For a moment he wondered if the volume of sound alone would be enough to sweep the defenders from the breastwork, but a quick look around showed him that the hill dwarves were ready to stand firm. The gully dwarves actually contributed to the din, most of them sticking their tongues out or shrieking insults.
Flint looked nervously over his shoulder into Hillhome, now sheltered behind this semicircular barrier of earth. The darkened town seemed lifeless under the overcast night sky, especially in contrast to the fires scattered about the field. The town, in fact, was virtually abandoned. Some three hundred and fifty of its citizens stood with Flint, Perian, and the Aghar along the redoubt. The others, almost one hundred and sixty hill dwarves—the very old, very young, and otherwise infirm—had retreated to ca es in the hills, waiting fearfully for the outcome of the battle.
“Ready the sludge bombs!” cried the king, turning back to the charging Theiwar. The Aghar in the center reluctantly ceased their rude noises and took up the small, glass and ceramic vessels that contained their weapons.
“The torches, too,” Flint added. “Light them now!” Several dozen hill dwarves touched matches to the oil-soaked torches they had prepared. “We’ll give the little grubs a surprise when they get close enough,” he remarked to his brother Ruberik as the farmer came up to him. Ruberik nodded grimly as they stood silently for a moment, peering into the darkness.
The thane’s ranks swept closer. The charge, begun at several hundred yards distance, swiftly closed the gap. Now, in the glaring light of the bonfires, Flint could discern individual derro. He saw faces distorted by battlelust, eyes squinting murderously, seeking victims. Most of the derro advanced at an easy trot, their shields on their left arms while their right hands held axes or short swords.
Some of the fires vanished from sight, trampled by the dark line in its implacable advance, but closer pyres now illuminated the army. Flint wished for a rank of longbow-men, or a catapult—any kind of missile with long range. The sludge bombs, unfortunately, would only carry the distance of an Aghar toss—anywhere from one to fifty feet—and he wouldn’t risk the gully dwarves in the Agharpult until he was ready to attack.
“Stand firm, there!” Flint bellowed at a nearby pair of young hill dwarves who had started looking anxiously over their shoulders.
He heard Perian shout similar encouragements on the right flank, where she stood with Basalt and a small company of hill dwarves, supported by a reserve of Creeping Wedgies.
Flint cast a quick glance to the left, where Tybalt stood with the majority of the hill dwarves, concealed behind the wall. Somewhere in that group, Flint knew, were Hildy, his brother Bernhard, and his sister Fidelia. He thought briefly of Bertina and Glynnis, who were both persuaded over their loud objections to help supervise the young dwarves who had been sent to safety in the hills.
Tybalt gave him a casual wave, and Flint chuckled at the constable’s cool and easy demeanor. It surprised him to notice the warm feeling he got from having his family near during these hours of crisis. They’re a good bunch, he told himself with not a little pride.
“How soon?” Flint turned as Ruberik asked the question. The farmer was still standing beside him atop the wall of earth.
“Close,” Flint replied. He looked at the large crossbow in his brother’s hands. The weapon’s hilt, of weatherbeaten oak, was smoothed by long usage. Its steel crossbar did not shine, but nevertheless tensed with unconcealed strength. It had once been their father’s weapon. “You ready?”
In answer, Ruberik raised the heavy weapon and held it firm, drawing a bead on his target in the field—a target that was not the charging derro, but instead a large clay jar in the Theiwars’ path.
“Can you see well enough?” inquired Flint, dubiously peering into the darkness. Flashes of yellow light rippled across the ground, but quickly died back to shadows. “This seemed like a better idea in the daylight.”
“No need to worry,” grunted Ruberik, squinting in concentration. “I did manage to learn a little of what Father thought most important—weaponry.” The farmer crouched, as immobile as a rock, and waited for his brother’s command.
“Another few seconds,” Flint said, his voice taut. He saw the target, standing motionless in the path of the charge. The derro swept closer. “Wait a minute … wait …”
“Now, shoot!”
With a sharp crack, the crossbow released its steel-headed shaft. The missile flashed into the night, then was lost in the darkness.
But in the next instant a sharply defined cloud—a billow of smoke that was so dark it showed clearly against the moderate blackness of the night—erupted from the clay jar.
“Nice shot!” shouted Flint, clapping his brother on the back. Ruberik paid no attention, already concentrating on the laborious recocking of his powerful weapon. He loaded another shaft, sweat popping from his brow as he quickly turned the powerful crank.
Flint growled, unconsciously voicing his delight, as the sludge smoke spread across the field. He saw the rank of the derro split and waver as the dwarves stumbled away from the noxious fumes. He couldn’t see their reactions in the darkness, but he took savage pleasure in imagining their discomfort. The derro swept around the growing cloud, but their advance had been temporarily interrupted.
“Ready the torches!” Flint cried as the Theiwar swept closer. “And the sludge bombs!” Nearby, Ooz and Pooter hefted their small vials and shook them vigorously.
“Careful!” Flint warned. All we need is to have one of those pop open back here, he thought with a shudder. The battle would be over before it began.
Behind the wall, several dozen hill dwarves held burning torches. They kept the flames hot, but held them low, out of sight of the advancing derro, awaiting Flint’s command to put them to use.
Ruberik finally raised his weapon, taking aim at the second of the great pots. This one was much closer than his first target. With another sharp thunk, the weapon fired and the bolt shattered the jar, releasing another cloud of the noxious sludge smoke.
The derro were less than a hundred feet away. Now Flint and Ruberik could see the wrinkles in their grotesque faces, the links of their chain armor.
Flint turned to the Aghar gathered to either side of himself. “Sludge Bombers, throw!” he cried.
“Eat sludge!” Ooz cried as he tossed his vial up and outward. It crashed to the ground among the first rank of derro troops and broke, releasing a smaller cloud of the stinking black smoke.
With a volley of exuberant cries, the Aghar in the center of the line pitched their sloshing missiles. The jars were small and the hurlers enthusiastic. As they had practiced, each gully dwarf cocked back his arm and then flung the jar as far as he could in the general direction of the attacking derro. Some could not help but tumble forward from the momentum of their toss.
Several of the vials plopped right on the front of the earthen barrier before rolling into the ditch at the bottom, between the attackers and defenders. Most of the bottles sailed a couple of dozen feet, and some had the forward thrust to soar through the air and burst among the feet of the first rank of approaching Theiwar.
Instantly a thick, black cloud rose from the exploded vessels. The smoke burst upward from the force of its explosive release, then it hung thickly in the air, a moist, oily blanket of vapor. Some of this smoke rolled up and over the breastwork, and Flint caught a whiff of it before he could duck out of the way. Instantly he doubled over, gagging and choking. He tripped and rolled to the bottom of the sloping wall, the Tharkan Axe bouncing heavily against his thigh. There he lay, helplessly, retching.
“King not like sludge bomb,” Ooz said, looking sadly down from the redoubt. Some of the smoke had drifted around his boots, rising to tickle his face, but the gully dwarf merely wiped his nose and blinked a few times.
Flint crawled from the last vestiges of the mist that had seeped over the wall. He shook his head a few times to clear it, praying that the derro found the sludge bomb effects as ob
noxious as he did.
Indeed, most of the smoke had spilled against the redoubt, and rolled back into the onrushing wave of the Theiwar. It crept like a living thing along the ground, clutching at skin, pouring into boots and clothes, forcing its way into every available crevice.
Flint’s reaction to a small whiff of the sludge bomb, in fact, was mild when compared to the extreme effect of the gas upon the Theiwar. The derro caught the full brunt of the oily, noxious mist. The vapor was so heavy that it spread in a cloud barely higher than the head of a tall dwarf, flowing like liquid across the battlefield.
The first rank in the center of the charging Theiwar dropped like felled pigeons. The next rank staggered and stopped as the sludge gas enveloped it; the dwarves stumbled and fell, senseless, coughing and retching.
The gas dissipated the farther it spread, and its intensity diminished. But it reduced any Theiwar luckless enough to be caught within its oily folds to paroxysms and gagging. As Flint had intended, the noxious mist spread into a wedge in the center of the Theiwar formation. By the time the king climbed back up to the redoubt—now clear of the heavy gas—he could see that the thane’s forces had been split in two by the creeping stench.
Many of the derro stopped, looking around anxiously. Others behind them stumbled to a halt. Through the darkness, Flint saw the neat formation of the Theiwar dissolve into a collection of surprised, confused soldiers. The charge had been effectively delayed.
“Flint—over here!” He heard Perian’s urgent cry, and saw her running in his direction. He quickly raced along the wall to meet her.
“Pitrick’s savants!” she said, pointing to a half-dozen derro that had worked their way forward from the far rank. “We’re going to get hit by magic in a minute or two.”
Flint saw the savants, clearly illuminated by a nearby bonfire. Their hair seemed bleached almost to white, but it flashed red as the fire flared upward. They wore long dark robes that seemed strangely incongruous among the gleaming black armor of their fellows.
Flint considered the savants. “Here come the fireworks.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Ruberik mused. “The torches are ready. What do you say we wait till the derro get a little closer, and then give them something to look at?” He gestured to the oil-soaked bales of straw before the breastwork. Privately, Flint hoped that the idea he had had during the calm of the afternoon would prove as effective as he’d imagined, now that it was the dark of night amid the raging chaos of battle.
“That’s a great idea!” Perian exclaimed, clapping Flint’s brother on the back. Ruberik blushed.
“Let’s hope it works,” said Flint.
“Of course it’ll work,” Perian replied, her tone surprisingly jaunty. For the first time, Flint became aware of just how much of a warrior this frawl was. “When that light flares up in front of them, they’ll be blinded for a long time. They’ll find that more frightening than facing cold steel and close range!”
Flint looked at her quietly for a moment, noticing again the curl of her auburn hair, the smooth softness of her cheek. By Reorx, he wished this battle was done with! She sensed his look and turned, surprising him with a soft blush.
Then they heard derro sergeants barking commands, and saw the derro ranks gather again. The foot soldiers surged forward behind the spellcasting savants, the whole mass of derro approaching the ditch at the foot of the earthwork.
“Torches, now!” Flint shouted.
Dozens of hill dwarves raced to the top of the wall, pitching their blazing torches down the other side, onto the bales of hay that had been thoroughly soaked with lamp oil and placed along the edge of the ditch.
With a loud rush of air, each oil-soaked bale erupted into a high column of flame, an explosion of bright yellow light in the darkness.
With howls of agony, the savants clutched their eyes and stumbled backward. They rolled on the ground, shrieking and moaning, their wide, full-pupiled eyes temporarily blinded.
The savants closest to the blaze had been most seriously affected. But the warriors behind them blinked in uncomfortable surprise, forced to turn away from the painful glare. Once again Flint heard the sergeants cursing and growling, and the derro started slowly toward the middle of the hill dwarf line.
“I’ve got to get back to my post at center!” he called, and Perian ran back to her own position by Basalt. “Good luck!”
The towering columns of fire marked the entire periphery of the semicircular redoubt. In the center, the black sludge smoke still obscured the field, preventing any derro advance. To Flint’s left, the mountain dwarves hesitated in disarray and confusion, but to his right, where the savants had led the way, the Theiwar officers whipped their savage troops forward.
Flint scrutinized the lightly held right flank. Perian and Basalt had a thin force—barely one hundred hill dwarves, and half that many Aghar. But all they had to do was hold, since the steep river bank beyond the breastwork blocked the derro advance to that side. The wall of the earthwork itself would then force the Theiwar to attack upward, and give the defenders a significant advantage.
The first rank of black-armored mountain dwarves reached the ditch at the foot of the redoubt. The Theiwar ranks quickly scrambled through the shallow trench. The glowing piles of the haybales, mostly consumed by now, collapsed into cinders, but even so the derro were forced to march around the hot coals. They were armed with two-handed battle-axes, but they held the weapons in one hand, using the other to help them scramble up the steep breastwork.
Flint saw Perian leap forward and drive her axe down through the iron helmet of a Theiwar. Basalt, too, swung his blade and sent an attacking mountain dwarf tumbling backward into the ditch. All along the line, the dwarves stood atop the low wall, hacking and chopping at the derro coming up beneath them.
The Aghar of the Creeping Wedgie surged along the top of the redoubt, bashing their shields onto the heads of climbing Theiwar, causing more confusion. Weapons struck, and blood flowed. Flint’s heart lurched as he saw several defending hill dwarves fall and lie still.
The king of Mudhole held his breath, wondering if the line would hold. He saw a derro scramble over the wall, but then Basalt cut him down with a swift blow to the neck. Perian led a band of dwarves in a sharp counterattack, battering and smashing the Theiwar, knocking them off the wall.
He heard her hoarse battle cry, saw the hill dwarves leap to follow her. She attacked like a banshee, laying about with heavy blows, darting away before a return blow could land. Flint’s heart faltered as a derro struck at her back; she sensed the attack with some kind of prescience and whirled to cut the leering Theiwar down.
Finally Flint exhaled, seeing the hill dwarves not only hold, but continue to drive the mountain dwarves back into the ditch. Disorganized, confused, and dismayed, the Theiwar crowded together at the foot of the redoubt.
“Smoke’s still keeping ’em away from here,” grunted Ruberik, indicating the oily fog in the center of the battlefield. Flint looked at his brother in surprise, sensing disappointment in his voice.
“You want a chance to shoot a few of ’em, don’t you?” Flint asked.
Ruberik cleared his throat, nodding. “I guess I would like to personally see that a few of ’em don’t get back home.”
The brothers turned their attention to the left, where the mountain dwarves had resumed their advance. They were swinging wide of the redoubt through the open field. Because of the black cloud that still lay across the center of their line, these mountain dwarves could not see their compatriots who had been halted on the right flank.
“Keep an eye on things here!” Flint barked at Ruberik.
“Wait! What do you mean? What should I—” Ruberik shouted as Flint darted away.
Privately, the king felt misgivings about leaving his brother in charge of the rambunctious Sludge Bombers. A quick look at the black smoke gave him assurance, however, for it seemed like it would linger for some time, blocking access to the middle of the re
doubt.
Flint ran along the top of the breastwork until he reached Tybalt, who stood among a group of hill dwarves on the left wing of the semicircular barrier. They looked down as the charging Theiwar suddenly veered away, turning and running past the front of the breastwork instead of trying to climb it. The open end of the wall beckoned out in the field, offering its easy route past the defenders.
Around the hill dwarves crowded Nomscul and the gully dwarves of his Agharpult wing. They hopped and jumped, attempting to observe the enemy over and around the slightly larger hill dwarves.
“Agharpults, get ready!” Flint shouted as soon as he was in earshot.
“For what?” asked Nomscul, turning to his king in puzzlement.
“To shoot, you numbskull!”
“Me Nomscul!” beamed the Aghar. “You king!”
Flint restrained his tongue for a moment, and then was pleased to see Nomscul and his crews quickly spring into action; they even remembered which way to aim!
“Good, good!” he encouraged them, slightly out of breath as he reached Tybalt.
“They’re sweeping around quickly,” said the constable, with just a touch of alarm.
Flint looked across the field and saw the mountain dwarves advancing at a fast march past the redoubt from right to left. Soon they would be in position to turn and charge into the rear of the fortification, past the end of the wall.
“We can’t waste any time!” snapped Flint. He saw that the hill dwarves were ready for the counterattack.
“Agharpults, shoot! Shoot two times!” That command, he hoped, would keep them launching until they ran out of Aghar. Then he turned back to the enemy.
The pyramids of the Agharpult tilted atop the earthen wall as the lone gully dwarves who served as missiles sprinted up the sloping inner side of the barrier. Vaulting onto their comrades, the whole mass of dwarfdom toppled forward, momentum hurling the topmost Aghar into the teeming ranks of the Theiwar. They struck like balls crashing into tenpins, knocking the derro formations asunder, toppling dozens of mountain dwarves to the ground.
Flint the King Page 28
