The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (13 page)

The three River Folk were walking along with no pretense of stealth and -- Ishi help me --
whistling,
like they were going to a party. Tod actually skipped.  The others babbled comically.  They approached the gurvani patrol – three goblins holding spears and looking bored – and halted, apparently stunned by their sheer visual ferocity.  They made quite a show of it, too, shivering exaggeratedly in fear, and I didn’t doubt they could all have been proper mummers if they had a mind.
The gurvani, for their part, were intrigued – but were they hungry?  I could see a few lick their lips absently as they went to investigate the River Folk, and they were sniffing the air like bloodhounds, far more than necessary.  That was encouraging.  Clearly this was a band who had stumbled into our glyphs.  They were already starving, even if they didn’t know it yet.  I could see them give each other anxious glances as they went down the rise after the three River Folk -- who took off running and squealing in the other direction.  
That didn’t bother the gurvani at all.  That just made it sport as well as food preparation. 

The goblins broke into a loping run, grinning wildly and preparing their spears to run down their prey, when they crossed into our fire zone and started sprouting arrows.
 Ten of the Nirodi archers were lying concealed, some firing from prone positions, and their shafts took the goblins down without a whimper.  The three River Folk stared as a couple of the red-clad lads rushed forward to drag the bodies into the underbrush . . . and then they squealed with excitement and ran back to the siege line to do it again.
We had two of these ambuscades set up, one at the southeastern corner of the siege, and one in the west.  The River Folk would run down that slope in one direction or the other, or both, if they felt the need to split up, and bring their pursuers into the trap.  After we’d thoroughly seeded the area with glyphs, Rondal and I fell back to support them, while Tyndal went off on a special mission.
In this case “support” meant taking up a good position overlooking the ambuscade and making sure nothing went wrong.  To that end I cast a couple of helpful spells, to keep the noise and level of attention down, and watched the fun.  I gave Rondal the unpleasant task of finishing off the survivors.  Rank hath its privileges.   
At first, it worked almost too well.  The third sortie that chased our little guys into that culvert was nearly twenty strong, which required some quick work on the part of the Nirodi, else our little friends would have been lunch.  That many goblins, even packed together and in a slather, required plenty of arrows.  About a dozen made it all the way to the bottom of the rise, and the River Folk had to scramble.  Rogo’s boys had to come out and finish off the stragglers hand-to-hand, with knives and swords, to save arrows, with the help of a few militiamen.  Then they gleaned arrows from the bodies, removed the corpses from the field, and went back into hiding.  I may have helped a bit myself.

There was a change in the way they got chased, too, over time.
 At first, they were pursued by hungry soldiers doing their duty.  By the fourth sortie, they were being hunted by starving gurvani eager to rip them to shreds and devour them.  That goldsmith Hunger was making a fortune.
It took an hour of this steady action to reduce the foe by a third, with only minor injuries on our side (two of the militiamen had been clubbed, one had a broken hand).  And about that point, the gurvani priests leading the assault realized that there was a problem, and tried to regroup.  I had anticipated that – I had honestly hoped we could keep suckering them longer before they figured it out, but it had had the desired effect.  They didn’t outnumber us quite as much now.  And they would have to deal with the new threat to their siege.  They chose a hill on the eastern side of the tree around, behind the hill, leaving one of the shaman and a troll and a whining squadron of warriors behind to guard the trunk.  
I’d planned for this sort of thing, but since I was unsure of how they’d respond I’d prepared a couple of different contingencies.  Half an hour later, I was still just as unsure, and growing uneasy.  A sudden coordinated attack, a mad dash in our direction, or a sudden chaotic retreat were all possibilities I’d planned for.  None of them included the idea that our enemy would regroup and just
wait
, which seemed to be what they were doing after our little fellows stopped finding gurvani patrols to allure.  
“Why aren’t they attacking?” asked Rondal, curious and impatient.  He’d barely wetted his new mageblade, and even if he wasn’t a natural warrior the excitement of warmagic was heady.  It made you feel powerful.  Having a witchstone made it even worse.  “I figured I’d be fighting for my life right now.”

“They’re just not hungry enough yet, I’m guessing,” I sighed.
 “The priests are trying to figure out where the danger is coming from.  Whether or not it’s an illusion from the Tree Folk, or something else.  I’m guessing their soldiery complaining bitterly about hunger isn’t helping them with their mission much.  And by now I’m guessing that they’ve discovered that their provisions are gone.”
“How long until they figure it out what we’re up to and cast counterspells?”  Rondal whispered.  

That had been the biggest danger with this plan.
 If the foe was suddenly less hungry and more pissed off, we were sunk.  I was hoping the priests weren’t that adept.  I shrugged.
“I wish I knew.  We just need to get them even hungrier before they get the chance – and that’s going to be tricky.  They’ll be wise to a direct spell, now that they guess we’re here.”  I considered the matter.  

We could pepper the area around them with more glyphs, but that would take time and expose us.
 It would also put us in a vulnerable position, where we could get picked off.  I wanted them to come to
us.  
It was a tough problem, and I started to take my pipe out and light it as I reflected, when I realized that the prevailing winds would take the smoke right to them and reveal our position –
not
typically good counterintelligence.

Then I stopped.  I had an idea.
 

I looked around for some dry deadwood -- never a shortage of that in the Wilderlands -- and quickly stacked it in a small pyramid.
 Then I hit it with a cantrip and watched it burst into flame.  Rogo and his men looked at me, puzzled -- lighting a fire when you’re trying to surprise the enemy is usually a poor tactical idea.  Rogo, at least, seemed unconcerned.  Or at least hid his concern really well, for which I was grateful.  
“I'll need one of those little metal bucklers the gurvani carry -- get it from one of the bodies,” I ordered one of the mercenaries, who had come out of their concealed positions as we continued not being attacked.  They were excited and bored.  I looked up at Rogo.  “How fast could you hunt up some game?  A couple of squirrels or something?  And I’ll need a skin of water, if any of you have one handy.  Because if you can do that, then I’ll get the little guys to find some savory roots, and --”
Twang!  Thwack!  Thump!
Before I finished my sentence, Rogo had drawn and nocked a shaft, looked around in the trees, found a target and let fly.  A moment after the twang of the bowstring sounded, a fat little partridge fell down out of the tree.
“Will that work, my lord?” he asked, casually.  
Show off.
I set the River Folk to plucking the partridge, and skinning the two theons and a woodchuck that joined them a few moments later, and I started boiling water in the bronze buckler.  The raw meat, still gory with blood and feathers and scales and fur, was dumped into the makeshift kettle . . . but the fire was taking its own sweet time about making it boil.  The three Loblollies came over to see what I was doing.  Even they knew it was poor form to stop in the middle of battle for a late lunch.
“Can you go find me some roots -- wild onions and risereth, maybe some garlic?” I asked the three eager cooks.  Then I muttered a spell and brought the water up to boiling -- and then some – magically, while they scampered off.  I hated waiting around, and the longer we waited, the sooner the sun would be down.  I wanted this to be over before then, one way or the other.  I wasn’t eager to fight them in the dark.

“Victory soup!” Tod said, repeating the term in his native language as his big nose hovered over the revolting mess bubbling in the shield while he dum
ped a crumbled up fistful of aromatic leaves into the mixture.  His herbs seemed to do the impossible -- it almost started smelling just a little like food.
Soon the boiling water was cooking the meat.  It was soup, of a sort, and it quickly turned a foul-looking reddish brown.  It wasn’t very appetizing to me, I suppose, but then I wasn’t starving – and I’d had soup for lunch.  But it had the desired effect.  The aroma of cooking meat quickly filled the air with the smoke.  That was good, but I wanted it
stronger.
 I fished out a big chunk of woodchuck – I thought it was woodchuck – with my dagger and held it directly in the fire.  In moments the smell of roasting meat, stronger than boiled meat, made our lure even more potent.
“Trapping trolls with temptation,” chuckled Rogo as he came quietly up beside me and the three puds.  “Clever.”

“They’ll smell this and come running, before long,” I agreed.
 “At least, that’s my theory.  Let’s see if it’s working.”  I closed my eyes and contacted Tyndal.  
Do you have them in sight?
Yes, Master!
he said, hurriedly
.  I’m in a tree, about half a bowshot from where they’re gathered.  I only see two of the shamans--
The third is at the tree,
I informed him.
These two are having a hard time.  There’re just over a hundred of them here, but they’re going mad.  The warriors are whining about being hungry and the trolls are looking increasingly distressed.  There have been two small squabbles, so far.  

I smiled to myself.  That was promising. 
In a moment they’re going to start getting riled up.  And they’ll be heading in our direction.  As soon as they do, and you can get to the base of that tree, you
do it
.  I think our Tree Folk friends will be watching closely, and will welcome the chance to escape.  The whole point of this picnic is to rescue them, so even if we end up entrees, you get them clear, understand?
I could always prod them from this direction, Master,
he offered helpfully.  
A flanking attack to spook them, or misdirect them . . .
Leave the strategy to me,
I said crossly.  
You do what you’re supposed to
. 
We have a plan.  We stick with it until a better one comes along.
As you wish, Master,
he said, enthusiastically.  Maybe
too
enthusiastically.  Tyndal was developing an unhealthy delight in danger.  I didn’t want to retard the boy’s enthusiasm too much, but I also didn’t want him to get killed because he did something brave and stupid.  
I had other things to deal with.  I opened my eyes and noted that the meat on the end of my knife was now charred and blackened from the flame, and its aroma perfumed the air.  Enough so that the afternoon breeze was carrying it unerringly up the slope, around the tree, and -- hopefully -- into the inflamed nostrils of our enemy.  I dumped the charred flesh back into the simmering, rather disgusting shield-turned-cookpot with a sense of satisfaction.  We had soup superiority.
“Get your men ready,” I ordered Redshaft and the militiamen.  
Ganz
was in charge – his young Ancient Kinsey had broken his hand under a gurvani mace. “Archers on the south, with the sun to their backs, shooting northeast.  Swordsmen on the west, out of the line of fire.  When they come down that slope, looking for lunch, I want them to have to run a gauntlet of arrows.  Anyone who’s un-punctured will be weakened enough for the militia to take them, unless they want to push through the line badly enough.”
The young militia captain paled.  “And what if they do?”
“Let them,” I answered -- far more calmly than I felt-- as I cleaned my dagger and put it away.  “That’s where Rondal and I will be waiting.  If they can get through the Nirodi and
you
gentlemen, why, there shouldn’t be that much of them left for us to handle, don’t you think?”
The militiaman looked grim, but nodded.  “Places, then.  Grab every arrow you can, and set your blades close at hand.  We’re not facing a company of soldiers, here, we’re like to be facing an angry mob.  Things could change quickly, so stay alert and listen to orders.  And I’ll pay five ounces of gold to the man who slays a priest -- provided he doesn’t endanger his mates or the mission.  Questions?  Let’s get to it.”

*                                   *                                    *

Rondal and I hid behind a small grove of cedars and spruce trees just to the north and west of where the militiamen crept, swords in hand.  The afternoon sun was waning, and we had scant time until twilight.  I wasn’t the only one watching the sun.
“It’s almost dark,” Rondal said, anxiously.
“Just like it was this time yesterday,” I agreed, sagely.  I went ahead and lit my pipe, knowing this would probably be the last chance for a smoke until the action began . . . and that the need for concealing our position was over.  My apprentice shifted nervously, moving his mageblade from one hand to the other.  “Patience, Rondal.  They’ll be here when they get here.”
“I’m just starting to get a little hungry myself,” he said, unconvincingly.  “Casting all of those glyphs, the fighting, and it’s been forever since lunch . . .”
“Don’t you have any rations on you?”  I asked, surprised.
He looked up, startled.  “Why, no, Master.  They’re on the horse.  Should I have?”
“
You’re
the one who’s hungry,” I shrugged.  “You tell me.  Personally, I learned at War College to keep a couple of strips of dried meat or some hardtack or pealoaf on me at all times.  You never knew when you were going to be separated from your supply line.”  I dug a strip out of my own belt pouch.  “Here, gnaw on this.  Just don’t let the goblins see you – I didn’t bring enough for everybody.  And I really don’t think you want to try the ‘victory soup’.”
“Thanks, Master,” he said, taking the strip of dried beef gratefully.  “I guess that there’s a lot I don’t know about being a Mage Knight yet.”
“I’m starting to realize that, too,” I sighed.  “As soon as things calm down, I’m sending both you and Tyndal to War College.  And to Inarion Academy, for some more serious study.  I should have enough pull to manage that, I think.”
“
War
. . . college . . . Master?” he asked, wide-eyed, between bites.  He didn’t look thrilled at the prospect.
“And Imperial magic,” I reminded him.  “Face it, you need to grow into being a true Mage Knight, and Tyndal needs to know how to be a mage.  Before long the two of you will be commanding your own missions and getting yourselves killed.  Best you be as prepared as possible.”
Rondal still didn’t look impressed at the idea, but he did mull it over as he chewed.  He was about to add something to that when we heard noises at the top of the hill.  We crouched back amongst the underbrush, freezing and watching with magesight.
A small shaggy black head peeked out from behind a rocky outcrop, at first, and then another.  Both were sniffing, and moving cautiously forward, toward the tiny campfire and the makeshift dinner.  
“That’s it, come and get it, boys,” murmured Rondal as he gripped his blade.  I drew a war wand.  I was ready to pounce.
We didn’t get the chance to pounce -- the Nirodi took both before they were a third of the way down the hill.  Before their bodies were still, three more scurried over the rise, sniffing the air and mewling piteously in hunger.  They barely looked at their freshly-fallen comrades as they lurched faster and faster toward the fire.  Another small group approached as they fell to more arrows, and then another.  Some leader with more discipline than hunger kept them in line, such as it was, until they all could see -- and smell -- the roasting flesh clearly.
The strangled order to charge was given long after the first gurvani broke ranks and rushed hungrily toward the food -- and the River Folk.  They stood their ground, looking helpless and tasty, as more and more goblins ran toward them.  I vowed then to never fault their bravery, for those three puds stood fast where many a green militiaman would have broken.
The Nirodi didn’t hesitate to fire, first in volley and then with aimed shots.  Their shafts proved deadly, and if any missed their target I didn’t see them.  But in the end, there were still far too many gurvani moving too fast for the archers to keep up.  The gap between the River Folk and the hunger-crazed band shrank to a hundred feet, then fifty . . . and that’s when the militiamen sprang to action.
Most commanders don’t give enough credit to infantry militia, but the truth is if they are trained and blooded, an armored man with a spear or sword and shield could be deadly and effective on the battlefield.  Not as glamorous -- or as expensive -- as mounted cavalry, but the dozen shieldmen who raced into place and dressed their line in a wall twenty-five feet in front of the deadly picnic were every bit as effective at stopping them short.