood, son of Kultan the Mighty! You dare to lay hands on me, shame me in front of the men! I could cut you down where you stand and my father would grant it clear!”

  There were murmurs of agreement from those loyal to the prince, but Ghormonga’s voice dripped scorn.

  “You prate overmuch of your father’s sanction, my prince. He knows better than you what it takes to lead in battle! What have you done? What have you managed thus far since you left your father’s hall, O illustrious chiefling?”

  Ghormonga held up a hand and began ticking off his fingers one by one.

  “You are the sole survivor of a hunting party you led into ambush, my nephew among those lost. You escaped your captors, so you tell it, and dared to return unashamed and demanding warriors to lead against a defenseless settlement ripe for slaughter. You persuaded your father to let you command so you could avenge your precious honor, and against my advice attacked without scouting only to have your men utterly butchered! Do you know how many you lost out there? Do you?”

  “I do not answer to you, old man!”

  “How many?”

  “I know not! I haven’t made a counting yet!”

  “You took five score and ten with you—I counted, if you did not. Then how many did you lose?”

  The prince stood in sullen silence.

  “I count sixty here, Uthek. Of those, ten are too badly wounded to fight any longer. You lost three score at yonder walls, all told. Sixty warriors—over half your force! And what have you gained? You, prince, have failed.”

  “You’re a dead man, Ghormonga,” Uthek replied through gritted teeth, staring back with murderous anger in his eyes. “I won’t kill you—my father will, when he hears of your insolence and assault on my person.”

  “You make very free with threats, prince,” Ghormonga sneered, “but you assume both of us will survive this raid. Thanks to you, our chances are much worse now.”

  “You forget whom you serve!”

  “I serve Kultan. I serve the clan. I serve the memory of my slain nephew. Whom do you serve? Uthek serves Uthek, I think.”

  How much farther each might have pushed the other was left a mystery. The quarrel was cut short by another piercing blast from the bone whistle on the stockade walls.

  The main gate swung open and disgorged an infantry troop. The dying fires gleamed on their bronze armor, as, marching double-time in perfect synchronization and parallel to the walls, they headed to the lakeshore. As soon as they reached the water, they turned and presented themselves face toward the forest, the lake at their backs. They jeered and screamed insults at the warriors in the trees.

  “There!” Uthek cried. “They’re splitting their forces! See!” He pointed at the defiant group of infantry. “There! Sons of the Silverpath! Kill them! Kill the pawtoon!”

  With a bloodthirsty howl, barbarian warriors charged down to the lakeshore, weapons held low and wide. Ghormonga yelled for them to return, but few heard him. Even most of Uthek’s surviving command, despite their weariness, joined in the charge.

  This was battle to their liking, a straight clash against infantry rather than storming walls while taking arrows in the teeth. They were sorely under-armored compared to the mercenaries, but had full confidence in their ferocity and numbers to bring down the pitifully small force arrayed to meet them.

  Sergeant Copper, in command of the decoy force, saw the Silverpath coming and barked a command. The twenty hoplites with him formed into a curved phalanx two men deep along the lakeshore. Long spears were lowered, resting on shields. Eyes glittered behind bronze helmets. Teeth gritted.

  Time seemed to slow.

  Sweat. Cool air from the lake. Lapping waves. Harsh breathing.

  Running feet thundered closer. Howls burst from throats—demons, wolves, damned souls raving and gibbering in fierce exultation. Flint axes, spears tipped with obsidian or stolen bronze. Painted faces surged forward, writhing with hatred and joy.

  “So eager to die,” the sergeant murmured.

  The savage wave crashed
against the thin wall of bronze.

  CHAPTER 30: DEEPEST REACHES

  In the light of early morning, an army prepared to march.

  It wasn’t truly an army; half of Damicos’ infantry company joined with forty of the queen’s beast-riding guardians. But in the cool mountain air it made for a remarkable martial spectacle. The dawn gleamed on the bronze Kerathi armor, while Leisha’s troops, kitted with full spear and bow war-gear, wrestled with their restive mounts.

  The beasts were varied and fearsome, and the presence of so many different species in such close proximity was problematic. From his place in the column, Cormoran noticed that some of the creatures didn’t obey their riders well, and he saw more than one take a clawed swipe at another, instigating sudden snarling matches that their riders ended only with difficulty.

  Part of the reason for this muster, unspoken by the officers of both sides, was an opportunity for a display of strength to new, uncertain allies. The Kerathi had the armor and discipline, the queen’s troops enjoyed barbaric splendor and control of formidable monsters. Both sides preened as only warriors could, while pretending not to notice the other.

  Soldiers in both contingents, Cormoran included, measured their potential opponents with surreptitious interest. Their leaders might have wrought an uneasy peace, but only the gods knew how it would all end, and sudden hostilities were yet a possibility. He shifted the sword in its scabbard at his side, and stamped his feet against the cold.

  Corm’s infantry troop had gathered just behind the captain and his retinue, and now he overheard Jamson complaining to Damicos.

  “What guarantee have we that this will not prove to be a giant ruse? You heard the boy yesterday saying she’s buried people in the forest before. I tell you, we should have the full complement of troops with us.”

  Damicos shook his head and continued adjusting his stirrups. “With all respect, Jamson, leave military considerations to me. That’s what you hired me for.”

  “Yes! I hired you! And I demand to know why we split our forces in this way. By Mishtan’s golden beard! It makes me uneasy.”