by RW Krpoun
Despite their steadily-mounting losses the Direbreed pressed home their assault with every bit of energy they had, scrambling up out of the trenches or charging across the battered, blood-slicked surfaces of their improvised bridges as if victory was assured and their losses were trivial. Four long, drawn out minutes passed like days for the Badgers as the warped abominations surged against the line of mercenaries; Durek sent the ballista crew and the Scout Section into the line to make good the losses as the issue hung in the balance.
Finally individual Direbreed began to break away and retreat back through the stake belt, heading back to their rally points as their hopes of crossing the trench faded; they might be assured a rebirth if they fell but dying was still painful to them, and with nearly half their number gone and the Badger line bloody but unbroken it was becoming obvious that they would not carry the fort in this charge. The Markan-Ra commanding the Darkhost obviously agreed: moments later horns sounded the recall and the remaining Direbreed reluctantly disengaged and trotted back, recovering Breedstones as they went.
A few Badgers sent arrows and quarrels after the retreating beast-men, but most just staggered back to a clean patch of dirt and sat down, draining their water skins or flasks in an attempt to quench the burning thirst even a few seconds of melee brought on. Serjeants and Corporals moved up and down the lines, counting heads and checking on the wounded.
Durek drained his flask, scrubbed the worst of the blood and gore from his axe and person with dirt and straw, and went to get the casualty reports, which weren’t too bad: one dead, a Grand Crossing recruit, and seventeen wounded badly enough to take them off of duty, but none so badly that they would be maimed for life.
“Right, grab a few Breedstones where they’re handy and let’s get out of here; we’ve fulfilled the contract and it’s time to head for the river. Next time they’ll send two Darkhosts and we’ll all end up buried in the trenches.” Durek pulled off his helm as he spoke, enjoying the cool air caressing his sweaty scalp. “Anyone have a comment or observation?”
“It was nice to get out of the city for a while,” Arian grinned. “The scenery was pleasant although the natives weren’t very hospitable.”
True to their word, the Harthrell had boats ready to extract the raiders; the Badgers were loaded into three Human-built craft crewed by the sea-faring Threll and taken back to the city at a considerably quicker pace than they had come out, passing other craft heading upriver to take on another load. A few Badgers took the opportunity to talk to the boat crews, but most were far too tired to be impressed by novelty.
The Company disembarked at the East Fort on Dragon Isle; while Axel oversaw the assembly of the battered mercenaries Durek trudged over to the Raid Force headquarters to be debriefed and, he hoped, released for a period of rest and reorganization.
After spending thirty minutes describing his Company’s actions to an intelligence officer and handing over sketches made of the areas the Company had raided, the Captain was given a mug of beef broth and shown to a chair in a side chamber. The Dwarf drank the broth and settled in to doze away the wait, which turned out to be the better part of two hours. When an aide shook him awake and gave him a cup of tea, he was surprised to find that he was to meet with the Lord Marshal instead of being sent back to his Company.
The Lord Marshal was elated. “Your Company did a fine job out there, Captain,” he boomed as the filthy, battered Dwarf was shown into the guard room the commander was using as an office. “The raid as a whole is proceeding marvelously. Bohca Tatbik declined battle and is force-marching back to Sagenhoft and the Heartland army is marching south as well; I believe we’re entering a crucial period in the campaign, if not the entire war.”
“Good news,” Durek nodded politely, thankful for the aide’s kindness in bringing that cup of tea when he woke the Captain.
“It is indeed. Now, I understand your Company took no serious harm in the battle, only wounded that will be recovered from Healing in a day or two?”
“One dead, but yes, we’ll be ready after a couple day’s rest,” Durek covered a yawn.
“What would you say to taking part in another such raid in the next few days, a sudden surprise assault into a loot-rich environment?”
Durek studied the Marshal. “If it did not involve a frontal assault, and the Lord Regent releases us, yes, I believe we would be willing.”
“The Lord Regent has already given his blessing. This operation is secret, in all of Sagenhoft only I know the details, but it involves another sneak raid, with less large-scale fighting, although there may be intensive skirmishing.”
The Captain considered the offer, then shrugged. “Count us in.”
“Good. Return to your barracks at your inn and rest, you will be exempt from all duties. Report to the West Fort on Dragon Isle in full battle order and four day’s rations at one hour past noon on the twenty-sixth. You will need to bring or store all your Company’s goods as transport will not be allowed, only man-portable loads.”
“We’ll be operating outside the city?”
“Yes, but from a secure base, so you will be able to leave your Company stores before you go into action, although you will have to plan for at least a twenty-five mile march before you can store any equipment. I do not know how long you will be operating away from the city.”
“It shall be done.”
“You will tell your officers and men as little as possible, and withhold the muster date exclusively to yourself until as late on the twenty-fifth as you can manage.”
“I understand.”
“Excellent. These orders will allow you to draw military supplies and rations from the depots here on Dragon Isle; I would suggest sending a detail to draw them on the afternoon of the twenty-fifth, and to store them in this warehouse indicated here, to save yourselves the trouble of moving them all over Sagenhoft.”
As he expected, the entire Company was fast asleep except for two sentries watching over the loot. Durek didn’t bother to pass on the news of their next assignment, contenting himself with announcing an officer’s call late in the afternoon and marching the haggard mercenaries back to the Red Fox. There would be time enough to deal with their mysterious involvement later.
That afternoon the Company’s bleary leaders met, all cleaner and somewhat rested. Durek wasted no time in bringing the meeting to order. “We’re going on another raid, with the deployment time unknown but no sooner than the twenty-sixth. Bridget, will the wounded be ready?”
“All but two.” The advocate’s freshly washed face was propped up on her open hand. “If they rest until the call.”
“Good. We’ll be leaving Sagenhoft by ship with no certain return date, so we’ll sell off our carts and all excess stores. Henri, how much gear to we have to get rid of to be purely foot-mobile?”
“Not all that much, really,” the wizard was already thumbing through his ledger. “The mules were sold at the siege’s onset of course, and since then we’ve eaten nearly all our reserve of food; the excess war gear was sold off, along with all the loot except for what we’ve taken on this raid. Aside from the war chest (which is Kuhler’s responsibility), all we have are a few reserve missile weapons, some spare shields, medical supplies, the carts, tack, a few tools, and camp equipment.” He frowned at the pages.
“Good. Here are letters of authorization for missile weapons and rations; draw them tomorrow and store them in the warehouse indicated in the third letter. Try to have all the excess gear sold by then. Tell the troops to expect some hard marching in the next few weeks, followed by fighting and loot, where and when being still unknown at this point.”
“It’s not like you to buy a pig in a poke,” Axel observed without rancor. “What has you interested in blind operations now?”
“It will take us out of Sagenhoft,” the Dwarf answered honestly. “The city wall is breached, and the garrison took a solid beating in holding the Red Line, with more troops lost in this raid. Several cohorts will be
going with us, which will leave the city is a precarious position if the Heartland Army is beaten in the next few days and the siege resumes. Laffery has done well to date but the fact remains that the Hand has driven Sagenhoft to the breaking point; one major assault and they’ll take the city. I would rather not be here when it falls, which it will unless Laffery has some extremely cunning plan ready.”
“I’ll second that,” Axel nodded. “It would be a shame, though; Sagenhoft is a nice city.”
“Not nice enough to die in,” Henri observed, to a chorus of muted agreement.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“What in blazes is that smell?” Henri demanded, standing on a wheel’s axle-hub to peer into a cart’s interior.
“Smell’s like rotting blood,” Rolf observed helpfully, climbing over the tailgate to peer into a corner. “Uh-oh.”
“What do you mean, ‘uh-oh’?” the wizard demanded peevishly.
“Um, it’s a sack of purses we took off the Hobrec, and forgot to sort,” the big half-Orc heaved the rolled tent which had covered the sack upright and examined the canvas. “But all this tent needs is a little washing.”
“From the Hobrec? You mean when we fried ’em?”
“Ah, no, at the Amphitheater raid.”
The wizard turned to glare at Kroh, who was aimlessly twirling a piece of rope, looking elaborately unconcerned. “Damn it, Kroh, you were in charge of that detail.”
“Might have been,” the Waybrother conceded. “It’s been a while.”
“Balls. Well, you two buggered things up, so you two can put it right: clean up the tent and cart, and sort the loot like you should have four months ago.” Henri was the same rank as the other two but his position as quartermaster gave him undisputed authority in the matter. “And be quick about it, there’s a Sagenhoftian quartermaster on his way to buy the lot.”
“Move the bag out and go start a fire in the trash pit,” the Dwarf advised Rolf after the wizard stomped off. “I’ll sort out the tent and cart.”
Rolf had tossed the rotten sack onto the small coal fire burning in the trash pit behind the inn and was sorting through the purses and bags it had contained by the time the Waybrother joined him, arranging the items into two piles. “There’s not many,” the big Corporal grinned at his comrade. “We’ll be done in a jiffy.’
“I suppose,” Kroh grumbled, pulling a purse from his pile and opening it. “Let’s see, four coins, a bit of sea shell, some jerky gone all moldy, and a fish hook.” He put the coins on the dirt between them and tossed the rest of the items into the trash pit.
The two Corporals worked through the pile of belt-pouches, haversacks, and purses that had been stripped off the dead reavers, sorting out the valuables from the junk with practiced ease. Kroh finished first, being less curious than Rolf, who tended to examine everything and speculate about the deceased owners. The Dwarf went off to wash his hands at a rain barrel and brought back a bucket of water for Rolf.
“You planning on getting done today?” The Dwarf asked, clipping a cigar and lighting it with his new pendant.
“Last one.” Rolf picked up the last item in his pile, a haversack designed to be worn over the shoulder. It had been quite a prize in the past: a good square leather container with an inner frame of wood and thick, well-oiled leather panels suspended on a shoulder belt a palm wide. The leather was hand-tooled in a complex wave pattern while the shoulder strap buckle and the fastening latch were engraved silver. Unfortunately it had been in Hobrec service far too long to be of much value now: the leather was scratched and stained, and the metalwork was bent and tarnished. It had also been liberally splashed with blood in the fighting and half the framework had been broken in.
Rolf cut the buckle and latch-metal off and opened the case. The haversack had begun life as a very good writing case, the wooden frame being fitted with hinges to open and provide a flat writing surface while the bottom third of the case was a wooden box fitted with depressions to hold an inkwell, candle, sealing wax, and the like. None of the accessories were still there, of course; the Hobrec who had owned it had even pried off the metal fittings (likely silver that matched the buckle and latch) from the woodwork, and then used it to carry a set of whetstones, oil flask, and other weapon equipment. The big Corporal put the stones to one side and threw the rest of the junk into the pit.
“Pretty nice whetstones,” Kroh observed as he stowed them in a clean sack. “Not too bad, about thirty ducats in cash, a few bits of jewelry, some scrap silver, and these stones.”
“It’s a pity,” Rolf mused, running a finger around the case's exterior. “When this was new, it probably cost at least thirty ducats or more. Too bad the Hobrec didn’t take better care of it.” He frowned, and ran his hand around the base of the case again, feeling carefully. Holding it firmly in place, he prodded the bottom of the case in several places and felt the corners carefully. There was no doubt about it: the case felt wrong. The corner struts were snapped off, probably when the owner fell in the fighting; the bottom of the case should have caved in until it hit the wooden tray when pressed, but instead, for much of it's length it resisted pressure in a spongy fashion.
“What are you doing?” Kroh asked. “Pitch it in the fire and let’s get stuck into some ale.”
“The bottom of the case feels funny, like there’s something inside.”
“Probably leather filler to act as padding for the bottom of the case, but there’s no harm in looking,” the Waybrother conceded after Rolf showed him the irregularity, and took the case in order to examine the tray. It was badly battered and stained, but careful examination revealed a hole where a knob had been ripped out, and a slot that might have made way for the lever of a neat little latch. Months of sharpening stones bouncing around had either broken off the lever or smashed it back into the slot. Using his boot knife Kroh cut away the back panel flush with the bottom board and then levered the board up.
Inside was a thick bundle of papers secured in an oilskin tube worn shiny with frequent handling. Working carefully, the Dwarf eased the papers out of the tube. Although the case had been largely waterproof, and the wooden tray fitted tightly, it was evident that some oil from the flask had worked its way into the tube.
“It isn't parchment,” Rolf observed as the Waybrother carefully unrolled the sheets.
“Nope, vellum made from snake's hide, the big ones from the Suflands, Elonia pointed some out to me once,” Kroh shifted his cigar in his mouth to avoid dropping ashes onto the pages. “Expensive stuff but it lasts years longer than the normal grade of vellum made from lamb's skin, and a hundred times longer than parchment, or so she told me. Let’s see, thirty-one sheets.”
The two Badgers studied them for a bit; twenty-five were covered in neat precise writing in the manner of a journal but in a language neither could read, although that wasn’t too unusual as between them their literacy encompassed Pradian and Fiadaich, the Dwarven language.
The remaining six sheets were maps; the notes were in the same unknown language and in the same hand. They looked up as Doctor Kuhler walked up. “Reading letters from home?”
Kroh shook his head. “We found this in the loot we forgot to sort after the Amphitheater fight.”
“That’s what I was coming to get, anything important?” the Healer picked up one of the journal pages and studied the writing.
“Some money and odds and ends,” Rolf shrugged. “Plus that, we found it hidden in a nice writing kit that some reaver had been using to store his whetstones in. Can you read it?”
“No, I only know a few words in Navian.” Kuhler handed the sheet back to Kroh. “Take it to Jothan, he’ll be able to decipher it.”
“Navian, eh?” Kroh flicked ashes off his cigar and studied the neatly inked lines. “That’s interesting.”
Jothan was off with Henri drawing supplies; Durek and Axel thumbed through pages and pronounced them interesting but definitely business for another day. They were turned over to Doctor Kuhler f
or safe-keeping and everyone’s attention was turned to more pressing problems, such as a Company-wide shortage of socks, thread suitable for repairing leather gear, and soap.
Hebreth Descente let the staff officer drone on while he focused on his situation. The lead elements of Bohca Tatbik had arrived at the Outer Defenses shortly after noon on the twenty-fifth, some five hours ago; by now, the entire force was assembled. The last of the raiders had been driven out of the earthworks by dusk on the day before, although Bohca Ileri was still busy putting things to rights and reorganizing. Their losses had been heavy but not overwhelming; the Black Death Horc was gone, of course, and both the Bloody Skulls and Eye Rippers had been badly battered, but less than two hundred Breedstones had been lost and by midnight all the slain Direbreed would have been reborn and back in the ranks. Replacement Breedstones had already been received, inexperienced, of course, although it had cost him twenty veteran Direbreed sent back through the Gates in payment. Any other replacements would have to wait until he had cleared the enemy from the Royal Bridge; he had ordered the units of replacements currently en route to wait at Dorog until the way was clear.
Five egran had been lost, a loss which, when coupled with the supplies destroyed in the raid and those burned to lighten his baggage train, meant that the Gates would have to concentrate exclusively on transferring supplies, all replacements save Breedstones having to march or ride in overland from the depots on the Plains. There were several complete Gate assemblies, including some of the new type, in the central Realms area to support intelligence operations, and before the withdrawal had begun from Lightwater he had ordered that they be consolidated and brought to support his army; within a few weeks he expected to have fully restored his supply system.
