by RW Krpoun
In the end she had been forced to settle for experienced Badgers armed with sand-filled saps who would render the slaves unconscious by means of a sharp rap on the head; it would be a painful rescue but better than no rescue at all, the advocate reasoned. Should the sap-wielders accidently take a life in the heat of the moment, then all that could be said was that there were worse things than dying, and that Hand slavery was one of them. Even if the war was won in the Realms the slaves at the sites here on the Plains would either be sent east to the Hand’s homeland or be given as gifts to the Eyade, Goblins, or Orcs.
Sitting under the dome of stars, the advocate restlessly worked at the plan, trying to figure out how the maximum number of slaves could be rescued within the short amount of time involved.
Starr leaned against the grassy side of the over-grown defensive ditch, an arrow ready in her bow, and breathed in the stalk-smells of the thick-stemmed Plains grass while she waited, her sky-blue eyes reflexively searching. With her in the ditch on the east side of Green Reach was her Section, Henri, and Jothan, who habitually attached himself to the Scouts; the little Lanthrell did not object to the latter’s presence as he was eel-quick in his movement, took orders well, and in the months he had served with the Company he had learned a good deal of woodcraft. Jothan, she had decided some time ago, would go far within the Company.
A trio of Direbreed approaching her position tore the scout from her musings; the little Lanthrell held herself motionless yet relaxed, eyes half-closed to hide as much of the whites as possible. Like the rest of the Badgers in the ditch Starr had tied down all loose equipment, muffled any metal parts with strips of felt to avoid noise, and had even stuffed extra bandages into her pouch to keep the contents from rattling. Any equipment or weapon with polished surfaces or bright colors had either been wrapped in strips of cloth or coated with a soot-tallow paste, and strips of brown and black sackcloth two inches wide and two feet long were tied around her upper arms, upper legs, calves, and looped through her belt, the dangling ends helping break up her silhouette. She had scrubbed her hands with a mixture of soot and tallow and then dried them in powdery dirt, dulling her tanned skin still further, and hidden her blonde hair under a dun-colored bandanna. Her face, neck, and ears swirls bore stripes of brown, green, and black paste made from actor’s makeup, tallow, and plant dyes to hide any shine of sweat.
Their laborious preparations were obviously worth their effort: the three Direbreed passed within twenty feet of the Badgers and continued on their disinterested patrol, oblivious to the mercenaries’ presence.
Green Reaches’ security was deceptively poor: the physical defenses were so ill-maintained as to be no defense at all, and the dozen trios of beast-warriors assigned to guard duty wandered the ditch-line or stood as it suited them, which made their positioning completely random and thus difficult to predict, but it also periodically opened large gaps in the sentry line. More effective a defense was the fact that the Darkhost had no formal barracks, each Fist sleeping where its Fist-Lord thought best, which meant that the entire site was littered with knots of sleeping warriors; just as bad, the slaves had to shift for themselves in regards to sleeping areas and any one of them could inadvertently sound the alarm. Because of this it had been decided not to indulge in any stealthy penetrations of the site; instead, the Scout Section would take up position in the ditch, followed by the main body, which would approach using Bridget’s silence spells to get as close as possible. Once the alarm was sounded the main body would close in a rush while the Scouts killed what Direbreed they could.
The sun was a bloody sliver on the horizon; Durek had timed the attack to coincide with sunrise and chosen to attack from the east so their foes would be facing into the sun, a small advantage but a useful one; it would also help reduce the chances of detection a bit.
To Starr’s keen ears the sound of the Company creeping up behind her had all the subtlety of a small herd of yalla, Bridget’s enchantments notwithstanding, but so far the Direbreed hadn’t noticed. Besides the guards more figures were stirring around the rows of half-sunken stone warehouses that blocked their view of the Gate-sheds and the keep, mostly slaves beginning the day’s work of shifting and maintaining supplies and tending to their master’s needs.
Controlling her breathing, staying alert, watching everything and everywhere, Starr waited for the fight to start. She was long past the baited, nerve-tearing anticipation which had tormented her before her earlier battles; there was still the thrill of anticipation, of course, tempered with the knowledge of the pain of wounding, but she was much more in control of her emotions than once she had been. That was the mark of a veteran, she reminded herself, as she watched the Direbreed and slaves.
Arian bit back a curse as he brushed the big brown ants from his wrist, having inadvertently plunged his left hand into a mound while easing forward at a crouch; fortunately, the ants were sluggish in the cooler morning air, and he was able to knock them off without being bitten more than three or four times. Silver Platoon, advancing on line with Blue to its right and Gold to its left, was only fifty yards from Green Reach’s ditch, far closer than the Serjeant had thought they could get, and the success was not pleasing him because moving forward at a scuttling crouch was killing his lower back.
The younger members of his platoon and the irregulars they had brought to bolster their numbers were hissing to each other in excitement over their surprisingly undetected approach, something which was beginning to annoy Arian to no end, but he knew he would make more noise shushing them than they were already making.
‘Novices,’ he mouthed disgustedly and shook his head in a single, short jerk. He couldn't remember the thrill of his early fights any more, the time when impending action strained his nerves to the breaking point; these days he wanted the Direbreed to notice them so he could stand up straight and ease the growing ache in his lower back and upper thighs. He was loose and ready for the fight, his mind clear of distractions, the plan hammered into his skull, and his equipment carefully checked. There was the thrill of a dangerous undertaking, of course, and the heady feeling stemming from putting one’s life on the line, but he had felt these a hundred times before, and they didn’t reach his thoughts. To survive, you fought through the thrill, ignored the excitement, made the whole thing just a dangerous bit of hard work if you wanted to see the other end of a fight.
It was with relief that he heard a guttural shout followed by a shriek of pain as a Direbreed sounded the alarm only to catch an arrow for its trouble. Leaping gratefully erect Arian worked his shoulders and stretched his back as he yelled for the platoon to advance. With a ragged cheer the Badgers rolled towards the ditch in an uneven line that quickly sorted itself into a respectable formation, moving at a half-trot to conserve their energy.
Trotting forward, trying to watch his footing, keep an eye on his platoon behind him, and loosen up his shoulders with a few practice swings and blocks, Arian didn’t waste much time on what the enemy was up to; they would be there waiting for him when he crossed the ditch, of that he was certain. Stay calm, keep your head, remember to breathe, and watch your flanks, he reminded himself. Another battle, and not too bad of one, or so it would seem at this early stage.
Green Reach was a scene of considerable hysterical activity: Direbreed struggled into their armor and ran here and there as arrows from the Scouts took their toll, Fist- and Arm-Lords shouted and howled in an attempt to get their troops organized, but most of the beast-warriors had been asleep a minute ago and the transition back to awareness was enhancing the shock value of the Badger’s sudden appearance. Worse, the slaves were in a complete uproar, running away from the east in case this was a drill or loyalty test, running towards the east in the hopes of rescue, running any which way in blind panic, standing and screaming, running and screaming, throwing themselves down onto the ground and screaming, and in a few cases just standing and staring. One or two actually attacked Direbreed as well, which prompted some of the gar
rison to start slaughtering every slave in sight, which only increased the level of chaos.
The line of Badgers slowed as they picked their way through the decrepit stake belt, then gathered speed as they charged the last few feet and thundered into, and out of, the shallow, over-grown ditch. The ditch still might had provided some service to the garrison if the Direbreed were formed up on its inner side, but surprise, disorganization, and the effects of the Scout Section’s fire kept the Company’s crossing point free of the enemy for the vital seconds they needed. Arian charged down the outside bank of the ditch, zigged to avoid stepping on Milo, and dug his toes in to vault up the shallow inside bank.
The Company was a dozen feet inside the site when a half-dozen Fists burst from between the rows of warehouses and counter-charged. Arian caught the blade of a glaive on his shield, feeling the central boss dimple inwards from the impact, and chopped into the gray- and yellow-mottled fur that coated the dog-faced wielder’s left forearm.
A ball of fire exploding into the center of a Fist a dozen feet away startled the beast-warrior as it brought its weapon back for another strike; less surprised, the Serjeant stabbed the creature in the belly, the point of his enchanted broadsword punching through the filthy studded leather jack and sliding a hands-breadth inside. Twisting the blade as he drew it out, Arian hopped back and eyed the roaring melee along the Company’s front as his opponent doubled over in agony, safely out of the fight.
“Hold your places, stay on line,” he roared.
It was good to be back with Moonblade; Rolf ducked under a wild mace swing and put his shoulders into a low stroke, the odd double-jolt of impact throwing him off balance and staggering. Catching his footing with a short hop, the big Corporal grinned to see his opponent thrashing madly on the ground, both legs severed just above the knees. Chopping a leg through was no hard feat with a good blade, plenty of practice, and an opening, but it wasn’t often you got both legs.
Finishing the Direbreed, who might be prone but who still had his mace, Rolf moved forward with the rest of Blue Platoon as the few surviving Direbreed from the first rush, badly outnumbered to begin with, fell back. He and Kroh had chosen to anchor the right end of Blue Platoon’s, and thus the Company’s, line, working together in this exposed position to wreak havoc upon all who faced them.
It was good fighting like this, him and Kroh, just like the old days before they became Corporals, back when they were always together with Starr, like the time in Hohenfels when they hunted cultists, or on the long operation in the Realms back in fifty-three. Now they all had rank and Starr was always off with her Section, so things in general were just not as good.
The Badgers followed hard on the heels of the retreating enemy, splitting up their formation to pass between the warehouses, the mercenary leaders shouting, uneasy with their line broken up. “Keep close, watch...blast,” Rolf spat as he, Kroh, and a section of Blue Platoon passed between two warehouses. The big mercenary was walking half-turned, side-stepping quickly with his back to the windowless wall of field stone. Several of the irregulars assigned to Blue Platoon had forgotten their warnings in the briefings that had preceded the fight and were trotting down the center of the grassy ‘alley’ between the buildings, making much better time than Rolf or the others until a Direbreed stood from where it had been lying on a warehouse roof and heaved down a five-pound stone. Kroh’s axe’s, runes glowing hotly, took the beast-warrior square in the chest as the stone it had hurled stove in an irregular’s helm and shattered his skull, sending a spray of blood and brain matter across his fellows.
“Stay close to the walls,” Rolf roared at the stunned, retching irregulars, grabbing one young man and shoving him against the warehouse. “Pay attention if you plan to live through this; now move out.”
They left the irregular were he lay; one glance marked him as truly dead, and they did not have time or the manpower to drag the dead along with them.
“Get away, follow behind us, damn it,” Henri shouted at a hysterical male slave who was pawing at the wizard, screaming something about rescue, and in the process preventing the spellcaster from following Silver Platoon up the passage between two warehouses. Seeing the futility of words, the Corporal slammed the butt of his staff into the man’s belly and then used the shaft to trip him. Jogging onward, the Badger cursed the slaves in Green Reach as an unnecessary complication to what would otherwise be a straightforward raid. He caught up with Silver Platoon as it entered the ‘alley’ between two warehouses in the second row of the structures, and was gratified to see that he was not the only one to be hampered by over-excited slaves.
He found himself alongside Veda Sligh, Rolf’s girlfriend, as he side-stepped along a warehouse wall. “Blasted slaves are slowing us down,” he shouted over the background cacophony of shouts, screams, and the occasional clash of melee. “If they would give us a minute we might be able to help them.”
The broad-faced young woman nodded without taking her eyes off the roof of the warehouse across from them, her bloody war hammer held at the ready.
“Keep moving, keep moving, watch the roofs,” Maxmillian yelled as the last of the small group of Direbreed which had foolishly attacked Gold Platoon as it emerged from the second row of warehouses was slain. “One more row and we’re where we need to be. First Section there, Second Section with me, Third Section down that alley, let’s go.” The Serjeant found himself facing a confused irregular, a sheepish-looking man nearly the same age as the Badger. “And why are you standing still?” the scholar barked.
“Ah, I just realized I’m supposed to be with Blue Platoon,” the man explained nervously, gesturing vaguely with his spear and shield.
“Well, just stay with us; Blue Platoon’ll have to survive as best it can without you. Get moving.”
He saw Elonia scramble up the side of the warehouse and trot along the shallowly-sloped roof as she had in the last two rows, crossbow at the ready. Maxmillian trotted at the head of the small force, staying close to the wall, while across the narrow alley Mad Dog led the file hugging the opposite warehouse.
Maxmillian was watching the gap at the end of the ‘alley’, trusting Elonia to keep them safe from the rooftops, although he stayed close to the wall out of habit; there were three rows of warehouse between the east ditch and the central area of Green Reach, and the plan was to set up on the far side of those three rows, open the Gate, and begin the second phase of the raid, which was the loot and slave-rescue operations.
He cursed as a hand-cart suddenly swung around a warehouse corner and rumbled down the alley towards them, pushed by a Fist of Direbreed; timbers tied across the front end made the vehicle only inches narrower than the passageway. “Polearms, forward and brace, stop that thing.”
Not many Badgers used polearms after the long and profitable months of the war, so irregulars had to be manhandled into position, kneeling in a row across the alley with the butts of their spears and polearms braced into the sod and the weapon’s heads angled forward to meet the front of the cart. A couple weapon-shafts snapped at the impact, and the butts of the rest plowed foot-long trenches, but the cart screeched to a stop. Badgers and Direbreed immediately began to scramble into the cart’s bed in order to seize what amounted to the high ground in this fight, but the lead beast-warriors were enveloped in a fighting net hurled from the roof above, and the Fist-Lord fell with a quarrel in his chest. Mad Dog and two of his Section were able to get into the cart’s bed before the nearest Direbreed while Maxmillian and Andre Scuti, the last survivor of the five young men recruited at the Grand Crossing, cut the timbers free from the cart.
Seeing their position being rendered untenable, a Direbreed ripped the Breedstone from the Fist-Lord’s rapidly decaying corpse and the Fist withdrew up the alley.
Kroh paused just short of the end of the alley leading out of the third row of warehouses, jerking his elbow back with a curse as an over-eager irregular bumped into him, knocking the young man back. “Hold your interva
l, stupid.”
Pulling the ratty blanket he had caught up from some slave’s sleeping position a row back, he caught Rolf’s eye and winked. Snapping the blanket out past the corner, the Waybrother barked a laugh as a Direbreed’s mace slapped the worn sheet of badly-woven wool out of the air. Before the beast-warrior could recover from the strike the Dwarf darted around the corner and split his skull with a single sure axe swing. “Clear,” he bellowed back down the alley. “Let’s get out and get organized.”
Two Direbreed charged Axel as he emerged from the alley between the third, and last, row of warehouses. The wizard gestured sharply with his staff and barked a command, then limped on as the two beast-warriors toppled into the wheel-marked dirt, their multi-colored hides stiff with hoarfrost.
Durek was already in position by the Company standard, which Dayyan had planted in front of the central warehouse in the third row of warehouses, bellowing orders and waving his axe as he directed the platoons into a defensive perimeter. The Scout Section was climbing onto the warehouse roofs to bring the enemy under missile fire and the Healers were setting up to tend the wounded, of which there seemed to be few. Axel limped up quickly, winking at Bridget, who paused in directing her Healers to blow him a kiss.
Choosing a spot between an abandoned hand cart and the warehouse closest to the standard, the wizard slipped the heavy plate that was the egran from his pouch and began the activation cant.
“Arian, check your left flank,” Durek bellowed at his Serjeant, gesturing to where a knot of irregulars were milling about in confusion. “Platoon leaders, get me a count. Tonya, get the looting detail moving. Come on Badgers, let’s get this raid done.”
