by RW Krpoun
Janna took a look out of their nest, then ducked her head to the monk’s ear. “Whole line of Felher, night attack.”
Two owl hoots, too close together to be real, sounded and the two Badgers froze in place as they heard the Felher moving. Arian risked another look, then ducked back to Janna. “They’re crawling out into the open, heading for the caravan. Why would they attack a camp guarded by a hundred mercenaries?”
“They might have scouted the camp before we arrived; it was nearly dark before we made contact,” the ex-Silver Eagle pointed out. “And you and I are supposed to be checking the guards. If we live Durek’ll kill us.”
“There might be a way...we can either sound the alarm or go for the Felher commander, he’ll be hanging back at the tree line with some sort of reserve. They won’t be watching their rear for any trouble.”
“And our rears will definitely be in trouble once we jump a couple dozen Felher by ourselves,” Janna muttered, peering out of the blankets. “They’re crawling pretty fast, want to try for our armor?”
“Yeah. Have you got any better ideas? One of us is the guard commander, which one depending on whether the sentries have changed or not. Durek’ll bust one or both of us back to the ranks for leaving the camp while we were supposed to be on duty.”
Janna rolled out of the blankets as silently as she could and pulled open her hide bag. “All right, you win, we’ll try it. Dying would be better than the whole Company finding out what we were doing when we were supposed to be on guard.”
“If we hadn’t fallen asleep it would have worked out,” the monk whispered, pulling on the padded under-tunic that protected him from his mail shirt. “Next time we’ll be more careful.”
“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Janna snarled. “On guard, I mean,” she amended after a moment.
Iron Tusk, Kroh Blackhand’s komad mount, was dozing under one of the caravan’s wagons after having stolen a bag of potatoes from a nearby tent and eaten her fill. The bitter frost that coated the ground and sparkled on the tips of her pelt failed to penetrate her thick hide and layers of sub dermal fat, so that once she had rolled around a bit to knock away anything that poked or scratched, the six hundred pound sow was as comfortable as she would have been on a summer’s evening. She was dreaming of the distant plains where she and her true she-rider had done glorious battle against Goblin wolf-riders; that had been years ago, before her she-rider had gone into a not-natural-small-hill with the others, and not come back out again, although the others had. Iron Tusk had waited outside the not-natural-small-hill for several moon cycles in the hopes of her she-rider emerging, but the she-rider never had; finally her training took over and she returned to the group, crossing many miles to do so. They welcomed her back, and eventually there was the he-rider and new battles, but it was never the same.
The komad came to full awareness without exhibiting the slightest sound or movement; her distant ancestors had been low on the food chain, and some of the hunted’s keen sense of danger remained with her, interwoven with the years of training by Dwarves who knew how to turn a piglet into a fighting beast that had no natural enemies. She was the veteran of a hundred engagements ranging from minor skirmishes with road-bandits to full-scale battles involving magic and the powers of the Void, and knew very well the signs of an impending attack. Moving carefully, she delicately shifted her bulk so her legs were fully beneath her and braced herself, peering out into the murky night while her nose worked industrially.
She might fear no natural enemy, but there were more than a few enemies coming across the cleared ground, more than she and any rider she had ever had could have handled. Training took over, and the komad heaved herself to her feet and trotted off in the direction of the Badger camp; battle was forthcoming and she needed to be near her rider.
Corporal Rolf Lightseeker leaned against a handy cart wheel and worked his hands to keep them warm. The tall half-breed had just finished making the rounds of his sentries, a task he would continue at irregular intervals until dawn came and the march was resumed. It bothered him that his Serjeant wasn’t where she was supposed to be, but Rolf was never one to question a superior’s actions or orders. Despite the appearance of brooding brutality created by his height (six foot four inches), obvious strength (he was the second-strongest Badger), heavy bone structure, and hairless olive skin, Rolf’s childlike amber eyes gave solid evidence of what, as all who knew him were aware, was essentially a gentle, almost childlike soul. The product of rape, as were all half-Orcs born in Human lands, Rolf had been raised by his loving mother to obey the law and serve the Eight, to do no evil and be truthful at all times; despite a grim childhood after her death, and eight years spent lost in an abandoned Dwarven city (culminating in his rescue by the Badgers, who were in the hold on other business), Rolf clung to his mother’s teaching. He was fiercely loyal to the Company, its officers (of whom he was one), and his friends, especially Starr Brightgift, whom he credited with his rescue from Gradrek Heleth, and Kroh Blackhand, whom Rolf secretly idolized.
The big Corporal wore a heavy bearskin poncho-style, with a knitted wool shirt over his steel breast and back plates and studded leather arm bracers; he was armed with a light crossbow, two dirks worn angled for fast cross-drawing, a boot-dagger that was as long as a normal fighting dagger, and the enchanted great sword Moonblade. The latter was Company property on permanent loan to the half-Orc; nearly all the Company officers bore enchanted arms or items that were Company property.
Iron Tusk galloping past startled the Corporal, the surprise turning to alarm when he saw the komad thunder over to Kroh’s sleeping form and drag the Dwarf’s blankets off, towing a kicking, cursing Kroh for nearly ten feet in the process, as the Badger had wrapped his blankets around himself to hold in his body heat. While both komad were obnoxious, vicious, independent, sadistic, and generally hard to control on a good day, neither would go so far as to attack a Badger or ally in their bedroll just for fun, although any other time of the day was fair game.
Eyeing the direction Iron Tusk had come from, Rolf grabbed up a hooded lantern and a greasy quiver and trotted to the north side of his sentry line, alerting the guards that he passed that there was trouble afoot. Standing at the edge of the Badger camp facing the expanse of cleared ground to the north of both camps, Rolf removed the quarrel from his crossbow and replaced it with one drawn from the greasy quiver. The new bolt was twice as long as an ordinary missile, with the far end jutting well beyond the crossbow’s cocking stirrup. Opening the lantern, the big Corporal lit the resin-soaked ball of rags tied to the end of the loaded quarrel, and, once the flames were burning brightly, fired the shaft toward the northeast.
The flare-bolt’s swift passage dimmed the flames, but it shed enough light to reveal some of the crawling Felher. “ALERT,” Rolf bellowed, slapping the ordinary quarrel back into his crossbow. “Alert! Night attack! Sentries, torches out!”
As the Badger camp exploded into shadowy figures desperately discarding bedding for weapons and armor every sentry used a hooded lantern to light a torche, which he or she then heaved out into the darkness in front of their position, instantly ringing the Badger camp with light, albeit rather weak and fluttering illumination.
Elonia was straddling Maximilian’s lower back giving the scholar a back rub by the dim light of the partially-hooded lantern when Rolf’s shout shattered the night; both Badgers were clad only in their breeches and boots, the lamp and the exertions of their lovemaking having warmed up the wagon’s interior to a comfortable degree. Both froze at the first shout; at the second Elonia dove off the cursing historian who was burrowing into his shirt like a snake going down a gopher’s hole.
“What in blazes is going on?” Maximilian spluttered, jerking the ties secure and tucking in his shirt.
“Night attack,” Elonia spat, finishing the last tie on her shirt. “Who I haven't a clue.”
“Two months’ traveling without a single skirmish and tonight’s the tim
e we get hit,” Maximilian pulled his under-tunic over his head and started on the laces. “It never fails.”
“Durek is going to kill both of us,” Elonia struggled to get her mass of hair twisted into a coil and confined with her hair ring. “Assuming we can get back to the Company, that is.”
Outside someone screamed, and the camp echoed with the sounds of running feet and alien war cries.
“Felher,” the historian spat the word. “Lovely, just lovely; at least we pinned the tarp to keep the light in.” He pulled his scarred breast and back plates on like a shirt, the studded leather arm bracers still buckled to the plates. “And we’re in the wrong camp while it’s being over-run.”
“Both our crossbows are back in our camp,” the Seeress reminded him unnecessarily. “Along with the platoon we’re supposed to be commanding, I might add.” The wide leather girdle she was buckling around her waist was enchanted to make whatever shirt she wore the equal of good chainmail. The belt’s rich decorations were nearly hidden under the myriad of pouches it supported, along with a bolt case for her crossbow and two Navian fighting knives called yataghans which she wore cross-draw. No less than six throwing knives rode in scabbards mounted on the flaps or sides of various pouches, causing the Seeress to have to strain against the weight to fasten the girdle’s three buckles mounted one above the other.
“Things could be worse,” Maxmillian fastened the last buckle and grabbed up his sword belt. “We could have been completely naked.”
“Small consolation,” Elonia muttered, positioning a folded fighting net over each yataghan scabbard.
Checking that his broadsword, dagger, belt pouch, and bolt quiver were in place by touch, Maxmillian slid his shield onto his arm. “Damn, I left my helm back at camp, too.”
“I’m ready,” Elonia settled a brass torc into place, the enchanted circlet giving her the same protection as a full-face helm. “How do you want to do this?”
“I need to get back to the platoon, but I doubt that’ll be possible until the Company breaks camp and rushes the Felher,” the Serjeant grunted, hefting his war hammer. “The best thing to do would be to get under the wagon and try to stay alive until we can see how things are going.”
“That’s as good a plan as I’ve heard lately.” The Seeress gave the historian a quick kiss. “I’ll go first.”
“Platoon leaders to me!” Durek bellowed for the third time as he scrambled into his armor. “Blast it, where are Janna, Arian, and Maximilian?” All around him the Badger camp seethed with half-seen figures dragging on armor, boots, and weapons. Rolf had his half-platoon formed up on the camp’s east side, but the Felher were concentrating on the merchant’s camp, ignoring the Badger enclave as if it wasn’t there. Durek was taking advantage of this lull to get his organized, but as soon as he had his platoons sorted out he planned to counter-change the Felher, except that none of the platoon leaders had come to his position to receive orders.
Taupac-master Whiteback was cursing vehemently. Where in the Void had the mass of Human warriors come from? How could his scouts possibly overlook scores of fighting men in what had otherwise been a detailed scouting patrol? More importantly, how was he going to extract his outnumbered force before the Humans, who would be better armed and armored, attacked? He had one Ree in reserve, plus the guards assigned to his command group with which to attempt a diversionary attack, but would that be enough, or would it be better to sound the withdrawal and hope enough of his people made it back? The Felher officer kicked a leaf-less brush and screeched a stream of invective at the sky. Things were not going well.
The two Badger Serjeants crouched behind a small pine and watched the Felher commander rave in its incomprehensible language. Both were in full armor: Janna wearing a torc like Elonia’s, breast and back plates with studded leather bracers on her arms, while Arian had a steel cap, chain mail shirt, and a stout round shield; Janna had her enchanted bastard sword Rosemist, three throwing axes, and a dagger (having left her longbow in camp), while the monk had his crossbow, his enchanted broadsword, and a dagger. Their arms and armor were vastly superior to the group they had crept up upon, but they were badly outnumbered: the command group consisted of the Felher commander, his deputy commander, three bodyguards, and a Ree of seven Felher which apparently were the raider’s reserve.
“Six to one,” Arian whispered to Janna. “Long odds; still game?”
She kissed him in reply and leaned Rosemist against a branch, hefting an axe in her right hand with the other two ready in her left.
The monk breathed a silent prayer and steadied his aim. “Ready.”
The first hand axe struck the Felher commander square in the back of the skull, killing him instantly; Arian shot the Ree-master between the shoulder blades a split-second later and stepped into the stirrup of his crossbow, reloading as Janna’s second axe killed a bodyguard. The Felher deputy commander, a Undermaster, had been standing too close to the Taupac’s totem for her to try for it on the first two casts, and as he was both moving and wearing a rusty old mail shirt that had been cut down from a Dwarf’s size to fit the narrow-chested Felher torso when she took up the third axe, Janna spent her last axe on another bodyguard, wounding him badly. Mail, even old mail, could turn a thrown hand axe.
Arian dropped the third bodyguard as the Undermaster led the remaining Felher in a rush towards the two Badgers, then discarded his crossbow and drew his sword, shrugging his shield forward on his arm as he did so.
Elonia rolled over the wagon’s tailgate and dropped to the ground, landing crouched and facing a Felher warrior armed with a glaive. The Felher was in the act of turning to see what the noise behind him was, and even as the surprise at the sight of the Seeress registered in his deep-sunken eyes Elonia threw, the knife making one full revolution as it cross the twelve feet between thrower and target, striking the twisted kislic in the face. The gash it ripped was hardly a serious wound (throwing knives are not a particularly deadly weapon), but glued in a toothpick-sized groove cut into either side of the blade just back from the point was a quill from a fish known for its deadly poison. The Felher plucked the blade from its face and tossed it aside as it took two steps forward, then collapsed, gagging, to its knees.
Maxmillian scrambled out of the wagon and dispatched the vomiting kislic with a single hammer-stroke as Elonia ducked under the wagon. Pausing for a quick look around, the historian cursed softly and wished for his crossbow: Rocco’s camp had been completely over-run by the Felher, and its occupants were suffering badly. Thirty fee away a Ree chopped away the support ropes of a large tent, collapsing the canvas structure down upon the occupants, who were then stabbed to death while they struggled to free themselves. Another tent was set ablaze with a shovel-full of embers dug out of a handy fire pit and its occupants cut down as they fled single-file through the low entry flap. Across the road a burly wagoneer stepped out of his tent with a crossbow in hand, dropping a kislic with a well-aimed shot, but before he could reload he was struck by two darts and a slung bullet.
“They’re getting butchered,” Maxmillian exclaimed as he joined the Seeress under the wagon. “Those blasted tents are death-traps.”
“Absolutely; if it weren’t for the Company this would be cake walk for the wee bastards,” Elonia nodded. “Now what?”
“We ought to try to help, after all, Rocco has his entire family with him; we could at least try to help the children escape.”
“I’m for it; lead on.”
Durek had given up on finding his platoon leaders; Rolf and Kroh had the other half of Blue platoon mustered with the sentries, and the two Corporals in Silver platoon had their force organized, but Gold Platoon was still a shambles. Ordering Serjeant Bridget Uldo to take charge of Gold Platoon with Corporal Henri Toulon to assist, the Captain ordered Blue and Silver to form on line at the east edge of the Badger’s camp and took his place at their head, with Dayyan Reinhart carrying the Company standard at his side. Starr already had her scout section on
their south flank providing covering fire (all the scouts were archers) as the two platoons formed up; after a moment’s hesitation Durek decided to leave the Company’s two wizards (Lieutenant Axel Uldo and Corporal Henri Toulon) in camp with the reserve platoon, as the Felher did not seem to have magical support and in the confusion of night-fighting it would be too easy to inflict friendly casualties with area-effect magic.
“Badgers, ADVANCE!” The line of mercenaries, some of whom only half-clothed but all fully armored and armed, swept forward, led by their short Captain and the tall Company standard. The first Felher they encountered were two kislics and a karlic busily sorting through the contents of a cargo wagon; all three were cut down before they realized that they were under attack.
As the seven Felher closed, Janna brought Rosemist up into the ready position and gave a second’s consideration to a familiar problem, that being whether to use her sword’s full abilities or not. Enchanted weapons are a mixed lot; some are merely enchanted in such a manner that their edges are enhanced and protected, such as the weapons that Arian and Durek carried, while others have special functions in addition to the basic enhancement, such as Kroh Blackhand’s Named Axe which could be thrown, or her own Rosemist. The best weapons, such as the latter two, drew their power from association with their wielders in a manner that wizards always got vague and technical about when pressed, making comparisons to static electricity and that sort of thing. Both types of enchanted weapons were long-lasting, being potent for centuries, but the special features were handicapped by a time element: for instance, Kroh’s axe required twenty-four hours between uses to rebuild its enchantment. Rosemist was a ghost-blade, a weapon whose blade could ignore all non-living obstructions and affect only living flesh; it stored up to six uses of this ability, but it took sixty-odd days to replenish a single usage, with six small silver roses inset into the blade near the hilt indicating by their luster the sword’s potency. Janna, naturally, hoarded the blade’s abilities with the utmost care, as it took a full year to bring the blade up to full potency again.
