Lorik The Protector (Lorik Trilogy) (17 page)

Now he sat with his back to a city he had visited only once and with a deadly enemy force marching toward him. It was the kind of situation that would have caused most men to question how they had gotten themselves into such a mess. But Lorik was at peace with his reasons for being there, and his greatest fears weren’t about losing his life or being maimed on the battlefield, but whether he could protect the people who were sleeping in peaceful ignorance of the threat coming their way. If he failed, the city would be destroyed and he would be killed. He tried to shake such thoughts away, but they circled like scavenger birds overhead, waiting for the carnage to be over so that they could feast on the ruined flesh of warriors.

Riders came an hour or so before dawn. There were two of them, moving toward the town. Lorik stood to greet them. It was Frad and the other volunteer who had been sent to scout the Norsik.

“Greetings, Frad, do you bring good news?” Lorik asked.

“Actually, yes,” the young man said. He stayed on his horse, leaning over the saddle horn. He looked completely comfortable on his horse, while his companion moved almost constantly, struggling to find a way to sit on the saddle that didn’t hurt.

“Let’s hear it,” Lorik said.

“The Norsik are camped less than a mile up the road. They sent scouts ahead. We watched them for the better part of the last three hours. They’ve got a lot of sentries around their camp, but they don’t seem to be in a big rush to attack.”

“I expect they’ll come at dawn,” Lorik said.

“Probably so,” Frad said.

“So what’s the good news?” Lorik asked.

“Well, we couldn’t get close enough to see anything in the dark without being seen ourselves.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” Lorik said.

“But the good news is, they don’t know about Stone and his squad behind them,” Frad said. “We worked our way completely around the raiders and ran into Stone about an hour ago. He’s holding his group back, waiting for dawn to start attacking.”

“You know,” Lorik said, thinking out loud, “we might have a better chance of getting the upper hand if we attack them, instead of waiting for them to attack us.”

“Stone said the same thing,” Frad said.

“We could come at them early, right at first light. Attacking simultaneously from three directions.”

“How would we time it?” Frad asked.

“Easy, we could just blow a war horn.”

“But won’t that ruin the element of surprise?”

“Only a little,” Lorik said. “And if we come galloping in on horses, they won’t have much time to react.”

“You think the others could stay in the saddle during an all-out battle?”

“They’ll have to,” Lorik said. “But we don’t need to fight too hard. If we rattle them enough, they’ll fall back, and we can chase them back to the coast.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” the young horseman said.

“Rigar’s group is east of here. I’ll fetch them,” Lorik said. “Your group is to the west. Don’t come back to the road; angle in toward them. We’ll come in from the other side, and Stone can hit them from the rear.”

“Do we need to send Vestil here to tell your partner the plan?” Frad said, nodding at the uncomfortable volunteer beside him.

“No, Stone will be ready and he’ll know what the war horn means. Besides, I want his group to come crashing in right after we do, hopefully as the raiders are falling back from our assault.”

“So, I get my squad ready and go riding in when I hear the horn?”

“That’s it. Keep it simple. Have them ride in fast, hit the nearest Norsik raider, and then drive through to the far side of their camp before wheeling around for another attack.”

“You’ve got it, sir,” Frad said, emphasizing the last word.

Lorik smiled, but he knew the volunteer couldn’t see him the darkness.

“Get moving,” he ordered.

The two men on horseback turned their mounts and trotted off into the night. Lorik slung his battle axe over his shoulder using a leather strap. Then, as he climbed up into the saddle, he realized there was a hole in his plan. With Stone behind the raiders, the only opening for retreat the Norsik had would be straight ahead, straight into the city. If that happened, the raiders could take refuge there, and the battle would turn into a deadly struggle as Lorik and his volunteers went from house to house, searching every building for hiding raiders. They would be forced to kill all of the Norsik and the casualties to his volunteers would be much too high. He realized he would have to hold the main road just like before, only now his men would be flushing the enemy right toward him.

Lorik rode out and gave instructions to the other group, which was under the leadership of a bright young man named Rigar. Then he took the war horn and returned to the broad dirt path that served as a road between Timmons Gate and Fort Utlig. He would have liked to have spoken with Stone, or better yet move that entire group around, so that the combined strike would push the Norsik raiders back to the north. But there was no time for that. The sky was already brightening, and there was now less than an hour before it would be light enough to attack. The Norsik were probably being roused from their short slumber, but Lorik hoped they would linger over breakfast long enough that his attack would catch them unprepared.

He walked his horse forward slowly. He wanted the horse nearby in case he had to flee or ride someone down, but he couldn’t hold the reins and fight at the same time. Nor did he want the horse so close that the Norsik killed or maimed the animal. He might have been more efficient fighting from horseback, but he wanted the Norsik to see him with his axe, directly in their path.

He found a small shrub and tied his horse’s reins in a slip knot to the bush. He hoped that the animal didn’t get scared and rear or try to run away. The knot would hold, but he doubted that it would take much strength to uproot the small bush. Then he returned to the road and watched the eastern sky. It wasn’t long until the sky turned from dark purple to a pearly gray. It was hard to wait, like watching a pot of water on a fire that never seemed to boil. He was anxious to order the attack, but he knew he needed to wait until there was enough light for his volunteers to see. The sky was overcast once again, and the light that finally came was weak. There was a thick fog rolling toward the town from the east. The night had been cold, but Lorik had been too focused on the tasks at hand to notice.

He began to stomp his feet, squatting and standing, stretching his arms and shoulders. He rolled his head around and around on his neck, trying to loosen the cold, stiff joints and get blood flowing to his muscles. Then, at last, he decided it was time. The fog was fading, although it was still thick enough that he couldn’t see the Norsik camped not far away. The light had grown bright enough that he could see everything around him in a dull gray light. He lifted the horn to his lips, took a deep breath, then blew hard into the horn.

The horn bellowed a deep, reverberating note that seemed tangible as it rolled across the plain. Then Lorik heard hoofbeats, almost like thunder, as the horses rushed forward, their heavy hooves stamping hard onto the ground. He heard shouting and the frightened cries of the Norsik ahead of him. Then Lorik saw Frad’s group to his left. They were angling in, the young horseman in the lead. The other volunteers behind Frad didn’t look all that menacing to Lorik, but they had their weapons drawn and they were staying on their horses. Then he saw Rigar’s group angling in from his right. The timing was perfect. Frad’s group would hit and pass through, followed immediately by Rigar’s group.

Lorik wished he could see the raiders in their camp, but the fog was still too dense. He listened intently as Frad’s group crashed through the camp. If the Norsik had been bunched together with weapons drawn they could have held their own, but it sounded to Lorik like they were still milling about their makeshift camp. There were screams of pain, and the horses grunted as they kicked and trampled the raiders. Rigar’s group followed through the camp, and Lorik breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the horses didn’t slow, apparently meeting little resistance. Then after a long pause, he heard someone—a voice that rang with authority—shouting in the odd language of the Norsik. The commander of the raiding party was trying to get his warriors under control, and from what Lorik could hear, he was succeeding.

Then Stone’s squad struck from behind the camp. What little order the Norsik commander had mustered was lost as the horses smashed into the rear of the hastily assembled group. Stone’s horse trampled one raider, and then his sword decapitated the chief warrior. The other riders scattered the group, sending many running forward.

Lorik saw Stone come charging out of the fog, followed by a dozen Norsik raiders. Stone guided his horse toward Lorik’s and then slid out of the saddle.

“Is this where the action is?” he shouted, swapping his sword for his twin knives as he prepared for hand-to-hand fighting.

“It will be soon!” Lorik cried, feeling a thrill as his friend joined him on the road.

Lorik began to swing his big axe, both to loosen his muscles and to frighten the raiders. The three squads of volunteers were starting to return to the camp for another pass, and many of the raiders were rushing forward. One unfortunate raider was faster than his comrades. He ran straight for Lorik, who timed his overhead blow perfectly. It reminded Lorik of chopping wood: the heavy blade went up, grim and black and deadly against the gray sky, pausing for just an instant at the top of the arc, and then falling like lightning from the angry clouds above. The axe split the raider’s skull, coming in at a slight angle and cutting down from the left side of the man’s head and coming out at the bottom of his jaw on the right side. The raider fell, the severed part of his head bouncing and rolling away.

“Impressive!” Stone shouted.

Then they were in the thick of things. The raiders weren’t looking to fight; many didn’t even have weapons in their hands. They were running to get away from the horses, but Lorik and Stone had no intention of letting them escape. Lorik swung his massive battle axe like a farmer cutting wheat. Two fell as the blade sliced into their chests. It was a glancing blow, but close enough for the blade to grate against their ribs and sternum. They fell shrieking to the ground. Then Lorik swung from his left at another raider, who raised his arm to shield himself from the axe, only to have his arm severed just below the elbow. The man screamed as he watched his arm fly away from his body and blood began to fountain in the air in front of him; then he fainted and dropped to the ground.

Stone was spinning through his dance of death. He leaped from one man to the next, aiming precise strikes so that one knife slashed a raider’s throat while the other cut through a running man’s side causing massive injuries to his liver and kidney. Then he spun around and hamstrung a third man before popping up like a vengeful wraith in front of another man.

The fight happened so fast that it was over before Lorik stopped to catch his breath. Two raiders had gotten past him, but a group of volunteers were already racing toward Lorik in pursuit. Lorik and Stone fell back to their horses, which were becoming skittish from the smell of blood and the cries of agony. The fog was lifting as the sun rose in the east, and from the saddle Lorik could finally see the Norsik camp. Over half of the raiding party was either wounded or dead. Lorik saw some running to the east, and a larger group escaping to the north.

“Stay here and clean up this mess,” Lorik told Stone. “No quarter for this group.”

“You got it,” Stone said in a grim tone.

“Rigar, to me!” Lorik shouted.

Rigar was a slight man, but an excellent rider. His squad was still intact, and they rode out after Lorik. The ground was flat; the grass and weeds were short. The horses, filled with adrenaline, raced toward the fleeing group. Lorik looked over his shoulder and saw Rigar’s squad closing on him. They looked like children to Lorik—most were only in their late teens. But they had just fought in their first battle. They’d had every advantage and had done well, and now their wide-eyed looks had transformed into battle lust. They charged after the group of raiders with reckless abandon.

There were only eight Norsik, and they spread out when the thundering hooves behind them grew loud. Lorik easily cut down one raider with his big axe, the massive blade cutting into flesh, but the momentum of the heavy metal weapon sent the man flying with pulverized bones rather than cleaving him in two.

The other riders struck down five more. Most of the fallen were only wounded, but they were out of the fight. The last two raiders turned and slashed with their short swords at the nearest horse’s legs. It was a last-ditch effort, but effective just the same. The horse raced past them, its powerful legs knocking the blades out of the raiders’ hands. Still, there were nasty gashes on both of that horse’s forelegs.

One of the other riders trampled the raider on the right, while Lorik spun his horse around and used his axe like a lance on the other Norsik. Lorik took a moment to look up and saw with relief that the battle was over. It had all happened so fast, and he had been afraid of how the volunteers would respond to the fighting, but they had all conducted themselves admirably. They dismounted and walked the horses back toward the Norsik camp, where Stone was arriving with the rest of the volunteers to regroup.

When Lorik got there he found his men gathered around two of their own. Frad and Vestil lay side by side. They were dead, Frad from a wound in his thigh, Vestil from a broken back. Frad’s horse was on the ground not far away, but Vestil’s appeared to be fine. Lorik guessed that the sore and tired volunteer must have been thrown from the horse in an unfortunate accident.

“See to your horses,” Lorik said. “Make sure none of them come up lame.”

“Where are you going?” Stone asked.

“I’m riding into town. The people there need to know what happened. Then’ll we head back.”

“Are we going to ride those bastards down?” said one of the volunteers angrily.

“No, we don’t want to kill them all,” Lorik said. “We want them to run back to their friends and tell them what happened. We want all the Norsik to know that raiding into Ortis is a deadly business. We want them to remember how death rode down on them with the dawn.”

The volunteers shouted and cheered. Stone looked at Lorik with a nod. Lorik felt a grim sense of accomplishment as he looked around at the bodies of the fallen Norsik. He and his friends had won again, but he couldn’t help but wonder how long his luck would hold.

“Bury Frad and Vestil,” he said, and then turned his horse and rode back toward Timmons Gate.

Lorik didn’t have to travel far before running into a group of concerned and frightened townsfolk from Timmons Gate. The innkeeper, Brotas, was leading the group. He hurried to grab the bridle of Lorik’s horse while the big teamster dismounted.

“What is going on?” Brotas whispered.

“Everything is okay,” Lorik replied. Then he spoke in a louder voice so everyone could hear him. “Everything is okay, folks. We tracked a band of raiders heading this way, but we got the jump on them and they’re running home with their tail between their legs.”

There were a lot of questions. Lorik did his best to reassure the townspeople, but ultimately they wanted to see the carnage for themselves. Lorik led them back to where his volunteers were burying their fallen comrades.

“It looks like your tactics were effective,” Brotas said, as he gazed at the bodies of the fallen Norsik. Carrion birds were already circling overhead and the smell of blood was strong.

“We took them by surprise,” Lorik said. “They aren’t horsemen and they don’t wear armor, so we have some advantages. But ultimately we’ve got less than three dozen fighters here. We can’t be everywhere at once. We need more volunteers.”

“What can we do?” Brotas asked.

“Send word south. Tell the story of our victory, but emphasize our need for help.”

“We can do that,” the innkeeper said.

“Good, we’ve got to move back north. We’ll follow the survivors and make sure they cross the border.”

“You mean they might come back?”

“It’s always a possibility,” Lorik explained. “If not this band, then another might try to take Timmons Gate. You should prepare your people for any situation.”

“That’s what we supplied your people for,” Brotas said. “Why don’t you and your men come stay in town with us? I’ll even give your soldiers room and board for free.”

“We can’t do that,” Lorik said. “We’re here to help whenever we can, but there are more towns to help. We aren’t just the Timmons Gate guard.”

“But we gave you all those supplies,” Brotas argued. “You owe it to us.”

“I believe that debt is paid,” Lorik said, waving his arm at the dead bodies of the raiders. “I understand how you feel, but we have a larger obligation.”

“At least leave us a dozen men,” Brotas said. “That would be enough to give the town time to escape if we’re raided.”

“That’s one third of my entire force,” Lorik said. “I simply can’t do that. You’re going to have to fend for yourselves.”

“Then we want our horses back,” he said angrily. “And the supplies. Either you give me your word that you will protect our town or you return the things you took.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Lorik said, doing his best to hide his own anger. “There are people fighting and dying everyday along the border. If you want your horses back, you come get them. Until then, we’ll be using them to save your town and all the villages and settlements along the Wilderlands.”

Lorik signaled to Stone, who called out for the volunteers to mount up. They started moving north and Lorik climbed back up into the saddle of his horse. Then he looked down at Brotas, who was staring up defiantly.

“We’ll do our best to keep the Norsik away from Timmons Gate, but we can’t watch over your town every minute. You would be wise to take matters into your own hands.”

“You’re a thief!” Brotas shouted as Lorik began to ride away from the crowd. “What kind of man are you? Don’t turn your back on us. You owe us, Lorik. You owe Timmons Gate!”

The words echoed inside Lorik’s mind as he rode. He did, in fact, feel a sense of obligation to the people of Timmons Gate. He knew he had a greater responsibility, but he had met the townspeople, and he knew many of them by name. He wondered if he could really make much of a difference with just three dozen men. Perhaps he would be more effective just patrolling the area around Timmons Gate. It would certainly be easier than dealing with Constable Yorn. But he had to try and help wherever he could. He remembered the towns along the coast, some burned to the ground, others deserted or occupied by Norsik raiders. The threat to Ortis was much greater than just one town, and ultimately, if he didn’t curb the incursions by the Norsik, Timmons Gate would be surrounded and destroyed.