By nightfall the ogre band was making good time, having finished with the looting of the Earthspeaker’s camp and collected themselves once again into a column of four. In the front of the column went several eastern Muharl, for they could see best in the dark, and these were particularly known for their sniffing. They followed the tracks of the fleeing refugees, and hour by hour Gutcrusher knew he was gaining on them.
“Where you think they’re going?” Balls asked his king.
“Don’t matter.” Gutcrusher replied. “They can’t outrun us. They’re taking along their brats and old bonies, and that’s slowing them, I reckon. We will be on them before morning.”
“After we kill the men and the oldies and the brats, I’m gonna grab a slag of my own and spend some time with her.” Splitnose said, grinning. Although he was a veteran member of the King’s Band and had a willing she back in the city Azha was building, he was always up for fun if it offered. He was toting a large bag of plunder, including many strange and witchy items of brass and copper that he had looted from a strange tent full of oddments. Had he known it, it was the tent of the seer Allein-a-Briech, not that it mattered. It was just loot and the tent was now burned to nothing, along with most of that camp.
“Wish I knew what them drums is saying.” Ironspike said after a moment.
“I know what they is saying.” Gutcrusher replied, and he was almost chuckling. “They’re saying Gutcrusher is here, run fer your lives.”
Hungry Wolf marched with the ogres, and he was the only buck with armor. There were a few other bucks tagging along, but they were not equipped as he was, and they marched in the middle of the mass of ogres. Hungry Wolf was bringing up the rear, as it were, largely because he didn’t want any others digging into his bag of loot. One day he would return to Azha’s City, as they called it, and he had so much loot he might even get a she to share his furs.
The ogres marched into a thicket that ran alongside the Redwater River, the same thicket from which Tuchek had led his ill-fated attack on the Cthochi canoes not too long ago, but the paths were wide enough and their night eyes were good enough that they did not get lost. Here the refugees from the big camp had been slowed by the terrain, and the ogres were steadily gaining on them. Several times Gutcrusher smelled fresh offal, and once Balls came across a warrior with a broken leg who had been left behind. The Aulig warriors tended to be rather lean and muscular, so after Wolf spitted him they did not save him for the pot.
Stalksdeer also found warriors as he marched south, for his line went parallel with that of the ogres, about a league to the west. Some of these warriors had been completely unmanned by the battle at Big Elk Draw, and they fled when he would have spoken to them. Most of them were simply looking for a group to join, however, and they were happy to join the buckskin clad scouts as they walked through the early evening toward Redwater Town. One such warrior was Jumping Ox.
“We are all dead men.” Stalksdeer explained to Jumping Ox. “We saw what was left after the battle, and you were in it, so you know what I mean. These are the Muharl ogres, and they’ve come to kill us. You saw what they are capable of, and on top of that, they can track like hounds. Eventually they will track us all down if we don’t get across the Redwater.”
“The butcher general will kill us if we cross.” Jumping Ox opined. “I was at Ugly Woman Hill, I know.”
“Yes.” Stalksdeer answered. “So we are dead if we stay and dead if we go.”
“So we are going to kill some of them, if we can.” Broken Flagon said from beside him. “Perhaps if we can kill some of them we can slow their march. Give our women and children a chance to beg the Lord of Redwater Town for permission to cross the river. If we die saving their lives, that will be something, yes?” Stalksdeer wondered what sins Broken Flagon was seeking to redeem, for he was sure that the man was seeking some kind of redemption.
“We must do what we can.” Winterhawk said, and Stalksdeer agreed.
“Yes.” He affirmed. “But we must have a plan. We saw what happened when we fought them as warriors. Now we must fight them as hunters. I will show you.” He opened up a large sack he had been carrying, and in it were all of the iron spearpoints he could scavenge at Big Elk Draw. He knew his other scouts had bags full of the same things.
It turned out that Jumping Ox was a bowman, although he was not as good in the woods as the scouts. The difference was something only a Cthochi would notice, for the Cthochi were all much better than average woodsmen, and even the Mortentian foresters of Northcraven were wary of them. While they talked and marched and gathered recruits, Ateskunk, one of his better scouts, returned breathless from a sojourn by the Redwater.
“They are taking the deep path through the Bristling Thicket. It is as you guessed.” Ateskunk said, for that was the Cthochi name for the band of thick bracken and bramble that lay across the trail between the Earthspeaker’s camp and Redwater Town.
“Good. I was just telling Jumping Ox what he must do. May the ancestors guide you home, Jumping Ox. I will tell your people how you died.”
All of the scouts then put a hand on the shoulder of Jumping Ox, for his mission was such that there would be no returning from it. For his part Jumping Ox shook their hands, and then he embraced Stalksdeer. “Thank you for this opportunity to serve my people.” He said simply, and then he was gone in the night.
A kraken-bone bow is not as long as a longbow, but it is stiff, and when properly fashioned and recurved, could shoot an arrow with equal penetrating force. At short range it was far superior to a longbow, and for a skilled bowman it was nearly as good as a crossbow. Jumping Ox ran through the forest swiftly, determined to be in the right place when the column of ogres passed by. He nearly missed them, for they were moving swiftly, but he was young and healthy and Cthochi, so he could move swiftly as well. When he came upon the tail of their column he was both amazed and overjoyed to find that some of them were carrying torches, for despite their night eyes the Bristling Thicket was dark beneath the trees, and little light reached it.
He approached the column crawling, and he watched very carefully as it passed by. At the very rear he saw an ogre, smaller than most, but wearing chainmail, rather than the strange black plates that guarded the larger ogres at the front. He stood, waited a moment feeling the wind on his cheek, then losed. He was fifty paces away from his target when he shot, and he ran toward his victim as fast as he could.
Hungry Wolf felt the arrow penetrate the chainmail along his right ribcage, and it punched into the space between his ribs and stuck there. He dropped his bag of loot at once, staring in wonderment at the arrow sticking from his torso. He coughed and felt little pain, so he decided that it likely hadn’t hit anything vital. Still, he’d been shot, and he was about to call out to Skullcracker, the ogre nearest to him, when a buckskin clad shape came flying out of the forest.
He barely had time to turn his head before the pigsucker was on him, and he felt a sharp knife blade cut along his throat. Hot blood began spraying forth and he found he was choking on something. It was very painful. It took him a long time to weaken and fall to his knees, and even longer to die.
But ogres are not like men. They do not need to think overlong about how to react to an attack. Seconds after Jumping Ox hit the ground and dashed into the forest Skullcracker was after him, his enormous legs pumping. He could track the path of his quarry by smell if he needed, but he did not need to. The sounds of fleet moccasins crashing amid the underbrush led him inexorably to where Jumping Ox was, and a well thrown spear caught the young warrior in the back, between his hips and his ribs. Jumping Ox’ spine was severed, and when Skullcracker came upon him he simply pulled out the spear, leaving the young Cthochi to die, alone and miserable in the snow.
But the attack served its purpose, for it took nearly fifteen minutes for the ogres to sort themselves, track Jumping Ox down and to kill him. A league ahead of them Stalksdeer had just reached the place where he planned his second attack.
/> The second attack involved Winterhawk, and like the first one there was a ceremony of saying goodbye. Winterhawk would not likely survive, but it was hoped that he might slow the march of the ogres again. He watched the ogres march by his position, well hidden in a snow-covered bush, and the wind was very slight, so he did not think his smell would give him away. This time it was an unarmored buck near the middle of the ogre column that he attacked, and this time a pack of at least ten ogres gave immediate chase. He led them to a specific place, running across a flat patch of snow on a log that had been set down for that purpose.
When the ogres hit the spot, only seconds behind him, the thin roof of snow-covered brush that the Cthochi had placed over a hastily dug pit collapsed, and four ogres found themselves falling, feet first, onto at least thirty spearpoints, each of which had been hastily planted in the dirt beneath.
This was a well-designed trap, for the ogres had been marching in leather soled boots, and in many cases the boots had holes in the bottoms. The spearpoints, driven by the ogres’ own weight, sheared through the thin soles and into their feet. Three ogres were crippled on the spot, but Winterhawk paid for the attack with his life when Bloody Eye caught up with him. Bloody Eye started with Winterhawk’s feet, and many ogres gathered around to watch Bloody Eye’s sport as he slowly killed the man. But again, the mission bought a respite of nearly half an hour, for it took that long for the ogres to sort out the attack and scout to make sure that no one else was near.
Throughout the night Stalksdeer planned attacks, and each one cost him a man, for the ogres were faster than the Cthochi, and they could track their attackers down easily. But each attack also caused a delay, and after Stalksdeer himself attacked, running in close and putting an arrow skillfully into the eye of a giant Winter Mountain ogre named Spinebreaker, Gutcrusher called a halt to the march.
“We have to keep moving.” Ironspike complained. “We need to get out of the woods.”
“Aye, we do.” Gutcrusher agreed. “But this marching all in a line is no fornicating good. We needs to put shields to the outside and march in a bigger band.” It took the King’s Band an hour to set up the new way of marching, and by then the ogres were tired and bitching continuously. When the ogres finally escaped from the Bristling Thicket it was dawn, and Gutcrusher decided to let the boyos get a few hours of sleep. Some of the ogres made fires and cooked some of the surfeit of meat the battles and the looting had earned them, and some sat down by the fires, bundled up in furs and slept. There were no more attacks, for Stalksdeer and all of his heroic band were dead, but Gutcrusher did not know this.
The time purchased by the attacks gave the refugees from the Earthspeaker’s camp time to reach the outer perimeter of the Expanded Fort, and while the ogres rested, slept or had their way with a few captured slags, Tuchek approached the walls under a white flag of parley.
Chapter 103: Redwater Town, Expanded Fort, Early Jember
Busker O’Hiam rode his perfectly adequate red horse feeling like a child on a pony next to Celdemer on Windbrother. The white stallion was beautiful, thickly muscled and powerful, and his white coat seemed to glisten in the early morning darkness. In the east the horizon was palling, the somber clouds taking shape as the light began to illumine them. The road was thick with snow, but the lead teamster, and old man from Walcox with a long tail of white hair that was braided in some complicated way under his conical woolen hat, knew the road well, and the wagons made good time by following in the tracks he cut in the road.
Busker’s purse was lighter by a score of gilders, but he reckoned he had enough peaches in the wagons to feed hundreds of people. He had no idea how many peaches it took to resist the pox, but he’d eaten half a dozen to be sure, as had the six teamsters with him and Celdemer and Effander as well.
They made better time on the road back than they had coming to Walcox, and they found the team of horses they had exchanged in Maslit were well-rested and eager to run. An urgency was on Busker, and he felt that he must hurry. Ever since making the turn toward Northcraven at the bend in the Redwater he’d heard drums pounding on the far side of the river, and although he did not know what they were saying, he fancied there was a tone of panic in them, although he could not have said why.
“It’s little wonder you sense a change.” Celdemer said when he brought it up to the godsknight or former godsknight or whatever he was now. “You’ve marched to the sound of those drums for weeks. If they’ve changed in some way, I should think you would recognize it.”
“We have fresh horses and a plain road, Sir Celdemer. What say you?” He’d asked late last evening, when they were deciding whether to stop for the night.
“Ride on, commander. We can keep up, and we’ll help the teamsters to withstand the journey.”
The old man from Walcox hung a lantern on the front of the neck yoke, a marvelous brassy lamp with a clear glass in it that illumined the road before the horses. They rode through the night. The drums continued their frenzied pounding and did not slacken, even in the early morning hours when the Cthochi should sleep. The moon rose behind the snow-laden clouds, and the light helped a bit.
Aelfric stood on trodden snow atop the wall of the Expanded Fort and Anbarius was beside him. Facing them were Bishop Weymort and Manzer Larvantis, the Lord Mayor of Redwater Town. To the north they could see a long line of people, the refugees from the Earthspeaker’s camp, and Tuchek was coming on ahead, for Aelfric had recognized him right away and ordered that he be allowed to come up.
Manzer Larvantis was speaking, and his voice was weary, like all of them. “They’ve been coming all night, Lord Aelfric. They’ve been packing up just out of bowshot. We must let them cross the river.”
“Let them cross?” Aelfric looked askance at the Lord Mayor. “We’ve been fighting eight months to get them back on their side of the river, and you want to let them cross back?”
“Situations change, milord.” Anbarius said, siding with the Lord Mayor and the bishop. “It’s women and children mostly.”
“Situations have changed, milord.” The Lord Mayor added, although Aelfric was in no way his lord. “The Earthspeaker is dead. So is Kerrick the Sword. Half of their warriors are dead, according to the drums.”
“Kerrick, too?” Aelfric replied. “That’s too bad. He seemed a decent sort. Still, whatever they’ve encountered over there, I can’t let them across. Not after Walcox and the other things they’ve done. We’re still at war with them.”
“A formality.” Anbarius said quietly. “We were coming to terms.”
“Wait a moment, Aelfric.” The voice came from behind him, and he turned to see Aldrid Faithborn approaching, looking as fresh and neat as always. “Busker O’Hiam has arrived with the peaches, and with news from Walcox way. Let’s think about this a moment.”
“Think about what?”
Faithborn winced. “Ah, well. You see, Busker and I have a spy or two in Walcox, and we’ve been keeping them fed and they keep us informed about the news down south of the Whitewood. Seems like Maldiver’s death hasn’t changed things. The D’Cadmouths still hold Busker responsible for the death of their duke and they still consider you to be in rebellion.”
“What does that have to do with this?”
“Well, the war is about over, at least as far as the Silver Run Army is concerned. We’ve freed Northcraven and the Earthspeaker is dead. So we were wondering where that leaves us, and where it leaves you.”
Aelfric saw Busker O’Hiam approaching, and with him were two other men dressed as farmers, but he recognized one of them as Celdemer the godsknight. “Did you tell him?” Busker asked Faithborn.
“Tell me what, pray tell?” Aelfric demanded.
“Our plan. For after the war.” Faithborn shook his head.
“I was getting to it.”
“One of you get it out, damn it.”
“It’s like this, Aelfric.” It was Busker who spoke first. “We’ve the only decent army north of the Whitewood
. The people in Walcox worship you. They hang your family flags outside the windows in Maslit. This here lord mayor is ready to do whatever you want to let his friendly Auligs cross the Redwater and we hold Northcraven. We’ve got sleeping forts staffed and garrisoned by our men all the way from Walcox to Northcraven.”
“I know all this, Busker. What’s your point?”
“Well, add to this the fact that Mortentia has lost two kings recently, half of the duchies there are in open rebellion and the other half aren’t sure who to back, and it’s going to be a long time before we see Mortentian regulars north of the Whitewood. We don’t want to go back. We don’t think you should go back.”
“What are you saying? Of course we go back.”
“Do we? There’s orders for my arrest south of the Whitewood.” Faithborn declared, and Busker O’Hiam nodded agreement. “Busker’s a dead man, and likely so are you. There’s no going home for us. We could hide out in Walcox or Maslit, but eventually the D’Cadmouths are going to be back in power. They will never forgive Busker for the duke.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Oh for goodness sake.” Celdemer finally blurted out. “They want to make you the king here. The king of Northcraven, or whatever you want to call it. From Northcraven to Walcox. Bring the Cthochi across and you win Redwater Town, which is the last bit of it that’s not already yours.”
Aelfric stared at all of them like they had gone mad, but he could see that they had not. They all looked at him expectantly. “But we haven’t ended the war. We haven’t settled matters to the east of us at all. The Emerald Peninsula …”
“We can settle that as chance permits.” Busker replied, waving his hand dismissively. “Right now we’ve got a land that’s been stripped empty of people and thousands of hides of empty, fertile farmland. You’ve got probably a hundred thousand people who want to get across the river so they can live. You’ve got the peaches to beat the pox, too. Let them come across under the condition that they swear fealty to you. The Cthochi will remember you forever as the man who saved them and I’m betting this lord mayor will swear fealty to you right now, if you let him.”
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 141