Reign of Phyre

by Nicholas Cooper

  “Forgiveness lies with those I wronged, but repentance lies with me. Once more into the fray I will go, but I do it not for your forgiveness, but for mine own.”

  The Bear grunted. “Heh, do whatever you want, so long as you’re up on those walls with your men. We could have used Yalean help a long time ago, but I guess we will make use of them now. Now, tell me, did you see any ships along the way?”

  “No, they came by foot along the coastal roads. They disembarked at Vayros at the mouth of the Togris. They made sure their supply route was secure by marching overland from there, passing Lyreport. We harassed them for days, but their number was too great. We would have run out of arrows before we made any difference, so I came here.”

  “A wise choice. How many of the bastards are there?”

  “It’s hard to say. The road was narrow, and they marched only three abreast. They marched in blocks, with carts full of supplies between the soldiers for protection. I could not see the end of their line. My guess is twenty thousand.”

  The Phylax let out a sigh. “It’s a miracle Legatus Yuran only lost half his force in getting here, then. I was hoping for less but, what will come will come. Let us hope they haven’t brought twenty thousand catapults too. Bah, enough. Pharon, you will take command of Reisch and the Elsgard. Use them how you see fit, but don’t let your emotions blind your judgment. This is your first, and possibly final test. Now go, I have several letters that need writing.”

  Pharon nodded and signalled Reisch to exit. He stood up, bowed to The Bear and exited the room with Pharon behind him. Reisch didn’t notice the first time, but the hall was lined with names written into the wall. Pharon caught him looking. “The names of those who died fighting for Yukone and Euphyre. Nineteen thousand three hundred and twelve names are on that wall, along with where they fell. When Karzark comes to our walls this time, we will have lost more than twenty thousand.”

  The corridor felt twice as long as when he came in. After another dozen steps, Pharon stopped to continue his speech that Reisch knew the content of before it hit his ears. “Nine hundred and twenty-six, Solace.”

  There was silence.

  “Shall I read out their names to you? Is there anything you’d like to say?”

  There were many things that Reisch wanted to say to the young general, but the man was not looking for wisdom nor solace. He was a young man in a uniform, who like all young men in uniforms hated other young men in other uniforms.

  “Take me to my soldiers’ quarters.”

  Pharon scoffed, his face of mock disbelief. “You will find yourself where the fighting is thickest. Where there is the most danger, that is where you will be. I swear that to you, Leadfoot.”

  “I would have advised you to do the same, young general. Losing is not an option.” He saluted Pharon, then lead himself to his men. If he had looked back at Pharon’s face, it would have been a young man in a uniform’s face red with rage.

  When he arrived at the Yalean’s temporary barracks, the soldiers were sitting around eating their meals given by the Yukonians. They all made a grand display of standing up, which Reisch knew they expected him to tell them not to bother, and so he told them not to bother. They remained seated but gave their attention to him regardless.

  “Please, finish your meals.” He was also hungry, so he grabbed himself a bowl of whatever it was Yukone had provided them and sat down with Hyle Yun, Nief Karstan and Varo Velen. He had designated them each as captains who lead ninety-nine men each.

  “I hope the warm welcome of Yukone hasn’t hurt their spirits,” Reisch said as he took a sip of his soupy porridge.

  “Commander, everyone here knew what to expect from the Yukonians. We are all here to make amends. We do not blame them,” replied Varo, who had a small morsel of food stuck in his beard. Reisch gestured to him and he rubbed it off.

  “After all, us easterners are here to right a wrong,” added Nief.

  “Easterners?” asked Reisch. Whenever he heard the words easterner and westerner, he knew it never meant good news.

  “You didn’t expect any westerners to come to Euparyen’s aid, did you?”

  I did, Reisch wanted to say. Instead he just asked, “Why?”

  Nief sensed the conversation became a little more serious, and so his tone adjusted accordingly. “Well, you know there has always been a bit of a…cultural divide between east and west. Westerners have always been less sympathetic to their Euparyen brethren, but lately tensions have been getting worse.”

  “How so?” Reisch knew that Yalea had a schism of its own between its east and west. The line where the boundaries of Galaces and Parasen met still had ramifications to this day. Riesch recalled the first time he visited Rin Kas and the frosty reception he had received by those that recognised him. But for it to get worse, why now?

  Hyle answered in Nief’s stead, “The council received word from Rulven that Karzark’s coast was being raided by Taeryen This reignited the age-old debate of whether Yalea Aranth should formally come to Euparyen’s aid. The debate has polarised the council down eastern and western lines. We left when we did because we feared that were we to wait any longer, our passage would have been blocked.”

  Reisch listened carefully to every word. On one hand, he was grateful that three hundred had joined him, and no doubt they would make a difference in Yukone’s defence against Karzark. But on the other hand, their so-called desertion, Reisch feared, could have serious political consequences back in Yalea Aranth.

  “Well,” he said, “east or west, I am glad that you came. We will need every last man to hold these walls when the storm comes. For now, eat up, and pray to Yelia that this rain doesn’t stop.”

  Young men in uniforms, he thought, they are all the same.

  -------------------------------------

  The Yukonian

  The rains persisted for four days after Commander Reisch and his Elsgard arrived at the Walls. The enemy had arrived two days ago but were content to set up their camp and wait for the rain to stop. There had been an early attempt under the cover of rain to reach the walls, but the Khasari found themselves bogged down in the mud and quickly retreated to their camps with minimal losses. Perhaps they had done so to test the nerves of the Yukonians.

  The horns were blown early in the morning on the fifth day after Commander Reisch and his Elsgard had arrived at the Walls. The rains had departed. The Khasari had assembled. Soldiers were frantically running about, shouting orders at one another, all moving generally in the direction of the Stesian Walls. Pharon did not know how many Khasari had come, but he also knew it wasn’t the first time they had, and he knew the Walls had never been breached. He adjusted his greaves one last time before grabbing his helmet, tucking it under his arm, and went in search of Leadfoot and his archers. Turning a corner, it was Leadfoot who had found him.

  “We are ready. Tell us where to go,” he said, depriving Pharon of the formality he was entitled to.

  “Just get to the western section of the Walls, preferably faster than you did at Solace. I will be with you shortly with more orders. I oversee my own men as well, Leadfoot.”

  “I never said you didn’t. Alright, Yalea’aranth maenz, aech il veal Staezia!”

  Pharon had forgotten that there were more languages in Cerenea than just Euphyrian. He had met Elsgard before, but they had spent a lot of time in Euphyria and though they were accented, they could speak the language without any problems. These archers had just arrived, he remembered the Phylax telling him. He would have to make sure that his orders reached Reisch directly, otherwise his men would not understand.

  Though the rain had cleared overnight, though the ground was still muddy. There was no breeze whatsoever, and the sea was as smooth as glass. A low fog had crept in through the morning however, and visibility was limited. As expected by any army with some degree of competence, the Karzarki forces had used this opportunity to approach the walls. A trade of visibility for speed. Fortunately, signal fires
had been lit along by Yukonian scouts who had been watching the army march onto Lera. There were no reports of siege equipment from either Leadfoot or the scouts. Then, like in times gone by, there would be ladders. With the canals and the height of the Walls, there would be a great loss of life for the Khasari. They must be confident in their numbers, he thought.

  The Phylax was to command the centre of the Walls with seventeen hundred soldiers. The eastern section was left to Legatus Garose with five hundred, plus the thousand Sons that had come with Legatus Weymar, who had only arrived a few days earlier than Leadfoot. That left Pharon with five hundred plus the Elsgard. Eight hundred soldiers to hold his section of the Walls.

  As he walked through the field towards the eastern stairs, he saw his five hundred already making their way up to the wall under instructions of their captains. They were a well-disciplined force who had practiced this many times, Pharon included.

  “Firepots, arrows, rocks, oil!” he shouted at one of the messengers going back and forth between the generals, captains and barracks. It was time. He climbed the stairs like he had done a million times before, and like a million times before, found himself exhausted. He did his best to conceal his exhaustion, but there was no one at the top who wasn’t also breathing deeply for the same reason. They all stood at attention, but Pharon saw some of them take quick glances over the wall to see their enemy. Pharon walked over to the edge and looked.

  There was nothing to see but fog. He could hear though. He could hear marching in the distance with great drums beating a tune over the tops of orders being shouted in a harsh-sounding language. Pharon felt his stomach turn upside down and turn itself inside out. He had realised, even before the battle had begun, that there was a difference. In practice and drilling, everything was about order, but the real thing, it was about finding order within chaos.

  The drums beat on in the distance, loud as ever, but not getting any louder. Perhaps they were waiting for the rear of their army to catch up before assaulting the walls. Then, momentarily, the fog cleared in the distance and revealed the Karzarki host.

  It was the largest army he had ever seen. Across the field of fog, like an apparition, stood an army at least five times larger than their own. Pharon felt a warm trickle down his leg.

  “Bravery is knowing you are scared, but pushing on regardless,” came the voice of Leadfoot, “Look at my soldiers. They too just saw what you did. They too tremble. It is natural. They will look to their leader to find their courage. You must give it to them.”

  He hated Leadfoot for undermining his authority, for talking down to him like he was a child. But he was right. He could see the fear in his men’s eyes. He needed to boost their morale.

  “Men and women of Yukone, look where you stand! You are nearly high enough to shake hands with Yelia herself!” There were a few nervous chuckles. “These Walls have never been breached, though through no lack of trying! They come at us once more, aye, with a larger army than before, but the result will be the same. The walls will stand tall! When we stop their advance today, they will run back to Karzark with their tail between their legs!”

  Cheers erupted between the soldiers. He had steadied them. He never had to do that in a drill before. Speeches were never taught. He saw a messenger running to him from the central section of the wall. “The barrels are in place. The Phylax asks for caution and to not deploy too early.”

  “Understood. Pass it on to the captains.”

  He turned to Leadfoot. “No fire arrows until I say.”

  “Yes, Legatus.”

  He turned back to the wall, and again there was nothing to see but fog. The drums continued in the distance.

  “Why don’t they attack? They are in formation. There were no stragglers,” he said under his breath. He heard a few murmurs from his soldiers and saw them looking behind him. He turned and saw Leadfoot with one arm outstretched, his face contorted with concentration. Some Yalean war dance? His soldiers were curious, and given another situation, he would probably have laughed at the Yalean, but everyone’s nerves were frayed.

  Suddenly the murmurs turned to shouts as the fog began to clear underneath the western section. The fog had concealed the Khasari vanguard silently approaching the walls with ladders.

  “Soldiers at the walls!” the shouts went up, with the messengers lighting the signal fires and blowing horns to make sure that the centre and eastern sections were aware.

  “Archers!” he shouted. His men were flustered, but their training had internalised so much of their military life that they were lined up in lines of three, arrows at the ready only moments after he opened his mouth.

  “Fire at will!” Arrows rained down from the Stesian Walls, their targets well within the range of their bows. They could hear distant screams as the arrows began to reach their targets. He turned to the Elsgard. They were in lines of two, seemingly not as needy of time to renotch as his own archers. Their commander, however, was still in the same pose as before, albeit with more sweat on his face than before. What is he doing? he thought. He was going to ask but the Elsgard were following their orders, so he didn’t waste any time.

  He looked down over the walls again and saw the Khasari bunching up, making a shield wall. They were still advancing, protecting those who were carrying the ladders. Those behind the shield wall returned fire, but the arc of their arrows did not reach high enough, not at their distance. Soon though, they would start to find their mark. Once the Khasari passed the line of stones painted blue, his soldiers would form a wall of shields for the archers.

  The fog returned, however. Rapidly. In an instant, the field beneath them was a sea of mist once more. “Keep firing,” said Leadfoot as he walked in Pharon’s direction, “You know where they roughly were. I need to get to the centre.”

  The drums grew louder, hinting at their advance. “You are under my command here, in the west,” he replied through gritted teeth.

  Reisch looked as though he was fighting himself, before closing his eyes. “Yes, Legatus.”

  “Keep firing, we know they are there!” Pharon shouted to his soldiers. The truth was there were so many; any arrow could find a target.

  The first volley of Khasari arrows hit two of the Yukonian archers. Neither were fatally wounded, but that was as good a signal as any. Without needing to issue the command, the wall of shields entered the firing rotation. The third line came to the front to provide cover for the archers, momentarily opening their shields to fire off a volley before closing again. Pharon felt a sense of pride for all of a few moments.

  A massive rock flew over Pharon’s head and smashed into the wall, sending several soldiers flying. They all turned to the sea and saw the culprit. Three more flew over their heads, crashing into the wall with a deafening roar amidst the screams.

  Redmyre had deceived them. The Khasari, just like Reisch and the scouts had confirmed, carried no catapults along the road. Instead they were ferried along the coast on ships that had been out of sight.

  Horns were blown, fires were lit, and messengers mounted horses and ran for the port. “The Yukonian Fleet will meet them soon. We must endure until then. Keep firing!”

  Another volley of giant rocks smashed into the wall from behind. Pharon could hear the sound of fighting coming from the centre. Shit. That meant the Khasari had reached the top of the wall with their ladders. The Yukonians would hold out, though. Ladders were a last resort. At this height, the Khasari were extremely vulnerable to arrows, and only one could jump onto the walls at a time. The Yukonians would come out on top.

  The catapults did not stop, however. There were four to each volley, meaning that there were only four ships, or at least only four that had catapults. Pharon was confident that the Yukonian Fleet would win, regardless. Karzark was not famed for their navy like Yukone was. He could see the fleet sailing out to sea. He estimated another three or four volleys before the fleets would engage.

  His men were clearly worried, however. Between firi
ng and notching, he could see them turn their heads, expecting to see a boulder hurtling towards them at any second.

  “Three more volleys, Yukonians! Our Fleet is on its way, endure! Keep firing. Don’t let them breach the walls! You and you, watch the skies, warn the men as best you can.”

  The symphony of melee grew louder from the centre. Screaming, dying, the clashing of metal upon metal. Pharon could sense what was coming. Indeed, the horn rang three times, and several archers ran to the firepot, notched an arrow tipped with an oily rag, and fired it straight down off the wall into the ditch. A great force of heat rushed hit them as the water doused in oil ignited, the horrifying screams of soldiers below, proof enough that it worked. The Khasari who had made it to the top of the walls were now alone, their ladders in flames.

  “Incoming!” yelled the soldier who had been given the instruction not two seconds earlier. Pharon looked up and dived out of the way just in time, as the rock crashed into where he was standing moments ago. This time no one was hit.

  He heard the screams as the other rocks hit, claiming more lives. Two more volleys, just two more. He looked over the wall to see how far away the ladders were to his part of the wall. The fog was still heavy, but he could see the main Khasari army were still where they were at the beginning of the battle.

  “Reisch! Why aren’t they helping the vanguard? The assault is failing, why is their army standing back?”

  Leadfoot came up next to him and also looked out. He too had a puzzle face. He notched an arrow to his bow.

  “What are you doing? They are nowhere near in range.” He fired nonetheless, and intently watched the arrow, just as Pharon did himself, though Pharon guessed his level of surprise at how far the arrow travelled was significantly higher than Leadfoot’s. After what seemed an age, he saw a single soldier fall. He knew Yaleans were famous for their archery, but that was an impossible distance.