“Hold the line!” The order had been amplified by magic, or telepathically inserted into the brain of each pikeman perhaps. Else it never would have carried over the screams of dying men and horses.
Bagren was seized by another fit of coughing, his lungs struggling to reject the dark smoke that rolled past the infantry lines. He knew the advancing cavalry (he could hear the thundering hooves approaching even if he couldn’t see them) would be passing through this same acrid cloud, and he wondered why the enemy had lit their fires.
If the wind had shifted sooner, it would have made sense. They could have forced the defenders back from their entrenched positions. But to light the fires well after dawn, just minutes before their attack? It defied reason. Half their horses would suffocate before they crossed the field.
The dark grey face of a hobgoblin pierced the haze, the slight greenish tint to his features lost in the smoke. Bagren’s stinging eyes could barely make out the figure walking towards him, but he was sure he spotted a smile more sadistic than anything worn by man.
So that explained the smoke. The sounds of a roaring cavalry charge were illusions, magic employed by the enemy. Under cover of the ashen cloud, their light infantry had advanced instead. And among the front lines were orcs and hobgoblins, distant mercenaries that would relish fighting in the cloudy dimness.
The large goblinoid carried two blades of a style Bagren was unfamiliar with. They were of medium length, just shorter than the standard sword of his own side, but far less broad. They looked too delicate for battle, more a tool for the kitchen than the field, but the savage creature wore multiple scars from previous clashes. It surely knew what it was doing.
Bagren lifted his pike from the small hole that had braced it in preparation for the expected equine charge, and shifted its point towards the chest of his adversary. It was an awkward weapon for a duel, but as long as the men to Bagren’s sides held firm, a solid wall of such weapons would give the enemy little room to maneuver.
And Bagren wore studded leather armor over most of his body, enough to stop shallow slashes at least. If he and his companions held firm, they had a chance.
Daggers flew out of the blurry darkness, and men fell, clutching their throats. The line shifted to fill in the gaps, but the hobgoblin was already making his move. His blades struck out faster than Bagren could follow, driving aside the pikes that opposed him until he had moved past their preferred range. He was walking straight for Bagren, that fanged sadistic grin growing ever larger.
Bagren dropped his pike and drew his short sword, hoping he could dispatch his enemy quickly and regain his primary weapon before the line was overrun. The hobgoblin had showed itself to be quick, but Bagren had no intention of attempting a hack and slash against two lighter swords. The short but heavy blade in his hands now was meant for stabbing. He’d aim for the torso and hope his armor could protect him from the slicing cuts of those foreign weapons.
The creature came into range and Bagren lunged, but the hobgoblin didn’t slash for his arms or face like expected. Instead, it deftly parried his thrust with one blade while striking his wrist with the other. The fragile looking weapons proved more than sturdy enough to shove his heavier sword aside and penetrate his armor.
Bagren’s shortsword tumbled from his fingers and he quickly scooped it up with his left hand. The hobgoblin had proved too quick to be spitted by a simple stab, but Bagren thought he might still have the advantage when it came to strength. True, the hobgoblin was larger than most humans, larger even than Bagren. But he was a pikeman, trained to hold the longest and heaviest of weapons against the mighty armored horsemen. Even his weaker arm could swing with more force than a lumberjack.
The goblinoid monster waited patiently, its hideous grin never faltering. When the time came, it blocked Bagren’s downward chop with ease. Then it darted past, cutting behind his knees and dropping him to the ground.
Bagren spit mud from his mouth and rolled onto his back, but he was far too slow to stop the next strike, aimed at his left wrist. Fully disarmed now, he kicked at the horrible creature standing over him, but not even that found its target.
Another cut opened Bagren’s abdomen from side to side, and he knew he was finished. All he could do now was die like a man. There would be no begging or crying. Just stoic waiting for the final cut through the throat, or stab through the heart.
To Bagren’s surprise, the death blow never came. The monster simply walked away, looking for a new target. It had left him unable to walk, unable to wield a weapon, and mortally wounded. Rendered harmless, he was left to die slowly and painfully.
Bagren shouted insults at the creature, but he never knew if it understood or even heard him.
“Here.” Krilt’s tentmate tossed a handful of scrolls towards the hobgoblin. “Dwarven folk tales, along with the common translation. Not enough to really get a handle on the language, but a good place to start.”
Krilt finished oiling his weapons and set them aside to search through the scrolls. He’d given up his share of loot for these, but one never knew what type of knowledge would one day come in useful. The hobgoblin had bigger plans than life as a simple mercenary. He’d return to his rightful position as the second in command of his own clan, one day. Simple pleasures could wait until then.
Loros, the strange human that dared share a tent with one of the more savage species, left as quietly as he had come. Krilt was almost certain he was looking for targets to practice with his knives again, and not heading back to the occupied city for some fun.
Krilt had yet to figure out the human. The man was obsessed with money, much like an indebted gambler, but Krilt couldn’t determine where it went. He’d watched the man hustle a few soldiers with cards and dice, and had to admit he’d never known a human with such quick hands. The man certainly never lost at the table. And he hardly spent anything either. He replenished his supplies by looting the fallen, and his base pay simply vanished into his pockets.
Krilt pushed it out of his mind. The origin of the man’s miserly tendencies wasn’t important. What mattered was that he was well traveled, even for a mercenary, and unexpectedly well learned. Krilt and the knife fighter were finding each other quite useful to keep around.
Loros got a little extra loot, and Krilt got whatever literature they came across. Sooner or later it would all snap together, and the accumulated knowledge would provide Krilt with a plan. He was brilliant in a way, after all. Had not his planning made possible the attack on Dagton? Had not his cunning understanding of tactics gained him the nickname, “The Hammer”?
All that had been lost though, transformed into exile from the clan, when Krilt failed to slay a simple orc. He’d come to understand since then that strength of arms would never be enough. His quarry had luck on his side, and so Krilt would have to make his own luck. He would study, and prepare, and one day the situation would favor him with an opportunity to finish the stubborn creature who eluded him so.
Once again, Krilt pushed such thoughts away. Time now to study, to see what might be gleaned from the folklore of an alien race.
Watching his black eyes intently devouring scroll after scroll, one might hardly imagine this to be the same savage creature that had recently fought with such malice and glee.
Krilt captured the human warrior’s sword between his own two blades and twisted to send it flying away. The pathetic pale skin tried to bash Krilt with his shield, but the hobgoblin easily stepped aside and tripped the human. Once down, the man had no chance. Krilt repeatedly kicked until he felt the brittle human ribs crumble beneath his boots. Chain link armor did little to protect against such blows.
The human lay gasping for breath and coughing blood, but he might yet regain his feet if given the chance. So Krilt ended his miserable existence with a clean stab into the brain. It wasn’t the lingering death he wished upon his enemies, but there were times when it paid to be careful.
Not as careful as Loros perhaps. Krilt could see the human not far to the left, throwing a second knife into an already downed foe. The man always did that before approaching to retrieve his weapons, even if the first dagger struck neck or chest and clearly made an instant kill.
“You waste time,” the hobgoblin shouted out. “You could kill twice as many if you didn’t throw knives into the already dead.”
Loros pulled one of his blades from the recently deceased body and snapped a quick underhanded throw that brought down a charging axeman. “I used to think like you. Then I lost good money and a fine dagger when a target got up and walked away. It was a simple job, just kill an orc. But the creature jumped up and ran off, even with my blade sticking out of its neck. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Krilt would have agreed. Wasn’t he here because of a similar past? Frio, the orc that just wouldn’t die. Krilt had tried traps, poison, force of numbers, and even arranged an encounter with a group of bloodthirsty adventurers. That imbecile of an orc just kept breathing.
Krilt would have shared this, but he could only grunt. Two more humans had closed with him, and it took most of his concentration to cut them apart without killing too quickly.
Krilt struggled to breathe through the mountain of fallen ash. It had drifted down lightly at first, but soon it became a torrent. In the beginning it powdered the ground. Then it became deeper, forcing him to wade through the rising sludge. Finally, it rose higher than his head, layers of ash so fine they couldn’t be filtered, and so light that he couldn’t swim above them.
The ash burned his throat and choked his lungs, and still it fell, burying him under more and more layers. Each dusting blanket of the falling powder could barely be felt, but the accumulated mountain had become so deep that it was crushing the hobgoblin.
Krilt’s self control finally gave way to panic, and he flailed madly and desperately. His swords sliced out, as though he could cut his way to freedom. The pressure continued to grow despite his efforts, and the particulate in his lungs was turning to concrete in a fiery chemical reaction that threatened to set his chest ablaze.
Krilt woke with his swords in his hands, splinters flying from where he’s just split one of the tent poles. Half an inch from the humming steel, the top of Loros’ head rested. The knife fighter eyed Krilt without blinking, showing an utter lack of concern, which Krilt thought beyond foolish.
“Bad dreams again eh? The usual?”
“The same.”
Loros closed his eyes and was asleep again in seconds. There would be no comforting words from the man, for he carried his own demons. It was understood that each of them would deal with his past privately.
In fact, they were all haunted men now. At first the army was made from the standard mix of mercenaries. Most of them were incapable of settling down to the quiet life, but they weren’t necessarily any more damaged than the soldiers of regular armies.
Battle by battle that changed, as the most extreme misfits survived and their more normal companions fell. Seeing the pattern, several captains broke contract and led their men away in the middle of the campaign.
It didn’t matter. The wizard behind this swath of destruction was unbeatable. Krilt, a masterful tactician himself, was forced to admit he couldn’t have improved upon a single battle plan. And so the army continued, gradually grinding itself down to a core of invincible monsters, things that half longed for a death they could never find.
Krilt suffered as much as the others, but he wasn’t like them. He wasn’t running from his past. He was preparing himself for the day his lifeline would again cross that of the giant orc.
Krilt was once second in command of an entire clan, thanks largely to his plan for raiding farther from home than ever before. The orcs and goblins that made up the bulk of the clan could never stand against human heavy cavalry in the field. So they struck close to the foothills that posed a natural barrier to the mounted forces. They struck small targets, hitting quickly and withdrawing to the safety of the mountains.
Krilt realized they could strike much farther away, gaining valuable loot orders of magnitude beyond the norm, if only they could hasten their retreat. Traveling forward wasn’t the issue, as they could easily avoid the human spy towers. It was only the raid itself that gave away their presence and started the mad race away from the flatlands and back to the safety of rock.
Enter Dagton, a city small enough to be taken, but possessing enough horses to pull a wagon train. The orcs started with wagons full of grain, assembled in the foothills and slowly pushed towards their destination every night. The plan was to sack Dagton, capture enough horses to pull the wagons that would now be half full of loot, and still beat the human cavalry. It would be close, but it could be done, and for such a raid the risk was well worth it.
Upon the eve of the raid, Krilt had divided the force into two parties. The bulk of the warriors were to hit Dagton. The rest, mostly elderly, inexperienced, or goblin, were to remain with the wagons. The orc Frio, though a mighty warrior, was deemed too unpredictable for the battle. He couldn’t follow orders, and no amount of personal valor could make up for a botched battle plan.
Krilt thought nothing of the decision at the time. But the stupid orc took it personally. While Krilt was slaying humans by the handful, and gaining great glory, Frio was burning down the wagons.
The raiders returned to find no wagons, and even worse, no grain for the stolen horses. The army had managed to make it back alive, but only by discarding everything and making a wildly desperate run.
Frio had single-handedly cost the outcome of the raid, and perhaps even the future of the clan. Death was the least he could be sentenced with. And Krilt, the one who made Dagton possible? The chieftain remembered he was also the one who left Frio with the wagons. Krilt was sent to bring back the orc’s head, and was told in no uncertain terms what would happen if he returned without it.
It should have been a simple kill, but the orc was too great a warrior. For all his faults, he had senses keener than anyone Krilt had ever known, and muscles to match. Krilt had failed, but he had slunk away with his life. And he had vowed to find a way to succeed.
Here, in this army of haunted creatures, he dreamt every night of ash, ash that might have been from burning grain, and might have come from burning dreams. But he wouldn’t succumb to the demons that flayed at the back of his mind. He would study everything he came across, learn new forms of cunning, and eventually gain the power to finish his quest.
Krilt jumped over the short earthen wall and sliced at the dwarf on the other side. The stout creature was far too slow to parry the attack, but it was far tougher than the humans Krilt had mostly fought, and it kept its feet despite two hideous gashes across neck and chest. Krilt almost paused to admire the doomed creature before stabbing it through the heart and finishing it.
Several more of the hairy creatures rushed at Krilt as fast as their truncated legs could carry them, and for a moment he was nearly overwhelmed. He’d gotten ahead of the army again, something he did purposely now. Loros and most of the humans were long gone, either fallen or turned deserter. Zombies and skeletons had taken their places, and they struck such terror in the hearts of the besieged that’s Krilt’s own maliciousness was overlooked. Only by rushing ahead could he still take pleasure in the look of fear on a dying man’s face.
The dwarves backed Krilt against the dirt wall and scored a handful of shallow wounds before the oncoming wave of undead flowed over the barrier and routed the hastily entrenched defenders.
Krilt limped after them, hurt but still capable of fighting. He knew the undead had some extra sense that located the living for them, and none would likely survive their passage. Yet he still hoped to find a lone survivor that he might kill with his own hands.
A small winged creature, quite demonic in appearance, landed before Krilt and stopped him in his tracks. “Come with me. The master has been watching you, and thinks you’re ready for a command position.” Then it was off, gliding low as it led the way. It hadn’t even waited for Krilt’s acknowledgement.
Krilt turned to follow, his disappointment in the lack of victims no longer troubling him. He was rising in the world, his talent and dedication showing through now matter what the circumstances. He was being given a position of leadership, a position from which he could direct others to do his bidding.
The sky was turning dark red, glowing from the fires that had begun to ravage the dwarven city, and dark from the plumes of smoke. And yet, Krilt would bet that tonight, for the first time in ages, he would not dream of ash.
Krilt first appeared in the Frio adventure, Devil’s in the Details, and is destined to meet the mighty orc again. But for those who might have wondered how he spent his time after being driven from the clan, this short story is for you.
Readers of my work might also recognize Loros. There are more jobs planned for him, and more traps intended bury him even deeper in the schemes of the major players behind the scenes. Perhaps the Adjutant will be able to help him. Or perhaps not.
