Perian gave him a playful pat and a smile. "Mind you re member that promise." Then she was gone to her assigned post.
Flint watched her go, and then got caught up in the frenzy of activity that swirled across Hillhome. Dusk settled over the town. Looking to the field, Flint saw one fire, then an other, then several more spark to life.
And the Theiwar troops marched onward to Hillhome.
Twilight faded to night as Basalt, Hildy, and the other hill dwarves kindled the bonfires laid in the field before the re doubt. These blazes crackled quickly upward as the dry wood ignited, sending pillars of sparks into the dark sky.
These dwarves scurried back to the safety of their com panions as Pitrick's forces neared the town. The bright yel low firelight soon reflected off of rank upon rank of black-armored, steel-tipped death.
Darkness grew as the mountain dwarf wave started for ward again, marching inexorably toward the confrontation with their dwarven kin on the dirt embankment.
In the next instant, as if from a single throat, Pitrick's le gion raised a hoarse cry. With a clash of their arms against their shields, they surged forward into a charge.
Chapter 22
The din of the Thiewar charge crested over the de fenders in a wave of sound. The mountain dwarves voiced hoarse challenges; they beat their swords and axes against their shields; and they pounded the ground with their heavy, rhythmic tread.
The sound rolled forward from the darkness, though the bonfires spotted throughout the field gave Flint and the oth ers a rough idea of the derro's location. Flint saw the flames glinting from steel axeblades, and dark, shiny shields. Even at this distance, the horrid eyes of the derro seemed to catch and reflect the light. Flint thought, incongruously, of fire flies glimpsed across a summer meadow.
For a moment he wondered if the volume of sound alone would be enough to sweep the defenders from the breast work, but a quick look around showed him that the hill dwarves were ready to stand firm. The gully dwarves actu ally contributed to the din, most of them sticking their tongues out or shrieking insults.
Flint looked nervously over his shoulder into Hillhome, now sheltered behind this semicircular barrier of earth. The darkened town seemed lifeless under the overcast night sky, especially in contrast to the fires scattered about the field.
The town, in fact, was virtually abandoned. Some three hundred and fifty of its citizens stood with Flint, Perian, and the Aghar along the redoubt. The others, almost one hun dred and sixty hill dwarves — the very old, very young, and otherwise infirm — had retreated to caves in the hills, wait ing fearfully for the outcome of the battle.
"Ready the sludge bombs!" cried the king, turning back to the charging Theiwar. The Aghar in the center reluctantly ceased their rude noises and took up the small, glass and ce ramic vessels that contained their weapons.
"The torches, too," Flint added. "Light them now!" Sev eral dozen hill dwarves touched matches to the oil-soaked torches they had prepared. "We'll give the little grubs a sur prise when they get close enough," he remarked to his brother Ruberik as the farmer came up to him. Ruberik nod ded grimly as they stood silently for a moment, peering into the darkness.
The thane's ranks swept closer. The charge, begun at sev eral hundred yards distance, swiftly closed the gap. Now, in the glaring light of the bonfires, Flint could discern individ ual derro. He saw faces distorted by battlelust, eyes squint ing murderously, seeking victims. Most of the derro advanced at an easy trot, their shields on their left arms while their right hands held axes or short swords.
Some of the fires vanished from sight, trampled by the dark line in its implacable advance, but closer pyres now il luminated the army. Flint wished for a rank of longbow men, or a catapult — any kind of missile with long range.
The sludge bombs, unfortunately, would only carry the dis tance of an Aghar toss — anywhere from one to fifty feet — and he wouldn't risk the gully dwarves in the Agharpult un til he was ready to attack.
"Stand firm, there!" Flint bellowed at a nearby pair of young hill dwarves who had started looking anxiously over their shoulders.
He heard Perian shout similar encouragements on the right flank, where she stood with Basalt and a small com pany of hill dwarves, supported by a reserve of Creeping
Wedgies.
Flint cast a quick glance to the left, where Tybalt stood with the majority of the hill dwarves, concealed behind the wall. Somewhere in that group, Flint knew, were Hildy, his brother Bernhard, and his sister Fidelia. He thought briefly of Bertina and Glynnis, who were both persuaded over their loud objections to help supervise the young dwarves who had been sent to safety in the hills.
Tybalt gave him a casual wave, and Flint chuckled at the constable's cool and easy demeanor. It surprised him to no tice the warm feeling he got from having his family near dur ing these hours of crisis. They're a good bunch, he told himself with not a little pride.
"How soon?" Flint turned as Ruberik asked the question.
The farmer was still standing beside him atop the wall of earth.
"Close," Flint replied. He looked at the large crossbow in his brother's hands. The weapon's hilt, of weatherbeaten oak, was smoothed by long usage. Its steel crossbar did not shine, but nevertheless tensed with unconcealed strength. It had once been their father's weapon. "You ready?"
In answer, Ruberik raised the heavy weapon and held it firm, drawing a bead on his target in the field — a target that was not the charging derro, but instead a large clay jar in the
Theiwars' path.
"Can you see well enough?" inquired Flint, dubiously peering into the darkness. Flashes of yellow light rippled across the ground, but quickly died back to shadows. "This seemed like a better idea in the daylight."
"No need to worry," grunted Ruberik, squinting in con centration. "I did manage to learn a little of what Father thought most important — weaponry." The farmer crouched, as immobile as a rock, and waited for his broth er's command.
"Another few seconds," Flint said, his voice taut. He saw the target, standing motionless in the path of the charge.
The derro swept closer. "Wait a minute… wait…"
Now, shoot!
With a sharp crack, the crossbow released its steel-headed shaft. The missile flashed into the night, then was lost in the darkness.
But in the next instant a sharply defined cloud — a billow of smoke that was so dark it showed clearly against the moderate blackness of the night — erupted from the clay jar.
"Nice shot!" shouted Flint, clapping his brother on the back. Ruberik paid no attention, already concentrating on the laborious recocking of his powerful weapon. He loaded another shaft, sweat popping from his brow as he quickly turned the powerful crank.
Flint growled, unconsciously voicing his delight, as the sludge smoke spread across the field. He saw the rank of the derro split and waver as the dwarves stumbled away from the noxious fumes. He couldn't see their reactions in the darkness, but he took savage pleasure in imagining their dis comfort. The derro swept around the growing cloud, but their advance had been temporarily interrupted.
"Ready the torches!" Flint cried as the Theiwar swept closer. "And the sludge bombs!" Nearby, Ooz and Pooter hefted their small vials and shook them vigorously.
"Careful!" Flint warned. All we need is to have one of those pop open back here, he thought with a shudder. The battle would be over before it began.
Behind the wall, several dozen hill dwarves held burning torches. They kept the flames hot, but held them low, out of sight of the advancing derro, awaiting Flint's command to put them to use.