by RW Krpoun
The Goblin Serann commanding the assault force wasn’t ready to ignore it, however; he was taking missile fire from both flanks, there was a growing knot of Badgers at position Four ready to charge when the engagement began, and the reaction force heading for him was far larger than it had any right to be; logic said that if so many warriors had been stripped from the defensive line some positions should be falling under the still-continuing attack, but none were. He had around a hundred Goblins, but faced an equal number of foes, most of whom were better armed and armored, and were in a somewhat better position than he. He had to attack soon, before the Goblins hitting the west and north broke off and withdrew, but he seriously doubted his ability to break the force in front of him while still retaining enough jugata alive afterwards to take at least one position on the south line. As the torches drew closer he made his decision: the Serao fell back in an orderly fashion, withdrawing under the covering fire of archers until the last Goblin quit position Three and faded back into the night, pursued by missile fire from the defenders.
As Henri raced out of Four with four Badgers in tow to reoccupy Three and the reaction force drew up at the abatis Maxmillian could see what the light of the torches had prevented him from observing earlier: the mass of ‘troops’ following the line of torch-bearers consisted of around two dozen logger women, Yvonne von der Jabs, her ten servants, several tall children, and a half-dozen walking wounded, most carrying spears. By ducking in and out of the weak back-light of the forward-thrust torches, they had managed to convince the Goblins that they were warriors, an impression easy to make when all their foes could see was spear points and shadowy bodies.
“I must say, that was exciting,” Yvonne von der Jabs gushed as Durek stumped by, shouting orders. “And Captain, I must thank you for allowing Herbet a chance to participate.”
The Dwarf frowned up at the sweaty noblewoman until Janna nudged him. “I put him in charge of Thirteen.”
“Ah. Well, he seems a capable man, we were glad for his help,” the Captain shrugged uneasily, wondering at the conversation they were having in the middle of a battle.
“It was very kind of you, Herbet was so hoping to have a part in the battle, running his family’s estates is challenging and requires no small amount of decision-making, but I’m certain he misses the Army.” Yvonne prattled on as if at a social tea.
The fighting was dying out to the south and west; with their second ploy foiled, the Goblins were calling it a day, recovering their wounded and dead and recalling the fanatics and die-hards who were always ready to make another try. Durek shook his head and turned back to Yvonne. “Herbet was in the Imperial Army?”
“Oh, yes, for ages, it seemed. He was a company commander when we were married, and was commanding a cohort on the Ward when his father died and he had to resign to oversee the family’s estates, his brothers, well...anyway, he always said he wouldn’t have ever risen much higher, but I do know he loved the campaigning, and I believe he was very good at it, although he won’t ever brag even a bit. I didn’t see too much of him in our early years, I stayed well back in the Empire, garrison towns are no place to raise children...” she laughed. “Eight, do listen to me prattle on; I must see to the movement of the wounded.”
“Wait,” Durek waved for her to stop. “Your husband was a professional Imperial officer, a line officer?”
“Dear me yes, infantry don’tcha know, as he always said. He won the ‘von’ just as his great-grandfather had, otherwise our sons would have been the last to have it, and a chest-full of decorations as well, although he never wears them, didn’t even like to when he was in the Army.”
The Captain thought back to the man’s knowledge of military terminology and the quiet courage he had displayed at the log-fort, and nodded to himself. Quiet, walk in his wife’s shadow Herbet von der Jabs was going to play a bigger role in the camp’s defenses in the hours to come, that was certain.
Chapter Twenty One
“The Spider left twenty-two Goblins, twenty-four war dogs, one Titan spider, and one Troll dead in or near our camp,” Henri reported to the gathering of officers near the center of camp an hour after the attack ended. “No doubt they’ve hauled more corpses off with them. All three remaining Trolls are likely to be too badly wounded to risk in action for weeks.”
Maxmillian stood and held the sheet of parchment tacked to a short length of plank near the hooded lantern to see his notes. “The Dwarves lost two killed and four wounded too badly to fight; the Badgers lost three killed and six out of the fight; and the loggers lost twenty-one dead, three missing, and twenty-seven out of action. All three of the slain Badgers were new-hires, not that that’s any consolation. What is bad is that Evarts was slain, and of the eleven logger squad leaders, four are dead and six are too badly wounded to fight; this has left the remaining loggers scattered and unmanageable. We won’t be able to do much with them until daylight.”
“And not too much then,” Axel observed. “The best of them will have been at the forefront of the fighting and absorbed the heaviest losses; what remains will be the dregs.”
“The Goblins have lost the use of their Trolls, a third of their warriors through death and wounds, and much of their war dogs,” Haakon mused out loud. “So long as they lack any more of the device they used on position Three, I would say our camp will repel another attack.”
“We’ll have to make up garrisons for two positions and scrape up a reaction force again,” Durek sighed. “We’re spread thin, but crewmaster Haakon is right: without Trolls or magic, the Spider will have a rough time cracking the camp with jugata alone. It’s possible they will simply call off the siege and go home.”
“Possible, but I doubt it,” Herbet von der Jabs said quietly. “Their leaders desperately need a victory, and the only way they can accomplish that is to wipe out this camp, no matter what the cost. The question is, are they aware of just how close they came?”
No one had an answer for that.
The rest of the night passed quietly enough; the Dwarves and Badgers repaired the damage done to the defenses, restocked the torch-stores, and rebuilt position Fourteen. By sun-up, except for the rows of corpses and the scars of battle, the camp was back to normal, and aside from sentries most of the Badgers and the Dwarves were getting some well-deserved sleep. Durek was sitting in his stump-seat, pipe belching forth clouds of smoke as he looked over accounts of the battle and a report on the status of their stores, when Maxmillian trudged up at the head of a detail. “We’ve a problem, Captain.”
The Dwarf looked up at the weary Human. “What sort of problem?” He had an idea, of course: Maxmillian had been sent to round up the loggers.
“It’s the loggers, sir. They’ve a list of demands to present to you, they should be here any moment.”
“Ah, I see.” The Captain touched the axe lying across his lap and the cocked and loaded crossbow leaning against the stump. “Very well, we’ll hear what they’ve to say. Are they all in agreement?”
“They appear to be so, Captain. Apparently the rabble-rousers were at work all night.” The historian positioned his detail in a half-circle behind the Captain, who had returned to his reading after dispatching a messenger to fetch Herbet von der Jabs. Their paymaster appeared promptly, and was quickly briefed on the situation.
They didn’t have long to wait; a few minutes later a delegation of ten loggers appeared, led by the last able-bodied squad leader, a tow-headed veteran of the Imperial road-building program named Bearns. The wood-cutters ranged themselves in a line in front of the Captain, eyeing the Dwarf’s battered escorts, and Bearns stepped up to speak, fists planted on his hips. “Evarts is dead, ‘long with the rest of the Clean Saw’s bosses, so I figure I’m in charge of what’s left. There isn’t a man-jack amongst us what signed on for no fightin’, so we figure we got to get things sorted out between you and us.”
“I see.” Herbet nodded once, a precise movement of his head. “Keeping in mind that I was never t
he Company’s employer, please explain your position.”
Bearns scowled at the unhurried, careful enunciation, and plunged ahead. “Like I said, we ain’t gettin’ paid to fight, or even gettin’ paid at all, now. What we want is the three skiffs you got to cross over to the east bank so’s we can walk out.” The oars and oarlocks were secured in the Badger area of the camp.
“There’s a problem with that plan,” Durek observed. “Most of the weapons your people are carrying are on loan from the Phantom Badgers; you won’t take a single spear of ours away with you unless we’ve been paid for them. And secondly, there’s the matter of the wounded: my people are tending to them without compensation, and in any case they’re not in any condition to move.”
“They got cut up for you, didn’t they?” Bearns shot back. “They can stay until a river boat gets here. As for arms, we’ve enough Goblin spears to replace yours.”
“There is also the matter of rations,” Herbet observed softly. “I will not release any food to anyone who is leaving this camp.”
“There’s twenty oxen in this camp what belongs to the Saw,” Bearns pointed out. “We’ll kill four and smoke the meat; that and fishin’ will get us to Hohenfels.”
“Why should I let you use my skiffs when you’ll use them to desert us?” Durek asked.
“ ‘Cause we’ve fought for you, and we’ll bury the dead for you before we go,” Bearns answered promptly. “We can’t leave ‘till tomorrow on account of smoking the meat, anyway.”
The Captain kept his face bland, but he was impressed at the depth of thought that the loggers had given the matter. What they were saying was true in every particular, down to the point of the oxen; Durek already had a detail told off to slaughter four for the camp’s use. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“What if I would agree to pay you and your men to continue fighting?” Herbet asked. “Including paying you for your actions last night. Would that change your minds about leaving?”
The tow-headed spokesman glanced back at the other men, then shrugged. “How much are you offering?”
The slender man stared off into the distance for a moment. “A Legionnaire Sixth Class receives one Mark per month without seniority and skill pay,” he mused. “That comes to seven pence five bitts a day. I’ll pay each line soldier eight pence a day beginning the day before yesterday, and each squad leader twelve pence. Plus their food, of course.”
Bearns scowled as he struggled with the numbers. “I can make better’n that in a day’s good tree-cuttin’.”
“True, but you won’t be cutting trees for a good long while. You will be a week or more walking to Hohenfels, and the Clean Saw Company won’t be reforming after having lost nearly all of its equipment. You’ll have to hunt up another job and start out at the bottom of the heap again; my money will help you through those times. If the Goblins don’t attack again you and your men will be doing a few light chores for cash paid each day. We could even name you Captain of the loggers and pay you two shillings a day.” The last was spoken even more softly than usual; from their expressions, Durek could tell that none of the other loggers heard it clearly enough to understand. Bearns, however, understood every word.
“Right, we’ll give it a bit of discussion,” the spokesman nodded. “We’ll be back.”
When the loggers were safely out of earshot, Durek leaned towards his paymaster. “Are you sure you want to spend that much money?”
“Evarts left the Saw’s pay chest with me for safe keeping,” Herbet shrugged. “I don’t intend to spend a bitt of my own money.”
The loggers accepted the pay, and were divided up into six squads of ten who manned positions Two, Three, Six, Twelve, Thirteen, and Seventeen. The Badgers took over position Sixteen which had formerly been held by loggers, and held twelve of their number in a reaction force, while the Dwarves continued to garrison their same positions. Once the pay had been distributed the loggers, who had gotten some sleep after the attack, dumped the enemy dead into the river with the water-crane while ferrying the defender’s corpses across the river for burying, Bridget presiding over the internments in her capacity as a priestess. Four oxen were slaughtered and the meat smoked to bolster the camp’s store of food.
Around noon the three missing loggers were found to have been dragged off by the Goblins, as the mens’ agonized screams began to drift over to the camp. The veterans ignored it, and the novices developed a keener hatred of the Goblins as a race and the Purple Spider in particular. The noise disturbed the Captain’s sleep, so he rose, bathed, climbed into his battle gear, and summoned his officers and co-commanders for a council of war, excluding the Healers and spellcasters, who needed their sleep so as to recover their ability to use their various Arts.
“They’re getting pretty comfortable over there,” he jerked a thumb towards the sounds of suffering. “This little display is intended to warn us that they aren’t in any hurry to leave.”
“With the loggers in place and wounded recovering from Healing we’ll get stronger as time goes by,” Janna pointed out around a yawn. “Without Trolls or magic they won’t crack our lines very easily, if at all, and we’ve a spellcaster parity with them.”
“Perhaps its time we changed that parity,” the Captain suggested. “As I’ve pointed out, the Goblins are getting settled in and comfortable. They know they hurt us pretty bad last night, and they’ll know rations are limited within here despite the fish-traps and oxen; more importantly, I’m confident we can write off the river boat shipment we were expecting, as no boat-captain will try to bring his craft in here until the siege is lifted.”
“We’ve already raided them once,” Herbet pointed out. “And they’ve posted sentries along the riverbank who shoot at any bit of drifting debris that goes by. How could we get a party into a position to hit them again?”
“We don’t need a party, we need an assassin,” Durek explained. “And once we break the parity, we’re in a position to launch a counter-attack, using the superiority of our arms and armor, our advantage in spellcasting, and the element of surprise to even the odds.”
“We can’t attack out of the camp with any speed and still have surprise,” Herbet shook his head. “We’d have to clear a path through the stake belt first, which would give the whole thing away.”
“Not exactly,” the Dwarf shook his head, and explained.
An hour later Bridget boarded a skiff with four loggers armed with shovels and picks and a figure wrapped in canvas tenting, no doubt one of the wounded who had lost the struggle to survive. The boat fought its way across the river while a few Goblin arrows wobbled into the water around it, lobbed in at extreme range. On the far bank they proceeded to the fenced clearing that was New Fork’s cemetery and dug a grave for the unfortunate soul.
By the time they had finished the ceremony and had the grave filled in and nicely mounded, Starr, who had been inside the bundle (along with sections of firewood so it would still have some bulk when they lowered it into the ‘grave’), was nearly a mile north of New Fork and dragging a small punt out of its hiding place. The Goblin sentries were watching the river, but mainly south of New Fork, where their camp was; to the north the yasama patrols were keeping close to New Fork. The little Threll rowed across the river, hid her boat, and slipped off through the trees on a long circle that would take her to the west side of the Goblin camp. Her face was still a sunburst of colors, but the swelling around her eyes had subsided, and she could ply her skills again.
The sun was nearing the horizon as she crept up on the sentry line guarding the Goblin camp’s west boundaries. The sentries were chosen from the ranks of the moderately wounded, assigned to static posts and relieved regularly; Starr watch them for an hour before making her approach, slipping between two dozing jugata without much difficulty. Things would have been much different had war dogs and their handlers been assigned to sentry duty, but the dogs had taken a savage beating last night, leaving too few to both bolster the perimeter and main
tain a sufficient force for exploitation during the next attack.
The Goblin camp was a rectangle, with the slave camp in the center, along with the mule lines and the cart park; the five Seraos each had their own sleeping areas, as did the yasama, the dog handlers, command group, spider-tenders, and shamans. She could see, as she slipped like a shadow from cover to cover, that the Goblins had sent a number of carts away recently, no doubt hauling off wounded; the tameks assigned to crew the war engines were also gone, withdrawn to safety after the destruction of their charges, as were the three surviving Trolls and their handlers.
She waited under an empty cart as the sun sank lower, watching the shamans’ camp, an assassin’s arrow in hand. She would lose the shaft, she knew, but they were Company property and intended for just this sort of mission.
She blinked her sore eyelids and waited, quietly hoping to see the Human renegade who had laid her low after she had dealt with at least one shaman. The Spider spellcasters had an elaborate camp and a sizeable entourage, a situation Starr felt was stupid and wasteful, as well as drawing far too much attention: Axel and Henri had no special followings save Axel’s apprentice, and make no great show of their Arts; any assassin going after them would be hard pressed to tell who was a wizard and who wasn’t. There were three full-fledged shamans with the Goblin force, each with his own large tent, personal totem, and a half-dozen assistants and apprentices to cater to his needs, with a troop of twenty jugata to guard the whole.
Starr slipped a second arrow of assassination from her quiver and leaned it against her thigh; moving slowly and with care she added a signaling arrow and waited. As the shadows grew a conference seemed to be held between two tents by the shamans, but there were too many underlings shifting around to give her a clear shot. Still, she mated her two enchanted arrows to two Goblin spellcasters, nocked one, and waited patiently, hissing once between her teeth when she saw the dark-haired girl who had called herself Afra in the entourage of one of the shamans.