by Duncan Lay
If the Derthals had attacked only in one place, or from one direction, the Tenochs might have been able to regroup, to use their numbers. But not only was Martil’s horn striking in five different places, Sacrax’s warriors had struck on the other side as well. The powerful Derthal was leading his warriors steadily forwards, both his spear and his spear arm encrusted with blood. If spears broke, the warrior just reached behind his back, to where he kept his spares on a sling—or picked one up from a fallen brother.
And the Tenochs also shrank away from the merciless Derthals. These men had been told the Derthals were creatures from the foulest pit of Aroaril. The wild hair, strange faces and bloodthirsty war cries only convinced them they were facing demons of Aroaril. Tenochs backed away rather than face these blood-spattered monsters.
And as for the one with the Sword that cut through anything—nobody wanted to face him.
‘N’gidha!’
The Derthal victory cry was echoing on all sides, answered only by the screams of men.
The Berellians were pushing forwards again but getting nowhere. Every time they advanced, their careful ranks were thrown into disarray by the heaving, weeping, bleeding piles of men they had to step over, and the Rallorans were able to throw them back.
Markuz’s captains were telling him he should extend his lines to outflank the Rallorans or, even better, order Gello to do the same—as the Norstaline bowmen to either side would take a fearful toll of such an attack. But Markuz ignored them. Berellian pride was at stake. There were just two lines of Rallorans facing him! All must see that the Berellian soldier was far superior to a Ralloran. He would wear them down and break through. It was a matter of honour. And as for asking for help from a Norstaline…
‘Get your men back there and wipe out these foul creatures! And I want Markuz and Gello to bring their men back to help us! Markuz can use a couple of regiments to hold off the Rallorans while we destroy these demons of Aroaril!’ Onzalez screamed at Itlan and Yertlaan. ‘Get Markuz on our left, Gello on our right.’ He had expected his Tenochs to sweep the goblins away but the opposite was happening—his Tenochs were being slaughtered. And every one that fell was a little bit less power for him to wield over Markuz and Gello.
The two captains exchanged glances. The fastest way to win the battle was to order Gello to swing out and outflank the Rallorans. The goblins could be scattered once the rest of the Aroaril-lovers were defeated. But they could not question a Fearpriest.
‘At once, High One.’ They bowed.
‘Brother Onzalez has just sent me orders—we must march out to our right and destroy the goblins we find there,’ Prent reported.
‘Tell him we shall do so at once,’ Gello said immediately then, when Prent turned away, signalled to Feld and Heath.
‘As slowly as we can,’ he instructed. ‘Let them weaken our allies first.’
Markuz ground his teeth in frustration. But he could not ignore an order from Onzalez. The Rallorans would just have to wait.
‘First three lines stand firm! The Rallorans will not attack. The rest, with me!’ He waved his sword, leading his ranks out to his left flank and back towards where the Derthals were tearing into the hapless Tenochs.
‘What’s happening there?’ Karia saw the change first. The block of red, which she knew was Gello’s men, seemed to be doing nothing but the black ranks of Berellians were marching out and back, towards the Derthals.
‘I have to tell Merren!’
Merren could not believe how well the battle was going. Hundreds of Berellians were down, and the rest seemed reluctant to attack across their own dead and wounded, which had formed an effective barrier. The Rallorans were tiring but had fought magnificently, stopping a shield wall ten times larger than their own, giving Martil the time he needed to strike home. She had tried to get them to slip back, to swap places with her fresh Norstalines, under Hutter and Kettering, but Nerrin had refused, saying it was a point of honour for them to hold back the Berellians. And watching the way the two sides tore into each other, she was not sure the Norstalines could handle it, either. Besides, she had had to order the bowmen to conserve their shafts—many were down to their last sheaf of twenty and there were still far more targets than arrows. But that was the only problem. From the reports coming down from Karia, the Derthals were smashing the Tenochs, even if she took out the obvious exaggerations. The girl was proud of Martil but Merren knew it was impossible for him to have killed hundreds of men by himself.
‘My Queen! The Berellians are marching to stop the Derthals!’ Barrett cried.
Merren tried to peer over the heads of her troops but it was too hard to see. She had to take the word of her eyes in the sky, on the dragon.
‘Kettering! Hutter!’ she cried. ‘Swing your men out to the right. We have to stop the Berellians. Kay, Ryder, every bowman with them—loose everything you have at those Berellians and then follow with the pikes! Archbishop…’
‘I have another duty,’ Nott said softly, turning his horse.
She was about to call after him when interrupted by Barrett.
‘My Queen—perhaps we should leave them. Would it not be better to keep our men together. Besides, the Derthals will extract a high cost from the Berellians…’ Barrett began, but she waved him to silence.
Martil had told her how great generals could sense a shift in the battle, could feel when everything was about to change. She could feel it now. Her enemies were in confusion, their massive numbers had made them unwieldy. They were slow to respond, when they even did respond. Karia had reported that the red ranks of Gello’s men had barely moved for the whole battle. But the Berellians were still a potent fighting force. If they succeeded in driving away the Derthals, then her small army would be destroyed. But if she could stop the Berellians, then it would be her enemies who would be sundered. It was time to seize the moment.
‘Barrett! Rocus! With me!’
She spurred Tomon around to where her Norstalines were advancing as fast as they could over the soggy fields, past where exhausted Rallorans and Berellians stared at each other across a small gap filled with the dead and dying.
Not for the first time, Martil was thankful he had the Dragon Sword. In the close confines of this fight, it was invaluable. Already the Tenochs had learned to fear him, and tried to stay away. Which was no mean feat, considering they were terrified of the Derthals. He was covered in blood, most of it Tenoch, and was taking advantage of the ebbing tide of battle to get his breath back, sucking in deep gasps of air. Well, that was what he was telling himself. Certainly the run around the Tenochs, followed by the furious fighting was enough to test the stamina of the fittest man. But a Tenoch spear had nearly gutted him—if not for his protected skin he would be dead and there would have been nothing Argurium could do. The thought of it had made him pause.
Now he was watching the Derthals. They may look similar to men but Martil guessed their hearts and lungs must be bigger for their size or something, because they seemed unstoppable.
Everywhere he looked they were driving the Tenochs back. Perhaps he did not even need to rejoin the battle.
Kay and Ryder’s men stopped the Berellians. No troops could march through an arrow storm and the Berellians had to put aside thoughts of going to the aid of the Tenochs, instead covering up behind shields as best they could.
But stopping the Berellian advance and defeating it were two different things, as Merren well knew. Her Norstaline companies were advancing steadily but she could feel their nervousness. Most of these men’s only experience of battle had been Pilleth, where Gello’s armoured troops had cut them apart. The others had fought at Sendric or at least charged with her at Pilleth and this was to be their first real shield wall. They had watched the Rallorans fight but this was, as the saying went, a horse of a different colour. Even with the bowmen, there were barely four thousand of them—and there were at least six thousand Berellians. She could smell the fear—and more.
‘This is for
your family! This is for your friends! This is for your country!’ she told them, her voice amplified by Barrett.
Scores of Berellians were down, the others trying to keep their shields up. But the arrows were running out.
‘Follow me!’
‘Sire, it looks like Merren’s bringing her main force around to attack Markuz! We can hit them in the flank as soon as they engage with Markuz and destroy them!’ Feld said excitedly.
Gello shook his head with a smile.
‘Feld—we are obeying the orders of Brother Onzalez, to go to the aid of the Tenochs. Besides, Markuz does not need our help. He’s facing a straggle of militia, criminals and raw recruits, as well as some bowmen, who don’t even have shields! It would be an insult for us to offer him help.’
‘But, sire…’
‘We shall wait and see. If it appears he is in trouble, we shall help him then.’
If I play this right, everyone’s army but mine will be shattered to buy us victory, he thought smugly.
Nerrin massaged his right shoulder. It seemed to be on fire, while his left arm, his shield arm, felt almost numb from all the blows it had absorbed. Looking up and down the line, he could see many of his men were in the same state, or worse. Others were wounded but staying in the line, while more, their wounds crudely bandaged, were returning to the line. In front of him was barely five yards of ground, but every inch of it was filled with dead and wounded men. Mostly Berellians but some Rallorans as well. On the other side were what was left of two regiments of Berellians, shields locked. As the dead and dying had proved, crossing those few yards was impossible to do while maintaining the lines—which meant they were easy meat for the other shield wall. But they could not just stay here and watch others fight.
‘What do we do, sir? The Queen’s taking on the rest of the Berellians, and the Captain’s fighting the Tenochs. There’re still Gello’s dogs out there, too. If the Queen takes out Markuz, they’ll hit her open flank,’ Dunner said. He had a rough bandage around his left thigh, while a cut on his cheek added more blood to his already stained mail shirt.
‘We can’t break that line.’ Nerrin shrugged. ‘We’ve done all we can, it’s up to the Norstalines to win the battle now.’
Sacrax had lost his last spear, trapped in the ribs of a screaming human. But he had brought his huge mace on the long march south—and he intended to use that now. Many of the Tenochs were dead or had backed away, unwilling to fight. But new men, wearing either strange feathers or the spotted pelt of a mysterious creature, were joining the battle—and proving tougher opponents. For a start they were using different weapons, strange war-clubs that were far more effective than spears and knives, as Sacrax’s warriors were finding out. He smashed down one Tenoch, then another, then was forced to duck and weave as more pressed close. His mace was a mighty weapon but more unwieldy than a spear. His breath was coming hard and fast now and he realised he was fighting just to survive here. And he was losing.
Markuz cursed with frustration. At every turn he had been blocked. Now his advance on the goblins had been stopped by the Norstalines and, in particular, their bowmen. His men had to turn around and defend themselves from the plague of arrows. The last of his crossbowmen had been lost as well to those damned shafts. The only positive was the Norstaline bowmen seemed to have run out of arrows.
He ordered his men to march again—this time at the Norstalines. Without the Norstaline longbows, it should be easy. He had more men. And when they were dead, he would attack the cursed Rallorans from the flank as well.
The wagons that had followed the bowmen into battle had carried pikes, the unwieldy weapons that had been stripped from Gello’s soldiers in the fight to restore Merren to the throne. On one side was a heavy hammer-head, on the other was an axe blade, and it was topped with a spike. They were brutal weapons but needed an extraordinary amount of strength to wield. The sort of strength built up by a lifetime of using a bow. Merren and Martil had decided, after the way the bowmen had been slaughtered fighting a shield wall with just swords at Pilleth, they should be given another weapon. Now the bowmen rushed past each wagon, grabbing a pike and leaving their bows behind, before hurrying to catch up to where Merren led the Norstalines directly at the Berellians.
Martil could see the elite Tenoch warriors pushing forwards now. The Derthals were sweeping away the ordinary fighters but these ones were proving far more difficult. In fact they were driving Derthals back. Martil found a dry patch of sleeve and wiped his face clear of Tenoch blood. Now he could see what the Tenochs were pushing at—Sacrax and his bodyguard. If they killed Sacrax…Martil began to run, ruthlessly quelling his desire to stay safe. Around him, many Derthals, without a Tenoch to fight, were turning their attention to helping wounded brothers.
‘Follow me!’ Martil called to them.
They may not have understood his words but they followed anyway.
Men shuffled forwards, a yard at a time, while the Berellians waited grimly. The advance was so slow that the bowmen, even carrying the heavy pikes, had caught up.
Hutter had watched how the Rallorans had formed wedges and then ripped into the Berellian lines. But he did not think he could do such a thing—and did not want to make men do what he feared. The line stopped, a few paces from the Berellians, and to Merren it seemed as if nothing could induce it to move, to close the last distance. She glanced nervously across to where Gello’s red ranks stood. If we wait much longer, they will attack us, she thought.
‘Kettering!’ Merren called.
‘My Queen?’
‘That flag over there is the Berellian King’s. He stands beneath it. He was the man who ordered his Champion to make it look like you were a murderer. He was the one to blame for everything that has happened to you!’
Kettering looked to where she was pointing.
‘He was the man who had you thrown into prison, who wanted to see you hang for crimes you never committed!’
Kettering swore he could see a figure in gilded armour standing beneath the flag. It was all it took to send the anger racing through him.
‘Kill them!’ he screamed.
Flanked by Leigh and Hawke, he burst out of the line and at the Berellians.
Almost as if a spell had been lifted, the rest of the Norstaline line followed, closing the gap until they crashed into the Berellians.
Men shouted, cursed and screamed as the two lines ground into each other. Men tried to stab underneath or between shields, while others covered up.
‘Now, Kay!’ Merren cried.
Every bowman had a huge upper body, forged by years of using a longbow, where just drawing the string back to the ear was a feat equivalent to lifting a woman above his head. Now they used this strength, and the pikes, on the Berellians.
Some used the spike to stab between shields, others used the hammer-head or the axe to smash men down. Each pike was ten feet long and the top was wrapped in steel, so the head could not be cut off. The bowmen could stand in the third rank, safe from the Berellians, and bring the pikes down or thrust them through.
Either way, it was a tactic the Berellians had not foreseen—and could not defend against. Men who tried to watch out for the pikes opened themselves to the swords in front.
Markuz bellowed in rage as he saw what was happening. Drawing his sword, and heedless of the cries of his captains, he pushed himself into the fray. He was sure that no man could stand against him. After all, he had Zorva on his side.
It was easy enough to push through the ranks—men did not want to get near the front, where the relentless pikes were smashing open helmets and heads, piercing eyes and faces and crushing shoulders.
Markuz elbowed aside a pair of his guardsmen—to see a lean Norstaline cutting his way towards him. The man had burning eyes, an intense look on his face—and long hair tied back from his head.
‘Come and taste death! I am Markuz, King of Berellia!’ Markuz challenged, then thrust his golden-hilted sword forwards, sure this wou
ld be the first of many victims.
But Kettering deflected the blow on his shield, and cut down viciously at Markuz’s arm, striking through the mail sleeve and deep into the flesh and bone beneath.
The Berellian King screamed in pain and fury as his nerveless fingers dropped his gilt sword and royal blood spurted out. Markuz’s bodyguards tried to push forwards to save their monarch but found their way obstructed by the very men Markuz had pushed past.
Before they could rescue Markuz, Kettering stepped in close and rammed his sword into the King’s throat.
‘That’s for what you did to me, you bastard!’ he spat.
Markuz’s screams choked off instantly.
‘The King! The King is down!’
The cry went up and down the Berellian line and, in an instant, their ranks dissolved. There were still more than enough to destroy the Norstalines—but these recruits did not stop to count. Fear had kept them in line but, with that removed, they turned and ran. Behind them, the Berellians facing the Ralloran line saw their comrades run—and an instant later followed them, the Rallorans hard on their heels.
Sacrax grunted as he used his mace to block a wicked blow from a Tenoch war-club. His fingers felt numb and he doubted he could hold much longer. Most of his bodyguard was down and his warriors were only concerned with what was going on in front of them—this mass fighting was new to them.
Then a war cry announced Martil’s arrival. The Dragon Sword carved its way through the Tenochs—each stroke killed or maimed a man—and behind Martil came more Derthals.
‘Good timing,’ Sacrax greeted, dropping his mace and taking a spare spear from a warrior.