Chapter 44: Bottom’s Up

The problem with facing an enemy coming from underground, is that I had no way to see them. An obvious statement, perhaps, but no less true for it. I had no way of going on the offensive, so even after Pumpkin’s warning, all I could really do was to wait for the enemy to move, and then mount a counterattack, hoping that their first strike wasn’t decisive. There was an undeniable element of luck at play here, but such was life on the battlefield: better a lucky general than a good one, as Napoleon was fond of saying. So I waited, blade in hand, for fate to flip a coin, and this time, it landed in my favour. I wasn’t sure how the enemy was tracking us from underground, but the most likely suspect was some form of echolocation, so I kept very still, denying them knowledge through my movements. It paid off, as a massive paw emerged from the ground, two feet from my position and striking nothing.

[Dire Mole - Level 2]

Part of me wanted to run, staring at the razor sharp claws on display, likely capable of rending through my gambeson and flesh alike with ease. I ignored that instinct and closed the distance instead, banking on the fact those same paws would be unwieldy up close, designed as they were for a limited range of motion when digging. With me right in front of it and its paws out of position, the mole used what it had left and tried to bite me.

[Backup shirt and pants withdrawn.]

I gave him a mouthful of linen, which tore quite easily, but proved much harder to swallow, tying up the final threat to my well being. This cost me my change of clothes, but that was a more than acceptable loss, given it let me bury my knife in the mole’s sunken eye socket. Yes, moles do indeed have eyes, albeit ones atrophied by disuse and barely a few millimetres wide, but I was standing at point blank range, and my hand was steady, ensuring that the tip of my blade went straight through the eye and into its brain. It twitched spasmodically, as I pulled my knife back, and then it was still: by all respects a clean kill.

All of this seems very impressive, until one considers that the entire exchange happened in a handful of seconds. From the mole’s emergence to its death, very little time had passed, and yet in that time, the air was filled with screams. Twelve moles emerged, one for each of the Archers at the perimeter. For nine of them, their lucky held, like mine had, as their adversaries emerged out of position, their mighty paws striking naught but empty air. They were too close for the bow and arrow, but that mattered little, as the men of the convoy were experienced fighters, and swiftly drew secondary weapons: everything from daggers, to truncheons, to even a pair of brass knuckle dusters, and made short work of the creatures in melee range. But not everybody could be so lucky.

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The remaining three Archers found their luck turning sour, as more moles emerged at optimal angles, and their paws sank into soft flesh, severing lower limbs at the ankles, knees and thighs respectively. Unable to balance their weight amidst their shock and pain, the three stricken men toppled over, right into feeding range, and I got a first hand view of sharp teeth sinking into the necks, and learned that this particular species of mole boasted vampiric tendencies. It wasn’t a pleasant sight, and I began to move towards the closest, intent on killing it while it was preoccupied, feeding upon the dead.

I never got the chance to, however, as Harvey chose this moment to make his own move. I refer to this only in the abstract, because in truth, I didn’t even see him move. One minute, he was next to me, staring at the enemy with a severe frown on his face; the next, he was behind the nearest mole, bringing his sword down and splitting it in two. Then his body faded into shadow, and he was behind the next mole, repeating the motion, and again, on the third and final survivor of the first wave. Then, he was back beside me again, his blade clean of blood and viscera, and if it weren’t for the faint sheen of sweat suddenly present upon his brow, I might have believed that he’d never moved at all.

“Still no casters,” was all Harvey said, making me nod grimly.

We’d faced two waves of attackers now, both rushing us with no heed to their own survival, the kind of behaviour that was suspicious in and of itself, where wild animals were concerned, for even they tended to have a minimal sense of self-preservation, hunger be damned. Coupled with the conspicuous lack of any magical element on the field, it was clear that these first two waves came under the direction of another. So, we remained tense, keeping an eye out for further surprises. The archers did much the same, six of the remaining nine standing at attention, spaced evenly around the convoy, while three broke off to attend to the fallen.

The funerary rites I observed were sparse, little more than a short, one minute prayer, whispered under each Archer’s breath, before they stripped the fallen clean. The bodies were then piled together on the roadside, doused with some liquid from one man’s flask, and swiftly set alight. The impromptu pyre brought some relief, bringing light back to the hillside, even as the Sun vanished beneath the horizon. The smell wasn’t too bad, either; a strange mixture of beef and pork on the frier, by my reckoning: I could see how the euphemism of long pork came about, if this was the outcome of burning flesh.

Still, this entire process proceeded unimpeded, until even the last of the ashes guttered out, and only then did Harvey sheathe his sword, content that no third wave was coming.

“Back to the carriage,” he whispered, staring off into the distance. “Get some sleep while you can, I’ll take the first watch.”

I wasn’t going to say no to that, nor did I comment on missing dinner, because although death didn’t affect me too badly, it was still hard to work up an appetite, right then and there.