A Whisper After Midnight (2 page)

“We need to run, now,” Raste hissed. The fear of death held no sway over him, but he knew folly when he saw it.

Raste had lived through the first campaign of the war; an act of guerrilla attacks on the Wolfsreik before the army managed to bring its full might to bear on the plains. He’d survived the siege of Rogscroft with barely a scratch despite watching too many friends die. Weeks of skulking in shadows and striking from the blind side took their toll but he was still fully mission capable. But this, waiting in the snow to be discovered by over a hundred Goblins, was plain madness. Every instinct screamed for him to run. The scouts were cut off, leagues of hostile terrain separating them from the rest of the army. Death stalked the pass, its icy fingers crept towards his throat. It was all he could do not to scream. His heart thumped, threatening to burst. His mouth went dry. Raste knew it was the end at last.

Mahn didn’t argue but the horses were still too far away to offer any real hope. Desperation filled his heart. He knew he had failed king and kingdom. Deep down he knew they weren’t going to make it. A high-pitched voice snapped out from a stand of nearby trees, breaking his dismal thought process.

“Run!”

Raste didn’t wait for further encouragement. Beside him Mahn lurched to his feet and ran as fast as his old legs could go. Goblins spotted them almost immediately and roared in alarm. Others stopped looking and rushed towards the fleeing scouts. The hunt had begun. The frozen earth trembled beneath the thunder of so many boots as the Goblin company converged. Raste darted past Mahn. His eyes fixed on the horses and freedom. Mahn lagged. Weeks of huddling in snow banks and living off of frozen foods drained his strength. He felt the Goblins drawing close, ready to reach out and grab him by the nape. Fear propelled him, blinding him to all else. Entirely focused on escape, he failed to notice the crisp whistling sound flash past his left ear.

A spray of hot blood whipped across his back as the first Goblin fell dead. Several more followed quickly. Mahn refused to look back. If this was death, he’d rather not see the poisoned blade arching for his back.

“Form ranks!”

Arrows continued to spit into the Goblins’ light armor. A wave of bodies soon littered the mountain pass. Less than a minute and the Goblins had been reduced by a fifth. Their advance faltered, stopping altogether as the survivors huddled around, unsure of their enemy. Heads twisted to find their attackers. Their commander, his flat face peering out from under a leather faceplate, snapped his elongated jaws open and shut rapidly. Every instinct demanded he order them to charge. Cowardice held no place among the deep cavern dwellers.

A cry erupted from the back ranks, cut off abruptly with a gurgle of blood. The captain spun and bellowed an animalistic fury unlike any Mahn or Raste had ever heard.

“Ambush! Behind us!”

Brute force a favored weapon, the Goblin captain bellowed an attack. He watched helplessly as the first rank of Goblins was skewered on a wall of short spears popping up from literally nowhere. Confused, he hesitated. That hesitation proved his undoing. Spears joined the arrows and Goblins fell by droves. Screams and cries of pain sang amongst the thin pines. Mahn froze and watched in muted shock as what had seemed a certain death situation turned into something else. He’d never seen the like.

What remained of the Goblin ranks crashed into the spear wall with a thunderous sound. Lines of Pell Darga warriors emerged from the trees in measured step. Garbed in various pelts, the short mountain warriors hacked and slew the Goblins. Their dark brown skin in contrast with the grey Goblins, the Pell were equally cunning and murderous. They killed with prejudice, slaughtering the invaders without thought. The battle quickly turned into a rout. Not a single Goblin survived.

Mahn finally found the strength to rise. Mouth agape, he stared at the dark blood strewn recklessly across the fresh snows. Once, such a scene would have appalled him. Six months of desperate combat left him largely immune to such scenes. Each new battle stole another piece of his soul and made him less human. He looked down on the bodies with as much detachment as the gods provided. For that he was glad.

Splattered in blood, the Pell warrior shouldered his spear and stopped before the scout. “I am Gol Mad. We have followed these,” he gestured with a sneer to the corpses, “for three days. More come.”

“How did you find us?” Mahn asked. His heart beat a little slower now that the immediate threat had passed.

Gol Mad grinned savagely. “Cuul Ol sent us to guard pass. We watched you for many hours.”

“You could have showed yourselves sooner,” Raste said angrily. “They nearly killed us.”

“Death very active here,” Gol agreed, ignoring the youth’s venom.

Mahn scolded Raste with a sharp glare. “Thank you, Gol Mad. We must return to Grunmarrow. The prince will be expecting our report. The enemy is finally moving and we aren’t prepared to stop them all.”

The Pell paused to consider the words, his face thoughtful and dark. Until King Badron of Delranan invaded Rogscroft, the Pell had been a peaceful people, content to live in their mountain homes with little to do with the rest of Malweir. War changed that. Youthful inexperience drove the warriors into battle, each eager to prove himself against the most feared army in all of the northern kingdoms: the Wolfsreik. Instead, Gol and many like him were relegated to fighting the grey skins in less-than-honorable combat.

“This war not ours,” Gol finally said. “Many Pell died. We hunt, we kill. That is the way of the world. Life does not care about our concerns.”

“This war will claim your way of life. You must understand that,” Mahn insisted. “The Pell are no longer safe in these mountains. King Badron will hunt you down and destroy you one hunting party at a time until nothing remains but bone and dust.”

“We will do as we must. It is the Pell way.”

Raste puffed an angered breath. “Look, we need you to win the war. The Wolfsreik and their Goblin allies are too powerful for us to fight alone. Why can’t you see that?”

“You are young, despite your experience. Time may change this. Go back to your prince. Cuul Ol has spoken.”

Mahn stopped Raste from coming forward, and making a fatal error, with a swift backhand to the chest. “Cuul Ol also gave his word that the Pell would come to our aid when we required it. That time is now. Thousands of Goblins roam the mountains and lowlands. You can’t possibly think to hide from them all, can you?”

“We do as we must,” Gol repeated. His stance shifted, becoming more defiant.

Mahn cursed silently. He wasn’t a politician or a diplomat. Dealing with a relatively primitive tribe as the Pell Darga brought him more frustration than anything else he’d ever done. It only reinforced his feelings of exhaustion and mental fatigue. So much had happened so quickly he struggled to comprehend most of it. There wasn’t much choice, however. In the end he simply followed orders and did the best he could in a terrible situation.

Mahn decided to push a little further. “Does the honor of the Pell extend to following Cuul Ol completely?”

Gol’s fingers whitened on his spear shaft. Fresh anger flared just behind his eyes. “You seek to challenge me?”

The older scout raised his empty hands. “No. I seek to awaken the truth your leaders once inspired in you.”

“Our leaders know the value of honor! We fight when Cuul Ol commands. Not before.”

Gol Mad fell silent, forcing himself to calm down. He knew what Cuul and the other chiefs had decreed. The Pell Darga weren’t strong enough to fight the combined armies ravaging their lands. Not even the remnants of Rogscroft could contend with such might. So many men had gone to the dirt before their time. So many families shattered by needless violence unsought and undeserved. Three of his brothers died fighting the wolf soldiers during the initial stages of the war; it was enough to fuel his need for vengeance as well as inspiring his caution. He learned that he was not the warrior he once imagined. There was much needed to be learned before he could return the fight sufficiently.

Sensing the internal conflicts, Mahn backed off. “Very well. Raste and I shall return to the prince and let him know of your decisions. We thank you for rescuing us. The Goblins would have torn us apart and eaten us alive if you hadn’t showed up. Thank you, Gol Mad.”

Jerking his head towards their horses, he and Raste started to leave. Enough had been done for now. The war was still young. Rushing into the future without proper follow through would only result in more death, more destruction. Mahn once bent a knee to offer fealty to King Stelskor. That bond passed to Stelskor’s son upon the sack of Rogscroft. Many men died to ensure Aurec escaped alive to fight for what remained of their kingdom. He and Raste were two of the most valuable assets the new army had available. They made it barely a handful of strides before Gol called out.

“Wait. We come. The honor of the Pell shall never be questioned. Cuul Ol will understand,” he explained. He turned and barked orders in their crude language. The Pell warriors immediately collected what useable spears and arrows lay scattered across the scene and melted back into the small pine and scrub brush.

“What about them?” Mahn gestured at the dead.

Gol gave a final look at the corpses and shrugged. “Food for wolves.”

Grunmarrow

The night passed swifter than Mahn had hoped. His fingers and toes ached, tingling from the extreme cold weather at such elevations. Winds continued to strengthen the lower they went. He glanced back at Raste, watching the younger scout shiver uncontrollably. Not even the bearskin cloak offered much protection from prolonged exposure. They needed a fire and something warm to eat and were still many leagues from being able to make that happen.

A wolf bayed off in the distant valleys, followed quickly by another. Their song echoed a haunting melody that sent fresh chills down Mahn’s spine. Once, long ago, wolf song soothed him. Now it only served to remind him of the Wolfsreik and their wave of carnage sweeping across the north. Shadows came alive. Each tree and bush hid an enemy soldier waiting to kill. He knew it was mere childish superstitions. He knew they were creatures doing only what nature created them for. That didn’t stop his apprehensions from growing.

There was nothing natural about the Wolfsreik. They were the ultimate fighting force in the northern kingdoms, perhaps rivaling those of the king of Averon far to the south. Their name inspired deep fears. Made the mightiest tremble at the knee. Mahn once thought they had a chance to stop the Wolfsreik, but then Badron unleashed an entire army of Goblins. The initial invasion campaign ended quickly, but not without massive casualties. He and Raste and what remained of the scouting corps infiltrated the ruined carcass of the city to discover how badly Badron’s armies spent their strength breaking down the walls. What he saw surprised him.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Goblins lay where they fell. In fact, most of the bodies littering Rogscroft were the squat, grey warriors. Very few Men lay among the dead, leading Mahn to believe that all was not well with the alliance between Delranan and the Goblins. That fact could be exploited if only it could be confirmed. Scouts were sent repeatedly out to the lowlands with specific instructions to find any truth in Mahn’s suspicions. Most failed to return, forcing the young prince to withdraw his forces and wait out the winter.

“The nights get too cold up here,” Mahn said, trying to spark conversation from the sullen Raste.

The younger scout frowned and nodded. “Winter has been very harsh this year. Do you think the Pell will fight?”

“Hard to say. I know they want to, despite the reluctance Gol stated. They are a proud people unused to being cowed in their own lands. This band will join us.”

He left the thought hanging. Too many variables obscured his normally good hunches. New snow started to fall. The flakes were cold as they melted on his near frozen face. Mahn had suffered through many winters, most colder than this, but he’d always had the comforts of a warm home and spiced wine after. The Murdes Mountains were no place for sane men to travel under the best conditions, much less the dead of winter. A thought crept in, strange and alien. He suddenly felt regret for having wasted his life in servitude. Any chance of having a wife, family, and any normalcy in his life were gone, slashed away like so much detritus. His shoulders slumped just a touch.

“We’re going to need more than this bunch,” Raste said. “Badron has to have at least twenty thousand troops committed to this war. Even with the Pell we wouldn’t be able to half that.”

“Haven’t you learned anything, Raste? Look at what Aurec managed on the plains before the Wolfsreik brought their full force to bear.”

“And for what?” Raste countered darkly. “Rogscroft still fell. The only way to win is by using their own tactics against them. We need to make Delranan fear us.”

Mahn looked at Raste sadly.
How do I tell him that has never been our way? We were largely a peaceful society until the war began. He’s letting his anger drive his emotions. It will be the death of him.
“Prince Aurec will figure it out. We can win this war if we stay true to our principles, Raste. Don’t let the enemy change who you are.”

“They already have.”

The scouts rode on in silence, disturbed only by the sounds of the iced-over snow breaking beneath each footstep.