A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga) (39 page)

Sergeant Hall flexed his fingers around the shaft of his battle-axe. “Are you certain you want both Gaeric and I to stay behind?”

Boris focused on the approaching scouts. “You heard my orders, Sergeant.”

The moments stretched out while Silios and his partner rode up. Their mounts stamped about, chewing at their bits and throwing foamy lather from their sides.

The ranger captain leaped down and gestured to the other scout. “Trade our mounts in for fresh ones. I will report to the Earl.” His compatriot nodded and jogged away leading the two horses. Captain Vonstrass turned to his commander with a salute. “My Lord Earl, we found the enemy.”

Noticing the sweat on Silios’ brow and the rip in his cloak, Boris folded his arms. “Report.”

Captain Vontrass lowered his salute with a snap. “My Lord, the enemy appears to have hidden within the mountain itself. Companies of orcs just appeared out of tunnels in the rock. Lord Gael ordered me to bring the message to you immediately, while he and the elves provided a distraction.” He sniffed, wiping a wind-reddened nose with his glove. “Their numbers are quite large. I saw at least two or three thousand spread over the mountainside. They progress in our direction.”

Nodding at the horizon, Boris gripped tighter on his reins. “Well done, Captain. Get that new mount and initiate a screening pattern ahead of the main force. If we are outnumbered, I don’t want to be caught by surprise.”

Silios saluted again and dashed after his fellow ranger, who returned with two fresh horses. He hopped into the saddle. Giving spur and a wordless shout, the two riders galloped back the way they had come, steel-shod hooves tossing up clods behind them.

Boris reined his stallion around and rode over the rise to the gully along which the detachment was camped. Eight hundred lancers already mounted and waited in ranks, while the remainder of his men scurried to make the camp more defensible. They circled the wagons of supplies around the huge waterwagon, made by dwarves from two huge wine aging casks placed on a bending frame. The half a dozen mules that formed its team grazed close by.

Thinking back on Silios’ report, Boris cantered Balthar up to the commander of Fifth Company. “Captain Belecond! Take half your company and get those wagons moving back to Highspur.” A startled expression crossed the faces of several Bluecloaks. “This is just the tip of the spear. I have a feeling Lord Gael and the others will find a great deal more orcs than they already discovered. We will engage the lead of the enemy, then feint and fade across the Northlands back to Highspur.”

Captain Belecond saluted and began passing orders out to his men.

Boris twisted his neck to find Hall standing nearby, his battle-axe planted. “Sergeant Hall, be ready to pull up stakes fast if we come back in a hurry.” His face set in stone, Hall snapped a ferocious salute and pulled out a fresh cigar.

Boris looked to Doctor Forstra. “We may not have time to heal wounded before following the wagon train. Be ready to help the worst so they can at least move.”

“Yes, My Lord.” The doctor spun about and trotted off toward his triage area.

Gaeric saluted to Boris from where he and the other two mages prepared defenses. Boris nodded back and rode to the head of the armored column.

Pulling his helmet loose from the saddlehorn, Boris slapped it on his head. He swung a steel encased arm. “Forward ho!”

The bugler tooted the three-note sequence, and the entire train of men and horseflesh lurched forward. Boris barely tapped his stirrups to Balthar’s flanks, and the great stallion leaped ahead.

Boris led the column through the hills, winding his way around outcroppings of rock. Balthar arched his neck, throwing his head as he stepped between the stones. Boris scanned every ridge and vale through the perpendicular slits of his helm. Twice, scouts rode in to report to him that they had found no enemy upon either flank.

A nervous hour passed before Boris spied Silios Vonstrass charging up a small ravine. “They are coming!” He turned his sweating horse in beside Boris. “At least two hundred orcs, and they are not much more than a hundred yards behind me.”

Boris swung back to his officers. “First company, ready to charge. Second company, draw bows. Third and fourth remain in reserve.”

Orders passed along the column. The second company of men tied lances to saddles and readied their short horsebows.

Boris spun his neck forward, the blue-dyed horsehair tassel on his helmet bouncing away to reveal the first of his enemies trickling up the dry ravine. A hundred ebon-mailed forms marched forward, curved scimitars dancing over their heads. Boris picked out crimson eyes shadowed by leather and steel helms. The banners of Wolf and Ram Clans fluttered over them.

The metallic taste of adrenaline in the back of his mouth tingled across his tongue. Boris shouted over the rumble of nail-shod boots tromping up the ravine. “First company! Form wedge!”

Two hundred horsemen gathered in a staggered formation, just as wide as the ravine was narrow. Boris rode at its lead. Those soldiers with horsebows gathered behind the triangle of cavalry.

Drawing Greyiron, Boris lifted it on high. His heart pounded with excitement, yet his mind was singular and focused on their enemy. His sword caught the last rays of the westering sun just as scattered clouds along the approaching thunderhead overtook it.

“Formation! Charge!”

He flourished Greyiron, and the bugler sounded a series of bright, hopeful notes. Balthar leaped down the ravine, and the wedge of blue-tinged steel surged with him. The dragon spangled pennants snapped in the rush of air. A barrage of arrows passed overhead, dropping a few of their enemy, quickly replaced by their comrades. The thicket of steel and oak lances surrounding Boris tipped forward at the last moment. Boris growled a wordless shout of rage.

The heavy clatter of steel clashing on steel, of hooves crushing bone, and of leather and flesh ripping, echoed off the walls of the ravine. Screams of horses, orcs, and men resounded over all other clatter. The wedge of Bluecloaks rode over them, most shorter than Balthar’s shoulders. Lances snapped, swords came out, and the killing continued.

Boris swung Greyiron with a heavy hand. A scar-faced veteran with a Wolf tattoo died swiftly, his throat slit by Greyiron’s unnatural edge. A grunt, his beard little more than black fuzz, died watching his shoulder spurt arterial blood. Boris slashed through the steel clad skull of another orc, splitting the staff of the Ram banner he carried with the same stroke. Balthar’s hooves dropped one like a loose sack of flesh.

Boris reached the rear of the orc force, riding into open ground. He reined Balthar around with the rest of his formation. His single-minded focus during the initial charge over, he looked back up the ravine.

An abattoir of churned flesh and bone scattered the rocky slope. Broken lances and swords formed a devastated forest of steel popping up from the gore. A few orcs stumbled about in a daze. One lacked an arm, bewilderedly searching for the lost limb among his fallen comrades. Boris’ Second Company picked the stragglers off with bows, though most of the mopping up was complete. The metallic scent of blood, along with the more sour stench of spilled entrails, clung to the breeze. A single, riderless horse stood among the carnage. Boris noticed five or six more lying dead, their lumps of flesh protruding up like islands in a sea of death. Cloaks of blue draped several of them.

“Back to the main force.” Boris waved Greyiron up the slope. “We cannot afford to be separated with no intelligence about the enemy’s movements.”

He spurred Balthar forward, casting his eyes back over his shoulder. The helmet obscured his vision, the slits only useful in close combat. He ripped it from his head, the sweat clinging to his long, black hair. He scanned the ridgeline, much closer than it had been at basecamp and more above him than ahead. He pulled out his spyglass.

“Whoa, boy – steady.” Balthar stomped to a halt.

Putting the glass to his eye, Boris examined the tumbled shoulders of Dragonsclaw and the foothills leading toward him. Odd, barely perceptible movement rippled about the mountain, as if it were not entirely solid.

“What does that remind me of…dear Balance, it cannot be!”

Like ants roiling over a newly dug hill, orcs crawled over the slopes of Dragonsclaw. As the darkness of the oncoming storm deepened, the flicker of torches spread among the mass. Trees shook and fell, revealing gaping maws in the mountainside. Trolls poured out of the openings, hundreds, every one as large as the burned carcass Boris found in Bridgedale.

Boris lowered the glass, the warm sensation of panic slipping into his chest. He forced it down and gritted his teeth.

Balthar charged back through the butchery to the top of the ravine. There, Boris turned his glass once again to the mountainside. He noticed several large siege engines, trebuchets and catapults pulled by orcs and more trolls, rolling out of the holes. Organized formations of thousands of orcs crawled down the mountain, with more pouring out behind them. A flutter of movement from something extremely large caught the corner of his glass. He lowered it, squinting to catch what had passed between him and Dragonsclaw. A black, winged shape swooped around the corner of the mountain. It looked no bigger than a horsefly at this distance, but Boris knew it must be larger than a horse.
Balance and Spirits of Water protect us…

“Captain!” Boris turned back to see his men in formation. “Double time back to the basecamp!”

The officer’s face curled in a concerned expression. “What is it, sir?”

“We are no match for this enemy.” He passed the glass to the captain. “I suspected the orcs gathered in force, but this…”

The Bluecloak captain’s ashen face wilted behind the glass. “Is that a…a dragon?”

Boris feared his own face matched that of his subordinate. “This is why we must get back to basecamp quickly. We will then catch up with the wagon train, burn it, and retreat back across the Northlands to Highspur.” He nodded to the captain. “If we keep together and move fast, we will all make it.”

The ride back to camp seemed to take longer than the ride out. Along the way, Captain Silios Vonstrass and his rangers joined them.

“They outnumber us at least fifty to one. Probably more.” The nobleman from the Southern Realm looked shaken, his eyes darting always behind them. His horse and his men appeared in no better state.

Boris kept the column at pace while he talked. “Have you seen sign of Lord Gael?”

A worried frown settled upon Silios’ brow. “Not since this morning, when he ordered me to report to you.”

Boris stared at Dragonsclaw. “Damn.”

As they rounded the last outcrop before entering the gully, a sudden crackle of lightning forked into the sky. The storm still hung several miles to the west.

Boris looked to Silios. “That’s Gaeric.” He looked back at his men. “Battallion, full advance!”

The sweet notes of the bugle rang out over the rolling grass. The formation galloped up the slow trickle of water, churning it into a froth of mud. Boris pulled out Greyiron, and Silios drew his own saber alongside him.

When they arrived at the flat top where the camp set, Boris witnessed a churning morass of confusion. Hundreds of orcs swarmed about, engaging a knot of Bluecloaks. They stood defending the horse lines, while a dozen of their fellows scrambled into their saddles. A few yards away, Boris saw Sergeant Hall, swinging his axe in wide arcs. One blow cleaved an orc in half, while a stab of the weapon’s butt crushed another’s windpipe. Hall stood his ground in front of the triage area, while the healers scrambled for cover. Each mighty swing took out one or more of Hall’s enemies, until only those wise enough to stay out of his range remained.

The sergeant staggered as a black feathered shaft seemed to sprout from his shoulder. Hall winced around the lit cigar between his teeth, but his onslaught continued.

“No!” Boris waved Greyiron, gritting his teeth. “Battalion! Charge!”

The arc of lancers swept forward, rolling over the orcs and crushing them from behind. Boris, however, did not get three strides closer to Sergeant Hall before a second arrow slammed into his chest. Hall backed up two steps, before bashing another orc warrior with the head of his axe.

“Hall!” Boris urged Balthar forward. The stallion jumped ahead under his heavy spur. He swung his sword about, cutting through bone, iron, leather, and sinew. Greyiron’s enchanted edge sliced through where other weapons would glance and chip.

A third arrow struck Hall. He fell to one knee, lowering his guard a moment. An orc warrior rushed in, placing a quick thrust in the giant’s side. Hall swung late, but still caught the fool in the side of the head, removing its top half. The momentum of the huge axe spun him around. He collapsed in a heap on top of his weapon.

Boris and his men swept past, charging over Hall’s assailants.

Swinging his leg over Balthar’s head, Boris leapt to the ground. He dropped Greyiron as he fell to his knees beside Hall, struggling to roll the man over. One of the arrows snapped in two as the body shifted.

Lifeless gray orbs stared up at a sky of the same color. Boris reached down to close them. Master Sergeant Jerome Hall still clenched the cigar stub between his teeth, his lips turned up in a ghostly smile. Boris held him tight, unaware of the two dozen mounted Bluecloaks gathered about him in a protective circle.

May you return to the Waters your family worshiped. And may the Balance return you to the cycle of life, my brother.

Boris lifted his head, at last taking in his surroundings. The rush of riders had passed, and most of the orcs lay dead. A few platoons chased those who fled, while the rest secured the site. Another field of scattered carnage spread before him. Boris watched it all in numb incoherence, while a healer knelt beside him.

“I’m sorry, My Lord Earl.” Forstra’s words skipped across his consciousness, like a pebble crossing a still pond. “Sergeant Hall has passed. His life force has left his body. I can do nothing for him.”

“See to the others, then.” Boris heard his words as if they came from another mouth. “See to the other wounded.”