Forty Riverines dropped their weapons and fell screaming to the ground. Some clutched at their throats. Others staggered into the men nearest them. Within a heartbeat, the stricken men were dead. The center of the Riverine formation died in that agonizing moment.
More amulets flared. Some felled ranks or columns in the oncoming formations. Some of the special ones made using only men from the Greens tore huge gaps from the Green formation.
Voskov’s arquebusiers jumped out again and again to fire and then hide back in the phalanx. Suvlochin’s men sent volley after volley of arrows over the heads of the undead to support the carnage.
Riverine infantry were professionals, expecting death from bullet or arrow or blade. Unexpected sorcerous deaths from Voskov’s passion amulets were something different. The Riverine advance dissolved into chaos before reaching the first rank of the undead.
Ice and the others expended Voskov’s amulets at a ferocious rate. Riverines died by the score as their formations attempted to push forward. Dogged Riverine infantry stumbled over their own dead to close with Voskov’s phalanx until the losses grew to be too much. Men fell faster than their ranks could be reformed.
Panic seized the Riverines. It started as an unspoken command within the ravaged Green formation. In moments, all Voskov could see of them were their backs and piles of discarded shields and spears. The Reds were on the verge of breaking, but their rivals’ collapse seemed to strengthen their resolve.
As the Red phalanx rallied to strike at Voskov’s infantry, Ice ran from the back of the undead formation and upended an empty pouch. With a massed shout of joy, the Red pikemen crashed into the undead.
Poorly aimed thrusts from Voskov’s undead spearmen claimed a few attacking Riverine pikemen. Red pikes killed few of their targets, but within two dozen heartbeats, they pushed back the undead line a dozen paces.
Voskov signaled the Hykori priests with the bullroarers to wade into Fever Lake. The feather-caped men planted the bases of their bullroarers in the muck and spun their howling tubes with effort bordering on panic.
Red pikemen continued to force the undead back, past the narrowest piece of land. As solid footing spread out, some of Voskov’s trained swampmen pressed forward to fill in the gap. Enthusiastic amateurs fell like wheat before the Riverines’ professional pikemen. If the undead phalanx fell apart too soon, so would the battle.
The gray-scummed surface of Fever Lake churned behind the Red pikemen’s advance. In answer to the priests’ summons, the old Hykori undead struggled out of the lake. They followed Vishtanatar’s rush into the left flank of the Red pikemen. Unlike the shambling corpses in the phalanx, these old Hykori undead fell upon the Riverines with a hellish will.
It’s good having allies who don’t breathe.
The precise ranks making the Reds’ formation so deadly now worked against them. Pike shafts three times a man’s height had tips wedged into the chests of Voskov’s undead ahead of them. These became barriers trapping the Reds in place, making them ripe for slaughter as the old Hykori undead slashed through them from behind.
The sun had not climbed a full hand width before the last of the Red pikemen, assailed from behind, ahead and the flank, were overwhelmed.
Some of the Red pikemen released their trapped weapons and tried to surrender to the swampmen. Voskov noted with satisfaction that the swampmen obeyed his orders and took those Reds prisoner. He would need more amulets, soon.
By noon, Voskov’s army had reformed itself. Suvlochin’s dragon lancers brushed aside half-hearted attempts by Blue Harbor’s Shushkachevan skirmishers. The Red commander rounded up most of the Green infantry who had fled earlier. That largely unarmed block of men and the wavering serfs stood in loose mobs between Voskov’s army and the remaining Blue Harbor cavalry.
A band of richly dressed nobles trotted out with willow branches in their hands.
They boiled my emissary alive yesterday and now they wish to parley?
Voskov left them to stand in the middle of the field of their disgrace. Mallaloriva had been adamant on the point―no truce once the battle began. For a woman, Mallaloriva had a surprising grasp of the politics of war.
If the Red attack had succeeded, these same Blue Harbor nobles wouldn’t have treated with Voskov. With loud cursing, the negotiators returned to their army.
While Voskov had little to fear from his own forces losing heart, the failed attempt to negotiate had to demoralize the rest of the Blue Harbor army even further.
In plain sight of the defenders, Bringer and his acolytes raised a dozen of the fallen Red pikemen and added them to the front rank of Voskov’s phalanx.
“How is your dragon holding up, Yazvaz?” Voskov asked. “Still well-rested, I hope.”
His Shushkachevan “ally” said nothing, but his lips grew white with a suppressed answer.
Golden light flickered from the queen’s pavilion as she fanned herself. Mallaloriva reclined on a low Riverine couch, seemingly oblivious to the carnage on the field.
Now it is time to finish the job.
The flying scout with Bors’s face perched on the dead branch of a nearby tree. Voskov held his arm up to provide it a landing. “Go to the scum inside the city,” Voskov said. “They’ve been watching the battle. Now that I’ve won, they’ll do their part.”
Its laugh was a stuttering hiss as the scout shot away to do his bidding.
Voskov waved his undead phalanx forward. Suvlochin split his riders to support either flank. As Voskov’s army advanced, the mass of armed serfs and reformed Green infantry began to break.
Without orders, Suvlochin led his men in a charge to completely shatter Blue Harbor’s remaining infantry. Only the stone balls fired by Tuskaran cannon contested the undead advance. The columns of shambling undead knocked down by the balls were meaningless at this point.
Sunlight glinted from polished steel atop the walls as the prepared criminals, slaves and other vermin within Blue Harbor rose up against their betters and secured the northernmost gates.
Chenna promised him that with silver and weapons supplied, the scum would fight. Voskov knew they would flay the losing side.
When serfs and Green infantry saw the gates swing shut against them, the retreat toward the gate became a rout. Blocks of Blue Harbor cavalry milled in confusion then rode en masse toward the east. They counted on their Shushkachevan kinsmen to keep the Dawn Gate open long enough for them to enter the Plains Ward of the city. It wouldn’t matter.
Both Red and Green cavalrymen charged across the field only to rein up before engaging Suvlochin’s riders or the advancing undead.
Only the damned Tuskarans seemed to hold discipline. While the gun crews turned their cannon toward the North Gate, their infantry forced the rest of the routed troops away from the gate. A wedge of sixty black-mailed Tuskaran lancers drove through the wreck of the Blue Harbor army toward Voskov’s undead phalanx.
At Voskov’s side, Yazvaz watched the Blue Harbor Shushkachevans break to the east. The young noble pounded his saddle horn in shame.
“You seem disappointed, Yazvaz. To tell the truth, I expected better of our people too.” Voskov pointed toward the Tuskaran lancers. “The Tuskars are still in the fight. Too stupid to know when they’re beaten.” He couldn’t help the admiration in his voice.
That feeling dropped away quickly. The Tuskarans concentrated their charge at a point near the center of the spreading undead phalanx. Suvlochin’s mercenaries were too far away to oppose as the Tuskaran lancers smashed through four ranks of shuffling Macmar and Riverine corpses.
Scarcely slowed, the Tuskarans rode through and toward the hill occupied by Voskov and the queen. Several groups of inspired Red lancers followed the Tuskarans, a score riding through the gap before Vishtanatar and Suvlochin closed the undead line. While the Reds followed the bank of the Blue River, the Tuskarans pressed straight for Voskov.
Yazvaz toed his mount next to Voskov’s, their mailed thighs grinding painfully. “It seems, great gener
al, that those stupid Tuskars may have more fight left in them than you wished.”
Grimacing against the bruise Yazvaz gave him, Voskov stood in his stirrups. He addressed his Shushkachevan “allied” lancers. “Now do your part. Stop those Tuskars.”
None of the Shushkachevans around him stirred.
“Damn you for cowards! Either ride as I tell you or hide in the swamps and wait for my undead to hunt you down later. I swear by the East Wind I’ll give fifty pieces of gold and freedom for his family to any man who fights for me now. The rest of you will die as your families die whether today or next year.”
Black-bearded men gripped their lances and shook out into two lines as the Tuskarans approached. Skillfully, if not enthusiastically, Voskov’s dragon-mounted allies began their own charge to meet the Tuskarans.
At the head of the Tuskaran formation, their leader waved his mace to bring the trotting wedge to a charge. Lancer against lancer, with the clash of lance and blade coming so soon, neither force risked using bows.
Voskov glanced behind him and to his right. Over forty highland Hykori in plundered armor formed to defend Mallaloriva’s pavilion. The queen fanned herself.
As the Shushkachevan and Tuskaran lancers neared the crash, Yazvaz reined back his mount and whistled. Over half of Voskov’s “allies” darted to the left. The remaining lancers crashed into the Tuskarans with only a fraction of the impact a full charge would have given.
Less than thirty of Voskov’s loyal Shushkachevans rode into the Tuskarans. But they were men born to ride and masters of their lands by their own hands. They stopped Tuskarans charge for the moment as lance shattered on shield or pierced heart. Multicolored dragons bit or clawed at Tuskaran riders and warhorses while their masters slashed and stabbed. Tuskaran mounts kicked and savaged dragons in return. As the Tuskaran lancers’ greater numbers and raw determination turned the tide they fell into a dirge-like song.
None of the traitors under Yazvaz joined the Tuskarans or made to ride against the queen or Voskov. He sat alone below the crest of the hill as his loyal Shushkachevan allies were slowly overwhelmed.
Any surviving Tuskarans would come for him next. Voskov reached into his trinket pouch. A hole gaped in the bottom.
Yazvaz, the gutless bastard, used their brushing together as his chance to slit the trinket bag. Only two trinkets remained inside―a passion amulet and a hook. The rest glittered in the tall grass below his right stirrup.
Suppressing panic, Voskov watched the Tuskarans cut down one loyal Shushkachevan lancer after another. Then Chenna led her pack into the stalled Tuskaran attack. As the shapeshifters darted through the melee, warhorses bucked against their riders. Spear-wielding swampies rushed toward the battle
Movement shook Voskov’s attention from his few faithful lancers and the shapeshifters battling the Tuskarans. The Red horsemen along with a few of Yazvaz’s traitors rushed up the hill from Voskov’s left.
Voskov wheeled his horse to go to Mallaloriva’s pavilion. Its hoof slipped into the soft hillside soil. The animal staggered to one side and screamed. He retained his seat, but as he spurred toward the pavilion and safety, the horse shied .Reds and Shushkachevan traitors rushed up the hill. Voskov pulled out his remaining trinkets, hooking the less effective Drowned Man on his finger and gripping the passion amulet in both hands.
As he tore the amulet apart, power flowed out. The first eight Reds pitched from their saddles as if shot by a volley. The rest swerved around and charged on.
Voskov swiveled the Drowned Man’s ivory hook on his finger and pointed toward the nearest Red before snapping the trinket.
The Red horseman reined up short, clutching at his throat as coughed water sprayed through the bars of his helmet.
The remaining riders closed on Voskov and his lamed mount. He glanced back, hoping for help. Seventy paces behind him, Mallaloriva fanned herself as her footmen prepared to repel any riders who came on after killing her general.
Fourteen horsemen rushed along the crest of the hill toward him. With a soft moan, Voskov reached behind and drew out Madman.
The Other took control of Voskov’s muscles. Energy coming from the maniacs trapped in the blade flowed into him, but as if he were very drunk. He felt detached, as the Other directed their insane rage as well as Voskov’s body.
The nearest Red horseman was ten paces away when the Other shouted a word not meant to come from a man’s throat. The Red tumbled from his mount with a boneless finality.
The rest of the Reds and traitors fell upon him. Their numbers only hindered them as the Other wove Madman like a steel curse. Hands, arms and heads fell with each blow from the heavy saber. The Other shouted more spells and a man fell with each word, but each new word cost him energy from some finite reserve. The thick stench of sorcery drove the traitors’ dragons mad with fear, making them nearly uncontrollable and ruining their riders’ ability to fight effectively.
In heartbeats, the traitors were all down and the surviving trio of Red lancers turned to flee. The Other whispered a word which Voskov could not quite hear, but somehow knew included the Other’s real name. The three Reds screamed before clutching at their helms and falling from their saddles.
Demonic exaltation flowed through Voskov, something he could not control. The Other had escaped Madman and had control of a living body, Voskov’s body. While the Other dithered on what to do next, Voskov invaded its thoughts and learned too much.
He knew the Other by his symbol―a combination rune used by the Hykori: Hopeless Death.
The Other, Death, reveled in his freedom and the relief Voskov’s disloyal body felt for surviving their battle. Voskov tried to regain control of his body and was pushed aside.
Still astride the horse, Death picked at the bronze clasps holding Voskov’s mail together. Tossing the silvered armor to the grass, Death then ripped away the padding and the sweat-soaked arming shirt underneath. They, Voskov and Death, sucked air in like a drowning man would, the living sensation exciting Death.
As Voskov looked through eyes no longer his own, bone sprouted through his fingertips. He screamed silently while Death drank in their shared pain.
Voskov’s awareness came back as Death cut its rune in shallow lines across his/their chest. Power flowed into them.
He dismounted. Death took Voskov’s horse’s head in his hands as the animal shifted to favor its injured leg. With strength Voskov never possessed, Death wrenched and broke the horse’s neck.
The beast had not even fallen away before Death silently summoned one of the traitor’s dragons. Lost and voiceless within his own body, Voskov watched his horse twitch on the churned up ground and add its emptying bowels to the stink of battle.
Durinetav trotted over as Voskov’s body settled onto the teal-scaled dragon’s saddle. “Your display amused the queen. She wants you to slaughter the Blue Harbor army before we enter her new city.”
Death pointed at Durinetav. Voskov braced himself for a word which would kill the young Hykori. He felt the word readied but on a whim, Death said, “Follow me.”
They reached the flattened grass and mash of bloody bodies where the Tuskaran charge had been stopped. Most of the dead were Voskov’s loyal Shushkachevans. Thirty or more surviving Tuskaran lancers had fought their way back toward Blue Harbor with swamp men dogging their way. Chenna and her surviving pack sat panting in the tall grass.
The North Gate had one valve blown down by Tuskaran cannon. The mob of Greens, serfs and knots of disciplined Tuskarans chopping through Voskov’s rebel scum to get inside would not matter. The city was open to Mallaloriva.
Death reasserted himself to turn his/their sight away from the city. Chenna limped over to him. If much of the blood covering her had been her own, she could not have stood. She started to speak and then looked to the ground.
As Death gave him control of his body again, Voskov staggered within himself. “You did well Chenna.” Her head snapped up, confusion written across her face.
Voskov understood it in an instant. Death needed him to do the trivial daily things of living men. Voskov would be given limited control of his own body when it suited Death. He was now Death’s Paladin.
He gestured at the bodies in the tall grass. “Durinetav. I made a promise to these men. Identify them; pull their families from the pens. Give the families a pouch of fifty gold each, have them escorted to the edge of the swamp and let them go. The families of the traitors go, living, to Bringer.”
Within Voskov, Death started to object at letting any victim escape. Then he felt Death’s amusement.
Before Voskov could even internally articulate his response, Death reasserted control. “Chenna, gather your pack and summon the queen. I am Death and I will lead you and those twisted creatures to a feast like none we’ve ever enjoyed before.” He drew energy from the corpses piled around him.
Chenna shied away but seemed to comply. Death wanted to view his new city now. A Tuskaran gun blew the side from one of the gate towers. A solid block of mailed Tuskaran infantry forced their way through North Gate’s rebellious defenders, hundreds of broken serfs and Riverines behind them.
He squinted to see who held the upper parts of the wall. With a mental snort, Death searched around in Voskov’s head.
No longer in control of his throat, Voskov could not scream as Death meddled inside. Despite the pain, Voskov saw details on the wall more clearly than he could ever see at that distance before.
As Death continued to modify his host’s senses, Voskov noticed other things around him. Then, Death tossed Voskov into darkness.
Voskov regained consciousness and control of his body when Death no longer wanted it.
The sun was in the wrong position. Tall, frescoed buildings surrounded him. The stench of dried blood and opened entrails hit Voskov like a wet slap. He staggered as he fought to keep balance and hold his stomach. Despite the heat, his hands were cold.
The buildings around him were faced with marble above the vivid frescoes of hunts, Riverine ocean-going sailing ships and fantastic sea beasts. Piles of bodies covered most of the granite blocks paving the plaza―Riverine officers of the broken phalanx, but also the wealthy or even Riverine priests in their deep purple robes. When he saw the first shriveled husks, Voskov noticed Vishtanatar leaning against a pile of bodies. One of the shapeshifters lay across a dismembered Riverine priest.
Death's Paladin Page 25