“I’m sure there’s a better way,” Piper replied, but without heart.
Rolnir held up his hand. “I know how you feel but we’re being pushed against the wall. We need Aurec’s soldiers and his style of fighting if we’re going to have enough soldiers left to retake Delranan.”
“Perhaps I should sit this meeting out,” Piper suggested.
“Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” Rolnir reinforced with a much sterner voice. “I need you sharp. Badron’s removed our debate by seizing initiative. Let’s take the war back to him and end this now.”
Piper gradually relented and nodded. “Fine, but don’t expect me to be overjoyed by it. I’ll extend my hand to Aurec because you command it. Now, General, what are your orders?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Kings and Generals
The coronation celebration was weeks old and largely forgotten. Men and women quickly stopped their revelry and returned to the hard prospect of fighting a guerilla war. King Aurec paced Grunmarrow like a trapped mountain lion. He wanted to fight. To attack and end the Delrananian rule of Rogscroft. The idea of taking the war back across the mountains never entered his mind. So many lives had been lost in the few short months of the campaign here he’d never be able to raise enough support to invade their neighbors across the Murdes Mountains. Not that he minded. The combination of his father’s death and the destruction of his cities left him with a hollow feeling. He slowly came to realize just how tired he was. Wars were meant for others. Some greater, some lesser.
Grunmarrow was alive again. Scouts had returned with news of the recent Goblin attack on the Wolfsreik’s main camp. Badron’s kingdom was in turmoil. His alliance was shattered. Men and Goblins turned on each other. The people of Rogscroft rejoiced at the unexpected news. They saw it as the beginning of the end. Aurec didn’t have the heart to dissuade their notions. He knew it for what it really was: a prelude to something far worse.
Aurec’s council urged immediate movements while the enemy was in disarray. While there was some merit to that line of thinking, he couldn’t commit the bulk of his forces without more concrete information. There was more at stake than simply taking advantage of a rare glimpse of sunlight.
Thus far Vajna’s combined operations with the Wolfsreik and Pell Darga in the northern foothills of the Murdes Mountains proved mutually beneficial but wouldn’t last forever. At the end of the day the Wolfsreik was still the enemy and needed to be removed from Rogscroft. The situation became more convoluted daily, enough that Aurec suffered from severe headaches at night. Worse, he missed Maleela more as the days sped by.
Reluctantly, he turned from the sanctity of his tent and headed towards the council tent. Meeting with his senior commanders was quite possibly the last thing he wanted or needed right now. Drawing a deep breath, Aurec returned the guard’s salute and entered. Those assembled rose in respect to their king and leader. Aurec waved them down and took his seat at the head of the table.
Pitchers of water and wine sat between platters of cheese, day-old bread, and a meat he couldn’t identify. One wall of the tent had been transformed into map boards, with icons for every unit in the field. Fires burned at both ends of the tent, not enough to completely warm them but enough to kill the slight chill clinging to each Man. Aurec idly wondered where his people managed to find a crimson tent but knew better than to ask. Sometimes the answer wasn’t what you needed to hear.
“Who’s going to begin?”
Venten cleared his throat and rose. “Sire, as I’m sure you are aware, we’ve received reports of the Goblin assault south of Rogscroft proper.”
“I believe I’ve heard a passing word or two. What do we do about it?”
“General Rolnir has disbanded the bulk of his army and sent them into smaller task forces to confuse the Goblins. While I can’t confirm it, I strongly suspect Badron has declared open war against the Wolfsreik.”
“I disagree, sire,” Paneolus countered. “The Wolfsreik has been the symbol of Delrananian power for centuries. It is ridiculous to believe he’d turn against them now in favor of the Goblins.”
“These are trying times, Counselor,” Aurec said respectfully. “We already have some of Badron’s soldiers fighting alongside us in the north. It isn’t implausible to think Badron’s gone to extreme measures to exact his revenge for disobedience.”
“But against the entire army? He’d lose ten thousand soldiers.”
Sergeant Thorsson added, “Highly trained and well disciplined. The Wolfsreik lives and breathes for war. They executed their campaign to conquer our lands ruthlessly but with honor. My opinion, sire, is that the Wolfsreik realized Badron was off his rocker and decided it went against their moral code. I agree with Venten.”
Paneolus’s cheeks reddened. Instead of barking a retort he merely reached for a chunk of bread. He was a lifelong politician and knew when the odds weren’t in his favor. Best to let the discussion play out rather than risk evoking the new king’s ire. There’d be a time soon enough when he could meet with Aurec one on one. Perhaps then Paneolus might be able to persuade the boy king to reconsider.
“This could just be a ruse. Men and Goblins don’t mix. Badron could be using this diversion to cull his opponents,” Aurec suggested. “We can’t discount anything at this point.”
Paneolus concealed his grin.
“But Vajna’s operations…” Venten began.
“Are useful, but not necessarily in our best interests. Badron is more cunning than any of you seem willing to give him credit for. Tell me, what do you think, Mahn? You’ve been strangely silent this morning.”
The older scout rubbed his chin while trying to figure out the proper way to say what he felt. He was a soldier, not a statesman. His life was an endless series of journeys deep into the wild and potentially hazardous situations. Only he never expected to find himself embroiled in the dangerous world of politics. When he spoke it was uncertain.
“Sire, I only know what I saw. We fought the Wolfsreik for months. There is no love lost between our two armies. Everything changed when the Goblins arrived. I believe that General Rolnir may have indeed gone against Badron’s wishes. He is an honorable man. We should listen to what he has to say.”
Aurec broke into a grin. “Good. He’s on his way here with a small delegation.”
“What?”
“Sire! You’ll put us all in jeopardy,” Paneolus spat, bits of bread and meat flying from his mouth.
“We’re already in jeopardy, my friend. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re at war,” Aurec said in a measured voice. “Our enemies continue to gain strength while we wither away here. We are weak, gentlemen.”
“That will change once winter ends,” Venten said. “We’ll be able to go on the offensive and take advantage of the discourse between the Wolfsreik and Goblins. Badron can be beaten, sire. We must bide our time though.”
“Time is a luxury we don’t have, which is why I invited Rolnir here. It is my belief that everything has changed. Yes, we have the ability to win but only through joining forces with the Wolfsreik. The worst that can happen is we rid Rogscroft of the Goblin threat.”
Aurec rose and went to the maps. “We have less than two thousand swords here at Grunmarrow. Another three thousand at Stormeir. Even with both forces combined we’re undermanned by more than ten thousand. There are small units spread across Rogscroft, from the Murder Mountains to the northern coast, but we have no effective way to coordinate efforts. The Pell Darga guard all of the mountain passes but will be hard pressed to prevent convoys and wagon trains from going back and forth once the snows melt. Our efforts to defeat the enemy thus far have worked but only on a small scale.”
He paused to look each in the eye. “We currently hold less than a quarter of our own territory and are being pushed further away despite our best efforts. We are losing this war. Show me another way to reverse our fortunes and I’m all ears but until then we have no choice but to meet with R
olnir and try to salvage something of our kingdom.”
“We simply cannot enter into an agreement with a foreign army without contingencies,” Paneolus argued. “We’d be exposed, vulnerable to whatever they might set their minds to once the main problem is dealt with. You all know I am no soldier, but I know how rulers think and behave. This Rolnir is no different from any other politician.”
“I don’t see how,” Venten said.
“He’s looking after his own neck. A dead man can’t do much,” the former minister of state replied flatly.
“Regardless,” Aurec interrupted. “I expect him within the hour. Have a tent prepared and food ready to be brought. I’m sure they will be hungry after riding through most of the night. Also detail some hands to clean out a stable for their mounts. I don’t want them getting mixed in with ours.” The very real threat of poison entered his mind. Above all else, Rolnir was a professional soldier who had been a fervent enemy until a few weeks ago. Every caution needed to be taken until Aurec was sure of the Wolfsreik’s sincerity.
*****
“Sire, thank you for accepting my request to meet,” Rolnir said with a proper bow.
Aurec bid him rise. “General Rolnir, it is an honor to meet you at last. We have been enemies for far too long.”
“Regretfully, but this was never our war of choice,” Rolnir replied. The subtle edge of tartness laced his tone, enough to draw glares from several of Aurec’s council.
“Perhaps that is a discussion best left untouched for now,” Aurec replied. “I trust your trip here was unremarkable?”
“For the most part, though we were forced to take a few detours thanks to Goblin patrols. The vermin are everywhere these days.”
“So I’ve come to understand. May I present to you my council? Paneolus, former minister of state. A harsh Man out of necessity. He’s the only professional politician among us. This is Venten. A one-time general turned tutor now my closest friend and mentor. Mahn used to be chief of scouts and now serves as liaison to the Pell Darga. Lastly, Sergeant Thorsson. He took a nasty wound defending the gates of Rogscroft and is my personal standard bearer. Regretfully Cuul Ol, the chief of the Pell Darga clans, could not be with us today.”
Rolnir bowed and saluted each accordingly before turning to his abbreviated staff. “This is Commander Piper Joach. He is my right hand and executive officer. I trust him implicitly. Colonel Ulaf, master of engineers, and Colonel Mentyl, my chief surgeon. A Man who has been unusually busy as of late. Colonel Herger, my infantry commander, is away to the north with your General Vajna. My understanding is our combined campaign is progressing nicely, though I would like it a little faster.”
“We are all tired of war, General,” Aurec replied and led the way into the command tent. He continued once everyone was seated.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Growing Darkness
Captain Ironfoot finally allowed himself to drop to his knees and bow his head. His muscles burned. Pain screamed from a dozen wounds. Blood stained his beard and armor, transforming him into a vision of death. It was all he could do to remain standing. So many conflicting thoughts disturbed him. He wasn’t sure how he was still alive, much less on his feet and coherent enough to command his battalion. Or rather what remained of it. He didn’t need to look around to know that a good portion of the Feral Axe battalion lay dead in the snow. Honor demanded he felt shame for still living when so many of those he’d been responsible for weren’t. Hanging his head, the Dwarf captain jerked his axe from the chest of his last victim. The blade tore free after some struggle, accompanied by a sickly crunching sound. Blood and ichor dripped from the nicked and dulled blade.
Ironfoot stood in the center of the field of death. Crows and vultures had come from the mountains to pick at the dead. Thousands of bodies littered the snow for as far as he could see, their dark shapes and the already frozen blood in sharp contrast to the once pristine snow. An iron taint clung heavily to the air. It was unlike anything Ironfoot had ever seen. He looked up at the sound of a Dwarf retching and wondered why he didn’t feel the same.
The cannon barrage had proven horrifically effective. Believing themselves safe from the enemy artillery, the dark Dwarves emerged from their trenches to erect a stern line of defense against the oncoming infantry. They never counted on Thord moving his cannons forward. Hundreds of arms and legs and the occasional head littered the ground around the trenches in testament to the brutality Thord had unleashed. Those Dwarves that didn’t die immediately soon bled out in their trenches.
But that was only the first line. Ironfoot and his battalion had much further to go before getting back to the center of the enemy camp. It was a fight worthy of legend. One he wished he never had to partake in. The sheer amount of slaughter turned his stomach and deadened his senses. So many friends. Ironfoot was a soldier, had been for decades. But he, none of them, had ever seen a battle this destructive. He prayed to all of the gods that he never did again.
“Captain, I have the preliminary casualty figures,” Sergeant Bridgestormer said with an uncharacteristically low voice.
Ironfoot couldn’t find the strength to turn. He wasn’t ready for numbers. Didn’t know how the lives of his soldiers could so casually be reduced to facts and figures on a piece of parchment. Heart heavy, he waved Bridgestormer off. “Not now, Sergeant. Give them to me later, after I’m too drunk to think clearly.”
“Yes sir. What are your orders?”
Orders? To whom? For what? The crows will have this place picked clean in no time. The sun will eventually melt the blood-covered snow and the world will go on much like it always has. Why would anyone need orders? “We cannot help the dead. Have the survivors regroup at the edge of the first trench and see to their wounds. Everyone needs to eat, if possible, and rehydrate. The enemy is broken but still has sufficient numbers to press a counter attack if they really wanted to.”
“I don’t see how anyone would want to make a second run at this,” Bridgestormer remarked. “Was a damned slaughter from the beginning.”
“Yes it was. I wonder if they had any idea what was coming?”
Shrugging, Bridgestormer replied, “Does it matter? This is war. It’s all any of us can do just to make it to tomorrow. Nothing else matters when the enemy closes with you.”
“That’s not very sympathetic, Sergeant. These were once our kin,” Ironfoot said.
“They gave as good as they got. Well, a little less. We won the field, sir. That’s what counts right now. We’ll clear the field. Burn out dead and treat the wounded. Crops will be sown and Drimmen Delf will go on like it has since the First Dawn. We are Dwarves, Captain. Never forget that. I’ll have those numbers for you when you are ready.”
Ironfoot watched his second in command amble off. Bridgestormer offered words of encouragement to others and helped many off the ground. Every guide-on and banner he found he immediately raised to plant upright. The colors of Drimmen Delf soon covered the field, waving triumphantly in the crisp midday wind
*****
“My friends, brothers, comrades in arms! Raise your mugs! Tonight we toast our heroic dead. Each and every Dwarf who gave his life so that Drimmen Delf may continue is a hero. To the dead!”
Hundreds of Dwarves gathered in the main drinking hall raised their mugs, horns, and cups, echoing King Thord’s words. The very ground trembled as Dwarves stamped their feet and pounded hammer-like fists on row upon row of wooden tables. Roaring fires lined the walls. Some cooked giant boars or deer. Others just for heat. Barrels of ale and beer, dark and rich, emptied almost as soon as porters managed to roll them in. Bands played harsh music in the style of ancient Dwarven custom that echoed around the hall.
The celebration feast was an old tradition. Dwarves gathered to give praise to the gods and their fallen. That didn’t diminish the massive effort being undertaken on the battlefield as hordes of Dwarves recovered bodies, weapons, and any other paraphernalia from the battle. The feast came first, followed the
next night by the funerals. With the amount of casualties it was going to take almost an entire forest to burn all of the bodies. The Dwarves didn’t think on it. Each funeral pyre was constructed with love and pride. It was considered a great honor to participate in a warrior’s funeral.
Thord drained his mug and slammed it down, signaling for a refill. His beard was already sopping from spilled ale. His belch rivaled the beating drums, prompting laughs from those closest. Even Anienam barked a laugh or two, much to the surprise of his comrades. They were guests of honor, each having contributed to the Dwarf victory. Faeldrin and the Aeldruin occupied a table opposite of the Dwarf king. All fifty strong had come out of the battle unscathed. They secured the river crossings, burning bridges to prevent the dark Dwarves from escaping.
“My ancestors must be laughing down on me!” Thord bellowed. “Elf, Man, and Giant all celebrating in the middle of the Hraldfeist. Ha. These are strange days indeed.”
Faeldrin grinned and tilted his head out of respect. “Very little surprises me after having spent centuries wandering Malweir. I must admit this is a first for my Aeldruin as well, King Thord. We are humbled to be part of such celebrations.”
“The honor is mine. You have been immense aid in our war. For that I name you Dwarf-friend from now until the breaking of the world.” They clasped forearms, one thickly corded and muscled, the other thin yet powerful. “Alas, I wish I could say having an Elf in Drimmen Delf was the strangest happening but so many forces have come at once.”
“Wars seldom develop the way we envision before the first arrow is fired,” Anienam said cheerfully.
“Or cannon,” Bahr added. He still wasn’t sure how or where he fit in. The desire to get back on the road proved almost overwhelming, making it difficult to concentrate on the sights and sounds of the hall.
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