by Alex Sapegin
The Shanyu waved his hand. The trumpets sounded. The troops, in a united wave, rushed forward. Thousands of feet pounded the ground all at once. Like a shining silver ingot, the phalanx, bristling with thousands of spears, set out in search of glory.
An insane carnage took place at the Arians’ front-line regiment. Fighting broke out all along the front and spread like wildfire from there. The large boulders on the slopes of the hills at the Arians’ right flank didn’t leave the cavalry a fighting chance. The joint strike was broken up into separate pokes of out-spread fingers, but it didn’t allow the northerners to relax, either. The archers were sent to the front lines and contributed to the turmoil in the orderly rows of enemy infantry. Yljag snatched his bow from the quiver and fired arrows at the enemy at high speed. Khirud protected him from taking any “gifts” in return, which had already sent more than one valiant orc to his ancestors. The unit spun in an endless circle dance in front of the Arian pikemen, covered by their wide shields and bristling with long spears. Breaches would occasionally pop up here and there in the joint ranks. If a shield fell and another warrior fell to the ground, the empty space was immediately filled by the next shield-bearer. The long black arrows of the Arian archers whistled, sent in a canopy from behind the back rows, completing the mutual exchange of lives.
The combined roar of the phalanx troops as they cut into the center of the enemy formation rang out over the battlefield, drowning out the other sounds of the ongoing combat. A massacre most bloody ensued. The huge orcs chased their enemy away. The front line slowly arched into a curve. The horse and warg units descended upon the left flank, which was continuing to retreat before the cavalry charge’s constant attacks. For over an hour, the Shanyu’s nökürs couldn’t put down the defenses of the fiercely resisting foe. At some point, the heavily armored horse units sensed the weakness at the junction of the Arian regiments and attacked this spot. A wide gap formed in the ranks of the enemy troops. At the command of the drums, plowing people into the ground and toppling the ranks of northerners who had tried to resist the pressure of the archers striking at point-blank range, three tumens[18] plunged into the gap. The orcs escaping to the highlands saw before them the regiments of the second line. Behind the enemies’ backs towered the poles of the absorber, shining like gems.
Hrr-ra! Hrrr-rra! Hrr, hrrr! Calling and ululating, the units plunged at the enemy, killing and cutting into their backs as they fled, impaling the crazies who imagined themselves capable of defeating a Shanyu’s daring horsemen on their long cavalry pikes. The tumens, spreading over the highlands like a river that broke through a dam, lined up in an offensive cavalry charge formation. The tumens’ unit struck at the backs of the newcomers’ defensive screen regiments. More and more units of soldiers kept filing into the gap. The right wing was the first to ram against the unseen barrier. Myriads of stakes and forked sticks concealed by the long grass stopped the oncoming attack, and the horses ran straight into them at full speed. The wargs pierced the pads of their paws and rolled along the ground, mutilating and killing their riders. The riders flew over the heads of their animals, flung from the saddles. The rear units, unable to stop in time, also fell prey to the hidden stakes. A victory cry turned into cries of pain and the awful scream of the horses with broken legs. At some point, a silence fell over the battlefield. The chaos and clanking of the combat quieted down, only to explode with new screams of pain from the left-flank cavalry charge, who fell into the traps in turn. The “spoons” of dozens of catapults arranged in front of the enemy army then flung their contents with a dull thwack. Hundreds of pots of earth oil broke among the stalled horde, followed by burning arrows. The inhuman wailing of orcs and animals burned alive drown out all sounds of battle.
The attack sputtered to a stop. The Arians’ defensive screen regiments, which had escaped the cavalry charge and were responding with the myriad of arrows, opening the attack vector to the second-line regiments, moved back and to the right in an organized fashion.
“Horns, call the ‘white shields’ back, now!!” the Shanyu commanded. Oh, Khirud! Why? Why have you turned away from your faithful sons? Mother Steppe, why have you allowed your children to be led into a trap? Why have you covered my eyes with the ghost of an easy victory? “Command the tumens to retreat!”
The Arian generals, like cheese in a mousetrap, sacrificed a few regiments in order to destroy the entire enemy army. The heroic resistance of those doomed to the slaughter lulled the vigilance of the experienced steppe dwellers….
The horns sounded. It was too late. Three enemy columns were closing in on the phalanx, covered with body-length shields. The first rows of Arians dropped to the ground, the second few got on their knees, and the third few lifted their loaded crossbows to eye level. Their commander gave the signal….
The heavy crossbow bolts pierced a multitude of holes in the wall of shields. A second discharge increased the number of wounded and fallen. The archers ran up and jam-packed the alleys between the attacking columns, their long arrows immediately starting to stick like skewers into the crevices. Like an avalanche, the enemies fell upon the phalanx of the “white shields.”
Cutting off the retreat path, the northerners’ warg units struck at the tumens, who had fallen right into their trap, from behind the hill. The Arians released hundreds of armor-clad woolly rhinos in their frontal attack on the orcs’ cavalry.
A bloody chaotic “porridge” was cooking in the enormous “pot” of the flat plateau. Rhinoceroses wiped away the weak screen barrier in their path and cut into the bulk of the cavalry. The Shanyu turned away. A tear rolled down the old orc’s cleanly shaven cheek.
The Arians had won, but the battle wasn’t over yet. Forty thousand nökürs were in the reserves, but any human or orc that was not blind could see their fate was already decided. The Shanyu could see. The enemy had declined the use of magic and had deprived the orc shamans of it. They had counted on it, and their calculations turned out to be correct. Without magical support, not used to fighting with only iron and steel, the troops were doomed.
This wasn’t the end. The Shanyu summoned Tyrba.
“Yes, my commander!” the khan bowed.
“We’re retreating. Organize cover.”
“But…,” the poles of the “absorber” came crashing down, cutting off the khan’s words. Getting the upper hand over the shamans, the Arian mages entered the battle. Magic returned to the battlefield, but it didn’t help the orcs. Most of the sorcerers were killed in the very first moments of the magical battle. The Steppe army fled….
The Shanyu marched the surviving tumens off to the south after the massacre.
Tantre. Orten. Lailat….
“Your Highness!”
“What?” The king hadn’t noticed that he’d nodded off in the soft armchair.
“Duke Drang says the birds are on their way,” the messenger bowed before his monarch.
“Let’s go,” Gil nodded to the High Prince.
“I’m so tired of waiting. I’ve spent half my life waiting,” the old Rauu squeaked, following the king of Tantre into the operator’s room.
***
“What’s the news?”
The head of the secret service shook his head dejectedly at the monarch's innocent question. The king got more information from Drang’s hopeless expression than he would have liked to know.
The panoramic illusion confirmed their gloomiest predictions. The birds were too late. Black patches on the ground were like a footprint of the combat spells that had been used. They could see deep craters, containing some charred remains of what used to be a warg, an orc, or a human.
The blood-stained field, tens of thousands of corpses, flocks of crows and small striped griffons circling above…. As soon as the men will finish off the wounded and collect trophies, it’ll be their time—time for a feast.
On the sidelines, the horse units were rounding up thousands of prisoners. Hundreds of mages were hanging collars on captured orcs.
The gentry would be dealt with separately.
The “white shields” had given their all, to the very last orc. They stood like a stone ridge in the middle of a river, the raging waters rushing against it. Their powerful defense amulets deflected many magical attacks. The phalanx did not retreat, restraining the furious attack of armored columns and collecting a rich harvest. The professional warriors, who had been training with the sword since they were five years old, could fight as a formation and as individuals. They gave the army the chance to retreat, flee southward, saving a few tumens with their lives.
“The second wave has reached the shore,” Drang broke the heavy silence.
The king didn’t say anything. He waved at the operator. The illusion went dark.
“We have to make peace with the Empire,” Gil uttered. The High Prince closed his eyes in consent.
“And the Forest?” the first adviser asked.
“Soon the Forest will have bigger problems than us. The Woodies are out of the game for a while, for the same reason we’re entering it,” the monarch answered. “Drang, keep me posted on all developments,” he added, leaving the room.
***
“Your Majesty,” interrupting his discussion with the rector of the Orten School of Magic, the illusion of Gil II’s personal secretary appeared above the wide black wooden table.
“Octavius, I asked not to be disturbed,” the monarch frowned.
“Sire, please forgive me, but Duke Drang was very insistent,” the secretary said, embarrassed. The king chuckled. Yes, Targ invade his liver. When necessary, Drang indeed knew how to insist.
Leaning back against the back of his chair, the king looked at Rector Etran. They would have to postpone their conversation, all the more so since the head of the School could not boast of success in the field of matchmaking. She hadn’t been successful yet, but some progress had been made. The business should be fixed so that the initiative comes from the people themselves and they won’t ever suspect that their actions are being directed by somebody. It was an excruciatingly difficult task, Targ take it. They didn’t have much time left. In a week, according to the royal decree, Etran had to exchange her post as rector for that of the governess. She would take on a few more headaches and would not have time to deal with certain delicate issues.
“Show him in.”
Recently, the duke, like a Hel’s raven, had been bringing only the blackest of tidings.
“The duke asked me to tell you that they’re waiting for you in the operator’s room.” The illusion disappeared.
“Targ,” the king swore. “Let’s go, Etran. It’s time for you to dip your toes into affairs of state. Who do you suggest for the post of captain of the city and the province guards?” he asked cordially, stepping into the hall.
“I think Hag Tur Seaman would be a wonderful fit for that post. The Viking’s show what he can do, and it’s most impressive. He’s got a great education, he’s diplomatic, both with the warriors and with the merchants, and he understands the customs of the common people.”
The monarch gave a meager grin:
“It’s no surprise the Viking was a student of Beriem’s.”
The rector’s eyebrows flew up high.
“You didn’t know? I’ll have them send you the detailed file, but, in general, I approve. Talk to the Norseman yourself.”
“Hm,” the rector grunted.
“Sire!” The guards, reinforced with a mage, went on duty.
Nodding to the guards, Gil stepped into the operator’s room. Uh-oh! Someone was going to get it today, bad. This “someone” lowered his eyes guiltily.
“Sire, I decided it wasn’t necessary for the secretary to know, but the High Prince is in the palace,” Drang said.
“Targ’s conspirator!” the king barked, and greeted Miduel without a drop of ceremony.
“Show me what you have,” he ordered the duke, sitting in the soft chair next to the elderly Snow Elf. “Has Beriem met with the Great Prince?”
“Yesterday,” the elf answered. “The Shanyu’s ambassadors arrived in Mesaniya.”
“How about that…,” the king drawled, watching the crystals installed in their stands from the corner of his eye.
“Alekhaner Mesanskii knows about the battle. The orcs have suggested an alliance.”
“And what does the prince think?”
“He agreed. The orcs will march their tumens south, they’re packing up their nomad camps. The Shanyu will not maintain the defense of Tartus, the grays’ cities are not designed to withstand a siege. The price will get, by the most conservative estimates, an army of forty or fifty thousand. After the latest defeat, most of the nomad settlements have peacefully rejected the Shanyu. The khans are actively making friends with the ‘greenies.’ Soon the Arians will force this gang of swindlers on Meriya and the Forest. Taiir will take it very badly. The kingdom of Mestair has died before it was born.
“Cannon fodder.”
“Yes, but without the orcs we don’t stand a chance. They can sit behind the walls of their fortresses. The Shanyu is trying to preserve his people. He’s got nothing else left; the Gray Horde is gone. In Mesaniya, they’re hurrying to repair the mountain citadels and build barrier fields by paving them with explosion-stones, on the trails to the border they’re installing magical traps.”
“We can cross Meriya off the list. The princes have been fighting for the throne and are very unlikely to come to an agreement. The ‘greenies’ will trample them beneath their feet without any effort. I’d like to know, will the Arians head south or content themselves with the lands of the gray orcs?” Gil thought for a moment. “Drang, tell me, why have you gathered us here?”
“We found the reason for the Arians’ exodus.” The king felt a wave of tension flowing from the High Prince. “The sea is swallowing Aria. That’s why they attacked Alatar.”
“Their exodus?”
“Please, take a look.” An image appeared over the crystal stands.
A bird was flying high over the water. Over the foamy waves, here and there an occasional island with temples built on them could be seen. Strange, why build temples in the middle of the sea? The king didn’t have time to think about that. The wind stopped pushing the waves, and the seagull flew in lower. Under the blue water, they could see houses. The bird made a circle. There could be no mistake about it—a large city had been buried beneath the mass of seawater. Soon they could see the shore. The sea’s waves lazily beat upon the smooth stones of the pavement of a street drowning in the watery depths. The seagull, turning south, flew along the shore.
The image changed. Now, instead of the smooth surface of the sea, under the winged spy they could make out enormous trees, decorated with yellowish leaves. Gusts of winds went by and carried the foliage off in large quantities, scattering it below and carpeting the earth with them.
“Once we had determined the coordinates, we set a couple owls on Aria,” the duke explained.
“What are those trees?” the king asked, struck by the forest residents’ giant proportions.
“Mellornys,” Miduel whispered.
“Mellornys?!” everyone in the room exclaimed in unison. Their shock was endless.
“It’s begun,” the ancient elf uttered with just his lips.
Soon the forest was left far behind. The bird approached some city. They could see clear, even streets and buildings below the feathered belly.
“Let’s see the long view, please. Yep, just there. Stop right there!” Drang ordered the mage controlling the illusion.
It wasn’t a city. For many leagues around there were warehouses and sheds. Huge animals with red and black hair, powerful tusks and funny trunks like barls were dragging numerous trolleys along the rails laid between the warehouses, around which dozens of people were bustling about. The owl the operator was controlling made a few circles and flew along the main line, from which the side-tracks branched out. The rails of the central road led to a cyclopean portal. The mages of the k
ingdom built a similar construction for the relocation of orcs from the islands.
The feathered spy, flying around the giant portal arch, headed towards some cupola-shaped buildings, rising to the sky on the nearest hill. The rays of the setting sun lit up an enormous temple and the snow-white walls of the buildings of a large city located near the foot of the hill.
Flying over to the place of worship, the owl landed on the branch of a sprawling tree and hid in the dense foliage. The square in front of the temple was crowded with people. Everyone was waiting for something.
The sun gradually set behind the horizon. Darkness fell over the city. The edge of the shade went up and up along the golden cupolas of the temple. Finally, the last ray broke away from the high spire and died away completely. The sea of people that had filled the square staggered backwards and rushed away from the opening gates of the temple.
In total darkness, one small flame lit up inside the temple. Next to it one more, then more and more. From the open gates, a river of flames flowed out onto the street. Thousands of people in long white robes belted with either sashes or wide belts were carrying torches. In the very center of the column of people, eight shirtless beefcakes were carrying some sort of palanquin on their shoulders. Behind the palanquin, tapping the pavement with the ends of their staffs, priests, and mages with long beards followed. The people in the square extended their arms towards the procession and lit their torches, already in hand, from those that were already burning. Each new flame immediately got into the procession at the end of the line. There was no end in sight to the river of fire; it encompassed thousands of luminous dots. Myriads of sparks ascended into the black sky from the torches. From the view in the operator’s room, it looked as if a giant flock of fireflies was hovering over the procession.
“Almighty Twins!” someone in the hall mumbled when the owl switched branches.