That should keep Harnin’s anger in check though I wonder who the real traitors here are. Jarrik returned the salute and headed back to his mount. He’d seen enough senseless slaughter for one night.
TWENTY
Night Raid
Ironfoot took point. Used to spending years at a time underground, secluded from sunlight, Dwarven eyesight went nearly unmatched by any other race in the dark. Bahr didn’t particularly trust the Dwarves but knew enough to let the best asset lead the way. The Dwarves wordlessly spread out in a loose wedge and entered the forest with the grace and stealth of jungle predators. He hadn’t seen such precision in a very long time. Bahr and Boen stalked the middle of the formation. Rekka and the sell swords brought up the rear. The woman from Teng would be more than a match for any dark Dwarf seeking to turn the ambush and having Dorl and Nothol with her only made the odds near impossible.
Fighting down a yawn, the Sea Wolf scanned the forest as they marched. The night was so dark it was a useless endeavor but it made him more comfortable. He’d never admit it but he couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him. The Dwarves had painted a single stripe down the backs of their armor. Faintly luminescent, the paint was visible only by Bahr and the others. He was thankful for the effort, otherwise they might get lost in the dark. The silver light was so soft he had to squint to find it most of the time. Bahr silently wondered if the others were having the same difficulties.
Ironfoot halted suddenly and dropped to a knee. The rest of the Dwarves did the same. Boen sidled behind the nearest tree. Still trying to see, Bahr failed to realize he was the only one exposed. A Dwarf on the right flank rose and crept forward. There was the sound of a brief scuffle. A twig breaking. Ironfoot doubled back to Bahr moments later.
“We’re at the outer picket line. Grey Beard just took out the sentry but we must be cautious from here,” he whispered in Bahr’s ear.
Understanding, Bahr replied in kind. “How much further to the cannons?”
“Not far. Maybe five hundred meters. Once we get inside their lines we go to ground and wait for the diversion. We move now.”
The Dwarf stalked off again, his intent doubled. Ironfoot had no problems with leaving the Men behind if they couldn’t keep up. Bahr felt his age catching up to him as he watched the Dwarves move as one. The wedge collapsed into two files. A pair of Dwarves broke off, presumably to eliminate the nearest sentries. Knees aching and back tight from the cold, Bahr trudged forward, desperate to keep the stripes of paint in view.
Soon enough they found a small ravine, more of a ditch, and burrowed in. Crossbows were assembled and loaded as the strike team waited. Cold winds entered the ditch and howled through with ruthless fury. Boen eased his head over the lip and took his first look at the enemy camp. He’d expected to find a disorganized rabble but found anything but. Tents were arranged in orderly rows. Fires interspersed the plain, large enough for a score of Dwarves. Smiths worked deep into the night fixing armor and weapons. Very few enemy soldiers could be seen walking about. Most had bedded down for the night, leaving a skeleton force of guards to watch the perimeter.
Sliding back down he smiled to Bahr. “This should be easy.”
Bahr offered his most skeptical look. “How do you figure?” We’re outnumbered and don’t understand how these Dwarves fight. This could be a slaughter.
“The cannons are in the rear of the camp and emplaced in bunkers. I guess to keep the enemy from hitting them. The main army is fast asleep. They won’t be expecting a run for their most important weapons. We’ll be able to destroy them with ease.”
But how about getting back out again? “They’re unguarded?”
“No. The enemy keeps their cannons under heavy guard,” Ironfoot provided. “It will be a fight to gain control of the weapons.”
“Lovely. How many Dwarves does it take to operate one cannon?”
Ironfoot cocked his head in thought. “Seven. There is much to do in order to get the weapon in firing configuration. Why?”
“Would we be able to gain control of one and use it to destroy the others?” Bahr asked.
Even Boen’s eyes widened. They hadn’t considered commandeering one of the cannons. Each Dwarf brought a satchel charge of explosives, enough to destroy one of the great weapons. Thord called them gunpowder, though the idea remained foreign to Bahr and his Men. They were promised an explosion bigger than any fire either had seen. Bahr remained dubious and tried to put the conversation out of his mind as the time slowly dwindled.
“We might but the cost would be much too high,” Ironfoot replied. “Cannons take a well-trained crew several minutes to get ready to fire and my soldiers aren’t trained properly. We are infantry, not artillery.”
“Do we have enough to destroy all of the cannons?”
“Yes.”
Ironfoot’s answer was definite enough to prevent any further questioning. Awkward silence settled over the mixed unit, each lost in their thoughts. The night grew colder, an ominous sign, Bahr thought. As much as he didn’t like to admit it, he was forced to realize he wasn’t a soldier. This sort of life wasn’t for him. His lament abruptly ended when the first cannon ball struck the front line.
A hellish ball of flame blasted high into the sky, spitting fire in every direction. The whistle of shrapnel slicing through the air inspired fear in Bahr. The second round exploded before he had the chance to say anything. Then another. The barrage continued with fury. Dwarves screamed. Others shouted and ran for water buckets. Still more burst from their tents and rushed to their defensive positions in the trenches. The entire sky seemed to burn. Reverberations trembled through the earth. Bahr had never felt so small.
“We move!” Ironfoot crawled out of the ditch and sprinted towards the nearest cannon.
Dwarves broke off in teams of two and three, each heading for a different weapon. Boen was the first to make contact. A half squad of dark Dwarves stumbled from their tent, still half asleep and slightly drunk. The Gaimosian fell upon them like death’s herald. His axe bit deep. A head was lopped off. An arm fell, hacked at the shoulder. He struck the third Dwarf in the chest, burying the axe head in a spray of blood and crunching bone.
Bahr fell upon the others as Boen tried to dislodge his axe from the dead Dwarf. Parrying a wild swing, Bahr deflected the blade, pushing it up and away, opening the Dwarf’s midsection for a killing riposte. Hot blood splashed his torso but the next Dwarf attacked before Bahr could worry about it. He ducked just in time, narrowly missing the blow meant to cleave him from next to groin. Off balance, the Dwarf was unable to recover before Bahr took his head from behind.
Breathing heavily, Bahr looked over to see Boen crushing a thick Dwarf skull between his hands. A second Dwarf crept up from behind, his small dagger cruel-looking in the light of the flames. Bahr flung his sword. The great weapon whistled end over end and took the Dwarf in the neck. Blood fountained as the body collapsed. The smell of death clung to the air in a thick miasma, sickening Bahr. He dashed over and yanked his sword from the corpse, whirling to find another opponent. Boen’s victim died with an agonizing scream as his head caved in. And then they were alone.
“You all right?” Bahr asked.
With so much blood covering them it was near impossible to tell whose it was. Boen looked himself over. “Not a scratch. You?”
“Good enough. Come on, Ironfoot is already attacking the first cannon.”
The defenders were caught unaware and unprepared. Cannon crews raced to their guns the moment the first incoming round exploded. So focused on getting their weapons into firing order, they never thought that they were the actual targets. Each cannoneer was as valuable as the actual cannons. Ironfoot’s Dwarves fell on them immediately. Dozens of Dwarves died in the initial moments. The first cannon was secure before Bahr reached it.
He stepped over a pair of bodies and drew even with Ironfoot. The Dwarf busied setting the satchel charge in the cannon barrel. A second Dwarf finished filling the barrel
with large packets of gunpowder. Bahr didn’t understand much of what he saw but recognized enough to know they had put far too much explosive charge in the barrel. He stepped back and took in the weapon. The barrel was roughly twice as long as a Man is tall and bigger around than the thickest tree. A strange metal bracket gripped the rear of the cannon, much like a fulcrum. The entire piece was dug in and built on a huge wooden platform that was anchored to the ground. Presumably to keep it from rocking back out of position from the release of so much kinetic force. He tried to imagine what it was like being next to the cannon when it was fired, gauging the size of the explosion on the other end. The weapon was a marvel, made of cast iron and painted flat black. It also inspired great fear for the future. Surely it can’t be long before the other races learn how to create such powerful weapons. Then where will we be?
Ironfoot lit the long fuse hanging from the end of the satchel charge and grabbed Bahr by his collar. “Run!”
Another salvo of incoming rounds hit the dark Dwarf lines. Body parts flew through the air. Bahr ran for his life, unsure of what was next. He made it only twenty meters before Ironfoot tripped him and rolled over on top to keep him from getting up. The cannon exploded, peeled open like a banana. Flames washed overhead in a great sheet. Bahr held his breath as the oxygen fed the flames. Residue fell down around them. Grinning, Ironfoot rolled off of Bahr and looked back to admire his handiwork.
The cannon was completely destroyed. Most of the crew was dead. Two more exploded, reduced to useless bits of molten metal. By now the enemy became keenly aware of the subterfuge. Infantry units were turned from the front lines to protect what remained of the cannons. Time was running out and there were still seven more to sabotage.
“Hurry. We must get to the next gun before they can muster a defense,” Ironfoot commanded and took off again.
Bahr rolled his eyes and struggled to his feet. I’d rather face an infantry squad than continue on like this. He looked over and was surprised to see Boen trying to catch his breath. A lifetime of combat hadn’t prepared him for the sheer destruction of this night. Bahr slapped him on the shoulder on the way past, shaking him from his daze. Decidedly out of place in this new style of warfare, the pair hobbled off after the Dwarves.
Another explosion rocked the ground. A piece of barrel struck the ground between the Men, drawing a curse from Boen. He failed to see the honor in fighting this way. Men deserved to die facing their opponent, not cowering in the hopes of being missed by super heated bits of metal. He’d killed more than a hundred Men in his long life but none of them in any way comparable. This, this was a nightmare.
One of Ironfoot’s Dwarves went down with a pair of crossbow bolts in his back. Dark Dwarves sprung up from behind a sandbag wall, falling upon the other Dwarf with Ironfoot. Bahr and Boen ran faster before Ironfoot got killed. They hacked and slashed at the dark Dwarves. Unarmored and focused solely on their kin, the dark Dwarves were practically defenseless. The battle ended mercifully quick. Ironfoot paused to look at his fallen comrades before grabbing powder charges for the barrel.
“Grab as many as you can and stuff them down the barrel,” he shouted.
Bahr followed suit, motioning Boen to keep watch. The last thing they needed was to get caught exposed again. Each powder bag weighed close to fifty pounds. His muscles screamed from the excess strain. Bahr considered himself a strong man but tonight’s activities left him with sudden doubts. He hurt in places he’d forgotten having and there was still much work left to be done. Another pair of explosions dominated the night.
Ironfoot waited for him to place the last charge before lighting his fuse and shoving the satchel charge down the barrel. He didn’t need to order them to run this time. Nor did he need to worry about tackling them to the ground in time. All three were safe on the ground by the time the cannon exploded. He looked up from the cloud of acrid haze and, seeing the weapon in the same state as the first, nodded once.
“That’s it. We need to leave. Exfil back to the ditch,” he ordered.
“What about the others?” Bahr asked as he rose again.
Ironfoot didn’t wait. “They all know their jobs. Once we rendezvous at the ditch we head back into the forests.”
If any others survive. He thought of the two Dwarves that had died taking this cannon and prepared for several more casualties. Hopefully Rekka and the sell swords escaped with only minor wounds, if any. Bahr followed Ironfoot. Using the confusion for cover, the trio nearly made it to the relative security of the ditch when a patrol stumbled upon them and immediately opened fire.
Dark crossbow bolts whizzed through the night. Ironfoot grunted and shouted out. An arrow caught him high in the right shoulder. Boen roared as only a Gaimosian could and charged into the mass of dark Dwarves. Bodies flew. His sword cleaved helms and plunged deep into bodies as he single handedly reduced the enemy squad to corpses and walking wounded. Small axes bounced off his armor, succeeding only in infuriating him. It was a testament to their honor that not a one tried to flee.
Bahr wanted to help but knew he’d only get in the way. Boen acted like a madman, hacking and killing with reckless abandon. It was one of the few times Bahr felt honest fear. The Gaimosian was out of control and worse, appeared to be enjoying it. Finally, when the bodies had all fallen and Boen stood alone in the center of the crude circle, Bahr edged closer.
“Come on,” he hissed. “More will be coming.”
Blood streaking his face, Boen casually looked down on his handiwork and gave a soft nod. Nothing needed to be said.
TWENTY-ONE
Warfare Undreamt
Acrid smoke dug deep into Dorl’s lungs no matter how hard he tried to hold his breath. The fury of the cannonade shook him to the core. He’d never dreamed such hatred and power existed and now that he had, wished it didn’t. The ground trembled and broke where the rounds struck. Black smoke announced plumes of white-hot flames. Super heated bits of metal sliced across the field, shredding everything it came in contact with. Dorl was convinced the underworld had opened.
He glanced to his right and left, taking small satisfaction in seeing Nothol and Rekka flinching with each new sound. Not even her steel spine was strong enough to prevent her from reacting like him. Only the Dwarves seem undisturbed. They patiently waited for the chaos to grip the enemy camp with almost bored looks. These were soldiers who’d seen too much of war already. None of the usual horrors held much promise save release.
“We go,” the closest Dwarf ordered and dashed towards the nearest cannon emplacement.
The others followed closely. Deadly crossbows were fired at enemy Dwarves that got too close and then they were in the bunker fighting hand to hand. Dorl and Nothol secured the perimeter, knowing they wouldn’t do much good down in the cramped confines of the gun pit. Rekka slid away into the night. Dorl scowled, guessing what she meant to do. He almost felt sorry for the dark Dwarves on the next cannon.
“Come on, set the charges!” the Dwarf in command hissed as soon as the cannon was secure.
This is ridiculous. I’m not made for this type of fighting. These damned Dwarves are going to be the death of me. Dorl bolted up with a grimace and jumped into the pit. Bodies littered the ground. All but one was enemy. The Dwarves showed no sign of losing one of their own. Instead they went about their task of destroying the cannon with grim precision. Despite their naturally gruff demeanor, Dorl found himself deeply impressed with their attention to detail. The Dwarves moved as efficiently as any race he’d ever encountered. Charges were placed in the cannon tube and the Dwarves hastily ran clear.
The explosion threw Dorl meters across the field. He hit hard enough his breath went out in a great whoof. Rocks and dirt slashed his face and hands. Something heavy dropped on his chest. His ears rang, deafeningly. Blackness took him for a moment.
Rough hands pulled him to his feet. “Get up or you’re going to get us both killed!”
Letting Nothol take the majority of his weight, Dorl
stumbled towards the next objective. His ribs definitely felt bruised, one or two possibly broken. “You’re not my favorite person right now,” he managed through the pain.
“Who gives a shit? I’m all you got,” Nothol replied tartly.
Another explosion nearly threw them both down. Dorl groaned at the pounding in his head. Nothol pushed them harder. The need to contribute to the mission combined with the suddenly strong survival instinct urged them on. All around the sounds of combat raged. Ironfoot’s Dwarves were giving better than they got back. Bodies continued to pile up. Dorl snuck a glance back towards the first rank of guns. Smoke belched from the wreckage of several. He thought he spotted Boen’s massive form hacking and slashing his way through enemy soldiers before a cloud of smoke obscured the view.
A trio of dark Dwarves emerged suddenly and attacked the sell swords. Nothol shoved Dorl away and hefted his sword. The Dwarves were taken off guard, expecting to find their kin. Instead they got a pair of Men more than willing to kill all three. Nothol wasted no time in lunging in to take the first Dwarf in the chest. His blade made a sickly crunching sound as it plunged through the breastbone and into the lungs. The Dwarf died with an odd gurgling noise.
The survivors fanned out, deciding to ignore the prone Dorl. They circled Nothol, wary and hostile. Nothol shifted slowly, desperately searching for any tell as to which one was going to attack first. He didn’t wait long. The Dwarf on his right ducked in, drawing Nothol’s attention. The second Dwarf attacked quickly. His battle axe swung a great arc. Nothol shifted, barely blocking the axe before it bit into his kidney. He swung his sword in a low circle to fend off the first Dwarf. Beset from both sides, he started to retreat.
The Dwarves recognized his inadequacies and pressed the advantage. Nothol fought with every trick and partially forgotten tactic he’d ever learned and it still wasn’t enough. The Dwarves pressed him all the way back to the first gun pit. Exhausted and covered in sweat, Nothol struggled just to breathe. He knew he’d been beaten. All that was left was how he was going to die. Then Dorl attacked from behind. His sword bit deeply across the back of the first Dwarf’s neck. Blood fountained in a thick spray. Taken off guard, the last Dwarf made the fatal mistake of taking his eyes off of Nothol. He died quickly, a last mercy from a fellow warrior.
A Whisper After Midnight Page 17
