Tooth and Blade

by Shad Callister

  Argaf clapped Meldus on the shoulder. “Good luck. If you are discovered too early, you’ll be finished.”

  “Signal us when the infantry begin actually fighting to gain the top of the bluff,” Meldus replied. “That’s when we’ll go up the ravine.”

  “And the sentries above?” Ica asked.

  “Take them out, Mistshaper.”

  “Easier said than done. They have good cover.”

  “Make them stand up, then,” Damicos said. “Have some archers ready, on high ground as close as they can get. When the sentries lean out to spot the climbers, then loose.”

  “And if we miss?” Ica asked, rubbing the dark stubble on his jaw.

  “I understand that’s a near impossibility,” the captain replied. “Something about knocking a squirrel from a tree at forty paces?”

  Ica swore. “Meldus, you’ll get us all killed. But I suppose it’s now or never.”

  “It is,” Meldus said. “This is the hour of our greatest fight, the last fight for some of us. The Three Fates draw nigh.”

  “Let them come,” Pelekarr remarked. “Old friends of all soldiers.”

  CHAPTER 14: THE JAVELIN IS CAST

  All faces were grim and set now. Among the Durans, bowstrings and fletching were tested, arms limbered up, slingstones counted.

  Those in the group going up the ravine traded their heavy bronze-tipped spears to those in the main assault and capture forces, taking smaller ones with fire-hardened wooden points instead, which could be easily cast as a javelin or used as a shorter polearm. None of the Durans had armor, but they were strong and fast. And they were determined, Damicos saw as he bid them farewell. It would have to be enough.

  “Who’s going with them?” he asked the assembled Kerathi troops in their thin ranks. No one stepped forward right away, and Damicos fumed. “It’s risky, stepping out of the line to have a try at stealth and speed. But it’s our best chance to keep the hostages alive. So volunteer, you slugs!”

  One hand finally raised.

  “I’ll go.”

  It was Makos. His voice was cool, but beneath it was suppressed excitement. Beside him, Keltos grinned. “And me.”

  “You always come in a pair, you two,” Damicos said. He snarled at his spearmen. “Two horse boys, out of the saddle for once! Are there any of my hoplites who can steady their riding legs on land? I need at least one more!”

  The veteran stepped forward.

  “Cormoran. Good.”

  A youthful soldier next to him nodded. “I’ll go, if he’s going.”

  “Fieron. All right, that’s four. Light weaponry, and if you’re taking a shield make sure you can move quick. You’ll follow the scout and the woman, Ireth. She can identify the hostages. Remember, don’t start up that bank until you hear the clamor of battle.

  “When you get to the top, cut your way to the hostage’s tent and either hold there or move them out to the north. We’ll be coming fast. Telion protect you.”

  With the ravine climbers gone, Damicos moved his hoplites in rank step toward the start of the slope. A contingent of Duran archers stalked behind them, bow fingers itching, fear and excitement in their eyes.

  They passed through the trees in loose lines; a tight phalanx would break up against the obstacles, but he instructed his sergeants to keep the men relatively close.

  “Move in one body,” he told them. “Shields up in front; when those missiles start flying, we can’t slow down. And at my command, once there are no more large obstructions, we go double pace. Then we’ll shake the ground with our tread, make them fear us so our brothers can get around the back safely!”

  He turned to the men and raised his spear high against the sky.

  “Forward!”

  Pelekarr’s horsemen, accompanied by Meldus, led his cavalry north, then parted ways with the smaller group that was to approach the ravine. The rest of the Durans took up positions in the trees overlooking the stream that wound away from the bluff, and the horses rode down the little waterway until they were just out of sight of the outlaw’s bluff around a bend. Keltos followed the other climbers upstream toward the ravine.

  They were stripped of their heavier armor, and he and Makos carried only their sabers. Cormoran and Fieron, the two infantrymen, both carried shields and short cutting blades, having left their spears behind. The Duran scout and Meldus led two other villagers with daggers and axes.

  And then there was Ireth, with her hair tied back her arms free and bare. Keltos noted impressive muscle tone for a middle-aged woman, the result of a life of hard work among the hills doing labor alongside men. Knives bristled from belt and sash, and she had procured a small javelin from one of the Duran skirmishers, tipped at both ends.

  She eyed the soldiers like a lion on the hunt. “Ica Mistshaper leads us, and Meldus commands. But when we get to the top, you must all do as I say if we are to find the hostages and keep them from harm. Are we agreed?”

  Makos glowered, but the others nodded. The woman had the most to lose, and would no doubt sacrifice the most blood before letting anything befall the women atop the bluff. She could call in the search if she wished.

  They moved into place at the mouth of the ravine, keeping well out of sight of any watching eyes above. While they waited and listened, Keltos saw Ica stripping vines and leaves from the undergrowth around him and tucking them into his clothing and hair to break up the outline of his body. Ireth and Meldus copied the hunting trick, and with a shrug the soldiers began to follow suit. Soon they were shrouded in green.

  “You look like a walking bush,” Makos whispered, snickering at the halo of leaves around Kel’s neck and waist.

  “And you look like a warthog sprouted feathers and thinks to fly with the clouds.”

  Mistshaper silenced them with a gesture. Then he crept forward, staying low amid the leaves, and licked the white feathers on one of his long Duran hunting shafts to smooth it for flight.

  The light was dim now; overhead a storm was forming fast, and the trees rustled. They crouched among the brush, waiting, listening. A cold wind, heavy with the smell of rain, began to blow past.

  Damicos eyed the slope ahead. There was no discernible activity in the camp atop the bluff, though he could only see the rim where a few guards no doubt waited. On each side of him stretched the double phalanx, fully deployed now. He judged that it would take them between five and ten minutes to get to the top.

  He signaled his sergeants, and they started the men up the hill at a swift trot as Damicos himself urged his horse forward. He knew he’d have to dismount sooner or later, but at the moment the added height gave him better visibility of the terrain and his men.

  They came to the first of the obstacles, a pair of long pine trunks laid horizontally across most of the slope. A few men stopped and dragged them partially open, then continued on. The rest passed through the opening more easily, and within several seconds all the troops were beyond it.

  Not so bad.

  But there were more, staggered all across the hillside. Men on the left flank had to bunch up to avoid another fallen tree, this one with plenty of foliage still attached. And a few yards beyond that, a natural scree pile slowed the men on the right. Damicos chafed at the slowness of the advance; at any moment the outlaws in the camp could launch a preemptive strike, retreating quickly behind cover again.

  Or was it possible that they were unaware of the advancing force? Surely not. They must be keeping their silence, watching and waiting until arrow range was reached.

  Thunder rumbled overheard, and a cold wind stirred the ferns. It blew down the hill, carrying the smell of wood-smoke. A couple of Duran hunters, Ica’s companion scouts, ranged out ahead as far ahead of the soldiers as they dared, searching for traps and pointing out the easier ways past the more immovable obstacles. One found a tripwire with dry sheep bones hanging from it, and cut it silently before it could make a racket. They zigzagged up the hill more easily than the marching troopers, and kept a w
ary eye on the bluff’s peak.

  Now the scouts were but a hundred feet shy of the top of the bluff, crawling on hands and knees through brush, desperate to avoid making targets of themselves. They lay flat, gesticulating at each other and pointing out ways up the hill.

  Damicos, at the front of the line, was only thirty feet farther down. They were nearing the camp and hadn’t triggered an alarm yet. Could they make it to the top without opposition? Was it really going to be that easy?

  Then he saw why the scouts had paused where they did: a long trench had been dug across nearly the full breadth of the slope, eight feet wide. A line of stakes had been driven into the earth along its length, thick sharpened branches capable of piercing a man’s thigh. It wasn’t fine work, but it got the job done effectively enough.

  Black Tur knew he faced an attack, obviously, and though his men weren’t the industrious type, he’d somehow whipped them sufficiently to construct this barrier. An unencumbered man might leap across, but not an armor-laden hoplite, not moving uphill. The trench forced any attacker to halt, and it was within arrow range without cover.

  This was the point at which the defense would begin, then. Even now the outlaws were watching, holding their breath, with arrows on the string. Waiting for the first man to cross into and over the trench. Then they would rise up and strike.

  Vainly Damicos cast around for something to bridge the trench, but Black Tur had ensured that nothing of use remained in the vicinity. The nearest of the log obstacles were too large to move without horses.

  Damicos cursed. He knew that at that moment both Pelekarr and the team in the ravine would be listening, hoping to hear the fight beginning, wondering at the delay. There was nothing to do but enter the ditch, and make the painstaking traversal with shields held high.

  “I’d bet two gold there’s no one going to do anything tonight,” Shiza Hogface spat, turning a scrawny fowl on a spit over their little fire. “Not with all that blowing in.” He gestured at the darkening sky.

  He was on sentry duty with Yulik Clem, and neither of the outlaws was happy about it.

  They lounged on stumps behind a massive felled tree, as high as a man’s waist, which formed the southern boundary of the camp atop the bluff. Sharpened stakes were driven into the ground outside, facing down the hill, and both men had their bows. They weren’t worried about anything outside the camp, and their thoughts strayed to the ale and dice games in the tents above.

  The storm that was blowing in meant a long, cold evening down at the barricade, and nobody would relieve them until midnight. While other men in the camp caroused around the fires and kept to their tents, Shiza and Yulik had naught but a single wineskin between them for comfort. Black Tur didn’t seem to think it wise to allow any more than that under the current threat of a counterattack out of Dura.

  “Dunno,” Yulik argued, fondling the precious wineskin. “They say there’s soldiers involved now. Might try something sooner or later.”

  “Yeah, a few mercenaries from Belsoria. Nothing we couldn’t handle with our eyes shut. If they’re anything like Hykios and those other two deserters who threw in with us, you or I could beat them with bare fists.” He threw a fat stick on the fire, eager to get the meat done. “Anyway, those Wolfsbane shamans are out there cooking something up to keep the law at bay. If they come through with everything promised, we’ll have nothing to worry about. No one can touch us.”

  “You believe the dark magic the shaman spoke of?”

  Shiza shrugged. “Black Tur does. But either way, we’re wasting our time down here tonight. Those military types never go anywhere without strutting about for a week and more, shining their armor and telling tales of their deeds. And would you march out at night with a storm brewing?”

  Yulik sniggered. “Not unless somebody dragged me off at spearpoint.”

  “There you go, then.”

  The smaller man sighed and surreptitiously unstoppered the wine. “I don’t understand why we didn’t just move right in and take the town.”

  “Eh, old Tur probably thought it would attract too much attention too soon. Wants to ease into a position of power out here, taking only what we know we can hold. I do like my plunder, though. We could have taken a lot more than six women. And those without a coin on them, and orders not to touch ‘em neither. Huh. Could have at least ripped open a few of the farmhouses before we left the place.

  “Hey—take it easy with that!” Yulik was tipping the wineskin to his mouth. “Save some for me, you sneaky jackal! We haven’t even ate yet.”

  Yulik swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. “Well, how’s the bird? I can’t wait forever.”

  Shiza examined the spitted meat. “Charred on the outside, raw on the inside. Good enough for you, in other words.”

  “One more swallow, then. This wind chills me bones.” Yulik tipped his head back, squeezing the skin into his open mouth. Red wine gurgled.

  Shiza took the mostly-cooked bird off the spit, cursing at his burned fingers, and began to tear it in half. Yulik grunted heavily and the gurgling increased. “Take it easy, I said!” Shiza snarled. “I’ll gut you like this bird if you—”

  The gurgling continued unabated, and he looked up, murder in his face.

  Yulik was slowly sinking to the ground, a long white-fletched arrow transfixing his throat. The slack wineskin fell to the ground, gushing, but the gurgling sound continued from the smaller man’s frothing lips.

  Shiza lurched to his feet and stared down the hillside. Spread across the slope, clambering slowly into the lateral ditch were no fewer than thirty Kerathi hoplites in full armor. The wind blowing down from the camp had muffled what little noise they’d made on their approach up the hill, and now they were terribly close.

  “Rukhal’s bloody bowels,” Shiza cursed, wheeling about. He took a deep breath and bellowed the warning call loud enough to cut through the wind and carry throughout the camp. “Attack! Get up, enemy attacking! South slope! Attaaaack!”

  Down hill, the fortified trench seemed to be doing exactly what it had been meant for, slowing the enemy to a crawl. But as Shiza watched, two local hunters, nearly invisible compared to the soldiers around them, knelt and loosed more white-fletched arrows in his direction.

  He cursed and ducked behind the barricade, fumbling for his bow. It wasn’t even strung.

  Shouting another warning, he bent the thing and swiftly grabbed at the shared quiver of arrows the two sentries had been given. Panic made his movements seem like he was swimming through thick syrup, and he was panting hoarsely even though he’d gone nowhere yet. This night could not have taken a worse turn in his worst nightmare. Next to him, Yulik quietly bled out on the dirt.

  Shiza popped up long enough to launch an arrow down at the attackers. It missed widely, but it sent a message. The hoplites didn’t seem to care much, though. The first several to cross the ditch had knelt next to each other and were forming a small shieldwall to protect their brethren climbing through the trench.

  Behind him in the camp, Shiza’s yell appeared to have done its work. Men were running toward the barricade, with whatever weapons they had scooped up nearest at hand. Shiza, content that he’d gotten his bow into action and no longer appeared to have been caught unaware, stayed down behind the log that was keeping him safe.

  The storm wind, cold and heavy with the smell of rain, rippled across the tents, popping and snapping the canvas. Leaves hissed through the air overhead. And from over the rim of the barricade, out of sight below, came the bellow of advancing Kerathi hoplites.

  “Telion! Telion! Hoooooooaaaahhh!”

  Now Black Tur had emerged from his tent, buckling on his sword and shouting at his lieutenant, a shambling hulk of a man called Bovog.

  “Is it the Durans? It sounds like the legion! How in the nine hells of Rukhal’s belly did they come upon us?”

  At his side, Bovog grabbed up an axe. “Man the barricade, you whoreson dogs! Fight ‘em off!”
>
  “Every man to the south wall, now! To me, you worthless scum! To me!”

  In the woods facing the ravine, Ireth finally stood.

  “Come, horsemen. The battle is joined at last. Let’s go!”

  “Careful,” Makos reminded the others as they burst from cover. “There may be archers above. Spread out!”

  Keltos heard Cormoran and Fieron exchange grumbling commentary on being lumped in with the horsemen, but soon none of them had breath to spare for words. They sprinted across the stream sheeting water to each side, and emerged onto the tiny path worn into the steep side of the bluff that loomed darkly over their heads.

  More than once they slipped and fell on the steep dirt path, only to rise and scramble upwards again, using their weapons for leverage. Muscles ached, breath rasped in lungs as they heaved their bodies upward. Each moment they expected an arrow to pierce their skulls.

  Keltos felt something hum past his ear, confirming his fear. He threw himself flat against the rocks.

  “Shooting!”

  “Move!” Ireth hissed. Makos pushed him onward from behind. They were right behind the Duran woman now, with Meldus and Ica following, and the hoplites a little further down still.

  Another arrow sailed down, this time piercing Meldus in the back of the leg. He cried out and sank back several feet. As Keltos looked back, Cormoran bent to help the man, but Meldus waved the others on.

  “Don’t stop. Get up there, or we’re all finished!”

  “Come on, archers,” Keltos heard Makos mutter as they both launched themselves up the trail with fresh energy. “Loose, damn you, loose! Keep them down.”

  No other shaft came for a moment, and Keltos wondered if one or all of the watchers remaining on guard at the back entrance to the camp had turned to go for reinforcements. This seemed to be confirmed when a sharp whistle sounded from below, and a volley of shafts hummed out and up overhead, a cluster of white streaks in the gloom.