“No sleep,” Bofim whispered, looking over his shoulder at Erik.
Erik nodded.
“We attack, first daylight,” the dwarf added, and Erik nodded his understanding.
Erik might have dozed off a few times. Night without a campfire in the deep forests of the Southern Mountains seemed to stand still, under the darkness of a canopy of trees. Their adversaries hadn’t built a fire either, so there was no way of telling time until the sky overhead brightened.
Bofim gave a low whistle and then pointed to both his eyes, and then forward. Erik saw Switch and Wrothgard, duck walking at a good pace, bows in hand.
As Bofim pushed himself to his knees, Erik followed suit and followed the dwarf until they reached the General, around whom everyone began to gather.
“Switch and Wrothgard will take the archers,” Balzarak explained. “There are only two of them. There are three more men and two trolls. We know there are more elsewhere, but this is what we can see as of now.”
“We will split into two groups,” Balzarak continued. “My group will go right. Dwain’s will go straight on. Wait for my signal.”
“What is your signal?” Bryon asked.
“Dwain will know it,” Balzarak replied with a smile.
They continued to inch forward, this time crouched and only slightly faster. Bofim tapped Erik’s shoulder.
“Look,” the dwarf whispered.
Erik followed the dwarf ’s pointing finger and saw Wrothgard. Then he saw an iron helm with a small, purple plume.
“The archers,” Erik muttered.
Then, the plume disappeared. Erik heard the call of a meadowlark off in the distance.
“Do meadowlarks live in the mountains?” Bryon asked.
Erik shook his head.
“It’s a signal,” Bofim whispered with a smile.
They stayed crouched but moved even faster. It wasn’t long before Erik heard a voice, and the familiar grunting of mountain trolls. And then there was the smell. The language being spoken was foreign to Erik, but he had heard it before.
“Isn’t that Shengu?” Erik asked.
Bofim nodded.
Erik heard the sucking of air. The troll was sniffing, and as it did, the man talking grew louder, his voice filled with anger and annoyance.
“They know we are here,” Erik whispered.
“Man no listen,” Bofim said.
The man, the one who controlled these beasts and commanded these men, wasn’t listening. The trolls knew they were there. They could smell them. But that idiot of a soldier wasn’t listening. It was evident in his voice.
“He’ll die because of his ignorance,” Erik said to no one in particular.
“Be ready,” Erik heard Dwain say.
And then there it was again, the call of a meadowlark.
“Do you see how these men wear tunics?” Dwain asked Erik.
Erik nodded.
“If you can, draw your blade along their inner thigh, upwards, and at an angle. Cut there, and they will die within minutes from the blood loss.”
Erik nodded again.
One more meadowlark call came through the forest.
“We attack,” Dwain said, slowing creeping closer to the men.
Just then, Erik heard shouting. It was a mixture of Shengu and Dwarvish. He lifted his head a little higher to see Balzarak and his group. The look on his face was one of irritation. There were three more men than they had anticipated. Balzarak was in plain view, but the others were still mostly hidden.
“Did you think you could ambush us?” the leader of these men said in Westernese. “We knew you were here all along.”
A part of Erik said that was a lie, but he knew the trolls had smelled them. As the now half dozen soldiers moved to intercept Balzarak, an arrow thudded into one of their chests.
“Wrothgard and Switch,” Erik said with a smile.
“Attack,” Dwain said in a loud whisper.
“Woo Chi!” the leader shouted, his purple plumed helm quivering as he moved behind his soldiers and the two trolls.
Erik stood with Bofim and Dwain and Befel and Bryon. The soldiers’ backs were to them. Erik held his spear in both hands, stepped forward a few paces, and before a troll could give an alarming howl, jammed the blade of his spear into a man’s back. As more dwarves emerged from the forest, the leader of these soldiers gave a surprised look.
“Sha tamen! Kill them!” he shouted before he ran back up the hill on which they had been standing. He somehow dodged several of Switch’s and Wrothgard’s arrows.
“He’s going to alert his main force!” Wrothgard’s voice was distinct, but they couldn’t worry about that now. The men fell quickly, but they had to contend with two mountain trolls.
Erik’s group moved forward to meet Balzarak’s, but a troll blocked their way. He could see the other one engaging the General and his warriors. It swung at Erik, and he ducked and sidestepped before he thrust with his spear, catching flesh. The beast howled, and Dwain thrust with his own spear. It howled again as Nafer rushed its side, bringing his mace hard against its ribs. The troll groaned and brought the back of a hand along Nafer’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Dwain threw his spear, and it thudded into the troll’s chest, and the beast stumbled back. Erik followed suit, but his spear didn’t sink as deep.
The troll pulled Erik’s spear from its chest and angrily snapped the weapon in two. Erik drew his sword and readied his shield as it charged. Erik felt heat close to his cheek and saw a purple glow flash in front of him before a huge gray hand fell to the forest floor. A howling cry of pain erupted from the beast as Bryon swung his sword again, reveling in his attack. A throwing axe sunk into the creature’s shoulder. Nafer, recovered, struck again, as did Bofim and Demik. Erik drew his sword along the troll’s chest as it tried to rear up, then brought his blade up, hard—as Wrothgard had taught him—into the soft, fleshy under parts of its jaw.
Erik felt his blade bite through bone and the heaviness of a giant monster as the beast went slack and fell to its side. A lesser blade made of lesser steel would have snapped under such pressure, but not Ilken’s Blade.
“We killed a half dozen men and two trolls with barely a scratch,” Bryon said, a smile growing on his face. Balzarak’s group had made short work of the other troll.
“Don’t get too cocky,” Wrothgard said as he and Switch joined them. “There are more men—about two dozen—and trolls over that hill. We may have surprised their officer, but they were certainly waiting for us.”
“More easterners?” Balzarak asked.
“Aye,” Wrothgard replied.
“What is your suggestion?” the General asked.
“Make it to the crest of the hill before they do,” Wrothgard said. “Fight them from the high ground. Don’t let them get there first.”
“That is a good plan,” Balzarak said. “Let’s go. You lead, soldier.”
As they made their way up the hill, Erik saw one of the enemy soldiers on the ground. They must have presumed him dead, but his legs still moved. On closer inspection, he saw the man was alive, bloodied and pale. As he looked up at Erik, he clutched his stomach. He spoke to Erik in Shengu, but Erik just shook his head.
“Please,” the soldier finally said in Westernese. “The pain.”
“What do you want me to do?” Erik asked, moving closer. This soldier was younger than he.
“End it,” the soldier said.
“How?” Erik asked, but then a dark thought crossed his mind.
This man should suffer. What hurt has he caused in this world? Would he have mercifully ended Drake’s pain, or Samus’? Or would he have watched them bleed to death, or even worse, tortured them and laughed while they lived their final moments? Erik could be compassionate and send him to his death quickly, or he could show the same malice these men did and let him agonize. Erik shook his head. He wasn’t this man. Erik rested the point of his blade at the base of the man’s neck, the fleshy part just above the
collarbone, and the man smiled amidst sobs.
“Thank you. I will tell Yama of your mercy when I meet him at the Yellow River, and I will tell Ga’an Yû of your strength,” the man said before he closed his eyes and swallowed.
“No,” Erik said. “Pray to the Creator. Ask him for forgiveness in this short moment. If you do not, I will know. I will see you in my dreams.”
The man opened his eyes, looked at Erik curiously, nodded slowly, and then closed them again. Erik waited a moment and then he pushed, hard and quick. He heard a gulp, a quick gurgle, then nothing. The man’s eyes never opened.
Erik caught up with his companions as they crested the hill. Below, he could see more enemy soldiers getting into formation. In front of them were several more trolls and behind them was their purple-plumed leader, barking orders.
“Form up!” Balzarak yelled in Dwarvish, and the dwarves started interlocking their shields, forming a wall. “Come, men, join us.”
“Bofim is hurt, sir,” Bim said.
“I will stay with him,” Erik said. Bofim had been a good friend as of late.
“No,” Befel said. “Let me stay with him. My shoulder, you know.”
Erik nodded.
Erik and Bryon joined the dwarvish shield wall while Switch and Wrothgard stayed behind them with their bows.
“If it wasn’t filled with two dozen men who wanted to kill us, plus several mountain trolls who wanted to eat us, this might be a very pleasant place,” said Bryon and him and Erik laughed until an arrow thudded into Erik’s shield. He saw some of the soldiers holding taller shields, covering archers. More arrows came at them.
“Fire back!” Balzarak yelled.
Switch and Wrothgard obliged.
“Down,” Wrothgard said to Erik as one bowman moved from behind his shield with a nocked arrow. Erik ducked. Wrothgard fired and struck the man right between the eyes.
Switch’s arrow found a home as well, not a bowmen, but the exposed flesh of a soldier.
“Their leader definitely has no idea what he is doing,” Wrothgard muttered. “What a fool. It makes me wonder how he serves Patûk Al’Banan. That man is a military genius. If he were leading these men, we would be better off running.”
“Tighten up,” Balzarak commanded. “Wrothgard, Switch, cover us.”
Without another word, the line of dwarves and men tightened, pressing shoulder to shoulder, and the two bowmen rushed to respective trees, one on either flank of the company.
“For Guthreth!” Balzarak cried out, and the other dwarves echoed him. They began to bang their weapons against their shields, chanting, “For Guthreth! For Guthreth! For Guthreth!”
Erik watched the soldiers’ leader. He looked nervous, wide eyed, and shaking. He took a step back.
“Attack!” he yelled.
The soldiers all looked at him, unmoving. Of course they didn’t want to attack. They were fighting a force of seasoned dwarves uphill. Even Erik knew that was a disadvantage.
“Attack I said! Advance! Attack you fools!”
The leader kicked one of his three trolls. The beast jolted forward, and its gray-skinned comrades followed, slamming their fists into the ground and rushing the dwarves and men on all fours, snorting and howling as they went. The soldiers ran after them.
The soldiers were fifty paces away, but the trolls closed in fast, forty, thirty, twenty. Arrows dotted their chests, shoulders, arms.
“Graben se fersen!” Balzarak cried.
The march stopped, and every dwarf crouched, slammed the bottom of their shields into the ground along with the butt of their spear if they had one. Erik and Bryon followed suit. Before he anchored himself, Beldar lowered his shield and hurled a spear at one troll. It skimmed the beast’s side. He threw another. This one, its broad tip, slammed into the troll’s shoulder, and it stuttered for a moment, but only a moment. It ripped the spear from its flesh, threw it away like some simple thorn, howled and spat and hurled itself into the wall of shielded dwarves.
“Are they cheering?” Erik asked as he thought the eastern soldiers before them shouted in joy when the troll hit the shield wall.
“It will be a short cheer,” Bryon replied, ducking behind his shield and pressing his shoulder into it, magic sword in the other hand, ready to strike. “Look.”
It was as if the shield wall was a cushion as the troll reeled back from the dwarves, bloodied and cut, flesh hanging from its body by thin tendrils of tendon and muscle. But where it fell back, another one was there to hurl itself into the wall.
Beldar threw his last spear, and the troll stumbled backwards. Mortin, standing on the other side of Erik, looked to him and winked. He lowered his shield and readied his spear to throw. Erik moved to cover the dwarf, and it was a good thing since two arrows thudded into his shield and would have hit the dwarf ’s chest. The dwarf threw his spear, striking the troll in the throat. The beast tripped backwards and fell. Mortin cheered and slapped Erik on the shoulder only to have two more arrows thud into his chest.
“Mortin!” Erik cried. “Mortin has been hit!”
“Tighten down,” Threhof grumbled.
“What about Mortin?” Erik asked as he pressed shoulder to shoulder with Threhof.
“We will worry about him later.” Erik saw the old warrior look back, over his shoulder. “That is why you don’t cheer and celebrate until the battle is over.”
Another troll fell in a bloody lump, laying on top of Bim. The last troll howled, turned, and ran.
“It’s running,” Erik muttered.
“It sees strength,” Threhof said. “Trolls will not fight something—or someone—that is clearly stronger.”
One of the soldiers fell, an arrow sticking from his chest. Another fell. A spear struck another, splintering his shield and sticking into his belly despite it and the leather breastplate. Their enemy’s advance seemed to slow.
“Fight them, damn it!” their leader cried.
“Vorwats!” Balzarak yelled. “Shnell!”
“He’s telling us to run,” Erik said to Bryon.
Erik felt his stomach flutter. They all starting jogging at first, shields still interlocked, but upon Balzarak’s command, as they closed in on the soldiers, the shield wall broke, and the dwarves rushed out to meet the enemy, screaming.
Threhof was the first to reach the enemy. He left his spear sticking in the belly of one man and drew his broadsword, chasing after another. Erik reached a red-cheek man, stepped around a spear jab, and thrust his blade into the man’s neck. Turning, he faced another man, but before he could react, purple light flashed across the enemy’s face, leaving a burning, bloody, screaming mess. Bryon leapt into the midst of two other soldiers, blocking one sword attack with his shield and swiping his sword at the other man, singeing the stubble that grew on his face. Erik saw another soldier rushing his cousin—no shield, spear held in both hands. Erik ran, stepping up onto Bryon’s right hip and pushing himself off, through the air. The soldier lifted his spear, but too late, and Erik caught the shaft with a foot, heard it crack under his boot when he hit the ground, and thrust his shoulder into the man’s ribs.
As the man rose with his own long sword in hand, he moved to bring the blade down on Erik. Erik crouched and blocked with his shield, quickly jabbing, pushing the soldier back and then standing and bringing his blade down hard onto his shoulder.
The steel dug deep. The man stumbled back as another soldier charged him. He hit the man with the broadside of his blade and kicked his legs from underneath him. He heard the snapping of bone as the soldier fell, and the awkward way his leg lay told Erik he had broken it.
Erik looked around, the battle won. He looked back at his cousin who stood over two bodies, steam rising from their wounds. He watched two arrows thud into an enemy archer’s chest. He watched Nafer’s mace demolish the face of another archer. One of Turk’s throwing axes sailed through the air and struck a man just at the base of the neck. Demik’s broadsword to the chest finished him.
The man with the broken leg cried when he tried to stand.
“Four, soon, perhaps,” Bryon said.
“Maybe,” Erik said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Lieutenant Phurnan!” Wrothgard called out.
The fighting halted as Balzarak raised a fist. Gurgling and moaning arose from the dying, but those were the only sounds besides Wrothgard’s voice. The leader crouched behind one of his men. Three soldiers stood firm, one with nothing but a dagger, one with half a spear and a wide gash pouring blood down the left side of his face, and the other with his sword in both hands and clearly favoring his right leg.
“Will you offer your sword to Lord General Balzarak, as a sign of respect in defeat?”
Lieutenant Phurnan immediately stood. He puffed out his chest and lifted his chin, half-closing his eyes in what Erik could only assume was an attempt at haughtiness. He said something in Shengu.
“He looks stupid,” Bryon said.
“Aye,” Erik replied. He looked down at the injured soldier, the one with the broken leg. “How do you follow a man like that?”
The man didn’t understand the question, but Erik knew the answer. Orders.
“Speak in Westernese,” Wrothgard replied.
“The language of dogs!” the Lieutenant spat.
Wrothgard said something in Shengu, and the Lieutenant’s eyes went wide.
“You are a traitor to your people,” the Lieutenant said.
“So are you,” Wrothgard replied. “Now, admit defeat.”
“Defeat?” The questioning nature of the word was evident in the Lieutenant’s voice.
“Come now, Lieutenant,” Wrothgard said. He now stood next to Balzarak. Erik saw that he had strung his bow across his back and stood there, unarmed, hands spread as if offering something. “Look around you.”
“Defeat is when the last drop of blood falls,” the Lieutenant replied.
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