Crusade - James Lowder [130]
"But you lost almost half your troops," Torg reminded the king. He picked up a wineskin that lay at his feet and took a swig.
Vrakk growled deep in his throat and leaned forward. The firelight revealed the true ugliness of his face-the short snout, beady black eyes, and bristling, course hair. His black leather armor, now slashed open in three places, did much to heighten that sinister appearance. "We send many Tuigan to Lord Cyric," the orcish commander rumbled, invoking the name of the Lord of the Dead.
"Vrakk's right," Alusair noted, a slight hint of scorn for the orc hidden in her voice. "By Farl's count we killed thirty thousand barbarians. That's three for every man we lost."
"Leaving Yamun Khahan with seventy thousand horsemen to our army of fifteen thousand," Azoun concluded. He rubbed his wounded leg reflexively and paused. "We cannot survive another battle like that."
"And the khahan won't be foolish enough to go around us and avoid a fight.
That would leave an army to his rear," Farl added.
Vangerdahast, who had been watching the fire, mulling over some point, finally looked up. "Yamun Khahan will certainly attack us tomorrow," he said without preamble. "Perhaps we surprised him, perhaps not. In the end, it really doesn't matter why he's let us live this long. He'll make sure we have no way to retreat back to Cormyr."
After a moment Azoun concluded, "Then we can assume the Tuigan will come soon. Perhaps even tomorrow. That means this night holds the only hours we have left to prepare."
A little stiffly, the king stood and pointed to the western lines. "I want each of you to tell me what you'd do if you were Yamun Khahan, approaching our position."
All eyes were turned to the Alliance's lines. Though the sun was almost set behind the western army, the generals all knew the position by heart. They had stumbled upon the spot in their retreat up the Golden Way. Tall, sturdy trees spread in a long line from either side of the road. Without fast cavalry to cover the army's flanks, the trees insured that the Tuigan could not surround the western troops as they had in the last battle. Better still, the timber would force the Tuigan to attack across a narrow front, limiting the usefulness of their vastly superior numbers.
Torg only regarded the scene for an instant before he spoke. "They'll charge," he said, as if the matter required no more thought. "They have us outnumbered, so why waste time?"
Brunthar shook his bandaged head. "What about their archers?" he asked.
"In all the other engagements, they've tried to break the lines using bowmen."
"True," Alusair said, "but in the last battle, General Elventree, your men proved that our longbows have better range than their shorter bows."
Clearing his throat, Vangerdahast added, "And the mages showed how useful a few fireballs could be in dealing with barbarians." He waved his hand to dismiss the notion. "I agree with Torg. They'll simply charge us and get it over with."
Azoun nodded. "Farl?"
"Yes. They'll charge," the infantry commander said. The wind tugged fitfully at Farl's white shirt as he paused. "They've no magic to rout us from the trees, and it'll take them forever to ride around the woods and attack us from behind."
"Vrakk?"
"Don't know," the orc grumbled. "Generals missing something. Ak-soon missing something… but Vrakk not know what."
Torg looked away, disgusted, a gesture that drew angry glares from Farl and Azoun. The orc rubbed his green-gray snout for a moment, then finally shrugged and said, "They charge."
"Fine," Azoun concluded. "Yamun Khahan will come here, perhaps tomorrow, and toss seventy thousand barbarians at us." He glanced back at the western lines. "How do we stop him?"
Again the generals fell silent. The crackle of the fire and the cawing of the seemingly ever-present carrion crows did only a little to mask the sounds of the palisades