Tides of Blood and Steel (7 page)

“War would come with or without the prince. He is not to blame. There is great evil stirring in the land. I feel it.”

“More reason for the Pell to melt away,” Durgas insisted. “Return to our homes and forget the troubles below.”

Cuul offered a sad look. “It is too late for that. War has come to us.”

Dire Times

“Torval has lost another company.”

Stelskor pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and winced. He felt lost. Nothing his most trusted leaders and military advisors did seemed to make one damned bit of a difference. A whole company: one hundred twenty men he could not afford to lose. He only hoped Torval managed to extract some measure of vengeance on the enemy before losing the field. The Wolfsreik continued to advance, raising the body count with each engagement.

“What do we have to do to stop them?” he asked. “Hells, at this point I would be happy just to slow them until the first heavy snows hit.”

Fengar, a silver-haired man, cleared his throat. “Sire, no one will dispute that these losses are regrettable, but I must say that they are necessary. Each engagement slows our enemy, perhaps enough for nature to run her course. Either way, we simply cannot afford to put our army on the line and fight the way Badron wants. We cannot win a head-to-head fight with the Wolfsreik.”

The king did not need to be reminded of his position. He knew all too well the sacrifice he asked of his soldiers. So many would not be coming home to their loved ones, and more did not even know they were already dead. “Have we heard any news from our allies?”

Fengar shook his head. “No, Sire. I fear we might be alone this time.”

“Then we cannot stand,” Stelskor announced.

“No,” Fengar agreed.

The king stalked off. His mind was clouded with too many scenarios and outcomes. He’d sent messengers off to three allied kingdoms when news of the Delrananian army first reached him. Not one had replied. They were either unwilling to commit or afraid of crossing Badron. The hand of the gods was slowly falling on his people, and he was near powerless to stop it.

“None of this makes sense. We did nothing to provoke this invasion. Why would our friends not help?” Stelskor asked. Anger was replaced with sorrow. The first rays of sunlight kissed his brow, warming him against the dawn chill.

“We must look to the inevitable. Badron and his army will soon be here.”

“Dark days have befallen us,” the king whispered.

Fengar protested. “Not dark enough to make us give up all hope. The men still have a lot of fight in them. We may yet be able to hold out and force terms.”

“I appreciate your courage, old friend, but our enemies will be relentless. I am afraid that even time is our foe now. I would like to believe that we have it in us to stop them, but that is unrealistic. I think it is time we begin evacuating the civilians.”

“Sire!”

Stelskor stayed his astonished protests with a hand. “We can rebuild our city, but if we lose our people, there will be no tomorrow. Time will pass and memory of this kingdom shall fade to nothing. I am not willing to be the king who lost his people. Begin the evacuation. Send everyone to Grunmarrow.”

Never in his life had Fengar even considered that it would come to this. He almost refused to believe his king. True, the Wolfsreik appeared unstoppable, but he still had hope. Anything less would be a disservice to the men fighting in the field. Besides, the prince and his men were out there somewhere.

He decided that it was time to bring the subject up. “Sire, Prince Aurec is still fighting. He’s working with the Pell Darga clans to strike the enemy supply lines. They cannot continue the invasion without supplies from Delranan.”

“A temporary inconvenience, Fengar, nothing more. Where is Aurec now?” he asked. The question was more for his own sanity than his friend’s. Truth be told, he half expected that his pride and joy was already dead. “We have not heard from him since the war began.”

“Aurec still harasses the enemy. He is out in the field directing the defense, giving us a chance.”

Stelskor smiled sadly. “Your statement lacks certainty. Do not seek to please me with idle fancy. I am prepared to know if my son dies. It is the way of the world. No. There have been no messages since Torval lost his first outpost. I cannot base a decision on wants or desires. My order stands unless Aurec returns soon.”

Fengar accepted the defeat and walked away. Giving the command to displace the entire population at the onset of winter was sheer madness. The sick and old would not survive the trek to Grunmarrow. The way was long and treacherous. Still, Fengar valued the lives of his people more than his own. He hoped the surrounding kingdoms would lend their support before more had to die. Bowing, he turned and left the king to his troubles. There were times when being in command just wasn’t worth it.

Stelskor cradled his head between his calloused palms and blew a strained sigh. He was tired, angry, and had never felt more helpless. The throne room confined him, made him feel trapped like an old badger. He needed fresh air, the cold slap of wind across his cheeks. Perhaps that would pull him from the deepening stupor. Stelskor hadn’t felt this helpless since he was a child. The world he had dedicated a lifetime to building was steadily being ripped down around him without pause or thought. Stalking through the cold granite halls, the king emerged onto a seldom-used balcony. Winter was so close he felt its chill. Taking one of the lit torches from the wall, he set the large, opaque brazier alight.

Normally seeing his city sprawled beneath inspired him, but now he couldn’t see past the panic and abject horror gripping Rogscroft. Citizens were fleeing in droves, their wagons ambling away through the winding cobblestone streets and thatch-roofed buildings. Those foolish enough to think they’d weather the storm busied themselves securing provisions and preparing their homes. The old and lame languished in the streets, no one interested in helping. Stelskor punched his fist lightly onto the wall and wondered what he could do to save his people. The answer wasn’t forthcoming.

* * * * *

Aurec suppressed an involuntary shiver from the cold breeze forcing its way down his back. His eyes narrowed. Dark rings outlined them. This high up in the mountains exposed him and the men to more extreme temperatures than he preferred. The bare trees offered little protection from the angry winds blowing across the Murdes Mountains. He tried his best to ignore the weather and snuck a glance at Venten. The older man seemed to be taking the raw power of the elements much harder.

“This makes you appreciate summer,” he murmured with a laugh.

Venten snorted a laugh. “It makes me want to find a warm fireplace and a jug of mulled wine. This type of stuff is for the young, not some crazy old man determined to get himself killed by following you around.”

“What would my father say if he heard you now?” he asked. His tone was light, almost mocking. Aurec valued humor, especially during times of duress. Laughter and a warped sense of sarcasm often kept men warm and took the sting away from being far from home and in harm’s way.

“Your father had his own foolish ideas I once followed. I doubt he’d be enthused with this mission any more than I am.”

That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear, Aurec thought. “None of that much matters here, does it? Torval’s last outpost fell yesterday. The best way to stop these bastards is to cut their supply lines.”

Cuul Ol approached from a stand of fir. Dull green branches drooped under the pressure from the coming storm. The Pell Darga war chief leaned heavily on a crooked walking stick. His eyes bore a feral gleam, making Aurec and Venten uneasy.

“Prince Aurec, many weapons come,” he told them and spat. “Soldiers guard them. This will be hard.”

“All battles are hard, Cuul.”

The wizened little man nodded. A lifetime of constant struggle made him indifferent to the war raging around him. One might say he was born to this.

“Are your men in place?” Aurec asked.

“Yes. Enemy armor is thick. A tough battle awaits, hard victory. Our arrows will be ineffective.”

“Just keep them busy long enough for us to get in and fire the wagons. My men will handle the heavy fighting.”

Cuul Ol was insulted. “My people will do our part. You need not worry.”

The young prince stared down into his counterpart’s hardened gaze and almost felt ashamed for assuming. He quickly decided the best way to handle the situation was to deal past it. “You understand that many of your people may get killed?”

The Pell gestured around with his stick. “This is our home. We will fight and die if the Darga Keil demands it.”

A nerve twitched in Venten’s neck. “What is the Darga Keil?”

Almost reluctant to share his people’s lore, Cuul took a brave step forward. “The gods of the Pell Darga. We are their children. The Darga Keil created us. It is through their will that we live and breathe.”

Venten stood in total shock. He knew of no race that still believed in the gods. That train of thought had steadily grown obsolete over the course of several centuries, thanks in large part to the rise of magic. People stopped believing. None of the great scholars across the lands bothered to figure out why. To hear the chieftain of the shadow people freely admit to his beliefs left Venten uncertain about a great many things.

Aurec felt the same uncertainty, but lacked the willingness to enter into a theological debate. His focus was war. That the Pell were going to fight was all he needed to know. “Very well. Let us begin while surprise is still with us.”

Cuul Ol flashed a toothy grin and slipped back into the surrounding trees.

“I don’t know if we can trust him after that,” Venten admitted once the little man was out of earshot.

“His beliefs are not our problem. Ready the men. We attack as soon as we’re in position,” Aurec replied.

* * * * *

Sergeant Haltaf marched at the head of the supply train with a perpetual scowl on his face. He’d been in the Wolfsreik for twelve years and burned at the thought of being relegated to escorting supplies. Piper Joach told him it was due to his seniority and proven combat record. Ha! Haltaf didn’t see it that way. He took this assignment with insult and a grain of salt. There was no honor to be had in guarding supplies. He deserved to be on the front lines leading his brothers into battle.

Haltaf signaled a halt. He frowned at the fallen tree blocking the trail. This meant more time in these damned mountains. Further and further from the fighting. As much as he wanted to put that kind of thinking behind him, Haltaf found he couldn’t. He desperately wanted to feel the bitter satisfaction of combat again. The sting of steel and the agony of bloodshed. Babysitting a supply train was almost more than he could bear.

“Bring up the breaching team,” he snapped. “I want this tree cleared as fast as possible.”

“Yes, sergeant.”

A squad of engineers armed with axes and rope rushed forward and set about their task. Haltaf watched impatiently. This was the third time he’d been forced to call a halt, all for similar blockages. A hint of movement caught his attention. He turned, finding nothing but the mockery of the surrounding trees. Trees.
Damned things are a nuisance
. Trees with broken ends that were jagged and unkempt clearly had fallen by an act of nature. This tree, he noticed, had the fine edges of being cut down. Haltaf tensed.

“Establish a defensive perimeter!” he barked, drawing his sword.

It was much too late. Arrows whistled into them from both sides of the trail. Most missed their targets, a handful bouncing off of the Wolfsreik’s thick armor. A few managed to strike arms and legs. Two caught their targets in the throat, felling both with a small torrent of dark arterial blood.

Haltaf snarled.
Finally, a battle
. “Keep chopping that tree! I’ll deal with this.”

A double squad gathered on him. He gestured with his sword and they charged into the nearest tree line with a terrible roar. Arrows continued to buzz by. Two thudded into a tree next to his head. He smiled. Bloodlust was upon him. Haltaf caught sight of a pair of deer-skinned hides darting away as their position became untenable. The veteran ordered his men after them.

Violent urges oozed from his pores as Haltaf let the battle consume him. They quickened his reflexes. Made him stronger. Faster. His blood rage quietly built to berserker. Disappointment threatened to steal his momentum when he noticed all of the enemy in his vicinity broke and ran. He was about to curse his fortune when a dozen of the brown-skinned men burst from nearby cover.

Each Pell warrior launched a short spear and drew swords. Haltaf batted a spear aside as a second pierced his right thigh. He dropped with burning pain spreading through the muscle. Blood pooled on the fresh snow. His sword slipped as he used both hands to staunch the flow. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he realized that he couldn’t help his men. The lines met. Soldiers from both sides fell. Haltaf passed out before the company surgeon slapped a tourniquet above the wound.

For all of their bravery, the Pell Darga never stood much of a chance against the disciplined ranks of the Wolfsreik. A few got lucky, but most fell under the crushing weight of armor and better steel. A scattering of survivors fell back at the clarion of a lone horn. Black smoke billowed into the dwindling daylight.