13 XIII
"When you hear one blast on the horn, advance! When you hear two, withdraw!"
The taskmasters called out the signals as they moved through the ranks of slaves, distributing alcohol.
"Vodka or pulque?" the slave handler asked when he reached Wrolf.
"Vodka."
"Wrong, it's pulque."
The master smiled impishly as he poured the milky liquid from the skin to a clay cup, which he then proffered. The slave sighed, tossing back the bitter liquid.
It was only morning yet the sun's glare already baked the land, and the people on it. Wrolf smelled the seared flesh of burnt offerings, and between repetitions of the horn signals he heard nervous prayers to Vitt and Meitz, and even a few to Obitz.
Wrolf could see the enemy army up on its hill, but at this distance he couldn't tell if they were goblins like Sorth thought. Trails of smoke arose from their camp; they must be burning offerings too. Did that mean they were dwarves? Or did goblins worship the same gods?
"We both burn offerings," he mused, looking at the distant smoke. "What makes the gods decide which to heed?"
"Whichever is more pleasing," Wolm guessed.
"Whoever sacrifices more, maybe?" Sorth offered.
"gods send that's the case," Wolm prayed. "We've got a bigger army; only divine intervention could lose us the battle."
"For all the good it'll do us," Thold griped. "Thyrn'll win for sure, whether by more spears or more sacrifices, but he'll win over our dead bodies."
That brought Wrolf's mind back to his part in the upcoming battle. He sighed, wishing he'd drank something stronger. Even vodka might not have soothed his nerves, and the pulque was already wearing off.
Weapons came next, once the alcohol was distributed. They didn't trust the slaves to hold onto them between engagements; even on foraging duty, exposed to the possibility of enemy attack, they went unarmed.
The sun had risen high when the horns finally sounded, and Wrolf was completely sober.
They charged downhill, the army marching to the beat of drums behind, then up a second. So many feet trampling the dry ground kicked up dust, and Wrolf could hardly see as they started downhill.
Stones finally fell as they crested the third hill, adjacent to the enemy army. These stones flew wildly; they weren't smooth, whistling bullets forged specially for war slings, nor even river-smoothed stones like many Kurbromites had used. Against so dense an army, it mattered little. They probably could have slung blind and hit someone.
Stones fell around Wrolf as he ran down the slope. Dust stung his eyes and nose, choked his throat. He couldn't see where he was going, but somehow managed to keep his feet.
The sounds of battle touched Wrolf's ears as he reached the bottom of the hill, wheezing for breath, and started back up. He couldn't see the top of the hill, but the dwarves in front of him never stopped their advance, so the enemy must have routed.
A whistling split the air as Wrolf crested the hill. He stopped short. Could he be wrong about the lack of bullets among the enemy slingers? Then an arrow thumped into the ground, right before him: an arrow that had come from behind.
"They're shooting at us!" he coughed.
"Keep...moving..." Wolm's panting voice came from somewhere to Wrolf's right. "They're shooting...at the hill...where...enemy was."
Wrolf supposed Thyrn's archers couldn't see any better than he could, but he was still livid.
They reached the line where battle had commenced. Before, the corpses had been scattered things, lying where some poor unfortunate soul—or goblin—had taken a stone to the face, or had tripped and been trampled. Here, however, they lay packed.
In the dark Wrolf could only see their shapes. He distinguished the short, stocky bodies of dwarves and the frailer, lankier goblins, but he couldn't make out enough detail to tell which hadn't been a part of Thyrn's army.
The sound of battle once again graced Wrolf's ears, but from the flanks this time. He felt a chill despite the day's heat. Had they just been flanked? Stones began to fall again, and the arrows fell ever denser.
