The disgusted moans of Garscap’s companions choired with his own as saffron began to spill out of the village. The column of legionaries pointed like an arrow toward the Pig. Garscap stood. Hiding any longer was pointless. As he ran over to the broken furka, the others followed. He seized the hammer and thrust it into the saint’s fumbling hands.
“Every furka between here and Pigsback must be smashed,” Garscap said. “Deconsecrate them if you must, but be quick with your prayers.”
Saint Charlin stared at him, and then at the hammer.
“What are you waiting for? Go!” Garscap roared, sending the saint running through the massed Pigsknucklers.
The politician addressed the crowd. “As you probably gathered from our groans, the Fair Folk are on their way up the mountain. We have no choice but to fight them. Calm down. Take heart. My former profession as a mercenary taught me a few tricks that will not be to our enemies’ liking.” His laugh promised more than he dared to commit in words. Even if the Orstretcherists arrived in time, even if the Littleknucklers came, their interventions would hardly be sufficient to defeat the invaders. His only consolation was that his people would not die like sheep. Their lives would exact a heavy price from their takers.
23
The heroes of Coneyriddle,
Undaunted, made their final stand,
Their arms breaking but not their will,
Spear turning to knife, knife to hand.
FROM THE MARTYRDOM OF CONEYRIDDLE.
SunTalon Risus climbed the mountain alongside the sentinel. Legionaries in bronze and saffron stretched before and after them. Was this climb a fool’s errand? Scouts had discovered another broken furka and indications of recent activity on the trail, but there had been no sighting of Orstretcherists or Stretchers. It was possible that the monastery was deserted, and SunTalon was risking his legionaries’ lives for nothing. This mountain was a dangerous place to bivouac. His preference was to return to the village, camp there overnight, and then restart the ascent in the morning. That would give them a full day to make the round trip to the monastery.
The problem was that Sentinel Five was set on reaching it today. He feared any delay might give the Orstretcherists and their allies time to escape. There was no point in incurring the sentinel’s wrath unnecessarily. Memories of what the sentinel had said about IronWill Defensor were still fresh, and SunTalon was eager to avoid the impression he lacked courage like his legate. It would be a dereliction of duty, if he failed to express his concerns at some point, but it was not an absolute necessity yet, so he postponed the unpleasant conversation for later. Hopefully, the sentinel might see sense on his own.
The legionaries reached the top of the ridge and filed past the ruined furka. SunTalon took it as a good omen and put aside his qualms. Ors would never destroy a gnomon in this fashion. They would defend its golden hand to their last breath, though their sacrifice would not be as heedless and ineffectual as that made by the Stretchers in the past. The destruction of these objects of veneration was a symptom of despair.
SunTalon glanced upon the noon sun, a whitish blaze in the sky. Surely, the fineness of the day was another omen. Aurelian was smiling down on the expedition.
Two scouts in camouflaged attire raced down the column. One, nudging a legionary aside, reported with a fluttering voice to the tribune. “We spotted Stretchers farther up the trail. There are a dozen of them gathered on a series of low escarpments.”
SunTalon repressed the urge to whoop for joy. Some of the legionaries around him were less restrained, forcing him to shut them up. The sentinel’s grin stretched from ear to ear, and his eyes sparkled with wild delight. At last, they had found some enemy to kill.
“A dozen Stretchers are no great challenge,” the tribune said to sober himself as much as to his troops.
“One rat is never alone,” the sentinel observed. “There may be an army beyond this dozen. The Orstretcherists may be with them.”
“I hope you are right.” SunTalon had no doubt that whatever force awaited them on the mountain, the two centuries under his command were more than a match for it.
Grael stood at the back of the crowd gathered around Garscap at the top of the Crooked Stair.
“This is where we’ll meet them,” the politician said. “I’m going to send a detachment of young men to wait for the Elves at the bottom of the Crooked Stair. They’ll draw the Elves up it, breaking their cohesion. The rest of us will meet them here, using the height of the top terrace and the relative narrowness of the plateaus below it against them.”
“What if they scale the cliffs?” someone asked.
“Hopefully, they’ll be too focused on the Crooked Stair to think of it. If they try to scale the cliffs, our lookout will spot them.” Garscap pointed to Joraem Scoral zigzagging up the mountainside.
“And what happens if we cannot hold them here?” Dawan asked.
Garscap winked. “I have a trick up my sleeve for that eventuality. Grael Erol will lead the decoy group. The others will be Dawan Mangal—”
“I’ll go in my son’s place,” Lahan declared.
“No,” Grael and Garscap said in unison.
“Lahan, you’re too old,” Garscap said. “The decoy group must be young men spry enough to stay ahead of pursuing legionaries.”
Grael pushed his way through the crowd to his father’s side. “Better I risk my life than you end yours. Garscap, I’ll go.”
Grael wished his palms would stop sweating as he wiped their excess moisture on the front of his tunic.
“Did Garscap give any indication as to when we should retreat?” Dawan asked, his voice heavy with tension.
“He said I must decide.” Grael glanced around at his comrades. They were all young men like him and Dawan, though the value of that advantage during their inevitable retreat was yet to be determined. Two whittled pieces of wood. Another inspected his spearhead lashings and the edge of his knife with grim intensity. Two more propped themselves against boulders, their eyes closed in a vain search for forgetful sleep. Several made sporadic traversals of the terrace whenever their nerves got the better of them. The rest stared with hypnotic intensity down the mountainside, their eyes sifting the barren landscape for the tiniest movement, for the first telltale flicker of saffron.
If the Smirk was here, Garscap might have put him in charge and spared Grael the burden of command. Evram’s absence deepened Grael’s contempt for the politician’s pet. The coward should be here defending his people during this crisis, and, if he survived it, face justice like a Stretcher, instead of hiding in the wilderness like a frightened animal. Evram had done so much damage, denying Pigsknuckle its allies at this critical moment. Worst of all, his crime might prove his salvation as much as his people’s doom.
“We’re being watched,” Dawan murmured. “Look at the humped rock with the bitten side yonder.”
It took some time to identify the boulder from Dawan’s description. Grael began to suspect his cousin was the victim of an overeager imagination, when a flash of movement came from behind the rock.
Grael’s orders drifted on whispers through the group. “Make no sudden movements. Be ready for an attack.”
With growing impatience, Grael watched four Elves creep nearer. They were dressed in ragged greens and browns rather than the brighter plumage of regular legionaries, though the camouflage was not very effective against the gray terrain. Their swift advances from the rock to rock were punctuated by long pauses while they decided their next move. Part of Grael wanted to yell at them to hurry up, but he had to be patient with them, like any quarry.
Without warning, the Elves broke cover and dashed toward the Stretchers. The only sound they made was the flutter of their cloaks in the breeze and the patter of their naked feet on the stone. As the nearest closed on Grael, he ignored the distracting twirls of his opponent’s weapons and picked his moment to thrust his spear at the scout’s face. The point smashed through the scout’s mouth and out th
e back of his neck. The Elf slumped to the ground, his batonaxes clanging against the bare stone. His gored neck and head clung to Grael’s spear, pulling it downward. Grael was about to use his foot to push the corpse off his weapon when whooshing batonaxes forced him to fall backward. He rolled away, expecting death at any moment. Safely beyond the dancing legs of his companions, he swung around to see his men form an arc around his attacker and skewer him with their spears.
The other two scouts were dead. One lay in a crumpled heap on the terrace. The other lay face down, his legs draped over the ledge. Splashes of blood mapped the course of the battle across the stone slabs that paved the little plateau.
The hand with which Dawan helped Grael to his feet was oily with blood. They hugged each other as their companions cheered, stabbed the air with their spears, and clapped each other’s backs and shoulders.
Grael made sure to shake each man’s hand. The whoops of their comrades farther up the mountain, thinned by distance and wind, were just audible. His joyful delirium brought tears to his eyes. He had lived an eternity in that instant of combat, and life was sweeter and brighter in its aftermath.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Dawan said. “You killed one by yourself.”
“The accomplishment nearly cost me my life,” Grael said in hope of fending off his cousin’s worship.
The Stretchers were unhurt. The only damage that they had suffered was to their weapons. A few obsidian spear points had broken, their shards left buried in their victims. The iron beak of another spear had bent, and its owner was forced to straighten it with his foot. A couple of axes had broken against Elfin armor. The owners of the damaged weapons rummaged through the spares for replacements. Their loss was a minor quibble compared to their victory. They had felled four Elves without suffering a single casualty.
Grael glanced down at the batonaxes at his feet. The heads had been blackened with some tarry substance to prevent them from reflecting the sun’s glare. He kicked the weapons off the terrace.
“This was a feat worthy of Alackalas himself,” Dawan commented.
Grael chuckled. “If he had been twelve men, maybe. We were three times their number. Don’t think that because we dispatched these four we can take on a legion by ourselves.”
One of the others pointed out a bright speck in the distance. The Stretchers’ precious respite from despair and fear shriveled as saffron fringed the mountainside. The sun sparking against burnished metal created the impression of a spreading blaze as the legionaries marched toward the defenders.
The others’ stares fell upon Grael.
“Prepare yourselves,” he said.
SunTalon had little sympathy for the four slain scouts when he learned of their misfortune. Their attack had been unsanctioned. It had been an act of hubris on their part, fueled by ambition to serve and an excessive confidence in their superiority in combat. It was surprising, given their long military experience and their lineages. Their rashness had served to get them killed, embolden their enemies, and undermine the morale of their fellow legionaries. Their foolishness was all the more infuriating because the Consensus would reward it with a posthumous commendation.
IronWill’s reaction would not be pleasant—his words of consolation, the righteous twinkle in his eyes, the false sorrow depressing his smile. Four Ors were dead, no sign of the Orstretcherists, and not one Stretcher slain. So far, the expedition’s only success, if it could be described as such, was the capture of an empty village of no strategic importance whatsoever.
To add to the tribune’s woes, a messenger from the village had arrived. SunTalon had left a small detachment, two squads, to hold it, and now he received a report that a large force of Stretchers was closing in. His instinct was to turn back and deal with this threat. This handful of Stretchers was probably a decoy to distract the main force of legionaries while their comrades attacked the little garrison in the village. But the sentinel would not brook retreat, not when he had the scent of his elusive quarry, and it would be unwise of SunTalon to split his force. He sent the messenger back to the village with orders for the garrison to abandon it. Hopefully, the messenger would reach them in time.
The tribune called his troops to a halt while he summoned WarSage and the two centurions.
“What is the meaning of this delay?” Sentinel Five demanded.
“I am going to lead the attack,” SunTalon answered. “In the event of my death, I want to make sure everyone knows what must be done.”
“Is it wise for the most senior officer to join the front line?”
“I need the exercise. One officer is as good as another. WarSage Galea is more than capable of replacing me if I am incapacitated. You lectured the legate on the virtues of courage and sacrifice, and now, when their time is at hand, you counsel caution.”
“I will lead the attack,” Sentinel Five said.
“As the senior officer here, that is my privilege to decide, not yours.”
“I am one of our Bright Lord’s bodyguards. I outrank you.”
What is the point of a bodyguard when there is no body to guard? SunTalon resisted the temptation to say it. The sentinel would regard the question as blasphemous, a slur on not him but his god, and he was liable to answer it with his batonaxes.
“Sentinel, your original argument was that the senior officer should not lead the attack. As you hold that position, you have precluded yourself from the front line.”
SunTalon took a moment to savor the sentinel’s sulky admission of defeat before turning his attention to his subordinate officers.
Garscap watched the work party pick their way down the scree-littered slope toward the rest of the Pigsknucklers at the top of the Crooked Stair. In the distance, the amorphous Elfin army formed neat, saffron blocks. The regularity of its structure showed confidence and discipline, but it also suggested a mental rigidity a canny foe could exploit.
If the Pigsknucklers failed to hold the top of the Crooked Stair, they would retreat up the sharp incline to their left, while a party above them set off an avalanche of rocks and boulders to scourge their pursuers and, perhaps, kill a substantial number of them.
He turned to the five ancients and their hard-pressed bearers.
“Thomol, you must decide when the chocks holding back the rubble should be knocked away. The life of every Pigsknuckler may depend on that decision.”
Thomol puffed up with irksome glee.
“Of course, if you had your way back in Pigsknuckle, you wouldn’t have lived to enjoy this opportunity,” Garscap observed. That plucked Thomol’s crowing.
He started downhill to join rest of the Pigsknucklers. Halfway down, he stopped and beckoned two of the old men’s minders to him. Beyond the reach of Thomol’s hearing, Garscap instructed the women to take the initiative if Thomol dithered.
Garscap was not happy with the size of the mound that the work party had built, but time was against them, and its progress down the slope would hopefully dislodge more material, expanding the avalanche. The slender, flexing trunks that held the pile in place were a bigger worry. If they gave way at the wrong moment, the Pigsknucklers might be victims rather than beneficiaries of the resultant onslaught of debris.
Everyone at the top of the Crooked Stair greeted Garscap’s return with respectful nods. Even Widan saluted him with genuine deference. A few arms jolted with the impulse to stretch upward. Garscap’s past no longer mattered. Old enmities were forgotten. He had already saved their lives once this day by an act both blasphemous and miraculous. Every face held the hope, the prayer, that he was capable of more wonders.
Lahan and a few others whose sons were bait in Garscap’s trap didn’t subscribe to this general reverence. Lahan’s eyes were focused downward as if he was trying to stare through the curve of the mountain to view his son. Only Joraem Scoral, whom Garscap had positioned on the mountainside, had a proper view of what was happening below.
“Our landslide is prepared,” Garscap said. “Hopefully
, it’ll not be needed.”
An almighty crack reverberated above them. There were gasps of horror as rocks and debris poured through the broken struts down the side of the mountain. As a herd, the Pigsknucklers ran up the mountain out of the path of the oncoming landslide. As fast as the slip had started, it ceased. The bulk of the falling rubble slowed and settled back into the mountainside. Only a harmless trickle of pebbles and sand traveled far enough to shower the Crooked Stair.
Some relieved Pigsknucklers proclaimed their escape a miracle, while others assured Garscap that he would make good this setback. It was a blessing in disguise, they said, that the faultiness of his backup weapon had been discovered before they relied upon it.
Garscap smiled and nodded and agreed with their optimistic sentiments. He spoke of holding the Fair Folk at the Crooked Stair as though it was a small feat. Without the distraction of the landslide, retreat was impossible. They must hold their position or die.
Repressing his dismay, Garscap raged in silence at Thomol for no other reason than he had been a persistent nuisance all day. If the old fool had tumbled down the cliff with the debris, it might have proved more effective. He was in love with death. His carcass should have been left in Pigsknuckle for the Elves to pick clean.
The old men’s retinue descended the slope.
“Where do you think you are going?” Garscap demanded.
“Our charges are safe where they are,” one of the women answered. “We thought we might be of more use down here.”
Before Garscap could reply, a signal from Joraem demanded his attention. The Fair Folk were on the march.
SunTalon’s force was divided into four rectangular formations, two at the front and two at the rear. Three had a full complement of six squads—seventy-two legionaries. The right half-century at the rear was missing the two squads posted to guard the village. The sentinel walked behind it. SunTalon, flanked by the remaining scouts, marched between the leading formations.
A Bright Power Rising Page 34