by RW Krpoun
Kroh howled a war cry and split a Direbreed's skull like a melon, the warm pulse of blood-rage throbbing behind his eyes. Twisting his axe free, he hacked at a scaly, clawed hand gripping the rotting stump in front of him; the Direbreed fell back into the ditch, less three fingers which fell onto the rampart. The Dwarf knocked a thrusting spear aside and cut the wielder's arm to the bone with his backsweep; taking advantage of a slight pause, he looked north to see how the wall was doing.
Not well, was the answer. The Centaurs were all dead or dying, although their leader had reached the ramparts and accounted for a couple of Red Company; the Fists were disorganized, with only half their standards still erect, but the individual Direbreed were still game and fighting hard. The problem was the Host-lord's Talon, the Waybrother saw: the mass of armored Direbreed were still organized, if battered, and were trying hard to carry the rampart. Blue Company had Green Company reinforcing them but were taking losses and barely holding.
Without hesitation Kroh turned and raced down the wall. Near the Talon's point of attack he leapt over a half-buried kite shield and landed amongst the Direbreed in the ditch, axe whirling like a windmill in a hurricane. Three ordinary beast-men fell away, dying, and four more broke and headed back to the safety of the brush line. Ripping a totem from the dying hands of an elk-faced Direbreed, the Waybrother tossed it over the rampart before launching his axe, and then himself at the wedge of armored beast-men.
The axe, runes glowing, flew through the air like a weapon a third its size, striking the Talon's standard-bearer with enough force to split its helm and send a spray of brain matter across the neighboring beast-men. Just as swiftly as it had struck the axe ripped itself free of the shattered skull and flashed back to the Dwarf's hands. Two hulking wolf-faced Direbreed leapt forward, only to tumble back clutching gaping belly wounds (foes of the Dwarven race tend to suffer from a disproportionate number of lower body and leg wounds when fighting on level ground) as the Badger erupted in a blizzard of figure-eight swings. One of the pair’s swords tore a groove along the maddened Waybrother's armored side, inflicting a deep bruise in the hairy flesh beneath, an injury the Dwarf ignored completely.
Then there before him was a veritable giant with scarred lizard-hide and weird gray-green armor covered in baroque swirls and sigils under battle-damage. The Host-lord, Kroh's thinking facilities informed him in the detached manner common to those engulfed in a killing rage. And in the manner of a true Waybrother, Kroh roared with glee and leaped forward, bloody axe balanced delicately in his tattooed fingers.
The Host-lord seemed a bit hesitant as to how to attack a foe fully half his size, but a quarrel snapping overhead to drill through the leg of one of his Talon seemed to give him purpose. His axe swept in at the Dwarf's head with a speed that was amazing; only the rage-enhanced reflexes of a berserk Waybrother were up to responding, and even then the keen edge of the Chaos-enruned axe cut down to the helm's padding as the Dwarf jerked his head aside, saving his skull by the fraction of a second. Kroh's return stroke tore the greave off the Champion's left leg and sliced a generous chunk out of his calf.
The opening moves having determined that there was an abundance of skill and fanatic determination on both sides, both parties settled down to a serious duel. It was an uninterrupted match as Gold Company had taken notice of the threat to the center of the line and was pouring a hail of fire into the ranks of the Talon, which was doggedly doing its best to establish a foothold on the rampart, a goal that was ever more within their grasp. In fact, only the combined efforts of Rolf (who had left his post to support the stricken center), Elkhart, Starr (whose arrows had run out), Elonia, and Maximilian were keeping the remnants of Blue and Green Companies in place and fighting at that key point.
Kroh saw none of this as every iota of his attention was focused on the Scarred One facing him, and in keeping his footing on the carpet of dead and dying that lined the ditch; to add to the instability of the footing a few stakes still jutted from the sides of the trench. The Waybrother took comfort in that it was a greater hindrance for the Host-lord whose size made the close quarters much more confining than for a Dwarf.
The telling point for Kroh came a few moments later: both foes had been hammering at each other with considerable enthusiasm, and both were bleeding from several wounds without either having gained a significant advantage. He knew that he should make the big bastard come to him due to the Champion's longer reach and height advantage, but Lizard-Skin had dropped the dirk he was using in his off-hand and kept trying to get into his pouch.
"He might be reaching for his hankie, but I doubt it," Kroh rumbled in the confines of his ruined helm. "Time to trim him down to my size."
Dwarves are by nature great metal-smiths, good money-managers, methodical in their approaches to all pursuits, and inclined to violent bigotry; a natural outgrowth of these traits is that the average Dwarven warrior is well-armed, heavily armored, skilled in the use of arms, schooled in fighting in close quarters with a height disadvantage, and inclined to make unpredictable moves in battle. Kroh was a Dwarf's Dwarf and a Waybrother besides, a finely-honed veteran of countless fights and a master with the izar, the Dwarven long axe.
The wild-eyed Dwarf leapt back a pace for distance, then charged at an angle, running up the side of the slope as if to get the height he needed for a good torso stroke which conventional axe tactics deemed necessary for a killing blow, axe held ready at waist height. The Host-lord saw it coming and, grinning, swung his axe up in both hands to an angle across his chest, ready to parry and counterattack, sure that the fight was over now that the sawed-off maniac had committed himself.
Except that Kroh, in defiance of all normal (i.e. non-Dwarfish) axe usage, swept his blade in a vicious underhanded stroke, sinking five pounds of Dwarven steel (enhanced by Dwarven runic magic) into the Champion's pelvis with an impact that drove seven feet of armored warrior up onto his tip-toes.
It was the force of Kroh's stroke that saved him, as the Host-lord's return blow was delivered off-balance and thus with only a fraction of the strength that it would normally have. Still, the Dwarf's weakened helm could not fully turn the axe's edge and split down the center until only the banded rim held it together. The two collapsed together, still locked in combat.
Kroh opened his eyes to a world full of ringing bells and odd sensations; he felt as if he were lying on a warm and somewhat lumpy mattress. To his right was a dirt wall with a few crudely-cut stakes jutting out; to his left was Rolf, standing over him and fighting for all he was worth. This was interesting, and Kroh watched critically, noticing Starr fighting nearby, the cool blue crystal of her blade wet to the hilt with thin, brownish Direbreed blood. It occurred to him to stand up and join in, but there was a big bundle lying across this lower body that held him down; upon closer examination he discovered the bundle to be a battered and blood-spattered suit of gray-green armor, a bloody stump where the head should be. His right arm was pinned between his body and the ditch wall while his left still clutched his axe which was embedded in the corpse across his legs. In his befuddled state it did not occur to him to release that axe and so he found himself to be unable to rise.
Pinned, he realized, then shrugged and relaxed, closing his eyes. Cave-ins were a natural hazard; nothing to do but lay back and conserve air until a rescue team reopened the mine and got him out. Dimly he hoped that they could salvage as much of the vein as possible as the ore had been of excellent quality.
Dmitri hobbled about the compound on an improvised crutch, trying to keep the work parties moving. After Kroh had slain the Host-lord the attack had fallen apart. The Host-lord’s Talon had held together out of inertia for a few minutes, but the heart was gone from them; after a couple attempts to recover their master's body they broke off and retreated, the few ordinary Direbreed left on the field following closely.
The Darkhost was smashed beyond reformation. The Host-Lord’s personal standard, the Centaur Talon's standard and six Fist st
andards had been captured or left upon the field; not a Fist retained any sort of organization. They had paid a price though, and a steep one: nine of the defenders were dead, and fifteen, including Kroh and Elkhart, were seriously wounded; nearly half the defenders had fallen over the course of the three attacks. Had Kroh not won his duel the fort might well have fallen. They had been very, very lucky.
The able-bodied, nearly all of whom were wounded to some degree, went about the after-battle activity with an exhausted jubilance: they had survived. In a couple days, as soon as the wounded were fit to travel, they would quit this hellish place and go home.
Chapter Five
Two days passed with an uncanny speed; with the exception of the Healers and work-details the garrison spent the time resting. The work parties buried the remains of the Marquis and his companions in a mass grave, burnt stacks of dead brush on the mounds of Direbreed to reduce the stench, and tried to assemble wagons from the towers, the latter a great deal more difficult than it had been to build towers out of wagons.
Henri, lolling comfortably on the east wall, watched the remnants of the expedition move to the mouth of the valley, at once a heroic and pathetic sight: three ragged wagons loaded with wounded and yoked pairs of oxen with makeshift pack saddles carrying more wounded or essential supplies. Out of the one hundred and fifty-eight men (not counting Maximilian or the Badgers) who had set out from Tarnhen eleven days earlier only fifty-three remained, twenty-eight of those seriously wounded (two men had died of wounds during the days of rest).
He, Starr, and Rolf were detailed to remain behind for four hours; at the end of that time they were to set fire to the massive pile of excess equipment and food, captured Direbreed weapons, armor and saddles salvaged from the knights, and anything else of value that could not be carried off, with plenty of dry wood and dead brush mixed in. The four hour delay was so that the smoke would not draw attention to the slow-moving caravan.
Rolf had won the die roll for the honor of lighting the pyre and Henri had arranged to be the last one out of the fort, which was only suitable as he had been the first one to enter the place.
He idly turned the pages of one of his new grimores, a smile tugging at his mouth. They had looted the belongings of the nobles, of course, and gone over the remains of the knights very carefully. Dmitri had seen to it that every coin from the Marquis' war chest and the noble's pouches had been fairly distributed amongst the survivors, and the jewelry and saddle trappings set aside for the families of the dead. Even the noble's weapons had been shared out, and nearly every footman had left his issue blade in the pyre and now carried a broadsword or axe of excellent quality.
It had seemed to the Arturians that the Badgers were the most generous of masters, keeping back only a few trinkets for themselves, but in that thought they were wrong. The Wizard Durutte's baggage had yielded up a dozen works on magic and spell-casting, volumes worth literally twice their weight in gold, and one of the enchanted torcs such as Elonia wore had been removed from his body. It had been awarded to Kroh in recognition of his exemplary performance in the defense of the fort, but once again the Waybrother had scorned enchantment as a substitute for good Dwarfish steel and had given it to Henri; fortunately, the Dwarf had a spare steel cap as his own helm had been damaged beyond any hope of repair.
The Marquis' own broadsword was an excellent Dwarven-forged weapon with a Risarn (meteoric steel) blade, both light and keen, with an ornate, griffin-pommelled hilt. Starr declined the sword in favor of her Snow Leopard, Maximilian had declined in favor of his heirloom sword, and so the Marquis' blade would be offered to Arian Thyben, the only other broadsword-wielder on this mission.
The young Wizard watched as the caravan filed out of sight through the pass. It made for a lonely feeling, just the three of them in the barren, trampled fort; he hoped the hours would pass quickly. Turning to his bookmark, he frowned at the page, unconsciously hitching his sword closer.
For the last few days Durek and Arian had made a practice of taking dinner together an hour or so before sundown at a tavern just outside Tarnhen's walls and afterwards, armed with a skin of ale, the two would mount the low hill overlooking the deserted farmer's market and watch for the return of the expedition.
Arian Thyben settled his lanky frame into his usual spot, facing at an angle to his Captain so that no one could approach the pair unseen. The Effactor of the Order of the Fiery Staff silently asked Beythar to grant his leader peace from his worries; not that Arian wasn't worried as well: he knew that Dmitri (and his troop) should have taken their leave of the expedition as soon as the fighting was over and returned with all speed, riding hard to make good time. It had been sixteen days since the expedition had left and one didn't need to be a Seer to know that spelled trouble. Something had gone wrong.
The red-haired Badger eyed the brooding Dwarf, wishing for some inspirational comment that would divert the Captain from his gloom. Never in the eight-year history of the company had seven Badgers been lost; to date their worst foray, spread over eight days, had resulted in three dead and seven wounded. Worse than just numbers, however, was that all were friends and comrades of the sort only acquired through mutual sharing of danger and hardship, and all members of the Company’s inner circle. It was worse for Durek, he knew, as Dwarves were slow to accept friendships, especially with non-Dwarves, but when they did the bonds ran deep. Durek was the unit's patriarch as well as commander; he set the standards by which they measured themselves, and held fast the bonds of discipline that were ever so rare in mercenary formations, especially ones so racially diverse as the Badgers. He had seen Durek bury Badgers from the inner circle before and the Dwarf's anguish at such times was painful to see. Not a year had passed since the Founding but at least one of the company had fallen; besides Durek, only three of the company's six founders still lived.
Arian Thyben was familiar with the pain of lost comrades. Born on a small farm in the southern Eisenalder Empire, he had been drawn to the faith of Beythar at an early age. At first he had simply wanted to be a parish curate, tending his flock in the service of the stern goddess of virtue, defense of the weak, and honor in war, but he was discovered to have an affinity to the Healing Arts and served his novice years on the Emperor's Ward as a Healer and chaplain's assistant in an Imperial Legion. It was there that his dreams faded in the face of bloody realities; he knew that he could not go back to a quiet farm community and deal with the minor problems of faith and doctrine.
To his surprise he was accepted by the Order of the Fiery Staff, the elite cult-hunters of his faith, and for years he acted as a scourge to the secret followers of the Dark One. But his success caused him problems: he became too well known to remain effective. His church elders advised him to take leave of his Order’s cult-hunting for several years to let the cults forget about him; they suggested a teaching post in the Order's academy, research in their archives, or a posting as a Healer to some approved organization. He had chosen the latter, and joined the Phantom Badgers because of their reputation. The choice was approved by his elders as the Badgers had a good reputation within the mercenary community and it was felt that his presence would provide both useful intelligence and experience that would help him in his later efforts at cult-hunting. He felt he had made the best choice available, and was in no hurry to return to other duties.
The two, Captain and monk, passed the skin and waited with more patience than hope. The sun dropped behind the horizon and the night's noises and smells came alive as the darkness crept in to gain near-absolute control, a thin veil of clouds muffling the starlight. As the day cooled a sense of peace descended on the countryside, a natural state that touched even the tense Captain. Arian heard his officer pack his pipe with the same thoroughness he used in all tasks, whether he was setting an ambush or eating a meal, and lit a cheroot of his own, a habit he had picked up from Kroh two years past. The cheroot and the contents of Durek’s pipe were the dried and cured leaves of the tabba plant, first us
ed as a cure for the choking attacks that caused shortness of breath, and for the effects of damp air and springtime that afflicted many, especially Dwarves whose underground world lacked the air circulation of the surface lands.
"What?" Durek froze in the act of lighting a twig for his pipe from the shuttered lantern they had brought with them. "What was that?"
The monk had heard it too. Squinting into the darkness, he shook his head. "I'm not sure. There's something moving out to the northeast, but all I can make out is the movement, nothing more."
The two stared into the distance; Arian knew that the Dwarf's keener night-vision would reveal the sources of the noises long before he would see them, but strained nonetheless. After an anxious minute he frowned. "It doesn't sound like the Arturians: too quiet, and traveling after dark. And it's much too big for our people."
The Dwarf grunted. A moment later he stroked his beard in puzzlement. "It's a herd of cattle with flank security and scouts ahead. What that could mean, I have not the slightest idea..."
