Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  “If it’s a challenge you issue, I can have the Circle of Honor readied,” Durrim replied, shaking out his shoulders to adjust the weight of his armor.

  Ardegant’s laughter trailed off in a mocking sigh. “Oh, spare us the posturing. You are a puppet, Durrim. Sadly, I think you don’t even feel Theregond’s strings at your limbs.”

  “The hand of Grondomagnus is clear to us all, here,” Theregond boomed, pawing furiously at the palisade beams as Anzo had seen him do once, tearing at his shield. “His fingers work your coward’s mouth, stuck so far up your ass as they are!”

  Laughter and cheers answered the King’s words.

  Ardegant’s smile faltered, eyes blazing as self-control shivered on the edge of collapse. But the redheaded chieftain composed himself and fingered a large sack dangling from the one of the twin horns of his saddle. His horse whinnied softly, gave a twitch as its nostrils flared. “It seems there is little more reason for me to tarry here.”

  “Only if you seek death!” Theregond bellowed.

  “You will have death, soon enough, old man,” Ardegant replied with a glare. His hands worked at the sack. “And to that end, allow me to leave you all a parting gift.” He cast the bundle into the snow. “This is but a taste of what awaits you all!” With a kick to the horse’s flanks, he wheeled about and galloped to his waiting entourage. They were gone in moments, leaving only the jangle of armor and mocking laughter.

  Durrim was already scampering down a ladder with orders to throw open the gates. Theregond started after him but Anzo was in motion. He caught up to the chieftain as the younger man stomped through groaning doors and out into the field, his retainers hastening to keep up. The Hamrak scanned their surroundings with hands on weapons, but Anzo didn’t bother, old instincts telling him that any danger was already passed. He hovered at Durrim’s side as the chieftain knelt before the sack and began undoing its ties.

  “Easy, lad,” Theregond said as he joined them.

  Durrim, ignoring the words, flung back the flaps of the bundle. The stink of blood and rot hit Anzo’s nostrils before Durrim’s gasp of shock and disgust set him flinching back. Anzo sighed, unsurprised as he beheld a pile of severed heads within, Ystun of the Frizti on top, recognizable despite reckless mutilation by his snowy whiskers.

  A throttled growl started in Theregond’s chest. “The others?”

  Durrim shook his head. “It’s hard to tell. Bur I think...yes, those must be his sons...and some of the elders...”

  “Bastard,” Theregond growled. “Honorless, treacherous bastard.”

  Anzo eyed the gruesome pile. “They’ve overthrown the Frizti,” he murmured. Theregond’s map of the coming campaign worked in his mind. “The battle lines are now changed.”

  Theregond looked at him, blinking away the flare of bloodlust. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.” He spat. “The short-sided fool has opened the door and now the Faces will pour through.”

  “Grondomangus is counting on surprise,” Anzo said, “a gamble on a winter march around our open flank!”

  “He will cross the Icing Creek north of here and be at our throats,” Theregond said.

  Something in his tone, the sudden lack of surprise, threw Anzo off. He thought of Eyeloth’s words to him, plans within plans. “You were counting on this?”

  “It was one possibility,” Theregond replied with a phlegmatic shrug. “One that I hoped I wouldn’t have to face. Why else did you think I brought my court and so many of my men here?”

  Anzo wanted to smile but the cold calculation in the other man’s face brought a chill to his bones. “So, we will move to cut them off?”

  “Oh, yes.” Theregond moved past Anzo to Durrim’s side, set a comforting hand on the still-distraught chieftain’s back. “Yes, we will be ready for them.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Battle of the Bulwarks

  Dawn came to the morning of battle as pale gold shot through with the hoarfrost of clouds. The slender valley through which the Icing Creek cut materialized before the eyes in contrasts of woody dark and faintly glistening white. As the fresh sun dragged itself above the horizon the tiny tributary, true to its name, shimmered under jags of ice as hard as stone.

  Above the valley the army of the Free Cantons arrayed.

  Anzo and Heathen stood behind the shieldwall of the Hamrak at the center of the line, at the crest of a wide, shallowly sloping hill with woods at their backs. They’d arrived the night before, passing the dark hours amongst that forest, shivering under thin blankets as the wind jarred clumps of snow loose from branches to torment them.

  Men stomped their feet for warmth, blew their hands and cursed when flesh touched frosty weapons. One or two at a time, increasingly larger knots, drifted back to urinate or shit, the stink of it souring the crisp air with its redolence of fear. Straedus and the mounted Hamrak cantered back and forth as these expeditions continued, at Durrim’s warning watchful for shirkers and the nervousness that could easily kindle panic. The morn found the young chieftain amongst his elders, stress and sleeplessness having carved shadowy lines under his eyes as he spoke tersely with Endus.

  Craning his neck to work a cramp from the base of his skull, Anzo panned his gaze back into the frost-limned gloom of the woods to find a heavily cloaked figure atop a bony, uncertain mare; Varya, whose stare found his momentarily with an jade glint. There might have been a smile but her tightly-bundled cowl hid it. Her presence had been a surprise, one that had set some of the more conservative-minded Hamraks to grumbling of bad luck and curses. But Durrim, backed openly, even vehemently by Theregond, had prevailed.

  It seemed that, arrayed against a foe who rumor said could summon demons, even a witch would be welcome.

  Anzo pivoted left, to where the Erevulans formed on the Hamraks’ flank. Easily the largest contingent, their numbers had swelled with the march to the Icing, elements pouring in from across the countryside, all of them primed already, it appeared, to answer their King’s summons. Again, Anzo found himself considering how much things seemed to have moved according to some deeper machination of Theregond’s.

  The King, himself, waited behind and to the right of his force amongst a knot of riders, his nobles, obvious by the splendor of their panoplies. Further behind them, but never out of earshot of Theregond’s voice, hovered a dozen mounted Vaethin priests, silent, hidden almost in the snowy brambles by their white cloaks. Theregond was saying something to his retinue, words unheard at distance but conversational in tone. A chuckle went through the men, spread to some of the Erevulan foot, rustling behind their shields.

  To the right of the Hamrak spread the lines of the Thrungi, ragged and weary. They had marched through the night, arriving only hours before dawn in uneven columns that it appeared were still meandering forth to join the main body. Reisdack was riding back and forth before them as they dressed and re-dressed the line, haranguing them in a vile, irritated tone, the chieftain clearly having slept even less than his men, many of whom drooped and wobbled on the brink of collapse. The speed of Grondomagnus’ incursion—and the shock of the Gevruum’s treachery and the Frizti’s undoing—had caught the Erevulans’ old allies flat-footed. Their muster had been hurried, haphazard and desperate, but Reisdack had insisted to Theregond and Durrim in the twilight hour before sunrise that more would be coming, if only there was time.

  The crash of trampled undergrowth, the clamor of men and horses, and a rumble that swelled up from the valley told Anzo there wouldn’t be any.

  “There!” Heathen pointed out over the shieldwall with his axe.

  Riders burst from the mist-shrouded woods in the valley below, sprayed across the Icing in a din of shattering frost and shouts. Dozens labored up the rise, blowing long, despondent horn notes that warned the tensing battle lines to stay their weapons. A torn guidon snapped from the spear point of one horseman, the device of the Codir obvious. Blood showed on the flanks of many of the mounts, on the battered armor of the men, as well. Several swayed
in the saddle, clearly wounded, led by the reins by comrades as they fell back to the right of the Thrungi and regrouped.

  Hundreds followed, the full balance of the Codir, churning the ice muck of the creek into sludge under their hooves. More horns sounded, accompanied by howls and yips as the main group wheeled, intermixed and attempted to reform. Behind the Codir smaller groups prowled, details difficult to pick out at nearly a mile’s distance, but bows obvious in fists and reckless shots loosed at the retreating tribe’s tail. Codir broke away from the main body, galloped down slope at their harassers with answering bow fire. Men dropped from horses, writhed on the snow. The enemy horsemen twisted and melted back into the woods to the jeers of the Codir and howled acclaim from the main battle line.

  A low rumble answered them. Trees twitched, shadows twisted and spread as ice rattled from the forest canopy. Steely glints pierced the dark. The woods began to writhe, a beast shaken awake and stirring from the floor of the valley. Horns blatted and a low, pulsing thunder of drums commenced. The cacophony took on the familiar, jarring note of weapons slammed against shield rims. Voices driven to the note of wild animals wove in and out of the dissonant chorus. The darkness congealed at the tree line, bunched and flexed, spilling forth as hundreds, thousands of men.

  “By Aeydon...” Heathen whispered and let his axe settle to his shoulder. “By Orkall, too.”

  The host of Grondomagnus surged to the edge of the creek, filling the valley in a crescent that already threatened to wrap around the Free Cantons’ flanks. Divisions became apparent, even with banners difficult to see amongst a swaying forest of spear points and axe heads. Grondomangus’ Faces had to be the group in the center, a tight mass of shields and well-armored men moving with uniformity that hinted at some sense of command and control that worried Anzo even more than their numbers.

  On the right, facing the Thrungi, smaller groups churned and intermixed, lesser tribes allied with the Faces. Knots of armored nobles gleamed at the heart of each. Poorly-clad mobs in leathers and rags surrounded them, commoners fortunate to have helmets, with shields of leather if they were lucky, whicker if they weren’t, and weapons improvised from farming implements.

  Further right massed the riders who’d already tried their luck against the Codir. Their numbers grew, quickly dwarfing their opposites, but the teeming disorder of their deployment and the hodge-podge of their weapons and accoutrements spoke well of the Codir’s chances against them again.

  To the left arrayed the Gevruum, Ardegant obvious before them, mounted and in full armor with his entourage around him and his smirk practically visible, even at that distance. The brighter colors of their tunics and the polish of their weaponry clashed with the surrounding murk of their eastern allies, but their screams for blood matched them for ferocity.

  Damn...that’s thirty thousand men. Anzo glanced at Heathen, saw even the giant’s normal bravado stilled. And we’ve maybe a little more than half that.

  Far to the left and falling in somewhat to the rear of the Gevruum, emerged at an easy, almost leisurely canter a body of horsemen clad in all black with tall lances couched and recurved bows held to the side but knocked. Pale faces eyed the hillside in chilly silence while a gentle breeze teased shocks of white-blonde hair.

  “The Arriaks,” Theregond growled, trotting up behind Anzo and the line. “They’ve come all the way from the Wastes, the crooked bastards.” An enigmatic grin twisted his lips. “They’ll hold back from the melee, wait until someone breaks to swoop in for the slaughter.”

  A few of the younger warriors in the shieldwall shifted uneasily and Anzo wanted to curse the King for the poor choice of words. But Theregond was already gesturing for Anzo to follow him as he continued along to join Durrim. Waving off Heathen’s offer to come along, Anzo dashed to keep up with the mounted lord.

  “How many, do you think?” Durrim was asking the king as Anzo caught up.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Theregond said with a dismissive wave. “We hold the heights. He didn’t expect us here, the witchy dog. He’d figured on catching us off guard without enough to block his passage. Now, he’ll have to engage us here or sidestep and have us slashing at his flank.”

  Rattling presaged the arrival of Reisdack and raven-haired Orlek of the Codir, galloping behind the lines to reach the impromptu war council.

  “They easily have enough to out flank us, here,” Durrim replied. Pale and bleary-eyed, youthful uncertainty seeped through fatigue. Anzo drifted to the Hamrak chieftain’s side, offered the lad a reassuring smile. Poor kid’s never seen this. There’s the personal bravery of the brawl; and then there’s war.

  “Don’t worry about that, either.” Theregond turned in the saddle as Reisdak and Orlek reined in. “Left them a bloody nose, old friend?”

  Orlek gave his black mane a toss, apparently having forgone a helmet. “No one ever accused the Faces of knowing how to ride. It’s a hunter’s work amongst the trees!”

  Theregond laughed and clapped his thigh. “Well, there’ll be more work for your hunters, yet.” His visage stilled, the jovial light fading as he regarded the chieftains one at a time. “We’ve got them, lads. This isn’t the fight they came expecting.”

  “Nor the one we expected, I’d dare say,” Reisdack growled, eyes going to the mass of the Gevruum below the hill.

  “Oh, aye,” Theregond glanced that way, gaze momentarily stoked to a blaze. “But I think I prefer it this way.”

  “Where do you think Grondomagnus is?” Durrim asked, forcing calm into his voice that sounded false for the effort.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Theregond replied. “We’ll find him.” He turned to the young chieftain and clapped him on the shoulder. “Your father will be proud of you today, son.”

  A great shriek went up from Grondomagnus’ host. The pummeling of drums acquired a uniform beat behind the Faces and they joined it, chanting and smiting their shields in time to the cadence. Ooo-rah-crash! Ooo-rah-crash! The beat spread to the rest of the horde, the others joining in with uncertainty at first, but taking up the rhythm with increased confidence until the valley throbbed with it.

  Ooo-rah-crash! Ooo-rah-crash!

  The Free Cantons answered, each to their own ways, horn blasts and ululating screeches from the Codir, bellows, rattled weapons, and lewd insults from the Thrungi and Hamrak, a faster chant and crash of shields from the Erevulans that wove a similar, yet more manic counterpoint to the Faces. Behind them, Anzo barely made out the low hum of the Vaethinian priests, dismounted now and linking arms in a circle that swayed.

  Varya, lingering just outside the knot of the war council, watched the Vaethinians with a disturbed expression.

  “Are they ready?” Durrim asked Theregond, nodding towards the priests.

  “They have said the prayers, read the signs—” a look passed between Theregond and Durrim that chilled Anzo’s nerves “—made the proper sacrifices.” Theregond sat up straight in the saddle to spy Varya over Durrim’s shoulder. “If Grondomagnus thinks to spring his demons on us, we’ll be ready.” He let his gaze slip down to Anzo. “You’ll speak to your woman?”

  Anzo nodded. “As soon as we’re done here.”

  “Good.” Theregond’s smile returned, warm with confidence or insanity, Anzo couldn’t say. Whatever else, he could not imagine the King more at home than he was in that moment. “Lads, let me say it again: we have them.”

  “They can turn our right,” Reisdack rumbled.

  “And they will find themselves in broken, wooded ground where they’ll be easy meat for Orlek, yes?”

  The Codir chieftain nodded to Theregond.

  Reisdack shrugged, seemed to accept that. “But what of the left? The only horse we have there are your personal retinue and the Arriaks, cowards that they may be, didn’t come all this way to sit out the whole fight.”

  “Leave them to me,” Theregond replied with the odd smile Anzo had seen before. “And stop worrying about flanks, while you’re at it. Gods, Reis
dack, you’d think you’d never seen a battle before!”

  The chieftain of the Thrungi blanched but weariness and the sudden force of Theregond’s irritation held a retort at bay.

  “The fight will be here.” Theregond pointed to the center of the line, to the shieldwall of the Hamraks. “Grondomagnus knows that half this monstrosity he’s assembled is farmers and slaves, pissing themselves and mad-drunk. Fancy feints and flanking maneuvers require warriors to exploit and he has no more of those than we do.” He pointed again, this time over the lines to the heart of the enemy host. “The Faces will come up this slope and try to smash through our center. It’s what they know. It’s what they’ll do.”

  Watching the chieftains slowly nod their ascent, Anzo reflected that, under different circumstances that strategy would be exactly what the Free Cantons would try. Suddenly, Theregond’s attention was on him, a sly grin wrinkling the King’s face to the corners of his eyes. “It’s the kind of battle an Aurid would love, eh, Weasel?”

  Anzo returned the smile. “It’s the kind of battle the gods would love.”

  “Well said!” Theregond guffawed. “We will see if your pretty-boy training works out, won’t we?” Seriousness crept into his tone, the laugh lines smoothing from his eyes. “Because it will be on the Hamrak—on those men you’ve been tormenting, Weasel—that the worst of this is to fall.” He looked at Durrim and put his hand on the other’s arm again. “Hold them. Hold the line and the rest will take care of itself, I promise.” He looked at the others. “I promise you all!”

  “May Orkall lend us His Shield today,” Reisdak murmured.

  Theregond’s expression cooled somewhat, but his smile held. “May He, indeed.”

  The chieftains broke up at that. Theregond paused to whisper something to Durrim that Anzo dared not linger close enough to hear. The King broke off and galloped back to his Erevulans and Anzo could think of nothing he might add to Durrim, moved away to speak to Varya, instead.

  She was still watching the Vaethin priests as Anzo came to stand before her, taking her nervous mount’s bridle and stroking its neck with his free hand. “My lady?”