“I thought you might need some attention,” Alberod said when Cordon sat wearily on his makeshift bed.
“I’m not hurt,” Cordon said, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Oh, really? Then why is your side covered in blood?”
“Alberod, I’m covered head to toe in blood and gore.”
“Just sit still and let me do my job.”
Before Cordon could protest further, Alberod pulled his friend’s shirt open. “You need mending here and here and here.”
Cordon looked at where Alberod pointed. To his genuine surprise, his flesh was indeed sliced open, three nasty looking gashes to his torso and several smaller ones in his arms and face.
“Huh! You’re right.” Cordon heaved a deep sigh. “How bad were our losses?”
“Not as terrible as they could have been. I have some very fine healers working with me. They’ve saved many lives today. Now clamp your teeth, this is going to hurt.”
Alberod poured a disinfecting liquid into a seven-inch cut in Cordon’s side, then a numbing powder. Threading a fresh needle from his bag, he quickly stitched the torn muscle.
“I knew you would never come to a healing tent for help. Your seventh bars are as bad as you are,” he chided. “These wounds don’t heal well by themselves. They need tending.”
“Vengeance is hollow, Alberod,” Cordon said and he shook his head.
“Cordon?”
“I’ve waited so long for this day, to avenge my brothers from the Dorsett, but now…”
“It’s understandable, Cordon.” Alberod began disinfecting the wounds on his friend’s arm. “Not one man was left alive at Saylon. You’re not the only one who wanted revenge for that, but at least you’ve come to understand that nothing good comes from it.”
Cordon nodded. “There’s a prophecy, made by Larone’s father. In it, he warns that vengeance would plunge this land into numberless years of darkness. I understand that now. I saw terror in the eyes of my enemies today.”
“I’ve seen you fight, Cordon and I never want to face the sharp end of your sword. I can imagine the fear the Demarians felt. What you need to do now is use that fear, that terror, to bring a quick end to this bloodshed. John was right, we need to give more opportunity for Demarian surrender.” Alberod finished the last stitch in Cordon’s scalp. “Now try and take at least an hour or two of sleep. If you can’t think clearly, then you can’t command coherently.”
Three more days of battle went much as the first. The Demarians would attack, and as soon as they stepped out of the forest onto the bloody meadow, the Esparian archers, slingers and spearmen would cut down thousands. Cordon did his best to take as many prisoners as possible, an all-out slaughter was not something he wanted. After surrounding pockets of soldiers, the Esparian officers took to heart John’s orders and offered them their lives if they would only throw down their weapons. Fighting for a higher cause, the Esparians found the edge they needed to hold their ground and win.
Throughout the battle, many black uniformed men yielded their scimitars, swords and spears, taking advantage of the Esperians’ mercy. Soon the ranks of enemy prisoners grew to tens of thousands.
On the fourth day, about three hours before dawn, the Demarians struck with deadly force. A volley of fiery arrows, stones, and javelins crashed through the tents of the sleeping Esparians. Cordon barely managed to exit his tent before it collapsed in flames. The entire camp was ablaze. Men fought the fires while trying to protect themselves from the deadly projectiles. Others ran, seemingly in circles, trying to escape the hail of death.
“Leave the tents!” Cordon yelled. “To your ranks! Shields! Shields!” He ran among his men, shouting orders to assemble and counter strike. The weeks of disciplined training showed as the men rallied. After the initial panic of ambush wore off, the troops fell into combat formation at the first order.
During these days of conflict, Cordon had instructed the men to sleep in full armor with their weapons by their sides. They charged the Demarians. The fighting continued for hours with Cordon’s men slowly pushing the enemy back. When the sun settled in the western horizon, for the first time, the Demarian ranks broke. By hundreds, then thousands, the enemy surrendered, and many more fled, leaderless, back into the woods.
It was nearly midnight when Cordon met once again in the command tent with his remaining officers. They were in the process of reassigning legions when Alberod, medical bag in hand, walked in on them. He looked at the injured men and shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. “None of you leave until I’ve had a chance to piece you back together,” he interrupted.
One by one, the healer tended the wounded officers, for none had escaped without several sword wounds or burns. When he came last of all to Cordon, he frowned at the dried blood plastering his friend’s brow. The meeting was at a close, and the freshly bandaged officers left Cordon in Alberod’s care.
“Cordon,” Alberod began in a lecturing tone, “what did I tell you about letting these wounds fester?”
Before Cordon could defend himself, two of the advance scouts staggered in, completely out of breath. Fearing the worst, Cordon jumped to his feet.
“No sir,” a scout quickly said. “You misunderstand our haste. We bring heartening news; the Demarians are on the run. They are retreating back into Snow Peak, heading for Lansterdine, the provincial capitol.”
*
In the far north, it took the Demarian army an entire day to traverse the few filons of thin forests, as the Maronian archers kept them from any rapid advancement. It was nearly noon of the second day when Lepsis finally saw the enemy break through the forested death trap.
“Here they come,” he yelled when the first black uniforms came into view. “Slingers…spearmen…do your damage.”
Taking aim, the human ballistae launchers hurled their projectiles. When the deadly missiles found their marks, men screamed out in agony. Demarian counter measures came flying back. Anticipating these, the Maronian shields were thick and forged of the purest, strongest palium steel, thus providing the best protection possible.
“Hornmen,” Lepsis addressed those who sounded the short bugles, “blow the signal for retreat.” It is time to spring our little trap. A rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins. When the horns blasted out the short, staccato retreat warning, the cavalry and footmen fell back, without ever engaging the enemy on a hand-to-hand level. The plan was to draw the Demarians well away from the line of hidden, underground Maronians. To Lepsis’ gratification, the enemy charged forward, following their prey. The overcast and gloomy weather aided in the concealment of Lepsis’s men when the enemy crossed over the hidden burrows.
“It’s working!” Lepsis tensed as he closely monitored the action. “The last enemy has cleared our hidden rows of men. Now hornmen! Blow the assault signal!”
At the long, sustained blasts of the horns, the ground erupted, and up from the depths of Edia came the hidden Maronians. These were mighty men, the best warriors Marone could offer. Ferociously, they fell on the enemy’s rear, causing nearly the entire Demarian army to stop its pursuit of Lepsis and turn to fight.
Lepsis led his frontline soldiers directly into the fray, his cavalry assaulting the northern and southern flanks. Unable to hold their position under the cavalry onslaught, the fringe Demarians were splintered into small units, many of which fled the battlefield. The ring around the enemy closed.
In the end, they could not hold against the determined Maronians, whose leaders continuously reminded their men of their reasons for fighting, and the men responded with astounding vigor. After twenty exhausting hours, the tide of battle turned irreversibly in favor of the Maronians. The enemy as a whole could not retreat, though many individuals escaped back into the woods, and they could not move forward. Their leaders tried to slash their way to freedom, with many troops succeeding during the night, but for the most part, Lepsis, with his unfaltering Maronians, stood firm.
By morning, with the
victory undisputedly his, Lepsis called for a halt to the killing. “Sound the ‘cease all action’ call.” When the horns rang out, two short blasts followed by one long note, the clashing of steel stopped. The Maronians stepped several paces back from their foes.
Since much of the battle had raged by the light of two moons, Lepsis was unaware of the extent of the carnage about him. Now, in the increasing light of a new sunrise, the destruction appeared obscene. Thousands of bodies stretched for as far as he could see, their spilt blood mixing with the dry earth to create a sticky, foul mud. The twisted corpses, many limbless and headless, were further disfigured by the trampling feet of living combatants. The acrid smell of blood hung so thick in the air he could taste it with every breath he took.
“Men of Demar, I am Lepsis, prince of Marone,” he shouted for all to hear. “Look about you and see the death of your people. We do not delight in your slaughter. Many of your comrades have already surrendered. Throw down your weapons and cease this useless struggle.”
From deep within the enemy ranks a tired voice rang out. “We are not Demarians. We are natives of Palium and Snow Peak. The Demarians escaped hours ago.”
A murmur of surprise rose from the Maronians. “Then why do you fight us?” A soldier asked.
In response, a man stumbled from the main body of defeated men. He threw down his sword and unbuckled his armor. Tottering on his feet he cried out, “For the drug! It is the drug that compels us,” then he crumbled to his knees.
Another man came forward, adding his armor and sword to that of the first. “Before the battle began, we were filled with that cursed drug. It clouds our minds, but now its effects are gone and we’re left empty.”
“Help us, brothers!” another agonized voice pleaded.
“Throw down your weapons,” Lepsis called. “I swear to you, what help we can give, we will.”
Visibly shaking from withdrawal, the remaining combatants dropped their weapons. The few who did not were forced into submission by their comrades.
Lepsis openly wept. Tens of thousands of bodies lay piled for as far as he could see. The ground was soaked in blood and gore, the stench drifting with the morning wind.
“We’ll burn the dead, then secure this region. Once done, we liberate Snow Peak,” he ordered.
CHAPTER 23
The Fight for Esparia
The South
With more men marching into camp every day, John accumulated an army of seven hundred thousand spread out over several hundred filons of the Palium border. His defenses consisted of one hundred thousand cavalry, one hundred thousand archers, one hundred thousand slingers and spearmen and four hundred thousand foot soldiers.
Because the Palium border stretched twice as far as the Snow Peak border, John was uncertain where the entire enemy was located, so the troop positions constantly fluctuated with his best guesses. Even though he had the updated advance scout reports, there was a nagging feeling Daenon was somehow hiding a large portion of his army.
The Palium-Ramana border consisted of flat grassland with a few gently rolling hills. John took personal command of this region. The Palium-Kine border was more wooded, and Reese commanded there. John had given Reese, with his seventh bars, free rein to do what they felt was best in their region. Reese was young and smart, but more importantly, besides John, Cordon, Ophir and Gammet, the only Esparian leader to have been in a real battle. The few active military officers who participated in the Battle at Blue Mountain fifty years earlier were killed in the Saylon Dorsett massacre. Reese’s combat experience was invaluable, and he was a natural leader. John felt confidence in the youthful seventh bar’s abilities.
By the fourteenth, none of Lyrista’s thirty specialized scouts were heard from. Their mission was to penetrate fifty filons past the Demarian line at the Palium border and send word about enemy reserve strength. Since there was no communication with these men for over a week, John feared the worst.
With the palpable certainty of war hanging over the camp, John held his final council meeting. No real measurement of the enemy strength could be given, so they did their best to finalize troop positions and supply lines. When the meeting ended, the grim faced seventh bars and upper ranking officers filed from the command tent. Lyrista hung back.
“I’m worried about my scouts, at least one should be back by now.” Lyrista’s face was lined with concern.
“I know, but there’s nothing we can do. They knew the dangers.” John tried to sound comforting.
“I hand picked them, they would never have turned the assignment down.” She laced her fingers behind her neck and looked up at the tent ceiling. “This is real. This is war. It’s one thing to teach about it at the defense academy, but it’s another to live it. People are going to die, people I care about.” She dropped her hands and bit her lip. “Everyone’s supposed to live a hundred and eighty years, not die in their youth.” Tears stung her eyes and one slipped down her cheek.
John wiped it away with his finger. “Yes, this is real life and people you know are going to die. I don’t like it any more than you do. Why do you think I hesitated so long before agreeing to this position? I’ve seen war, seen its horrors, but I’m committed. Whatever it takes, I’m going to see this thing through.”
“What about Jessica? What if Daenon uses her to get to you?” Lyrista put into words the thoughts John tried to avoid. Her face reflected the anguish he felt.
He shook his head. “It makes no difference. If it comes down to it, she’ll understand.” He said no more, but his message was clear.
Lyrista swallowed hard and wiped at her eyes. “I won’t fall apart, John. You can count on me.”
He gave her a drawn smile. “Are the civilians evacuated?”
“Yes. The last left yesterday. Seventy filons are free of innocents and those remaining are fortifying the major dines to your specifications. They’re well stocked with provisions and weapons in case of a siege.”
“You’ve done a great job.”
“Keeping busy helps me focus.”
“Good, because I have another job for you. I need you to take charge of the wounded. They’ll need transporting from the battlefield to the hospitals. I’ve given orders to the third battalion that they’re under your command for this very purpose.”
“You don’t believe in giving much notice, do you?”
“Well, I’ve seen you work best under pressure.”
She smiled and light replaced the sadness in her eyes.
When midnight approached, John was filled with nervous energy. Since sleep seemed impossible, he decided to make one last walking tour through the individual camps closest to his tent. Only a few minutes into his stroll, he spotted a figure moving ghostlike between the small fires. It was Gammet.
The seventh bar’s presence helped inspire the troops, so John was grateful to have the aging warrior with him, but he noticed the man looked drawn and tired all the time. He had difficulty focusing on details in their tactical meetings, his mind never fully on the matters at hand. He never smiled, never joked and only once volunteered his opinion. Just as now, he wandered the camps at night, a lone figure going from fire to fire, never actually talking with anyone. Recognizing the signs of deep depression, John tried to keep the man busy with training young recruits and assigning supplies to the various divisions.
John made certain each of his men had full armor, from rock-hard steel helmets to specialized leg gear, with the option of chain mail or solid metal covering their vital organs. When Anton ordered arms from Ironton, it was made clear that only the finest materials were to be used. The life of every soldier depended on quality equipment.
Each man carried a shield and trained hard to properly use it. The rectangular plates were weapons in and of themselves. Each one had a sharp, spear-style point built into it extending outward eight inches from the center.
John commanded his archers and slingers to practice on horseback. They became expert at guiding their mounts w
ith only their knees at full gallop, leaving their hands free to shoot at any target. In the open ranges, this ability could provide the difference between victory and defeat.
As expected, the attack came at dawn on the fifteenth and John’s men stood ready. Foot soldier formation was three men deep and the cavalry was interspersed in groups of six thousand. The archers, slingers and spearmen were placed in front of the foot soldiers, along with hundreds of pack horses loaded with extra arrows, stones and javelins.
When the enemy came into view the Esparians watched while their frontline of mounted archers and throwers swung into action. First arrows, then stones and javelins flew westward. A similar volley flew eastward from the enemy lines and the soldiers used their shields testudo style for protection against the deadly projectiles.
Before him lay an endless sea of humanity and John felt sick at the knowledge of what was ahead of them. The battle was ferocious, lasting the entire day. Men and horses fell dead and wounded, and the ground ran red with their blood. John led his troops, with shield in one hand and the Sword of Judgment in the other. Having mastered the sword’s cut and feint techniques, his skill saved the life of many a man by heroic leaps and well-aimed thrusts. All day his arm cut, slashed and stabbed at the well-armored enemy around him. Fortunately, John’s peripheral vision was excellent and many times he saw, from the corner of his eye, an enemy strike. With a quick turn of his shield he protected not only himself, but also men around him. He suffered several wounds, but nothing that could not be quickly bandaged.
John was vaguely aware of his other leaders; thankful they knew their duty and performed it with precision. Twice he noticed Gammet positioned on the highest location, sunlight glistening off his polished armor, directing the reserves where they were needed the most. Many times during the battle he witnessed Lyrista’s profound fighting talents while she protected those who transported the wounded. She inflicted her share of damage to the Demarian army, never flinching or backing away. All day long her battalion protected the medics and transport personnel from the makeshift hospitals. More than once Lyrista herself wielded her sword as guardian while a surgeon bound one of John’s deeper wounds.
The Protector of Esparia (The Annals of Esparia Book 1) Page 35