IV.
“This is the final match,” Yel said. “Are you ready?”
Raylin wasn’t sure that she was. She couldn’t have said how many hours had passed, and even the hobs were showing signs of fatigue.
She emptied her cup of coffee. A burrower blend, it was much stronger than what she was used to. Despite the two grueling battles behind her, she was alert, and her senses were sharp.
Thinking back on the previous two matches, Raylin had learned very little of her opponents. The smallest of the three hobs, the one from the forest, had reacted most creatively to Raylin’s unique strategies. He was also the oldest hob she had ever seen. Thick white hair was pulled into a long braid down his back, a few wisps of brown hinting at its original color. A snowy beard began a finger’s breadth below his heavily wrinkled eyes, spread across his face in whorls, and ended halfway down his neck in seven small braids tied off with the bones of various woodland creatures.
The first match had gone to the hobs as each side played conservatively, testing the others’ strengths and weaknesses. When she had chosen beasts from legend to fill her army in the second match, the forest hob had shifted tactics within moments of the battle’s start, adapting to the shadow creepers and blooded quicker than she had anticipated. Everyone knew stories of the beasts which had lived so long ago, but to see them in action was something else.
Flowing across the ground, bodies fluid and inky dark, the shadow creepers existed somewhere between this world and another. They flickered out of existence, then appeared in another place throughout the wodenlang’s tree city. By the time the hobs’ wodenlang were formed into loose circles, every other unit facing a different direction, the shadow creepers had already done more than enough damage.
The blooded were even more frightening. Slow, lumbering humanoids with nearly translucent skin, they had been peppered with arrows before covering half the distance to the battle. Unfortunately for the hobs, their wounds only made them stronger. Blood coated their bodies, oozing of its own volition then hardening into an armor that deterred any further projectiles. Able to shift the blood covering their bodies, they elongated their arms, spearing wodenlang in the trees.
Facing an unfamiliar opponent had cost the hobs the match. For a race who wore their emotions so openly, the three hobs had done an admirable job of keeping any surprise from their faces. It had been there for those who knew where to look. A tightness around the eyes to keep them from widening. A firmness to the mouth to keep it closed. A twitching nose or sharp inhale, all gave away their shock.
“I’m ready,” Raylin finally answered.
In a truly breathtaking display, all three boards showed parts of the same place--the Glen of Souls, ancient birthplace of the webfooted. The riverside of one board blended almost seamlessly into the muggy marshlands of the next, then into the mud huts of another. Wide thick-limbed trees grew throughout the terrain. The western side of the marsh was covered in a hazy fog.
That was her single advantage. The hobs would know she had placed units in the fog, but they wouldn’t know what kind until they broke into the open.
Raylin placed her units as quickly as possible, hoping her speed might prevent the hobs from seeing which races she had chosen, even if they knew where her troops hid. Once she had most of her units hidden in the trees and brush near the river, she continued to make minor adjustments. For only the second time, they showed emotion, frowning as she tweaked her troops, moving her fingers in a way unfamiliar to them and their understanding of the game.
After a quick study of the board, Raylin nodded to Yel. He quickly tied a blindfold around her head. In order to mimic the difficulties inherent in spying on webfooted, Raylin would not have full knowledge of the enemy’s numbers or placements until the match started.
The hobs placed their units, conferring with each other in their rumbling native tongue. The noise washed over her in soft waves, transporting her back to her final morning in the Bay. Before Gnolen had intruded, she had stood alone, facing the water with her eyes closed, meditating on the road which would lead to becoming a Shield. Now she stood on the verge of that dream.
She was proud of what she had accomplished. Not only had she beaten seven hobs at their game, she was in the best physical shape of her life. Despite Shay’s teasing, Raylin could hold her own in a battle. She had done her best to protect the Bay by appealing to Bree, and now the opportunity to enact real change was a match away.
Greatest of all, she had held her own in two matches against three amazing tacticians, pushed to and beyond her limits. And one of those matches had ended in her victory. No matter what Shield Yel decided about her future, no one could take that away from her.
When the hobs were finished preparing, Yel removed the blindfold.
Webfooted and stiltwalkers stood in loose groups throughout the three boards, so unlike the tight formations other races used. For webfooted, their strength was seldom in numbers. Like wodenlang, they could blend into their surroundings, becoming nearly invisible in order to strike with unerring accuracy. Their spear blades and the sharpened stones in their slings would be poisoned, taking down the largest soldier by merely grazing skin.
As soon as the battle began, firebombs soared from Raylin’s units in the fog, setting mud huts and trees ablaze. By the startled looks on the hobs’ faces, they hadn’t known how to equip their units with various tools. Raylin and LittleThaw had spent countless hours experimenting with the game, much to her friend’s consternation.
Stolen novel; please report.
To their credit, the hobs reacted quickly, sending their troops clear of the fire and smoke. They sustained midling losses, but Raylin was only beginning her lightning-quick assault. One of the hobs’ strengths was their numbers--three minds to her one--but by initiating successive attacks from all parts of the battlefield, she hoped to limit their cooperation, forcing each hob to fend for themself.
Raylin targeted the stiltwalkers next. The creatures sped through the water on six long jointed legs. Webfooted sat atop their flat oval bodies, armed with spear and shield. Any enemies who set foot in the marshlands would be set upon in seconds, stabbed with poisoned spears or crushed by the stiltwalkers’ powerful mandibles.
Unseen archers fired from the underbrush, and webfooted ducked behind their shields only to discover they weren’t the archers’ targets. Barbed arrows coated with their own poison thunked into the siltstrider’s sides, dropping the creatures across the battlefield. They weren’t dead, only paralyzed, but they were out of the fight. Not all of the stiltwalkers succumbed to the poison, but those that remained on their feet were impeded by their fallen ilk. Their normal grace turned into a clumsy shuffle.
By the time the webfooted responded, slinging stones into the underbrush automatically in lieu of direct orders from the hobs, Raylin’s still unseen archers had already moved up into the trees, preparing for their next attack.
Feigning overconfidence, she moved a small knot of burrowers from the fog. They advanced through the waist-high water, shields held high. Stripped of any armor, they were more vulnerable to the webfooted’s poisons, but they could more easily maneuver through the marsh’s sucking mud and steady currents. Resilient to fire, they walked a line between the blazing village and the reforming enemy ranks.
When webfooted burst from beneath the water, Raylin was not surprised by the maneuver, but the sheer number of webfooted was staggering. The hobs had easily twice her numbers. The webfooted nearest her burrowers attacked with uncanny speed, then vanished beneath the water before her units could respond. Across all three boards, the same scene was repeated as the webfooted pressed their advantage, closing in on her troops. They were creating a crescent, surrounding her troops who were trapped in their trees, waiting for death.
Feigning desperation, Raylin sent her entire burrower force into the open, attacking the enemy’s left flank. At the same time, three hobs attacked on the right. Impervious to the webfooted’s poisons, they would be hard to bring down.
The battle so far had only lasted a few minutes, Raylin was sure. Struggling to adapt to her mad-dash play style, the hobs were relying on their original plan of overwhelming her with their greater numbers.
With her archers, werecats in their lycanthropic forms, perched at the ends of branches the whole length of the marshland, Raylin gave them the signal to launch their next attack. Werecats were often underestimated because of their size. They lacked the bears’ tracking abilities and the wolves’ strength. They made up for it with incredible sight, especially in dark forests, and like the webfooted and wodenlang, they were good at blending into any environment.
With unerring accuracy, the cats threw flasks of burning oil into the marsh. Fire galloped across the water, fed by a special mixture of fish and olive oils used in the Bay. It would burn slowly, giving the oil plenty of time to spread through the churning water. While the webfooted’s oily skin allowed them to move quickly through the wet marshlands, it also made them more susceptible to fire. Nearly impervious to flames, her hobs and burrowers would harry their rear as the webfooted troops fled directly into her waiting army.
“I’ve seen enough,” the wood hob said, and after a quick movement from the other two hobs, the battlefield vanished, leaving three plain wooden boards. “How did you know you could equip your units with specific items?”
“Why did you end the match when I was about to win?” Raylin nearly shouted. People had refused to play games with her, they had pouted after losing, but it had been years since anyone had refused to at least finish a game.
The hobs on either side bristled. It was the first any of them had spoken to her, and they were obviously surprised by her responding tone. Even Yel was taken aback, appearing suddenly at her side and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Candidate Raylin, I know you’re tired--” Yel began.
“How did you know?” the hob repeated. His reaction was the opposite of Raylin’s. There was no anger or accusation in his tone. He leaned forward, hands on knees, studying her as he had the game boards.
“Because I’m clever,” Raylin said, not willing to admit LittleThaw’s role in helping her. She didn’t think they had done anything wrong, but she wasn’t willing to take any chances.
“You’re a cheater,” the wood hob said. He leaned back, dismissing her with a wave.
“You’re a sore loser,” she said, matching the hob’s disdain. She shrugged away Yel’s hand and rose.
Insulting a hob was generally considered akin to calling an avalanche names as you stood in its path. The wood hob puffed his cheeks and tensed his muscles, ready to burst. Yel’s hand reappeared on her arm, and when he tugged her backward, she followed the motion, concerned she had pushed her opponent too far. When he could hold his emotions in no longer, the wood hob surprised her with a hearty laugh.
“You’ve no idea who I truly am, do you?” he asked, clutching his sides as he guffawed between fragments of words.
“Of course I do, Grand Shield SplitLog.” Raylin had hoped to shock the hob with her brilliant deduction, but he only chortled harder.
When his laughter died down and he wiped the last tears from his eyes, he said, “Based on your performance, I shouldn’t be surprised you worked it out. Still, how did you know?”
“Little things. These two,” Raylin nodded to the silent hobs flanking SplitLog, “seemed to defer to you--the occasional glance before a hard decision or a pause so you could act first. Add to that Shield Yel’s reaction just now, and it made sense for you to be his superior.”
SplitLog stood. He held out his hand across the silent game boards and curled it into a fist with only his pinky extended, pointing in Raylin’s direction. Moving slowly as her adrenaline faded and her weariness and stress finally caught up with her, she wrapped her hand halfway around the finger. They shook, both grinning.
“Congratulations, Grand Shield Raylin,” SplitLog said. His voice boomed with the proclamation, echoing down hallways and shaking the rock above their heads. Raylin wondered if the guards and servants on duty in the keep could hear it. Then she realized what SplitLog had said at the same moment he pulled away his hand.
“Did you say...Grand Shield?” she asked, her knees melting like stone beneath a hob’s touch. “Grand Shield?” she repeated. Whether from shock or exhaustion, the chamber spun in a dizzy circle as Raylin feinted into Yel’s waiting arms.