Knight and Champion Page 32

  “You’ve developed an ability to walk on water?” she asked.

  The Governor couldn’t help but smile. It was rare enough to be a reward in itself.

  “The enemy holds the dock and won’t expect us to cross the Ebbe. No craft could cross that current before being shot to pieces. Just so happens I have a contingency. You and I, my dear, are heading to Runesveld. Tonight.”

  Hadley was momentarily lost for words.

  “But the town. Your orders …”

  “… will be carried out to the letter. General Palmas briefed me at first light. We think the orc infantry will press hard today. Even if it costs them thousands of souls.”

  Hadley frowned. Over the past two days Sandor had ordered the systematic dismantling of several Nook shop fronts for timber and plaster. Teams of engineers had worked around the clock to create elaborate pit traps and spiked trenches. Hundreds of garrison soldiers and civilian volunteers had also worked on a mystery project at the fish market. That, combined with the relative solidity of the Sanctum wall, promised to hold the enemy for days, if not weeks. Or so Hadley assumed.

  “The orcs are propelling themselves forward with single-minded purpose,” Sandor said worriedly. “If our intelligence is correct, that smoking ruin below us will soon be swarming with orcs. No human army would sacrifice such numbers when a conventional siege would suffice. It’s almost as if they’re running from something.”

  Hadley had no reply. The sprawling orcish camp, pressed so suffocatingly close to the town, spoke for itself. The charred remains of the Nook suddenly looked hopeless and forlorn. The battle would not be the cagey, long-range affair everyone had hoped for. The orcs would come. And they would keep coming. Where did that leave the thirty thousand citizens crammed into Sanctum’s elegant streets?

  “The great families,” Hadley said. “They’ve been looked after?”

  Sandor nodded. “They’re in Overlook. We need to keep that as quiet as possible. The last thing we need is a revolt.”

  “Of course.”

  The idea of segregating Andra’s wealthiest families was a controversial but necessary precaution. If just a handful of those individuals made it to Lakeshore, King Rosten had a better chance of cobbling together a lasting defense against the orc hordes.

  “South-southwest,” called General Palmas, standing halfway up the crude observation scaffolding the defenders had erected.

  All eyes locked on that bearing - a battalion of orcish infantry was presenting for pre-battle inspection and address.

  “They might be in range of our catapults, Governor,” Palmas said. “Shall I give the order to fire?”

  “No,” Sandor replied, grinding his teeth. “There are orcish women and children down there. I would rather have them watch their husbands and fathers die in the trenches.”

  Hadley nodded her approval. It was a cold, calculating, prudent consideration. Firing long range would stir the ants into a frenzied rage. Allowing them to die whilst attacking was liable to trigger a far more valuable emotion - fear.

  “Aye, milord,” Palmas said. “We hold the line! Pass the word.”

  “We should withdraw, milord,” Bagley warned. “This is no place for a Governor.”

  “No,” Sandor said firmly. “I need to remain visible for now.”

  “As you wish. The gig is on standby.”

  The blare of an orcish battle horn filled everyone on the Sanctum wall with tiny daggers of anxiety.

  “They’re on the move,” a scout announced from the top of the observation post. “No archers. Melee infantry.”

  “Then they’ll come in fast!” Palmas roared. “Archers at the ready! Two volleys and withdraw.”

  The order was repeated down the line. Built from the hardest granite in the district, the sturdy Sanctum wall was bristling with garrison troops, but the effect was illusory. Without Baron Duskovy’s soldiers, the defending force numbered no more than seven hundred units. The vast majority of these were committed to the front line. A detachment of Sandor’s finest men stood sentry at Overlook, but beyond that there was precious little in the way of an organized defense on Baler’s Hill. Of course, the swarming potential of the citizens themselves was a big unknown.

  The orc battalion was now marching through the siege camp with chilling exactitude. Hadley touched the jet black orb hidden under the folds of her cloth belt. She wasn’t sure why she’d decided to bring the strange ball with her. Perhaps it had something to do with the air of lethality it projected.

  “Those orcs aren’t the Kanoor’s best, but they’ve been trained well,” Sandor observed. “Good luck finding a way through that armor.”

  That last was for Hadley’s ears only. Judging from the sheer size of their golden breastplates, she had to agree. The advancing orc unit, at least five hundred grunts in defensive formation, picked their way through the charred wreckage of the Nook. A pair of captains in scarlet breastplates set the pace. One of them spotted the first pit trap and had the troops skirt the lethal hazard. Contrary to popular opinion, orcs were no fools.

  “Damn it,” Sandor spat. “If they detect all our traps we’re done for.”

  The orcs moved quickly into the midsection of the Nook, where Mayberry Street hugged the river. Sandor had excavated a particular devilish spike trap there. Hadley could almost feel the tension in the Governor’s body as the orcs approached the pit’s leading edge. The foremost captain paused, then continued on. Sandor let out an audible sigh of relief as the orc disappeared from view, skewering himself on the spikes below. The other orcs avoided the trap, but the first mental blow had been landed. No soldier liked to see their commanding officer fall first. Cajoled by the remaining captain, the battalion hustled into the empty fish market, where they were confronted with a timber blockade across River Street.

  “Stay there, you bastards,” Sandor said, hanging off the soldiers’ every movement.

  “You didn’t …” Hadley began, incredulous.

  “I had a false surface created,” Sandor said proudly. “Most of our manpower went into creating an illusion.”

  The entire enemy battalion had moved into the plaza, where their combined mass conspired to crack the thin plaster under their boots. Several hundred orcs fell heavily into the pit below. Some were instantly impaled on wooden spikes, others were maimed by the fall. The few that survived scurried for cover.

  A cheer went up along the Sanctum wall. The packed civilians standing in the streets behind Hadley took up a chant of “Ballist! Ballist! Ballist!”

  It was the first time she’d ever seen a hint of color on the Governor’s cheeks.

  “They’re responding,” the scout called from the scaffolding. “Two orc battalions in single file, both moving at top speed.”

  “Bagley!” Sandor barked.

  “Milord?”

  “Start moving the crowd back. The enemy will be upon us within minutes.”

  “Aren’t there several more traps?” Hadley asked.

  “They’ve had enough of our games,” Sandor said grimly. “They will sacrifice lives in order to reach us while they’re still angry.”

  Hadley swallowed. She’d never seen an orc before today, let alone an orc berserker, and the prospect of a vicious, frenzied attack set her nerves on edge.

  “Should we withdraw?”

  “Yes,” Sandor replied, watching the advancing battalions closely. “But only when they’ve engaged.”

  Hadley nodded. She was learning more about statecraft every day. For someone in Sandor’s position, the most obvious action wasn’t always the right one. The people of Andra needed to see him “holding” the wall for as long as possible.

  “Just be ready on my call,” he said, giving Hadley’s hand a squeeze.

  Sandor was right about the orcs’ desperate new tactics. The battalion surged, triggering pit trap after pit trap. Orc grunts flung their bodies through the rigged, smoking ruin with courageous abandon. Hadley watched in pensive silence as the survivors mas
sed at the top of River Street, barely two hundred yards away.

  “Hold, archers!” Palmas demanded. “Wait until every arrow has a viable target!”

  Tense seconds dragged by as more survivors gathered.

  “They have a clean run,” Sandor said. “Brace yourself, Hadley.”

  Barely able to breathe, she nodded.

  “Thank the Eleven they have no archers with them.”

  Demonstrating his vast experience, General Palmas waited until the last possible moment before signaling the first volley. Bolstered by the second battalion, which had been forced to clamber over hundreds of corpses, the enemy force now numbered at least six hundred grunts.

  “Two more battalions en route from the siege camp!” called the scout.

  “Fire!” the General bellowed.

  Hadley shrank into herself as hundreds of longbows were raised to her left and right. The collective sound of release was unlike anything she’d heard. Steel-tipped arrows rained on the orcs as they began their run. Despite their seemingly impenetrable armor, several were cut down and a second cheer rolled along the Sanctum wall.

  “Nock!” Palmas shouted, his voice very nearly ripped to shreds. “Aim! Fire!”

  Hadley was a little shocked by the second volley. Heavily armored orcs moving at top speed made for difficult targets. The blizzard of arrows barely slowed the onslaught. The enraged orcish grunts made it to the base of the wall, where they disappeared from view.

  “Milord!” Bagley said urgently.

  “Now,” Sandor said, taking Hadley by the arm. The pair descended the stairs to Sygil Street, where they were enthusiastically welcomed by a sea of anxious citizens. Hadley resisted the impulse to call in the guards for dispersal. The harsh reality was these folk represented a viable buffer against the invaders. Sandor knew it too, his gaze a little sheepish as soldiers cleared a path for the pair. They climbed into the waiting gig and were belting their way up Baler’s Hill within seconds. Bagley rode up front, ringing the bell madly and bellowing at the crowd.

  “So many people packed in one place,” Hadley mused. “It’ll be hours before the orcs get through.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Sandor said darkly. “They’re elite skirmishers, well versed in tight combat.”

  The Governor’s inference was as sobering as it was obvious. Baler’s Hill was about to become a bloodbath.

  “I hope families have enough sense to stay away from the main streets,” she said.

  Sandor grunted. “There’s no accounting for behavior in times like this.”

  Hadley’s anxiety grew to fever pitch as the gig threaded its way through the crowd. Sygil Street was so dense with people that Hadley doubted if many would find sanctuary during the coming storm. The surrounding buildings were probably already packed to the rafters. Sandor remained dead quiet, his frown deepening as he looked over his shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  “Surely they couldn’t have …”

  The crowd was no longer interested in the gig and its esteemed occupant. A commotion was brewing further down the hill.

  “Push harder!” Sandor exclaimed with uncharacteristic anger. It was no use. The gig slowed to a crawl, then stopped altogether as the panicked crowd pressed in. The horses were thoroughly spooked and one of the bridles had snapped.

  “We walk,” Bagley said. “Come, milord. Milady.”

  Hadley stepped off the gig and was almost swept away by the tide of peasantry. She was assailed by a heady mixture of body odor, ale and horse manure.

  “Signal to the archers on the rooftops,” Sandor barked.

  Bagley disappeared into the crowd.

  “But we’re … alone,” Hadley blurted, immediately feeling silly.

  “Not ideal,” Sandor admitted. “Let’s move.”

  Realizing that rulers were perpetually fearful of their subjects, Hadley followed the Governor up Sygil Street. The tumult behind them deepened. Many in the crowd began running up the hill, following at the Governor’s heels. Hadley chanced a look over her shoulder and saw bodies on the ground. Trampled or slain? It was difficult to tell as people were rushing in all directions.

  “Orcs,” Sandor muttered. “Spear point formation. They’ll break through this crowd in no time.”

  “But the wall … didn’t we have boiling pitch?”

  “They had enough troops to form body ladders. The wall is sturdy, but not a military construction. No eyelets or ramparts.”

  Hadley gripped her husband’s hand as Sandor began to flag. He didn’t have the body for such exertion. Bagley reappeared, pale and trembling.

  “Never seen anything like it,” he said. “They just keep coming.”

  “Berserkers,” Sandor said simply.

  “But why so soon, milord?”

  “We have yet to find out. Hustle there, Bagley. Lead us through this mess.”

  Hadley followed the men past the Adventurer’s Guild and into the Cathedral Plaza. The crowd was thinner there, but no less frantic. Hadley could now see orcs thundering up Baler’s Hill behind them, slashing and crushing anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way. Men, women and children were mowed down in brutal fashion, their corpses smashed by the relentless flow of heavy infantry. Hadley saw a swaddled baby ripped from the arms of its mother and flung away. A gaggle of children were hunted by an single-minded orc and decapitated with chilling efficiency. Arrows sliced into the chaos from the adjacent rooftops, but the roaming orc targets were difficult to pin down.

  “Hadley!” Sandor shouted. “Stay close! We’re almost at the estate.”

  Bagley hailed the guards at the wrought iron gates. A detachment of men sprinted to assist the Governor. Since she’d landed in Andra, Hadley had liked to style herself as a woman of the people, but she couldn’t help but breathe an immense sigh of relief when she found herself in the estate grounds. For the moment, the tranquility of the gardens belied the bloody chaos snaking its way up Baler’s Hill.

  “Let’s make arrangements for our escape,” Sandor panted. Bagley hared off toward the keep. Hadley leaned against an oak tree, attempting to catch her breath. The triple-storey barracks was visible through the trees, its empty serenity a sad portent of things to come.

  “I can’t understand it,” Sandor said bitterly. “They don’t have the aid of magic, yet they throw themselves upon us like demons.”

  The Governor stiffened.

  “I’m no general, but it looks like a pincer movement to me. The orcs are the hammer, but what’s the anvil?”

  The big man headed toward the keep with fresh purpose. Hadley’s sharp eyes detected a slight tremor at the foundations of the hulking citadel.

  “Sandor, down!”

  She had just enough time to tackle him to the ground. A stupefying roar enveloped the pair and refused to let go. Out of the corner of her eye Hadley saw the keep come crashing down on a bed of billowing dust.

  “What …?” was all Sandor could say. A finger of stone blocks tumbled toward the pair, thudding into the grass mere yards away. The dust cloud engulfed all with savage force. Sharp grit peppered Hadley’s eyes and tormented her lungs. She was still hacking uncontrollably when the worst of it began to recede and the steady, rolling thunder had faded. Gasping for air, Sandor still lay in Hadley’s arms.

  “It’s alright,” she said, sitting him upright. “We’re still alive.”

  The pair needed a minute to process that fact. At length Hadley saw squat figures in the lingering gloom. Picking their way through the rubble with astounding agility, the newcomers made a beeline for her and Sandor. She could hardly be considered a worldly woman, but she’d seen one or two dwarves before. They were very occasional guests at the Equinox Festival, where their stern, humorless gazes won them few friends. The foremost dwarf sported a beard clapped with gold rings. He was built like an oaken barrel and his chain mail armor glittered like a panoply of jewels in the dull light. Crossbow poised, the stranger approached cautiously.

  �
�Delloutacor miginn,” he grunted. “Acoudor.”

  Hadley apparently wasn’t a threat because the dwarf’s first bolt skewered Sandor’s right thigh. The Governor groaned but was able to stifle the worst of his pain.

  “Run,” Sandor said forcefully. “Save yourself.”

  Even if Hadley had a mind to do so, the dwarf had been joined by a dozen of his brethren.

  “Go,” Sandor repeated. “They want me, not you.”

  “Never,” Hadley spat. She rose to her feet and felt the weight of the black orb under the folds of her cloth belt. If it was ever going to reveal its true nature, now was the time. The crossbowman lowered his weapon and regarded Hadley with amusement.

  “Dennen fa,” he said, which amused his comrades no end. Hadley felt a kernel of anger in her guts and longed to use it. These dwarves, whoever they were, had an ignoble perception of battle. There had been at least a hundred women and children in that keep when it came down. Dwarves were well known for their malignant powders and shady alchemy, but such attacks amounted to nothing more than terrorism.

  “You’re not welcome here,” she said more calmly than she felt. Sandor struggled to rise to his feet, clearly in great pain.

  “Dennen fa,” the dwarf repeated, this time angrily. The crossbow was now leveled at Hadley’s face. It was now or never. She produced her orb, hoping like hell these dwarves had never seen the like before. Sure enough, their eyes were drawn to the artifact. It shimmered with wretched fury, steadily absorbing the available light.

  “It’s yours,” Hadley murmured. “Take it.”

  Her mind crippled by the idea of decay, she flung the orb as hard as she could at the crossbowman. The dwarf braced himself for impact, then looked blankly at Hadley. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. The orb had simply disappeared. But then the other dwarves, several of them in flanking positions, grunted and swore in turn. The crossbowman was still looking at Hadley with what could only be described as shock. She flinched when she saw a clean, neat hole right through the center of the man’s chest. Thick blood trickled from his mouth and he toppled face-forward to the grass. Incredibly, the other dwarves also fell, many clutching at gaping wounds where their beating, blood-hungry hearts should have been.