“ It may seem a fine thing in song or story to be ankle-deep in the blood of your enemies but in reality it's slippery, smells bad and is nearly impossible to get out of your socks afterwards.”
Engvyr had seen battles and their aftermath before, but he stood and looked out over the carnage before him in shock. He had walked down to the edge of the slope and just stared. The battlefield was carpeted in bodies, several deep in places. Dwarves moved among the dead and injured, wading in blood. The air was thick with the coppery stink of it, and it had pooled so deep in places that the wounded had drowned in it. Occasionally a shot broke through the moans and screams as a soldier gave mercy to a downed enemy. Looking out he could see a band of bodies a hundred and fifty paces wide stretching the breadth of the valley.
Looking across the 3rd's lines he could see soldiers bandaging each other’s wounds, and only a few stretchers as seriously wounded or dead dwarves were carried back from the lines. What in the Lord and Lady's name is driving them? he thought, looking back to the field of dead goblins. Normally you expected an enemy to break or disengage by the time that they had lost one man in ten of their force. Sometimes half that if a battle was obviously going against them. But unless he missed his guess the Baasgarta had lost a full third of their forces here.
He looked up to see the Sergeant-Major approaching. He acknowledged him with a nod and the old soldier stopped and surveyed the battlefield with his hands on his hips and shook his head in wonder.
“We'll be all night just clearing a path through this mess,” he said, “But I think that you're done here for tonight. Best you rack out and get some rest; I expect they'll have plenty for you to do tomorrow.”
Engvyr thanked him and returned to the Mountain Guard's bivouac. Naturally the evening's action was the only topic of discussion. He grabbed a cup of coffee as he took a seat and listened in. Several other rangers had been in position to see the battle and he let them tell the tale. If you could even call it a battle, he thought. Reports came in as the evening progressed. The 3rd had suffered only a few hundred casualties, most of them relatively minor. It appeared that they had lost fewer than two-hundred in exchange for upwards of twenty-thousand of the Baasgarta.
“Don't get cock-sure,” Taarven advised the group, “These boys had never experienced massed rifle-fire before, and the ground favored us. They'll find a different way to come at us next time, and you can damn sure bet they won't fight our fight again if'n they can help it. It's only going to get harder from here.”
Several heads bobbed in agreement, Engvyr's among them. There were few quicker ways to get killed than assuming that your enemy was stupid. The Baasgarta would be studying on ways to overcome the dwarven army's strengths, so they'd better stay on their toes.
“Alright heroes,” the Captain's said, “Rack out. Likely they'll be finding something to keep us busy tomorrow, and we'd best be ready.”
The next morning the pursuit began. Engvyr, Taarven and the other Rangers scouted ahead followed by groups of skirmishers in platoon-strength. Work had indeed gone on all night to clear a path through the bodies of the Baasgarta, and the regiments advanced along that line. Less than half a league from last night's lines the small valley spilled out into a broader river valley that wound its way north through the mountains.
The scouts moved ahead warily keeping an eye out for ambushes and traps. They were mounted and had it easy at first as they moved across the open terrain with its low bushes and heather. But as the day wound on the valley's altitude dropped below the tree line and they found themselves working their way through the scrub forest. The groups of skirmishers followed behind, ready to converge on any ambush or disturbance. The regiments had it relatively easy; if there had been no road here before, the tramping of tens of thousands of Baasgarta feet had made one now.
Tensions mounted as the day wore on, but there were no alarms, no ambushes. Just the tracks of the fleeing Baasgarta becoming more and more organized as the day went on, until finally the signs indicated that they had again formed up into a relatively disciplined force. They also found signs that a sizable force of Baasgarta cavalry had joined the column from one of the side-valleys.
On a good road in open country the regiments could march ten leagues a day for weeks on end if they needed to. In this terrain they managed half that, and set up a full camp, protected by spike-covered earthen berms. The valley had widened out to two miles at this point so they set up in four camps in a diamond formation that allowed each to support the others in the event of an attack.
Throughout his time in the army Engvyr had never stopped being amazed by the speed that this could be accomplished by a few thousand disciplined and motivated dwarves. Within two hours of stopping the camp was compete, row after neat row of tents interspersed with larger command and mess tents. Every man would have a hot meal and sleep in their own cot, but at any given time one third of them would be manning the parapets of their camps. No one expected trouble that night, but they were deep in enemy territory following a force that still outnumbered them by three-to-one or more.
The Mountain Guard was not in the watch rotation for the evening, so they sat up in their mess tent, drinking coffee and talking quietly among themselves until Captain Gauer made an appearance.
“Best get some sleep, boys and girls,” He told them, “We're heading out down the valley tonight. We're to scout ahead and try to establish contact with the Baasgarta's main force and report their location and progress. We'll leave at the change of second and third watch.”
They broke up the gathering with some good-natured grumbling and a few jokes and racked out.
They were roused from their slumber near the end of the second watch, and Engvyr sat up on his cot and shook his boots out, purely by habit. At this time of year and altitude they were unlikely to house unwanted guests. Pulling the boots on he dressed quickly in the chill of the small hours of the night. There was just time to stop by the mess tent for a quick cup of coffee before they moved out.
“Be careful out there tonight,” the captain warned them as they made ready, “The Baasgarta were moving in fairly good order by the end of the day. Might be they left a little welcome for us up the valley.”
He'd hardly needed to tell them that, of course. They were each keenly aware of the dangers they were facing.
Engvyr's pony was inclined to be ill-tempered at being roused before dawn, and nipped at him as he saddled the beast. He evaded the half-hearted protests with the ease of long practice as he slipped his long-rifle into its scabbard and mounted. The rangers silently walked their ponies through the sleeping camp. The infantrymen on watch moved the spiked barricade from the sally-port in the earthen berm as they approached, giving them a wave as they passed out.
Taarven and Engvyr forded the river and rode into the trees of the eastern slope of the valley, quietly picking their way through the forest, relaxed and alert. Their eyes tracked back and forth constantly; in the dark their peripheral vision would catch movement better than staring straight at it.
They also watched their pony’s ears and bearing; the beast’s keen senses would provide the best warning.
The moon set and it grew darker under the trees. They slowed further, letting their ponies pick their way forward at a walk. They rode side by side just a few feet apart, their mounts’ hooves nearly silent on the thick carpet of needles beneath the pines. Engvyr saw his pony’s ears prick up and the beast raised its head as it stared into the darkness to their left. Taarven's mount did likewise and both rangers eased their weight back in their saddles to tell the ponies to stop.