by Damien Lake
“Victory to us,” Kerwin commented after the remaining cavalry disappeared into the trees.
“A costly one though,” Marik observed.
“Battles invariably become harder when you aren’t defending a stronghold,” Landon stated. “The earlier fight went well because we had earthworks between us and them, with us on the top and the stakes pointed their way.”
“They ran straight at the depot though. They might have taken it if they had come up with a better attack plan.”
“They did, remember? With the first assault, they were hoping to take us in a rush and quickly retreat back to the Reaches. That didn’t work, so they came up with a new plan. Do you think we would have held against the second strike under normal circumstances?”
Kerwin stated, “They would have been up and over the mound before we saw them, what with the weather favoring them like that.”
“I suppose you’re the Fourth’s good luck charm after all, Marik old boy,” Dietrik teased, dropping an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Those superstitious gits have no call to look askance at you any longer.”
“Until we have to attack a fortified position,” Marik grumbled.
“It’ll happen soon enough, so don’t fret about it too much.”
* * * * *
Marik sat atop the northern earthwork examining his blade. After an entire spring of fighting, the poor thing needed care beyond a casual sharpening. Infinitesimal notches marred both edges as well as scratches all up and down the flats. At least its flexibility prevented it from bending.
“Let me have the stone when you’re done with it.”
“Certainly,” Dietrik acknowledged from his seat several feet away. He honed the edges on his main-gauche dagger. Most Fourth Uniters were taking advantage of the break to perform needed maintenance. Unwilling to stay cramped in their field tents, most opted to find a corner outside to work. Unfortunately the camp stayed busy all day long. The only place without constant activity lay atop the northern earthwork. Moving as far east as possible avoided most of the latrine odors.
Marik worked on his mail while waiting his turn for Dietrik’s whetstone. Rust always required incredible effort to remove from the links, and he set to.
“Damn, they need to start making this stuff out of good steel!”
“Don’t say that in front of a smith,” Dietrik advised. “He’s liable to pass you a hammer and tongs and invite you to try your hand.”
Nial pointed out, “If we had a barrel we could turn on a spit, and some sand to throw in there with it, we could toss the mail inside. A few minutes rotation would have the job done, no sweat, no toil.”
“Add that to our wishing lists,” Marik grumbled. “I’m running out of oil. Remind me to pull a new bottle from supply before we move out.”
Hayden spoke from his perch. “Better do it tonight then.”
Marik looked northward. “It’s already late afternoon but they haven’t arrived. You figure they got delayed on the road?”
“Who knows?” Hayden had finished his work first and lounged comfortably in the slight breeze blowing over the mound’s top. “How often have we been attacked by the Noliers so far?”
“About every three or four days I’d say.”
“Then there’s your odds. One chance in three or four they got themselves attacked on the road.”
“Does anybody have any idea what all is coming?”
Dietrik shrugged, “More men is all I’ve heard, mate.”
“Fraser said new orders, too,” Nial added.
“Oh? I hadn’t heard that,” admitted Marik. “Are we getting off this damned patrol route?”
“How should I know? Fraser never goes into specifics.”
Well into summer, they had ridden patrol between the Sixth and Seventh Depots nearly every day since spring. If he added the miles, Marik knew he could have ridden all the way across Galemar by now, and the next kingdom as well. A change of duty would suit him fine.
“Heads up!”
Dietrik tossed the whetstone to Marik, who fumbled it over the side. His friends started clapping. He took the moral high ground, stifled any comment he might make and began the climb down the mound through the stake forest.
Of course, the damned thing had tumbled nearly to the bottom. The mound’s grade was far from perfectly vertical, yet steep enough to require concentration. Sixteen feet down, he stopped four feet from the bottom with a firm grip on a stake to keep from sliding the rest of the way. Since the first battle, Major Enson had ordered the trench dug deeper and wider. This time they did not add the dirt to the old earthwork. Instead they formed a new mound outside the trench. Much shorter, the second earthwork’s far slope could be fired upon from atop the first. It would make it even tougher to take the depot.
With the rain that fell every few days, two feet of muddy water stagnated in the trench. Marik carefully leaned forward, grabbed the stone and started clawing his way back to the top. When he neared he saw Hayden gazing north, his hand shielding his eyes.
“Looks like they made it after all,” he commented. The others rose to see for themselves. Marik followed their eyes with one foot propped against a thick stake.
A faint dust cloud rose from the road, a very small one for such a large detachment. The road dried fastest after a rain, though the dust remained slightly heavy. One lookout rang the bell to signal the approach.
When they drew nearer, Marik estimated there were nearly a thousand men, the original size of his own company before the fighting started. Under Balfourth, when he cared to leave the depot, they had held off the Noliers, paying a heavy price in men to achieve it. Without coherent leadership, the men fought to their best individually, taking greater losses than they should have otherwise.
Marik smoothed his sword’s edges with the whetstone while the company halted outside the depot ramp. A pair crossed once they were acknowledged by the guards. Enson emerged from his office in the building that served as the main storehouse. The major accepted a message tube and opened it where he stood. He spoke with the pair while he read over the dispatches before issuing commands.
They returned to their company, which began moving across the ramp, two at a time. Quartermasters shifted wagons stored on the south side to make space. Horses were taken to their area in the west side, but despite the loss of so many men and mounts over the spring, it looked like they would be short of space.
The master handlers must have agreed. Soon a company of garrison soldiers exited the depot. They set a picket and organized a watch over the herd outside the earthworks. Marik wondered what good a guard could do if the Noliers showed up in force again.
“Are we joining with them?”
Dietrik replied, “I suppose so. I thought we were going to get new men to replace the fighters we’ve lost to date, but I don’t believe so now.”
Marik agreed. “That looks like a strike force. Maybe we’re finally going to take care of those cursed Noliers.”
“Could be. We’ll have to see if the officers have finally become annoyed enough by the blue boys to act against them, rather than react.”
“I’m past annoyed.”
“But you aren’t an officer. You are a frontline man and your duty is to fight where they tell you to fight and die a glorious death.”
“And you accuse me of cynicism?”
“It’s the truth as far as I see it, Marik. Still, I think the main fighting up north might be going well if they’re concerning themselves with this petty business down south of them.”
“Petty? We’ve been fighting for our skins!”
Landon added, “Perhaps we have been, but not as often I’ll wager. In the north, the Noliers are fighting to hold the gold strike. Down here, it feels like they want to sting us to keep us out of the Reaches.”
“They made a major attack on the depot,” Marik reminded everyone. “That’s hardly a sting!”
“But they only made one serious effort there. They discovere
d how deeply dug in we are, and how many men it would take on their part to rip this place down.”
“If I hadn’t been playing watchdog, they might have done it with the men they had then!”
“Then they’ve been operating under a misconception. All to the good if so, otherwise we might have found ourselves fending off a horde of Noliers every time we turned around. Most of the other nearby depots haven’t been hit very hard either. That is the power knowledge plays on the battlefield. It is worth as much as an entire company if it plays in your favor.”
Marik had never considered it in quite that light before. “Glad to help,” he murmured.
“In any event,” Hayden interrupted, “it looks like we might be up for more than another trip to the Seventh Depot tomorrow.”
“You almost sound eager. I thought you hated anything to do with the border.”
“Even I get tired of walking in my own footsteps every day. Fraser’ll tell us tonight what the story is.”
Marik returned to his sharpening and said, “I hope it’s the kind where the characters survive in the end.”
It turned out the story had been partly predicted by the others. Earnell collected everyone in the Ninth once they snatched their meals from the cooks. It was a sad sight to see barely sixty men in three ravaged units gathered under their commanding officer.
“The first piece of news is good,” the lieutenant informed them. “Captain Trask is the head of this company and he’s merging the remnants of ours into his own. That means, as an officer, Balfourth is under him in rank. We’re to report directly to the captain.”
Several men grinned. No one cheered outright.
“As for what we’re doing, it’s also simple enough to say. The Noliers to the north are proving a tougher nut to crack than anticipated. Mostly that’s due to the supply lines feeding them food, weapons and fresh men. The lines run through the Green Reaches from the Hollister Bridge across the Tenpencia all the way to the strike. We’re supposed to cut that line off.”
“Ourselves?” a Second Unit man asked. It sounded a ridiculous notion as they each measured the Ninth’s remains.
“No. Scouts in the Reaches have identified three major supply depots and staging areas. They’re spread out further than ours, so each third of the army forces is sending a company to attack one. We get to take the one in the center.”
Marik felt the need to speak. “And how are we supposed to get there? The Reaches is crawling with Noliers. They aren’t about to stand aside and let us trot on through.”
“Major Enson and the other depot commanders are going to send out teams to raise a ruckus and draw attention along the edges of the forest. We want to take the depot by surprise, but it’s likely we’ll have to fight our way there. Everyone draw what you need from the supply warehouses before we go. We’re setting out at dawn.”
The lieutenant left his men alone with their food. Marik thought he would kill for one of Luiez’s meals while he studied the bowl of muck he had eaten every day for months. He said as much to Dietrik, who asked, “Including those rotten noodles?”
“No, I guess I’m not that desperate yet.” He made a face. “I still don’t understand how it can be so awful. The other dishes he makes with the noodles taste good.”
“It might be one of those mysteries best left unsolved.”
“You think there might be a chance to get fresh meat in the forest?”
“We’re going to be running and hiding from the gods know how many Nolier soldiers lusting after that pretty head of yours, and you want to go hunting?”
“As long as it’s a good opportunity. I’m sick to death of this slop.”
Dietrik sighed, casting a despairing glare at his own bowl. “Yes, I as well. Go ask Kerwin on the odds. He’s hasn’t been able to get a good wager going for eightdays.”
* * * * *
Marik rode partner to Kenley today. The young man had been subdued since Knox died. Much of the youthful exuberance had vanished from the boy, as Marik still thought of him, despite the fact he only claimed a year’s seniority in age. He felt older than his years, as though his time as a mercenary had toughened his inner self to match the toughness outside. The aftereffects from the hedge-wizard’s attack left him looking older, with his leathery skin and faint residual scars.
Riding north from the Sixth Depot already departed from the normal routine they had performed throughout the spring. Tomorrow they would breach the Green Reaches, heading deep into enemy territory. Trees and shrubs would slow their pace, but they should reach their target in a day if all went well.
Tonight they would stay at the Fifth Depot, a smaller supply base than the Sixth. Normally there would be no room except the regular garrison soldiers were away preparing to distract the Noliers from the breach point. Late that afternoon, the old holding transformed into a depot emerged from a small wood.
It had been constructed generations ago, as a broad tower four levels tall surrounded by a handful of outbuildings. The tower stretched wider than its height, a squat mushroom with its cap ripped off. Earthworks and fortifications had been added to improve its defenses.
They rode over double ramps into the depot grounds, the place eerily empty to Marik. He had grown accustomed to the bustling activity and the constant press of men in the Sixth and Seventh Depots, the endless loading and unloading of wagons heading in or out. In the Fifth there were fewer men to begin with. With most gone, the place evinced an abandoned atmosphere.
“Did they actually leave this place unguarded?” he called ahead to Fraser.
The sergeant looked back over his shoulder. “It’s a calculated risk. Look around and you’ll see all the supplies have already been shipped out to the field.”
Old buildings stood with their doors open, revealing bare innards. Normally the depots were supplied as fast as they were emptied. If their mission had been planned in advance then the supplies destined for the Fifth would have been diverted to other depots along the line.
From within the main tower, men emerged to direct them to the horse and bunk areas. After they settled, the Kings tracked down the cooks who had busily prepared for their arrival.
Everyone exchanged news. The primary information source for a common soldier was the cooks who served and chatted with everyone. It helped that cooks, as a rule, tended to be as in love with gossip as women around a well. Marik listened to the men surrounding him.
“Things up north aren’t going so well.”
“Oh yeah? I heard they were holding their own.”
“They can’t break through the line way it is now.”
“Well whadd’ya expect? Half of gods damned Nolier is camped out in the Cliffsdains!”
“You boys going into a spot of trouble?”
“We can show those bastards a thing or two!”
“Too bad our mage got his’self scragged. Heard he was supposed to help you out ‘morrow.”
“What?” Marik’s attention immediately focused on the last statement made by one cook further down the table.
“Huh?”
“What you said, about the mage?”
“Oh, that?” The man was clearly pleased to have a story his audience had yet to hear. “That magey type the army boys had ‘round here got his’self in a toss-around with another o’ his like. Just t’other day, too. Heard they both tumbled t’other about, but ours been out cold in the Healers wing since.”
“What about the Nolier mage?”
“Don’t rightly know. The boys what seen it all says he fell down in the dirt.”
“Dead?”
“Mayhap. Could be dozing like ours, I reckon. Or mayhap not.”
“Move it up there!” called a voice from behind. The line pushed forward, forcing Marik along with it.
If that were true, the original plan had called for a mage to accompany them into the Reaches, except the one allocated to the task could no longer fulfill his duties. An all too familiar ill premonition settled over him,
a feeling he had come to recognize as his intuition at work. He hoped he was wrong.
But he was not. While he unrolled his bedroll in an old barracks building that night, Fraser sought him out. “Come along. The lieutenant wants a little chat.”
“What about?”
“Do I look like his personal clerk? Get moving!”
Marik got moving. He followed Fraser into the main tower, up a stone set of stairs spiraling along the outer wall. They entered an office with two desks and, nodding to one man working on paperwork, Fraser knocked on the door in the far wall.
“Come on in.”
When the door opened, Marik found himself in the presence of his sergeant, his lieutenant and three others. One of the unfamiliar men greeted him curtly. He was clearly a battle veteran hardened by long survival.
“I’m your new captain, Trask Windfell. You’re Lieutenant Earnell’s witch-worker?”
Neither of the other strangers introduced themselves. Marik felt uncomfortable under their eyes. “Not as such.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My talent is brand new and I’ve apprenticed under the Crimson Kings’ chief mage. My skills are limited, at best.”
“Well let me fill you in on a fact or two,” Trask grunted, crossing his arms. “There’s at least one of you witchy types working for the Noliers at this supply base we’re hitting. Donnel was supposed to be our counter to that, but he got on the wrong end of one of those spells you folk use. Maybe Donnel took out the Nolier hoodoo with him, or maybe not. You see my dilemma?”
Captain Trask acted less than friendly but Marik sensed the captain was treating him straight. It would be enough, he decided.
“I think so, sir. Maybe the magical threat to the incursion team is gone, or maybe it isn’t. Maybe the Noliers had multiple mages. Numbers don’t mean as much with a skilled mage backing the enemy forces.”
“Exactly!” Trask whip-lashed, his sausage finger pointing at Marik’s chest. “All the mages in the Galemaran forces are under the knight-marshal’s control and he only sends them where he sees fit. If I wait for a replacement, we’ll be here a month. We can’t afford a month, so I have to go with what I’ve got.”