A great roar went up around him as the knights cheered the victory. Morgan realised now that identification of the dead man would be impossible; no one would know that he was likely an impostor, even the enemy, for they too would not be privy to the truth. Dominic obviously saw this, too. He rode up to the gold-encased corpse and with a well-aimed blow struck the head from the body. Using a spear taken from another knight, he impaled the gruesome trophy and held it up high for all to see, the remnants of the golden helmet still easily distinguishable.
‘The King of Arshuma is dead. Behold the head of the King. Death to Arshuma!’
And it worked. The cavalry of the enemy broke, giving way before Dominic as he charged them again, the Silver Lances following close behind and his bloody prize lofted high before him. Only General Terze among the Arshumans knew the truth, that the real king was secure in the city behind them, but no one paid heed to his words as his own knights swept past him, panicked and routed, past their own infantry, past the lofted yellow banners of the Arshuman spear, before finally stopping and turning again at the city gates.
And Dominic would have pursued them all the way, his blood was up so much, if it were not for the recall given on the horns behind him. After he had checked himself he rode back with the others and, as he did so, he stopped and thrust the butt of the spear into the soft earth, the head atop it facing its own people. Pleased with himself, he let it remain there and as he did so he heard their trumpets, too – loud, brazen, discordant. For the Arshuman infantry were being given the order to advance.
Morgan had used the time well. While Dominic ensured that the enemy were harassed all the way back to their own lines, he had joined his infantry again, allowing his horse to be led away to where the other cavalry had been ordered to go, somewhere behind their own lines. Itheya and the elves too, who had ridden alongside Dominic assisting in the rout, halted their advance and turned back. All of this was planned, and discussed with every captain, before the battle had even started. Everyone knew what they had to do.
At last, the cavalry gathered together behind the battle, their part fully played for the time being. It was the time for the men on foot to show their mettle, and it was more than possible that they would have to do that and much more besides. Morgan stood beside Captain Mirik and watched as the sound of twenty thousand booted feet rolled towards them over the grass.
For the enemy infantry were advancing on them.
Ten thousand men against three at a rough guess, Morgan surmised. Pretty much everything Arshuma had to offer. More and more he realised that he had brought these brave men here pretty much on blind faith alone. At the time he had believed everything the strange girl had told him – that, backed up with the silhouette of something massive lurching skywards into the moonlight, had been enough to convince him at the time. At the time. But that was then. Now, with a line of men stretching as far as the eye could see coming towards him, he was hurriedly re-evaluating his opinion. He looked up at the sky. Nothing. What was this girl going to do exactly? He had a vague idea, but that was hardly sufficient for comfort at the moment. Behind him he could hear men praying.
‘Mytha, make my shield arm as iron and my sword arm straight and true. Turn my blood to fire but keep my head cold and clear. Let me deal death in Thy name and know that every soul I reap will be dedicated to Thee...’
‘Artorus protect me, let Thy spirit be my shield. Though I face foes innumerable, let me stand tall and true and not flinch in the face of death. And if Xhenafa sees it fit to take me from this world, guard my family, keep them fed and sheltered for they were born to serve Thee just as I have been. I commend my spirit to Thee.’
Morgan had manoeuvred his men so that they backed on to the lake at an angle; any flanking attack would be through marshy ground to the north and would face the wrath of the cavalry to the south where they presented the broadest flank. It reduced the risk of being overwhelmed, but did not eliminate it. It was not the brightest of outlooks. He pulled out his sword and turned to face them, standing on a low bluebell-encrusted hillock so that as many of his army as possible could see him.
‘Men of Felmere,’ he said, doing his best to sound commanding and fearless. ‘You can see what is heading towards us; you can see their banners and all of you know what that means. For eleven years now we have not known peace because of them; we have all lost something in that time, whether it is land, property or something even more precious. You all know me, you know of my past and many of you have a similar tale to mine. Edgar, I remember your daughter well, how she used to come to my farm and we used to barter wool for meat; Carl, you and I know how your wife helped care for my son when he had the colic. Now they have all been taken from us and the reason for it is there.’ He gestured at the advancing soldiers, the front ranks close enough now for individual shields and spears to be seen. ‘For all of us, this war ends today; remember, though, many of their troops know nothing of war, not as we do. The Gods are with us. Do not quail before them, show them that you are men of Felmere – loyal, steadfast, determined. Stand together in this and even now we shall triumph, even now we can claim victory, even now we can end this war in our favour. For Felmere! For Felmere and Tanaren! Our victory is at hand!’
He hated public speaking, far preferring to lead by example, but for once he seemed to have got it right. The response was electric. Clashing spear on shield, the men repeated his call. ‘Felmere and victory!’ they roared and heeding the call of the drums and horns moved into battle formation.
Morgan joined them and watched, there was nothing more for him to do. The Arshuman line was less than half a mile away now; their steady drums could be heard as they marched. ‘Their line is quite ragged,’ Mirik said, loud enough for many to hear. ‘Raw troops, undisciplined. Let’s see how they react when we start to skewer them!’
Men laughed at this. Morgan could sense that they all knew the hopelessness of their predicament, but that they were all grimly accepting whatever was going to be thrown at them. If he were to die, he thought, then here and now would be just the place he would choose.
Closer and closer the enemy came, their spears lowered now, the distance between the lines probably not more than a hundred yards. Morgan held his shield tightly, preparing to command the formation of a shield wall. It would not be long now, before the enemy charge. Morgan had taken his men to the west of the road to the city and they had turned at bay to face it. The Arshuman army was now crossing the road and were close enough for him to hear them shouting at one other, exhorting one another as they summoned up their blood lust. They were as nervous as he, Morgan thought wryly.
And then there came another sound, deep, low, rumbling like a hundred logs rolling down a steep hill. It perplexed everyone, Morgan looked around him to see the source, as did everyone else in both armies. It came again – a cavernous bellow. He felt the ground vibrate under his feet. And then he saw – saw exactly what he had made a deal over four long days previously.
To his left, on the great spur of rock that thrust into the lake by the city, it watched them. A thousand vibrant incarnadine scales clothed it and they glittered in the sun as it moved its colossal head slowly, tasting in the air the sweat of the men beneath it. And their fear. Finally, it threw its head back and roared, a full-throated cry that shook the earth and had grown men stopping up their ears. Morgan did not do so, only to realise that he was deafened for a few seconds and could not hear what Mirik was saying to him.
Then, finally, it leapt off the rock. For the briefest of seconds it looked like it would plummet to the earth, for what wings could carry a creature like that? And then it fully unfurled them and Morgan had his answer – vast, powerful and ribbed with thick veins, they lifted it upwards and forwards. Directly towards the far right of the Arshuman line.
‘It was no god we saw casting flame the other night,’ said Mirik. ‘It was this ... creature. Say not that it is a dragon.’
Morgan smiled. ‘You would not have bel
ieved me if I had said what it was. A god, yes, but a dragon?’
The Arshumans had stopped marching; no one, including their captains, seemed to know what to do. Instead, they watched, dumb, open-mouthed as the great beast came towards them; its shadow alone could cover a hundred puny men. And the Arshumans on the right flank started to edge away as it approached; they were in shock and their captains did not stop them.
Lower and lower it flew, closer and closer it got to the enemy lines. Afterwards Morgan came to think that, if the Arshumans had kept their discipline, spears pointed outwards, they might have stood a chance, might have deterred the creature. But it was never going to happen. For a being long thought extinct, or thought never to have existed except in the wild deliriums of the brain fevered, was here, advancing relentlessly upon them. And as it advanced it opened its great jaw, baring teeth the length of swords, yellowed by aeons of time. And then finally it breathed, bathing dozens or even hundreds of men in molten fire.
Morgan and the men behind him watched in stunned silence as the dragon flew over the enemy, biting, grabbing, swiping as it did so. When it obviously felt it had done enough, it turned and headed skyward, even its wing beats knocking men off their feet. And then Morgan saw her, impossibly tiny, clinging to the great beast’s neck and he reproached himself for ever doubting her words.
The Arshuman line was in abject confusion. The left of the line had been unaffected so far but even they had stopped marching, trying to see exactly what was happening. The right though had fragmented completely; line discipline had gone and people were milling around in groups seemingly unsure whether to regroup or flee.
Then, as they watched, the dragon turned in the air, dropped its height and came at them again. Any decision they needed to take was made for them there and then.
They scattered like chaff at the beast’s approach, no longer giving thought to anything other than their own survival. A full third of the Arshuman army disintegrated like a seed pod bursting under a child’s breath. East and west they fled and, once the dragon had passed over them, to unleash its destruction elsewhere, many turned northwards – to the gates of Roshythe and the sanctuary to be found there.
From one of the high towers in Roshythe Palace the whole battlefield could be surveyed. And it was here that the Arshuman King, sitting in his padded chair with its silk covered cushions, had chosen to watch his final triumph in this war. And for much of the time he had enjoyed it – the deployment, the sight of his numerically superior force spread out over the ground, even the charge of his cavalry with their myriad yellow pennants flapping in the stiff breeze.
But all that was forgotten now.
Open-mouthed, he watched in horror as he saw his hopes, dreams, his anticipated victory and even his kingdom evaporate in smoke before his very eyes. There was no coming back from this, he knew, as he saw fully one flank of his army collapse in utter confusion and terror. Men were running everywhere, throwing away their arms, their shields, even their armour in their haste to escape. In ten short minutes half his army had gone; it had taken months, months of hard work to assemble, and all for nothing.
Obadrian came up to him, his calm veneer gone the same way as the army.
‘Magic and dragons,’ the King kept hoarsely repeating. ‘Magic and dragons.’
Obadrian gently touched the King on his shoulder, something he would never normally dream of doing. The King started and stared at Obadrian, not recognising him. ‘Magic and dragons! Who can fight that? Who can possibly fight that?’
‘My King,’ Obadrian said, his voice urgent and panicked. ‘We need to evacuate you, get you away from here out of the side gate and back to your palace in Kitev. When you are there we can organise you a ship – we can sail to Crown Haven or Fash – but you need to move now!’
The King stared at him, gaping like a fish; he seemed to not know where he was. ‘Your Majesty.’ Obadrian shook him this time. ‘You need to leave now!’
And at last the King came to his senses; he stared around him sweat running in rivers down his brow. ‘Leave. Yes, Obadrian, we have to leave.’
‘Good, Your Majesty; a wagon is prepared.’
The King raised his hand to stop his chamberlain in his tracks. ‘Two things first.’
‘Your Majesty?’
‘The priests, the ones that said the fire in the sky that night was a portent of our victory...’
Obadrian knew what was coming. ‘Yes, Your Majesty?’
‘Bring them with us. When we are clear of here and watched by no one, have them all killed. Quickly and without fuss, but have them killed and buried.’
‘Priests, Your Majesty? And not cremated?’
‘Charlatans one and all, and I want no trace, no smoke, nothing.’
‘As you wish, Your Majesty, and the second thing?’
‘The assassin. She knew. She set this up. Have her killed. Now.’
Obadrian swallowed hard. ‘That might be a little difficult, Your Majesty.’
The king coloured, his eyes glittering in fury. ‘Why?’
‘She has escaped, Your Majesty. Three guards were found dead, their weapons taken; I have men searching...’
‘Forget it! No wonder all this has happened. I am surrounded by incompetents and cretins. Get me out of here. I will go into exile. If the Tanarese don’t get me here, the Chirans will. But I will come back! I will drag this land back under my control, no matter how long it takes or how much blood is spilled doing it!’
He stood, pushed Obadrian to one side, and stormed out through the doorway. Obadrian ran after him, thankful at least that the King was not giving up. The country they would be fleeing to was a lot sunnier than here and Obadrian liked the sun. As his father had told him once: on every mud beach was a grain of golden sand. He would cling to that thought as he left this ruin behind.
The mood had shifted from one of utter shock to ecstatic triumphalism among the men of Felmere. Hardened men were whooping with delight as the enemy line started to fall into complete chaos before them. Morgan, though, was keeping a clear head and he was not the only one. Someone among the Arshumans had the wherewithal to restore some discipline into what was left of their army. The left flank was still grouped together and they started to move slowly away from Morgan’s men, up the road and back towards the gates of Roshythe. Many others among the vanished right flank were heading that way, too. Morgan grimaced; there were enough of the enemy left to defend the city effectively for a long time. A protracted siege was what no one wanted. He sounded the order for the infantry to advance; maybe they could cut enough of them off before they could gain the gates. He saw the cavalry were thinking the same way, for they started to move forward too, but warily for the dragon had disappeared and no one knew what it would do next.
All Morgan could think at the moment was that this could get very, very messy.
Again, just seconds later, Morgan knew he should never have doubted – for from behind the same rock formation where he had seen the dragon appear earlier it emerged again. Leaping from its perch and flying not twenty feet from the ground, it swooped across the front of the city to land directly in front of the gates, interposing itself between the city and the fleeing soldiers. The men, who had been running full pelt for the sanctuary of the city, stopped dead in their tracks. And the dragon breathed again, sweeping its head from left to right, enveloping the closest men in fire.
There was hardly anywhere else for the men to flee – westwards was the lake, southwards were the Tanarese enemy and northwards was the great beast itself. All that was left was east. East to Arshuma, eastwards to home and an escape from this accursed land. And so they fled that way, weapons dropped, armour discarded, thoughts of the glory of war forgotten. The dragon turned about, hooking one of the gates in its great claws. Morgan saw archers on the battlements firing at the creature – he imagined it was barely irritated by their paltry arrows – even so it bathed the wall in fire, incinerating all those trying to get close for a
better shot. Then, finally, it succeeded in its efforts. One of the gates came free in its claws. Flapping its powerful wings, it slowly lifted it into the air, leaving the other gate to collapse free of its hinges on to the road with a great clatter. It was determined to show no mercy to the hapless Arshumans. Soaring above the terrified men, it dropped the gate, crushing many under its great frame.
And then it was the turn of the organised line of Arshumans heading towards the city, the remnant of the once-proud army. It flew directly towards them, expelling great gouts of flame before it. It looked like it would barrel directly into them such was its low trajectory, crushing, burning and killing everything in its path.
It was the very last straw.
Any semblance of order, of organisation dissipated completely at the dragon’s charge. The remainder of the Arshuman army broke at last, hurtling eastwards at breakneck speed. The dragon still rode through them, killing many not quick enough to get out of its way, but then, once its run had finished, it soared upward again before being lost in the low cloud.
Morgan sensed that the dragon was not coming back, at least for a while, and at last it was down to his own men to do something again. He signalled the cavalry who were close by now and Itheya and Esric rode over, Esric’s face was awestruck.
‘Harry them!’ Morgan shouted hoarsely. ‘I don’t want to see their arses for dust. Don’t let them regroup. I will take these men up to the city and wait for you there.’
‘Did you see that!’ Esric called back. ‘The Gods have answered us today! I will take up my pen again; this requires a poem like no other!’
The cavalry didn’t really need telling – they were gone and among the enemy within minutes, Itheya’s elves leading all of them. Morgan led the march northward. After some ten minutes or so they were close enough to see inside the city, through its now gateless doorway. Trees and marble seemed to be everywhere; all of the advancing men were keen to have a real look inside, the first men of their nation to do so in generations. But, when just out of bowshot of the entrance, Morgan called a halt.
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