Tol explained his plan of attack. “We’ll let the robbers get deeply engaged with the dwarves again, then we’ll surprise them. Make as much noise as you can-whoop and shout like we’re five hundred instead of five.” To Kiya he said, “Put a few arrows in that big fellow, won’t you?” She promised she would.
After bellowing and brandishing their arms awhile to intimidate the defenders, the bandits rushed forward again. They attacked with no order, no discipline. Each robber ran screaming at the wagons, waving a sword, axe, or spear. Centaurs galloped in with a club in each hand.
The dwarves, bearing short swords and axes, appeared on the sides of their wagons. They were pitiably few.
Miya’s horse, a nimble black creature she’d named Pitch, stamped and snorted, catching its rider’s tense mood. Frez’s and Darpo’s mounts likewise shifted.
“Steady,” Tol said, Shadow standing placidly beneath him. The robbers were nearly to the wagons. “Steady.”
Blades clanged loudly in the crisp mountain air. Screams of pain shortly followed as sword, axe, spear, and club struck home. It was bloody business, shocking even to seasoned warriors like Tol and his men. They were professionals, accustomed to fighting other professionals. The fracas below was nothing more than a brutal melee.
A dwarf, impaled on a long spear, was hoisted off his feet and hurled in a wide arc by two men. Robbers, trying to climb aboard the wagons, fell back without arms or hands or heads.
Tol drew his sword. “Forward, at the gallop!”
They burst through the thin line of trees with a concerted shout of “Juramona!”
If their battle cry was lost in the noise of combat, the rumble of their horses’ hooves was not. Brigands furthest from the wagons faced about, uncertain what to do. Ambushing merchant caravans was their livelihood, but there was no profit in fighting Ergothian cavalry. Some bolted. By the time Tol’s people reached the fight, half the bandits had fled.
Tol aimed for the nearest, biggest foe, a centaur. He sabered the man-horse across the back, blade slashing through the creature’s fur vest. The centaur twisted his torso around and swung a huge spiked club at Tol’s face. Dodging, Tol thrust under the brawny centaur’s arm, piercing him in the ribs. Momentum carried Tol into the falling centaur, who collapsed under Shadow’s hooves.
Pivoting, Tol sabered left and right, wounding a bandit with every stroke. He knew that men who lived on the edge of life-vicious and violent as they were-feared mutilation worse than death; death in battle was usually quick, but a gravely injured man could suffer long agonies before finally succumbing. With deep sword cuts on their backs and shoulders, the thieves abandoned the fight and scrambled for safety. Frez would’ve ridden after them, but Tol called him back.
Miya whacked one fleeing robber on the head with her staff, stunning him. Seizing him by his dirty blond topknot, she dragged him across her saddle and brought him to Tol.
“Want a prize?” she said, grinning.
She let go of the man’s hair, and he fell to his knees. Tol presented his sword tip to the brigand’s face.
“Heed this, churl,” he said in his most menacing voice. “The army of Lord Tolandruth has claimed these mountains for Ergoth. Disperse, and your lives shall be spared. Continue to plunder, and every brigand caught in the hill country will be tied to a stake and burned alive.”
Miya chuckled appreciatively, brown eyes glittering, and her merriment unnerved the robber even more.
“Answer, do you understand?” Tol demanded. The fellow nodded furiously. “Then go-and spread the word!”
All the brigands who could run were fleeing now. The ogre, obviously the chief of this pack of wolves, never entered the fight. Tol drew his little band up between the ogre and the wagons, and waited for the frightened thief to deliver his message to the ogre chief. Cowering before his leader, he relayed Tol’s threat with suitable arm waving and eye-rolling. The ogre clashed his upper and lower tusks together and gave In inarticulate roar. He started down the ledge toward them, but Kiya put an arrow in the turf at his feet.
The hulking ogre halted and made an obscene gesture at the Dom-shu woman. Unperturbed, she fitted another arrow and drew her bowstring taut. The ogre clashed his tusks again, then stalked away after his vanishing followers. In moments the valley was peaceful again.
Eight haggard, blood-spattered dwarves emerged from the tethered wagons.
“The blessings of the Maker God on you all!” called a white-bearded dwarf. He wore a long brigandine studded with brass plates and carried a well-used battle-axe on his shoulder. “Tell me your names, strangers, so I may honor your memories for the rest of my days!”
Introductions were performed, with Tol naming himself simply as “Tol.” No need to clutter matters with titles and reputations.
“Men of Ergoth, are you not?” Tol said this was so, and the dwarf added, “I am Mundur Embermore, of the clan Hylar, and these are my retainers.”
“Hylar?” said Darpo. “The high clan of Thoradin? You’re a long way from home, Master Embermore.”
“Aye, ’tis true, and well I wish I were in the halls of the mountain king again!”
He explained that the dwarves had been sending out mining expeditions to different mountain regions, and they’d found rich diggings in the Harrow Sky range. Gold, and better still, iron.
“There are veins of red ore in these peaks that make the mines of Thoradin look like Aghar holes,” he proclaimed.
“Master Embermore, these mountains are no healthy place to work,” Tol cautioned.
It was true enough, but Tol also knew the new emperor would not be pleased to learn that dwarves were exploiting the riches of a land so close to the empire’s border. He urged the dwarves to depart quickly. The bandits might recover their nerve at any time, especially if they realized Tol’s “army” was only five strong. Mundur saw the wisdom of this and ordered his thanes to work with an impressive, booming voice.
Two wagons had been destroyed, and three of the ox teams slain, but from the remnants Mundur Embermore reorganized his caravan. However, the dwarves could not move on until their fallen comrades were solemnly interred. Tol understood their sentiment, and he and his people stood a nervous watch while the dwarves honored their dead.
When the last stone was placed on the last cairn, Mundur approached Tol, still mounted on Shadow.
“Our brothers will sleep in peace, thanks be to you and the Maker God,” he said. His deep-set blue eyes were rimmed with tears. “A thousand blessings on your noble brow, Ergothian!”
“We can’t let thieves run free,” Tol replied, embarrassed by the dwarf’s continued gratitude.
“No, indeed!” Mundur smiled, showing broad yellow teeth. “Allow me to repay your gallantry in my own small way. May I see your sword?”
The rest of Tol’s party collected around him as he drew his saber and offered the hilt to the dwarf.
Mundur ran a thick thumb over the flat side of the blade, then licked it. “That’s good iron. Mined in the west of your country, no more than five winters past I’d say.”
He summoned one of his thanes, and the two of them measured the saber with great care.
“You favor a curved blade, soldier?” Mundur asked, and Tol admitted he did. To his helper, Mundur said, “Bring Number Six.”
The thane retrieved a long wooden box from one of the wagons. When this was presented to Mundur, the elderly dwarf opened it and removed a finished sword with a long, curved Made and a cup hilt made to enclose the wielder’s hand completely. He presented the weapon to Tol.
“Try this, Ergoth.”
The cup hilt was somewhat snug, as the grip had been sized for a dwarf, but Tol’s own hands weren’t overly large. The weapon’s length was right and its balance excellent. Sweeping out from the oil-finished hilt, the blade was quite thin, and displayed an intricate pattern of whorls in its surface.