Song of the Serpent

by Hugh Matthews

  Whistles were sounding. The dwarven line was changing its orientation, with the outer half-companies walking backward, while the central unit went forward, all at oblique angles. In less than a minute, the triple line of dwarves had reformed into a wedge shape, an arrowhead whose point was aimed directly at the center of the orc host. Each of its two sides was made of three ranks of spear-dwarves, with the axe-dwarves clustered in the middle.

  "I've seen this in the old books," Raimeau said. "Brond means to drive into the middle of them, then when the orcs who think they're hidden in the grass attack the sides of the triangle, the axe-wielders will swarm out around the ends of the lines and cut them down."

  The dwarves had completed their maneuver. There was a moment's silence, then Torphyr ordered the advance. The entire formation moved forward in step, and the first dwarves entered the river, spears rhythmically clashing on shields in time with a deep-throated chant of Huh! Huh! Huh! marking every second footfall.

  The orcs reformed themselves into a dense mass, screaming and roaring their hatred against the oncoming foe. They showed no order now, but it seemed to Krunzle that they were working themselves up into a berserker rage, the ones at the front leaping into the air, white foam spewing as yellow fangs clashed.

  Still the dwarves marched on. They had crossed the stony verge of the far bank and reached the foot of the slope. Now they began to climb toward the enemy, still in tight formation, still clashing their shields and shouting their guttural chant.

  At twenty paces from the orcs' front, a whistle sounded. The dwarves' spears came down, the shields interlocked, each one angled up to meet the downward blows of a taller foe. And now the chant ceased and the roar that went up from the spear-dwarves caused the hair on the back of Krunzle's neck to stand erect.

  "I would not like to be an orc on any day," he said, "but especially not today."

  "I don't know," said Raimeau, watching another flight of fifty darts fly over the heads of the dwarven army. The five bolt-throwers had crashed again at the moment the whistle sounded, and the missiles were tearing into the middle of the orc host, just as the first spearpoints of the arrowhead struck the center of their front. This time, the death toll was heavy.

  In the center of the orcs' line, those who felt the first thrust of the dwarven formation went down fighting, but most of the blows from their weapons bounced ringing off the angled wall of shields or, at best, struck the well-padded helmets of the first rank of spear-dwarves. The wedge of spears drove deep into the orc mass, the dwarves thrusting and stabbing, stepping over the dead and maimed, while the axe-dwarves behind the spears finished off any orcs who still writhed on the bloodstained grass.

  "I don't know," Raimeau said again. "Look."

  The thief looked. The dwarven weaponeers could shoot no more bolts now, lest they risk hitting their comrades. The orcs in the middle were being pushed back and slaughtered, the destruction increasing as more of the arrowhead pressed into their mass. The three hundred orcs that had waited for the dwarves now folded themselves around the wedge, hacking and chopping, even as they were efficiently skewered by the long spears.

  But the dark shapes lying in the grass on either flank had still not moved. "It's past the time," said Raimeau, "when they should have risen up and struck the dwarves' flanks. A few more minutes, and it will be too late."

  "Perhaps they have decided it's not a good idea," said the thief. "I see a lot of orcs dying, and not too many dwarves." Only three short, mail-clad bodies lay upon the slope behind the advancing spears, and even as Krunzle spoke, one of them sat up, shaking his head as if to throw off a dizzy spell.

  "Something is wrong," Raimeau said. "Look at Brond and Torphyr."

  The Noble Head and his bodyguard had not followed the main force across the river. Now Brond was standing in the stirrups, the better to see how the battle was going. Then he leaned down to speak with the senior crown, who had remained with him. They were arguing, though Krunzle could not hear what either said. A moment later, whatever they had been discussing became academic. The battle abruptly changed course.

  The entire dwarven arrowhead had crossed the river and passed beyond the wide stretch of water-worn rocks that lined the bank on the far side. The spear-dwarves had done most of the fighting, leaving a carpet of dead orcs behind them for the axe-dwarves to step over. But the orcs, for all their fierce displays, had not pressed the dwarves hard. They kept falling back before the spears, moving up the slope; few of them showed the berserker madness that made them willing to be spitted if they could only get within striking distance of the enemy.

  The battle had thus moved steadily uphill, even to a height where the sides of the arrowhead—beset by orcs, though not heavily—had passed the level at which the dark shapes lay in the grass. But, whatever was lying there, none of them had risen to join the attack, even though their apparent numbers would have meant the dwarves would be fighting against odds of five-to-one.

  Raimeau squinted, shading his eyes from the sun. "I think," he said, "those are only piles of earth. Decoys. Who ever heard of orcs using decoys? And, if they're not in the grass, where are the rest of them?"

  He was answered by a new sound, scarcely to be heard above the din of the battle: a rattle of smooth stones sliding over each other. On the far side of the river, the wide expanse of worn stones suddenly heaved and billowed. From concealed pits, covered by earth-colored sacking over which a layer of flat pebbles had been laid, rose up orcs by the dozen, then by the score—big orcs, many of them with battle scars, all of them armed with heavy battering weapons: stone clubs, leaden mauls, long-hafted maces, and morningstars on iron chains.

  Silently, with none of the usual orc stamping and roaring, they rushed uphill and fell upon the axe-dwarves, whose backs were turned toward the unseen enemy. In moments, a dozen dwarves lay dead or dying.

  A whistle sounded from within the arrowhead. The rest of the axe company about-faced and engaged the attack from the rear. But the dwarves who turned to meet the orcs swarming up from the rear were pressed into the inside angle of the wedge formation; almost elbow to elbow, they lacked room to wield their long-hafted weapons effectively, and they had no shields. It was a fight where sheer force could outweigh technique, and the orcs battered at them without pause or mercy.

  The rear rank of spear-dwarves, acting on their sergeants' commands, raised their spears, about-faced, and lowered them against the orcs attacking from the rear. But between them and the enemy were the dwindling numbers of axe-dwarves. These were being pushed back against the spearpoints of their comrades, those at the rear unable to even bring their weapons into play. The fight was losing cohesion, in danger of becoming a melee, and if it came down to every dwarf—or every orc—for himself, the outnumbered dwarves could not stand.

  Brond was issuing orders. Another whistle blew three short blasts and a long, and now the twenty spear-dwarves of the reserve came trotting from behind the wagons. They paused at the riverbank to form themselves into a double line; then, spears leveled and shields to their front, they double-timed into the river, onto the stones beyond, and up the hill to take the enemy ambushers in the rear.

  It was a precise piece of military maneuvering, and Krunzle thought it should have turned the battle, pinning the bludgeon-swinging orcs against the remnant of the axe-dwarves, with one rank of spear-dwarves to back them up. But the enemy had one more trick to pull, for not only had the orcs dug pits on the far bank, and hid in them with unheard-of patience—they had dug more pits on this side. And as soon as the reserve was across the river, fifty more orc veterans, armed with clubs and bludgeons, sprang from concealment to left and right of Brond and his bodyguard. They threw themselves screaming at the Noble Head and the ten plate-armored sword-dwarves.

  The twenty spear-dwarves who had just crossed paused. Their officer looked back at the scene on the far shore, then at the orcs up the slope. Krunzle could see him debate which way to go. He put his whistle to his lips and blew a
series of long and short notes. The twenty about-faced and went back into the river.

  But the officer's hesitation had been fatal. Some of the orcs attacking the leader and his bodyguard on the near shore turned and met the reserve spear-dwarves in the water. It was not a deep river, but it was deeper for dwarves than for full-sized orcs, whom Krunzle thought must have been chosen for their height and bulk. Each of them was more than half again the size of a dwarf.

  The twenty spear-dwarves tried to make a shield wall, but the river bottom did not offer good footing. They were less than halfway across, their line ragged and their shields unlocked, when the orcs battered into them, clubs and maces striking shields and helmets with a sound like an avalanche of scrap metal. The spears did their work, but dwarves began to go down. More gaps appeared in the line. Suddenly it was a melee, then just as suddenly, it was over.

  When the arrowhead formation had gone across the river, Brond's bodyguard had formed a line between the water and their leader, facing the battle. But now orcs had come charging at them from both ends of their line. It would have been a matter of moments for the elite troops to reform to meet the double onslaught, but the enemy had not given them those moments.

  These orcs, too, were armed with bone-crushing weapons against which plate armor, even backed by padded hauberks and helmet liners, was no protection. The dwarves swung their two-handed swords with parade-ground precision—Krunzle saw an orc's head fly from his shoulders ahead of an arcing fountain of blood; another raised his stone club only to see it fall with the hand that still gripped it—but there were too many of them, and they were coming all at once.

  The dwarves in shining armor began to fall. Brond's horse reared, screaming, as the bald dwarf sought to draw his sword. But Torphyr, his sword already in hand, seized the reins and turned the animal's head toward the fort. He slapped its rump with the flat of his blade and sent it and its rider out of the slaughter zone.

  "We need to get out of here," Gyllana said. Krunzle was struck by her calmness. All around them, the dwarf weaponeers were abandoning their bolt-throwers, drawing short swords and hand-axes. But the fort was indefensible against the numbers of orcs they could already see—and who knew if there were not more of them lurking, ready to leap at their throats?

  The three travelers jumped down from the platform atop a wagon and found their horses. The animals were skittish, their nostrils distended at the scent of blood and orc, their eyes white-rimmed at the sound of screams and weapons-clash.

  Krunzle swung into the saddle and spent a moment getting the gelding under control. Chirk, he said, any advice?

  Run.

  Which way?

  Worry about that later, said the snake. For now, just put distance between you and the orcs. Then it added, I need time to think about this.

  Krunzle pointed his horse toward the gap in the rear of the wagon fort, then cast one look back on the far side of the river. The axe-dwarves were all down now. The spear-dwarves had formed into two remnants, and were being hard pressed by orcs. The dwarves were dying well, taking as many of the enemy with them as they could, but it was clear to the thief that there would be no survivors.

  Torphyr, the senior crown, had seized the two-handed sword of one of the fallen bodyguards. He was standing atop a heap of orc dead, his mail-shirt torn and his helmet knocked away. His grizzled braids swung in counterpart to each swipe of the long sword, the shining blade scything the air, sending a head or an arm flying with each blow, and his face bore an expression of determined concentration. But now a giant orc stole up from behind, raised a rough-hewn club of gray stone, and brought it down directly onto the dwarf's head. Blood and brains and bone sprayed. And the fight was over.

  "Out!" said Krunzle. "Now!" He kneed his horse's ribs hard and it surged toward the gap. Gyllana was already through and out in the open, slapping her mare's withers with the reins. She turned to follow the river's course upstream, and Krunzle went after her.

  "They're coming after us!" Raimeau shouted from behind the thief.

  Krunzle looked back again. Most of the orcs on the slope had turned away from the last stand of the spear-dwarves. They were running down to the river, a few of them already splashing through the water's edge where the bodies of orcs and spear-dwarves floated. The group that had ambushed the bodyguard were not stopping to loot but had turned toward the fort, where the weaponeers stood stoically, their inadequate weapons in hand, waiting to die.

  But, no, Krunzle saw—Raimeau was right. A few of the orcs were heading for the wagons, but most were careering around the carts, following the three humans.

  Or maybe not, he thought. Because there was another quarry: Brond's horse, terrified by the stink of blood and orc and the din of battle, had taken Torphyr's slap on the rump as encouragement to run as fast and far as its short legs would carry it. The Noble Head was ahead of them, fighting to get control of the panicked animal. He did so, just as Gyllana reached him and swept past without a glance.

  A moment later came Krunzle, who took the time to say, "It's over! Come on!" as his gelding veered around the other horse and kept going. He looked back and saw Raimeau hauling on his mount's reins, the horse skidding to a stop beside the bald dwarf. The thin man reached down, seized the dwarven horse's reins, and yanked the beast's head around.

  "No!" Brond cried. He had dropped his sword in the struggle to control his mount, but he struck at his rescuer with a gloved fist. "I want to fight!"

  "There is no fight," said Raimeau. "Only slaughter."

  "Then let me die with my dwarves!"

  "And let the Regulate die with you?"

  "You care?"

  "Strangely," said the former mine-slave, "I do."

  The orcs were coming, though only about a dozen. The rest had already overrun the weaponeers and were looting the wagons, while others had turned toward the hobbled oxen. Orcs liked beef, especially raw and still bleeding.

  Brond's shoulders slumped. Raimeau tugged on the dwarven horse's reins while he kicked his own horse into motion. The animals needed no more incentive to put distance between themselves and the pursuing orcs.

  Krunzle turned his horse and waited for the man and dwarf to catch up, then rode along with them. He looked back at the loping pursuers, drew his short sword and said, "If they get too close, I will hold them off."

  Raimeau looked at him in surprise. Krunzle returned him a steady gaze, though he was thinking: The orcs will not pursue us far, while there's loot and fresh meat to call them back. And though the Noble Head has lost his army, he still has his blue diamonds to reward those who serve him. Though, if the orcs did get too close for comfort, he hoped to throw them both the thin man and the Kalistocrat's daughter before he risked his own skin.

  Any objections? he asked Chirk.

  Save Brond, was the answer. We will need him.

  I agree, Krunzle thought back, but what use are blue diamonds to a bronze snake?

  Not the diamonds. The place where they grow.

  The thief asked the snake if it was remembering more. Perhaps you would like to share the information with one whose life you have been risking?

  You will know, said Chirk, what you need to know, when you need to know it.

  Is this that talk you promised? Krunzle said.

  Events are moving faster, came the answer. Your desire for baubles grows increasingly less important.

  The thief thought a couple of short words back at the snake, but the action described was physically impossible and the suggestion received no acknowledgment. He looked back once more at the pursuing orcs. They were still following the four fugitives along the river, running at a steady pace but gradually falling behind.

  "Noble Head," said Raimeau, "do you know a place where we could lose the pursuit?"

  Brond's eyes were on his hands, which gripped his saddle front. But after a moment, he looked up and said, "Not too far ahead, the river curves and a stream comes down from the hills below Mount Sinatuk. If we are ou
t of sight of the orcs, we can walk our horses in the stream and make them lose our scent."

  "All right, then," said the thin man. "We'll find somewhere to hole up. Then we'll decide what to do."

  The bald dwarf looked at Raimeau, then at Krunzle, but his eyes seemed to be looking through them and out across some great distance. "What we will do," he said, "is find out who taught those orcs to fight the way they fought. Then we will cut off his balls and feed them to him."

  He fell silent, though Krunzle could see the muscles bunching at the hinge of his jaw. They rode on, the orcs falling behind—though they still followed at a jog. The sun was nearing the hills on the western horizon, and a chill was taking possession of the air. As the golden disc's bottom flattened against the line of a dark, forested ridge, Brond said to Krunzle, "The fellow you are chasing, this Wolsh Berbackian. He has a military background."

  It wasn't a question, but the thief answered it. "He was an undercaptain in the Mercenary League for a while."

  "And before that?"

  "I do not know."

  The bald head nodded. "And he passed unharmed through the orcs at the first ambush site."

  "That was what it looked like."

  The gray eyes were like stones in the twilight. "I want to find this Blackjacket," he said. "And soon."

  They rounded a curve in the river where a ridge came down from the hills. The stream Brond had spoken of was there, its bottom formed of flat stones, black and gray with flecks of white quartz. They turned the horses into its cold, splashing current and began to climb.

  Chapter Eleven

  Desnertinizing the Flobbule

  They picked their way up the slope in the gathering darkness. Even when true night came, they could follow the stream by its sound and by the star-speckled sky above the gap it cut through the evergreens to either side. They traveled silently, Brond leading the way, each immersed in his or her own thoughts. From time to time, they paused to listen for pursuit, but heard nothing other than the stream and the sounds of the night forest.