Lashka

(Author Note: Thanks to all for the encouragement. It keeps me motivated to write.)

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Jhorgo loved the smell of the black powder, loved even more the white phosphorescence as it lit, the way it eagerly consumed wood and iron and could even make the oldest stones tremble. He loved the hiss that was deadlier than the darkest asp that built into a deafening roar.

He studied the bridge again. He had covered the timbers in lamp oil, and poured powder into the seams, setting two small kegs underneath the keystone in the center arch. He had wound strips of cotton together and dipped those in lamp oil as well to make a rudimentary fuse.

"Let's go, saboteur..."  the Split-skull growled from atop his wolf, making the word sound like a curse.

Jhorgo sighed. Riders like Urgho preferred charging into battle. They never appreciated the subtle cunning and planning that went into moments like this - the endless experimentation to find the perfect mixture, the selection of the proper stress points. Such things required careful study.

"Fine," he snapped, aware that Urgho's evaluation of his work could reach the Horde-Mother's ears. He lit the fuse, watching as the flames licked hungrily at the threads. Urgho's wolf paced restlessly next to him; it clearly did not like the fire. Urgho whispered in its ear to be still.

"How long will this ta-" Urgho started to say but the rest was cut off by a brilliant flash as the bridge exploded in all directions. Timber and stone rained down on the orcs, who turned their faces away in disgust. Urgho's wolf bolted, throwing his rider into the mud at Jhorgo's feet.

The saboteur knew better than to laugh, but he permitted himself a small smile as he surveyed the new pile of rubble in the stream. A few loose stones clattered belatedly to join their brothers, and there were a dozen new fires burning merrily away across both sides of the river.

 I would have warned you to brace yourself, Split-skull, if you had left me to my work. Urgho floundered to his feet in the mud, sputtering. The Split-skull stomped over to where his wolf lay, shivering and boxed it on the ear hard enough to make it yelp as he clambered back into the saddle.

Jhorgo thought to make a jest, but held his tongue when he saw murder in Urgho's eyes.

"The humans. We go. Now." Urgho said, pulling his mount by its reins up onto its haunches.  Jhorgo leapt nimbly onto the back of one of the other wolves. He inhaled the rising smoke and ash, feeling his chest swell with pride. He seated himself facing rearwards so that long after the wolves had plunged into the wind he could watch the embers of his work drift high into the night. 

It's cold, Mylmo thought, and the wind will blow the lanterns out if we're not careful. He looked up ahead at his brother, who held one of the lamps aloft like one of the sea watchmen of their childhood. For his part, Emmit seemed immune to the elements, carved out of the same hardness that had been their father. 

Emmit swayed with a mariner's grace as the wagons heaved across the wintry steppe. He might have made a good fisherman, if it hadn't been for me. But those days lay behind him, with their ancestors and the kings of Tal.

They had given much of their seafaring roots. But they had kept the lanterns, despite the prohibitive cost.  Whale oil was almost unheard of this far north, but they still had kin that patrolled the southerns seas, and had not yet forgotten them. Every month Mylmo sent gold, and every month a barrel of oil arrived; Mylmo estimated they must have nearly fifty stored up at the monastery.    

He thought he heard his name being shouted above the wind. He lurched to his knees, cradling his lantern.

"Mylmo..."

The words were indistinct, drowned out by the wind and the chattering teeth of the villagers on either side of him. "Quiet," he growled. He strained against the rushing snow. Emmit turned forward for a moment, then Mylmo saw his brother straighten like a pin before whipping around to face him again.

The wind shifted, blowing Emmit's words towards him "Bridge..." he heard clearly, and "fire..." He inhaled the wind, smelled smoke and ash. The night sky was a little brighter to the east. They got ahead of us, he thought despairingly.

They had burned the bridge... Mylmo thought, they mean to slaughter us all. He looked down at the villagers next to him. He saw how worn and sullen their faces were. These were no fighters - they were potters and weavers and tanners.

Mylmo looked to his brother, who for all his grace was no fighter either.  He weighed their options carefully. There will be no going forward, that's for sure.

He lifted his lantern and covered the light with his hand. Thrice, an ancient Tallimar signal that the lightkeepers had used to warn villagers when there were raiders on the shoals. 

 Emmit returned the gesture; he spoke curtly into his wagon driver's ear. The driver tried to argue with him, but Emmit pointed to the smoke that had just started to come into the horizon.

Harry drew up next to Mylmo's wagon. "Trouble?"

"Trouble," Mylmo agreed.