Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

“For God and the Queen, men, God and the Queen!”

From where Nathaniel stood, the charge of the Fifth Northland Cavalry was both the most beautiful and most futile thing he’d ever seen. They came around the hillside, horses lathered, wide-eyed, and plunged into the troll flanks. Carbines fired and bayonets stabbed. One troll spun away, transfixed by three bayonets, then died as a saber harvested its head.

Other trolls turned and attacked, fangs bared and claws flashing. One lifted a horse and rider and hurled it deeper into the formation. Horses toppled and tangled in a mire of broken limbs and screaming men. A paw swiped through the air, tearing the head clean off a horse. The rider leaped clear, but the troll pounced on him and ripped him in half.

Nathaniel looked for Rathfield, but a troll scaled the rampart in a leap, eclipsing the battlefield. The beast raised its arms high and bellowed. Men ran as if scattered by the sound alone. The troll’s lips drew back and its red eyes became slits.

Nathaniel whipped his right arm forward. His tomahawk spun through the air. The steel blade buried itself the troll’s breastbone. A small rivulet of blood matted the white pelt, splashing over the monsters belly and thighs. The creature glanced down, tapping a talon against the metal head. The troll looked up at Nathaniel with the hint of a smile. It plucked the tomahawk from its chest, then took an effortless step toward him, clawed hands raised.

Nathaniel leaped back and caught his heels on a discarded musket. He landed on his backside, staring up at the monster looming over him.

Another tomahawk spun through the air. Thrown from atop the palisade, it caught the troll full in the forehead. The blade pierced the flesh and stuck in the bone. The haft, a feather dangling from the end, rested against the top of the troll’s muzzle. The creature looked at the tomahawk, crossing its eyes, for a heartbeat appearing confused. It raised a hand to pull that tomahawk free as well, but before it could, the blade quivered. More bone cracked. The head sank deeper into the beast’s skull. Three inches, then four, then up to the haft.

The troll staggered. Splitting the bone with a thundercrack, the tomahawk disappeared entirely into the skull. Ruby-gray tissue gushed from the wound. The troll’s eyes rolled up into its skull, then it pitched backward and disappeared.

From above. Msitazi smiled.

Nathaniel got back to his feet. “How, Msitazi?”

“You, my son, threw to hit.” The elder warrior nodded sincerely. “I threw to kill.”

Nathaniel, his mind reeling, bent to retrieve his rifle. I’m gonna have to learn me that trick. As he rose, he realized he’d not have enough time.

The troll cavalry charged.

Owen kicked and slashed and bit and pushed to free himself. He spat out bitter demon blood and snarled as more of the gray hellions smothered him. He cut and fought, but their weight shortened his breath. The air got hot and their stink filled his head.

Then, suddenly, cold air poured over him. The demon that had been huddled over his head, jerked upright. A blade flashed around its neck. Blood splashed, adding another coat to the gore covering him, but Owen didn’t mind. Another demon got pulled off, then he kicked two more away and stood.

Bethany Frost stood there, bloody knife in hand. Corporal Brown clubbed one demon off Makepeace and Justice dragged another one away.

Bethany fixed Owen with an icy glare. “Not a word, Owen.”

“That word would be ‘thanks.’” Owen crouched on the gun carriage again. “Give the wedge a tap, Makepeace. Just an inch.”

The large man banged his dagger’s hilt against the elevation wedge, driving it deeper and lowering the cannon’s angle. “You sure that’s enough?”

“Four hundred yards if an inch. It’s as good a shot as we’ll get.” Owen grabbed the gunner’s handhold, dropped his palm to the firestone, and invoked a spell. Magick pulsed through him, making his senses swim, then ignited the brimstone. The cannon roared and rocked back, almost toppling him from the carriage.

The six-pound ball flew true but short. The ball landed about a dozen yards below Rufus, on a direct line with him, and bounced up. His left hand flicked out by reflex, to swat the annoyance away. The ball did ricochet from him, but the impact knocked Rufus to the side.

His long hair flying in a whiplash, Rufus stumbled and flailed. He drove his staff into the ground again, clutching it in both hands, and leaned heavily upon it. For a heartbeat it seemed as if he would remain upright, but his staggered steps had brought him too close to the troll hole. The earth gave way. He teetered to the left, then disappeared deep into the dark hollow.

The Fifth Cavalry’s charge had sliced through the marching trolls’ formation. Some of the beasts had continued to fight, but with Rufus’ departure, their resolve deserted them. They turned to flee back toward their hole, which would have permitted the cavalry to slaughter them wholesale.

Unfortunately the mounted trolls remained in control of themselves and their rhinoceri. They raced down the hillside, warclubs still slung on their backs. Their mounts’ horns gleamed and coats flew. The ground trembled as they came, a wall of muscle and horn.

Owen leaped from the cannon, grabbed Bethany, and turned her face away to the east. “Don’t look.”

The trollish charge slammed into the Fifth Northland flank, rolling horses and men over as if they were debris caught in a bloody tide. Men’s faces twisted with pain or wide-eyed with panic. They’d vanish for a moment, then that same face would reappear, stripped of flesh but still somehow recognizable. By the third time the man’s body would have come apart, bloody limbs flying, a skull arcing through the sky with scalp attached by white sinew. Then all that would be ground into a muddy froth, streaked with scarlet, and splashed against the rhinos’ breasts and their masters’ legs.

The mounted trolls were by no means invincible. Steel sabers rose and fell, particularly potent against the trolls. Owen cheered as a rhinoceros emerged riderless from the fight. Another troll wavered in the saddle and fell, life pumping from a severed limb.

But too few of the trolls died to balance the price paid by the Fifth. The mounted trolls rode through them, curling to the north and on to secure the river. The trollish cavalry’s ranks parted, allowing the footsoldiers to pass through to the hole. Half a hundred made it to their sanctuary. What were left of the demons flapped away to the northwest. After the trolls vanished into the earth, the mounted trolls withdrew in that same direction, leaving a half-dozen riderless rhinoceri grazing peacefully on the hillside.

Owen released Bethany as the Fifth’s first battalion moved onto Fort Plentiful’s ramparts. Blood dripped from Owen’s hands. He wasn’t sure if it was his or just demon blood. He didn’t feel any pain, but figured that would come later. He shook his head. “We didn’t kill Rufus. And the cavalry, the troll cavalry, could have crushed us all. Why didn’t they?”

Makepeace shook his head. “Don’t know. Good question, though. I reckon I’ll be thinking on it long past finding the last person out there can use some help.”

21 May 1768 Fort Plentiful, Plentiful Richlan, Mystria

Nathaniel upended a bucket of cold river water over his head. He smiled, relishing the chill as it splashed down over him. He stood naked with a number of the Shedashee, washing away blood and inspecting each other for overlooked wounds. Such had been the nature of the battle that those at the rampart had suffered mostly from bites and scratches-though some were down and feverish from the blood poison. Few enough of the Volunteers had died, at least physically. Encampments of those still in shock surrounded the fort, and half the surviving Volunteers had already slunk away east.