by RW Krpoun
With a start he realized he was no longer alone in the fort: using the planks intended for crossing mud the teamsters were bringing the wagons in. Dmitri leapt up on the rampart, paused to toss a handful of captured javelins into the fort, and turned to survey the valley, face grim.
"All right, first round to the Direbreed, but we're not finished yet!" The big Serjeant's voice carried to all in the fort. "Kroh, take Henri and survey the fort, plan what we need to do in the order that we need to do it." He glanced at the churning mass of Direbreed that marked where the knights had fallen. "We'll have a few hours before they get sorted out enough to come for us. Elonia, get a head count, list all the names and whatever they do best; we'll need carpenters and such. Starr, take watch on the northeast corner, Johann the southwest corner. Maximilian, I want a complete inventory of the contents of the wagons and all supplies to hand. That damned quartermaster took a javelin in the throat exactly when we could have used him. How's Elkhart doing?"
The mercenaries and halberdiers were doing fairly well, all things considered. Between the dispersion from the Wizard's spells and the attack by the late Marquis, they had avoided the main Darkhost with only a couple short skirmishes. The real problem was the same Talon of Centaurs who had harassed the wagons; they darted in, throwing javelins and trying to cut off stragglers, turning the half-mile journey into one long running fight. It was over an hour after the Marquis died before Elkhart staggered over the rampart with twenty-three halberdiers and fifteen crossbowmen.
The Badgers had not been idle during that time. The survey of the fort and the compilation of supplies, equipment, and skills had been completed, work had begun on improving defenses, and plans were being made. The fort itself consisted of a square one hundred yards on a side, enclosed by a dry ditch and a six-foot earth rampart that had once been crowned with a log palisade, although only a few charred stumps remained. The foundations of a couple long houses, a well, and a heap of logs made up the interior. The fort itself was on the crest of a short spur that thrust from the west into the valley; to attack the fort's north, east, or south walls the Direbreed would have to climb a steep, brush-covered slope. Only on the west side would they have reasonably level ground, and thus it was on the west slope that Dmitri expected the main attack to fall. All four slopes and the ditch were covered with thick brush, stunted scrub trees, and thorn bushes which would give an attacker cover while making it difficult to maintain order amongst attacking units.
Dmitri moved about the compound urging all to greater effort and racking his brain for anything that would help. Having lost two killed (the quartermaster and a groom), one badly wounded (groom) and one missing (cook's helper) in the centaur's attacks, he had his Badgers, Elkhart's troops, the twenty light foot, and twenty-three irregulars (the former grooms, wagon drivers, cooks, and servants). The latter were only lightly armed, but the wagons had contained a number of extra weapons and tools for cutting forage, enough to give each irregular some sort of weapon. After the first attack there would be plenty of weapons to go around, he knew, either captured from the Direbreed or taken from their own dead, but for now they would just have to make do.
He split his force into five sections: Blue Company under Elkhart with eleven halberdiers, ten light foot, and two irregulars, Red Company under himself with twelve halberdiers, ten light foot, and two irregulars, Gold Company under Henri with the fifteen mercenary crossbowmen and nine of the irregulars armed with spare crossbows; and Green Company under Starr, with Maximilian and ten irregulars. He held the rest of the Badgers as a strategic reserve. Each member of the little garrison had a helm pennant and armbands in the company colors, complements of the deceased nobles’ wardrobes. The Healers and their acolytes, barred by their Order from bearing arms and in any case far too valuable to risk in combat, were setting up tents and preparing for the inevitable wounded.
The fort was a beehive of activity: half of Gold Company had sentry duty, while the other half was building towers out of timbers salvaged from the pile in the fort and the dismantled wagons; Red and Blue Companies were clearing brush from the west side; Green Company had cleared the brush from the interior of the fort, and was now making foot-long sharpened stakes from whatever materials they could find and planting them in the ditch and in belts along the west approach.
Henri tossed the big Kerbian a casual salute as he approached, the young Arturian stripped to the waist and sweating in the afternoon sun. "They won't look like much, but we'll have four towers set up in a kind of flattened 'U' formation; they'll hold my whole company high enough to fire over the heads of everyone on the walls. We were lucky the Marquis brought along plenty of spare lances as the log pile didn't have enough tall timbers." He jerked his head in the direction of a terrific din. "Kroh's banding everything together, using barrel hoops and wheel rims. Lucky they brought a portable forge."
Dmitri nodded, studying the one tower fully erect: as promised its platform was nearly eleven feet high permitting a man standing on it to safely fire over the heads of those on the ramparts. "How much longer until they're all up?"
Henri shrugged. "About dark, assuming we run into the usual number of problems."
The Serjeant found Maximilian busily unraveling a rope; the scholar grinned tiredly at him, his sword across his lap and a shield slung on his back. At the Badger's inquiring glance, he explained. "We need twine to make rope ladders for Henri's towers.”
Dmitri climbed up the side of the first tower which, he noticed with a grin, bore a crude yellow banner with a crossbow painted on it. It had been two hours since the wagons had reached the fort and an hour since Elkhart had arrived, and there was perhaps four hours of daylight left. The bulk of the Darkhost still milled around the battlefield, looting and quarreling, but the first signs of organization could be seen as Fists broke away and headed to the west slope.
Elonia climbed over the railing and stood beside him, a wry smile twisting her lips. "See anything hopeful out there, Dmitri?"
Dmitri shrugged. "They've got no livestock in the pens, so we won't have to face any that the Marquis put down."
The Seer unclipped the torc that she wore and then shook her dark blond tresses loose. Dmitri had seen such neck-bands before: Bridget and Starr each wore one, both enchanted to confer the same protection as a full-face helm made of good steel. After testing the rail for sturdiness, Elonia settled herself on it with the unconscious grace of a cat. "The Gatherers are busy," she murmured, jerking her chin towards the battlefield, indicating hooded figures moving from body to body. "Lowest of the Harbingers, their job is to cut the Breedstones from the fallen so that they may be Harvested again. Did you know that the greatest Direbreed heroes have their own Gatherer that follows them into battle to ensure the recovery of the 'Stone should the hero fall?” She favored the Kerbian with an inscrutable smile. "Will we hold, Dmitri?"
He grunted, and fingered the charms in his beard. "We've a solid chance. If it were Men or Orcs we would be overrun on the first attack; it takes at least eighty men to hold a hundred yards against a determined foe, and we've only ninety-one to guard four hundred yards. But they're Direbreed with no real Human support; that means no archers, no artillery, and no spellcasters to soften us up before an attack, and almost no organization once an attack is launched. We've got a well, plenty of food and plenty of quarrels; so long as we don't run out of troops, we'll hold." He drummed his fingers on his breastplate for a moment. "Since they're done with the Harvesting, will you be able to See soon?"
"Not any time soon. The residue of what they did here will block it for weeks, if not months."
"Then you will have to do it the old-fashioned way. In an hour or so you and Starr will slip out and circle the fort; I need to know what they're planning."
Despite the cool breeze and mild spring sun sweat ran freely from the small garrison as the minutes ran past. The brush was cleared for a hundred paces out from the west wall to prevent the attackers from approaching unseen; thorn bushe
s were dragged back and tied to the brush in the ditch to thicken it while ordinary brush was bundled together and doused with oil to provide light in case of a night attack.
The second tower was laboriously hauled upright and fixed into place. Blue Company began clearing brush on the south side; Red Company began on the north side. Gold Company rotated men from working to sentry duty and vise-versa; a marksman amongst the sentries dropped a Centaur that had crept too close to the newly-made clearings. All hands were occupied, and every eye measured the lengthening shadows as they worked, knowing that darkness was not as deep for the eyes of Direthrell as it was for Humans, and that they would face at least one attack before dawn.
Down in the valley the last bands of Direbreed left the battlefield and headed towards the fort.
Chapter Three
Easing around an old stump, Starr peered into the clearing. The source of the noise that had drawn her was a half-dozen Direbreed laboriously tying fresh-cut saplings to kite shields salvaged from the dead Arturians. A score of finished barricades, each roughly six feet square, were piled in an untidy heap to one side; a dozen or so shields waited to be modified. As she watched, the Direbreed, bickering amongst themselves, shouldered axes and headed to a nearby copse for more saplings.
The young Lanthrell chewed her lower lip as she studied the barricades. Even with a height advantage the crossbowmen would have difficulty in hitting Direbreed protected by those crude assemblies; let a wave of attackers reach the ditches unmolested by the defender's archers, and the fort would fall.
Starr had been what humans would have called a tomboy when growing up in the Larnax Forest; she had taken dozens of dares to prove that despite her short stature she was as good or better than her fellows. She inherited a good deal of her aggressive, adventuresome ways from both her parents: her mother, Lonia, had been an adventuresome youth until she and some friends were ambushed by a Direthrell raiding party. Lonia had only escaped capture because her best friend and cousin, Star, hid her and led the raiders away from Lonia's hiding place, a deception that led to Star being captured, and never seen again. Her mother, scarred by the loss of her dearest friend and her own near-capture, never set foot from the deepest confines of the Forest, and did everything she could to inhibit Starr's wanderlust.
Her father pretended to agree with her mother, but no traveler who came to the Forest escaped his attentions, and would not be able to leave without telling him all they knew of the outside world. Raised in this conflicting manner, further encouraged by Lonia's heroic memories of Starr's namesake, the diminutive Lanthrell had sought knowledge of the outside world with a driving curiosity.
Elonia's secret contact and the revelation that she was the bastard daughter of the martyred Star was the finish to Lonia's hopes for her child. Starr left the Forest for days at a time to 'hunt bandits', but was really engaged in adventures helping her mysterious cousin; and when Elonia had suggested that she seek out the Phantom Badgers with an eye to joining, Starr had jumped at the idea. Service in the Company these past two years had been the best times in her young life, and there was no question of the direction her life would lead.
And there was no question of where she was headed now. Those barricades were a dire threat to the fort, and she had to do something about them. Frowning, she studied their crude construction, a plan forming; decision made, she drew her boot dagger and eased to her feet. With her bow and nocked arrow firmly in her right hand (in addition to being unusually short, the little Threll was also left-handed), she crawled from behind the stump, ignoring the warning hiss from Elonia behind her.
At first when Elonia had contacted her, she had been deeply thrilled and honored to assist her mysterious cousin in her secret tasks, but lately the young Lanthrell had begun to regard her elder cousin's attitude as patronizing. After all Starr had been a Badger for nearly a year before Elonia had joined; she, Starr, was the company's chief scout, and commander of Green Company. And hadn't she been put in charge when a detail was sent to Hohenfels the winter before last? That operation had come off without a hitch despite the efforts of the followers of the Void and had earned Starr an entry in the Company’s Roll of Honor. It was time Elonia started learning that she was not a child to be ordered about.
Slipping behind the heap of barricades, Starr used the slightly curved tip of her boot dagger to score the binding ropes on as many barricades as she could reach so that after a little rough handling the ropes would break and the saplings fall away. Done, she swarmed into a shallow creek bed moments before the beast-men returned. Elonia soundlessly slipped into the creek with her, a cocked eyebrow silently indicating her opinion of the young scout’s recklessness.
Ignoring the Seer's looks, Starr stealthily led her on the rest of the circuit of the Darkhost.
Carlex Darksinger seethed as he stared at the distant fort. The bastards had cleared the brush for a hundred paces on the west side, sixty to the north and south, and for thirty on the east. Men swarmed about the ramparts and outer slopes planting sharpened stakes in a deep belt that spread out from the ditch, while the ditch itself was choked with both live brush and fresh-cut thorn bushes. Three awkward towers rose from the center of the camp, and work progressed on a fourth. Scouts reported that the humans had slaughtered two oxen and were preparing a feast, and that the garrison’s morale was high.
For the dozen-th time he cursed fate and wished for a larger cadre of veteran Direbreed and a troop of Human engineers to construct and crew war engines. He had come to this valley a month before with the Harbingers and several mule trains loaded with weapons, gold, and a few Breedstones of veterans; cultists had met him here with herds of animals and rough-cut obelisks, and left, much richer for the transaction. He had been sent by his masters in the Hand of Chaos to raid and pillage the farms and villages on the Red Shores, thus demonstrating that the Shores were unprotected by their Arturian overlords. In the fall, he would pull back to the winter camps prepared by the Harbingers during the summer and re-Harvest those who had fallen, perhaps even Seed a few score more. By careful maneuvering, he might have spent two or three seasons spreading death and fear before heading back to the Blasted Plains with a veteran Darkhost. The last thing he had wanted was to pit his green, largely unorganized force against trained warriors in a pitched battle, much less attack a fort, however decrepit, manned by desperate men. The plan had been one of hit and run to inflict terror, not fight standing battles.
In a week or two another band of cultists who would serve as scouts and spies was to have arrived, and he had planned to use that time to organize his force, forming Fists of the Dark One from the mass of individuals, then organizing the Fists into Arms of the Dark One, and then welding the Arms into a Darkhost. Caught too soon, with only the Fists formed, he had had to rally his Fists one at a time and send them to the west, then plan, survey and organize the coming attack, and brief each Fist-lord personally. Without the benefit of any organization beyond the Fist level it had taken hours to assemble the force for a very primitive attack, hours the defenders were using to good effect.
To march away now and ignore this defiant fort would cause mutiny; to lay siege or lose too many attacks would see his force evaporate by desertion, the stupid bastards slipping away to die in skirmishes, their 'Stones burnt away in the Temples of the Eight.
"Threxx," he rumbled around the tusks that distorted his mouth, a side-effect of the andern-laced potions he had ingested over the years; others included his massive stature (nearly seven feet tall), and bronze-colored, reptile-hard skin. "You will lead the attack. Form your Talon into a wedge and strike the west side of the fort. The main body will support you, and the flying ones. A few skirmishers will strike at the north and south sides to distract them. Get inside the fort and tip over those towers. At the first horn bring your wedge to the white stake opposite the fort's west wall; at the second horn, charge. Ignore the third and fourth horns."
The Centaur Champion Threxx Whitemane puffed with p
ride at the command. Carlex planned to hurl them like a spear at the west wall, counting on their mass and momentum to reach the ramparts, and a few might even live to get inside the fort; the Fists behind them would flow through the holes and mop up.
Again he fought the urge to lead his Talon in the attack, but common sense overruled it: the first attack would be too risky. No matter, though, whatever defenders survived the first attack would be easy meat for the second assault.
"The tower will be finished in another ten minutes," Henri reported, grinning. Dust and grime had mixed with the sweat on the magician until he looked as if he had rolled in a mud hole.
"Good. Get twenty shafts and a water flask per man up in the towers, and the same on each of your men. Have your crossbowmen stand down, but I want everyone in armor with weapons to hand: we won't have much warning before they attack." Dmitri handed a hammered brass jar to the Arturian. "Here's the Storms of Disruption; we've only three, so use them sparingly. And Henri: you did a fine job on those towers."
Dmitri left the beaming Arturian and circled the fort one more time. Most of the troops were eating; he had seen to it that the cook and his two surviving helpers were in Green Company, along with any of the irregulars who had worked as butchers or in a kitchen; with the wagons dismantled the oxen were just taking up space, and fresh beef, no matter how tough, was always good for morale.
The attack would come very soon, and from the scout's reports he knew it would be mainly from the west, with small numbers of skirmishers to the north and south. The first attack would be the crucial one: the Direbreed, fresh from a victory, would be at their highest morale while his men were subdued and lacking confidence. If they could break the first attack it would hearten his men and dismay the beast-men, weakening the Champion's control over his army, and vastly increasing their own chances of surviving.