by RW Krpoun
The Waybrother made a rude noise. “Bollocks. If you were raised by Orcs you wouldn’t be you, you would be an Orc, at least in the way you act. And even if you were raised by Orcs, you might not end up like the one you killed; you’ve the Light within you, and that might keep you clear of what that other half-Orc became.”
“Orcs never follow the Light.”
“You’re not an Orc, and besides, they’re born with the Void in ‘em. You got the Light from your Human parent, and a choice, Orcs don’t get a choice. That half-Orc, he had a choice, and he turned his back on the Light to follow the Void. His choice, his mistake, and the world a better place for him bein’ dead.”
“Is that how it is for the Fortren?”
“Sure: they make their choice, and they live with it, just like you made your choice and live with it. You could have gone over to the Void, but you never have. That’s the way of it: you make your choices, and you live and die by them. The only difference between that half-Orc and all the rest of the Bloody Skulls was that he had a choice, and he messed it up. Don’t waste any time worrying about junk like that, that’s what wrong with the Threll, always mewing about what-ifs. Put your faith in the Light, your trust in honest steel, and keep things simple in your thoughts, that’s the way you deal best with life.”
Rolf sighed and slapped the Waybrother on the shoulder. “Thanks, Kroh. You’re very wise.”
“Comes of bein’ a Dwarf,” his comrade acknowledged modestly. “Wise runs thick in us, for the most part.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He had ordered that the Orc units battered in the assault be assigned to Bohca Ileri, which would remain in position around Sagenhoft absorbing the replacements which were trickling in off the Plains. Ileri had four Orc Horcs, ten Darkhosts, two Sacred Bands, and the Holding of Dayar to invest the city and hold the Royal Bridge forts while he marched north with eight Lardina of wolf riders, ten Horcs, seventy Darkhosts, sixteen Eyade Ket, five Sacred Bands, and twelve Hand Holdings, plus his wyvern and harpies.
Bohca Tatbik broke camp at dawn on the twentieth, leaving the Gates behind and travelling light. Behind them the artillery was stilled for the first time in weeks because Bohca Ileri didn’t have enough troops to hold the encirclement and protect the artillery in the Assault Line as well, but Descente wasn’t worried; it would give the quarry teams time to build up a stockpile of ammunition. Things were going very well for the Hand, very well indeed.
Bruno Fassburg had been promoted to Lord Marshal of the Duchy’s army the morning following the heavy fighting at the breach, and on the twentieth he oversaw a new plan to keep Bohca Ileri off-balance and unsettled: a Raid Force was formed from the two newly arrived Navian regiments (the Third and Ninth Marines), the Sixth and Seventh Cohorts, and the Phantom Badgers. This force was moved from gate to gate over the next few days, drilling for an assault into the Hand defense works with an eye to disrupting their forces and destroying their supply and siege stockpiles. Meanwhile, the damage done to the various Cohorts were made good by absorbing recruits taken from the Wall Companies, and then refilling the latter with draftees from the refugee ranks. Repairs were made to the breach in the wall, although it would take months to close the gap properly, time the Duchy certainly did not have; the Red Line saw improvement as well, and a second line, the Green Line, was begun.
On the positive side, cooler weather and more-frequent rains were bringing the water rations closer to normal consumption while the daily death toll dropped a bit; with some twenty-three thousand refugees having been evacuated since the start of the siege and nearly twenty thousand deaths the city’s population was on its way back down to manageable levels.
The Badgers were taking a break from drill and thinking about their evening meal on the twenty-third when a runner brought orders to Durek directing him to present his Company in full battle order with two day’s field rations to the East Fort, Dragon Isle, at sun-down.
“This is stupid,” Axel grumbled as he re-read the order. “This is the fifth time in three days we’ve stood-to in full battle order at some point in the city, and all for nothing. The Hand knows we can’t sally into their defense works, we would lose two-thirds of the troops before we even got to sword range. Bohca Ileri doesn't even sound the alert when we pull these sudden assemblies anymore. They know we’re not going to go charging across four hundred yards of open ground against solid earthworks.”
“Maybe we’re going to go up the river,” Bridget suggested. “It’s the weak point in the Hand defenses.”
“No chance of that,” Jothan shook his head. “None at all. The river currant is too fast, and we would be running against it every foot of the way. The Hand would hear the oars like a charge of heavy cavalry, and any spell strong enough to silence ‘em would wake up every spell-weaver for miles. Besides, what little wind’s out of the east, so you would buck the currant and the breeze.”
“But the mist has been heavier than usual, lately,” the advocate persisted. “Even if they heard us, they couldn’t see us.”
“True, but if the ships and boats were sailing without lights, how could the crews see the rocks and shoals, which the river’s got in good numbers? Plus I heard the Hand dropped plenty of hull-breakers mid-way between their line and the city.” Seeing the Serjeant’s inquiring look, he explained. “It’s a box made of green timber logs filled with rocks too big to slip out between the timbers. There’s a long log or beam jutting upwards out of the box like a spike, sometimes even iron-tipped. They drop the boxes so the spike points downstream, and any boat coming upstream can impale itself on the spike unless it’s going real slow and watching sharp. At night, in the mist, you would lose nine out of ten hulls before you even reached the Hand defenses, and find every one of their troops waiting for you.”
“Too bad; I had hoped there was something a bit more subtle about Fassburg,” Bridget sighed. “I must say, he hasn’t shown too much promise since he was promoted.”
Grumbling, the Badgers sat in a corner of the fort and amused themselves with cards, dice, and similar games, playing by lantern-light as the Seventh Cohort filed in. The Company was back up to strength, having hired four veteran mercenaries to replace their battle losses, men Durek had interviewed some time earlier in anticipation of casualties, and all the wounded had been Healed and returned to the ranks. The Captain had ruled that the defense of the Red Line had warranted a battle stud and now even the surviving Grand Crossing recruits had at least one such marker to flaunt. In all, Company morale was good.
As the hours dragged on most of the mercenaries took to napping to pass the time, while others wandered about the fort to gossip with other units. It raised some comment to learn that the garrison of Navy crews had been removed from the fort and replaced by the Third Navian Marine Regiment; that seemed a bit odd to some, even more so when it was noted that except for the Lifeguards the only personnel in the fort were Raid Force troops. More strangely, the battlements had been placed off-limits, with more Lifeguards up there to enforce the order.
A messenger came for Durek near midnight, by which time the entire Company (and most of the Sally Force) was asleep, and the river-fog hung in the air like a damp gray shroud; the Captain followed the staff officer to the fort’s gate house, where he found Lord Marshal Fassburg waiting with two staff officers. The Dwarf saluted the new commander of the Duchy’s army and waited to find out why he had been summoned.
He didn’t have long to wait. “Your Company has been included in this Force at the Regent’s direct orders; it was felt that you could be an asset to this undertaking while having an opportunity to achieve profit for yourselves.” The Marshal stepped over to a table which supported an exacting diorama of the Hand’s earthworks for several hundred yards on either side of the river. “This is of excellent quality, built up from weeks of Lanthrell scouting. Tonight the Raid Force is going to strike into the heart of the Hand encampment, with the aim of seizing much of the area along the river banks and ra
iding deeper within. The ultimate aim of the raid is the destruction of heavy siege gear, the capture or destruction of the Gate entrances which supply the Hand, and the death of Hand spellcasters. Your Company, as part of the Raid Force, will help move towards these goals.”
Durek was startled by this rather ambitious statement. “Sir, how are we going to reach the Hand lines, much less ravage their forces?”
“By the river,” Fassburg gestured to the diorama. “The Hand has encircled the city in a double ring of defenses with their troops between the two rings, protected from attack on every side except where the river crosses their earthworks. The only river boats not under their control are in Sagenhoft; the river is treacherous enough in its own right, not to mention the hull-breakers the Hand added.” The stocky commander tapped the painted strip that was the river. “The key is how to advance infantry up the river without the use of ships, boats, rafts, or similar vessels and in sufficient numbers to accomplish the mission. Naturally, enchantment is not up to the task, even if we could hide it from the foe. No, just as was done at Laffery’s Ford, we shall circumvent the problem by ordinary, if unusual means.”
Durek waited while the commander took a drink of ale. “Pardon me,” Fassburg set his mug down. “But I’m briefing unit commanders on an individual basis, and you’re the next-to-last. The infantry will walk up the river to the Hand line on a floating walkway constructed by Harthrell allies.”
“Harthrell? I didn’t know we had any Harthrell allies.”
“Neither did I until the twentieth,” Fassburg grinned. “They were ordered into hiding by Grand Marshal Laffery when they reached this area not long after the siege began, sending out one or two of their number to scout the river as time went by, and assembling what they needed. Apparently they were in contact with the Grand Marshal the entire time, merely waiting for the right moment to act.”
“By the Eight,” Durek breathed, eyes aglow. “Bohca Tatbik marched off leaving just enough troops to hold us in; if we suddenly assault out of the river....”
“Exactly: things will become very difficult for the Hand in the next few days.”
“But how can the Harthrell build a walkway from the Dragon Isle to the Hand lines against the currant and keep it in place?”
“That I’m not clear on, myself, but I’ve met with some of their officers and they assure me that it can, be done; apparently they’ve used the trick before, although I’ve never heard of it. They’re also set to clear away the hull-breakers and mark clear channels through the river so we will be able to extract the Raid Force by boat when the time comes. Now, the Raid Force will be split in two: the North Group, which hits the north bank with the Third Navian Marine Regiment, the Sixth Cohort, and the Phantom Badgers, and the South Group, with the Eighth Navian Marine Regiment, the Seventh Cohort, and a Harthrell landing party. Your force is the last in the North Force to leave, so there will be fighting underway when you arrive. Now, your objectives will be as follows...”
When the Captain returned to his Company he found them awake and applying sealing-oil to their boots from buckets issued to them not long after Durek had left. “What’s going on?” Axel asked the Dwarf. “Some Sagenhoftian quartermasters showed up with the oil, an issue of hooded lanterns, tools, incendiary gear, and these.” The wizard held up a square of white sail cloth a foot and a half on a side with ties dangling from each corner. “We’re supposed to tie them to our backs.”
“We’re attacking up the river,” the Captain sat down next to the nearest bucket of oil and began pulling off his boots. “And you’ll be amazed to hear how we’re going to do it.”
The walkways waiting for the Raid force were of an odd construction, each (one for the North Group and one for the South Group) consisting of a plank walkway suspended between sealed tuns and barrels, further buoyed by low-slung boats with six-foot cranes that supported networks of rope, tension being added or reduced as needed. Glass-lined bone tubes filled with a softly glowing liquid were mounted on poles that stood waist-high on both edges of the walkway, slits in the bone allowing the glow to be seen only from the west, while strips of white-washed canvas were strung from each light-pole to help guide the troops. The river rolled freely over the white-washed planks of the walkway, but when Durek, walking at the head of his Company, gingerly stepped down onto them he was surprised to find that they were firm underfoot; he could feel the living motion of the water, but it was no real impediment.
“Keep a slow pace, sixty steps a minute, and watch your balance,” the shadowy figure that was a Sagenhoftian naval officer next to him advised in the tone of someone who had been repeating the same advice over and over. “Keep your eyes on your footing, it is five hundred yards from this fort to the enemy lines, and fifty yards more to the disembarkation point. The fog has been increased to hide you, and the distractions ought to cover your noise.”
Twenty or so Lanthrell had crept into the midway point between the walls and the Inner Line and were firing arrows whose heads were hollow cells pierced with tiny holes that, when fired, produced drawn-out screeching as air was forced through the holes. The signaling-arrows had been used before to disturb the Hand troops’ sleep, and their effectiveness was shown in the fact that three light war engines were firing loads of loose rock in a vain attempt to silence the archers.
There were Harthrell moving along the walkways in kayak-like craft or crewing the crane-boats, tall shadowy figures that muttered to each other with deeper voices than Durek was accustomed to hearing from Threll, but he was too busy concentrating on following the last man in the Sixth Cohort file ahead and staying on the pale boards, the damp darkness of the fog closing in on him like a wet wool blanket. The white patches on their backs helped; he could occasionally make out the patch on the last man in the file ahead of him.
After twenty yards he had a feel for the way of it and picked up his pace to a plank a second, and by the time he passed the city’s walls he was moving fairly confidently. As a Dwarf his cave-keen eyesight was an asset, but from the sounds behind him his Human troops weren’t having too much problem. They were making too much noise, but from his briefing he knew that additional Lanthrell would have closed in by now and slain the river-guards. By now, the Captain guessed, the first of the Navian Marines would be going ashore, forming up on the banks until the alarm was given or until their regiments were in place.
Every second meant another plank closer and more troops in place; it was five hundred fifty yards from the Dragon Isle’s east point to the disembarkation point, more or less, Durek decided to call it six hundred for the sake of argument. At sixty planks per minute it would a half-hour’s walk to reach the attack point, a slow assault but a sure one.
It was impossible to tell how far they were by sight as the walkway never changed in appearance and the fog cut visibility down to ten feet at the best, but Durek had been counting planks out of an ingrained habit formed from a childhood spent underground: when you can’t see where you were, you had better know how far you had come. From his count they were a hundred yards past the walls when there was a brief spate of shouting on the south bank, which died out quickly enough; sixty-four planks later there was a bit more noise, and after another fifteen planks later horns began to blow.
The first noise would have been a detail or sentry-change walking into Harthrell or Navians, Durek reasoned as he stepped carefully from board to board; there had been enough noise for the officer of the Guard to dispatch a section to investigate, and the section promptly walked into an ambush. The officer had immediately ordered the alarm horns blown, and the dance had begun, at least on the south bank. The good news was that the Hand forces would tumble out of bed and head for their positions expecting an assault from the landward approaches; it would take time and generate confusion to adjust to the changed situation.
One hundred four planks later the horns sounded on the north bank as well, and Durek had to fight the urge to pick up the pace. By now the Navians should h
ave at least half their regiments ashore, enough men to keep the Hand busy. To add to the enemy’s confusion, at the sound of their alert horns the troops on Sagenhoft’s walls had orders to sound the garrison’s alert horns as well, and staff officers would be galloping to several gates far removed from the river with orders to open them, which should indicate to the Hand that a sally was about to be launched. By the time the Hand commander realized what was real and what was being done merely for effect the Badgers should be setting foot on dry land.
The Hand had strung a stout anchor chain across the river a few yards in front of their defenses to further hamper any boat traffic; the Harthrell had simply marked the rusting chain by weaving white-washed canvas through the links where it crossed the walkways and gone on; Durek carefully climbed over the barrier, which was a bit high over the planks for a Dwarf, and marched on. The earthwork forts which loomed on either bank had pennants of green-streaked white on them, the symbol of the Raid Force and proof that things weren’t going too badly. Even through the fog sizeable fires could be seen within the Hand encampments, and the clatter and rattle of melee could clearly be heard on either side, especially since the Lanthrell had creased firing their signal arrows and slipped off on other business.
A Harthrell female crouched on the walkway one hundred and twelve planks past the chain, giving Durek his first good look at a sea-faring Threll. She was apparently of mature years, perhaps equal to a Human of thirty years, possessing the same innate grace and fluidity of motion as her forest-dwelling cousins, but where Lanthrell were slender, even delicate of build, the Harthell was much closer to Human proportions in breadth of shoulder and hip. She was of average height for her kind and gender, standing five feet eight inches, with close-cropped blond hair burned to the color of good flax by the sun. Her skin was likewise bronzed by decades spent under the Sun’s eye until she was nearer to Duna’s skin hue than Starr’s, although there was none of the leathery wrinkling that Humans developed in such circumstances. She wore loose canvas beeches, simple rope sandals, a sleeveless leather jack tailored tightly to her rather abundant form, and was armed with a short spear, a long fighting knife, and a number of graceful-looking hulbats, a sort of throwing axe native to the Harthrell.