General Dragonard was a small man with a sad face, receding hair and pouchy eyes. He looked, Rubin thought, more like a scribe than one of the Immortal’s senior generals. When Rubin was pushed into his tent the man was seated on the edge of his camp bed, staring at the ground. He looked up wearily, as if to say What more must I do?
Rubin looked around. The tent was small and frayed and it contained only a bed, folding desk and chair, a small brass-bound chest and a wooden frame for armour. Everything was neat but shabby.
‘Messenger, sir. From the lord Marcellus,’ snapped the captain.
The general stood slowly and looked at Rubin. ‘Who is this?’
‘Rubin Kerr Guillaume,’ volunteered Rubin urgently. ‘Marcellus sent me. He has brought an army. They are waiting on the other side of the valley at the rear of the Blues. You are ordered to attack. At dawn! Now!’
The captain handed the general the message. Dragonard accepted it, but instead of reading it straight away the general did the oddest thing. From his desk he picked up a flimsy object made of two circular pieces of glass fixed to lengths of wire. He hooked the wires round his ears then balanced the whole contraption on his nose. It looked ridiculous. Hysteria rising in him, Rubin smothered a laugh. Was the man some sort of simpleton? He looked at the captain for a clue, but the man stared stolidly forward.
Peering through the glass discs, the general read the paper slowly, then read it again. Rubin shifted his feet. Finally he blurted, ‘He is waiting for you to attack. At dawn! It is dawn now! Past dawn!’
The general shot a glance at the captain, who cuffed Rubin hard on the ear. He went down on his knees, his head buzzing, his heart sick.
‘Marcellus wrote this?’ the general asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Rubin told the floor, despairing.
‘And you crossed through the enemy camp to get it to me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you are a brave man and you will be well rewarded.’
The general turned to the captain.
‘Prepare to attack!’
Yannus, general of the Odrysians, was no fool. He expected the Rats to attack. And he expected them to attack at dawn. Both sides were low on supplies. One hope of escaping these mountains alive was to win Needlewoman’s Notch, the high pass leading north to the soft hills of Varenne and the Little Sea beyond. The pass was closed by snow now but any day a sharp thaw could make it negotiable and the Rats needed to take it. It was an essential supply route for the City since the sea blockade had taken hold.
Yannus knew the Rats had no choice. But would they wait for a thaw, or would they strike now? So he kept his ragged army on constant alert, as alert as an army can be when it is frozen in one position for days. But soldiers had to rest, and they could not sleep in their armour for they would freeze to death. So they were kept on night-and-day rotations, half on guard on the perimeter of the encampment, half in the protected centre trying to sleep, although that was hard when the penetrating cold stiffened lungs and pierced men’s joints with ice.
When the City’s attack came it was almost a relief. Dawn was long past when the Imperials struck, coming up from the southwest, up the incline which gave the allies a fine advantage, hampered by snow and cold but with the City’s expected ferocity. The Odrysians on guard sprang to meet them, blood surging, and within moments the camp was awake and in ferment. Men struggled into armour, sleep and the cold forgotten; they tore swords and axes from protective wrappings and scrambled over each other to engage the foe.
When Marcellus’ forces hit them, Yannus was surprised but not alarmed. Clearly some Rats had got behind them, but it could not be more than a suicidal diversionary force. Not on this mountain, not in these conditions. Thus he diverted some of his troops, as expected and, sent his premier fighting force, the Twenty-third, to form a wedge. But orders were slow to travel. And before they could be implemented the beleaguered Odrysians were attacked from the northeast by, of all things, a century of the Thousand, the warriors his men most feared, the emperor’s elite fighting force.
Leona’s sword found a crack in her opponent’s armour and it drove through, piercing the Blue in the belly. He fell to one knee and she plunged her knife through the eye-hole of his helm and saw blood spurt. She kicked him in the head for good measure then turned to her right. Valla was on one knee, hacking at the groin of an injured enemy soldier. He did not fall, but he offered no defence and Leona slid her sword under his armpit. As he fell she wrenched it out and spun back, but Callanus was covering her, engaging a tall Odrysian in black armour. She joined the attack and felled the man, then the three of them moved forward, holding the line.
A fresh wave of Blues came at them armed with spears. Leona ducked a spear-thrust then skewered the soldier through the privates. From the corner of her eye she saw Callanus stumble but before she could turn to help, the giant figure of Otho the axeman moved forward to cover him. A spear lunged. Otho blocked it with his axe blade then dragged a backhand cut that sheared through leather armour and flesh beneath. Otho tore the weapon clear, parried a feeble cut and hammered the axe into his opponent’s face. Beside him again, Callanus blocked a sword with his shield and smoothly slid his blade into the opponent’s neck. A spear grazed his thigh, but he counterthrust and his attacker fell across the growing pile of bodies. The big axeman turned and patted Callanus’ shoulder with a meaty hand.
A tall warrior hurdled the wall of the enemy dead and hurtled towards Otho, sword raised. The giant’s axe buried itself in his chest but the weight of the man drove the axeman back, tearing the weapon from his hands. A second enemy leaped at him, sword swinging for his neck. Otho batted aside the blade with his mailed forearm and smashed a mighty punch to the man’s jaw. As he crumpled Otho twisted and wrenched his axe from the first man’s body.
There was a momentary pause in the battle, a moment of calm. The Blues seemed to be giving way. Then Leona heard the familiar thrumming of shafts in the air and she yelled, ‘Arrows!’ and raised her shield. The percussion of three or four arrows knocked her to one knee, then she was up again, thrilling with the scent of victory. The Blues were desperate, or their orders were confused. They were loosing arrows at risk to their own front line. A second volley hammered into their ranks, then the Blues were on them again. Leona parried a thrust from a short sword then swept a double-handed blow to the Blueskin’s unprotected head, caving his skull. A second man fell to her sword, then a third, and she screamed her defiance at them, her blood singing.
She stepped back, signalling a second-ranker to take her place, while she judged the progress of the battle that roared around her. It was fully light now and the Blueskins filled their sight, covering the inclined valley floor before her like army ants. The strength of the Blues was to her left, as expected. Her company’s task was to drive through them, cutting off their left wing. But her own left flank was being hard hit; they were moving too far and too fast. They risked being cut off themselves.
‘Hold!’ she yelled. ‘Hold!’ She heard it repeated down the line by deeper male voices.
The order was not to stop fighting, but to hold the enemy in position, to kill as many as possible as they came at you, but not move further forward. For Leona it was a crucial and risky step. She was telling her troops to switch from an aggressive to a defensive stance. Effectively she was telling them they were no longer winning, but were at risk of defeat. Psychologically it was a nightmare. She saw Valla throw her a puzzled look then turn back to the battle. Leona shrugged to herself. If she had to defend her orders to Marcellus then she would.
It seemed the Blues had identified her as commander and two spearmen came at her, one high, one low. She flung herself to one side, rolling into the feet of the man Valla was fighting. She threw him off balance and Valla despatched him. Leona jumped up and they both turned to the spearmen. Leona batted aside one spear with her mailed gauntlet and thrust at the man’s chest. Her blade slid off and lodged in the mail at his shoulder.
He had a knife in the other hand and he caught her on the neck with it. She dragged the sword from his shoulder and cut into his wrist, severing the blood vessels. As red blood spurted he thrust feebly with his spear and she grabbed it and pulled him from his feet. Valla skewered the other spearman.
Leona quickly looked to her left, but as usual Callanus was protecting her flank. Yes, she thought, a good soldier and maybe a good general one day.
Another spearman came screaming up to Callanus and the young man had time to grin at Leona before dodging the weapon and gutting the wielder. Another wave of spearmen came leaping over the bodies. On Callanus’ left Otho swung his axe and smashed through two as they came at him.
Callanus laughed. ‘Spearmen!’ he spat. ‘Don’t you just—’
In the blink of an eye a Blue came running fast from the left, his spear held low. He moved so swiftly his opponents seemed mired in mud. Otho was dragging his axe back, but too slowly. Callanus was turning, but too late. Before Leona could open her mouth or step forward the spear thrust past Callanus’ armour deep into his side. Blood gouted from his mouth and, as she watched, helpless, his eyes went dead.
Callanus fell on his back on a pile of bodies, his throat open to the sky, his eyes staring.
With a bellow of rage Otho beheaded the killer with a single stroke of his axe. Two warriors ran at him and Otho, too close to swing, dropped his head and dived into them. One was knocked from his feet. The second came at him with sword raised but suddenly fell to the ground, Valla’s dagger in his throat. The blonde warrior leaped forward and wrenched out the blade while Otho clubbed at the next opponent with his mailed fists. Valla stabbed another then was borne down by the press of enemy bodies. It was a melee. Leona waded in, piercing enemy backs, necks, any part she could reach. The Blues retreated. Valla scrambled to her feet and picked up a discarded sword.
Leona glanced back at Callanus’ body and felt tears well. Then, as she had done a thousand times before, she turned her back on her dead comrade and put him from her mind.
‘Advance!’ she shouted and the line moved forward again.
Rubin hadn’t given much thought to what would happen after he’d fulfilled his mission: he had half expected to be executed by the Odrysians before he’d got that far, and when that hadn’t happened he had feared being killed by the Imperials. Once the battle started he was given dead men’s armour and a sword and sent towards the enemy. Exhausted beyond reason, confused and disorientated, he barely remembered who the enemy was before they started trying to kill him.
He was not in the first line of battle, but when he saw his City comrades being slaughtered in front of him he knew his chance would come soon enough. Then a soldier went down next to him, and his sword came up and his blood rose with it, and he was into the fight.
They were battling uphill against a solid mass of Blues. The soldiers he was with, a light infantry company who called themselves Hogfodder, chanted as they fought up the slope, though two of them were falling for every enemy death. Rubin could not make out the words of the chant, but after a while he caught the rhythm of it and bellowed ‘Hooooogs!’ with the rest of them at the end of each verse.
Height advantage is all very well, he thought, but it leaves a man’s lower parts a soft target for piercing metal, and no one wanted that. He slammed his sword into the groin of a tall warrior, then, as the man slumped forward in agony, slashed deep into his neck for good measure. He dodged the falling body and ran up the slope to tackle the next one.
‘Hooooogs!’ he shouted, blocking a thrust and slashing his enemy deep across the belly, then dodging again as the warrior collapsed and rolled past him, his entrails tangling as he rolled.
They made little headway at first, but after a time the press of Odrysians seemed to lessen and Rubin thought he heard distant horns. His comrades took no notice so he guessed the horns were giving orders to another part of the army, or Marcellus’ troops, or even the enemy. He wondered if Marcellus’ ploy had worked, if his desperate mission had been a success. If they were winning.
A man on Rubin’s right went down and his place was taken by a tall bald-headed veteran who killed his first man with a lightning, precise sword-thrust to the neck. In. Out. Blood spurted. He looked at Rubin and grunted something. Rubin didn’t catch what he said but felt reassured by the big man’s presence. The two moved forward shoulder to shoulder, the bald man doing the lion’s share of the work while Rubin hacked and slashed in a supporting role.
Then there was a pause in the fighting and the pair caught their breaths.
‘Here,’ Rubin said, snatching up an abandoned Buldekki helm, ‘you need one of these.’
He spotted a flash of movement to his left and swung, sword raised – too late. He saw the spearpoint coming but did not feel it as it plunged deep into his belly.
When a battle is done and won – or at least not lost – the common soldier will check himself for previously unnoticed wounds, confirm which of his friends are still alive, then slump to the ground to sleep or complain.
For a commander that is a long-forgotten indulgence. The commander stays on his or her feet and carries on. There are friendly wounded to treat, enemy wounded to despatch or interrogate. A whole new raft of decisions needs to be made, and it is the commander who takes them. And for Leona, whose lord was Marcellus, there are meetings.
It was said by some that Marcellus never slept. This was untrue, for Leona had seen him do so. But he certainly did not need much sleep, and his energy was terrifying. After a successful battle he seemed to gain in strength and he expected his lieutenants to keep up. So he roamed the battlefield, partly to survey new ground, partly to judge the morale of the troops. And he talked and listened, discussing the battle past and the battles to come, the strategies, tactics, and those of the enemy.
But at last he retreated to his command tent with Dragonard, and Leona was left to her own duties. She redeployed her captains then sought out Loomis. She couldn’t find him. She knew he was alive for she had glimpsed him after the battle, so she guessed he was tending the wounded. A boy brought her a bowl of water and she washed the last spots of sticky blood from her hands and face. The air was bitter against her wet skin but the water revived her a little. She was exhausted but she was still waiting for that shift in her mind which would inform her that sleep was possible, so she made her way back on to the battlefield.
The battle had been a success, in that the plan had succeeded – Marcellus’ group had linked up with the Fifth Imperial, cut off the enemy’s wing and destroyed it, and forced the bulk of the Blues back into the valley. But the battle had been a failure, in that the enemy, though depleted, lived to fight another day. And they still held Needlewoman’s Notch.
Leona looked up to where the Notch lay hidden by the curve of the valley. There would be many more hard battles before it was taken, she guessed. In addition a sharp thaw had set in and the snows were melting fast. In a matter of days, tomorrow even, the Notch would be passable and the enemy could expect to be relieved or at the very least resupplied.
Leona stood quietly amid myriad bodies, dead and dying under a weak and watery sun. All around was the sound of running water. She imagined all the gurgling streams and rivers down the valley flowing with blood. It called to her mind the little band of Fsaan refugees who were down there somewhere, perhaps looking at the flowing red water and wondering. Once more she speculated how they could possibly survive. For a moment only she thought of the children, then she hardened her heart.
She looked around. A company of the Imperials had been charged with sorting through the bodies, distinguishing City from Blue, the living from the dead. All enemy soldiers, alive or dead, were pierced through the heart or slashed across the throat. It was a waste of time, and also unsafe, for the soldiers of the despatch party to squat down and feel for the life-force of a fallen enemy. Leona watched them move in a line slowly across the sloping field, like tall crows. A sword-thrust here, the occasional call
for a stretcher-bearer there. The numbers were yet to be totted up, but Leona’s long experience told her the City had lost more than five hundred that day.
A black-clad soldier stalked towards a huddled body close by where she was standing. The man glanced at her for a long moment and she thought she saw the world’s hurt in his eyes. She guessed he had found few to save.
The body was clad in a filthy, blood-encrusted uniform which could have placed him in the City forces or those of the enemy. But the distinctive three-pronged helm of the Buldekki lay discarded near one hand. Blood was still flowing sluggishly from a belly wound, so the man was still alive. As the stalking soldier closed in on him, Leona saw a flash of light gleam from the dying man’s outflung hand. Curious, she stepped forward. What was it he held out in her direction like an offering?
The soldier raised his sword for the death-blow.
‘Stop!’ she ordered, and he lowered his weapon and moved on to the next body, uncaring, incurious.
Leona knelt and took the gold square from the man’s hand. With a shock she saw it showed the insignia of Marcellus, the winged horse, given only to his closest lieutenants. Its fellow was riding in her breast pocket. She peered at the wounded man’s face.
She scrambled to her feet.
‘Stretcher!’ she yelled.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN THE GENTLE foothills far beneath Needlewoman’s Notch, in a temporary medical encampment which became more permanent as the weeks passed, Rubin lay close to death. And so he remained as winter gave way to spring then the days slowly warmed towards summer.
The orderlies who cared for the wounded would check his life-force each morning, expecting it to have stuttered to a halt during the long watches of the night; yet each morning they found it, weak but still detectable, and they shook their heads in wonder. The young man’s body, never bulky, diminished to mere bones with a frail clothing of flesh and skin. But the blood of two Families of Serafim ran in his veins and, because he did not die immediately from the spear wound, so inevitably he would recover.
The Immortal Throne (2016) Page 5