Along with Kazovar, there were about a hundred full Osa’shaq in his company now, a fraction of the thousand originally there. Some had died, others taken away to form the core of new Great Companies, their places taken by the Ironmarked, with the remaining Servants acting as officers. The size of the company had grown as well, with five thousand men under his command, on the assumption that five Ironmarked were the rough equivalent of one runemarked Osa’shaq. That was not the only thing that had changed...over the years the black metal swords and armor that rendered the Osa’shaq near-invulnerable to most weapons on this world and near-invincible in the attack were lost...destroyed in battle, misplaced on the march, and so on. Kazovar’s own set were lost during a particularly difficult river crossing that saw the wagon containing most of his possessions swept away.
Now he wore steel - a chainmail shirt that hung to his knees, with steel plates on his chest, arms and legs. At his side was a steel-bladed sword, and on his left arm a round shield. A different equipage than the old way, for the black metal made shields unnecessary...but in truth it did not matter. It was the runes that made the Osa’shaq so effective, along with their training and conditioning. The Ironmarked were kitted out in much the same way, though what they wore was of lighter make than their Osa’shaq, as they did not have the runemarks that made the extra weight feel like nothing. They carried long spears, and arrayed on both flanks were squads of archers armed with longbows.
Kazovar turned to his right, hearing hoofbeats coming in his direction. A courier arrived on horseback, dust covered and filthy. “Lord!” the man declared. “The Great Sehrem decrees that the reserves shall advance on the third horn call! The enemy presses our front most fiercely, and you aid is needed!”
The great Sehrem. That’s what the Mayazuul commoners called Serezaam now...Sehrem the Great, Sehrem the Prophet. Sehrem the God, even. Serezaam did not stop it, seeing their faith as a useful tool, even encouraging it. But it made Kazovar uneasy.
Kazovar nodded. The courier saluted, looking on with awe despite his condition. As Serezaam was adored by the people, so too were the remaining Osa’shaq. Sword Fathers, they were called, demigods sent to lead them to everlasting victory. Again, this was encouraged.
Even as the courier galloped away, his ears heard the signal - three blasts from a trumpet.
“Great Company!” he bellowed. “Advance at the first step!” Drums beat out his orders, and with a shout his Great Company advanced, following the rest of the reserves towards battle. Battle standards fluttered overhead , the men marching with their shields on the left and their nine-foot spears at rest on their shoulders. Kazovar had no idea what was waiting for them up ahead, but he was confident that it would be overcome, as they had every other foe…
“Horsemen!” The warning shout went up. Kazovar looked to his right and saw them through the dust cloud, coming towards them in loose formation. Not men from another Great Company...the banners above bore stylized shapes of animals or storms...a stooping hawk, a cloud black as dark ink, a charging ram...and behind them other standards topped with sheep or wolf tails.
The Shiraan had flanked them. To their credit the Ironmarked held their nerve, any fear they felt ruthlessly driven back into its cage. This was the first lesson the Osa’shaq taught the Irzemyai...that a soldier’s strength lay not in his sword or his armor, but in his discipline, and that was a creation of the mind.
Arrows dropped down around them, the Shiraan raising up their bows and loosing their shafts. Still some distance, it would be a moment before they were in real killing range… “Great Company” Kazovar bellowed. “Form square! Archers to the center, nock and loose at my command!”
Drums beat again, and immediately the block of men reformed. The archer squads clustered together in the center, while the infantry formed a square, six ranks deep, shields raised and locked. They moved quickly, with a practiced efficiency born from countless hours spent on the training ground.
The company standard was in the center of the square. Someone placed a box beside it and Kazovar stood on top, allowing him to look over the heads of his men towards the oncoming riders. His left arm whirled up, just in time to knock aside an incoming arrow with his shield. “Fishscale formation!” he ordered, but his men were ahead of him, the front ranks locking shields, the rear ranks raising theirs over their heads. Only the archers in the center remained exposed, and they began shooting back at Kazovars command. They could not see the enemy, but it did not matter, they knew where the Shiraan were coming from, arcing their arrows so they would fall in an area extending up to one hundred yards beyond the shields, to fall down on the incoming riders.
He saw men fall from their saddles, horses panic as shafts struck their rumps or necks, saw the beast s drop as they were hit in the eye or some other vital area. But the Shiraan riders were thick as fleas on a dying dog, and they shot back. A clatter rose as arrows bounced of shields and armor, punctuated by the occasional scream as a shaft found it was through the shields to hit a man in the face or throat. Men fell, that was to be expected, their places taken by the men behind them, the attendants who accompanied every Great Company rushing in to drag the wounded or dead away so they wouldn’t be a hindrance.
Most of the riders kept their distance...rushing in to shoot a few arrows at the Great Company, then riding away as the longbows shot back. Against armies of lesser men it would have been effective, against the Osa’shaq and their Ironmarked it was merely irritating. And yet...Kazovar looked to the north, and saw another body of horsemen gathering...not archers, they wore heavy armor and carried lances. But in their center were other shapes big, hulking, faint echoes of their heavy footsteps carrying over the wind.
Tarpaks... The great warbeasts of the steppe. Great hulking creatures with thick leathery skin and four tree-trunk legs. On one end was a stubby tail, on the other a low-slung head with a wide snouted mouth, with two small eyes and a pair of long, downsweeping horns growing out of its skull, arcing along the jaw and extending out past the snout. It was a short-tempered beast, even when trained, and the core of the Shiraan army. Draped in iron plates, the tusks fitted with razor caps, a howdah on the back holding up to half a dozen archers or men armed with long spears and javelins. It was the terror of the steppe, and the reason Shiraan invasions haunted the nightmares of the civilized lands beyond. On the attack it was near unstoppable...and the bastards had at least three hundred of the beasts gathering in the distance.
He looked around and saw the other Great Companies also forming into squares. Chanar Chaal was a clever one...he launched a frontal assault on their lines, drawing away the Ironmarked cavalry...leaving the path open for a flanking attack of his own against the Osa’shaq reserves.
“Osa’shaq! Take up your bows!” From inside the square, attendants rushed forward, pushing their way through the ranks of Ironmarked and handing the Osa’shaq officers bows of various shapes and sizes. Most were longbows not unlike those of the archers inside the square. But a few held rare prizes - bows of the scarce black metal, and handfuls of the black arrows, priceless, irreplaceable relics, held back for a day like this.
As the Osa’shaq sheathed their swords and took up the bows, horns and drums sounded across the field. Witt a shout the great mass of riders and tarpaks lumbered forward, the horsemen taking position behind the giant warbeasts. The armored tarpaks would smash into the squares of infantry, their weight and momentum tearing open gaps through which the Shiraan lancers would charge through.
An effective method...but not without some risk. Tarpaks were sensitive beasts, short-tempered and prone to panic. The men who held their reins spent long years mastering the beasts, and as long as a tarpak felt its master’s reassuring weight behind its head, it would remain calm and focused, But if that weight disappeared, if the rider was killed or knocked off, then disaster would follow.
Which was why tarpak riders tended to be the most heavily armored men on its back, to the point that if they fell to the gro
und it would be difficult for them to walk. A challenge for any hapless archer charged with halting them before they came close enough to slaughter his comrades.
But the Osa’shaq were not hapless. They stepped out from the squares, each accompanied by two Ironmarked with raised shields to protect their leaders from the arrows of the still-present horse archers. “Aim for the reinsman!” came Kazovar’s order as they formed a skirmish line, fitting long arrows to string, then drawing back and releasing in a single motion. Long range, and even men of their skill would find it difficult, but they kept at it anyway, and within moments it began to have an effect. Heavily armored riders slumped and fell to the ground, their mounts panicking and veering away, often bumping into the beasts to their sides. The hundreds of tarpaks charging at them swiftly thinned as more and more of their number fell out of the formation, taking their shouting, cursing passengers with them.
But not enough. For every arrow that found its mark, dozens more missed or bounced off the heavy armor of the men holding the reins. The black arrows always drive home, but there were few of them left and within the first minute all were gone. Just under half the tarpaks remained within the formation when the Osa’shaq and their escorts had to pull back into the squares. The Ironmarked closed ranks, locking shields and bracing themselves.
And then the tarpaks were on them. Iron striking iron, wooden shields splintering, spears snapping, flesh tearing and screams rising at the impact. The tarpaks pushing their way into the ranks of men, swinging their heads left and right, the razor-sheathed horns cutting down all in their path and their massive feet trampling the bodies underneath. Meanwhile the men on the backs of the tarpaks shot down into the seething mass of soldiers, or stabbed with their long spears, add more dead to the numbers slain in the charge.
Yet the Irzemyai kept their discipline and closed ranks. Death was inevitable in battle, what mattered was holding your ground. The weight of their numbers blunted the momentum of the attack, and even as the tarpaks continued to bull their way through the ranks, they fought back, stabbing at the vulnerable eyes, scrambling underneath the massive legs to strike at the unprotected bellies (a hard prospect, as the leathery skin was itself a form of armor.) Others stabbed up with their spears, attacking on the backs of the beasts, at the riders.
Shouts and screams and the clash of weapons filled the air as the battle became desperate. Kazovar looked up, and stepped aside as something came flying down through the air, clattering as it struck the ground. A spear, broken two thirds of the way down. Its head was stained red with blood, a sign its owner had put the weapon to some good use. He opened his mouth to order the archers to draw their own swords and move in to support, when shouts erupted to his left.
A great bull tarpak whipped its head from side to side, cutting down the men standing its way. A green-armored rider sat behind its head, gripping the reins and shouting to the men behind him, one of whom held a long standard depicting three crescent moons.
The rider locked eyes with Kazovar. Chanar Chaal, he realized, for that was his personal standard. The Hetaal of the Raxenaar was leading this charge in person...and had broken into his Great Company’s square.
Chanar Chaal gave a shout and the tarpak lumbered into a charge, entering the open space inside the square. If it picked up speed and crashed into the backs of the men on the other side, then the square would be shattered and the horsemen would follow in to kill them all. Kazovar reached for his sword, then looked at the broken spear nearby. He stooped down to grab it, his mind calm. Chanar Chaal’s armor was thick...but there was an open space in his helm for his eyes and face...for a tarpak rider needed to see where he was going.
Runes flared beneath Kazovar’s armor and his vision suddenly sharpened. He was balanced now, the spear an extension of his arm. Everything seemed to slow, as it always did in such situations...he ran ran forward, drawing his arm back even as he and the tarpak closed. Then with a grunt he hurled the spear, the runes giving his throw extra force, turning the shaft into a blur that crossed the space. It struck Chanar Chaal’s face, punching through an eye, and through his skull, only halting when the tip bumped against the back of his helmet.
The reins dropped from Chanar Chaal’s hands and he slumped down over the head of his tarpak. The beast howled in confusion, its moans mirrored by the shouts and curses from the men on its back. The beast lumbered forward, the dead man on its neck rocking back and forth, held in place by the weight of his armor.
Kazovar felt a smile appear on his face...victory. Then his smile disappeared, as the panicking beast charged towards him. He turned about, runes flaring as his feet dug into the ground to carry him out of danger. Three steps...then his foot came down on a loose pebble and he slipped and fell, stumbling across the ground. Pain flared as he sprained his ankle, and it slowed him slightly as he rose up again.
Something sharp and heavy jabbed into his back, and a moment later Kazovar was flying, looking over the heads of his men, the ground rushing back up fast. He bounced on impact, the armor taking the worst of the hit, but not enough to prevent one of his legs from breaking. He rolled onto his back, blood in his mouth, just in time to see the frenzied tarpak bear down on him. He curled into a ball.
The tarpak rolled over him. Heavy blows rained down...then darkness.
There was pain when Kazovar opened his eyes.
It took him a moment to realize where he was...one of the buildings in the encampment set aside for the wounded. Every part of him ached. He shifted his head slightly, grunting at the blinding lights that flashed before his vision for a second. His left leg was held in a splint and wrapped tight. More bandages were wrapped around his torso. Black and purple bruises spread across most of his body. He could feel the heat of the runes on his back, a sign they were working at their limit to repair the damage. He must have been here for some time, and could only imagine how it must have looked when he was brought in.
There were other Osa’shaq in this room, all in much the same state...he recognized a few from his own Great Company, though none were in a state to talk at the moment. Ironmarked and other humans would be a separate facility, and likely in a worse state than he, at the mercy of the doctors and their nostrums. For the Osa’shaq, the only cure needed for any injury or illness was rest, food, and enough time for the runes to do their work. Anything they couldn’t heal would have killed him no matter what.
Yet he was still in pain. Soon he would need to eat...the runes drew upon the bodies own reserves of energy, particularly when healing, and he could already feel the edge of a fierce hunger that needed to be sated…
“Lord.” A Mayazuul orderly knelt by him holding a pitcher of water. Kazovar took it and drank down the contents in a single gulp. “Bring me food,” he ordered.
“It is coming, lord.”
Kazovar set the pitcher down. “What happened?”
“You were injured, lord…”
“The battle! Did we win?”
The Mayazuul nodded, a fierce smile on his face. “Yes, lord! A glorious victory! I am told your Great Company blunted their attack into our flanks, long enough for our cavalry to return and rout the Shiraan. The Ironmarked drive them south, and trapped their warriors against the shores of the lake. The slaughter was total, the dead beyond counting.” He glanced outside for a moment. “If the direction of the wind changes, you will smell their corpses even now. Our cavalry are chasing what is left of the Shiraan across the steppe…”
“What of my men?” Kazovar struggled to sit up, ignoring the protests from his still injured body. He remembered the tarpak...the spear going into Chanar Chaal’s head…
The Mayazuul shook his head. “With regret, lord, your Great Company took many casualties. A third are dead, and just as many are in the surgeons houses down the way. But those who remain sing your praises, the man who slew Chanar Chaal! It is said they found you on the battlefield, clutching the barbarian’s severed head!”
“Really? I don’t remember tha
t...wait, where did they find me?”
“Underneath one of those fell beasts the barbarians ride. You were badly hurt, one of the horns gored you in the back. I heard one of your men say there was damage to your sacred marks…” A voice called out and the orderly stood. “A woman will bring food. It is an honor to be in your presence, lord!”
Kazovar nodded. He lay back on the bed staring up at the ceiling. He could feed the runes knitting together his broken bones, sealing cuts and causing bruises to fade. Two days, three at most, and he would walk out of here with little more than a few new scars to add to his collection…
He sensed her before he saw her. A platter of bread and fruit was placed on the ground next to him. “Lord,” said a feminine voice, handing him an apple. He took it with thanks, biting into the sweet flesh. As he chewed, his eyes drifted over the woman. She was young...maybe a year short of her twentieth birthday. Olive skinned, but her hair was a light brown streaked through with gold. One of the Oporshi folk, a band of them joined up after they left Emengalla. Smiths and craftsmen, escaping chaos to the east. Her face was heart-shaped, with a jaw coming down to a narrow point. There was some scarring on the left side, left behind by a childhood disease.
His eyes drifted down, to where the swell of her breasts pushed against her long linen tunic. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked
She glanced at him. The Sword Fathers never asked such a question. “A..Annia, lord,” she answered a soft voice. Then she smiled. It was like seeing a second sunrise.
Someone called out her name. She bobbed her head and moved away. Kazovar watched her go, the way her hips and backside moved underneath her dress.
He lay back on the cot, eyes closing. Imagining what she might look like underneath...a desire stronger than mere hunger filling his head with hazy half-images of things that might be done, hidden delights that before seemed beneath his notice but now were the only thing he could think of….he felt a strange sensation in his lower extremities, a hardening in an unusual place…
Donarec and the Warlord Page 8