by RW Krpoun
The arrow caught the leg-man in the side as Milo tried for a heart shot, but the links of the man’s mail shirt deflected the arrow, although it did not stop it, the steel head slipping to the side as it sheared through iron rings and the under-tunic, hit a rib and followed the bone around towards the man’s back rather than entering the rib cage. The scout cursed briefly as he tossed his bow on a broken settee and drew his long sword and dagger, not having time to waste getting his buckler.
At the wounded soldier’s yell the blanket-wielder shoved Stebbs hard, sending her sprawling, and snatched up a wickedly spiked mace and a round shield, losing the latter as Milo lunged, slicing the Hand solder’s left arm with the point of his long, narrow sword blade.
The mace-wielder backed up as his comrade gave up trying to get a grip on the arrow and clumsily drew a small axe with his left hand, his right arm being hindered by the wound in his side. Milo glanced from one to another and suddenly lunged at the axe-man, knocking the small axe out of the way with his sword-blade and stabbing the man in the side with his dagger as he passed by to plant his back to the opposite wall, feeling the dagger’s point punch through rings and tear the flesh beneath.
It wasn’t a particularly severe or even serious wound, but apparently it was sufficient: the Hand warrior backed up a few steps and then trotted off, heading back down the corridor towards Hand-controlled areas, ignoring the shouts of his comrade.
Shouting what was obviously an insult at his retreating comrade, the remaining warrior closed, holding his mace in a two-handed grip. Milo set his feet and waited, wished he had had time to get his buckler. The two men eyed each other, weapons ready, both confident that since neither had a shield, a single blow would settle this engagement once and for all.
Rotating his sword’s blade to the right and left loosened Milo’s wrist and kept his elbow limber as he shifted his weight from foot to foot and watched the Hand soldier’s hands where they gripped the engraved shaft of his weapon. His foe was a man of about his own age, a bit taller but less thick through the shoulders, with olive skin and black hair.
Brandywine hurled the blanket that had been used against her over the Hand warrior’s head and shoulders; Milo was nearly as surprised as Black-Hair was, so intently had he been concentrating on the next move, but he recovered swiftly and stepped in, running the point of his sword into, and through, the man’s left thigh, aiming for the large blood vessel, twisting his narrow blade with all his might as he withdrew.
Parrying a wild mace-swing with his dagger, which was knocked from his hand by the impact, Milo stabbed the man in his left calf, causing the tormented left leg to buckle and spill the Hand warrior onto the floor. Brandywine lunged in with a spear she had taken from the discarded weapons lying about the corridor as Milo recovered from his stroke, but she missed, the point of her weapon jamming up against an uneven floor tile with such force that dust sprang from the tile’s grouted seams, the sudden halt to her inexpert attack tumbling the young Healer to the floor next to her intended victim.
Ignoring the Healer’s failed attack, Milo stepped in and drove his point into Black-Hair’s chest as the man discarded his mace and drew a long knife from his belt, riding the back-shock as the point slid through the iron rings and the man’s flesh, guiding the sword point under the breastbone and up into the heart sac, feeling the man’s last heart beat as a faint quiver through the steel of his blade.
Wrenching the weapon free, he grabbed Brandywine by the arm and hauled her to her feet. “Come on, we’re on the wrong side of the line.” Dragging her back the way he had come, pausing only to snatch up his bow from the ripped cushions of the settee, the red-haired scout headed back towards the rally chamber, hoping that they hadn’t lost too much time.
“Recall the troops,” Descente ordered through gritted teeth. It was well past noon, and the day had not progressed well for the Hand. Not long after he had received the news about Apartia Laffery had begun withdrawing towards the north Royal Bridge forts, covering with withdrawal with cavalry charges and skirmishing Lanthrell. Descente had followed, taking the precaution of sending Eyade patrols across the river to scout the forts against yet another cunning stratagem of the Grand Marshal’s. It was with no surprise that he learned that heavy war engines were being assembled on the upper reaches of all four forts, siege-level weapons whose range and throw weight would give the Heartland Army a sizeable advantage once they withdrew within their range. Descente had kept the pressure on the Heartland’s rearguard for the space of a couple miles out of sheer pugnaciousness, finally issuing the order to halt when it was patently obvious that there was no real chance of bringing Laffery to bay short of the forts.
He sat on his horse and watched the enemy withdraw into the distance. The latest reports from Apartia were grim: the garrison was both trapped and mauled, with little or no hopes of retaking the city or breaking out, although there was the possibility of holding out until Bohca Ortak arrived to rescue them. In any case that wasn’t his problem at the moment; he had to complete the siege of Sagenhoft and re-take the Royal Bridge while holding off or destroying the Heartland Army and probably the Army of the South as well.
Motioning for his scribe, he dictated orders to the commander of Bohca Ileri to provide a battery of heavy siege engines and ammunition to be placed in train and sent to the western Royal Bridge forts with the Dayar as escorts. Next he ordered that the standards and unit records of the Tenth Holding and the two wrecked Sacred Bands be sent back to the homelands via Gate along with token honor guards, while the remaining survivors be assigned as replacements to the worst-hit units. As soon as the battlefield had been salvaged of all Breedstones and useable equipment the army would march back to Sagenhoft, and from there to the western end of the Royal Bridge.
His decisions made and the staff already working out the details, the Grand Commander sat on his horse and stared up into the cloudy fall sky. There was rain coming soon, he knew, and winter’s snows were not far behind them, a time he should have been using to move his army into winter quarters to sit out the snows and frosts that would mark the end of the campaign. Come spring he should have leisurely mopped up the central Realms area and began planning operations along the Bloody Road; instead, the campaign would continue.
The weight of his mistakes pressed down on his shoulders like a doubly-heavy suit of armor: the slow pursuit after Dorog, the decision to wait until the morrow at Laffery’s Ford, the decision to remain at Sagenhoft instead of pursuing the battered but unbroken Heartland army, blunders that might very well doom the Hand’s efforts to secure their foothold in the west and fully dominate the Plains.
He eyed the distant Heartland rearguard and vowed that Laffery would not find him wanting again.
There was plenty of work to be done when the Badgers reached their warehouse: the wounded had to be tended, loot-filled packs and bags were stacked in one corner to await sorting, platoon and section leaders inspected the condition of their uninjured mercenaries and looked in on their wounded, and individual Badgers replenished their stores of missile weapons and dug the makings of a meal out of their haversacks, which they had left in the warehouse before assaulting the palace ten hours ago. Durek left with Axel to report to Garmil Forgetamer to see what their next assignment would be, taking Jothan and Dayyan along for security.
They returned two hours later with a couple guides in tow. Word was passed for the officers to gather in the corner designated as the command area, where Durek waited to receive their reports.
Bridget, tired and freshly scrubbed from working on the wounded, reported first. “Four dead, all rankers, and twenty-three wounded, none permanently impaired, but we’re completely drained, Captain, five Healers not withstanding. No more fighting unless you want to lose troops.”
“We’re done here in Apartia; the garrison, what’s left of it, is bottled up in the palace and two small compounds, plus about two-thirds of the wall positions. Our forces are just going to bottle them u
p for the time being. How soon can the wounded travel?”
The weary advocate sighed and thought for a moment. “If you can get them real beds and hot meals, you could move the day after tomorrow, tomorrow if you put a dozen in straw-lined carts for a couple days.”
“Tomorrow it is, then. Henri, what about loot?”
“We captured some good chain mail and enough crossbows to make up for both our losses in the Sagenhoft raid and in today’s fight, with some left over. The vast bulk of the loot is portable wealth already looted by Hand troops, plenty of cash, objects of art, jewelry, and the like; I’ve gotten a basic sorting down, but it’ll take hours to catalog all of it properly, and Doctor Kuhler is wiped out from all the Healing. The only enchanted device we took was a couple of ornate plates Philip and Tonya captured, but I haven't even taken a good look at them yet, nor am I going to get much of a chance if we’re pulling out tomorrow.”
“Fine, they can wait. Here’s where we stand: the Lord Regent, our paymaster, sent orders placing us under operational control of the Heartland army, so we won’t be seeing Sagenhoft again for quite some time. Now, everyone thinks the Hand will order Bohca Ortak in the south to march north and retake Apartia, and I agree, it’s the logical course.” The Captain laid out a map. “To get here they’ve got to cross the Bercer River which will be swollen due to the fall rains. All likely bridges are going to be destroyed in the next few days which leaves the fords, or more importantly, one ford in particular.” He tapped the map to indicate the spot. “Brown Wood Ford, which is the likeliest place the Bohca will cross at. We’re to march there at once with everything we can muster and organize a few hundred irregular troops into a delaying force. Naturally they don’t expect us to hold the place, just delay the Hand for a day or so. Specifically the Company receives a bonus of fifty ducats for every hour we hold the north bank of the ford after the first Hand scouts reach the south bank. With luck we’ll have at least a week to dig in. I’ve an order signed by Forgetamer himself authorizing us to take any supplies, weapons, and transport we desire, and draft any civilian help we may need for this mission. I figure four carts and drivers to haul our loot, gear, and wounded, plus four more loaded with rations for winter. Say four to eight more loaded with tools and whatever heavy weapons we can lay our hands upon, impress a couple smiths and their tools, and we’re off.”
“Where do we go once our position at the ford becomes untenable?” Arian asked.
“East, take up winter quarters and spend the cold months building up irregulars and harassing the Hand supply route. In the spring we’ll get new orders, or maybe not. In any case, after the job at the ford we’re done with any heavy fighting until spring, and I for one am very glad of it. We’ve fought in three major battles in ten days, and that’s plenty for a while.”
“How did the battle to the west go?” Rolf asked.
“Bloody and inconclusive. You can count on the war dragging into next summer by the soonest.”
“So they’re figuring that Apartia’ll fall once Bohca Ortak arrives?” Arian did not look happy with that thought.
“It seems so; the city walls are breached and there won’t be time to repair them, although the Hand troops won’t have siege weapons so they’ll have to storm the place. I’m guessing they hope to bleed ‘em dry taking the place again; after all, they lost a couple thousand troops the first time they cleared the city, and they had a lot better support.”
“It’ll be rough on the non-combatants,” Bridget scowled.
“They’re going to evacuate a bunch,” Durek shrugged. “This war has been rough on a lot of civilians, and it isn’t over yet.” Seeing that his words weren’t putting the priestess at ease, he changed the subject. “Kroh and Rolf will seek out heavy weapons; Henri, you find food and sundries. Maxmillian, take Elonia and get the carts; Axel will take Tonya and Philip and locate tools, materials, and craftsmen, specifically a couple smiths and carpenters. Bulldog, inspect everyone’s blankets and winter clothes, make good any shortfalls, and establish a reasonable reserve. Oh, and see if you can find a couple oil-fired stoves and fuel, plus another dozen hooded lanterns, they’re always useful. And everyone grab boots and socks where you find them, footgear’s always good to have. Anyone have anything to add? Fine, let’s get to work.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Don’t see why I have any business south a’here,” the burly man grumbled.
“That’s because your parents were brother and sister,” Milo observed. The stonemason glared at the red-haired mercenary, knotting his ham-like fists but wisely keeping his seat; he would have pounded any other man into a bloody pudding for far less, and had in the past, but the wide-eared scout was leaning on a handy hitching post, one hand on his sword hilt. A punch-up, friendly or angry, held no fears for the mason, but getting carved up was another thing entirely.
Henri wandered up to where the Scout Section was standing watch over their artisans as the Company formed up to depart, a steaming mug in one hand and a buttered roll in the other. “Breakfast is being served,” he advised Starr, who immediately sent half her Section to get the morning meal. The tired wizard surveyed the dozen hang-dog men lounging around a defunct fountain and shook his head. “Sad-looking lot.”
“Not an ounce of spine amongst ‘em,” Milo nodded. “Won’t help the resistance keep the Hand garrison bottled up, don’t want to help us slow down Bohca Ortak, didn’t fight when the Hand carried the city, wouldn’t soldier to the east or the west, nothing. Here we are offering them a golden opportunity to do their bit and all they do is whine and mutter.”
“Castrate a couple and it’ll motivate the rest,” the wizard suggested. “Or hang one, that’s always a nice approach, does the remainder a world of good.”
A carbon-stained blacksmith spat loudly and the Arturian bridled, draining his tea in a gulf and tossing the mug aside as he stepped over to the hulking man. “Something on your mind? A comment, perhaps? Someone give this walking pig a sword so I can kill him without an accusation of murder.” Jepson Plumer stepped up to the smith, offering his short sword hilt first. The artisan looked away, beet-faced with fury and embarrassment. “Won’t fight, when we’ve lads without a hair on their crotch standing in ranks facing the Hand garrison,” Henri sneered. “Put your sword away, Jepson, this whore’s-get won’t need it. Listen to me: you’re in the service of the Phantom Badgers now, not a part of the Company, thank the Eight, but associated with us all the same, and you will fight when the time comes. Fight, or I’ll kill you myself, that’s a promise you can take to the money-lender, lads. We’ve lost some good men since this mess started, not a soul of whom was from this Eight-forsaken rat-hole. If we can fight, by the Light, so can you.”
The scouts returned with pitchers of tea and baskets of rolls, butter, cheese, and baked potatoes; Milo helped himself and laid out a repast as he listened to the wizard harangue the sullen artisans. Not many of the Company had gotten much rest during the evening and night following the raid, spending most of the hours combing the town looking for transport, rations, and war gear for their mission. They had a dozen light two-wheeled carts such as the Company preferred, along with volunteer drivers, plus five big wagons to haul the wounded in, Durek planning on sending the large wains back to the city as soon as the wounded could walk, or at least ride on a cart-seat. Filling the carts with the needed equipment had been difficult, but not quite impossible, although many of the Badgers had gotten no sleep at all due to the hours spent relentlessly tracking down gear.
They had also rounded up men who were skilled in working stone, metal, and wood to help build the defense works at the ford, a task made easier by the liaison officer provided by the resistance movement, who had helped them locate twelve artisans who had managed to sit out the war to date.
It was mid-morning by the time the weary mercenaries were formed up with their impressively long train of carts and wagons and heading to the South Gate, and a light rain was falling out of the leaden
sky as they began their march to the Bercer River.
It was raining on the morning of the first of Frosteil, the eleventh month of the Imperial Calendar, as Bohca Ortak began its northward march from the outskirts of the fortified city of Cashel to Apartia. Silot Gichin, Markan-Hern of the Sixth Orbit and the Bohca commander sat on his horse in a oiled silk slicker watching the units begin the march with a heavy heart. A stout man in his fifties who had not worn armor or carried a weapon other than a dagger in decades, Gichin was a former Markan-Thom, the worship-leaders, rites-performers, and evangelists of the Hand of Chaos before being promoted to the ranks of the -Hern, and he was keenly aware that many found his appointment to command an army appalling, although few could complain of his performance to date.
Bohca Ortak had been the smallest of the three invading armies, hardly larger than the reserve force under Bohca Ileri, and had had an correspondingly limited assignment. It’s job had been to pin down the Army of the South, isolate or take Cashel, the southern region’s largest city and political center, and guard Bohca Tatbik’s southern flank, all of which had been performed admirably. He hadn’t actually taken Cashel, of course, but since all he had had was light siege gear no one had actually expected him to do so unless the -Fet could have managed it through treachery and subterfuge.
After a long summer campaign of march and counter-march, and over twenty small-scale engagements with the Army of the South which had done no lasting damage to either side but which had kept the enemy force completely focused and busy, Gichin had ordered his troops into winter quarters around Cashel, isolating the city as per his instructions, and seen to the restoration of the summer’s damage to his forces. He had expected to spend the winter months training his troops and building up his supply base for the coming campaign, hoping that Bohca Ileri and the heavy siege train would be released to his command by mid-summer for the reduction of Cashel, along with enough troops to put an end to the Army of the South; after all, Bohca Tatbik had a death-grip on Sagenhoft, whose fall would cut the Realms in half and serve their morale with a shattering blow.
