by Duncan Lay
‘Captain Kettering!’ She spotted another of the officers she needed.
Kettering had been angry. Angry at almost everything but particularly angry at Gello and the Berellians. What he had gone through back at the park, holding back the screaming, sobbing crowds, had just put a fine edge on his anger.
‘This is your time for revenge! This is revenge for all of us,’ Merren called. ‘The man who framed you was the Berellian Champion. Everything he did was at the orders of King Markuz. And Gello told me Markuz laughed when he heard how his Champion had left you to take the blame for his crimes!’
Kettering gripped his sword tight at that. If only he could face Markuz today…
‘But today we shall wipe the smile from his face. When I give the signal, Captain, you shall be the man to lead us to revenge, lead us to victory! I know you and your men can do it!’
She smiled as they cheered again, and she let them get ahead of her once more.
Kettering marched on, Leigh and Hawke to either side. There were many Berellians ahead but he was not worried about that. He needed as many as possible to slake an anger that seemed to fill the whole world. He would pay back the Berellian King for ruining his life.
Merren tried to joke with the others, with Nott and Barrett and Kesbury, but she strained to see what was happening at the front of the column, where Martil and Sacrax led the Derthals.
‘What can Karia see?’ she demanded from Barrett.
‘No more than us. As soon as anything happens, she will send me a bird with a message,’ Barrett assured her.
She imagined she could see Martil, and she prayed he would survive. She prayed they would all survive, even though she knew that was impossible. Then the Derthals began running and she forgot to worry over Martil, and just worried about winning this battle.
Gello marched in the middle of his men, his armour polished to an eye-dazzling brightness, his helm and shield shining silver, his sword—the fake dragon sword crafted for his coronation as King of Norstalos—in his hand. He had no doubt they would win. A mass of goblins and a few thousand Rallorans and Norstalines would be no match for the massive column marching straight for the capital.
He had been surprised to see Merren march her men out to join the goblins. He had expected her to get as many goblins inside the walls as possible, and then use her archers from the walls. She must have an inflated view of the goblins’ fighting abilities, he reflected. Or perhaps she just could not count!
He, Markuz, Itlan, Yertlaan and Onzalez had held a brief conference of war. With three separate forces, two Kings and a Fearpriest, there was no person in overall charge. Gello was happy to sit back and let Markuz take the lead, though Markuz did not command, he suggested. Onzalez, on the other hand, seemed bored by the whole process.
‘Just advance and destroy them. Once they are running, and have fled back inside the city, I shall show them that stone walls can easily be brought down.’ Onzalez waved his hand casually.
So, with no more instructions than that, they had advanced.
‘Do you think we shall even need to order the men to link shields and draw swords?’ Gello asked Heath.
‘I doubt it, sire. The Berellians will go through the goblins easily enough—perhaps Martil hopes the Berellians will be encouraged to chase a beaten enemy and run into his shield wall. But even if he slaughters half the Berellians, there’s still enough of them to destroy him.’ Heath smiled. He fervently hoped this was the case. The men he commanded were all veterans of Pilleth—and his sergeants reported they were terrified of facing the Rallorans again.
‘Martil’s archers will eat away at our Berellian friends, unless they keep their shields up,’ Feld warned. ‘And most of our men are cavalry troopers—they don’t have shields. And Martil will have something planned. He always has when we have faced him before. We need to be ready to react to his tricks.’
Gello felt the first stirring of disquiet, which he quelled ruthlessly. This was to be his revenge, his moment of triumph. Nothing could stop it now!
‘There are too many of us. There is nothing more that renegade Ralloran can do to us,’ he declared grandly.
With both sides marching briskly forwards, the gap between the two forces was narrowing rapidly.
‘Here we go, sire!’ Livett called, as the Berellian arbalesters launched their bolts at the goblins.
Gello watched eagerly, expecting to see goblins fall and die but, instead, they broke into a run.
‘What are they doing?’ Gello demanded, his heart pounding.
None of his captains could answer.
Markuz spat in anger as his crossbow volley was wasted. A dozen goblins, the slower ones, went down, but most of the bolts landed harmlessly in the ground, as the mass of goblins had split apart and were running out to his flanks.
‘Sire! Do we change formation to take care of them?’ one of his captains asked.
Markuz watched the goblins, seeing them run wide of his shield wall. It could be done, but it would mean adjusting his lines and holding up the advance. Still, it was the sensible thing to do…he glanced back to his front to see the rest of his foes still advancing, led by…Rallorans! Butchers of Bellic!
Markuz snarled, the memory of the humiliations he had suffered during and after the Ralloran Wars wiping out everything else.
‘Advance at the double. We destroy the Ralloran Butchers! We can win the battle and avenge Bellic! Pass the word for Gello and Nobles Itlan and Yertlaan to deal with the goblins.’
15
Martil ran hard, leading the Derthals wide around the edge of the Berellian shield wall and out in a big loop, to where the brightly coloured Tenochs marched at the rear of the enemy column. The Derthals could not break a shield wall but he reckoned they would rip apart the Tenochs. Like all conventional army formations, the best troops were at the front, while the ones at the back were there to add bulk and to pursue a beaten enemy. If he could attack there, where the weakest Tenoch fighters waited, then numbers would mean little.
He pumped his legs, driving himself across the soggy ground, afraid that the Berellians or Gello would somehow see through his strategy and march their men out to block the Derthal advance. They had enough men to do that—and if they did, it might just win them the battle. If that was to happen, he at least knew Karia would come and get him. He glanced up, hoping to see her.
From her position high above, the battle looked like a game of toy soldiers to Karia. Argurium swirled lazily above the battlefield, banking gently to stay over the Queen. Karia was ready to contact Barrett if she saw something unusual, so she watched what was going on—although she was particularly looking for Martil. The mass of enemies looked enormous, a huge block of men marching in time. Facing them was a much smaller force—and she watched as the Derthals split into two, running across and around the edge of the advancing shield wall.
‘The horns of the stag!’ she cried excitedly.
She could see what Martil was talking about from up here. The Rallorans and Norstalines made a solid block, while the two curling wings of Derthals looked like horns, reaching out to hook into the back of their enemies.
She had never seen a battle before, they had always tried to keep her away. She was excited and afraid, all at once. But she was sure Martil was going to win. He always did. Havell expected her to say she had to go and rescue Martil but she knew there was no need for that. He was the greatest warrior dad in the world. Nothing could hurt him.
Markuz ignored the goblins now streaming around both his flanks. All his attention was on the Butchers of Bellic, his mind focused only on revenge. Besides, Gello had said the goblins were primitives, easily defeated. What harm could they do to this massive army of conquest?
‘Form points!’ Markuz ordered.
All along his line, massive axemen pushed to the front, forming the point of small wedges. Each carried a huge, double-bladed axe. Markuz smiled grimly. He had seen this happen so many times before. They would chop a
hole in the line and the rest of his men would pour through the gap. It was a technique he had perfected over many years and it had won him many battles. Certainly the Rallorans had learned to deal with it, but only when they had enough men to match him. And this time the advantage of numbers were all on his side.
‘Send out the arbalesters!’ One volley and then his wedges would strike home.
Nerrin saw the Berellian lines change, crossbowmen stepping forwards and axemen forming the points of attack wedges and took a deep breath. The Berellians were now about fifty paces away. That seemed close but, from bitter experience, Nerrin knew the last fifty paces were the longest and hardest, for men instinctively shied away from the bloody horror of a grinding shield wall battle.
He ordered a flag raised.
‘That’s the signal! Kay! Ryder!’ Merren shouted. ‘Now!’
The order rippled up and down the ranks and the archers stopped marching and opened arrow bags, placing their spare sheaves on the ground behind them. The rangers, who were on the flanks of the column, marched out wider, giving them a clear sight of the enemy lines before they followed suit.
‘Loose!’ Merren signalled.
‘Loose!’ Ryder and Kay echoed her order and the archers and rangers began drawing and loosing arrows, sending them over the heads of the Rallorans. Each man carried three sheaves of arrows. It was not going to be enough—to defeat such an army, they would have needed twice as many bowmen, and ten times as many arrows. Merren had not wanted to waste their best weapon, so she had held them back until every arrow would count.
The Berellian line instinctively covered up when they heard the thrum of the bowstrings—but there were arrows coming from two directions. The archers were lofting their arrows high, so that they fell down from above, while the rangers were to either side and sent their arrows snapping in on a straight line. The Berellians tried to protect their crossbowmen and axemen but those who kept their shields low to save themselves from the rangers were struck by arrows from above, while those who held their shields high were picked off by rangers. In moments scores were down, including almost every axeman and arbalester. Those crossbowmen who still lived wasted their quarrels on Ralloran shields—and those who tried to reload made themselves an easy target.
‘Take them forwards, Nerrin!’ Merren signalled.
Now it was the Rallorans’ turn to form wedges, led by skilled swordsmen and axemen.
The advance of the Berellians had been halted effectively by the arrow storm and before they could reorganise themselves the Rallorans attacked, lines tight, wedges ready to reach out and pierce the Berellian line. As they advanced, the rangers changed their aim, sending their arrows further back, to strike at the rear of the Berellians. Then, with a crash that echoed across a battlefield already loud with trumpets, horns, drums, the thrum of bowstrings and the screams of the wounded, the Rallorans struck home. Nerrin led one wedge in. He knew as the commander he should stay back, help guide his men, but he had had enough of that. He wanted to fight, only worry about what was going on in front of him. Besides, this was what he had trained to do.
The Berellians were in disarray, trying to watch out for arrows, their lines already uneven where dead and wounded men lay.
Directly in front of Nerrin lay an axeman, two arrows in his chest. The Berellians who had planned to help him carve a hole in the Ralloran line were cowering from the arrows. With a roar, Nerrin led his men in over the last few yards. The Berellians tried to lock shields but it was too late. Nerrin drove into one man, using his speed and strength to push the man back and across, then he slammed his sword into the neck of the man to his right—and instantly there was a gap. Behind Nerrin, Rallorans widened the opening, using shield and sword to prise apart the Berellian line. The black-garbed Berellians tried to regroup but they were facing men who had dedicated their lives to breaking apart Berellian shield walls. And the arrows kept falling on the rear ranks, stopping their attempts to help the others.
Nerrin locked shields with men in the Berellian second rank. The first rank he ignored, the men there were either dead or being killed by Rallorans. He could smell the breath of the man in front of him, smell the rank fear as he hooked his shield’s boss beneath his foe’s and hauled it up, giving him the chance to drive his sword through the Berellian’s mail shirt and into his groin. Blood spurted and he felt the breath of the man’s hoarse scream. But he had already swivelled to his left, hacking furiously at the Berellian there. He cut down the man and waved his bloodied sword, flinging sticky drops in all directions.
‘Back five!’ he roared, hearing it taken up by Dunner and the sergeants.
The Ralloran lines took five paces back, leaving a gap between them and the Berellians—but a gap filled with dead and injured men.
Nerrin smiled as he eased himself into the second rank. The Berellians pushed forwards but their careful lines broke up as they tried to avoid treading on their dead and injured countrymen and they became easy prey for the Rallorans. More bodies were left and the Berellians hesitated, unwilling for the moment to commit themselves to another attack. That was fine by Nerrin. The longer they waited, the more time for Captain Martil.
Gello was frustrated. The advance had stopped and the careful spacing between each rank had been thrown out. His men were hard up against the rear ranks of the Berellians, while the Tenochs had pushed close in behind him. Worse, arrows were falling all the time—and not enough of his men had shields.
‘We should push out and outflank them, sire,’ Heath declared. ‘There’s not enough of them to stop us.’
‘And expose ourselves to Martil’s bowmen? Sire, we could lose hundreds of men to buy Markuz a victory,’ Feld protested.
That sealed it for Gello.
‘We stay here,’ he agreed.
‘And what about the goblins?’ Livett asked. ‘They’re running past us, as if they mean to attack the Tenochs from the rear!’
‘That is no concern of ours,’ Gello assured him. ‘There are more than enough Tenochs to deal with a few goblins!’
Onzalez was thinking about where he would build the first pyramid to Zorva. It was an important decision, for it would be the centre of worship in this country. The obvious place was inside the capital but should he build it where the Norstaline palace stood, or on the site of one of Aroaril’s churches? Putting it where the palace stood would tell Gello that he ruled only by Onzalez’s sufferance, while tearing down the biggest church would symbolise the victory over Aroaril. It was no easy choice.
‘High One! The goblins are approaching us!’ Noble Yertlaan interrupted his thoughts.
‘So destroy them!’ Onzalez said dismissively. ‘You heard King Gello—they are easily defeated!’
Yertlaan hesitated. There were many of these goblins, and they were threatening to encircle the Tenoch column, attacking his rear, where his weakest troops waited. His best men, who wore eagle or leopard suits, were enmeshed with Gello’s Norstalines and it would be difficult to redeploy them to meet the goblins. He would have liked to order Gello to block at least one of the goblin wings to give him time to organise his men. But he was used to obeying Onzalez instantly, on pain of death. He would not dare to tell a Fearpriest, let alone one who was a member of the Ruling Council, what to do. So his hesitation was for only a heartbeat.
‘Your will, High One.’ He bowed.
‘Now!’ Martil roared, leading his Derthals towards the rear corner of the Tenoch column.
As ordered, the chiefs under his command split up, each leading their warriors towards a different part of the Tenochs, just like the individual spurs of a stag’s horn.
At the back of the Tenoch ranks were mainly spearmen, wearing brightly coloured padded tunics and carrying long spears and short knives. But there were some slingers here, too, and several Derthals fell as fist-sized stones struck them. There were also spear-throwers, and Derthals fell to them also, as Tenochs launched their weapons high into the air.
Then the
Tenoch ranks broke apart as they did not wait to be attacked, but raced out to meet the Derthals.
That suited Martil perfectly.
‘At them!’ Martil lengthened his strides, drawing ahead of the Derthals.
As the two sides drew closer, a bellow that Martil recognised as the challenge of an angry dragon rent the air. He did not look around or up, although almost every Tenoch paused to do so. Instead he raced into their ranks, the Dragon Sword carving a bloody path through the Tenochs. An instant later, the two sides collided with a crash, the Derthals striking deep into the mass of Tenochs. Their short spears, with their wickedly sharp heads, went through the padded jerkins of the Tenochs as if they were parchment. As each spearhead was ripped clear of its victim by thickly muscled arms, blood spurted high and the Derthals drove onto their next victim.
‘N’gidha!’
Their chant went up with every dead Tenoch.
The Tenochs tried to fight back, but their long spears were too unwieldy. By the time they thrust these forwards, the Derthals had slipped past the point. Up close, the short spears of the Derthals were by far the better weapon. They could be pressed against a Tenoch and still have room to thrust home their spears, while the Tenoch could only hit at them with his spear haft.
As for the slingers and spear-throwers, they dropped their leather thongs and wooden atlatls and drew knives with blades of the same black rock as their unusual spears—but were no match for the Derthals.
And Martil drove them onwards, the Dragon Sword weaving a terrible path of destruction through the Tenoch ranks. His worries were still there, he could not empty his mind, but the Sword helped him cut through spears, armour and flesh.