Rise of the Blood Masters (Book 5) (17 page)

At the end of the month, there were several days of fog, followed by heavy rain. The ground outside the mountain turned into a muddy soup and the training camps were full of misery. But still, the training continued unabated, week after week.

When the skies cleared and the sun broke through, the orcs came into view. Clearly visible from afar, the armies looked like an immense green serpent slithering toward Mount Velik.

At the back of the horde were supply carts filled with livestock, likely stolen from the small villages that were scattered across the plains. As Sela had predicted, mounted drask led the infantry. She sounded the alarm and sent word to all the clans that Mount Velik would be under attack within days.

The training camp was dismantled, and the dwarf soldiers withdrew inside the mountain. Watchmen took up their posts on the ramparts. Women and children moved into deeper caves for safety. Ironically, the same caves that the Vardmiters occupied before they left.

There was only one main gate outside the mountain, but there were several secret entrances that were much smaller. Soldiers were stationed at the smaller entrances, too, in order to make sure no orcs snuck inside.

The main gate was reinforced with warding spells. Heavy iron bars were welded on the inside. Goats and other livestock were collected into pens inside the mountain.

The dragon riders now alternated patrols, scouting the horde’s progress day and night. The unbearable stench from thousands of unwashed bodies wafted through the air and made flying downwind from the horde almost unbearable. Orcs did not bathe, and their muscled green bodies were smeared with rancid animal fat.

Flying on their dragons, Sela and Elias watched the orcs march down into the shallow valley outside Mount Velik. The enemy trudged steadily forward.

Skemtun stood outside and looked out into the distance. He drew a deep, tired breath. He was scared, for himself, and for his people.

Were they ready? Were they strong enough to survive the impending battle? Had they the strength to endure to the end?

The Horde

              Baltas' nostrils flared. He marched down the line of trembling soldiers, barking orders, admonishing the men to look sharp. He was in charge of all the troops now, including the archers.

The dwarf council had pushed for someone younger, but Baltas had more experience than anyone else. He would lead their soldiers well in this fight, if they could overcome their fear.

“Keep your chin up, lads!” Baltas cried encouragingly. The men did their best to comply. “We’re here to fight, fight, fight!”

Skemtun followed the grizzled drill instructor as he made his rounds, checking the troops for fitness. Most of the soldiers looked so young, and their fighting skills weren’t very good. Training had started as soon as they found out that the orcs were coming, but the dwarves had precious little time to prepare. All the troops needed work.

Skemtun had fought against the orcs when he was younger, back when his beard was still dark and his hands weren’t knotted with age. He still vividly remembered the fighting; the feeling of triumph when they finally won. The whole experience seemed so long ago, but it felt good to step inside that place again and remember.

The troops spent long days practicing swordplay and other skills. Skemtun offered support where he could. Sometimes he threw himself into the drills, hurling practice blows, jumping over ropes, and fighting with wooden weapons. In reality, he wasn’t much of a fighter, but he did his best to keep up, and he never complained. He wanted the troops to see him, to know that he was running the gauntlet as they were. He tried to inspire the younger men, to spur them along. The younger ones were the most eager to learn. 

Skemtun was still a clan leader, after all. All the troops tried to impress him, even those from other clans. When Skemtun was around, they grunted louder and ran faster, showing off their newly-acquired combat skills. He encouraged them to do more for themselves.

We don’t have much time to prepare, and the odds are stacked against us… but at least my presence seems to boost their morale.

After those training days, Skemtun dragged his aching body home and soaked his limbs in the hottest water he could tolerate. The following morning, he could barely move. But he managed it, and always came back to the training camp the next day. It all felt good in a way, despite the pain. It helped distract him from the terrible reality they were facing.

They needed more. More supplies. More catapults. More arrows. More vats of boiling oil. More of everything.

All sorts of necessary equipment were in short supply. Worst of all, they didn’t have enough soldiers. They were especially short on trained archers. The archers were their first line of defense. What good are a thousand bows if you don’t have archers to shoot them?

Kathir had been right about everything. Their kingdom was unprepared for war. It showed in their meager supplies, their frightened troops. And now it was too late to do anything about it, too late to train more soldiers.

All the dwarves wore solid plate armor with chain mail underneath. At least they had that. The armor was heavy, cumbersome, but it was worth it.
Good armor saves lives.

Skemtun thought about Kathir and recalled their conversation on that fateful day, weeks ago. It was so difficult to think about.

Kathir had popped into his life and brought with him an avalanche of bad news. How very long ago it seemed. He remembered their exchange verbatim, remembered his own denial of the looming crisis and the impending war, how he’d disregarded those fateful warnings. Unfortunately, everything Kathir predicted had come true. Their king had died, and the orcs had begun their war march, but it wasn’t until Sela arrived in a panic that they knew the orcs were coming.

“I should ‘a listened to Kathir,” Skemtun muttered to himself. “We would’ve had more time to prepare. My stupid pride got the best o’ me, and we’ve lost precious days because o’ my stubbornness. Now time is on our heels.”

To his credit, Kathir never brought up the subject again. He didn’t try to make Skemtun feel guilty about ignoring his warnings. Kathir simply took up his position as bodyguard and followed Skemtun around the mountain. With an understanding that he would be notified as soon as the assault began, Kathir went into the dwarf caverns to help the others gather some final provisions.

Kathir had been right about the Vardmiters as well. Mount Velik needed their numbers, if only as support for the troops. But worst of all, the Vardmiters were now safe from the orcs—the orcs weren’t going to attack Highport Mountain.

The Highport caves simply did not interest the orcs. And who could blame them? The Highport caverns were a terrible place to live—poorly designed, dark, damp, and so cold that ice often formed inside the caves at night.

Just weeks ago, he had asked himself why anyone would want to live there. Now he knew differently. The Vardmiters were secure in their new stronghold, while his clan would be fighting for their lives at Mount Velik. Once again, it seemed that the Vardmiters would have the last laugh.

Our entire kingdom is in jeopardy. They should be here, helping us fight!

“If only,” he had pondered countless times, “if only the Vardmiters hadn’t left when they did, we’d have more men, more supplies…” How many times had he agonized over the same thing in the last few days? Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the thoughts from echoing in his mind. The constant anxiety chipped away at his confidence. 

He stopped and stared blankly into the distance. It just wasn’t fair.

Baltas turned and barked at him. “Why are ye starin’ off into space? Are ye daydreamin’?”

Baltas was still trooping up and down the line shouting orders, and Skemtun realized he had slipped away into his thoughts... again. Skemtun breathed in sharply, trying to clear his head. “Sorry, I drifted off there for a bit.”

“Well, pay attention and stay alert. Are ye comin’ along, or not?” Baltas demanded after a pause.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” Skemtun huffed, jogging forward to catch up with Baltas.

“Hurry up, now. We’ve got a lot o’ work to do today. It’s time to pack up the gear and get ready.” Two short blasts on a war horn signaled that it was time to break camp. Everyone scrambled to transport everything inside.

The dragon riders had given them an early warning. The first wave of orc troops was less than a day’s march away. Skemtun squinted. He could just make out quivering trees in the distance. Somewhere in the forest, a tree fell with a crash, sending frightened birds flying up around it. They were out there, somewhere, moving and hiding in the trees. The beating of war drums was now clearly audible; a constant hammering that shook the dwarves’ resolve.

Black dust rose up around them as they marched forward. The orcs trudged over the land with hunched backs, their weapons dragging behind them. They didn’t march in a straight line like dwarves or men, but in jumbled clusters.

The horde gathered just outside the tree line and waited there. What he saw in the distance was a mere fraction of what lay in the trees. They teemed at the forest’s edge like a giant ball of maggots. Skemtun shook his head and groaned. The dragon riders had warned them that the orcs’ numbers were deceiving. Behind the horde, a great swath of forest burned with greasy black smoke.

Within a short while, the orcs would be standing before their gates, surrounding Mount Velik with their foul presence. The orcs were out there, moving towards them. They were out for blood. The orcs wouldn’t stop until Mount Velik was captured.

It’s either us… or them.

The two dragon riders, Sela Matu and Elias Dorgumir, patrolled the skies. They observed the horde as it traveled across the plains, burning everything in its path. Both dragon riders had been reporting information to the dwarves for several weeks. The news wasn’t good, and it seemed to get worse every day. Trying to estimate the orcs’ numbers was nearly impossible. The first count was ten thousand enemy troops.  That seemed implausible at the time, but still manageable. Then, the number rose to fifteen thousand. Last night, Sela told them there could be as many as twenty thousand orc troops. That didn’t even include the drask.

Sela and her red dragon Brinsop patrolled the west. Elias and his white dragon Nydeired patrolled the forests outside Mount Velik. Just yesterday, Nydeired had found and killed an orc scout.

While the orcs’ numbers swelled, the number of dwarf troops remained the same. Their small contingent of soldiers, barely three thousand men, would have to be enough. There simply weren’t any more men. All the women, children, and the elderly were moved into a deep cavern in the mountain, which had a secret passageway outside… if it came to that.

Skemtun sighed and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Along the walls, young soldiers tended to fires that blazed under vats of boiling oil. The soldiers stirred the oil and kept it hot.

Two dwarf spellcasters set protective wards behind the lines. There were four remaining dwarf spellcasters, and they had been ordered into the caverns below to protect the women and children. If the mountain was breached, those spellcasters would use protection spells to get the rest of the people to safety.

Skemtun hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. He stopped to shake hands with a friend, speaking briefly to the man. A throng pressed around him good-naturedly, each man wanting to shake hands or share stories.

The ranks of soldiers stiffened to attention as Baltas trotted along the wall, doing his final check of their defenses.

Then Baltas stopped in front of a young dwarf who was crouching down, his hands on his knees. Grabbing his chain mail, Baltas wrenched him upright. Baltas’ forehead wrinkled unhappily as he looked into the young dwarf’s terrified eyes. “What’s wrong, whelp? Are ye goin’ to be sick?”

The dwarf was young, barely twenty seasons old. His pallor was ashen, and his eyes were red-rimmed from crying. “No, sir. Nothin’ wrong at all.” He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“Don’t look like nothin’ to me. Why’re ye blubberin’? Be strong my boy!”

The soldier hiccupped and didn’t respond. The words of encouragement didn’t seem to help.

Skemtun stepped toward him and placed his hands on the young dwarf’s shoulders. “Look, laddie, it’s all right to be scared. Sometimes I’m scared, too. But no matter what happens, remember Mount Velik needs ye.”  The young man sniffed and nodded, but he looked even more miserable than before.

Skemtun glanced down at the ground and slowly shook his head. “Wait, forget that. Forget about Mount Velik.”

Baltas leaned forward, his tiny pebble eyes scrunched up. “Eh? What are ye playin’ at?” he demanded in a furious whisper. “Have ye lost yer marbles?”

Skemtun silenced Baltas with a wave of the hand. “Tell me, son, which clan are ye from?”

“I’m from
Klorra-Kanna
, sir,” the boy explained in a halting voice. “I… I volunteered to fight.”

Skemtun tried not to make a rude face.
Ugh, Klorra-Kanna…Bolrakei’s clan.
But he’s just a boy, and he’s afraid like all the others. Maybe clan loyalties don’t matter so much, especially at a time like this. 

Skemtun held up his hand. “Just give me a minute. Look, forget yer clan, too. Don’t fight for them. I don’t care what ye’ve been told by other folks.  None o’ that matters now.”

“Then…then what are we fighting for?” asked the young soldier.

Skemtun’s voice rose. He spoke loud enough for the crowd around him to hear. “Do not fight for our kingdom, or even for yer clan.” He paused. Every head was turned, their eyes trained on him. “Nay! Fight for yer mother!  For yer father! Fight for the ones ye love and for what ye believe in! Never give up!” he shouted.

A circle of bright-eyed dwarves surrounded him.

Skemtun hopped on top of a crate so everyone could see him. He stood tall and raised his arms. “I’m speakin’ to ye today, not as a clan leader, but as a brother and friend! We’re all part of the same family!”