The Radiant Child

by Duncan Lay

  ‘Get the Queen, and every officer we have. We need to meet them outside,’ he found himself saying.

  ‘Go out and meet them, sir?’ Kay asked, appalled.

  Martil could appreciate the feeling. After all, here they were on a tall wall, behind solid stone embrasures, where the bows of Kay’s men could cause havoc among their enemies. But there was no way ten thousand Derthals could get through the gates into the safety of the city before the attack arrived. And the lack of siege equipment told him that this army was not going to rely on a conventional assault. It was going to use its Fearpriests—who had already proved themselves stronger than Barrett—to smash through these walls.

  ‘We meet them. Get everyone! Now!’ Martil ordered.

  It was a hasty council of war that assembled in the shadow of the capital’s main gate.

  Mingled together were captains and priests, Derthals and wizards, councillors and a dragon. And behind them, soldiers hurried out of the gate, forming up into lines behind the mass of Derthals, the archers and rangers weighed down with arrow sheaves, while carts were piled high with pikes to follow them. The weapons were too heavy for normal men to use but were perfect in the arms of the powerful bowmen. If the bowmen ran out of shafts, as they had at Pilleth, they were almost useless when fighting with the sword. But not, perhaps, when armed with the pikes.

  Merren had not wanted to go down this path. She liked the idea of holding the walls until the people were all away to some sort of safety before trying a desperate battle. But she had seen there was no point to a calm, rational approach. Now was the time for desperate courage. Even so, she had left the Magicians’ Guild, all but Barrett, back at the park, sending children, then women away to safety—just in case.

  ‘You all know the plan.’ Martil was sketching hurriedly in the dirt with a borrowed knife. ‘The horns of the stag. We shall advance as though we are in a conventional formation, with the Derthals in the lead and the rest of us in a traditional shield wall, archers at the rear. When we are within one hundred yards of them, the Derthals will split in two and race around the flanks, to strike at the Tenoch sides and rear. Meanwhile our men, led by the Rallorans, will engage the Berellians, hold them in place while the horns gouge and tear our enemies to shreds.’

  ‘It all depends on the two horns striking fast and deep, using their speed to outflank the enemy. High Chief Sacrax, are your warriors ready to do this?’ Merren asked directly.

  Sacrax nodded. ‘They have eaten well. They are ready.’

  Merren looked at him closely. ‘I trust you,’ she said. ‘And I know the horn you lead will rip our enemies apart. But what of the other horn? Who will lead that? We need a brave fighter who understands our language, and what must be done, who can command several clans as one.’

  For the first time, Sacrax looked troubled. ‘My chiefs are brave but there are many who will not obey another chief.’

  ‘This is vital,’ Merren pressed him.

  Sacrax looked over at his chiefs pensively, then grinned. ‘Your Champion. Martil. All will follow him. He can lead the second horn.’

  Martil gaped at him. He could feel his stomach roiling, as if it was full of snakes, at the thought. ‘I would be honoured,’ he began, ‘but I am needed to help direct the battle. Besides, I will be unable to keep up with your warriors in my armour—’

  ‘There is nothing I cannot handle,’ Merren interrupted. ‘Sendric shall command our sick and wounded at the gate. I led our forces to victory at Pilleth, and I shall do so again here.’

  She stared around the rough circle of men, and none doubted her. She turned to Martil. ‘As to the armour. Get out of your mail shirt and we shall have Barrett protect your skin, as he did at Sendric.’

  Martil stared at her for a moment in mute appeal, but there was no give in her expression. He looked around the circle. So many lives depended on this. And it was his strategy. He feared for Karia, for himself, but he could not let these people down. He could not live with himself. Across this continent, his name was his reputation. The man never beaten, the invincible, unafraid War Captain. If he did not fight now, he would make a mockery of the pain and suffering he had already gone through. It was strange, but he found he was more afraid of being seen a coward than of the fear itself. Slowly he stood and began unbuckling straps.

  Merren turned to the others. ‘I want the Rallorans at the front, then the Norstaline divisions, with the archers behind. Kay, Ryder, I want you to conserve shafts—don’t waste them, because we don’t have many. Once out, your men must drop bows and use the pikes, the way we planned.’

  ‘Yes, my Queen.’ Kay nodded.

  ‘To your regiments. We have little time!’

  Argurium and Havell had been less than impressed to hear that Martil would be taking part in such a desperate fight and that he would lead half the Derthals in the charge that would make or break this battle.

  ‘Can’t you just watch?’ Havell asked, plaintively.

  Martil had not dared to say how much he wanted to do just that.

  ‘We shall watch over you. If it looks like you are about to die, we shall rush down and save you,’ Argurium said.

  Martil liked the idea of that, although he could see a problem. ‘That’s reassuring but when will you know to come down? If you pull me out of there at a critical point, the Derthals could think we have lost—and run. You’ll have saved me but cost us the battle,’ he pointed out.

  ‘After the trick you pulled up north, getting that soldier to stop me calling Argurium, I’ll be coming down at the first sign of danger,’ Havell said tartly.

  Martil cast about desperately for a compromise. ‘What about Karia?’ he suggested. ‘She’ll know if I’m in trouble and won’t let me die.’

  Argurium agreed, while Merren also liked the idea of eyes above the battlefield.

  ‘While she is up there, she can tell Barrett what she is seeing, and he can tell me,’ Merren ordered. ‘Our enemies have the numbers, but that means they will react slowly. Information on a battlefield is worth many lives.’

  All seemed satisfied with that, while Karia liked the idea of riding the dragon. She gave Martil a hug that neither wanted to break.

  ‘You’ll win us the battle,’ she told him confidently.

  Martil kissed the top of her head. He did not trust himself to say anything. But knowing she was ready to come down and rescue him was a comfort.

  He only let go when Nott came over to embrace her as well.

  ‘Would you not be safer on the wall, Archbishop?’ Martil asked pointedly.

  Nott shook his head. ‘There are Fearpriests out there. Swords will not help you against them. Only I can.’ He kneeled down to embrace Karia again.

  ‘Karia, I want you to always remember how proud I am of you,’ he told her. ‘And I know you will be happy. You are special. Always know that, wherever I am, I love you.’

  He signalled to Havell, and Karia, slightly confused and afraid, let the Elfaran take her hand and lead her over to Argurium.

  ‘What was that about?’ Martil demanded.

  ‘There is no time for explanations.’ Nott waved him away.

  He was right about that. By now, they could all hear the steady tramp of the marching shield wall, the horns and drums they were using to keep time and keep themselves in line. It felt like the ground was actually vibrating slightly, shaking at the thump of thousands of feet striking it in unison.

  Martil raced towards where Merren, on Tomon, was speaking to the men—as well as the thousands of people on the walls behind them.

  ‘You know what we have to do! These are the men who have driven us out of our homes, who want to see your families sacrificed to Zorva, want to see us dead! But we have the Derthals. We have Aroaril. And we have the Dragon Sword. And after this, we shall have victory! Follow me!’

  The roar that answered her drowned out the sound of the Berellian horns and the Tenoch drums. From the walls above, every person in the city shouted their suppor
t, cheered and clapped as the men formed up. Those who were not cheering were screaming for revenge, yelling for the Berellians and Tenochs to be put to the sword.

  The noise from the walls above was deafening but, when Merren’s standard bearer rode out of the city, flag held high, it doubled.

  The man looked familiar and, when Martil ran over, he almost stopped in surprise. It was Rocus. He had lost weight, lost a leg and a hand, but he was strapped into the saddle, his good arm holding the flag high.

  ‘What are you doing here? Get back into your bed!’ Martil yelled at him.

  Rocus offered a ghost of a smile. ‘That’s the first order from you I shall disobey, Captain,’ he said. ‘I was there from the start of this. I shall be there at the finish.’

  ‘He shall stay with me,’ Merren agreed. Flanking her were Nott and Barrett, both looking grim, as if they already knew what she was going to ask them to face that day. With them were the rest of the officers, Nerrin, Kay, Kettering and Hutter. He shook hands with them all. Sendric was there also.

  ‘Make sure you save Gello—I want to kill him myself,’ Sendric said wolfishly. ‘I shall be cheering you on.’ And with that, he rode back to the gate.

  ‘Captain, to the front. We can delay our advance no longer,’ Merren said crisply.

  He stepped close to her. There was no need to question what they were doing. It was the only option. They could fight, or they could die.

  ‘I shall see you after the battle, my Queen,’ he said softly.

  ‘Come back to me, Captain,’ she replied.

  ‘Martil!’ Barrett called.

  Irritated, Martil turned, to face the wizard’s angry stare.

  ‘When you are quite finished, perhaps you might like to think about the battle?’ Barrett snapped.

  Martil just glared at him, then felt the unusual tingling that told him his skin was now magically protected.

  ‘So I’m protected now?’ Martil asked him.

  ‘All the essential bits. You can still take a nasty wound to the groin though,’ Barrett said with relish. ‘Wouldn’t that be a pity?’

  Martil wanted to check but, before he could, Merren ordered the advance.

  Barrett turned away, while Martil ran to the front, where the Derthals were chanting and stamping the ground in unison, a deep counterpoint for all the noise that was coming from the walls. Even though his stomach felt raw and his legs seemed to be sapped of all strength, his pride kept him moving. He was the War Captain, he was the Queen’s Champion. He could not let everyone down.

  ‘About time. Thought battle was to begin without you,’ Sacrax greeted him. ‘You look good now. Skin nice. Grow your hair and you almost a Derthal.’

  ‘I’m not good-looking enough,’ Martil told him, and Sacrax thought that hilarious.

  ‘I give you the big clans, so they stay together, while I lead the smaller clans. Today you are also chief of my clan.’

  Martil could not help but smile as Sacrax carefully slipped a wolf fur headband over his forehead.

  They were walking towards the massive shield wall that was advancing right at them. You could not look at it for long, with its tight ranks, level shields and drums and horns sounding the beat, without wanting to think about something else.

  ‘Glad we not going through that. Much rather go around it,’ Sacrax remarked.

  ‘We shall strike the ones in bright colours, the ones without the metal armour,’ Martil agreed. ‘We know they do not form lines—they will fight us man on Derthal.’

  ‘Good. Metal blunts your spearhead.’ Sacrax winked then looked over his shoulder. ‘What your people on the walls saying?’

  ‘Fight well, make us proud, kill our enemies,’ Martil explained.

  ‘I like that. They were even cheering us, were they not?’

  ‘They were,’ Martil said, watching the Berellian advance. He guessed they would have several hundred crossbowmen in the third or fourth rank, ready to break up an attack. Having had first-hand experience of the barbed bolts the Berellians used, he had no intention of being there when they landed. He looked up, trying to see Karia. The thought she was looking out for him was a great comfort.

  ‘Makes nice change to be cheered,’ Sacrax declared. ‘Up north they were spitting at us and…’

  ‘Not long now. They will loose bolts at us soon. When they do, we must run and attack, form the horns,’ Martil said urgently.

  ‘See you in the heart of our enemies. Save some for me.’ Sacrax buffeted him on the shoulder.

  Martil was about to reply when Berellian trumpets sounded a familiar order—the command to the crossbows.

  ‘Now!’ Martil bellowed and began to run, leading his Derthals in a loop to the right, the mass of Derthals breaking apart. He ran hard, imagining all the crossbows being wound back and cocked. More and more Derthals were running clear with every moment, then he heard the sound of hundreds of crossbow bolts being loosed, the deep twang as the pressure on the bow tips was released sounded over the horns, drums and cheers.

  Nerrin kept his eyes on the back of the Derthal horde in front of him. The recently promoted Lieutenant Dunner marched with him.

  ‘Never thought we’d be fighting with gob…with Derthals, sir. Sounds like something from a saga,’ Dunner said dryly.

  ‘Nothing funny about fighting Berellians again,’ Nerrin pointed out.

  ‘Aye. Hope this is for the last time,’ Dunner agreed.

  They could not see the Berellian line from where they were, behind nearly ten thousand Derthals, but they knew what to expect. And they knew that their two ranks could not defeat sixteen ranks, even with the help of archers and the Norstalines behind. The best they could do was hold them off, give Captain Martil time to lead the Derthals into the heart of the enemy. It was a simple plan. But, if it went wrong, if the Derthals could not put the Tenochs to flight, the allied force would be helpless.

  ‘Be nice to be on the side with more men for once, sir,’ Dunner remarked.

  Nerrin could not answer him. What was he doing here? He was just a sergeant! Why were they all depending on him? Martil was with the Derthals but he wished with all his heart that the Captain was in charge. If things went wrong, if they could not hold the Berellians, it would all be his fault…

  ‘I know you can do this, Captain Nerrin!’

  He whirled, to see Queen Merren riding alongside him.

  ‘Your majesty! Where…why…?’

  Merren smiled. ‘You know why I am putting the Rallorans at the front? In part because Markuz will see you and lose all control and discipline, think only of killing you. But mainly because you are the best. I know you will not let us down. Without you, we would not have made it this far. And my people know that now. You are no longer the Butchers of Bellic. You are the Saviours of Norstalos!’

  Nerrin grinned as the men around him cheered her words.

  ‘Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, your majesty,’ Dunner offered. ‘How about the Rescuers from Rallora?’

  Merren smiled. ‘If your sword is half as quick as your tongue, then we shall have an easy victory today!’ she told him.

  They roared with laughter at that.

  ‘And you can all know you march under one of the finest officers you could ever have. Many of you have told me that Nerrin is the best captain you have served since Captain Martil!’

  They cheered that, and Nerrin could not stop his cheeks from flushing.

  ‘Although as some of you served under Captain Oscarl, that may not be all that much of a compliment.’

  They bellowed with laughter, both at the comment and at the knowledge of Rallora she showed.

  ‘The Berellians already dread facing you—the world shall see why at the end of today!’

  Nerrin looked around as his men shouted their approval and when he looked back, saw Merren wink at him.

  He smiled and nodded back, then she waved at the Rallorans once more, before turning Tomon away.

  Nerrin straightened his b
ack. He knew what she had done but it had still worked. He was ready now.

  Hutter had sworn he never wanted to find himself in the battleline again after Pilleth. But many of the men he worked with, and trained, were marching and he could hardly abandon them. Still, he could feel the pressure of his bladder, while his legs seemed to have no strength and he had to grip his sword tight to stop his hand shaking. Before Pilleth, men had been vomiting their meagre rations back up, breaking ranks to empty their bowels and pissing themselves out of fear. Hutter could see other men were afraid: the faces were too drawn, the laughter too forced, the eyes downcast. He reckoned it was only the presence of so many people on the walls that was keeping the men in their ranks this time. He was right behind the Rallorans, which was both comforting and frightening. It was good to have them on your side, of course, but they were real soldiers. He was just a country militia sergeant whose stomach was bigger than his ability.

  ‘Captain Hutter!’

  He turned to see Queen Merren.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you how much I trust you, and am depending on you. You and your men will be the backbone of this army, helping the Rallorans hold firm. Your children will be proud of you today, Captain! You are a symbol of what this army is about. An ordinary man who can do extraordinary things! I just need you to hold firm with the Rallorans, and I know you can do that.’

  Hutter straightened to his full height.

  ‘You can depend on me, your majesty!’ he told her.

  ‘I know. I can depend on you all!’

  She waved at them and they cheered her, before she curbed Tomon, and they strode past her.

  Merren watched them march past, keeping a wide smile on her face. Sending Martil out with the Derthals had been the sensible thing but the rest of the men needed extra reassurance because of it.

  She looked confident but she felt sick to the stomach at what she knew was going to happen. Thousands of young men, and Derthals, many of them known to her, were going to be killed or hideously wounded in the next turn or two of the hourglass. And they were going to die for her. The only way she could repay them was by sharing their risk, and by leading them to victory.