“Burn the supplies!” he ordered. “Three of you stay with me and hold them off.”
As he spoke, he hacked down at another Wargal, dropping it to the ground. But more and more of them were scrambling out of the tents, searching for the source of the commotion. Then one of the men in Morgarath’s army started shouting.
“Alarm! Alarm! We’re being attacked! Sound the alarm!”
And suddenly the night was filled with snarling, snapping Wargals, some armed, some unarmed, lurching toward Arald and his party as they recognized them as interlopers. The Baron cut down another two of them in quick order. The soldier beside him stopped a third.
There was a flare of fire from the supply tents as Arald’s men tossed oil onto the canvas and then struck flint and steel to set the combustible liquid aflame.
The Wargals were barking and snarling in alarm as more and more of them rushed to the site. Arald glanced around. His men were still standing. Those who had fired the supply tent were back behind him.
“Get to the river!” he shouted, and led the way, the others following him with pounding, squelching feet. The darkness was their ally—as was the large number of Wargals who had rallied to the supply tents. They actually were fighting with each other in some cases, and most of them had no idea where the sudden attack had come from, nor where it had gone.
But before long, the dark, running figures were spotted, and Morgarath’s bestial soldiers lurched and lumbered in pursuit.
Two of them were closer than their brothers. Arald glanced back and saw them leaping and bounding after his men. He moved to one side, letting his raiders pass him, then stepped in front of the two Wargals.
These two were armed. One had a short spear and the other a sword. Arald parried the spear thrust, engaging the shaft and whirling his sword in a fast, circular motion that tore the spear from its owner’s grip. Then he thrust at the bulky figure, feeling the point go home, hearing the beast shriek in agony as it fell.
The second Wargal aimed a massive overhand cut at him. Had it gone home, it would have split him from shoulder to waist. But Arald swayed to one side, feeling the wind of the blade as it just missed him, then struck the ground by his feet. He hammered the hilt of his sword into the off-balance Wargal’s head, then, as the beast staggered, he cut at its neck with a carefully controlled movement.
He didn’t wait to see it fall. He turned and ran for the river once more. Dark shapes blundered out of the tent lines in front of him, and he cut them down with a ruthless efficiency before they could register that he was an enemy.
“Into the river!” he shouted, although, as he heard the sound of violent splashing, he realized the order was unnecessary. In front of him, a man staggered and fell as a spear took him squarely in the back. It was an obviously mortal wound, and Arald had no time to waste checking on him. He ran on, hearing the sounds of pursuit close behind him, and blundered into the river, throwing a curtain of spray high in the air.
• • •
On the far side of the enemy camp, crouched in the shallow waters of the ford, Crowley heard the sudden outbreak of shouting and saw the vivid flare of flames in the night. He turned back to see Leander, no more than a dark shape crouched on the far bank, bow ready, and waved his arm.
Leander rose to his feet. He already had an arrow nocked. He drew back, sighted and released, in one smooth continuous motion. The arrow took the Wargal sentry in the middle of his back. The creature gave a low grunt of surprise and pain, then fell to the sandy bank, already dead.
Instantly, Crowley was on his feet, leading the rest of his men into the Wargal camp and heading toward the spot where they knew the wheeled barricades were stored. As they came level with the dark, bulky structures, he beckoned Robert and Jurgen forward. Jurgen was already striking flint and steel together, letting the sparks fall into an oil-soaked torch that he carried, and blowing on the tiny sparks until they suddenly flared into fire. Robert was carrying a large bladder of oil. He unslung it from his shoulder, ready to throw it over the barricades.
And at that moment, the night erupted with dark shapes, snarling, grunting and yipping as they rose from their hiding places behind wagons and tents, and the barricades themselves. Crowley heard a human voice yell, “Attack!” and he drew his saxe, cursing the fact that he had left his bow on the far bank.
One of the Wargals lumbered toward him. He slipped under its wild roundhouse swing, hearing the sword whistle over his head. Then, without pausing, he stepped forward and drove his saxe into the heavy body. He heard a grunt of surprise, then pain, and the Wargal staggered back, nearly ripping the saxe from his grip as it went.
All around him, he heard the clash of weapons and the grunts and snarls of the Wargals as they ambushed his small party. He didn’t know how many of the enemy there were, but he knew his men were badly outnumbered.
There was no way they could carry out their mission. Their only mission now was to survive and escape.
“Back to the river!” he shouted. “Retreat!”
Hopefully, Leander would be ready to provide covering fire once they made it back to the water. He parried another sword stroke, cut at the Wargal’s hand and saw the sword fall from its nerveless fingers. Still the beast came on at him and he thrust with the saxe, taking it in the throat and killing it instantly.
Then, a few meters away from him, he saw Robert whirling the bladder of oil over his head, then releasing it to spill its contents over a small group of Wargals who were preparing to charge. They recoiled as the oil sprayed them, then realized it was harmless and started forward again.
Which was a mistake. Jurgen hurled the burning torch after the oil bladder and it fell among them, catching instantly in the highly combustible liquid.
There was a WHOOSH of flame, and three of the beasts were engulfed in fire. The fourth leapt back, its arm and hand burning. It beat at the flames, snarling in terror.
It was enough to give the Rangers the opportunity they needed to escape. As one, they wheeled and ran for the river. After a moment’s hesitation, the Wargals followed them. Crowley could hear their human commander yelling orders at them, urging them to pursue the fleeing raiders.
He looked around, eyes slitted in the uncertain light. The flames that had engulfed the Wargals were still burning fiercely, and now there was a vile smell of charred fur and burning flesh in the air. Finally, he saw the commander, standing to one side, sword drawn, and shouting at his troops until his voice cracked.
Crowley slid his saxe back into its scabbard and drew his throwing knife. His arm went back and forward again in one smooth action and he sent the knife spinning across the open space between him and the Wargals’ commander.
“Don’t let them get—” the man was yelling as the knife came spinning out of the darkness and struck him in the chest. He staggered a few paces, looking down stupidly at the hilt that protruded from his body. He clutched at it with both hands, trying to withdraw it, but somehow he didn’t have the strength. Then his knees gave way and he sank to the ground, finishing his command in a barely audible whisper.
“. . . away.”
Then Crowley was splashing through the shallow waters of the ford, along with his men. The Wargals hesitated as Trask went down and his voice fell silent. They weren’t good at directing themselves in battle. As the leading group stopped at the river’s edge, Leander began shooting from the far bank.
“Rangers! Stay down!” he yelled, and they needed no second bidding. Crowley, crouched low in the water, heard the air-splitting hiss of Leander’s shafts as they whipped overhead, barely a meter above him. He heard the dull thuds as the arrows went home. The first four Wargals went down in rapid succession, with barely a heartbeat between them. Those behind them hesitated for a second or two, waiting for Trask to issue more orders. It was a fatal few seconds. It gave Crowley and the first three of the Rangers time to scramble ash
ore and take up their own bows. A volley of arrows flashed across the river, killing or disabling another half dozen of the enemy.
The Wargal ambush had started with thirty troops. Now they were down to less than half that number, in the space of a few minutes. Leaderless, they milled about uncertainly. Then, as more shafts flashed out of the night and killed two more of them, they turned and took cover from that relentless arrow shower.
“They’re not following!” Crowley shouted. “Get along the bank to cover Arald and his men.”
They followed him at a run. But where there had been nine of them originally, now there were only eight. Crowley looked around desperately, trying to ascertain who was missing. But in the darkness and the general confusion, he couldn’t make out the faces of his companions.
As the far side of the ford came into sight, they could see the dark shapes of Arald’s men pushing through the waist-deep water toward them, pursued by more dark shapes as the first of the Wargals plunged in after them.
• • •
Realizing that they were about to be caught, Arald turned in the waist-deep water, facing his pursuers, and shouted at the two men closest to him.
“Hold them back!” he yelled.
The men, swords drawn, pushed back through the water to join him. He parried a blow from the leading Wargal, then cut sideways, nearly severing its head from its body. The beast went over with a massive splash, its blood staining the water for meters around them, looking black in the flickering light that illuminated the scene. His nearest companion deflected an ax stroke from a second Wargal and Arald’s sword darted out like a striking death adder—fast and lethal.
But more and more Wargals were pushing into the river, fanning out to encircle the three men protecting their comrades’ retreat.
“Where are those damn Rangers?” Arald’s second companion demanded, as he parried and cut desperately with a huge, powerful Wargal.
Then they heard the now-familiar hiss-thud! as multiple arrows rained down over them, dropping the Wargals like wheat before the scythe.
Suddenly, the river was clear of the beasts. There were another dozen hesitating on the bank, and they took the brunt of the next volley. Five of them toppled over in less than two seconds. The others, not yet controlled by the mad killing rage that Morgarath could incite in them, retreated a few paces. Then, as more arrows fell among them, they sought cover from the pitiless scourge.
“Let’s get out of here!” Arald said gratefully, and the small raiding party waded quickly back to the far bank and ran up the hill.
• • •
“I lost three men,” Arald said bitterly, as they convened in Duncan’s tent to assess the results of the raid.
“And we lost Jurgen,” Crowley added. His voice was low. He hated losing men and to lose a Ranger was almost unthinkable. In his eyes, each Ranger was worth at least five normal troops.
Duncan glanced at him, sympathy in his eyes. “How did that happen?”
Crowley gave vent to a deep sigh. “He and Robert saved us. They used the oil and a torch to break up the first Wargal attack—when they took us by surprise. Robert hurled an oilskin over a group of them and Jurgen dashed forward with a burning torch to set the oil on fire—and the Wargals with it. It gave us the time we needed to regroup and withdraw. But it left him exposed and one of the Wargals threw a spear and hit him in the side.”
The men fell into a depressed silence. Then Crowley spoke again, his voice bitter. “It wouldn’t be so bad if we’d actually achieved something. But they were waiting for us and we never got near the barricades.”
Arald nodded gloomy assent. “We didn’t even do much damage to their supply dump,” he said. “Morgarath out-thought us from the word go. He knew we’d be coming and he was ready for us.”
Duncan noted the sunken shoulders of his two commanders, and their downcast eyes.
“Morgarath is no fool. We know that,” he said softly. “We can’t expect to win every battle against him.”
Crowley and Arald looked up at the King and saw the steely determination glittering in his eyes.
“We just have to make sure we win the last one.”
36
HALT CALLED AN EARLY START THE FOLLOWING DAY, PLANNING to get the troop through the forest and across the ford by midmorning. They ate a quick breakfast in the predawn darkness. There was no enemy in the vicinity, so Halt permitted the men to light cook fires. This wasn’t done entirely from selfless concern for their comfort. A cook fire meant that water could be boiled, and boiled water meant coffee. Halt hated starting any day without coffee.
He sipped appreciatively on a steaming cup while he discussed the order of march with Lorriac. Gilan paced the campsite, full of nervous energy and anxious to be on the move. Gilan was always anxious to be on the move, Halt thought, although there was no point in starting out before daybreak. In the darkness under the trees, men would become lost and disorientated.
“Gilan and I will lead the way to the ford,” he told Lorriac. “We’ll have the men ride in single file. The trees are too close set for them to travel any other way. I’ve blazed the trail on trees every five meters or so, so there should be no problem with people getting lost.”
Lorriac nodded understanding. “Where do you want me?”
“You bring up the rear and keep any stragglers moving,” Halt said. “I expect that we’ll get strung out. That always happens when you have a single line of riders moving through difficult country.”
“True,” Lorriac agreed. “But as more and more riders follow the path, it should become a little easier for the ones at the rear.”
Halt hadn’t considered that. As a hundred or so men traveled the narrow, winding trail he and Gilan had followed to the ford, the undergrowth would become progressively beaten down, saplings would be forced aside and the trail would widen. The last fifty men would be able to move more easily through the trees.
“Nevertheless, keep the pressure on them,” Halt said.
Lorriac swallowed the last of his breakfast. He took a swig from his canteen—he was no coffee drinker—and strolled off to organize his men as they struck camp.
Halt drained his coffee, considered making another cup and then glanced at the sky in the east. The sun was beginning to show over the treetops and he reluctantly decided there was no time. He tossed the dregs of his cup into the campfire beside him and made his way to where he and Gilan had pitched their one-man tents the previous evening.
Anxious for something to keep himself occupied, Gilan was there before him, striking the tents and rolling them into tight bundles that would sit behind their saddles. Halt nodded his thanks.
“Good work,” he said, and Gilan grinned at the praise. Must remember to do that more often, Halt thought. He recalled his own younger days, when words of praise were few and far between and his days were shadowed by his twin brother’s resentment and plotting against him. He rolled his bedroll into a tight cylinder and fastened it with the leather ties that would keep it in shape. He had used his saddle as a pillow the night before and now he clicked his fingers to Abelard.
The little horse ambled obediently to him and stood while he lifted the saddle onto his back and tightened the girth.
“Wish my horse would do that,” Gilan said enviously. His pony was displaying all the fractiousness of its kind in the cold early-morning air, prancing and dancing, stepping sideways as he tried to settle the saddle in place, then taking a deep breath to expand its belly as he went to fasten the girth. Halt pointed a warning finger. If Gilan didn’t nip that in the bud, his horse would exhale when he had buckled the girth strap and it would become loose. But Gilan was up to the horse’s tricks.
“I know,” he said. “He always tries that on.”
He pulled the horse a little closer and firmly drove his knee up into its belly, forcing it to let the pent-up breath go.
Before the horse could breathe in again, he pulled the cinch tight and buckled it.
“You’d think he’d understand that I’m onto that trick by now,” Gilan said.
Halt grinned. “They all like to try it.”
Gilan raised an eyebrow. “Even Abelard?”
“Not anymore. He tried it for the first few weeks I had him. But he’s smart enough to realize that it’s a lost cause.” He patted the horse’s velvety nose affectionately. Abelard blew out a cloud of steam as he snorted in acknowledgment.
“I’d love a Ranger horse,” Gilan said, eyeing the sturdy little beast.
“Have to become a Ranger first,” Halt told him easily. He was joking, but Gilan took him seriously.
“Is that possible?” he asked.
Halt was taken aback by the swiftness of his reply. “Well . . . yes. Of course it is,” he said, not sure how much he should encourage this sudden interest. “You’d have to apply to Crowley first. He’d assess you.”
“I don’t imagine there’d be any trouble there,” Gilan said. “After all, my father is a battle master.”
A slight frown creased Halt’s forehead. “Doesn’t matter who your father is when you apply to become a Ranger. Or what he is. It’s who you are that’s important.”
Gilan flushed. “I didn’t mean to sound as if I’m privileged or anything,” he said. “Or that I’d have a better chance than someone else because of who my father is.”
Halt said nothing. But he smiled quizzically and raised an eyebrow.
Gilan said nothing for a few moments, then dropped his gaze. “Actually, I suppose I did mean that, when I come to think of it,” he admitted.
“Well, as long as you admit it,” Halt said, hiding a smile. Then he swung up into the saddle and Gilan followed suit. But now the idea had been raised, the boy wanted to pursue it further.