Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  “Now, we need to go and see these locations to see if this is going to work,” Motega said, pointing at two places on a map of the city rolled out before him. “If they aren’t suitable, these places are other options I want us to consider. Captain, can you have someone take Florian and Trypp to do reconnaissance?”

  “Yes, of course. Should we start on the defenses now?” asked the dwarf.

  “Better to wait until after I’ve seen the ground and determine if we have good positions,” said Florian. “No need to move big blocks of stone around more than necessary.”

  “The other thing concerning me right now is that we don’t know how much time we have to get ready,” said Motega. “Can you think, please, Captain? How often do these raids happen?”

  “I gave this some thought earlier,” she said. “It’s not reliable. The gap between raids has been as short as six days and as long as nine, and they’ve been at various times of the day. It’s been six days already since the last raid—”

  “So, it could happen at any moment,” interjected Trypp. “And if we’re not ready, then we’ll have to wait for the next time. Or try something much riskier, as I think we’d run out of time.”

  “I don’t think the forger will countenance risky, Mr. Trypp,” said the captain.

  “Me neither,” said Motega. “So, let’s get going, and we can all keep our fingers crossed they’ve been rationing, and we have enough time to get ready.”

  When Captain Karken had said any time of the day, it had taken a while for Motega to realize she really had meant any time at all.

  There was no night in Unedar Halt. No natural light infiltrated the caverns; there was just the same steady light given off by the plants lining the walls, or the lanterns posted in various places lit by unknown and potentially magical means. The same light no matter how many hours had passed since breakfast.

  Florian had reported back confirming the chosen areas for the ambush, and so, they’d immediately set to work on the preparations. Florian’s view was the small square with bare earth by the food silos would be big enough for them to maneuver when they would engage the magical statue.

  The entranceway to the caves used by the rebels wasn’t ideal, as they’d have a reliable place to defend if they were organized, but there were sufficient places for a few individuals to hide. For that element of the plan, they were just going to have to depend on surprise and the rebels’ naivety.

  Motega, Florian, and Trypp knew each other so well they hardly needed to discuss their roles, but they did so Neenahwi would understand the plan. Trypp already had food and water gathered in a bag when they met, a pillow under his arm; he set out for his assignment as soon as they’d finished talking. Florian went to work with the dwarven team who would help build the barricades, leaving Motega to discuss with his sister what she could do.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m going to walk the route a few times, look for ways out we haven’t considered, so we can head them off. And then I’ll be barricading, too.”

  “Well, I can build barricades. Probably quicker than you can, little brother,” said Neenahwi.

  “Ha-ha. I’d like to see it. You’ve been reading books too long; you’ve gone a bit soft.” He squeezed her upper arm, and she punched him in the chest. “Oof, still good technique though. Ten crowns says I do more.”

  “Deal.” And they spat and shook on it.

  Motega worked the square they’d chosen, Neenahwi joining Florian back at the entrance to the city where they would create the run.

  Dwarven teams of four hauled perfectly cut stone blocks on wheeled buggies to where they stacked them chest high across each of the exits from the square, leaving just one entrance open. It was backbreaking work. Each stone took two to carry it and put it into position, but they needed stone because the Juggernaut would cut through wood like a hot knife through butter.

  Motega worked through the day, taking lunch with the team working alongside him, getting to know the everyday people of this city. In one of the teams was a mother of a Grak, and she was worried about what would happen to him if they couldn’t stop them soon. She was a dwarf, but she was just like any other mother Motega had met when their son had gone off to war or was on the run from the guard. He’d hardly known his mother, and she was long past being around to care, but if she had been, he expected she wouldn’t be too relaxed about the situations he got into either.

  As dinnertime approached, Motega’s team had finished barricading the square, and so, they walked to see how they could help Florian’s team with their work. After all, the run was much longer than what they had to do.

  Except they passed barricade after barricade. The road twisted to the left, and the streets there were all barricaded. Turned to the right and more barricades still. Barricades, and then Florian and a gaggle of dwarves sitting with their backs to a wall and a mug in each of their hands.

  “Motty! Where have you been?” asked Florian, beer froth on his upper lip.

  Motega stopped and looked at him, eyes narrowing to slits, hands on hips. “We’ve been working. How did you get done so quick?”

  “Your sister. Did she say something about a bet? We fetched the stones on the buggies, and then she stacked them all. Super quick.”

  “She stacked them? How?” Motega asked incredulously.

  Florian wiggled his fingers in the air. “Magic. She’s over there resting.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and Motega saw his sister meditating in a secluded corner. “She told me to tell you she won.”

  “She cheated!” Motega cried indignantly.

  “Well, I’m not going to tell her that. Come and sit down and have a drink.” Motega walked over next to Florian and slid down the wall until he was seated. “Now, we have to wait.”

  And wait they did.

  And there was nothing like waiting to make him notice the things that might have passed him by if he was busy, like the constant light of the city, the lack of shadows.

  They’d been underground many times in the past, a few jobs had required investigating catacombs or strange subterranean mazes to retrieve specific items, but they were universally dark, lit only by the lanterns they brought with them. Nothing like fighting off giant spiders by the light of a couple of shuttered oil lamps to give them night terrors for a few weeks afterward.

  Those adventures underground had thrilled Motega, especially in hindsight. Constant danger required constant vigilance. This particular experience was more a glacial pace.

  Hours passed, and the dwarven teams went home to their families. The ale stopped. After all, they needed to have their wits about them, and Neenahwi still meditated. As best as they could fathom, night arrived, and so, they slept close to the trap they’d built.

  False day followed false night. Gambling debts were settled. Instructions were passed on to new dwarven guards arriving for their shift. Weapons were cared for. And false night followed false day.

  And the constant light was still taking some getting used to.

  Motega woke where he’d been sleeping, a simple camp roll behind one of the walls they had built in the square. All was quiet, but he could sense they were coming. Even with Per remaining above ground, his senses were tuned to imminent trouble.

  He stood and stretched out the kinks in his shoulders and back from the hard, stone floor, the city quiet without the noises of crafting from the workshops. Then there was a sound, a shout from the direction of the entrance to the city where they knew the rebels would come from.

  He gave a snoring Florian a kick with his boot and said, “It’s time.”

  Motega climbed up to the flat roof of the squat stone building next to him and scampered across neighboring rooftops to get a view of the run they’d created as more cries went up and a steady thum, thum, thum reverberated through the streets.

  Noises of wood splintering and stone smashing against stone came to his ears. He squinted to be able to get a better view dow
n the street, his distance vision blurry from the curse he’d received as a child, but he made out the figures of the dwarven guards falling back in line with the plan.

  In front of them was something huge. He couldn’t make out the details of it at this distance, but its feet moved in time to the thum, thum, thum.

  It picked up speed and charged the dwarven guards, sending two flying into the wall opposite. Behind the Juggernaut, because that was what this must be, he saw a dozen dwarves slowly following, keeping their distance. They would reach the square in minutes.

  Motega ran back the way he’d come and climbed down into the mouth of their trap. Florian was there waiting, twin swords drawn and a smile visible beneath the helm he’d obtained from somewhere. Ten guards stood with him, war hammers in hand.

  Motega pulled his war axes from their holsters and saluted his comrades as the remaining dwarven guards from the street rushed into the square and formed a second line. Six left, so another six were likely destined for the infirmary. He heard a whistle and saw his sister standing on the roof of the building opposite, hidden from view of anyone outside the square. She gave a ready signal.

  The Juggernaut was a second behind the dwarves, stopping in the entryway to the square as it surveyed the closed-off route to the grain silos and the troops arrayed before it, Motega positioned in the middle front.

  He could see it clearly now. The Juggernaut was a stone statue of a dwarf come to life. It stood twice as tall as Motega and was the same width again. Carved from one piece of stone, a dwarven warrior in full plate armor, gauntlets and a helm with thin slits for the eyes where two green lights shone. It was a thing of beauty, delicate details etched into the armor, carved chainmail between stone plates flowing like fabric. And though it didn’t wield a weapon, the clenched gauntleted fists were as big as wine casks.

  Motega scanned the Juggernaut, looking for weaknesses and finding none.

  And then it charged.

  Motega sat cross-legged on the stone in the center of the circle, pink skies overhead, the fake-land silent as ever, empty except for the scarred man standing in front of him. His father had come through the grasses as the ravaged wolf, but this time he was unaccompanied. This night there were no more of his tribe’s ancestors.

  “Where are grandfather and the others today?” asked Motega.

  “They hunt,” said his father. “Winter is coming, the Bhiferg pass through the planes, and so, they hunt.”

  The world around Motega shimmered and changed, the grassy circle giving way to a hilltop overlooking green plains under a blue sky, but Motega and his stone seat remained constant. On the planes below him, he could see a herd of Bhiferg, a hundred head or more of the grazing beasts.

  In between him and the herd were human forms. The Bhiferg were large, at least four times larger than the cattle he’d seen in the fields of Edland. Motega had never seen the Bhiferg in person, but he dimly remembered how the preparations for the hunt, and then the inevitable work afterward, would consume the attention of the tribe for weeks.

  “This is the annual hunt of the Bhiferg,” said his father. “This herd travels through our lands once a year, as they have done for centuries, moving from east to west in autumn, and then west to east in the spring. They travel thousands of miles, always moving to new grass. We are blessed for them to come before winter. The hide makes our armor, and it makes our houses, and the meat we kill today is dried and salted and feeds us when there is little to hunt, and nothing grows from the fields.

  “But we must be careful to think of the future, even though we hunt this herd, we are stewards of their wellbeing. So, we only hunt before winter. In spring we leave them be, for if we hunt too much, then there will be nothing left for next year or for other tribes that live in this world. We are also selective, for there is but one bull for this whole herd and if we kill it, then the herd will die out. Come, let us move closer to look at them. Your eyes are not damaged here, but it is still difficult to clearly see.”

  Motega stood and followed his father down the hill and through the knee-high grasses to where a group of his people stood. One figure was unmistakably his grandfather, though he was a young man and did not look at their approach. Motega called, “Ho,” in greeting, but no one turned.

  “They cannot see you, Motega. This is but a remembrance of what happened in days gone by. My memory of when I was a child. See there…” Motega’s father raised a scarred hand to point at a boy of teenage years looking intently at his grandfather as he talked to the hunting party. “That is me.” And Motega could see the resemblance immediately, the shrewd eyes and leaner build than many of his people, but with strength in the wiry muscles.

  Motega looked around at the shadows of his tribe. He could see the anticipation and excitement on their faces, he could see the muscles flexing ready for the hunt.

  So that’s where he got it from.

  He turned his attention back to the herd. Now that he was closer, he could see them more clearly, and he’d been wrong in his initial impressions. They were much more significant than he’d initially thought. Each cow stood twice as high as one of the hunters, and they were twice as long as they were high from snout to tail. They were powerfully built; massive legs, thick necks, and covered in black fur of some kind. He scanned the herd, and his eyes rested on an even bigger creature, half the size again of the cows with wicked-looking horns as long as any spear held by the hunters, covered with shiny chitinous plates.

  “That is the bull,” his father said, seeing where Motega was looking. “The bull is the strongest and is fiercely protective of the herd. He will attack the hunters if they attack his family.”

  “So how do you get to hunt if the bull attacks, but you can’t kill it?” asked Motega.

  His father smiled. “We dance! Look, they are heading out to hunt. See how your grandfather is moving directly toward the bull. He is the dancer. The others will move into position, but not strike until he has the bull’s attention. Observe and learn, Motega.”

  His grandfather walked purposefully across the grasslands, circling the herd to come at the bull face on. He was wearing light leather armor, itself made of Bhiferg hide, and he held a wooden club in each hand, each no longer than bicep to hand.

  Stopping fifty strides from the bull and assuming a ready position on the balls of his feet, his grandfather struck the clubs together in rapid succession, causing all of the herd, including the bull, to stop grazing and look at him. From a pocket at his belt, he drew a fist-sized rock and threw it at the bull’s head, striking it above the eye.

  It blasted a note of anger and charged.

  His grandfather did not move as the beast lowered its head, horns catching the light as it quickly closed the gap. Motega held his breath, certain this was how his grandfather had died; this was the lesson he was supposed to learn.

  The beast was an arm’s length away when his grandfather leaped to one side, an arm flinging out to strike the bull around the snout before he tucked into a roll and came to his feet. The bull charged past, skidding to a halt, turning to go around at its attacker once more.

  This time, it moved forward more deliberately and inexorably, head swaying causing the sharp horns to weave in the air much like Florian would achieve with his blades. His grandfather circled the bull, and then he let out a howl and charged the beast. Darting one way, and then another, he stepped inside the horns and struck the creature twice about the face.

  Its mouth opened to bite at him, and Motega saw large front fangs appear, as long as knives that must surely retract for grazing. His grandfather dodged the open maw, planting one hand on the base of a horn and using it to flip over and above the beast. Motega noted the clubs had leather ties about their handles enabling the dancer to release the weapons and use his hands for evasion.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see the others in the hunting party had now closed in on a handful of cows and were attempting to take them down with spears. The rest of the her
d ran away, kicking up high clouds of dirt and dust, but three were encircled.

  The bull had turned to where his grandfather had vaulted, but he was already gone, running around the back of the beast, striking at areas of the flank not protected by the plate-like armor on the way. The clubs beating on the side of the creature sounded like drums, and they were joined by bellows of frustration from the beast.

  It tried to turn faster, but his grandfather had already grabbed the bull’s tail and used it to haul himself up onto its back. Though it twisted and turned, he ran along its spine, as sure-footed as on land, until he reached the massive neck. He clamped his thick, strong thighs around the neck, dug his heels in under the plates protecting the shoulder, and proceeded to beat the bull rapidly around the back of the head. Motega could tell he was causing no lasting damage to the beast, but it was sure going to have a headache when this was done. It tried to rear up and buck him off, but it was no wild horse. Its weight that made it so formidable worked against tossing its new passenger.

  One cow went down, and then another, moaning, deep mournful noises as the life fled them from the many spear wounds. The bull turned once more, and Motega could swear it was looking at its sisters and daughters dying.

  It bellowed again, a voice of farewell, and then it ran after the herd making for the horizon, his grandfather still beating it on the head and shoulders as its hooves thundered across the plains. His grandfather grew smaller as they moved further away, but he could still make him out as he stood on its back, arms raised and loosing a triumphant howl of his own before somersaulting off the beast.

  Motega realized his father was looking at him, and so, switched his attention. His father rested a palm against his cheek and said, “Remember, Motega, the dance is in you.”