by Duncan Lay
Martil grinned back at him, blood masking his face.
‘Kill them and the rest will run.’ He pointed out what could only be the Tenoch leaders.
Not only were they adorned with gold, rather than bone, but they were cutting down Derthal after Derthal with their strange war-clubs.
Side by side, Martil and Sacrax fought their way to where the leaders waited.
‘Come to meet your death, foul creature of Aroaril?’ Yertlaan challenged, swinging his weapon in a wide arc.
Martil said nothing; he just used the Dragon Sword to cut through the weapon then, when Yertlaan stared in shock, the reverse stroke took the Tenoch leader’s head.
Martil glanced over towards Sacrax, but the powerful Derthal had ignored the challenge of individual combat with Itlan and instead a dozen Derthals had swarmed the other Tenoch leader.
‘Who’s next?’ Martil bellowed. He had to put everything aside until the job was done, the battle won.
None came forward. The sight of their leaders being killed was the last straw for the Tenochs. Again, they still outnumbered the Derthals but they scattered in all directions, running desperately to get away from these monsters of Aroaril, these hideous goblins.
Gello watched in shock at the way Merren’s Norstalines were using pikes to cut through the Berellians. He had never thought to use the weapons that way; he could see instantly that this could change the way battles were fought, for no shield wall could defend against them. It was time to do something. He was about to give the orders to strike Merren’s Norstalines in the flank when the cry went up that Markuz was dead. His heart barely had time to leap with delight before the Berellians broke and ran.
He could not believe his eyes—then Feld grabbed his arm.
‘Sire! The Tenochs have broken!’ he screamed.
Gello turned to tell Feld he was an idiot, it was the Berellians that had broken—only to see the Tenochs running in all directions.
Gello gaped in horror. How had it come to this?
The walls erupted in ecstatic cheering as the people saw their enemies begin to scatter. Men, women and children embraced each other, fell to their knees and thanked Aroaril or cried openly.
‘Don’t let them get away!’
Count Sendric’s shout cut through the jubilation.
‘Out there are the men who despoiled our country. They are running for safety! Will we let them just walk away after what they did to us, our friends and families?’ Sendric boomed. ‘Those of you with weapons, follow me!’
The grim realisation of his words stopped the cheering. A flood of men, carrying knives, clubs, axes and anything they could find, joined Sendric in a rush out of the gate and after the fleeing Tenochs and Berellians.
Sendric led them, victory singing in his blood. He just wanted to get there so he could see Gello die.
Gello backed away from the slowly closing ring. Everywhere he looked there were men or goblins looking grim and bloody.
The battlefield was not silent. Men moaned, screamed, begged and cried as they lay in the thick mud, blood and brains and entrails. But, to Gello, it had all the silence of the grave.
‘Sire, we need a fighting retreat to the horses and we can get away from here,’ Feld said urgently.
Gello ignored him. How could it be ending like this? How could triumph slip out of his grasp yet again? This was impossible! Thoughts beat against his head, like moths against a lantern. How could he possibly lose?
‘No! It shall not end like this!’
Gello thought those were his words—until he realised it was Onzalez who was shouting.
16
The Fearpriest had not run when the Tenochs broke. Gello watched him walk disdainfully towards where he and his captains stood, accompanied by a handful of frightened-looking Tenochs, the wizard Khaliz, and a scared Ezok.
‘Stay with us, High One, and we shall get you away safely,’ Gello said urgently. He thought, having disobeyed the man’s orders during the battle—which could, possibly, be seen as a reason for why they had been defeated—he should at least try to save him.
Laughter roared out of the Fearpriest’s cowl.
‘There is no need,’ he assured Gello. ‘Victory is at hand!’
Gello could feel the eyes of his captains on him and almost hear their thoughts. But Onzalez ignored them, instead turning towards the Queen’s standard.
‘You think you have won? You think you are triumphant? You fools!’
Gello and his captains edged away from Onzalez’s laughter.
‘I did not need these soldiers to defeat you! Fall down on your knees and tremble, as I show you the power of Zorva!’ Onzalez cried.
‘Behind us!’ Heath called.
Onzalez spun, to see a mass of Derthals, led by Sacrax and Martil, advancing purposefully.
‘Away from me, creatures of Aroaril!’ Onzalez warned.
He kneeled down and thrust his hands into the earth. Instantly it rippled away from him, forming waves in the ground, waves that hurled Martil and many Derthals off their feet. Then he turned towards the advancing Norstalines. The closest men to him were Kay’s bowmen, carrying bloodied and battered pikes.
Another gesture from Onzalez and the pikes warped instantly, the men dropping the twisted wooden shafts in surprise.
Gello and his captains looked at each other with renewed hope.
‘Form up your men, Gello,’ Onzalez said calmly. ‘We shall go and kill the Queen, and none shall be able to stop us.’
Gello glanced over to where the Norstaline shield wall inched closer. He licked his lips. Two-thirds of his men were cavalry who were without shields. And once he was fighting Merren’s Norstalines, the Rallorans would hit his open flank. He had no doubt what would happen then.
‘There is no danger!’ Onzalez screamed. ‘You have me with you, and none can stand against me!’
‘Stop!’
Everyone turned to see an old man in the robes of a priest walk carefully across the piles of dead and wounded.
Onzalez turned to face him.
‘I am Archbishop Enterius Nott, and this is my country. You are not welcome here, Fearpriest,’ Nott said mildly, but not only did his words carry easily to everyone on that field, none doubted the steel behind them.
‘This is no longer your country! Rise! Rise and do my bidding!’ Onzalez pointed to where the Tenoch dead and wounded lay in heaps, and where Martil, Sacrax and the Derthals were only now regaining their feet.
Martil stepped back in shock and horror as the dead began to pull themselves to their feet. Instantly he was transported back to the Archbishop’s office in the capital, when Prent had made the dead come to life—and remembered how hard it was to stop them.
He backed away as dead men staggered to unsteady feet and searched for fallen weapons.
‘Rest in peace!’ Nott thundered.
Instantly the walking dead froze in place.
‘Kill! Kill for me!’ Onzalez screeched.
But although they tried to walk forwards, the dead could not move. For a long moment they struggled against the unseen forces that both compelled them to act, and called them back to their sleep, then they simply collapsed.
Onzalez shuddered with fury and strode towards Nott, ignoring all those around him.
‘Archbishop, I…’ Milly began as she breathlessly raced to his side, Kesbury a step behind.
‘Get away! The pair of you! It is him and me! Everyone else get back!’ Nott roared.
Startled, they stayed put as Nott stalked forwards to meet the Fearpriest, who was advancing quickly, heedless of the nearby Norstalines.
But the distraction allowed a group of bowmen to run at the Fearpriest. At a gesture from Onzalez, most of them were thrown backwards—while the Fearpriest merely touched the two closest to him. Blood burst from their eyes, ears, noses and mouths and they fell backwards.
‘Keep away! Leave him to me!’ Nott shouted urgently.
The remaining bowmen backed
away, while everyone else kept their distance also.
‘You fool! You are old and weak—you cannot stop me! And once you are dead, your country will be mine!’ Onzalez boasted.
Again he thrust his hand into the ground, sending it rippling towards Nott, who kneeled down swiftly and laid his hands flat on the ground. With a groan, the ground shook, then burst up between them, throwing dead and wounded men into the air.
Onzalez stood and brought his hands together.
Milly and Kesbury backed further away as the air around Nott turned cold, ice forming on the ground beneath him. But the old priest stretched out his arms and a blast of warm air melted the ice.
Onzalez stared at the man, who stood there, relaxed, arms by his side.
In fact everyone was staring at him, which Onzalez swiftly realised. Not just the men and Derthals, but everyone on the walls and all those who had flooded out of the city gates. Even many of the Tenochs and Berellians who had broken and run had stopped to watch this duel.
‘Time to stop playing,’ Onzalez announced and strode forwards, arm outstretched, reaching out to strike Nott down, in the same manner that had killed the bowmen.
But Nott was too quick. He ducked under Onzalez’s arm and brought his own hand around in a flat slap. Everyone thought it looked an innocuous blow, the sort of thing a woman might deal to an importunate man; something to shock and surprise, rather than hurt.
Only this had a completely different effect.
Onzalez screamed as it struck his face with a hiss, as if hot iron had been plunged into icy water, and kept screaming as the blow sent him flying through the air, impossibly high and long, until it choked off abruptly as he thumped to the ground almost at the feet of Gello.
Everyone stared in shock and surprise; nobody moved until Prent kneeled beside his mentor.
‘He’s alive, but unconscious. I cannot wake him,’ Prent said urgently.
Gello licked dry lips and looked around the battlefield. The Tenochs and Berellians who had paused in their flight now turned tail and ran, pursued by a vengeful flood from the city. Meanwhile, he could see Rallorans, Norstalines and goblins closing in on him.
‘Fighting retreat! Back to the horses!’ He tried to sound calm, but even to his ears it was shrill. ‘Prent, Ezok, take Onzalez.’
His infantry regiment dutifully formed up a line to stop the advancing Norstalines and Rallorans, while the cavalry regiments hurried across the field, to where their horses waited at their camp.
Gello paused only to throw off his armour, before breaking into a run, to make sure he was at the front of the retreat. Prent, Ezok and Onzalez’s bewildered bodyguard were carrying the limp Fearpriest across the field.
‘Hurry!’ he urged them, as he passed. Saving the Fearpriest was secondary to saving his own life but if he was going to keep alive the faint hope of one day extracting some revenge, he needed Onzalez.
They needed little urging.
Behind them, Heath and his regiment were attempting to march backwards and stay in line. But the Norstalines under Hutter and Kay slammed into their front—and moments later, Nerrin’s Rallorans struck their open flank. Heath’s men fought on for a few moments—then simply dissolved, running for their lives.
Meanwhile, Martil, Sacrax and the Derthals were angling to cut off Gello’s retreat. They were bone-tired, exhausted by their long march, their run and their victory over the Tenochs. But the sight of a fleeing enemy put fresh life into their legs and they were not weighed down by shields and armour. Soon they began overtaking the slower runners, the men puffing and panting in their long mail shirts. But while those shirts slowed them down, they did not save them from a Derthal spear—or the Dragon Sword.
Gello, free of his armour, was the first to reach the horses, which had been left saddled, ready for a triumphal parade through the city. He clambered onto his horse and looked back over the field, to watch in horror as his men ran desperately, pursued by Derthals, Rallorans and Norstalines. Some tried to fight—and died—some were unable to run fast enough—and died—some tried to surrender and, if they were lucky enough, they lived. Many of their pursuers were in no mood for mercy.
Gello dared not wait—he spurred his horse away, only feeling a pang at the thought of having to leave Mother behind. But he had no time to get to his tent. He just had to escape. He was followed by Prent, Ezok and Onzalez’s bodyguard. The Fearpriest had been lashed across a saddle, like a sack of turnips, and Ezok led his horse by the reins. Behind them came Livett and Feld and a mixture of infantry and cavalry, the strongest and fittest ones, and the ones who knew they could not surrender because their crimes would doom them.
Barely a thousand made it off the field; the last of them were dragged down from their horses and killed, even as their comrades galloped wildly away.
But even escaping from the battlefield was no guarantee of safety. The capital had almost emptied, with angry men determined to gain revenge for all they and their families suffered. Exhausted Tenochs and Berellians were caught and butchered. There was no mercy.
They pleaded with Gello and his frightened men for help, begged to be taken along, saved from the very people they had planned to slaughter. Gello only chose Berellians and any surviving eagle and leopard warriors, until every man was riding double and he had to leave the rest behind to their deaths.
‘They shall not catch us!’ he declared. Thinking about escape enabled him to pretend the day’s events had never happened. He had begun it thinking he had a plan to rule two countries and become an emperor. He had finished it by seeing the greatest army that had ever marched on this continent being beaten into bloody defeat and being forced to run for his life. But he was not dead—and they would regret that, he swore.
Merren did not join the rush to slaughter Gello’s fleeing men, or the retreating Tenochs and Berellians. For a long moment she sat, eyes shut, coming to terms with the fact she had won. That her people and her country were safe, and could finally live in peace.
Then she stared over the battlefield, where thousands of men and hundreds of Derthals lay. Where the ground heaved and sobbed as wounded men and Derthals tried to stop their lifeblood flowing into the soil, and held out their hands for help. Already the priests and priestesses from the city, as well as every healer and apothecary, were trying to save lives and staunch wounds. She looked carefully, burning the image forever into her mind. Then she signalled to Barrett and turned towards the capital, where thousands of women and children thronged the walls, and waited outside the gate.
‘There are men and Derthals here who need your help! Quickly!’ she cried, her voice echoing over the city walls.
As their menfolk had rushed out to chase and kill the fleeing Berellians and Tenochs, so the women hurried out to help the wounded. Merren watched in pride as they went to help the Derthals and Rallorans as swiftly as they rushed to help their own. But they needed more than just hands, they needed the healing powers of priests. With that in mind, she rode Tomon over to where Archbishop Nott stood, flanked by Milly and Kesbury.
‘What now?’ Hutter shouted, as the last of Gello’s men either died choking on their own blood or stood miserably, hands high in the air.
Kay shrugged. ‘I thought we were going to die. I hadn’t planned for after the battle,’ he admitted.
All around them, men and Derthals raised their weapons in the air and cheered, embraced each other, or slumped to the ground, exhausted. Some sobbed, almost unable to believe they had survived and overcome with the reality of what they had faced.
Martil did not have time to think. ‘We’ll take Gello’s spare horses and chase the bastards down. We can’t let them escape again. If we had managed to catch Gello after Pilleth, none of this would have happened,’ he declared. ‘Nerrin! Get the men ready for a pursuit!’ He found Hutter, Kettering, Kay and Ryder. ‘The rest of you, there’re wounded who need to be helped. Although Gello left plenty of horses here. We need to pick a company of men from your regiments
to join.’
‘With your permission, sir, we’re out of arrows and my men aren’t used to horses. I’d like to stay here and help the wounded,’ Ryder said tiredly.
Hutter looked around. ‘I’ll call for volunteers. But I’ll stay here also, to help our wounded.’
Martil looked to where a blood-spattered Kettering stood.
‘I will hunt them down,’ he said wolfishly. ‘While a Berellian is alive, I shall not rest!’
Martil nodded, seeing the anger within the man, and recognising himself there.
‘Whatever happens now, whatever else you do in your life, you will be able to look back on this day with pride,’ he told them. ‘You and your men have saved a country, and a people. Your King Riel, the heroes of the sagas the country loves so much—they are nothing. Not compared to a pair of peasant bowmen, a fat militia sergeant and the manager of an inn. I salute you all!’
Shocked, they watched as he raised the spotless Dragon Sword in the formal salute. Then he hurried off to where Nerrin was mustering the tired Rallorans, and where a mass of Derthals sat or lay on the ground, clutching bloodied spears.
They stared at each other, unable to quite believe what he had said.
‘I pity the bard who has to get that line to rhyme properly,’ Hutter finally said, with a grin.
‘I always wanted a saga about me. But I wanted to get the princess at the end,’ Ryder offered.
‘Princesses are over-rated. Give me a barmaid any day.’ Kay nudged him.
Kettering sighed as they looked at him. ‘I cannot jest. Not while there is work to do. I shall return with Gello’s head, to go with the Berellian King’s.’
‘Not much of a perfect ending,’ Hutter complained.
‘This is real life. Not a saga. It doesn’t end, it goes on,’ Kay told him.
Hutter smiled. ‘Aye, you’re right there.’ He raised his voice. ‘I want the best riders ready to go with Captain Kettering now! The rest of you—there’re mates out there dying! Help them!’