The Troll's Trove Ch. 63-64

Chapter 63 - Idiot Girl

Leif slipped in the slush and mud. He shifted and retained his feet. He looked down the way he'd come.

Broken hills tumbled away at the mountain's toe. Somewhere down there was the ranch, soldiers and Ada.

Hothr's breath, idiot girl, two faced, two timing witch!

He slammed his fist into a nearby tree. Pine-needles rained down about him. He cussed and shook his hand.

He turned back to the climb and stopped. He was at the spot. The boulder faced him. There were tracks and skid marks all through the sloppy snow. There was a hint of iron ore coloring to mud. It smelled of coppery blood.

It was changed too. Several trees were broken over. Large puddles that resolved themselves into massive tracks littered the ground. The beast that had made them had stomped around and then headed down.

Raum.

Leif took a steadying breath.

Raum's horn. Ragnar's Horn.

That one-eyed bastard Turls had the horn, probably at Overlook.

Ada was at Overlook.

Ada!

Leif ran.

Chapter 64 - Bolt Blizzard

Jannar counted his men. Three quarters of the original companies remained. He'd picked up at least one more company of ranchers and shepherds. Some of them women. All of them willing to fight. He didn't want to let them. When it came time for battle, they'd ignored his orders.

Below them were at least six companies of Blackrock's troops. His archers had ambushed them three times now yet their numbers kept swelling. A legion that'd started out as a line of heavy horse had gathered archers, light infantry and light cavalry. Blackrock marauders ravaged the broken fells on all sides of the swollen army.

"Last time," Jannar said to no one particular. "Then we retreat."

"As you say, General," Raynar, the soldier next to him, said.

Jannar opened his mouth to reprimand the soldier. He wasn't a General. He wasn't even a Captain. He closed it again. The men needed someone to follow and Trygg had chosen him.

Jannar exercised his hand while he waited. Pain lanced his wrist but his fingers closed, opened and closed again. He tried to draw his sword. It slipped from his nerveless grip.

He closed his eyes. He avoided looking at the mangled claw that was his dextral hand and affixed his attention elsewhere.

Blackrock's troops were nearly in position. The heavy cavalry, those least able to respond to hit-and-run assaults, were coming abreast the hill.

Awkwardly Jannar affixed his shield to his useless appendage and drew his sword sinistral. "Aim for the horses! Cripple them and we cripple Blackrock." Tor the Mighty, who butchers horses? He raised his sword. The sun flashed upon his blade as he let it drop.

Archers rose from the rocks. One flight. Two flights. Three flights were in the air before the first arrows hit. Horses and men screamed. Not everyone was a perfect shot. Not everyone could butcher horses.

A fourth flight was in the air when the footmen hidden amongst the horses charged. A volley of Whitewall crossbow bolts sliced into them. The infantry slowed a pace. Blackrock's own crossbows returned fire. Hundreds rattled or pinged off rocks. Many found more fleshy marks.

Before the first volley was over, a second sailed uphill. Blackrock's footmen were half way to Jannar's position. Those of Jannar's men that braved the bolt blizzard to fire, died.

"Sound the retreat!" Jannar said.

His bugler blasted a loud call. It cut off abruptly. A bolt ripped his shofar from his hand but the message had been sent.

Jannar was the last to run. He caught not one but three bolts against his shield. He navigated a carefully planned path through boulders and thorn-brush littering the fell. He crested the ridge and raced with his soldiers for the small copse where they'd hidden their horses.

The screaming amongst the trees alerted Jannar before he saw the first of Blackrock's marauders. A shadow moved to his sinistral. Instinctively Jannar ducked. An axe clove the air above his head. He ran his sword through a bear of a man wearing heavy hide armor. His boar's head helmet toppled from his head as he died.

More death. Arrows. Bolts. Spears. A rancher's wife saved his life with a pitchfork. She lost hers to a great-sword. Her killer lost his head. Unsteady, unwieldy in his sinistral hand, Jannar's sword ran red.

"Your mount, General!" a soldier yelled. The soldier's mount battered its way through the chaos towards Jannar. He led Jannar's horse. His hands occupied, he was unable to defend against the spear that took his life.

"Tor, damn it! Damn it! Retreat you fools! Save yourselves! Get out of here! Retreat!" Jannar lay about himself with his blade. His clawed hand screamed in torment as he hauled himself into his saddle.