The Madness of Gods and Kings (19 page)

“Sneaky bastards,” he whispered to no one. Close to two hundred cavalry was barreling towards the redoubt and Harlan’s rebels. Two hundred heavily armed and angry, professional soldiers. Harlan didn’t stand a chance. Yet if he left he’d abandon Ingrid and Orlek to a fate worse than death.
Seems my timing is never right. My mother always told me not to try to be a hero. If she could only see me now
.

Knowing he couldn’t abandon his only true friends to the horrors of Harnin One Eye, Harlan hurried back to his line of archers. The time had come to shift focus and execute the second phase of his defense. He only prayed it worked enough to give those within the enemy fort enough time to escape.

“All of you, follow me quickly. Just as we rehearsed.” The urgency in his voice made them move faster.

Every third archer shifted and hurried to their alternate positions. He briefly contemplated bringing more but the attackers needed all the aid they could get. Harlan dashed to the front of the column and began placing archers where he thought they had the best chance of creating massive havoc. A quick glance confirmed the enemy cavalry was much closer and in great numbers.
There are times I wish I was wrong. This is one of them
.

Withholding the order to fire was among the hardest things he’d ever done, but firing now would only give away their position and prevent maximum damage. He only had one shot at halting the cavalry advance. One chance to help Orlek and Ingrid escape before the raid turned completely sour. He could hear the horses breathing. Smell their sweat. Each step closer made their riders more discernible. So close he could almost make out faces.

His heart began to pound. A series of hand signals made his archers nock and draw. Harlan struggled to keep his nerves from taking control. If just one should slip their hold and fire, the ambush would fail. Cavalry would divide and run the archers down without any casualties. With the burning walls of the redoubt in plain view, the cavalry broke into a charge. Hooves thundered over the fields. The clanging of armor jarred his bones. Harlan could feel tension building. They were so close.

Please don’t loose. Please don’t loose
. He could hear the battle raging behind him, though in whose favor remained to be seen. Harlan couldn’t concern himself over elements beyond his control. All he could do was wait helplessly until the cavalry struck the caltrop field. And strike they did. Horse and rider barreled unwittingly into the field. The lead ranks were crippled before pain registered fully. Panicking, several riders pulled their reins too hard and their mounts tipped.

The noise was deafening. Razor-sharp, wooden spikes dug into the horses and exposed sides of the riders. Men shouted desperate warnings to those following. Orders rang over the chaos for a halt. Soldiers milled about, suddenly unsure what to do. Many of their comrades were down and in grave pain. Horses struggled to rise. Harlan watched in mute dread. He’d never seen the like and, now that he had, never wanted to again. Reluctance didn’t prevent him from doing what needed to be done.

“Fire!” he roared.

Horses and men screamed as arrows drove deep into flesh. Dead men dropped from their saddles. Horses fell, blocking the road. Two hundred enemy soldiers were effectively stymied. Harlan ordered his archers to empty their quivers, knowing they didn’t have enough ammunition to kill all of the riders. It was a chance he had no choice but to take. Unfortunately the enemy commander wasn’t as slow to react as Harlan hoped.

The majority of cavalry began backing their mounts away to reform beyond arrow range. A tenth of their strength lay dead or wounded. Impressive for the lack of marksmanship among the rebels, Harlan led his people away while the enemy was still in disarray. His small band of rebels did the best they could do given their inexperience and lack of proper equipment. They’d given Orlek and the others the only chance they were going to get. It was with heavy heart he gave the order to retreat.

* * * * *

Inaella watched as a handful of rebels fought their way into the command building, clearly aiming to decapitate the Wolfsreik leadership.
More the fools
. Little did they know Jarrik was already dead. The coward swallowed a vial of poison after discovering Harnin’s plan for removing him from command. While she couldn’t agree with his actions, she recognized Harnin’s devious intent by sending Skaning. The younger lord’s ruthlessness was matched only by his lust for power. Men like that were dangerous. Too dangerous to trust. Yet as much as she wanted time to dedicate plotting his removal, Inaella knew she’d never get it.

Survival instincts kicked in. The redoubt was lost, though it was never meant to be permanent. She and Jarrik built it for the sole purpose of luring the rebellion in and crushing them. Too many soldiers had already been killed for her liking but soldiers were expendable assets. She wanted revenge. No amount of bloodshed was enough to compensate for her losses. The indignity suffered went far beyond emotional or physical scarring.

Firelight danced in her eyes. More soldiers and rebels fought and died as she watched. Inaella made no efforts to help. Instead she waited for her chance to flee back into the night. With a little good fortune the majority of rebel fighters would perish before dawn. She only hoped Ingrid managed to survive. That was the only person she truly wanted to watch the life flicker and fade from. Everyone else could burn.

Inaella slid out of her cloak and stole a weather-worn jacket from a dead rebel. The material was old and of poor quality. She began itching the moment she slid it on. Survival being more important than comfort, she ducked back into the darkness, what little remained, and hurried to get in the mass of people fleeing the redoubt. It was only after she blended in that she realized she lacked a weapon. The press of bodies forced her through the gap in the palisades before she had the opportunity to rectify her problem.

Away from the fires, the night was especially cold. Less than one hundred pounds, Inaella shivered uncontrollably. The plague ravaged her body, leaving her mere fragments of her former self. Whereas her body struggled to keep going day after day, her mind was sharp as a sword. It was her most important, and effective, weapon. She managed to escape with the others. Together they escaped to fight another day. Inaella used her inner hatred of Ingrid to keep her legs moving.

* * * * *

Boen snatched Ingrid roughly by the collar and forced her away from the engagement area. He still wasn’t sure what went wrong. Why the rebels were fleeing back into the night. The professional warrior in him recognized the ambush and found it a sound tactic. The rebellion had been using guerilla-style ambushes effectively since being forced from the capital city. Boen judged they’d met their match here.

The Gaimosian couldn’t help but feel at least partially responsible for the failure. He’d been the one to infiltrate enemy ranks. The one who provided the last raw, up-to-date intelligence of the situation before Ingrid made her decision. Unable to fight, Boen had but one option left. He was forced to watch and listen to the sounds of brave men and women fighting for their kingdom and their lives. Only when it appeared the end had come did he grab Ingrid and retreat.

She sputtered, protesting how she needed to be with her fighters. Share the same fate. He’d heard it a hundred times from those who view military failure as something personal. They all believed they needed to die beside their soldiers. He never understood that passion. No commander worth his salt would willingly lie down and die while he still had forces in the field. Forces that relied on him to carry them through the dismal aftermath just as the rebellion needed Ingrid. He resisted the urge to punch her between the eyes, settling for forcibly removing her from the field. Only when they were more than a kilometer away did he slow.

“Why did you do that?” Ingrid raged. Anger flushed her features. Her body trembled from the pent-up frustration threatening to break free.

Boen raised an eyebrow. “Do what? Save your life? Tell me what getting yourself killed would have accomplished?”

“That’s not the point! This was my idea. My attack. I should have stayed with….”

“You did exactly as you should have done by allowing me to drag you away,” Boen snapped back. “What do you think Orlek would say if he found you ignorantly trying to break into the kill zone while he was busy trying to save as many lives as possible? Are you mad?”

“Furious more like it,” she retorted.

Boen almost laughed. He admired her tenacity but such attitudes could easily be used against her. Ingrid was one of the toughest women he’d ever met, from any race, and might have made a good Gaimosian. The thought might have been inspiring if he wasn’t at least three decades older.

He grabbed her softly by the shoulders and pulled her close enough to see her face clearly. “Ingrid, listen to me. Whatever comes out of this raid, the rebellion is going to need you more than ever. There will be survivors, enough to keep up the fight. There will be losses as well. More than you are ready to reconcile with. Use this night to steel your resolve and keep up the war.”

“What for?” She gestured futilely back towards the redoubt. “We’ve lost.”

He shook his head. “No. The enemy may have ambushed us but we tore a mighty chunk out of their combat power. Harnin can’t keep funneling troops and resources into this rebellion, not with Badron rumored to be en route. You might have been stung but he is also at the breaking point. This is not the hour to wallow in lament.”

Reluctantly she agreed. They made their way back to the rendezvous point without another word. Boen’s thoughts were already beyond the ambush. He’d told Bahr to ride ahead, promising to meet up with them once he’d fulfilled his obligations to Ingrid. Satisfied he’d done all within his power, Boen mounted his horse and rode east with a final farewell. Ingrid and a handful of others watched him disappear into the night.

Aftermath

Bodies continued to trickle in over the course of the following day. Ingrid took heart with each small cluster of survivors. Some offered weary smiles or simple acknowledgment. They bore no ill will. The veterans who understood war knew there was no way for any commander of troops to plan for every contingency or anticipate how a battle will develop. Ingrid already planned on utilizing the veterans to buoy spirits and refocus the rebellion. She dreaded to think of the alternative.

Ingrid waited at the makeshift perimeter from dawn to dusk. She refused to leave for meals and only reluctantly to relieve herself. Her silent vow to remain until all of her people were accounted for gave her warmth as the day began to fade. All day and not a sign of anyone from Orlek’s command. She began to worry. Orlek had commanded five hundred rebels. Surely there was no legitimate way all had been butchered. Neither Jarrik nor Inaella were that cruel. Or so Ingrid hoped. With the massive levels of carnage she’d already witnessed in Delranan she’d be a fool to put it past them.

Many of the faces passing by were familiar though most weren’t. Regardless, she put on a brave show and offered encouraging words she didn’t particularly feel. Spirits had all but dissolved. The will to fight was soundly beaten from most of the eyes brave enough to look back at her.
It wasn’t this bad when we abandoned Chadra. I don’t know if I can carry on much longer. Each new challenge devours another part of my soul. How much more have I to give before I am nothing?

Her first good news came halfway through the afternoon. Riders came in bearing messages from Harlan. He’d suffered relatively few casualties and had been able to withdraw his command back to his camp without incident. The messenger went on to detail the engagement with the cavalry and Harlan’s discretionary retreat, making it clear that such acts weren’t even considered until the situation became too dire to stay in place. Ingrid might easily have blamed him for Orlek’s death. She didn’t. Harlan performed as any good field commander should and saved nearly all of his command.
They’ll provide the bulk of our combat power from here on. Perhaps I should cede control to him and fade away
?

Ingrid accepted the victory for what it was. Every warm body she had remaining to carry on the fight was a benefit she felt most grateful for. The rebellion, while suffering an indefinable defeat for the moment, was far from over. She hadn’t been foolish enough to commit all of her strength to the raid. Hundreds of able-bodied men and women waited in their predetermined positions for further orders. Her only fear came from what those fighters would do once word of the failed assault reached them.
No doubt Harnin’s forces are already spreading propaganda about our defeat. If only I had the strength as he
.

She thanked the messenger and, after giving him ample time to recover and eat, sent him back with a message of her own. Harlan needed to know that she was immobile until she had positive accountability of all of her fighters. Until then he was to continue executing small raids and ambushes to the north, if for no other reason than to draw Harnin’s eye away from the main base. If, and only if, Harlan deemed it safe, he was to send scouts back to the redoubt to gather fresh intelligence. The messenger saluted and rode off.

Alone again, Ingrid maintained her watch until well after dark. She only left after practically being forced away by guards claiming it wasn’t safe for her to be outside of the perimeter with so many enemy soldiers about. She reluctantly agreed and was escorted back to her quarters. Yet much troubled her mind and she found it difficult to take comfort in the rest. Frustrated, Ingrid gathered her cloak about her and headed towards the healing station. Wounded lay about small fires. Most had already been seen to and were trying to find some small measure of comfort in the warmth.

Her heart cried upon seeing so many friends hurt. Those who succumbed to their wounds were taken out of sight of the rest of the camp, to be buried when the snows melted and the ground thawed. The psychological trauma of sitting beside the corpse of a familiar face was well known to be demotivational amongst fighting forces. Ingrid pushed those dark thoughts from her mind, at least as far as she could, which wasn’t very, considering all she’d seen and done over the course of the last day, and tried making small talk with the wounded.

Many surprised her by being amiable to conversation. They laughed and joked, eager to be taken away from the pain they suffered. Others were morose, choosing to roll over rather than speak with her. Through it all Ingrid kept reminding herself it was nothing personal. They’d suffered extreme trauma and needed time to work through their emotions. She needed to believe that, if for no other reason than to remain convinced she was on the path of the righteous.

“Pardon, ma’am, but you’re needed at the perimeter,” a young rebel politely interrupted.

Ingrid looked up from the wounded woman she was speaking with. She had no desire to confront any new challenges or issues this night, but a leader’s work is never done. Excusing herself, she followed the rebel back to the camp entrance. Several guards were on duty. Others patrolled the perimeter at random intervals.

Greeting returning knots of fighters was proving tiresome but each new group buoyed her optimism. Each new face was one less the enemy managed to kill or capture, leading her to believe the disaster wasn’t nearly as complete as her mind imagined. She wanted to talk with the young man who’d come to escort her, but lacked the words. He was doing his job, she hers. The farther she walked the more she couldn’t shake the feeling he was up to something. The youth struggled to keep amusement from tainting his stern features. She sighed. Perhaps she was just too tired to think clearly. Either way, they reached the main entrance point to the camp. Her escort slowly dropped back, leaving Ingrid alone for the moment.

“I never thought the smell of sweat would make me feel welcome.”

Ingrid’s eye widened. Shock rippled through her body. There, standing before her, was the one man she’d been desperate to find. “Orlek!”

Ingrid ignored all vestiges of protocol and rushed forward. Her slender arms encircled his waist and she tipped her head back to kiss him fully on the lips with months of pent-up passion. Several fighters coughed or turned away to avoid embarrassment as Orlek slowly responded. Several long moments later they broke apart, slightly out of breath and flushed in face and heart.

“I worried you’d been killed,” she whispered breathlessly.

He could only shrug, though parts of a sheepish grin escaped. “For a while so did I.”

Ingrid noticed the thick blood staining his leg and the bandages swathed over it. More than one had lost limbs this night, enough she immediately feared the worst.

Catching the look in her eyes, Orlek said, “It’s not as bad as it seems. Cut me good but I’m not going to lose the leg. At least that’s what my surgeon’s been able to deduce while we traveled back.”

So many emotions she’d repressed flooded through her. Love. Yes, finally love won through all of the rage, hate, and despair. Pieces began to fall into place. Holes were filled. Her life took on new meaning. She had something worth fighting for once again. Determination warmed her nearly as much as her admitted love for Orlek. The war would continue. Victories and losses edging each other in a mad dash to the final battle. The war could wait for one night. Tonight she intended on taking Orlek back to her tent and doing what she denied wanting for so long. Tomorrow was another matter.

“Dead?”

Ingrid couldn’t believe the news. Jarrik had been one of Harnin’s staunchest supporters, even before Badron left for the east. She couldn’t imagine one of the senior-ranking nobles in Delranan willingly killing himself, especially not with victory still a very real outcome. Events must have taken a considerable turn for the worse.

“Yes, but we didn’t do it. He was already that way when we found him,” Orlek continued his recounting. “After I got stabbed I managed to drag myself inside the command building. I have to tell you, most of it was just a frame. The walls were incomplete and there were no furnishings except in his office. Some of the lads had already broken through the interior guards and were breaking down the door by the time I arrived. We charged in, hoping to take him alive so we had a bargaining chip once the rest of the Wolfsreik finished mopping up outside.”

She winced at his callousness. Relegating so many lives into bare statistics seemed cruel. She felt it was much too soon to be leaders.

Orlek cleared his throat, a mild attempt at easing any perceived tension. “Jarrik was sitting at his desk. His head was tilted back. Foam and spittle ran down his chin. His eyes were glazed over. The body was already cooling by the time I checked for a pulse. Didn’t have a wound on it.”

Ingrid hung her head as she tried deciphering the riddle. Clearly he’d taken poison, but why? “What you say doesn’t make any sense. Jarrik was one of the few nobles remaining with allegiance to Harnin. He wouldn’t knowingly take his own life.”

“Not unless he had a damned good reason to,” Orlek added. “I don’t think all is well in our enemy’s camp, Ingrid. Cracks are forming.”

“Yet we’re not in a position to take advantage of it,” she replied. “I ordered Harlan to send scouts back to the redoubt to give us a better idea of how much damage was done. With any luck they’ll be able to sneak in and out without being seen.”

“I don’t think that will be much of a problem,” Orlek answered. “From what I saw the majority of Wolfsreik abandoned what remained shortly after we managed to escape. The body count was high on both sides, though there’s no accurate way to assess enemy casualties. I’d estimate our losses at close to two hundred dead. Maybe twice that wounded.”

Five hundred! So many and for what? The Wolfsreik remained in control of the area, regardless of whatever losses they suffered. I’ve led my people to slaughter. We can’t sustain another battle of that magnitude
.

“It would have been more if not for Harlan’s quick thinking. I can’t say for certain what he did, but he managed to keep the bulk of their cavalry from striking us when we were most vulnerable,” Orlek said upon seeing dejection in her face. “They bloodied our nose but we took out a healthy chunk of flesh as well. This battle wasn’t as lopsided as you seem to think.”

“Perhaps you should have led with that?”

His grinned defused her rising tension. “I thought that kiss was a perfect opening.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she snapped. “At least not in front of the men.”

His laughter was soft, contradictory to his rough exterior. Orlek wasn’t an easygoing man. Life had been hard from an early age, continuing to worsen as the years fled. He’d loved and lost. Suffered and celebrated. Through it all he followed one mantra: live for now. Tomorrow might not come. Until now it seemed like the only way. Ingrid’s warmth thawed him in ways he never imagined possible.

“We’re not in front of the men now,” he said.

Ingrid looked around coyly. “No. No we’re not.”

He leaned in for another kiss.

* * * * *

Ash drifted down like troubled rain. Fires still burned throughout the redoubt, or rather what remained. Most of the interior structures were char-blackened shells of their intended purpose. Bodies littered the courtyard. Most wore Wolfsreik uniforms but there were enough rebels to satisfy Skaning. The dark-haired lord of Delranan strode through his new command with the arrogance of one who’d never been in a heated battle before.

He found the term amusing given the waves of intense heat choking the area. Soldiers and mercenaries moved about. Most carried bodies to the mass grave being established within what had been the stables. The smell of cooked horse flesh choked him. Skaning wrapped an old scarf around his nose and mouth. Several soldiers tried, and failed, to conceal their looks of disdain as he passed by. They’d been fighting the rebellion for months. Most had seen friends die and were well versed in the art of death. A tragedy for ones still so youthful.

Skaning ignored them. He didn’t care what they thought of him. He was a lord of Delranan, answerable only to Harnin One Eye. The rest of the world could burn for all he cared. His boots, once polished immaculately for life in Chadra Keep, were soot stained. Bits of gore and blood clung to them like parasites. He’d only killed one last night: a woman unfortunate enough to get trampled by his horse before he stabbed her to death. The death invigorated him in ways he’d nearly forgotten. Killing in duels and through the subterfuge gripping the capital city was another matter altogether.

“Lord Skaning, it’s Jarrik,” one of the scar-faced mercenaries told him without flourish.

Irritated by being disturbed, Skaning asked, “What of him?”

He couldn’t believe his former friend had stayed. Jarrik was given a way out. He could have disappeared into the south, never to be seen or cared about again. Life wouldn’t have been as kind to him as in the courts of Delranan but it was still life. A man could make anything out of nothing if he put his mind to it. Jarrik had been given a new start. So why hadn’t he taken it?

“Dead,” the mercenary answered nonchalantly. The scruff of his beard was salt and pepper, blending in with the background. An indifferent look seemed to pass between all of the mercenaries.