by RW Krpoun
“A river,” Bridget pulled the dust-scarf from her face. “Just what we need.”
“Plenty of water and a deterrence to mounted attack,” Maxmillian nodded, patting his sweating mount on the neck.
“Get the little bastards on foot and we’ll cut a swath that Kroh would envy,” Henri laughed. “We’ve kept our lead so far; that gives us some time to find just the right spot.”
“Come on,” Bridget urged her horse forward. “The sooner we find our place, the more time we’ll have to dig in.”
The four trotted their tiring mounts to the river and crossed before swinging west; the watercourse here was sunk a good ten feet into the land, in a channel a hundred feet wide, although the river itself took only half that width. The water danced in white-frothed swirls over smooth rocks and twisted gray logs, moving fast and clear. One mile dropped away, and then another, and a third was nearly traversed before Bridget reined in again.
“That’s it,” the advocate pointed. “Not perfect, but we’re wearing the horses down too fast to pass it up.”
The point she indicated was a low rocky ridge whose south end thrust into the river; its thin-turfed crest rose some fifteen feet over the river bank and surrounding terrain. It was narrow, perhaps twenty feet across, with its west flank dropping off sharply into a nearly dry streambed that fed into the river. Lichen-spotted rocks of a red-green hue that resembled nothing so much as compressed bales of rotting seaweed (as Henri pointed out during a rest break) poked through the grassy surface, matching the stony heart of the ridge that the river had exposed and partially cut away, creating a jumble of steer-sized rocks at the south foot of the ridge. The north end of the ridge tapered off into the plains; the east slope was furred with spindly eastern cedar, each stunted tree struggling to draw life out of the thin soil. The trees stopped short of the ridge’s bare crest.
“It’s a joke,” Henri observed. “We’re all going to die.”
“Probably, and this is where. Henri, go scout the far bank of that streambed, and then see how hard it will be to climb that rock pile coming out of the river. Elonia, take a reading; Maxmillian, picket the horses here for the moment and dig out our tools while I take a look at Badger Hill.”
“Maximillian’s Mountain has a more martial ring to it,” the scholar observed as he collected reins.
“Just so long as it isn’t Henri’s Burial Mound,” the Wizard grinned as he trotted off.
The historian had just finished laying out their tools (a small axe, one shovel, two forage sickles, a light shoeing hammer, a pair of heavy nipper-pliers, a couple butcher knives, and a prospecting plate) when the Badgers gathered again, Henri breathing hard from running.
“The far side of the creek bed is the usual scrub; I went in until I couldn’t see the ridge, which wasn’t far. The stream bed itself is littered with light deadwood from the spring run-off, and is mainly loose, sandy dirt with some weeds and a yard of inch-deep water; climbing out of it and up the west face of the ridge is an unmounted job, no matter how big the wolf. You can climb the rock pile onto the ridge from the river (I did), but for someone as short as a Goblin it’ll be tough going. One person could hold that end against a whole keiba.” Henri mopped sweat away and grinned. “I’m getting nostalgic for the Orc-fort; at least there we had a ditch and more than one Badger per flank.”
“The Goblins are ten miles from the river,” Elonia reported crisply. “They lost a little ground but have our trail as surely as if we still had the box.”
Bridget checked the sun. “Close to twelve hours of sunlight left; they’ll be here in two hours, maybe three if they slow down to watch the brush along the river. If we can resolve this before dark our chances of seeing another day are much better. Maxmillian, take the horses up the ridge and picket them between where I left my kerchief and boot dagger. Water them, refill every water container we have, and find a safe way down that rock pile in case we have to refill them under Goblin observation. Then take a sickle and cut them a day’s forage.”
“Elonia, take the axe and start cutting down the trees on a line down slope of where I marked with my dust-scarf. Leave a six-inch stump and point it; I’ll be along to drag the cut trees for you in a moment. Henri, how is your fire magic?”
“Inadequate.”
“I want a big fire on the Goblin side of whatever clearing we can make in the time we have, and I want it to go away from us into the brush to increase the cleared ground on the east flank.”
“That could be possible, but it would leave me as a swordsman for the rest of the day, and I’ll need to build up a burn pile.”
“Get going on it. I can’t spare any help, so take a packhorse if you need one.”
Maxmillian, green-coated sickle in hand, found an armor-less Bridget spelling the Seeress on their sole axe. He tossed the Serjeant’s dagger and kerchief near her and caught the tree as it fell. The slender woman chopped a crude point on the stump and wiped the sweat away from her eyes with a filthy sleeve. “I would give any man a night he wouldn’t forget in exchange for a two-foot saw. I take it you’re done.”
“That I am.”
“Drag this tree up to the line I cut into the turf; that’s going to be our breastworks. Then take a horse and drag any decent-sized deadfall you can find up there as well.”
The scholar tossed a casual salute and turned to go; after a dozen steps he paused and turned back to the priestess. “Bridget...Durek couldn’t do any more than you have.”
A tired smile touched her face. “Get the wood, Maxmillian. The party will start soon, and I want everything to be just so.”
Maxmillian had just finished the last knot around a particularly nice stump when he heard the yell. Looking up from the river bottom, he saw Henri on the ridge giving the signal that the enemy was in sight. Sighing, he trotted to the weary horse. “Come on old girl, one more load and it’s the picket line for you.”
Guiding the horse along the easiest path, the scholar came up the stream bed and ascended the slope to the Badger’s barricade, a twenty-foot long half-circle of rocks, logs, and fresh-cut scrub trees that stood nearly four feet high, facing north.
Bridget motioned to where she wanted the stump dropped. “Right, put the horse up and get into your armor. They’re not much more than a mile away.”
“Where’s Elonia?” Maxmillian looked around as he coiled the rope; Henri was seated near the scrawny tree line, muttering to himself as he made notes from a book.
The Serjeant jerked her head towards the east. “Out there, she is going to open the dance for us.”
The Seeress lay under a narrow fir on the edge of the trees a mile from Badger Hill, her faced darkened with clay and tree sap, a sprinkling of leaves and a fresh branch on her back breaking up her outline. Before her the Goblins spilled over a low crest in a noisy, untidy wave of gray-brown fur and dun-colored skin. Goblin wolf-riders, the terror of the Northern Wastes, the bugbear mothers near the Ward used to intimidate cranky children: small, gnarled humanoids who strongly resembled their forest-dwelling southern brethren and ruddy-skinned cave-dwelling cousins, complete with tough hides, leathery fox-ears, hairless round heads, and rubbery faces creased into perpetually evil grins. Each was mounted on a huge, pony-sized dread wolf, long-legged products of twisted Void magic and terrible breeding farms.
That their appearance matched their forest-dwelling cousins to the south was no surprise: the wolf-riding Goblins had once been forest dwellers until the Human Empire had clawed its way north, driving the Goblins out onto the Northern Wastes.
Less than half wore armor, and what few did wore simple iron caps and studded leather jerkins. All had six-foot lances, wickedly spiked clubs, small shields made of leather stretched over a wood frame, and cased short bows. There were two troops, each of around twenty jongala, or mounted warriors, and a command group consisting of the captain of the band, his six bodyguards, a visibly older Goblin Elonia guessed to be the shaman, and a standard bearer carrying a totem fes
tooned with bound skulls, mummified bones, and topped with a rusting Legionnaire’s helmet.
As the Goblins swept over the crest and started down the slope Elonia slowly lifted her crossbow from the leaves. The Shaman would undoubtedly have charms against missile fire, and in any case was a small, moving target, but this eventuality had been considered by the Badgers before the raid group had left Oramere. Nocked and ready in her weapon was a quarrel whose head had been removed and replaced with a green glass ball the size of a sling bullet, one of a number captured in the raid on Alantarn. The Seeress sighted carefully and released just as the shaman’s wolf reached the steepest part of the slope.
The quarrel struck the ground a couple feet ahead of the wolf, shattering the ball. Instantly, a wall of flame six feet long, eight feet high, and a foot deep erupted from the ground in a line centered upon the ball’s point of impact. The blazing wall lasted for only a heartbeat or two before winking out, leaving behind a growing line of natural flames, but that was time enough for the shaman and his wolf to pass completely through the iridescent barrier.
The dread wolf, fur blazing, either tripped or deliberately rolled, throwing the shaman, whose own garments were burning, into a tumbling heap that came to a brutal stop against a half-buried slab of rock. Elonia did not wait to see if the Goblin got back up; rolling to her feet, she darted back through the trees. Reaching the riverbank, she slung her crossbow and carefully slid down to the river bottom, using a saddle blanket she had left there to protect herself from abrasion. Keeping close to the riverbank, she ran at a measured pace, mindful of loose rocks and scattered deadwood.
Speed was easy enough: Elonia had always forsaken armor in favor of agility, although now she did derive protection from an enchanted bronze torc that protected her head as would a helm, and a wide leather belt whose enchantment did the same for her torso, the latter being loot from Alantarn. The belt supported several pouches of varying sizes (the flaps of which housed a total of six throwing knives), a plain-hilted yataghan fighting knife on each nicely-rounded hip, the scabbards angled for cross-drawing, and a carefully folded fighting net over each scabbard. Thusly unburdened and long-legged as well, the pace she could maintain for a mile run on a level and fairly firm surface was a good one. Although no wizardress, she had a small talent in that subtle form of magic known as Vectuis Meum, and had the casting of a spell to blur her visible form ready in her mind should Goblin archers take her under fire, but the need did not arise. The tumble of boulders that marked Badger Hill’s south terminus hove into view without incident.
Maxmillian was waiting to throw down a rope, knotted every three feet to aid her ascent, and to hand her a water flask when she reached the top.
“What’s the verdict?” Bridget demanded while Elonia stepped off a circle to steady her legs.
“Nearly fifty, Thunderwolf clan,” the Seeress unslung her crossbow and handed it and the horse blanket to Maxmillian, who had just finished hauling the rope back up and coiling it. “I used the Orb of Warding on the shaman as he was coming down a slope; burns and a nasty fall for sure, plus a hairless wolf. None of them got a shot off at me, or followed me into the river’s course.”
“Good, that ought to set the mood. Take a break, I’ll whistle when we need you. Come on, Maxmillian, let’s cut down a couple more trees while we’re waiting for the little bastards to get in place.”
“Do you suppose they’ll actually make a wolf-borne charge straight up the slope at us?” Maxmillian asked, mopping away sweat with a sodden kerchief. It was warm sitting on the little ridge behind their breastworks watching the Goblins mill around just out of bowshot. The wolf riders had arrived ten minutes ago, and Bridget had ordered them to finish their tasks and then sit and rest until the first attack. “I realize that forty-odd to four are damned good odds, but they can’t get much more than one troop up the slope at a time, and that at a walk.”
“A mounted attack would be the likeliest bet,” Bridget shrugged. “These Goblins live on wolf-back: speed, mobility, and shock action are their way of fighting. It works pretty well for them: had they caught us out on the open plains we wouldn’t have lasted long, and been lucky to have taken one apiece with us. It’s possible that one troop might be dismounted and sent through the trees up the east slope, depending on how strong the commander’s authority is, as the troop on the east will definitely consider itself slighted by the infantry role, especially since they know there can’t be more than six of us up here.”
“I’m surprised they’re even bothering to attack us at all,” Henri observed. “Although Goblins are a prickly sort. What are the chances of their waiting for darkness?”
“None: they don’t have any pack animals, and they started at least an hour’s march from our meal-camp; that means all they have for supplies is what little is on their saddles, and thirty-odd miles to go to their own camp. By nightfall the wolves will be getting hungry, and so will the Goblins. This was a day trip of a fighting patrol. These aren’t Eyade, able to travel for days with nothing more than a handful of dried meat and light grazing.”
“Praise the Eight for their bad planning,” Maxmillian observed. “Otherwise it would be a short night indeed, at least for us.”
It doesn't look like the shaman has recovered from his fall,” Elonia indicated a figured huddled on a rock well behind the milling wolf riders. “Without him our spells and magical devices will weigh heavily in the first attack.”
“Five Orbs of Warding, and four Storms of Disruption,” Henri ticked off on his fingers. “Plus my burn pile and Bridget’s very thin stock of offensive spells. Two attacks broken at best.”
“Break two with enough losses, and there won’t be a third,” Bridget shrugged again. “These are Goblins, not Direbreed, big wolves notwithstanding; we don’t have to kill half of them to run them off, just inflict enough causalities to convince them that the game’s not worth the candle. I just wish we had had time to put out a stake belt.”
Maxmillian was amazed at how calm he and the others were. There were fifty-odd Goblins just a few score yards away preparing to attack, and they sat and talked about it like it was a boring social event they had failed to avoid. Of course, they had their barricade of freshly cut trees and deadfall that would seriously impede any attack, especially a mounted one, and the foe’s only spellcaster was out of the fight, but still the atmosphere seemed to be so casual as to be insane. Although, he reminded himself, the hysteria that would seem to be appropriate to this situation would surely decrease their chances of survival.
The ghastly choked cries of the mutated wolves, so flat and tuneless when compared to those of their natural cousins, rose in a tangled chorus; Bridget rose up on her knees to peer over their barricade, then ducked back down and loaded a bullet into her staff sling. “The dance is about to begin. They’re going to try a mounted charge, one troop at a time.”
The four Badgers spread out along the barrier and waited, peering through gaps in the breastworks. One troop had formed itself into a line and was trotting towards the north foot of the ridge, yelling and whooping. Maxmillian cocked his crossbow, carefully positioned a quarrel in the weapon, and waited, heart pounding like a berserk smith. As the Goblins neared the foot of the ridge he braced the crossbow against a sap-bleeding trunk and aimed carefully, releasing with the smoothness born of practice. Not bothering to watch the results, he ducked below the barricade and reloaded, dimly aware that Elonia had fired as well. As he rose to shoot again he noticed that Bridget and Henri had begun to employ their slings.
The Goblin troop picked up the pace just before hitting the slope in an effort to build momentum, but the rising ground and scattered boulders quickly slowed their pace and caused the line to bunch up here and there. Mid-way to the barricade a short-lived wall of flame exploded in the midst of one group of wolf-riders, quickly followed by a second ripping through another section of the line. Moments later, the center was enveloped in a blinding sandstorm that had wolves stumbli
ng into one another or, dust-blinded, running into the square rock slabs that dotted the slope. Lastly, a series of burning rings erupted from the air around the troop leader and his wolf, constricting in a fraction of a second to burn the life out of both Goblin and mount.
Faster than they had ascended, the Goblins wheeled and withdrew, leaving a half-dozen wolves and two jongata dead on the slope behind them. The troop that had lined up in preparation for a follow-up charge likewise fell back; clearly a mounted charge would not carry the ridge, or the day.
“That was easy enough,” Maxmillian observed, uncocking his crossbow.
“Not too hard, although it was just a probe,” Bridget nodded. “Still, it has ruled out a mounted charge, and the Goblins will lose interest quicker when they start fighting on foot. Elonia, hop over the barricade and see if you can salvage anything useful.”
The Seeress studied the milling Goblins and the positions of the scattered dead on the fire-scarred slope before rolling over the barrier and darting off. The other Badgers stood ready to cover her with missile fire, but the Goblins showed no interest in the Badgers’ activities; the leaders were in an urgent council of war, and the rank and file were scattered in groups in a loose semi-circle safely out of range. In all, Elonia made three trips, bringing back nine spears, four quivers of arrows, a coil of rope, two daggers, and best of all, a light axe she had found strapped to the saddle on a dead wolf.
Bridget set them all to work; she and Henri cut down the scraggly tress from those nearest the crest of the ridge, and Elonia tied them horizontally to the trees on their side of the feeble gap they had made in the treeline earlier, while Maxmillian planted the arrows and Goblin daggers in a thin belt in front of this improvised barrier. When the newly-cut trees reached the riverbank, the spears were planted in the ground, heads angling out through the tangle of living and freshly-cut trees, and all four Badgers set to work with axe and sickle to clear the ground behind the barrier, piling the cut brush to their breastworks. Periodically one or another of the four would check on the Goblins, who apparently had completed their plans and were now engaged in picketing and watering their wolves and eating a meal before proceeding with the next phase of their assault, which certainly would involve a dismounted attack.
