by Peter Plasse
Chapter 29
A low rumble of thunder growled its way across the skyline while storm clouds grew like gigantic mushrooms in the western sky. The waves of the Western Sea began to build, slowly at first, then faster and faster until they reached monstrous heights, driven by the offshore winds. And the rain, which started out as a mild-tempered mist-drizzle, turned itself into fat drops that seemed almost reluctant to break apart on landing, then changed again into sheet upon sheet of driving torrents that seemed to want to drown the very land itself.
The lookout, watching from his hiding place in the beach scrub, hardly dared to blink as he awaited the signal. It had to be today. It was the perfect day, and everyone, back in the cavern where the Mexyl Wyn still lay hidden, knew it. There it was! A solitary flaming arrow, shot from the shore to the north, traversed the sky in a magnificent arc before disappearing into the enraged surf. “In the name of the Old One,” he quietly offered to the winds as he walked slowly towards the secret cave entrance, glancing all about to be sure there were no enemy eyes upon him.
To the north, crouched together in the weather-madness, the Ravenwild troops awaited the order to attack. Hidden within the insanity of the maelstrom it finally came, screamed first by Thargen to the line-commanders, who screamed it to the lieutenants, who screamed it to the sergeants, who screamed it to the men, who screamed it to each other as they made their wild charge. The Trolls, sleeping soundly in their tents while weathering the storm, never heard them coming over the riotous noise of the wind and thunder and were caught totally unaware as the Human, Elf, and Dwarf soldiers slashed their way through canvas and hide to get at the enemy within. Troll after Troll died while searching for a weapon, any weapon, to wield against their assailants. Some did manage to arm themselves, chasing after their attackers who fled as quickly as they had come, but most of these were cut down as soon as they made it out into the open by the bowmen, Gnomes all, who had been placed in strategic locations along the escape routes. Each fired several shots, most of which struck true, then quickly fell back to new positions.
The attack and retreat had been choreographed to perfection, and the result was overwhelming losses on the Troll side, while the casualties on the Ravenwild side were held to a bare minimum.
When the Trolls finally did manage to organize an actual counterattack, the Ravenwild forces had already retreated to the north, taking the Emperor’s Road. They ran at a dead sprint, knowing that if they did not make it to Pyrrt, where most of their attack force lay in wait, the pursuing Trolls, howling with rage, would cut them down like so many blades of grass. Even while they tailed them, some of the Troll commanders smelled a trap and tried to call a halt to the stampeding forces, but there was no controlling them. They might as well have tried to control the tide itself as control those who had lost hundreds of their comrades in this cowardly assault. They had them on the run, and as everyone knew, no Human, Elf, or Dwarf could outrun a Troll in the long run. So run they did for the rest of the morning, and as soon as they made it to the outskirts of Pyrrt, great shouts went up from the Troll forces. There they were! Right in front of them!
What had started out as wild cheering now settled down into organized battle chants as they advanced on the enemy soldiers now dead ahead.
The Ravenwild troops looked like they were forming ranks right in the middle of the road. They had them now. This was going to be too easy, and seeing how small the attacking force had been, along with the sight of them actually reorganizing right out in the open, caused the Trolls to lose all sense of order and control, and they now charged wildly forward.
Had they kept their heads many fewer would have been lost to them, for they would have noticed the subtle but unmistakable signs of the troops that were hiding out on both sides of the road.
Just when the disorganized, counterattacking Trolls were close enough to the Ravenwild troops to begin hand-to-hand combat, the hidden bowmen suddenly rose up on either side of the Emperor’s Highway, having caught them in a classic crossfire.
Thousands of arrows were loosed as one.
The Trolls were astonished, the sound of their battle-chants fading to silence, and the only sound that could be heard for the next few moments was the wail of the arrows as they streaked without mercy towards their hapless foe.
Falling suddenly in huge numbers, and lacking direction from their officers, the Trolls never noticed the forces that now came up from the rear in a flanking maneuver. The point was not so much to defeat them, for most of the Ravenwild contingent was no match one-on-one with a Troll wielding a sword or a mace, it was merely to block them from retreating so that the bowmen could pick them off one at a time.
The entire surface of the roadway was soon red with blood, almost all of it Troll blood. They began to panic and spent as much time looking about at the bloodbath around them as they did fighting, not noticing that every five seconds, on shouts from their commanders, the Ravenwild forces would all crouch low to the ground to allow the bowmasters a clear shot at the enemy.
In a matter of minutes the Troll forces numbered far less than half that of the Ravenwild troops, and knowing that total annihilation was imminent, they began to retreat, bowling their way past the Humans, Elves, and Dwarves, who made no attempt to stop them. It was the first organized movement of the Trolls, and rather than suffer devastating losses themselves, the Ravenwild soldiers stood aside and let them stream by.
It was a peculiar sight; all of these massive, armed Trolls racing past the Ravenwild troops as the archers continued to decimate them.
Even this part of the battle had been scripted, so while the Trolls concentrated on running madly back in the direction from which they had come, the soldiers in the road who had been used as bait retrieved the wounded, getting those who could walk to their feet, and those who could not onto the litters that had been hidden alongside the roadway. These were the first to depart, ahead of the now retreating Ravenwild column who sprinted along in precise rows, protected in the rear by the foot soldiers and to either side by more archers. Their destination: Soledad, where a Gnome named Andar Gall had put himself in charge of the Gnome insurrection in the region.
Up the Emperor’s Highway they bolted. All knew that it would not be long before the Troll leadership organized the fractured Troll forces and launched an offensive of their own, and it would get serious. They had managed to surprise them once, and they had won the first battle more convincingly than any of them had dared to hope, but there would be no more surprising them. Now they would have to outwit them.
The Mexyl Wyn was halfway to the launch point as the sun dipped below the horizon of the Western Sea, casting brilliant, crazy colors all across the sky in the wake of the storm that had passed. Nobody working on the project noticed. All were focused on the tasks at hand. The two crew chiefs, one located on either side of the ship, issued quiet orders to the laborers to remove the sternmost log and move it to the bow, then knelt to aid in the chore. All grunted in unison as they freed it up and started to roll it forward. Others made sure that the leaning posts, which kept the ship from listing to either side, were set fast. Others released and retied the stout ropes that were tied off to the large trees that lined the valley and which were the backup in case the leaning posts gave out. Now that the storm had passed, and the winds had died down, they had much less difficulty keeping her upright. Saviar Murlis and Titan Mobst had considered depending on the leaning posts alone, knowing that they would be able to move her along more quickly without having to continually fasten and unfasten the ropes as they rolled her along, but decided against it almost as soon as the idea came up.
High above them in the trees, lookouts scanned for any sign that they had been spotted.
On the forest floor, a steady stream of updates was relayed from the scouts that were following the progress of the battle to the north. To this point, they remained unseen. It looked like the diversion was working. One more day and she would be in the water, forever out o
f reach of their landlubber enemies, the Trolls.
One of the crew chiefs approached Titan and Saviar, who stood off to the side studying the maps. “Begging your pardon, Sirs,” he said softly, “but the lads were wondering if we can keep going throughout the night. We will have plenty of moon, and we’ve been at it long enough that they are confident we can make the launch point by daybreak.”
“Well,” said Titan Mobst, “as a matter of fact, we were just discussing that same thing. The plan we had will remain in place. We figure there is a much greater chance of being seen from the town, where there are sure to be guards standing watch in high places. They will be at full battle-alert. No doubt about that. And with the spring moons now out we would be in plain sight of them. We will lay her up tonight and do the second leg tomorrow. Fifty more feet should do it. Stop when the trees stop. Twenty feet shy, or thereabouts, will be fine. Thirty would be better.”
“Very good, Sir.”
He left to relay the orders.
General Vladimir Dumfe, ranking officer of the entire Troll northern campaign, with a walk-in-and-speak-to-the-Emperor-himself command of power and resource, found himself on an unlikely assignment. When he had gotten in front of his Majesty the very next day, he conferred with him regarding the tip from Sliphen at the Happy Troll. The General told him he wanted to send a patrol of the Emperor’s personal best to the Vargus Foothills to search for a traitor, and was shocked that his Emperor had decided to dispatch him to the area as well, to kill or capture the treasonous Troll. The Emperor must have said, “Better dead than alive,” half a dozen times. So here he found himself in the Ravenwild eastern midlands, north of Salem, where he and his patrol were chasing their quarry with all of the diligence of a good bloodhound sniffing out a trail, and they were closing in. They had first picked up the tracks in the woods, south of the Slovan village of Poth, nothing more than a tumbledown gathering of a few dilapidated houses occupied by Troll elders, women, and children. There were no able-bodied males about. All of these were involved in the war effort. Those that hung on at home were starving. This was, of course, ignored by General Dumfe and his squad. The general went so far as to strike one of them down when she was unable to supply him with a bottle of spirits with which to soothe his foul mood at having been deployed on this operation, the strategic importance of which he viewed as clearly not worthy of the direct attention of the general of the northern campaign. “This mission,” he had mumbled to himself more than once, “isn’t even in the north.” Had he known that it would be he who was heading up this pitifully insignificant seek and detain effort, he never would have gone to the Emperor in the first place. So much for the political side of life.
From Poth the trail headed south, passing to the east of Pervv and into the Vargus Foothills, where it emerged on the western aspect, crossing over the Slova River at the Ongs shallows, not more than a few miles from where the general had murdered his entire company. It made him more than a little nervous to be this close to the exact spot, but what could he do? It wasn’t like he had left evidence. Still, he was uneasy, and the Troll regulars sensed it. He was edgy.
“What is it?” he snapped to one of the trackers that had come to his tent with one of many end-of-the-day reports.
The tracker stood in front of him, obviously nervous, shifting his weight almost imperceptibly from one foot to the other. He had not gotten used to reporting directly to a general, a task made no less easy by the obvious mood swings suffered by this one. “Just the daily report, General,” he answered, thinking, “Nothing to
want my head on a pike over.”
“Well, get on with it, then.”
“Very good, Sir. The tracks picked up on this side of the river, as we knew they would. We followed them due north, hugging the river, and came across a most interesting finding. We found a farmhouse with several outbuildings that we have never known of, although all of us have been here before. Our familiarity with the region is, as you know, the principal reason each of us was selected for this maneuver.”
“And how do you explain the fact that you have not known of this before now?”
“Well,” said the tracker, “we believe it is the place we have always looked for, but could never find. The one spelled. Protected by magic. We believe it is the witch’s place.”
“Have we searched it yet?”
“No General, we have not. The scouts came upon it as the sun was setting and only went so far as to determine that there did not appear to be anybody out and about. They felt it would be best if the initial search was done with you present, the presumption being that you would want to give a report to the Emperor on your findings with no possibility that the site had been contaminated.” He conveniently left out the fact that every Troll in the company was frightened to death at the thought of setting foot on the property, knowing that this was a place of powerful magic.
“I see. And how long will it take us to get there in the morning?”
“Leaving at first light, we will be there well before sundown tomorrow.”
“Very well. Then that is what we will do. Now, have some food brought to me. I shall dine and retire early.”
The tracker ducked out of the tent. He was a strange one, this general. None of the Trolls seemed to know too much about him. Something about a recent promotion, campaigns to the North with an excellent track record, liked his spirits probably a little too much - not much else. However, this was an assignment on the direct order of the Emperor himself, hence it must have the highest operational value. He was not about to let a general, who had a habit of overindulging in spirits, blow it for his Emperor. He would hack off his right arm first. It would never happen. He was going to keep an eye on this one, that’s for sure.
“Hold there!” screamed Brutus in his mind. “Hold, I say!”
He walked stiffly towards the huge pack of Wolves that now completely encircled their little band.
The air was bristling with tension as they inched closer and closer. There was an occasional growl, but it was mostly silent as the Wolves studied the odd group. Jacqueline sat with her back up against a large log holding Cinnamon on her lap, stroking her nervously. Orie, unseen, stood slightly in front of them, off to the right, sword drawn and at the ready. Forrester also stood in front of them, off to the left. He too had his blade bared. His face was grim as he scanned the pack in front of them, trying to discern which one was their leader. Finally, the newly arrived Wolves parted, allowing one to advance who came to stand directly in front of Brutus. His fur was gray-white and his posture slightly stooped, yet he carried himself proudly. He stopped and glanced all around him, taking in the entirety of the scene, first at Forrester, then over at Jacqueline and Cinnamon, letting his gaze settle on Brutus. He raised his snout in the air for a sniff. A brief look of confusion flashed over his face, after which he put his head beside that of Brutus and nuzzled him slightly. Jacqueline took this all in with her mouth slightly open, inattentively rubbing Cinnamon, who thought, “That will do, dear. You will wear a hole in my coat.”
“Brutus.”
“Patriachus.”
“Well?”
“Well.”
They stood facing each other in silence for perhaps half a minute. To the cat, the two Humans, and the renegade Troll, it seemed like an eternity.
Brutus spoke slowly and loudly so that all present could hear him clearly. “These two,” he said, nodding in the direction of Cinnamon and Jacqueline, “we have adopted, according to the old ways. We believe the girl is part of Prophecy, the prophecy we have all grown up with. She wears the stone.”
“Jacqueline,” Brutus thought forcefully, “please show the stone to everyone here. That’s right. Don’t be afraid.”
Rather than show fear, Jacqueline stood and walked boldly out away from the log, against which she had been sitting, to stand beside Brutus. She withdrew the fiery red, heart-shaped gemstone from under her jerkin and held it up so that all might see it clearly. As
she did this, she said, “My name is Jacqueline Elizabeth Strong.” She pointed to where her brother was standing. “This is my brother. I can’t see him, but I can smell him. I’m sure you can too. I don’t know this … this … ”
“Troll,” Orie finished for her. “He is a Troll, and he is my friend.” Jacqueline hurriedly translated for him. “He has already saved my life more than once and … ”
“That will do,” said Patriachus
Behind him the pack was growing restless. “She can’t be the one,” said one. “She’s way too young,” called another. “We need to eat the Troll,” cried yet another. “We need to eat them all,” came from the back.
Patriachus turned and barked, “Silence!” Then he turned back to Brutus and said, “We have some sorting out to do. The council of elders will hear all sides. Then we will decide.”
“Decide what?” asked Jacqueline.
“Why, what to do of course.”
“Jacqueline,” said Orie, while the council of elders moved away from the
rest of the pack, “what are these Wolves about? Can they understand us?”
“They’re all about honor,” she said. “And yes, they can. Well, they can understand us,” she nodded at Cinnamon, “and we can understand them too, and each other. And not just by speaking, but by thinking, too. Ever since I got here. Well, not the thinking part. But Cinnamon and I have been talking from the first moment I, we, got here.
