”Prepare yourselves for battle,” I instructed the Ancient in charge of the postern doorway guards, while Ruderal strapped his leather cap under his chin and tightened his armor. ”It won’t be long now.”
”Sounds like it’s already started, m’lord,” the Ancient observed, nodding back toward where we’d come from.
Indeed, the low, gutteral chant that I’d come to associate with gurvani charging in battle was growing in the distance. I hurried back up to the balcony, where my eyes confirmed what my ears heard. The long, thick column of great goblins was moving across the trampled field, their weapons glinting in the moonlight.
They moved with enthusiastic purpose, their steps and movements coordinated by the same unseen force as before . . . only it seemed even more determined.
”I don’t know what you said to him, Min, but they’re acting right pissed off,” Wenek offered, as I retook my position. Taren’s siege weapon coughed forth a steady series of bolts into the approaching line overhead, and the archer captains called their troops to order. ”Ishi’s tits, did you talk about his sister?”
”I got him to attack before he could be properly supported by artillery,” I countered. ”If he’d waited a few more hours, he’d be attacking at dawn, but he’d have another five or six thousand troops, a couple of squadrons of trolls, some siege beasts and a few catapaults.”
”That’s a fair trade,” Taren agreed, as he placed another lance-like quarrel into the slot behind the great bow. ”We can kill infantry all night long. And then fight the rest in the light.”
”Azar will be so jealous!” Rustallo observed. The air around his head was murky with the amount of thaumaturgic energy his defenses were using.
”Three thousand against seven, eight thousand scrugs?” Wenek agreed as he prepared his spellwork. ”Don’t threaten me with a good time!”
”You people are crazy,” Ruderal muttered to himself, shaking his head as the leading line of goblins paused to loose a volley of bolts toward us.
”Would you rather we fight them here, or outside Spellmonger Hall, in Vanador?” I asked, as I used Blizzard to clear the air of the bolts that were headed for us. ”Just keep your eyes open and do what you’re told, and you have a reasonable chance of getting through the battle alive.”
”That’s really the best you can hope for,” agreed Rustallo, apologetically. ”But I wouldn’t worry too much. Compared to Boval Castle, this will be just an extended exercise in practical warmagic.”
”A chance to hone our skills and give trial to our experiments,” Taren nodded, as he decided which magical bolt to load next against the goblins approached the bottom of the hill. ”What we learn here will be invaluable, when we face them later, at Spellgate.”
”I’m not scared!” Ruderal insisted, unconvincingly. ”I just think anyone who treats battle like fun is . . . mad,” he explained.
”Kid, I won’t disagree,” Wenek chuckled, as a steady pulse of arcane power throbbed from his warstaff and bombarded the advancing line. ”It takes a special kind of mad to be a warmage, and be a good one. But,” he added, as he concluded his blasts and activated an emplaced spell, instead, ”if you have to do the work, it’s best you learn how to enjoy it. Otherwise it makes you depressed and gloomy, eventually. If you live that long.”
His working opened up a three-foot deep trench suddenly across a hundred feet of the line, producing a staggering number of broken goblin ankles in a moment. The line behind them continued on, stumbling into the pit, themselves, only to have the third rank stride across their backs as they continued to advance.
But the spell served its purpose, breaking up the solid line enough to present multiple opportunities for enterprising archers and resourceful warmagi to clobber them.
”See?” chuckled Wenek, as he went back to blasting the goblins. ”Warmagic is fun!”
“That was my first experience with warfare, even in an indirect way. Battlefields are no place for lawyers, for they cannot be argued with, and there are no appeals from Fate’s sentence. Nor do we make good warriors; for every command we would question, and every strategy we would attempt to opine upon. Some say the clerical prohibition on Lawbrothers in battle stems from some innate cowardice. Rather, it is a boon to humanity, for we are among the poorest of soldiers.”
From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Chain of Command
It was a long, bloody night, worthy of a year’s worth of nightmares.
Gaja Katar was relentless, I’ll grant him that. He understood the power of brute force in warfare, and he wielded that knowledge like an oversized club. Thrice did he push his gurvani against us in three massive waves. Thrice did the survivors withdraw, leaving thousands of dead and wounded behind.
It was a testament to the design of the Sudden Fortress and the bravery of our men that the closest Gaja Katar’s troops got to me was the bottom of the hill, before they were thrown back. Each assault was punishing, and by the third wave they were starting to realize the difficulty of overwhelming us by sheer numbers.
They also started to vary their techniques; they attempted to establish a redoubt at the base of the hill, for instance, from where they tried to pick off our defenders. A three-legged construct with four long, heavy, whirling iron chains put an end to that stratagem before it could be tested.
Indeed, the sheer variety of the ways the goblins died was a gloriously bloodthirsty exercise in modern warmagic. Hoxter pockets filled with boulders and giant logs regularly mowed down the assaulting forces. The pure, physical nature of the defense made it difficult for the gurvani shamans to counter. Bursts of concussive power blew squadrons of gurvani into nonexistence as they tried the hill. And dozens of constructs, from the simple to the dangerously sophisticated, were deployed against every advance they made.
We lost men, it is true, but not nearly enough for any of the attacks to have been considered a success. At a certain point, the field commanders conceded defeat and limped back to their master, their futures uncertain.
It had to be frustrating to our Nemovorti friend. But I hadn’t been wrong about his approach to warfare. Gaja Katar lacked any subtlety in his attacks. The ancient Alka Alon fought almost exclusively with infantry, according to legend and well-informed witnesses. Infantry and magic. If Gaja Katar had any particular skill with the latter, we didn’t see it on the field. In fact, the opposition was a decidedly run-of-the-market sort of standard urgulnosti shamanic warmagic. Spells we’d long learned to counter or contend with. I think Wenek was disappointed that they didn’t even try to experiment with Alka Alon magic.
By dawn, nearly five thousand goblin bodies covered the bloody field in front of the Sudden Fortress. That was a sizable portion of Gaja Katar’s army. Even as a few thousand more troops joined him, just before the sky lightened in the east, it was clear to all that a fourth sortie would have no better result than the first three . . . and the gurvani were exhausted, now. There was a large number of walking wounded, too, congregating behind their lines, we could see.
Along with a few summary executions, as defeated commanders reported dutifully to their master and received the brunt of his anger. The final indignity was a sudden airborne attack from Nattia’s Vanador Wing just after dawn, flying out of the sun from the east. The six giant falcons swooped down over Gaja Katar’s encampment in a line, dropping a deadly hail of destruction on the Nemovort’s head. She compounded his discomfort by having her wing encircle the camp just beyond bowshot, concentrating their fire in one area. The one where the Nemovort was standing with his command staff.
After that, even Gaja Katar had had enough and withdrew back toward his lingering artillery train. Nor did he withdraw in good order, as hundreds of wounded gurvani were left to fend for themselves on the road, and found themselves prey to our rangers and scouts. As commanders go, Gaja Katar was sloppy.
For our part, it was a clear victory. Traveler’s Tower was not eve
n assailed; not a single gurvan had made it past our defenses to get within sight of the gate. Though the danger was far from past, the main goblin army encamped seven miles southeast, out of easy range. We slept at our posts just in case they returned. The Sky Riders and their steeds took roost at Traveler’s Tower.
The next morning the winds turned even colder, and the first snow of the season blanketed the region. It was an early snow, but it was enough of a hazard to complicate Gaja Katar collecting his far-flung artillery train. I took it as a good omen.
Once we saw the wounded evacuated to the fortress, most of the warmagi departed Traveler’s Tower by the Ways, as the flurries came. The battle was over, but there was plenty of war left to fight.
I met with Mavone two days after the battle, in the headquarters tent near Spellgate, where he briefed me on what his far-flung Ravens had observed of our foe.
“He’s above the fork where the Maier meets the Wildwater, near the big lake,” Mavone reported, placing a marker on the large map spread out before us. “He’s had to halt, because he can’t outpace his baggage train, now that winter has arrived. He’s managed to gather fifteen thousand there, but it will take another week for the rest to catch up. And the seven thousand he’s lost since Lotanz won’t be catching up.”
“So, will he make another advance on Traveler’s?” I asked, studying the map.
“Not if he keeps losing baggage wagons at the Fords of Rauhallin,” Mavone said, moving three small units onto the map. “Our raiding parties have taken four convoys, now.”
“Impressive,” I nodded. “Who’s being so ambitious?”
“Caswallon,” Mavone said, rolling his eyes. “He’s in his element, leading a unit of raiders. And he’s effective. But may the gods spare you from hearing his dispatches. If Gaja Katar returns to Traveler’s Tower, I think he will have enough supplies for perhaps a week of siege. No more, without cutting rations. He can either do that, or push on and try his hand at Rognar. Or by-pass it, risking leaving two fortified bases in his rear, and tackle Spellgate.”
“Which do you think he will do?”
“The wise choice would be to attempt Spellgate and risk the Towers,” he decided. “Even if he overwhelmed both towers, he wouldn’t recover enough supplies to sustain an extended siege.”
“What if he sacks Asgot?” I proposed, pointing to the village that had survived the first invasion intact . . . but looked like an inevitable casualty of this one.
“Then he won’t find so much as a scrawny chicken,” Mavone assured. “Sandoval evacuated the entire place a week ago and had them take anything that wasn’t part of the scenery. It’s a ghost town. He can burn it, if he really wants to, but it will be costly. I’ve got a few squads of Ravens watching it, in case Gaja Katar wants to conquer it, but if the Nemovort is wise he’ll bypass it entirely in favor of attacking Spellgate.”
“I’m not certain this one is all that wise,” I suggested.
“I know what you mean,” Mavone agreed. “He rules his troops by fear and punishes failure with death. That has to take a toll on morale.”
“He supplies the morale, in battle,” I reminded him. “At Traveler’s, he was able to employ the entrainment effect on the gurvani. Especially the great goblins.”
“In battle? Certainly,” Mavone agreed. “But a soldier isn’t always in battle. Poor morale means more desertions, for one thing. More fights in camp. More illness, less attention to orders, less observant sentries . . . you were on the Farisian campaign; you remember how it was.”
I winced at the mention of that punishing march. “I recall,” I said, dryly. “Incompetent leadership and poor conditions were bad enough. If the commanders had chopped off heads for every tactical failure . . .”
“Exactly. Only instead of oppressive heat, they get to enjoy increasingly cold, wet weather. Their rations will be short, their objective will be hazy, and they will cultivate an abiding belief that their leaders don’t know what in seven hells they are doing. Not to mention just how well their black pelts show up against the snow, even at night,” he added. “My Ravens will ensure they appreciate that.”
“What if he gets resupplied from his base?” I countered.
“And haul it across seventy miles of unfriendly territory? Past three intact enemy bases? That simply will not happen,” Mavone insisted. “Caswallon, alone, could disrupt that supply train. No, Gaja Katar has gone too far now to stop, but he can’t afford a protracted engagement. Nor can he afford to tarry for more than a few more days. Not unless he wants his soldiers dropping from starvation in a month. I doubt even the shamans’ power can keep starving warriors in the field for very long.”
“I suppose we’ll know where he decides to go in a few days,” I sighed. “Let’s go ahead and deploy the rest of the militia to Spellgate, in either case. If we wait any longer, we’ll risk marching against the snow, ourselves.” There hadn’t been much more snowfall, since the initial shower of flurries, but neither had the weather warmed enough to melt it. Our enchanted main roads were still clear, for now, but another good storm would make transport difficult.
“Sandy is already working on that,” he agreed. “We should have plenty of time to get everyone into place. If Gaja Katar is an idiot, and moves toward one of the Towers, then we can march out and hit him from the rear,” he reasoned. “Either way, we need those troops.”
I’d just come from the town. The call to muster had been going on for weeks, of course, but the orders to deploy to Spellgate added new urgency to everyone’s step. As the last units of militiamen marched away, Vanador’s clerical auxiliaries went to work preparing hospitals, while the remaining civil authorities secured their own defenses, such as they were.
The sense of expectation in the air was finally finding fulfillment. The war was here, now, and no one could deny it any longer.
Once I was certain that Vanador was as secure as it could be made, I retired to Spellgarden to prepare, watch, and await the turn of events. I didn’t mind the wait, to be honest. I knew that every day Gaja Katar delayed his decision of which target to attack was a day closer to the next blizzard.
I took the time to catch up with Pentandra and a few other of my colleagues, mind-to-mind, and make a lengthy report directly to King Rard and his Warlord, by means of magic Mirror. As intrigued as His Majesty and his war minister were by the new assault against the realm, they considered it a local matter; no aid would be forthcoming.
I expected as much. There just weren’t any troops nearby that weren’t already spoken for, not in the numbers I needed to ensure our defense. If they were available, I’d hired them or recruited them, already.
But that didn’t mean we didn’t receive any assistance. In fact, it came quite unexpectedly from the Alka Alon. Ithalia arrived at Spellgarden at the head of three hundred erstwhile Tera Alon warriors the same morning that Gaja Katar made up his mind. She came with an escort – Captain Nattia of the Sky Riders – and she came prepared to lead her folk into battle.
Ithalia looked haggard, which is a subtle thing in a transformed Alka Alon. Ordinarily, their human-like forms seem tireless, always alert and interested. But my long experience with the Tera Alon (all of three or four years) told me that the Emissary from the Avalanti had nearly exhausted her capacities, lately.
“Terleman asked me to come,” she explained. “We’re to bivouac here until ordered elsewhere. He felt Spellgarden would keep us . . . out of the way,” she said, irritated. I chuckled at her discomfort, despite myself. “I offered to lead my folk out against the foe, but he had the arrogance to tell me we would be in the reserves. The reserves, Minalan!” she said, crossly. “That’s insulting! I am starting to mislike this chain of command!”
“I put Terleman in charge for a reason,” I promised. “He knows his craft.”
“Are you not his warrior prince? His liege?” she demanded. “Can you not intercede and find us a more suitable place in battle?”
“I am his warrior princ
e,” I agreed. “I hired him because he’s the best. A wise warrior prince hires the right people and then takes their recommendations. If you are fighting with us, then you will obey Terleman’s commands.”
“I am a hundred years older than he is!” she finally burst out.
“That’s not the issue. If your folk are going to learn to work with ours, Ithalia, you’re going to have to appreciate our manner of warfare. A commander commands. You’ve received a command. You’ve been commanded. You might have lived a century or more, but you are still Terleman’s subordinate. Follow his commands. Don’t question them. If he’s envisioned a role for you, be content that he will use you effectively.”
“When Alka Alon fight,” she declared, proudly, “we do so of our own volition. We fight because we are committed to the cause, not because we’re commanded to.”
“When humani fight, we commit to the cause by following orders,” I explained. “It’s an aid to coordinated effort. You should have realized that by now,” I chided.
“Yes, but I did not think it would apply to the Tera Alon,” she said, sulkily. “And certainly not to me! When I ranged across Gilmora, chasing goblins, I worked with the human army. I was not subordinate to them!”
“That was raiding and counter-insurgency,” I pointed out. “And it was just you. You’re commanding an entire unit, and one which Terl thinks he can make use of. If you’re here to fight, then fight as he directs you. Otherwise you could prove a hazard to his plan.”
“Do you think he even has a plan?” she challenged, skeptically.
“Terleman? He has a plan in case his breakfast porridge betrays him,” I snorted. “The very fact you’re here, in Spellgarden, demonstrates that he has a plan. He’s a wizard of deep cunning, a warmage of ruthless capacity. Even I do not know the extent of his plan, or my place in it. But he has a plan,” I assured.
The fact was, I didn’t completely understand that plan was, and I knew that there were contingencies involved for everything. Terleman hadn’t let me in on what part I had to play in the defense, but I had every confidence that, when the time came, he’d let me know.
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