by Richard Nell
“Archers,” Kurt said quietly, and when no one moved he shouted it, grabbing the closest man and shaking him by the shoulders. “Get bows, muskets, and move to the river. Now, God curse you. Do it now!”
The men shook from their stupor and obeyed, scavenging for arrows and stringing bows. Kurt raced to the edge of the raging water and stared out past the spray, past the men and into the gloom of the ancient woods.
With the handful of veterans and recruits in terrible danger, including Captain Harmon, Kurt gripped his weapon, and swallowed. He watched the first group of Helvati charge.
* * *
“Run! Get in the boats! Get in the boats!”
Kurt paced back and forth as he watched, feeling helpless. He stared at the river again and wondered if the strongest horses could make the swim. No, he decided, and not for the first time, too risky. They’d wash away, and likely won’t go in regardless.
Harmon and the other veterans had managed to group the pikemen at their tiny wall. Their voices now joined the Helvati, and the two lines of men came together crashing iron against wood and stone. The savages looked monstrous. They carried axes and short-spears and clubs, their bodies uncovered or maybe protected by animal hide, their hair and beards wild and painted. Only a few held shields. Some few tried to cut and bash their way through the pikes, while others leapt over the wall and tried to go around the flanks.
Harmon was waiting. He slashed the first flanker’s throat, and the other veterans stood both beside him and opposite, adding two more small sides to an unfinished square of flesh. Their muskets and pistols lay unloaded on the earth. Only Harmon and a few of his men wore an iron breastplate because they took it off only to sleep. Most of the men had no helmets, vambraces or leggings. They fought against equal numbers with swords in close quarters, unable to withdraw or else expose the pikemen.
“Fire on the flanks.” Kurt stepped back so a man with a bow could take his place on the closest patch of land. “Aim wide, and aim careful, but fire. More are coming.”
Celtus and his scouts were the best shots, but most were out hunting or scouting. Those who weren’t stepped to the bank and drew, but most of Kurt’s men stood idle. The river was too wide for slings, javelins, or muskets.
Kurt stood helpless like the rest of them. He watched the pikemen hold their ground as savages flung axes and spears against them. He watched Harmon and his men fight like lions, hacking apart savage stone and wooden weapons with cold, hard Keevish iron.
“Run, you stupid bastard,” he whispered.
Still he felt the lump of pride, the sheer awe of watching a born soldier ply his trade, and resist the enemy. With sword and dagger Harmon led his pack of killers in a frenzy of blood. Screaming with every kill, the five men first pushed and hacked and held the tribesmen. Then they took them apart.
While their foes looked for single combat and glory, the Dogs just as often turned and stabbed at the enemy beside, darting forward and back, distracting their own enemy just so their brother could pierce his back. Every block, parry and feint displayed two decades of war, every barely dodged blow showed the reckless, ruthless efficiency, and in under a minute, they had no one left to kill.
Some ran across to support the veterans on the other side, others moved up to support the pikemen.
Now men all around Kurt were cheering, but he ground his teeth. Other horns sounded in the woods as more Helvati screamed and charged from the trees.
The archers on Kurt’s side fired, but with the distance and swirling melee they did little. Harmon and his men fell back to hold their flank, again showing their discipline and experience and awareness of the battle even as they killed. But Kurt could see the pike-wall was failing.
Shielded Helvati warriors had begun to push their way past the pikes. As holes opened, others charged through and hacked at the unprotected men. Still more Helvati poured from the trees, the sheer weight and numbers overrunning the center. Some tripped and fell over the wall, but others grabbed pikemen and dragged them down like wild animals. Harmon looked to them, and to the veterans still battling on the other side, then he turned and ran for the boats.
“Cover them. Fire at will!” Kurt pointed.
“Sir, the others…”
“Are dead anyway. Cover those men God curse you, or I’ll blow your damn head off. Fire!”
The archers drew and loosed, then again, and again.
Kurt watched the last of the heavy infantry pulled down screaming, some now with arrows in their backs. Some of the tribesmen howled in victory, others in surprise and rage as arrows fell from the sky. Harmon and three blood-soaked men dragged two boats into the water, splashing and leaping onto them without bothering to glance behind. The Helvati raced after them, but the last few veterans hacked at any man who tried to disengage. Kurt clenched his jaw as he watched men he’d fought with for a decade see their own deaths, and choose. With a glance at their escaping brothers, they charged at the pursuers with a last howl of defiance.
Harmon and his three surviving men pushed out into the river, paddling for their lives. The Helvati turned and surrounded the last few veterans, and cut them down.
“Cease firing. Don’t waste the arrows.”
The Averni nodded and soon all stood at ease. The Helvati noticed. They began jeering at the single fleeing boat and throwing rocks. Others looked at Kurt’s army and ran fingers across their necks. A few stooped to the dead or dying soldiers and began sawing off their heads to hold up in gory display. Some urinated on the dead. Others tossed pieces of their bodies into the river.
Kurt watched it all, very closely, and stood still. He felt the swelling of the soldiers around him, their eyes on him, waiting for orders that would give vengeance.
“Miss Lehmann.” He waited until he heard her timid footsteps. “How many Helvati tribes are across that river?”
“I’m…I’m not sure, exactly.”
He raised his pistol, and pointed it at her head.
“I think you’re lying. And if you’re lying about this, then what’s to say you aren’t lying about the gold?” He slid his thumb over the hammer, and the pistol cocked.
Clara raised her hands, her tone gentle, as if quieting a mad dog. Kurt both nearly smiled, and nearly shot her.
“I’ve never lied to you. You asked me how many men were at the temple, and I told you. But there are several tribes in the area. I don’t know how many men they have, but I suppose quite a few.”
Kurt nearly laughed out loud at her brazen, mad calm.
“Don’t you think maybe that would have been important to mention earlier?”
“I…don’t know. You said your men are very good fighters. As you’ve demonstrated, I’m not a soldier, Colonel. I’m just a civilian.”
Kurt blinked and blinked as he stared, trying to master himself. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss, or shoot her. But he couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud. He put a hand over his eyes and shook his head, then uncocked his pistol as he stepped forward.
“Very good. Very good.”
He dropped the smile and the mirth just as quickly and drew back his arm. Then he bashed Clara over the head with his pistol, and she dropped like a stone to the dirt. He looked around at the men.
“Stop your gawking, and get those soldiers out of the god damn water. And start cutting more wood. We’re going to need a lot more boats.”
* * *
Kurt settled into his chair as he watched Clara pretend to regain consciousness. He’d ordered her tied up and delivered to the center of his tent, and she lay relatively still, lit now only by torchlight. Men worked outside still as evening fell, and the sounds of their still-angry hammers and axes thumped in a rhythmic chaos Kurt found soothing.
“About time,” he said, lighting tobacco.
She blinked as if disoriented. She tested her limbs as if she didn’t know they were tied.
“Most impressive.” Kurt smiled and blew a puff of smoke. “But you know, it’s quite
difficult to knock someone unconscious with one blow to the head. And I didn’t hit you that hard.”
She sat up. Her pretty face soured.
“I’m just a woman. Perhaps I fall unconscious more easily.”
Kurt laughed, and sipped his brandy.
“No, I’ve hit plenty of women. It’s the same.”
“Most men wouldn’t brag.”
Kurt laughed again and set down his drink, then knelt to untie her.
“Stubborn, clever, beautiful.” He looked in her eyes. “And to think I was going to shoot you.”
He half expected she’d slap or punch him once freed, but she only rubbed her wrists and moved to untie her feet.
“There’s gold in that temple. I didn’t lie.”
He stood and withdrew another glass from his desk, then poured her a brandy and set out another chair.
“At this point, it makes no difference.”
She took it, if slowly, and groaned as she eased herself into the seat.
“You’re turning back, then? Because of a few lost men? Need I remind you you gave your word? That the emperor himself sent me here to…”
“No, be calm, I’m not turning back. Do try and balance yourself.” Her eyes narrowed, and Kurt shook his head. “God preserve your husband, Ms. Lehmann.”
“I’m not married.”
“How unsurprising.”
They both sipped their drinks, and Kurt took a moment to enjoy watching her bruised lips on the glass, then her cringe as the burning liquid scorched her throat and no doubt her empty stomach.
“You enjoy my suffering?”
“Is that what you call this?”
They sipped again, and Kurt smiled. He supposed he enjoyed all this more than he should. He really only wanted one thing from her. Well, two things. The rest of it was all misdirection, or indulgence, and in either case now unnecessary.
“I’m sorry about your men.”
Clara finally looked away, wrapping both raw hands around her glass.
Kurt considered playing through the masquerade. Instead he shrugged. He’d probably have to kill her eventually, anyway.
“Frankly they make no difference.” He took a moment to enjoy her confusion. “I’ve a lot of mouths to feed and more soldiers than required. I’ll be keeping my word and marching to your temple, just as I said I would. And if I have to lose a hundred men or two then so be it.”
The questions rippled clearly across her face, but she said nothing. This seemed wise since he was apparently speaking plain.
“Those savages killed Keevish soldiers, Ms. Lehmann. You saw what they did with our dead. Do you think that’s unusual? It’s not. They’re animals. They sacrifice their children to ward off evil spirits. They drink the blood of the dead. They’re not men like us.”
He could see by her face this offended her.
“They’re primitive, but they’re not animals. They farm, they have art, and language, and a great sense of honor, too, if you…”
“I’ve fought and killed them for ten years, Ms. Lehmann. I’ve watched them. I’ve seen the limits of that…honor. They’re not Keevan. They’re maybe not even human, or at least an inferior race more like apes than men.” He raised a hand to ward off her retort. “And now we’ve let a few mankillers live, and those animals think they can kill the motherland’s soldiers and walk away. Do you understand what that means? For my safety, and for my country, I must prove them wrong. Those animals must learn the price of attacking us, of interfering with us. I must make every male, every female, every infant Helvati understand that to see the banner of the empire is to see death, ruin, and destruction.”
Kurt stared into Clara’s eyes, letting her see that he meant every word. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet.
“What do you intend to do?”
He smiled, and finished his brandy, refilling both their glasses—especially hers. Finally, the point.
“Tell me—this supposed weapon of yours. Is it flammable?”
She watched him, and he could see he’d caught her off guard, as intended, and had the answer in her eyes. Good, he thought, mind drifting already to how and when and what to do first. Though if the answer was yes, he knew, I’d have done what I wanted anyway.
“One last thing.” He looked up and by her face realized he’d ignored her for quite some time. “If you’d like a warm bath and privacy and to get out of carrying packs and digging walls, you can stay in my bed tonight. Or in fact any night you’d prefer to be treated like a woman and not a soldier.”
He probed her eyes and saw the flare of rage. Then she rose without a word, and with a great deal of dignity, he thought, threw open the flap of his tent, and stalked into the night.
Sweet dreams, he thought, putting the vial of weak poison on the table. When he’d decided she was out of earshot, he leaned back, and laughed hard from his gut.
Chapter 8
In the morning, Kurt rose before the sun, checked his guns, and climbed a tree. He let the gentle breeze wash over his face in waves, smelling the moist canopy of the forest in deep, steady breaths as he waited. Then he climbed down and sent his men back to work on his bridge. After he gave the order and the men went to it, Private Rald leaned in.
“Won’t the enemy know we’re here now, sir? Shouldn’t we at least move, or maybe just…turn…”
“Yes,” Kurt met the young man’s eyes and stared. Most days he happily accepted at least the questions of men like Rald, and encouraged them to speak openly. But after the death of the men, Kurt put on his ‘we’re in the shit’ mask. And there was no room for questions or hesitation in the shit, so he sneered.
“I hope they do.”
Rald nodded and paled slightly, then went back to his work. No one asked any more questions.
Instead they worked like dogs, Clara included—even if she looked a little green, and groggy. Before the sun fell they’d built three more boats, driven fifty piles, and constructed supports for half the bridge. Kurt sent a messenger with half his cavalry back to the valley asking for more men and supplies with instructions to double-march. He had the wall built higher, the trenches deeper; he asked for more drying racks along the river, more latrines, more tents for the coming soldiers. Then he lit the biggest, most obvious camp bonfires he could.
And the next morning, he climbed back up his tree. He closed his eyes as a strong gust from the North cooled his skin. He stood motionless for a time, watching the beautiful, swaying canopy of the ancient woods. Then he smiled.
“Wake your men,” he whispered later in Harmon’s ear. “We take our revenge.”
The captain woke holding a knife, then saw who it was in his tent and licked his lips like a hungry wolf before a meal. Kurt woke Celtus next. And before the sun rose, the three of them, with a mix of twenty scouts and veterans of the 2nd and 3rd, loaded horses with kindling, and oil, then followed the river West.
Kurt feared scouts and so the men moved in the treeline away from the water. They moved in silence save for their footfalls and animals, and by mid-morning they saw the old, Helvati rope bridge suspended between four huge trees, and several man-made anchors. It was narrow, but, if Kurt was being honest, sturdier than he expected.
He left the animals and broke the men into three teams behind himself, Celtus and Harmon. Then he crossed first, sweating as the old, half-rotten boards creaked beneath his weight. But the ropes and cedar held well, and soon enough his soldiers stood safely across, loaded with as much oil as they could carry.
“When you run out, come back to the horses for more. Look for the old, dead trees first. If you see Helvati, kill them.”
The men nodded, and Kurt drew a cloth mask over his face, and walked into the tribesman’s woods.
Kurt and his men went due West. They went as far as they dared and splashed the densest clumps of ancient trees with fuel, then lit it with torches. The flames licked and teased at the old, dark limbs and soon spread, and Kurt and his men retreated. All along their
flight they ignited a path back to the bridge until the oil emptied, lighting some deadwood near the end even without their fuel. Then they re-supplied and went again.
Smoke and ash soon filled the air and Kurt blinked against the heat. They had to be careful not to lose their way and wander too far or get cut off, but Kurt noted the largest trees and kept to the path. When their second load of oil ran out, he turned and grabbed his men and ran, rubbing now at his eyes as the smoke poisoned the air. By the time they reached the bridge he pulled down his mask coughing and spitting to clear his throat. All of the men had returned, only Celtus and his men seeing Helvati.
“Too many flames.” He shrugged. “We had to leave them.”
Kurt nodded, no longer caring. He had feared only being interrupted. Now as he stood at the edge of the river with the others, watching clouds of grey and black smoke rise above the trees, he knew it was over. The deadly fumes mixed with reds and oranges as the flames grew, and the shrouded sunlight lit all in its descent.
“For the dead.”
Kurt looked to the men around him.
“For the dead,” repeated the veterans.
He lingered one final moment, letting the still-strong breeze cool his heated flesh. He imagined the devastation, wondering how far the ruin would spread—how fast, and how much area had the Helvati protected from natural flames. If the forest held only an enemy army it might flee with little loss. They would lose supplies and likely be forced to scatter, but with enough time the men would gather and retaliate. His enemy, though, was not an army.
The ancient forest held towns and villages with women, and children, the old, and the sick. The tribesmen would be loathe to leave houses, families, animals and perhaps crops. They would linger, not wary enough of the growing smoke. But Kurt knew better. After 20 years of war he knew starvation and disease ended more lives than the sword. And smoke always kills more than fire.
Knowing the horrors that awaited anyone in the path of the wind, he turned and led the men back across the safety of the river.
