Red Valor

by Shad Callister

  No time to warn the men, and they were too busy trying to break the shield wall to see their doom. Ghormonga gave a short, bitter laugh. By the Red Tusk, here was a worthy foe!

  Uthek screamed a warning, but no one heard.

  The horse troopers hit the seething mass of warriors with the force of a smith’s hammer. Choked screams drowned out the grunts and thuds as lances burst through backs, fountaining from bare chests and necks to spray the shieldwall with red.

  Hooves pounded down on the fallen, trampling them into the gory sand. Skulls split open and bones fractured as men were flung into the air, turning the fight into a shambles. The force of the charge broke the entire Silverpath attack. The thirty horse thundered past, leaving ruin in their wake, not a one of them taken down.

  A moment later the men forming the sea urchin were left standing alone in the blood-foamed shallows, which was thick with thrashing wounded and dying. Their sergeant barked an order, and the sea urchin reformed into a double phalanx, all spears to the front.

  Another order, and the two rows surged forward, spearing the wounded who lay in their path and chasing the fleeing survivors up the shore.

  When they reached dry sand, the rows pivoted instantly into a double column and began to run quickly away from the fight toward the palisade wall. A few Silverpath men gave chase, but by then the horsemen had wheeled along the lakeshore and were coming back toward the fort after their retreating brethren.

  Any warriors who let themselves be caught ahead of that terrible stream of lances and hooves were pounded into oblivion. The horses curved around the double-timing foot soldiers and entered the fort’s gate, still standing open.

  The entire maneuver had been accomplished in less time than it would have taken Ghormonga to rush to the gate, and now the hoplites marched quickly inside. The gates slammed shut again, a few arrows bouncing harmlessly off them as furious Silverpath archers made their last attempts to bring down a few of the elusive foemen.

  Ghormonga clenched his jaw until it ached. These men were professionals, but not in the rigid Kerathi way. This single action had cut down the Silverpath force by at least another thirty men and lost but a few of their own.

  Somehow, instead of catching the Kerathis at a disadvantage far from their coastal strongholds, the Silverpath forces had been drawn into a carefully planned slaughter. The war chief had never seen such tactics, and realized that even his caution and experience had been bested. At least for the moment.

  The enormity of the disaster evidently broke upon young Uthek’s mind then. He frothed and swore, savaging a nearby tree’s bark with his axe.

  Ghormonga made a quick count. There were close to a hundred men still with him in the trees. Some archers and raiders from the initial assault still crouched at the barricades or in the ditch, perhaps another score of wolfish men eager for blood. They had taken toll of the soldiers on the walls with skillful arrow-play, and more than a few defenders lay pitched forward, hanging motionless from the ramparts, arms dangling downward. Not enough to sway the tide of battle, but sufficient to keep the defenders from growing bold.

  Ghormonga frowned, thinking hard. There was still hope to bring down the fort, but there was no longer any room for error. It would be careful, painstaking work to draw out and destroy the defenders now. He would not attempt another all-out assault without reinforcements, and the Northfire clan was still a day away if they came at all.

  “This night’s fight is a draw,” he observed in flat tones. “But they cannot leave. We will see how long they last in there.”

  “No waiting!” Uthek snarled. “We finish it tonight!”

  Ghormonga turned on the prince with a face so furious that Uthek actually shrank back, but before the war chief could utter a word, there came a shout from the walls.

  Without warning, a small section of the palisade wall fell outward. It was the spot to the right of the gate where two palisade logs stood shorter than the others, the section Uthek had initially targeted. These shorter logs had suddenly toppled outward, crushing to death the last Silverpath still hiding at the base of the wall. But it left a gap in the palisade two cubits wide and formed a bridge over the ditch.

  Uthek cried out. “The wall collapses! See! The fire in the trench damaged the logs. Attack!”

  The wall was broken, and now the slaughter could finally begin. Scattered warriors all around the field bellowed a new war-cry and rushed forward, eager to be first through the wall. Lithe shapes struggled up to the breach, pale bodies surging against each other. They clambered up over the fallen logs and ran down its length into the fort, pushing forward for the kill.

  Ghormonga made no move to deny the patient warriors their place as first to breach the fort. Perhaps the fires had indeed burned too hot and too close, damaging the stockade wall. But an uncanny sense yet gave him pause, and he held Uthek back while others sprinted over the field once more.

  Through the breach, something immense and dark tumbled from inside the fort to fill the gap in the palisade wall.

  It was another brace of logs, equal in girth and height to the ones which had fallen outward. These were tied together, carefully measured and stood up on end unseen inside the fort.

  It was a wall of crushing weight. Now, pushed by many hands, the new barrier toppled inexorably forward into the breach. The barbarians eagerly charging down the length of the fallen logs had nowhere to turn. Several were pulverized under the massive trunks, and those not instantly killed were flung backward with flopping, broken limbs.

  The upright logs on either side of the breach shuddered as the new section of wall, heavier and longer than before, slammed into place. It canted outward and upward at an angle, still leaving a hole in the wall, but one that would be difficult to enter. And it seemed that every skirmisher within the walls was concentrated now around that one entry point.

  Another killing funnel.

  But they were birthed to war, these Silverpath clansmen. Fear was unknown to them, and the disproportionate casualties caused by the pawtoon’s tricks had enraged them. Silverpath archers sent shaft after shaft at the ramparts to keep the defenders’ heads down, and fresh attackers sped from the treeline like deer, bounding over wreckage and corpses, slithering past or scaling the barricades to get at the fort.

  Snarling like beasts, the first to arrive at the wall clambered up and over the fallen logs and leaped into the fort. Heedless of the arrows whistling out at them, their ferocity and speed carrying them through, man after man dove through the breach and hurled themselves upon the soldiers waiting beyond.

  Ghormonga and Uthek, watching from the trees, could not fail to see the genius of the enemy plan. The narrow gap in the fort wall would only admit one or two at a time, preventing a massed rush. Clambering up the logs slowed even the fastest warrior, and once atop it the arrows came, raking the assaulting warriors with horrifying effect.

  Within the fort, Ghormonga could just see the flash of bronze swords in the moonlight, rising and falling, hacking each new warrior into the mud as soon as he entered the gap. In such a place, the defenders could dispatch ten times their number and never suffer a scratch. It was a perfect slaughtering pen, and the Kerathi commander was making the most of it.

  The Silverpath war chief howled in consternation, spinning and sinking his spear into the loam.

  The cunning devils! They were using the vaunted ferocity of the Silverpath to their undoing. They had purposely opened a way in, knowing the howling warriors would recklessly take it, submitting to a chokepoint that negated their numbers.

  “Call them back. Quickly.”

  “No!” Uthek was frantic. “We are committed now! A few more men and we can overwhelm them! I should go down there with them.”

  “We could send a thousand into that gap and lose every one! Call them off!”

  Uthek gave a hoarse shout, and it finally echoed down toward the fort, passed on by men on the field that were beginning to halt, seeing the deathtrap that lay ah
ead of them for what it was.

  The warriors massing around the fort melted back, leaving the tantalizing breach open in the moonlight, a deadly invitation. Twisted corpses lay along its edges, arms and legs twitching, bristling with arrows. Ghormonga didn’t want to guess at how many more lay within, cut down before they could do any good.

  All the men in the field began straggling back toward the trees now, including the archers and others that had been pinned. Several were felled as they went by arrows from the walls, but these were coming less and less frequently now. Ghormonga hoped that was a sign the defenders were running low on missiles.

  Uthek paced up and down as the bleeding, demoralized warriors stumbled into the cover of the trees.

  “We will regroup here,” he announced. “Cut trees to form ladders, and climb up from all directions. They cannot defend every side at once! They can’t have many arrows left.”

  “True,” Ghormonga snorted. “Their arrows are nearly all spent—into the backs of our men. But think beyond that, young prince, before you rush to the walls again.”

  Uthek was sullen. “Think of what? You would have me sit idly by and wait for my Northfire cousins to arrive? So they can laugh at me and take the victory for themselves? I’ll die before I see that happen.”

  “Consider your opponent more carefully, Uthek. He’s been ahead of us every step of the way, anticipated everything we have done so far. He even suggested actions to us, which we foolishly took, and then he turned them on us. He’s toying with us the way a lynx toys with a hare!”

  “Luck and bravado. But it ends now!”

  “You’re not listening. We need to start thinking ahead of him or we’ll fail. We must anticipate his next move, then counter it. We’ve tried direct assault more than once, and he defeated us. It’s time now to hatch some plots of our own.”

  “What do you suggest, old man?” Uthek muttered.

  “That’s the first glimmer of intelligence you’ve shown tonight,” Ghormonga drily returned. “Let an old man show you how to win a battle against the Kerathi.”

  For the past hour, axes had been heard in the forest. The watchers on the walls anticipated a fresh assault with ladders, and watched the trees carefully. But Captain Pelekarr was unsettled.

  He hadn’t thought of Perian since the battle began, though it took a conscious force of will to put the woman from his mind. He was content to pass judgment on her actions later, when he better understood why she had disappeared, taking a pair of horses and one of his much-needed archers with her.

  He knew he hadn’t convinced her of the power of his strategy, that she’d left in order to implement her mad centipede scheme. He also knew that if her plan failed, or brought further ruin and disrupted his carefully laid plans, he would never forgive her.

  But he couldn’t help wondering what she would make of the current situation. She had become like another trusted sergeant, always at his elbow, ready with information about the ways of the barbarians and of the land around them.

  He missed her. He needed her, to bounce ideas back at him, and to get answers.

  There was something about the way the Silverpath had withdrawn that worried him. Finally, imagining Perian’s canny and unrestrained point of view, he put his finger on it.

  “We can hear axes because they want us to hear axes,” he muttered.

  His bannerman Makos, standing nearby, gave him a quizzical look.

  Pelekarr went on, pursuing the idea. “They must see that the balance is nearly tipped in our favor after that last victory at the wall. They would be out of their minds to risk further casualties in a frontal assault—they’d be putting victory within our grasp. I don’t trust it.”

  Makos shrugged. “They’re savages, sir. We’ll beat them back like we’ve done before in other battles. This is why we’re in control of this land, and they no longer are.”

  Pelekarr shook his head. “Don’t underestimate them, Makos. They’re no fools. They’re cutting wood nearby, almost within sight of the walls. They want us to hear the axes, I tell you, and if they want us to hear axes then they want us to watch the trees.”

  He spun away, and Makos had to run to keep up with him. Keltos and a sergeant joined them as they ran.

  “To the rear lake wall!”

  The captain trotted swiftly along the parapets, taking every other skirmisher he encountered and bidding them keep silent. The men followed their captain along the semicircle towards the lake.

  There had not been time enough to finish the rear, eastern wall of the fort with upright logs like the rest of the stockade. Instead, Pelekarr and Ashon had decided to lay their remaining logs horizontally on the ground, forming a low wall set almost in the lake itself, so that the waves lapped against its outer surface. This wall stood as tall as a man but no higher.

  Sharpened stakes had been set into the bottom sand beyond the wall to discourage boats or rafts approaching, but swimmers could easily pass through and attempt to scale the logs. Knowing this weakness, the captain had stationed the returned infantry troop facing lakeward, ready to repulse an attack from that direction even as they rested from their ordeal on the shore.

  He hastened there now, and, reaching the end of the palisade wall where it jutted out into the lake, gained a good view of the lower wall below. It stretched out away from him, arcing across to meet the other tip of the semicircle where it, too, protruded into lake. The lower wall formed the bowstring to the bent bow of the semi-circled palisade.

  All seemed quiet. The moonlight glinted on the small wavelets. The infantry were grouped in silent ranks on the sandy beach, which sloped gradually down to the lakeshore, their sergeants standing on stumps to see over the low log wall.

  From where he stood above, Pelekarr scanned the ranks. Most of the men sat resting, shields slung over their backs to protect against a stray arrow coming from the opposite direction.

  He studied the stakes in the shallows. Nothing but flotsam drifted among the carefully positioned outward-facing spikes, bits of driftwood and water-logged loose reeds that swished this way and that with the movement of the water.

  His eyes narrowed. Silently he motioned to the watching skirmishers and archers, directing a volley into the shallows.

  The men below, seeing something was afoot, stood up and readied themselves. The infantry couldn’t see over the wall of horizontal logs, but Sergeant Copper could, and so could the captain above on the rampart.

  Pelekarr dropped his hand, and the arrows and javelins streaked down into the shallows just past the wall.

  Instantly the water erupted in frothy maelstrom as naked men thrashed in agony, clutching at projectiles protruding from their bodies. Splashing forward with a roar, others surged past them to attack before they could all be cut down in the water.

  Another hasty volley clattered down into the water, and more barbarians sank, groaning, with arrows and javelins sprouting from their gleaming skin. The first few survivors clambered over the logs, only to be met with the spears of the infantry beyond.

  Men screamed and fell back off the log wall, some to disappear in the reddened foam, others impaled on the waiting stakes. In moments it was over, the rear assault turned back. Those that could still move swam away desperately, followed by arrows from the skirmishers on the wall. Most of the Silverpath attackers floated lifelessly in the shallows.

  Pelekarr nodded approvingly at Sergeant Copper. Had enough of the enemy cleared the wall in the initial wave and fallen upon the unsuspecting infantry within, the defending mercenaries would have fared far worse. But the timely volley from above broke the impetus of the attack before it could form.

  There had been fifteen, perhaps twenty men in the water. No doubt the strongest swimmers, or the most silent. It was an attempt at infiltration, not an all-out assault. Pelekarr quickly redirected his archers back to the landward side of the fort, anticipating an attack from that direction.

  None came. They waited.

  Now dawn was on the
cusp, filling the eastern sky with a dim gray. Men could see each other’s faces now by more than just moonlight.

  Exhausted archers and infantrymen guzzled lake water brought to them by women and the older children from the settlement, chewing crusts of bread and dried meat ravenously.

  They were nearing the end of the ferocious night. But would they last another day against the maddened Silverpath warriors that still waited out there in the trees?

  They had countered the first few attempts to breach the fort, but now their traps and ruses were spent. From here it would be hard fighting, man to man, to inflict any further casualties on the besieging army. And if it were reinforced, their doom would be sealed. The barbarians had them blocked in; to attempt flight from the fort would be suicide.

  Time was with the Silverpath men, and they could send for help and resupply as needed, a luxury Pelekarr did not have. In fact, it was likely that they already had, that a fresh compliment of warriors were marching through the trees at the very moment, eager to join the fray and wipe the Ostorans from off their landscape.

  The lake-side attack was probing, not committed—an action to keep the defenders at bay, to deny them space to rest or repair so that when morning came, and whatever came with it, they would be worn down.

  He took off his helmet and ran a hand through his lank hair as he brooded, wondering if the coming day would be his last.

  He wondered where Damicos was, out there in the leafy vastness of Ostora, and whether the infantry captain would ever learn the final resting place of Pelekarr and his men if the battle turned against them now.

  He wondered where Perian was, and why she had left his side. He prayed to Khoris that the girl might remain safe, whatever she was doing.

  Then he donned his helmet again and turned his prayers toward Telion, God of War.

  CHAPTER 34: RED TUSK

  They faced a god.

  Damicos did not believe in the heathen gods. How could beast-spirits and demons of the wilderness stand against the majesty of Mishtan?