The Powterosian War (Book 5) (13 page)

“Another two gold coins if you will lead us through the tunnel and into the palace.” The servant looked at his coins and nodded agreement through his gleaming eyes and beaming smile.

Several men split up to search for the stream with suds suggesting a laundry. It was the servant with the colonel that found it. They soon discovered the tunnel opening hidden on a rocky slope nearby behind oddly out of place bushes.

That night a raiding party slipped into the tunnel and up the cool, moldy shaft. They waited until late at night when the laundry was likely unoccupied and pushed back the great wall cupboard that held the clean laundry. Slipping into the palace and with the servant leading, they found numerous subterranean rooms with wooden beams. There was enough litter they pulled together to create a good fire. They set fires, backtracking to the laundry and escaped with half a dozen storage rooms afire. Again out of the tunnel and heading back to the queen’s camp, they first noted smoke billowing out over the walls. Then the general alarm went up in the castilyernov. Bells rang, shattering the sleeping silence! Yelling spread with the silvery white smoke that swirled up against the night sky. Flames burst through tower windows, then an inferno engulfed Prertsten Palace.

“Look there,” Dagmar said to the colonel. “They think the city is taken. See those people escaping, rushing out the gate. The soldiers are abandoning the walls too.”

“Some will make their way to Pindradese and tell him the enemy burned his palace,” the colonel said.

“Kneel,” Dagmar said to the colonel. The man looked perplexed but did as commanded. Dagmar took out her sword.

“For meritorious valor rendered in your sovereign’s cause, I raise your rank to General of Sengenwha,” she said and tapped the man on his shoulders as if knighting him. The general rose, visibly shocked at his good fortune. “Now prepare to return to Sengenwha in two days.”

“Why two days, Majesty?”

“We must allow enough time for the escapees to get to Pindradese with the news of the city’s collapse before we retreat. We want the prince to come running to save what he can.”

“As you say, Majesty,” the general said. He left to prepare the troops for the appearance of siege and attack, and for packing for a hasty return to Botahar.

* * *

Dreaddrac’s king was raving in his workroom, screaming that Tarquak would suffer eternal fires for his failure to take Botahar. Sweating, Smegdor stayed just beyond the room’s door. Tucked behind the wall to avoid being hit by the items thrown and smashing against the walls, he watched the rampage. A sudden tap on the shoulder shocked the jumpy assistant whose every nerve was tense in anticipation of a summons to the mad sorcerer’s presence.

“What is it?” Smegdor demanded of the ogre standing behind him. The ogre said nothing, his face blank, but his oafish, black-clawed hand held up a message, crumpled and dirty, its seal still intact. As Smegdor took the dispatch, the ogre pointed into the room around the corner and quickly retreated without a word spoken. Smegdor stared at the missive. He dreaded the thought of disturbing the king while he raged.

Who knows if the news was good or bad? He wondered. If it’s bad news, I might not make it out of the room. The king is notorious for torturing bearers of bad news. If I withhold it, his anger will be greater.

Trembling, Smegdor knocked on the door frame and waited for permission to enter, not sure he wanted to hear it.

“What is it?” the deep voice snapped.

Smegdor said nothing, but entered the room slowly, advancing to the sorcerer with the message held out before him as if a white cloth to surrender. When the Dark Lord snatched it, his assistant turned to flee before the king could open the message and the room possibly explode with flying debris.

“Get back here.”

Smegdor froze and turned slowly. He glanced at the rabid look on the king’s face, then dropped his head as he walked back like going to the gallows. He heard the message rip open and the wax seal fly against the wall. There was silence that froze time while the king read the communication.

“Well, well,” the king said, “finally some good news.”

Smegdor looked up. The king glared at him, shaking the message. Smegdor dared not ask what the news was. If the king wanted to share, he’d do so at his own choice of time.

“Aren’t you going to ask what the news is?”

“What would that be, Your Magnificence,” Smegdor said, keeping his head down at a submissive angle.

“That stupid ogre general I quartered in Prertsten claims to have destroyed Heggolstockin. Of course, it’s the goblin general who must have masterminded the victory. That stupid ogre could never have thought out a successful attack, but he does claim the victory.”

“I thought the goblin failed to take Girdane?” Smegdor let slip before he thought about his foolishness.

“Well, the goblin is an idiot too, but he has more sense than the ogre. It’s a wonder either of them can put on their cloaks without help.” The king laughed.

Smegdor breathed again.

“So Heggolstockin is mine,” the sorcerer said. He walked to his work table and with the sweep of his arm cleared the debris from it. He snatched a map from the floor and rolled it out on the table top.

“Has Feldrik fallen too?” Smegdor asked. The king glared at him; the victorious grin from the moment before was gone.

“No, Feldrik hasn’t fallen, but they can do nothing as Pindradese has that obstacle pinned down and neutralized. He’d better take the fortress soon or he’ll cease to exist. Send orders to the generals at Heggolstockin to march south and seize Girdane, and this time, no mistakes. Now get out.”

Without looking up, the Dark Lord pulled a document from the drawer, looking over it with a sinister smirk and mumbled, “Powerful or insignificant, men succumb to greed as no other beings.” He chuckled to himself rereading the contents.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that well,” Smegdor said, though he did. That’s the message that arrived yesterday from the south, Smegdor thought. What could that mean?

Get out!” the king said, looking up.

Smegdor turned and dashed back behind the door facing. It doesn’t bode well for mankind.

* * *

Prince Pindradese sat on his field throne raised on a dais which seemed strangely out of place in a tent, but his august highness insisted on displaying his high status before the generals. The generals stood before the prince with the plan he’d demanded the night before, though their wrinkled uniforms and dark-circled eyes suggested more exhaustion than a great plan.

“And what have you to propose to us?” Pindradese said, selecting a fruit from the elegant porcelain bowl held high by a crouched servant. “This had better be good. Your lives will likely depend on it.”

“Your Highness,” the senior general said, stepping forward. “We’ve not the manpower to overrun Feldrik’s walls, as you know…”

“Yes, yes, we know that; get to the point, what do you propose?”

“Feldrik is built on the sandy soil laid down by the swamp before the land broke and the flood created the Akkin,” the general said.

“Mud, you propose throwing mud at the fortress?” Pindradese interrupted, sitting up and throwing the fruit at the tent wall.

“If your highness will permit me to finish.”

“Get to the point.”

“The foundation on which Feldrik is built isn’t stable. If we divert the river and flood the plain on which the fortress is built, we believe the walls will crumble and we need but walk in and take it after draining the waters.”

Pindradese sat forward staring at the general. He jumped up and walked to the man, glared at him, then at the other generals in turn. The least experienced general at the end of the line gripped his sword hilt, his knuckles white. Pindradese sensed their tension and that perhaps he’d pushed them too far. He returned to his throne.

“And this idea, flooding the plain, this will work? So say you all?”

The generals looked at each other and the prince, nodding agreement.

“How long will this operation take? Dreaddrac’s king has expressed displeasure with your failure to take Feldrik by now. He’s not a man of patience, as I am. His patience won’t last much longer. How long will it take to damn the Akkin?”

“We were thinking of building a dyke along the river and digging a canal from the Edros Swamp to the plain to flood the grounds around the fortress walls.”

“Yes, yes, that will be faster,” Pindradese said, selecting another fruit and offering none to the generals. “Get to it immediately. That will be all.”

The generals left, passing Demonica rushing into the tent.

“What has happened at Heggolstockin?” Demonica asked.

Seated on his throne, Pindradese munched a succulent fruit without responding. The servant with the platter of delicacies came forward, bowed his head to the lady and offered the culinary delights. She waved him away and he left the tent at once.

“Why nothing has happened, My Lady. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“But I know I saw a rider galloping in from the south last night. You didn’t come to my tent and tell me what the news was. You did promise my parents would be spared.”

“No news yet, my lady. Be patient.” Pindradese tossed the fruit peel toward a receptacle, missing deliberately and pointed to it. He glared at a guard who picked it up and dropped it in the trash container. “Now, if that is all you wanted, you must excuse me, I have a great deal to do in preparation for the final destruction of your castilyernov.”

Demonica stamped her foot and left the tent.

Pindradese smiled. All is going well now, he thought. He motioned for a servant to bring him a box from the travel desk. As the man held the heavy oak chest with the top opened, the prince took out the document on top. He reread it, smiling. Heggolstockin is finished, the population killed or scattered. The duke and duchess dead on the throne dais, killed personally by the ogre general who sent the message. The Dark Lord would never have spared the duke and duchess. Why should I? He returned the document to the chest and turned the key in the lock. Now she has no where to turn but to me.

*

Demonica passed the first of the prisoners being dragged, stumbling behind the few orcs returning from Heggolstockin some days later. At first she didn’t recognize them: defeated, dirty, and despondent.

“Lady Demonica!” someone shouted. As she turned, an orc smashed his sword hilt against the woman’s cheek, knocking out teeth and causing the woman to fall to her knees with blood dripping from her mouth.

“No talk,” the orc said.

Demonica rushed over to the woman. She’d been a servant in the palace and Demonica recognized her.

“Hold your sword,” Demonica told the orc who backed away from Prince Pindradese’s woman. Demonica helped the former servant to stand up. “What news of Heggolstockin? Pindradese said the city still holds off the orcs. Why are you here?”

“My lady,” the jittery former servant said. Weeping, she glanced at the orc, then raised her tattered and muddy apron to wipe tears from her eyes, then the blood from her mouth. Her face scrunched in a sneer. “Them orcs and ogres have destroyed the city, killed or taken the people prisoner, and not many prisoners I can tell you.”

“My parents, the duke and duchess, what of them?” Demonica asked, gripping the woman’s wrists.

The woman looked Demonica squarely in the face and hesitated for a moment as if studying the person before her for the first time. Demonica shook her.

“That ogre general killed them both as they stood before their thrones,” the woman said, her piercing glare chilling Demonica with accusation.

Demonica released the trembling wrists. She staggered backward.

The orc motioned the woman forward with his sword to join the rest of the prisoners, huddling in a mass awaiting direction. The woman moved off, her boots sticking in the muddy road. The rhythmic suction sounds rang like hideous heartbeats.

“What have I done?” Demonica said to herself. Shocked at seeing herself and the consequences of her actions, she wrapped her arms tightly around her chest and stumbled to her tent, barely able to stand.

From his command post in Castilyernov Fortresska, overlooking the great Olnak harbor, Admiral Agros watched the daily fleet activities. The trireme navy sat anchored below at the mouth of the harbor’s entrance. Observers sent up the Sengenwhan coast had sent word that the enemy fleet was sailing down the Tixosian Sea. It was now only two days from Olnak. He’d ordered his fleet provisioned, the sailors back to duty, all preparations for battle completed, and the ships prepared to sail with the tide on command. The admiral ordered all civilian shipping to make sail two days before. The last ships had left on the evening high tide the day before. The civilian population he ordered to move inland, if possible. All merchants were to empty their warehouses, moving any food or supplies potentially useful to the enemy upriver to Hyemka in case things went badly at Olnak. Fortresska’s garrison was likewise provisioned with food and armaments for a siege should Admiral Agros fail to destroy the Dreaddrac fleet. The observer reported slightly more than two hundred biremes and triremes coming to the attack. Agros had two hundred and fifty Neuyokkasinian and Sengenwhan ships with which to engage the Dreaddrac fleet.

“They’ll be exhausted from such a long trip and their provisions will be low,” Agros said to an aide. “Regrettably, the civilian report doesn’t specify how many of the ships are supply ships and transports versus warships, but at least we have a rough picture of what we’re up against. This won’t be as easy as the battle when the enemy was transporting rock-dwarves and armaments. This time they come to attack not defend.”

“Will the Tixosian fleet come to our aid?” the aide asked.

“The Tixosian king always stays neutral, I’m afraid. His navy is too small to repel the Dreaddrac fleet and they fear antagonizing the Dark Lord by getting involved.”

“If the war goes badly for Neuyokkasin and the Dark Lord conquers the peninsula, he’ll crush Tixos as well. Alone they stand no chance.”

“Yes, but for now Tixos will remain neutral, watching how the war goes. At least we have the Sengenwhan fleet with us.”

“Admiral, what’s your take on this?” Agros asked the Sengenwhan admiral. “Does the battle plan remain as we fixed it two days ago?”

“It stands, Admiral.” The Sengenwhan responded.

“Then take your Sengenwhan ships south, as agreed, on the evening tide. Make a show if it. With luck, the enemy has spies watching our movements,” Agros said. “Anchor out of sight in the shelter of the great cliffs just south of Olnak and await our signal to attack.”

“Done, and the best of luck to you.” The Sengenwhan picked up his baton of office and his plumed helmet. Saluting, he departed for his flagship, anchored below at Fortresska’s dock.

That evening the Sengenwhan fleet rowed out of the harbor, raising sails as they turned south. Neuyokkasinian ships rowed across the harbor, sealing it with two lines of broadside triremes. A fleet of fifty ships had sailed north that night as well to engage the enemy and make him expend their arsenal out at sea where both fleets could maneuver. Agros planned to stay just out of range of the enemy catapults, sailing around the ships to wear down the enemy. After several hours of battle, he’d run with the wind back to Olnak, as if retreating.

The advance fleet sighted Dreaddrac’s sails the following day, sailing in tight formation in choppy waters. The enemy fleet had the advantage of the northerly winds behind them. Cold salt spray splashed in Agros’ face as the rowers strained to move the great flagship forward. The faster, more maneuverable biremes tacked back and forth into the wind, taunting the enemy. The rowers would be needed to maneuver their smaller ships in circles around the enemy triremes that had merely to sail on south with the wind.

“Have the rowers rest. We’ll tack until we come within range,” Agros ordered and the message was sent to the fleet. “Remind the captains the objective today is to wear down the enemy, not to engage him. We cannot afford to lose ships at this point. Let’s hope we can provoke the enemy into attacking us here. If they ignore us and continue south, Olnak will be in greater danger.”

His aide left to arrange the signals for the fleet. The rhythmic sound of the oars stopped, the sails were reset; the fleet moved to the leeward. The enemy fleet maintained its course south toward Olnak.

“See the rear transports; they ride high. The enemy must be low on provisions.” Agros pointed to the ships at the back of the fleet. “Their admiral didn’t learn much from the experience off Tixos. There’re more troop transports than I expected. The heavily laden ones in the center will be carrying an army to wrest control of Fortresska and hold Olnak. So, the enemy goal is not to control the sea lanes but to seize control of the Nhy. We must attack the fleet in such a way as to make them disperse and expose those transports. More than to disable their war fleet, our new goal is to sink those transports before they can land that army.”

“What of the Sengenwhan fleet?” the aide said. “They lay in wait to attack the enemy from the rear in a sea battle.”

“Send our fastest ship to the Sengenwhan admiral telling him to advance at once and attack the transports. And order out the rest of our fleet held in reserve in the harbor. We must bring the enemy to battle on the open sea. The transports must not make landfall.”

“Signal the fleet to sail starboard and attack. Draw off the triremes and expose the transports.”

“Should we wait for the rest of the fleet to engage the enemy?”

“No time for that. We must break their formation and create chaos now so the enemy will be exposed when the rest of the fleet arrives.”

At the rear of the advance fleet, a small ship sailed fast before the wind to call out the remaining Neuyokkasinian fleet ships, and then on to bring the Sengenwhan fleet to engage the enemy before they reached Olnak.

Agros stroked his beard as he watched the ship sail off. The advance Neuyokkasinian fleet turned, following the admiral’s flagship. Sails snapped catching the wind. The great warships lurched forward and sailed southeast across the bows of the enemy ships. In the choppy seas, amid the whitecaps and froth from plowing ship prows, the Neuyokkasinian fleet split in two. Half attacked the enemy’s lead vessels, the other half attacking the vessels at the rear defending the transports. The enemy formation ignored the provocation. It tightened, protecting the transports, and continued on course and with all speed for Olnak.

“They’ll make Olnak at nightfall,” the admiral’s aide said.

“He doesn’t want to engage. He’s been ordered to land his troops and not engage us where he could lose ships, transport ships. We must break them up,” Agros shouted. “The king can’t spare troops to destroy an enemy army at Olnak. They must not land.”

An enemy bireme on the eastern edge of the fleet struck something in the river. The ship shuddered and the sail flapped for an instant. Then the oars began flying in all directions.’

“She’s taking on water,” the aide said. The ship broke formation, drifting more than sailing. “The rowers are frantic to escape.”

“There are shoals north of the port that are treacherous and far enough from land that ships caught there wouldn’t be able to reach the mainland.” the ship’s captain said.

“We’ll attack west to east. Perhaps we can drive their fleet onto the shoals if their admiral doesn’t know about them. Load oil bags in the catapults; we must set fire to ships to make them disburse. You there, go below to my cabin and bring me the tide tables. I’ll need to know when the tides will be lowest on those shoals. If we can set fire to one of the lagging ships, it will make the others break formation to sail east away from the flames. Prepare to engage the enemy.”

The Neuyokkasinian fleet plowed through the sea. Their bows rose and fell into the whitecaps crossing the enemy bows. They fired boulders, trying to strike the ships below the waterline.

An enemy trireme guarding the western edge of the transports left the defensive position and turned to attack a Neuyokkasinian bireme veering too close to it. The bireme cut back to the west, catching the wind and sailing away from the pursuing trireme. Another Neuyokkasinian bireme cut back and came up behind the great enemy trireme. Taking advantage of the airstream, it cut off the wind to the trireme’s great sail, momentarily slowing it. The bireme pulled in oars and with a billowing sail flew down the side of the trireme, slicing off the great ship’s oars. The shafts splintered, sending the paddles flying through the air. The two biremes engaged the disabled ship, but the fleets sailed on south.

Agros observed. “If we can shatter the bows below the waterline on those lead ships, they’ll have to slow down. If abrupt enough, it may result in the transports sailing into the sinking ships with no where to maneuver within the tightly bundled fleet. That should cause chaos and delay the fleet long enough for the Sengenwhan fleet and remainder of our ships to arrive and force engagement here on the open sea.”

The admiral saw the remainder of his fleet at the enemy’s rear, firing flaming oil bags from their catapults, attempting to set fire to the protective warships. If we fire just one ship, the burning vessel, up wind of the others in that tight grouping, it will set fire to more ships causing panic, he thought.

The enemy flagship sailed on with arrows flying from her decks. A boom sounded as the sling arm of a catapult slammed into the crossbar and a great boulder flew from the enemy flagship toward Admiral Agros’ flagship. The rhythmic beating of the oar cadence below, like great heartbeats, ticked off the seconds as the boulder flew over the water. It smashed against the great ships oak side with a thundering boom. Oak planks cracked but held, though planks on the deck above flew up when the ship shuddered on impact. Then a shower of arrows slammed into raised shields on deck. Screams rose as one man fell and another toppled over the side. With a thud, an arrow slammed into the planking beside the admiral and another ricocheted off the railing, landing harmlessly against the cabin wall behind him. The admiral was undeterred, but an aide thrust a shield in front of him after another sailor fell dead nearby.

“Aim for the bow’s water line,” Agros ordered. His great ship hesitated then turned in the rough sea. With oarsmen straining, it sailed back across the bow of the enemy flagship. The opponent fleet cut the wind momentarily and the sail deflated. “Ramming speed for the oarsmen!”

Another boulder landed just short of Agros’ ship when it hesitated momentarily. The enemy flagship bore down on Admiral Agros’ ship, turning slightly to ram him.

“Fool!” shouted Agros. “If he rams me, we stop dead in the water and his fleet will pile up on us both. He’s given in to anger.”

The oars shot forward beneath the admiral and slammed into the sea. Muffled moans rose from below decks as the oarsmen strained, pulling on the oars for their lives. The ship groaned, gaining forward speed. Agros’ catapult hurled a great flaming bag of oil that burst solidly on the enemy flagship’s deck behind the bowsprit. Splashing oil flared across the forecastle and on the great sail that burst into flames, shooting up the canvas as though it was paper. The Dreaddrac ship was so close Agros could see missing red paint on the top of the ram bearing down on his vessel.

“Faster!” Agros yelled, seeing the hungry flames licking before the wind toward his own ship. The order was repeated down the deck, then below. The rowers pulled with all their might. The ship lurched forward. Momentarily losing balance, Agros grabbed the rail. The great ram was only yards from slamming into the enemy’s flagship. He held his breath, hearing and watching the froth off the approaching ship’s bow. Then the remnants of the enemy flagship’s sail flapped in the wind, crackling. The great ship slowed at the last moment, settling down in the water, losing forward speed. The oars shot out too late. The great ram knocked off part of Admiral Agros’ rudder as it sailed west just beyond the burning flagship.

Before the oars of the enemy flagship could regain speed, flames spread down the deck with the burning oil and the ships close behind it slammed into the stern and starboard side, one cutting a gaping hole beside the rudder. The ship spun broadside to the fleet behind and that erupted in chaos.

Seeing the sight, a shout went up from Agros’ flagship. Sensing the impending doom, enemy oars flew in all directions then dropped into the sea like dying arms of a great centipede. The oarsmen were struggling to escape the sinking flagship.

“How bad is the rudder?” Agros barked.

The helmsman shouted it could be fixed and the captain ordered it done immediately. Two men went over the stern with a board. Waiting for repairs, Agros watched as the tight enemy fleet sailed on south, piling up behind their flagship. Order broke and the fleet attempted to maneuver around the burning vessel.

“Look there,” shouted an aide to the admiral. He pointed to a burst of flame at the back of the enemy fleet. A billowing cloud of flames shot up from the deck and sail of a rear guard bireme. Wind blew flames down the ship and carried embers and flame to the rigging of nearby transports downwind. “It’s spreading from the back of the fleet; spreading with the wind through the rigging of the transports.” The fleet broke up in all directions, fleeing burning ships. The transports attempted to sail on without escorts that fought duels with Agros warships just as the Sengenwhan fleet sailed in to engage them.

The battle raged on the whole day. Several transports in a panic sailed into shoals north of Olnak. Immobilized, the Neuyokkasinian ships destroyed them. Their orcs, too far from shore and unable to swim, died in the ensuing battles. The Southern fleets tore into the transports like a flock of gulls from above and tuna from below into a tight sardine ball.