Ushnotz was surprised at their pillaging; it was bound to provoke the fury of the fleshling kings.
The fleshlings on their own weren’t much of a threat—Ushnotz thought them feeble and clumsy—but it was imperative for his troops to reach the Gray Range before the united army of Girdlegard noticed and hunted them down. If it came to a battle, he wanted to be protected by the sturdy defenses of a dwarven stronghold at the heart of a mountain range. With any luck, the other princes of Toboribor would keep Girdlegard’s warriors busy for a while.
The sun, tired from another long orbit, was dropping toward the horizon. Soon she would retire to bed, making way for the stars to populate the heavens. The time for battle was approaching. Ushnotz bellowed for Runshak and briefed him on the plan of attack.
Just then the wind changed, blowing a new smell to the hilltop where Ushnotz and Runshak were stationed. They sniffed enquiringly, their broad nostrils flaring until at last they were sure. The air smelled of horses, armor, and sweat—fleshling sweat.
“They’re coming from the south,” snarled Runshak, turning to face the string of hills to their right. “Confounded fleshlings.”
The united army! Although Ushnotz could smell but not see the new arrivals, he knew at once that his troopers were outnumbered. Even as he resigned himself to beating a hasty retreat he realized that the enemy was hounding a different quarry. “We’ll wait,” he said.
“You mean, they haven’t seen us?” asked Runshak, surprised.
“It’s not us they’re looking for; they’re after the orcs who left those tracks.” He grinned. A few miles earlier, he had decided to stop tailing the northerners and lead his troopers across a river. The fast-flowing water had washed away their scent. Clearly, the fleshling scouts hadn’t thought to look for two separate armies or his troopers would surely have been attacked. He congratulated himself on his guile.
Runshak growled uneasily and raised his nose to the wind. “The smell’s getting stronger. They’re still advancing; it won’t be much longer until they attack.” He looked expectantly at Ushnotz. “As soon as they’ve started fighting, we’ll jump in and teach those fleshlings a lesson.”
“No,” said Ushnotz. “The northerners can deal with them. We’ll see how they fare.” He took a silent decision to resume the march that night if the united army proved victorious. It suited his purposes for the soft-skinned fleshlings to believe that this part of Girdlegard had been purged of his race.
He would never admit as much to Runshak, but Kashbugg had been right in one respect. The battle of the Blacksaddle had weakened his army. It was time to change tactics, but Ushnotz knew how to develop his own strategies without a jumped-up trooper telling him so.
“We’ll stay out of sight. The fleshlings won’t know we’re here, and they’ll head south. As soon as it’s safe, we’ll march north and find more of that water—enough for all of us. No army will be powerful enough to defeat us and when we’re ready, we’ll claim the lives that we spared tonight.”
He turned his head, looking over the fat-encrusted surface of his epaulette. His yellow eyes focused on the troublemaker’s corpse and he grunted contentedly. Kashbugg and the ill-fated victim of his experiment with the water would be the only troopers to die that night.
Prince Mallen was waiting with his cavalry fifty or so paces from the brow of the hill.
The enemy was camped on the other side, watched by two of his scouts who were crouched on the hilltop, assessing the size of the army, which had been known to them only by the boot prints on the ground.
Mallen had decided to hunt down the fleeing orcs and bögnilim and put a stop to their pillaging. From what he had seen over the past few orbits, the beasts had lived too long already. They left nothing but carnage in their wake.
The first of the scouts crawled backward down the hillside to make his report. “Two thousand of them, Prince Mallen. They’ve been feasting, by the looks of it, and now they’re dozing around their fires.”
“So there aren’t five thousand as we thought?” said Mallen, sitting upright in the saddle. His mount snorted gratefully, glad of the shift in weight. After a long ride without any rest to speak of, the horses were wearier than the men.
Until that moment, the wind had been blowing toward them, but now it buffeted them from behind. The air was mild and smelled of the coming spring.
“The ground was muddy, remember,” said the scout. “The soil is soggy with melting snow; you sink deeper than usual. Besides, the green-hided beasts are bigger than us and their armor is heavy.” His eyes swept the rows of horsemen. “Two thousand of them, Prince Mallen—no more than two thousand and no fewer.”
The Ido flag, carried proudly by one of Mallen’s riders, was fluttering in the wind, betraying the southerly change. Mallen cursed. Orcs had an excellent sense of smell and could sniff out their victims from a distance; they were bound to detect the waiting men.
Mallen’s finely crafted armor, engraved with the insignia of the Ido, gleamed in the light of the setting sun. He unbuckled his old-fashioned helmet from his belt, set it on his head and fastened the chinstrap. His careful handling of the headpiece showed his respect for the royal crest, which had been in his family for generations, surviving the centuries unchanged.
His riders, seeing the prince’s blond hair disappear beneath his helmet, prepared themselves for battle. Mallen heard the clunking of weaponry and jangling of armor behind him and gave the order to attack.
“Archers to the front,” he said resolutely. “Advance to the hilltop, but stay out of sight. Foot soldiers go with them.” He turned to the right. “First unit ride in and attack. Slash, jab, and do whatever you can to bait them—but turn and flee as soon as they fight back. The dolts will follow, and we’ll be waiting for them. Don’t let any escape.”
He nodded briskly, and the first 150 riders charged up the hill, exploding over the crest and careering down the other side to blast through the enemy camp like a hoofed gust of death.
Eyes closed, Mallen listened to their progress. He heard pounding hooves, cries of terror from the orcs and high-pitched screams from the cowardly bögnilim. A moment later, swords met with armor and shields.
The clamor intensified. One hundred voices became a thousand as the excited beasts threw themselves wildly on the small band of riders who had ventured foolishly into their camp.
The thundering horseshoes grew louder, accompanied by shouts and jeers from the pursuing beasts.
Mallen raised his arm, lifting his sword high in the air. He heard the archers nock their arrows and level their bows.
The first beasts had yet to crest the hill when Mallen brought his sword down sharply and three hundred arrows soared through the air, falling steeply over the hilltop and raining vertically on the startled wave of orcs and bögnilim.
The first flurry was followed by a second and a third. Mallen listened in satisfaction to the beasts’ dying screams. Meanwhile, the riders galloped back and took their place among the ranks.
“Ride!” he shouted. “Death to the beasts of Tion! Ride!” Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath. “For Ido and for Girdlegard!” He reached back to tap his horse with the flat of his sword, and they galloped away.
The whinnying steed was joined by five hundred others. The prince’s cavalry poured over the hill in a stream of glittering silver. The drumming of two thousand hooves shook the earth, striking fear into the hearts of the approaching beasts.
The orcs and bögnilim turned tail and fled, but there was no escape from the onslaught of spears, armored horses, and steel. The stragglers were the first to die; the rest were trampled a few paces later. The air was wet with green blood, but neither the screams of the dying nor the sight of the wounded could slow the riders’ advance.