by Alex Sapegin
Berg had just laid down and turned to Ilnyrgu, who was smiling invitingly at him and rubbing her bare chest—the Wolf was prepared to play the role of his wife to a T, and the half-orc wasn’t planning on neglecting his “spousal duties”—when the explosion rang out on the town square. Their playful mood evaporated instantly. Tyigu, who was sleeping behind a curtain, woke up and started crying. Berg and Il jumped up from the bed and began feverishly putting on clothes and battle equipment. They could hear the pounding of many hurried feet and cries from the street below through the broken window. Torches and magical lanterns gleamed. Bits and pieces of shouted commands reached their ears. Now they were in it up to their ears.
“That rotten Rauu is staying here!” they heard from the street below. “Break down the door. Surround the building. We mustn’t let him get away!”
The tavern shook as if an earthquake were going on. Someone let out a cry on the street, apparently a cry of pain. Berg carefully looked out the window. The thick oak entrance door, which had flown back from the magical blow, maimed a couple of the night-time raiders. All the attackers were wearing light mail with white armbands on their left arms. Behind the main detachment, there was a small crowd of several archers. Apparently they hadn’t yet remembered that arrows could fly from the ancient doorway. A mortal rain mowed the unsuspecting archers down in one sudden instant. A guild mage in a black camisole was the first to take a glowing arrow to the face and flew apart in small bloody pieces. Apparently, the guys with the white armbands hadn’t bothered to put on defense amulets and had relied on the magical support of the guild. The unknown arrow pointed out their fatal mistake in one split second. Feathered death collected a rich harvest. Half the detachment remained lying on the pavement; the other half preferred to retreat. It was obvious that the tavern attackers were not professional warriors, otherwise they would not have allowed such childish mistakes and so foolishly put themselves in the arrows’ path.
Before the half-orc’s last thought had completely formed in his head, a squadron of warriors in armor entered the square. Someone barked a short command at which they raised their shields and formed tight ranks. At another command, they moved towards the building newly under siege. The men in the white armbands crowded in behind them. Kerr burst from the inn, dashed towards the dead archers, and picked up several full quivers of arrows. Arrows flew at the dragon, not harming him at all, burning out a few feet away—the were-dragon had not forgotten to put up a magical shield. Diverting the attackers towards himself, Kerr ran up the street. The warriors picked up their pace, and Berg, with the eagle-eye vision of a steppe orc, saw that the arrows in one of the quivers began to glow with a clear light. Running about a hundred feet away, the dragon then stopped and turned towards his pursuers. A bow appeared in his hands.
A short breath and the fugitive’s right hand flashed from the quiver to the bowstring, from the quiver to the bowstring. Thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk, Berg could hear the ringing sounds. Five arrows glowing with a clear light flew in one chain and with fiery colors hit the magical shield covering the squadron and fell to the ground. At the second batch of five, the shield couldn’t hold any longer and broke. A few blasts covered the squadron, after which a dozen or so mangled, barely recognizable bodies lay on the ground. Many more were wounded. They could forget about pursuing him further.
The she-wolves, fully armed and equipped, burst into Berg’s room. They could hear swearing in the Norse language coming from the southern barracks. Four dozen or so Vikings spilled onto the square, fighting back no less than a hundred opponents.
“Let’s go,” the half-blood said to the she-wolves, “before these cretins remember whose bodyguard Kerr was. We’ll join the Vikings. Slaisa, Toryg, you protect Tyigu at all costs. You’ll answer with your heads if anything happens to her.”
Berg jumped out the window. Ilnyrgu landed beside him. The orcs came to the Vikings’ aid and with their combined forces they quickly reduced the number of attackers to an acceptable level. After they’d joined the northerners, they headed towards the arsenal. There were no further large-scale battles, only three short skirmishes along the way. Kerr disappeared who knows where. He reappeared with a squadron of hired men near the walls of the arsenal three hours later. From the exhausted faces and bloody clothes, it was clear they’d taken a real beating. A kind of tie had come about in the battle for the city. Neither side could get the upper hand. The rebels decided to retreat from the arsenal and were regrouping. A temporary lull allowed the forces loyal to the king to regroup too.
The dragon was again sitting on the ground drawing some convoluted figures with a stick, pondering something. The lull ended, and the rebels gathered their strength and prepared to once again storm the little fortress.
“I need volunteers,” Kerr said, standing up and rubbing the sand from his hands. “We can’t sit in the arsenal forever. In half an hour, those guys with the white armbands will storm us and all the mages that have joined them will be on their side.”
“And just hoo er yee, dat yee should be leadin’ the weeriers?” someone said from the crowd of soldiers gathered under the awning. “Da officers’ll soon get out of der meetin’ and they’ll do the commandin’. Now shut yer mouth and hold yer tongue!”
The guards’ laughs and insults followed:
“The boy thinks himself a general! Uh-huh, tossed on some mail and puffed up with self-importance, but can you even hold a sword?”
“Non-human, go back to your steppes and command some sheep!”
Not everyone laughed and mocked. The Norsemen were silent. They respected martial prowess. Some of them had seen Andy sword fighting from the walls of the arsenal. They were right behind the dragon and knew what he was capable of. Berg looked to the left. Behind Kerr, the ragged detachment he led arranged themselves into even lines. People pulled their mails and adjusted their equipment and sword harnesses.
“It’s not a far cry from sheep to these numbskulls I see before me. My name is Kerrovitarr, and I have the right to command you by blood,” Kerr answered in a calm, even tone.
Berg’s blood went cold. What was he doing? They’d challenge him to a duel for deliberately insulting them. The half-orc wanted to stand up, but Ilnyrgu held him back:
“He’s doing everything right. Relax. You’re about to see a small presentation. Or didn’t you train him well?” Il teased back at the unknown wise guy: “The ‘dear officers’ are quartermasters who don’t know which end of a sword is the pointy end. If it weren’t for the Viking, unit commander and sergeant that commanded the defense of the arsenal and our group of guards, ‘da officers’ would have given up without a fight. Kerr’s thought of something, and now we just need to find out what he has in mind. He needs to make people listen to him, and in this environment, he’s got one of the simplest and fastest ways….”
The Wolf was right. When the squadron of northerners retreating from the southern barracks reached the arsenal, it struck at the back of the besieging soldiers and fought their way through under the cover of the fortress walls. It became clear that there were practically no officers there. A skinny Norseman with many thin scars across his face was leading the defensive efforts. It’s true, the northerner was leading well. He was organizing mobile archer and crossbow firing units that were shooting the approaching half-bloods with their magical ammunition. A few novice boys constantly rushed to bring new arrows from a small warehouse where the “firelights” were stored—arrows with explosive magical tips, and sets of army uniforms with armor. Cauldrons of boiling tar stood on the stadium. Several men were standing watch at a small winch near the parapet. The Viking sorcerer sat on the roof of the dungeon commanding seven mages located between the fortress and the oncoming guild members. The mages promptly put up shields, which is why all attempts to knock the walls down through magic or destroy the defenders came to naught. Bombarding the dungeon with fireballs was useless as well. The tower was so decked out with defense amulets that the shield’s g
low could be seen with the naked eye. Another factor working in their favor was the fact that the guild members weren’t battle mages. If they had been, things would have gone sour for the defenders, even despite all their magical amulets. The sorcerer on the roof laughed mockingly and mooned the besiegers. It was unfortunate that the main warehouses were sealed with guard spells so complex that even Kerr decided not to try to touch the interweaves. The regimental mage who had cast the spells turned out to be sympathetic to the insurgents….
Other officers were lying on the square before the arsenal, chopped up into fine grig,[4] or were burnt to ashes in the guards’ barracks. What idiot thought of building the barracks as a separate building from the place under guard? Only a miracle or the goddesses’ intervention had allowed fifty guards to somehow survive and lock themselves in the fortlet. The southern squadron, which had been joined by another thirty people on the way, strengthened the defense, while the hired men who’d hacked their way through with Kerr liquified all attempts to take the fortress by storm without the proper training and reinforcement. Where the dragon had been these last three hours and what he was up to, Berg didn’t ask. But judging by the looks the hired men gave him and the respect they showed him, the boy had really had some “fun.” He got the general impression the revolt broke out spontaneously. The half-orc did not sense any sort of proper combat training in the attackers. If the mages hadn’t been with them, and the militias of the coastal lords, the whole half-blood rabble in Ortag could have been chased out with just a couple hundred guards.
“Look, it’s starting,” Ilnyrgu whispered.
Pushing through the crowd with his broad shoulders, a huge warrior in double chain mail with a shiny breastplate on his chest stepped into a clear space.
“Who you callin’ numbskulls, pup? You’ll answer in blood for utterin’ such as this. I wanna see what color yers is.”
The warrior’s friends cawed and whooped in support. The giant grabbed his sword.
Kerr, at lightning speed, slipped forward, bent his torso to the side, and dove under the armed man’s arm. He delivered such a strong punch to the guy’s jaw that the strap of his helmet broke, and he stumbled back a couple steps. The sword fell from his weakened hand and he crashed to the ground, more like a sack of oats than a warrior. His body twitched a couple times and fell still. A smelly puddle spread out from under him. The force of the blow was such that the neck vertebrae burst from his body.
“Does anyone else want to see what color my blood is?” the dragon asked innocently. The shameful death of this experienced warrior from an unarmed non-human made the rest of them keep silent and see the blue-eyed guy in a new light. The men Kerr hired snickered maliciously. “No one? Great. I repeat. I need volunteers for trips to the city. You have to be an archer.”
Berg dusted off his pants and stood up from the wall:
“I’ll go.”
“No, teacher!” Kerr turned to him. The half-orc could sense all eyes on him. There was a variety of stares, from respectful to hateful. “I need you here.”
“We’ll go,” the commander of the hired men said in a booming bass. “We can all use a bow.”
Besides the hired men, a few Norsemen responded as well from among the free warriors. They weren’t subject to the unit commander or the sergeant of the southern squadron. The she-wolves tried to chime in too, but Kerr scowled at them so bad, they lost all desire to argue with him.
The dragon looked over his volunteers and pointed to the ten people. All the men he’d chosen were of about the same build: thin, toned, not a drop of fat.
“I warn you, you probably won’t make it. You can still say no, you don’t have to go with me. But if you haven’t changed your minds and you come, you have to obey all my commands exactly. I say jump, you jump. I say die, you pretend to be drowned rats.”
“Don’t worry, commander. Would we have come with you if we were afraid of Hel?” a blond hired man said. Il winked at Berg. The half-orc secretly smiled. A red-haired Viking, one of three northerners Kerr had chosen, spit contemptuously through his chipped teeth. The were-dragon nodded approvingly.
The unit commander, sergeant, and Norse mages finally appeared from the dungeon, along with a few quartermasters. The military command meeting was over.
“Unit commander sir, may I speak with you for a minute?” Kerr asked bolt upright.
The Norseman squinted his eyes and looked the dragon up and down. “Speak.”
The thing took longer than a minute. Kerr suggested dividing up the defensive forces and secretly sending one squadron on a raid to get around behind the guild mages. Volunteers from the Vikings and hired men would go on the raid. According to his suggested plan, they would destroy the mages and disorganize the besiegers. After that, they’d give the signal, a green flare in the sky, and the warriors would leave the fortress and finish off the surviving rebels near the arsenal. Then come to the aid of the northern barracks, where battles were still raging on. Being on the defensive was precarious, because new militias from the coastal lords and groups of half-bloods from the suburbs could arrive in the city at any moment. The unit commander listened silently to Kerr’s plan and then asked what he could do to help put it into action.
***
Andy looked out from behind the stove pipe and immediately hid behind it again. His predictions that they were preparing to storm the military warehouse, and that new lords’ militias would show up in Ortag, had been correct. Columns of armed men marched the streets with the coat of arms of Lord Worx on their shields. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves resounded against the pavement. They brought carts loaded with heavy equipment called chuckers, used to fling weapons. From under the thin gray canvas covering the carts, Andy could see the glow of the magical power supplies they carried. The battle equipment consisted of thick glass balls thirty centimeters around, with different innards: fragmentation-explosive ones, which were stuffed with metal scraps and a passive explosive spell, and highly-explosive ones, with the “all-consuming flame” spell. Power chargers for wall destruction were stacked up separately. Their task just got more challenging, but hey, they’d been in worse scrapes than this, right?
They got out of the arsenal without any dire difficulties. A thin rope, which was reinforced by magic, was attached to a crossbow’s arrow. They fired and the arrow, which looked like a thick javelin, punctured deep into the wall of the building across from the fortress. Throwing curtains of invisibility over himself and his warriors, which made them invisible to prying eyes but not to one another, Andy grabbed the specially prepared clamp and slid down along the rope to the roof of the building. Next, the others followed by the same method. Andy took two dozen quivers full of magical arrows from the unit commander and ordered his archers to leave everything they didn’t need in the fortress. They were allowed to take their swords, bows, and a double portion of magical arrows.
He ordered them all to don leather breastplates.
“We’ll go along the rooftops,” he explained briefly. “They’re still free from the white armbands’ arrows for now. It would be a shame not to take advantage of the muddle-headed recklessness of their commanders. Don’t weigh yourselves down with unnecessary loads. You need to be able to jump far.”
Andy retrieved a couple of twenty-foot boards from his spatial pocket he’d put there earlier. Laying them from one roof to another, he made his way with the men to the town square. He had thought and stressed for a long time over whether to put the wood into his “pocket,” but, weighing the dry boards, he decided to risk it. Thank you, builders of Ortag, for putting the buildings so close together. The streets were narrow, only about fifteen feet wide. This trick wouldn’t have worked in Orten, with its wide avenues and boulevards.
“Commander, what should we do?” Olaf, the red-haired Norseman asked him, pointing to the militiamen as they dragged their hefty shields as protection against arrow fire and at the shields arranged by the unit commanders like a fence as cover for a poss
ible attack from the direction of the city.
“The same plan,” Andy answered. “We’ll wait until the lords begin storming the arsenal and concentrate their mages’ efforts on breaking down the walls. We’ll divide up into two groups of five. One’ll shoot the ‘firelights’ at the carts with the power supplies; the other will distract the mages. You won’t have time to get many shots in. The lords’ archers will soon take you to the task, and boy will the mages be mad.” The warriors gave a quiet laugh. “Your main job is to distract them away from me. Don’t let a single one of those scumbags look my way. In order to increase the destructive effect, I’ll up the power on the tips of your arrows. Whatever you do just don’t accidentally shake or hit the quivers. The blood will splatter from here to Kion.”
“Commander, you’re a mage, and a fine one, am I right?” Ulg spoke up, a raven-haired southerner with short spiky hair on his head and a long shaggy mustache. “Why couldn’t we have struck from the fortress?”
Andy was expecting such a question.
“Ulg, when you got to fight another warrior one-on-one, do you hold your shield in front of you or hang it behind you? It’s the same thing with magic. Half, if not all of our energy will go towards breaking through the mages’ collective shield. I don’t think they’ll put up a dome. They probably won’t be expecting a dirty trick from the back, from the besieged city. It’s time. Quick, give me one quiver each.”