crooked yataghans of the orcs and did not retreat.
“Gnomes would never have forgotten something like that.”
“Or dwarves!”
I felt shame for my race. Probably for the first time in my life I feltashamed of people for forgetting such a sacrifice. . . .
“Come on, Loudmouth,” grunted Lamplighter, getting up off the ground. “We’re on the first watch tonight.”
No one spoke to anyone else. One by one we all went to bed, leaving only the solitary figure of the jester still sitting beside the small camp-fire, gazing at the dance of the flames. . . .
The slanting downpour from the sky was like whips lashing at their clothes, it soaked them with its soft hands, it was cold, warm, angry, prickly, stinging, caressing, biting.
The soldiers were tired, cold, and soaked through. The bowmen squinted furiously up at the sky—moisture spoiled the bows, and no elves’ tricks for preserving the condition of the string did any good.
“Wencher!” Hargan called in a low voice, wiping his wet face with his hand.
“Yes?” responded the commander of the swordsmen, running up to him.
“Take your lads. Grab every ax you can find in the brigade and cut down the trees on that side of the ravine.”
“Very well,” said the soldier, without batting an eyelid.
“Drag the trunks over to this side, and then we’ll dismantle the bridge. We’ll arrange a pleasant welcome for the Firstborn.”
The other man gave a gap-toothed smile, clenched his fist in the military salute, and ran off to rouse his men.
Hargan sighed.
It was hard. Ye gods! It was so hard to look at them! He was an old man, almost sixty years old—he wasn’t afraid of dying. But the men fate had decided that he should command . . . boys. Twenty-year-old, thirty-year-old boys. He regarded them all as too young to die in front of this bridge thrown across the abyss of a nameless ravine.
The orcs had attacked suddenly. No one had been expecting this war, and during the first days of the catastrophe that overwhelmed the land of Valiostr, the army had been defeated in battle after battle. And now there was only one hope left. Hargan and his men had only one goal—to detain the enemy for as long as possible, until the main human forces could dig in at the new capital of Valiostr. The retreating army was already far behind them, and in front of them, beyond the curtain of mist, the army of the enemy was waiting.
The orcs were in no great hurry. What difference did it make if they spilled the humans’ blood an hour earlier or an hour later? They were the Firstborn, they would conquer all the lands, and men . . . Men would be dispatched to feed the worms. First the Valiostrans, then the men of Miranueh, then it would be the turn of the gnomes and dwarves, and finally of their detested relatives, the elves.
The rain eased off somewhat until it was no more than a gentle drizzle. The air was filled with fine drops of water. It was early morning and mist was rising from the ground in thick white streamers. Three hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the ravine, the road was concealed in a dense white shroud and they could only guess how far away the enemy was. Yesterday the scouts had reported that the advance units of the orcs were at a distance of one day’s march. But that was yesterday. . . .
The bottom of the ravine was hidden from sight. Its walls were not actually sheer, but they could certainly not be called shallow. If you were careless going down, you could easily break your neck. Somewhere far below there was a stream tinkling; sometimes you could hear it above the rain. So after they dismantled the bridge, the orcs would first have to climb down one slippery clay slope and then climb up another. That was the only way they could reach the fortifications.
The brigade had only been named that morning, when the final soldiers of Grok’s army retreated, leaving the volunteers alone to face the foe. Nobody at all was hoping to survive the fighting, they all knew what they were doing when they volunteered. They were saying good-bye to life.
Waiting is the worst torture of all. It has broken many men, even destroyed them. And what could be worse than standing behind a low wall of logs covered with earth and peering into a dank haze for an entire day, with