That just made it sport as well as food preparation.
The goblins broke into a loping run, grinning wildly and preparing their spears to run down their prey, when they crossed into our fire zone and started sprouting arrows. Ten of the Nirodi archers were lying concealed, some firing from prone positions, and their shafts took the goblins down without a whimper. The three River Folk stared as a couple of the red-clad lads rushed forward to drag the bodies into the underbrush . . . and then they squealed with excitement and ran back to the siege line to do it again.
We had two of these ambuscades set up, one at the southeastern corner of the siege, and one in the west. The River Folk would run down that slope in one direction or the other, or both, if they felt the need to split up, and bring their pursuers into the trap. After we’d thoroughly seeded the area with glyphs, Rondal and I fell back to support them, while Tyndal went off on a special mission.
In this case “support” meant taking up a good position overlooking the ambuscade and making sure nothing went wrong. To that end I cast a couple of helpful spells, to keep the noise and level of attention down, and watched the fun.
At first, it worked almost too well. The third sortie that chased our little guys into that culvert was nearly twenty strong, which required some quick work on the part of the Nirodi, else they would have been lunch. That many goblins, even packed together and in a slather, required plenty of arrows, and Rogo had his boys come out and finish off the stragglers hand-to-hand, with knives and swords, to save arrows. Then they gleaned from the bodies, removed the corpses from the field, and went back into hiding.
There was a change in the way they got chased, too. At first, they were pursued by hungry soldiers doing their duty. By the fourth sortie, they were being hunted by starving gurvani eager to rip them to shreds and devour them. That goldsmith Hunger was making a fortune.
It only took an hour of this steady action to reduce the foe by a third, with only minor injuries on our side (two of the militiamen had been clubbed, one had a broken hand). And about that point, the gurvani priests leading the assault realized that there was a problem, and tried to regroup. They chose a hill on the eastern side of the tree, leaving one of the shaman and a troll and a whining squadron of warriors behind to guard the base.
I’d planned for this sort of thing, but since I was unsure of how they’d respond I’d prepared a couple of contingencies. None of them included the idea that our enemy would regroup and just wait, which seemed to be what they were doing after our little fellows stopped finding gurvani to allure.
“Why aren’t they attacking?” asked Rondal, curious and impatient. He’d barely wetted his new mageblade, and even if he wasn’t a natural warrior the excitement of warmagic was heady. “I figured I’d be fighting for my life right now.”
“They’re just not hungry enough yet,” I sighed. “The priests are trying to figure out where the danger is coming from. Whether or not it’s an illusion from the Tree Folk, or something else. I’m guessing their soldiery complaining bitterly about hunger isn’t helping them with their mission much. And by now they’ve discovered that their provisions are gone.”
“How long until they figure it out and cast counterspells?” Rondal whispered. That had been the biggest danger with this plan. I was hoping the priests weren’t that adept. I shrugged.
“I wish I knew. We just need to get them even more hungry before they get the chance. But they’ll be wise to a direct spell.” I considered the matter.
We could pepper the area around them with glyphs, but that would take time and expose us. I wanted them to come to us. It was a tough problem, and I started to take my pipe out and light it as I reflected, when I realized that the prevailing winds would take the smoke right to them and reveal our position – not good counterintelligence.
Then I stopped.
I had an idea. I looked around for some dry deadwood -- never a shortage of that in the Wilderlands -- and stacked it in a small pyramid. Then I hit it with a cantrip and watched it burst into flame. Rogo and his men looked at me, puzzled -- lighting a fire when you’re trying to surprise the enemy is usually a poor tactical idea. Rogo, at least, seemed unconcerned. Or at least hid his concern really well, for which I am grateful.
“I'll need one of those little metal bucklers the gurvani carry -- get it from one of the bodies,” I ordered one of the mercenaries. I looked up at Rogo. “How fast could you hunt up some game? A couple of squirrels or something? And I’ll need a skin of water, if any of you have one handy. Because if you can do that, then I’ll get the little guys to find some savory roots, and --”
Twang! Thwack! Thump!
Before I finished my sentence, Rogo had drawn and nocked a shaft, looked around in the trees, found a target and let fly. A moment after the twang of the bowstring sounded, a fat little partridge fell down out of the tree.
“Will that work, my lord?” he asked, casually. Show off.
I set the River Folk to plucking the partridge, and skinning the two theons and a woodchuck that joined them a few moments later, and I started boiling water in the bronze buckler. The raw meat, still gory with blood and feathers and scales and fur, was dumped into the makeshift kettle . . . but the fire was taking its own sweet time about making it boil. The three Loblollies came over to see what I was doing.
“Go find me some roots -- wild onions and risereth, maybe some garlic?” I asked the three eager cooks. Then I muttered a spell and brought the water up to boiling -- and then some – magically, while they scampered off. I hated waiting around, and the longer we waited, the sooner the sun would be down. I wanted this to be over before then, one way or the other. I wasn’t eager to fight them in the dark.
“Victory soup!” Tod said, hovering his big nose over the revolting mess in the shield. He dumped in some hastily-chopped herbs and it started smelling just a little like food.
Soon the boiling water was cooking the meat, and a few quickly-harvested aromatic roots and leaves were added. It wasn’t very appetizing to me, I suppose, but then I wasn’t starving – and I’d had soup for lunch. The aroma of cooking meat quickly filled the air with the woodsmoke. That was good, but I wanted it stronger. I fished out a big chunk of woodchuck with my dagger and held it directly in the fire. In moments the smell of roasting meat, stronger than boiled meat, made our lure even more potent.
“Trapping trolls with temptation,” chuckled Rogo as he came quietly up beside me and the three puds. “Clever.”
“They’ll smell this and come running, before long,” I agreed. “At least, that’s my theory.” I closed my eyes and contacted Tyndal. Do you have them in sight?
Yes, Master! he said, hurriedly. I’m in a tree, about half a bowshot from where they’re gathered. I only see two of the shamans--
The third is at the tree, I informed him.
These two are having a hard time. There’re just over a hundred of them all together now, and they’re not behaving. The warriors are whining about being hungry and the trolls are looking …unsettled. There have been two small squabbles, so far. No bloodshed yet, but . . .
In a moment they’re going to start getting really riled up. And they’ll be wandering in our direction. As soon as they do, and you can get to the base of that tree, you do it. Do whatever you have to to keep those goblins off of them long enough to let them get free. I think our Tree Folk friends will be watching closely, and will welcome the chance to escape.
I could always prod them from this direction, Master, he offered helpfully. A flanking attack to spook them, or misdirect them . . .
Leave the strategy to me, I said crossly. We have a plan. We stick with it until a better one comes along.
As you wish, Master, he said, enthusiastically. Maybe too enthusiastically. Tyndal was developing an unhealthy delight in danger. I didn’t want to retard the boy’s enthusiasm too much, but I also didn’t want him to get killed because he did something brave and stupid. Of course, I had just ordered him to do s
omething brave and stupid, so I guess I had to bear some of the responsibility. That’s life during wartime.
I opened my eyes and noted that the meat on the end of my knife was now charred and blackened from the flame, and its aroma perfumed the air. Enough so that the afternoon breeze was carrying it unerringly up the slope, around the tree, and -- hopefully -- into the inflamed nostrils of our enemy. I dumped the charred flesh back into the simmering, rather disgusting shield-turned-cookpot with a sense of satisfaction. We had soup superiority.
“Get your men ready,” I ordered Redshaft and the militiamen. Ganz was in charge –young Ancient Kinsey had broken his hand under a gurvani mace, and had fallen back with the other wounded – thankfully few, so far. I decided on the best way to deploy my troops. “Archers on the south, with the sun to their backs, shooting northeast. Swordsmen on the west, out of the line of fire. When they come down that slope, looking for lunch, I want them to have to run a gauntlet of arrows. Anyone who’s unpunctured will be weakened enough for the militia to take them at the bottom of the hill, unless they want to push through the line badly enough.”
The young militia captain paled. “And what if they do?”
“Let them,” I answered -- far more calmly than I felt-- as I cleaned my dagger and put it away. “That’s where Rondal and I will be waiting. If they can get through the Nirodi and you gentlemen, why, there shouldn’t be that much of them left for us to handle, don’t you think?”
The militiaman looked grim, but nodded. “Places, then. Grab every arrow you can, and set your blades close at hand. We’re not facing a company of soldiers, here, we’re like to be facing an angry mob. Things could change quickly, so stay alert and listen to orders. And I’ll pay five ounces of gold to the man who slays a priest -- provided he doesn’t endanger his mates or the mission. Questions? Let’s get to it.”
* * *
Rondal and I hid behind a small grove of cedars and spruce trees just to the north and west of where the militiamen crept, swords in hand. The afternoon sun was waning, and we had scant time until twilight. I wasn’t the only one watching the sun.
“It’s almost dark,” Rondal said, anxiously.
“Just like it was this time yesterday,” I agreed, sagely. I went ahead and lit my pipe, knowing this would probably be the last chance for a smoke until the action began . . . and that the need for concealing our position was over. My apprentice shifted nervously, moving his mageblade from one hand to the other. “Patience, Rondal. They’ll be here when they get here.”
“I’m just starting to get a little hungry myself,” he said, unconvincingly. “Casting all of those glyphs, the fighting, and it’s been forever since lunch . . .”
“Don’t you have any rations on you?” I asked, surprised.
He looked up, startled. “Why, no, Master. They’re on the horse. Should I have?”
“You’re the one who’s hungry,” I shrugged. “You tell me. Personally, I learned at War College to keep a couple of strips of dried meat or some hardtack or pealoaf on me at all times. You never knew when you were going to be separated from your supply line.” I dug a strip out of my own belt pouch. “Here, gnaw on this. Just don’t let the goblins see you -- I didn’t bring enough for everybody. And I don’t think you really want to try the ‘victory soup’.”
“Thanks, Master,” he said, taking the strip of dried beef gratefully. “I guess that there’s a lot I don’t know about being a Mage Knight yet.”
“I’m starting to realize that too,” I sighed. “As soon as things calm down, I’m sending both you and Tyndal to War College. And to Inrion Academy, for some more serious study. I should have enough pull to manage that, I think.”
“War . . . college . . . Master?” he asked, wide-eyed, between bites. He didn’t look thrilled at the prospect.
“And Imperial magic,” I reminded him. “Face it, you need to grow into being a true Mage Knight, and Tyndal needs to know how to be a mage. Before long the two of you will be commanding your own missions and getting yourselves killed on your own. Best you be as prepared as possible.”
Rondal still didn’t look impressed at the idea, but he did mull it over as he chewed. He was about to add something to that when we heard noises at the top of the hill. We crouched back amongst the underbrush, freezing and watching with magesight.
A small shaggy black head peeked out from behind a rocky outcrop, at first, and then another. Both were sniffing, and moving cautiously forward, toward the tiny campfire and the makeshift dinner.
“That’s it, come and get it, boys,” murmured Rondal as he gripped his blade. I drew a war wand. I was ready to pounce.
We didn’t get the chance to pounce -- the Nirodi took both before they were a third of the way down the hill. Before their bodies were still, three more scurried over the rise, sniffing the air and mewling piteously in hunger. They barely looked at their freshly-fallen comrades as they lurched faster and faster toward the fire. Another small group approached as they fell to more arrows, and then another. Some leader with more discipline than hunger kept them in line, such as it was, until they all could see -- and smell -- the roasting flesh clearly.
The strangled order to charge was given long after the first gurvani broke ranks and rushed hungrily toward the food -- and the River Folk. They stood their ground, looking helpless and tasty, as more and more goblins ran toward them. I vowed then to never fault their bravery, for those three puds stood fast where many a green militiaman would have broken.
The Nirodi didn’t hesitate to fire, first in volley and then with aimed shots. Their shafts proved deadly, and if any missed their target I didn’t see them. But in the end, there were still far too many gurvani moving too fast for the archers to keep up. The gap between the River Folk and the hunger-crazed band shrank to a hundred feet, then fifty . . . and that’s when the militiamen sprang to action.
Most commanders don’t give enough credit to infantry militia, but the truth is if they are trained and blooded, an armored man with a spear or sword and shield could be deadly and effective on the battlefield. Not as glamorous -- or as expensive -- as mounted cavalry, but the dozen shieldmen who raced into place and dressed their line in a wall twenty-five feet in front of the deadly picnic were every bit as effective at stopping them short.
Several more of them slung their shields on their backs and used their long ash-hafted spears to brace the line by holding them parallel to it, at their shoulders. Petty-captain Ganz drew his sword and stood resolutely behind his men as the goblins slowed, came to some semblance of order, and then charged. They screamed and brayed and growled as they came, swords and maces swinging wildly, shields swung like thick bronze weapons, they came with bared teeth and white eyes and the fury of their new god -- hunger -- on top of the hatred of the Dead God.
They came, but they came in an irregular mass, and they bounced off of the shield wall like a kid’s cloth ball against the side of a shed. Several gurvani fell at once,, or fell back clutching wounds the swordsmen gave them, but some stood and fought ferociously, empowered by hunger. Two militiamen fell back, wounded, but I was pleased to see that the rest held the line.
The spearmen behind the wall took longer than I would have liked to return their weapons to the pointy-end-toward-the-enemy position, but before a second, half-hearted charge came against the wall there were three or four of them lancing out between the shoulders and shields of the swordsmen, using them for cover while they methodically punctured whatever unarmored parts of the hunger-crazed goblins they could reach.
They weren’t always successful -- one enterprising gurvan side-stepped a sharp thrust, grabbed the spear behind the head, and wrenched it out of the surprised militiaman’s hands. He fell dead with an arrow in the back of his skull before he could reverse it and use it on our people.
The gurvani had a few archers themselves, but their short, stubby arms didn’t give them much of a draw, and despite us teaching them all summer long they still couldn’t man
age to volley. Nor did their aching, empty bellies give them the patience to fire more than once or twice before they charged piecemeal toward the aroma of roasting flesh. They fell, and they kept falling quite obligingly.
I was just starting to feel a little optimistic about the battle when the trolls showed up.
Few humans have seen a troll in person, and fewer still have lived to tell the tale. I’ve seen over a hundred, in armor and arrayed against us in the service of the Dead God. Even naked and sleepy, they’re pretty terrifying. They stand anywhere from nine to fifteen feet tall, and look vaguely like overgrown goblins . . . but then they resembled the River Folk, too.
They were all Alon, related however-distantly to the Alka Alon, the Tree Folk we were rescuing. Back before the Void spawned humanity on Callidore, the Alon we now know as trolls were used as brute-strength labor for the construction and maintenance of the elaborate Alka Alon cities . . . before they more-or-less destroyed each other. The trolls who were left usually hugged the same rugged terrain we’d left for the gurvani -- deserts, mountains, arid plains, thickly grown forests. In the wild, they tend to be on the cowardly side, for all of their strength. They aren’t naturally belligerent -- they just aren’t that smart.
Victory Soup : A Spellmonger Story (The Spellmonger Series) Page 5