A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  At the tribune’s signal, the legionaries drew their batonaxes from their racks. Patches of bright light danced in the shadows where the Stretchers lurked as the metal heads of the Ors’ weapons flung the sun’s glare at them. SunTalon thrust one batonaxe forward and began to sprint toward them. As the half-century to his left followed, the steady beat pounded out by their synchronized step quickened to rolling footfalls.

  The Stretchers stood still as if mesmerized by the spectacle. As the legionaries closed on them, the Stretchers’ inertia was peculiar. Suddenly, they sprang to life. The Stretchers cast a halfhearted volley of spears and stones, then turned and ran.

  SunTalon smiled as he watched them scramble from terrace to terrace. They had left their flight too late. The legionaries were closing on them fast. The Stretchers took too long negotiating cliffs that their pursuers glided over. The hindmost straggler was soon within reach of his batonaxes. SunTalon’s stride wobbled as he spiked the Stretcher in the back, sending him crashing downward. As SunTalon bounded over the prone man, he didn’t bother to glance down as his handiwork. It had been a killing blow. SunTalon was already focused on his next victim.

  He hooked the foot of the second Stretcher, and tripped him. SunTalon left him for others to finish off. Ahead of him, two more Stretchers were chopped down by legionaries. A fifth stumbled as he was climbing a cliff and fell prostrate on the ground as legionaries poured over him. Two more made a stand in a futile attempt to gain their comrades a little time, but a flurry of batonaxes tore them apart.

  The sport of the pursuit was making SunTalon merry. It was a trifle annoying that a bolt felled the leading Stretcher, but the important thing was that none escaped. He counted down as the remaining Stretchers were felled.

  Four. Three. Two. One remained. He was climbing onto the top terrace, nothing above him but sky. SunTalon flung a batonaxe at him but it missed and struck the cliff-face. As he followed his quarry over the ledge, he was dazzled by the sun glinting on metal just before a spear struck him in the face.

  Garscap and Lahan heaved the survivor over the cliff.

  “Dawan, where is my son?” Lahan demanded.

  “He fell, I think. He may have been hit. I was afraid to look back,” Dawan gasped.

  Along the edge of the terrace, lines of Pigsknucklers thrust spears at the oncoming foes, while others rained arrows and stones down on the attackers. Intoxicated with bloodlust, the Elves appeared oblivious to their losses. They were packed too close to use their batonaxes properly. When they threw their weapons at the Pigsknucklers, the batonaxes became ensnared on the defenders’ spears. If the Stretchers held this line, victory was theirs.

  “I promise you the sacrifice of Grael and the others won’t be in vain,” Garscap said.

  “You knew you were sending him to his death,” Lahan roared. “It was a trap for him as much as the Fair Folk.”

  It was grief talking. Everyone was too busy fighting to notice what Lahan said. “Direct your anger at your real enemy. You have a wife and three children who’ll need their father tomorrow.”

  “Grael once said something similar to me when he first proposed going to Formicary. He tried to persuade me by saying we had so many children, we would hardly miss his going. He couldn’t understand why I got so angry. He was too young to understand. Myryr and I lost our second baby to the Blood Stipple. Neither of us slept for three days while we tried to nurse her through her fever, but it made no difference in the end. No number of children lessens the sadness of one who is lost.”

  Lahan’s meandering speech was getting irksome. Garscap had no time for it. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand the relevance of this story to our current circumstances.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Lahan said with a smirk. His eye had a dangerous glimmer. “I was trying to explain to you why I must do this.” Spear in hand, he pushed his way to the front line. “Some of our sons and brothers may be alive down there. Let us get them!” he roared as he jumped down from the terrace. Garscap’s heart dropped with the spearmen as they followed Lahan. The victory within his grasp began to slip away.

  He joined them as they pushed the enemy from one terrace and then the next. He found Lahan lying amongst the corpses. His shoulder and thigh were bloody messes. Friend and foe had trodden upon him. One cheek was a massive purple bruise, and the impression of a dirty boot sole was imprinted across his forehead. Bones jutted through his left arm. His right leg was crushed so badly it looked more like a snake than a limb. Despite all these wounds, somehow he clung onto life.

  “I hope you’re happy,” Garscap muttered.

  Lahan answered him with a crooked smile and laughing eyes.

  Screams rippled down the column as AscendantSun and his comrades flashed by. Mothers hugged children in a final farewell. A few women closed their eyes and surrendered to despair. Treasured possessions spilled on the broken ground as refugees dropped them and grabbed for weapons. As they drew knives or raised axes, some cursed Garscap Torp for forbidding their training in the arts of combat, denying them the chance of extracting an even heavier price from their attackers. A few shook tightly-gripped spears in warning, while others seized stones from the trail and flung them at the oncoming warriors.

  The Elves flitted by them, dodging missiles and ignoring curses. They had no time to explain to the panicked refugees that they were on the same side, and that they were hurtling down the mountain to defend their village.

  It was a relief when they had passed the two straggling columns and faced only empty mountainside.

  In the distance, Saint Charlin stood with arms raised before a furka. As AscendantSun approached, the saint ended his prayerful pose, picked up a hammer, and struck the furka. He shuddered, as if the blow passed through him and not the stone. Holding the hammer too far over his head, he dropped it when he saw the Orstretcherists coming. His arms rose again, this time in salutation.

  AscendantSun raised his hand and signaled his three companions to halt. It was a relief to learn the Pigsknucklers had escaped from their village, though Charlin was coy about the details of this miracle. The saint could not tell him much, either, about Garscap’s plans other than he intended to make a stand against the Elfin army climbing up the mountain. From Charlin’s description, the force that the politician faced was perhaps two centuries.

  AscendantSun bid the saint a quick farewell, but before he could leave, Charlin asked, “Are the other Orstretcherists far behind you?”

  The question held AscendantSun, though he had little desire to answer it. He shook his head mournfully. One of the others could explain.

  “They are on their way!” TrueFriend pointed excitedly up the mountain. A slender cascade of flashing bronze spilled down the scree toward them. “I guess the debate is over.”

  Vital moments dripped by as AscendantSun waited for the descending Orstretcherists to reach them. The boon was worth the delay. Hopefully, he and his comrades were not misreading the intent of the approaching force.

  NeverFear led the procession, his cheeks tinted orange with embarrassment, his eyebrows pressed into a scowl. He halted before the damaged furka. As somber faces gathered behind him, he saluted the saint with a shy nod, though his eyes remained fixed on AscendantSun.

  “Is the debate over?” AscendantSun asked, yawning with feigned nonchalance.

  NeverFear grinned. “It is for us. NoonBlest and his supporters are still in Pigsback, preaching to the walls about the rightness of their convictions.”

  “I suppose we all answer to our consciences,” AscendantSun said, referring as much to himself as NoonBlest or NeverFear. “So, what is our plan?”

  “You tell us,” NeverFear said. “You are the leader.”

  “If you are sure.” His departure from Pigsback might have been interpreted as a renunciation of his authority.

  “The debate was about our role in this war. It was never about the leadership, whatever NoonBlest might think. Unless you want another vote…though I doubt we have
the time for it.”

  A chorus of voices joined AscendantSun in agreeing another ballot was unneeded.

  “My immediate plan is to join forces with the Pigsknucklers farther down the mountain,” AscendantSun said. “Circumstances will dictate the rest. The task before us will not be easy. Perhaps two centuries oppose us.”

  Some of his audience gasped at the odds. Apprehension was etched on the faces of the rest. It was unlikely that the Pigsknucklers and forty or so Orstretcherists could beat such a force.

  “Take heart,” AscendantSun urged. “Put your faith in the Forelight and in each other. This is already a day of wonders. We will triumph!” Hopefully, the Orstretcherists were moved by the sentiment of his words without realizing their implication. The Forelight needed to perform another miracle.

  Grael lay face down, afraid to move, the stone slab beneath him as cold as a corpse. It sucked the warmth from his body, leaving only an aching lethargy. The batonaxe that punched him to the ground had torn a gash in his side. Flowing blood tickled through the burning pain, but blinded by his position, he feared the least twitch of his finger might betray him. An Elf might be standing right beside him this very moment, waiting to deliver the killing blow.

  He heard distant shouts of triumph, shrill cries of despair and death, the clash of weapons, and the crash of falling armor. But closer by, something dripped above him. From below came the thunder of myriad stampeding feet, sometimes breaking stride to scale a cliff or some other obstruction. As it grew louder, Grael’s back muscles tensed in readiness for a pummeling by Elfin boots. The ground trembled as they closed in. Shadows flickered as legionaries raced by him. From the corner of his eye, he could see the boots moving up and down as they passed.

  The sound of them splashing through shallow pools was strange. He didn’t remember water puddles on the terraces. The gory scent, presumably originating from his wound, grew more intense. A steady drip became a ragged trickle. Rivulets of blood meandered across the stone in front of his face, tickling his nose and cheek. Who did this blood belong to—his people or the invaders?

  Two sets of unhurried steps approached. They stopped beside him. A third set of feet came careering down the Crooked Stair to meet the others.

  “Centurion Superior, Sentinel,” said a panting voice. “The Stretchers are pushing us back down the terraces. We cannot use our batonaxes up there. I have never witnessed Mixies fighting with such discipline.”

  Centurion superior was a familiar term thanks to AscendantSun’s instruction on legionary ranks, but what was a sentinel?

  “The Orstretcherists must have a hand in it,” declared a second, gruffer voice. “We must break these Stretchers. We should send the second century up there.”

  “Sentinel, I will obey your commands,” said a third voice, whom Grael guessed was the centurion superior. That meant that the second voice was the sentinel. “However, it is my duty to point out we have another option, one that is certain to win this battle for us. We pull back.”

  “Retreat?” The sentinel said it like a curse.

  “A tactical withdrawal. Give them the scent of victory. Draw them down from these cliffs into open ground where the terrain favors our tactics. We have almost a full century below. We can cut them down with crossbows with ease.”

  Something prodded Grael’s back. Was the tap of the batonaxe spike an idle action of a preoccupied mind or was its intention more sinister?

  “What you suggest might work, but it is not in keeping with the Harbinger’s philosophies,” the sentinel said.

  “We have lost at least half of a century so far,” the centurion superior snapped. “Our casualties increase with every passing moment. The Harbinger may demand sacrifice, but I doubt he considers stupidity a virtue. I suspect you were not so highly principled in the Faith Melee. You did not win that gold armor without a few cunning ploys.”

  Grael jerked as the spike bit into his leg. He waited for the Elves to react, but they were too preoccupied by their conference to notice.

  “Insulting this armor is an affront to the Harbinger of the Dawn. It is an outrage against our Bright Lord,” the sentinel said as he banged his fist against his chest plate.

  “I intend no insult to your armor. I mean to save it from becoming a Mixy’s trophy.”

  The spike began to prod Grael once more. Its tap became so insistent that he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming.

  “We will follow your plan,” the sentinel said at last. “I may have become a little heated there. I promise your contribution to this mission will be reported favorably to the Harbinger.”

  “I am pleased to hear it,” the centurion superior said. “But my main concern this day is avenging our dead. I want the sun to set on their murderers’ corpses.”

  Grael’s right hand now rested on the hilt of his dagger. It had crept there, spurred by some unconscious desire. A bold plan formed in his mind. His fingers tightened around the hilt. If he could leap up, he might be able to deliver a single, killing blow to either the sentinel or centurion superior before he was slain. If he was really lucky, he might even slaughter both Elves and throw their troops into confusion. Whether he succeeded or failed, he was certain to die in the attempt, but it promised to be a nobler demise than lying in the sewage of battle, waiting for life to ebb away.

  He jerked upward. Violent dizziness and the pain in his side pushed him down again. He waited for a batonaxe to deliver oblivion but the Elves had not noticed his movement. Perhaps what he perceived as a massive leap was little better than a twitch. He lay face down, as he had before, waiting for his life to bleed away.

  24

  The furka that they fought to save

  From barbarous sacrilege

  Now serves to mark these martyrs’ grave

  Atop a lonely mountain ridge.

  FROM THE MARTYRDOM OF CONEYRIDDLE.

  Despite Garscap’s efforts to hold back his warriors, their progress down the terraces had a slow inevitability. The ranks of Elves were thinning as a growing trickle of deserters forsook their comrades. The Pigsknucklers smelled victory in the ineffectiveness of the Elves’ batonaxes, in their cries of frustration, in the quickening pace of their retreat. The Pigsknucklers could not resist its intoxicating scent. Every time a gap opened between the two lines, they stepped forward to fill it.

  There had to be purposeful calculation in their enemies’ disarray. The Elves’ retreat was too orderly to be the product of despair or panic. Any moment, the legionaries were going to break into a full retreat, and the Pigsknucklers would spill after them in wild confusion and be slaughtered in the resulting melee by their regrouped foes.

  The clamor of shouts on both sides drowned out Garscap’s warnings. The men whom he peeled from the back of the crowd were too stupid with triumph to comprehend what he was saying. He was trying to pull an impossible weight uphill, but instead, it was dragging him inexorably downward to destruction.

  He managed to get the attention of Dawan and another youth. With spears raised high, the three of them began pushing their way through to the front of the mob. The youths labored at its extremities, while Garscap burrowed through the middle, negotiating his advancement with his crown and sometimes a well-placed knee or fist. The throng squeezed ever tighter around him, till, about two rows from the front, it held him fast. He could progress no farther, nor could he retreat. He was trapped by the implacable momentum of the crowd, impelled to flow forward with the rest.

  A panorama of heads denied him a vision of the battle’s course. The fetor of staling sweat stung his nostrils. A dew of spittle and perspiration drenched his face. A relentless inundation of roars pulverized his cries, as the crowd pressed from all sides, constricting about him with such bone-cracking force that it left him breathless and dizzy.

  The front rows fell away. Another terrace was being descended. Garscap threw himself forward, jostling his way into the unsettled front line. Gripping the midpoint of his spear, he turned it not towa
rd the enemy but perpendicular, along the front of his own men. Dawan and the other youth had managed the same feat.

  A batonaxe flew at Garscap, but the spears on both sides of him blocked it, and it dropped to the ground like a stoned bird. The few Elves who remained on the terraces were less interested in attacking than in goading the Pigsknucklers onward. The ploy was so obvious that it was hard to believe that everyone around Garscap was blind to it.

  Fear shivered through him. He was puny against the colossal, seething mass thrusting him forward. He questioned the premise of his plan. Could three spears halt its crushing advance?

  This was not a time for doubt. Garscap leaned back against the surging Pigsknucklers, his spear holding them back as he begged them to go no farther.

  “Turn back! It’s a trap! Turn back!” he cried, but the Pigsknucklers’ triumphant cheers swallowed up his warnings. His shoulders and arms burned as they strained to withstand the monstrous force pressing on the spear. Warriors pushed past Dawan’s spear and spilled onto the next terrace.

  Two terraces down, Garscap spotted an arm rise, and a human hand opened like a bloody flower. His spear snapped, and the Pigsknucklers poured forward.

  Cries of human exultation drew Grael’s hand into the air. A rattling thunder made him roll against the rocky curtain to his right. Garscap must have deployed his landslide against the Fair Folk. At any moment, a torrent of earth and stone was going to slam into Grael and end his suffering. Hopefully, it would sweep away the Elves as well.