Mordraud, Book One

  ***

  Dunwich had reached the solitary horseman who was sowing panic among the Lances, but his first blow failed to strike the target. A rare occurrence. He quickly turned his steed straight and drove his sword ahead, aiming for the neck. He couldn’t manage it. His opponent was awkward and defended himself messily, but he was also accursedly quick: just at the last second he succeeded in placing his weapon well to fend off the slashes, as if by chance. After missing his first opportunities, Dunwich had to reposition his horse, thus giving his adversary time for a counter-attack. Dunwich avoided the first thrust, wobbling on his saddle. He arrested the second by seizing the sword in two hands, at the tip. He wasn’t expecting such murderous might. He very nearly lost his balance, and had to dangerously arch his back behind it to absorb the blow.

  Mordraud took advantage of the moment and stormed his opponent, beating down from above. The strokes gave off white sparks, and these mingled with the night’s scarlet air. Focusing on his enemy alone, Mordraud took no notice of what was happening around him. Only at the last did he perceive the menacing closing-in of a solitary chant, and the hiss of a fork of energy. A bastard of a Lance was attacking him at the rear. The bolt struck him full on. The air in his lungs was ablaze. He could feel his senses fade, and his legs release their grip on the saddle. A stench of burning flesh rose repulsively inside his nose, and he was on the verge of throwing up.

  Mordraud saw the sword brandished by the helmet-clad Lance pick up momentum to the side and shoot towards him. He reacted instinctively, surrendering fully to his instincts. He altered his grip on the handle and punctured the head of his enemy’s horse at the base of the ears. The beast juddered and collapsed to the earth just as the Lance was about to slice him in two. The adversary’s blow missed its target, but nevertheless struck the horse’s nose. Mordraud and Dunwich fell to the ground at exactly the same time.

  Now the struggling mass had reached the woods. Cavalry, Lances, infantry and rebel soldiers all found themselves fighting each other, no longer with distinct ranks and without any precise order or strategy. Dunwich attempted to get back up but he’d badly hurt a leg. His ankle didn’t want to know about supporting his weight and that of his armour. Mordraud was gasping for air, while a wisp of greenish smoke rose from his back and oozed alarmingly from his nostrils. The lightning bolt was devouring the leather in his protective cladding. Horrific, he thought, wild in fear. Light that could corrode matter, generated merely by the voice of a single man. An atrocious death that was impossible to comprehend.

  Neither of the two moved to attack for a very long instant. Dunwich managed to stand up and limped towards Mordraud. Both wearing helmets, they failed to recognise each other. Determined to put an end to it once and for all, Dunwich charged, putting his weight on only one leg. He circled his sword, and smashed it down violently. Mordraud was kneeling. He eyes were hazed over and the visor prevented him from seeing properly, but he succeeded in fending off the blow just the same. Dunwich did not recover his balance swiftly enough, and to dodge the deadly swipe from Mordraud’s arm, he flung himself rearwards, rolling on his back. When he again tried to get to his feet to attempt a second assault, his leg let him down and he missed his moment. Mordraud fought back with a desperate move. He flipped the sword in his hand, pulled his arm back and thrust the weapon forwards, nearly falling off-balance.

  Dunwich observed in amazement as the blade twisted towards him.

  He shifted to avoid it, but overburdened his injured leg. The foot gave way. Dunwich shrivelled to the ground, taking the sword square in the face. The helmet split and the metal jaw-piece came away. The long steel shard ripped the cheek open up to the temple. Dunwich cried out madly in agony, and fell onto his back, clutching his torn face in his hands. The Lance’s helmet was a crumple of demolished tin.

  Mordraud smirked, but his joy was short-lived. His sight became blurred, the chaos around him broke up into a haze of grey patches, and every sound seemed muffled, as if swathed in a heavy woollen blanket.

  “Adraman! Adraman’s here!”

  It was the last thing he heard. The battle swallowed him up. The bodies of the slain soldiers began toppling on him, squashing him into the earth. Mordraud just managed to see a Lance on horseback grab the body of his adversary, heave it over his shoulder and ride off through the multitude, before he fell unconscious.

  XVII

  The Emperor’s skin was taut and red like the glass of a wine-stained crystal goblet. Asaeld was convinced that if he focused to observe him carefully, he would easily be able to count his veins, muscles and even all his teeth. Loralon had been baying for an eternal interlude, raking his hands through his papers and tossing about the coloured wooden cubes, the little flags and all the bits and pieces the generals used to mark the progress at the front. His voice was now reduced to a hysterical scream. Everybody, except he, had shrunk on their own shadows.

  ‘Bunch of gutless cowards...’ concluded Asaeld, without changing his expression.

  “I DEMAND TO KNOW HOW WE MANAGED TO LOSE!”

  Silence. He’d already said it time and again. All liability had been vetted, probed and trawled. Every move analysed. Nothing could be established. Nobody wanted to be deemed responsible. Also because no one actually knew who was to blame.

  “Who gave the order to attack the Rampart head on? Who called the Lances back?! WHERE WAS THE CAVALRY?! TELL ME THAT!”

  The idea of launching a central assault on the barrier was only partly fruit of the strategies set out at the start. Something had changed during the course of action. The Lances had been re-organised, yet nobody dared say who’d been the first to conceive this idea. The cavalry on its own against the Rampart was simply useless. It was absurd to hope to overcome the wall and continue on horseback, using the gangplanks alone. They ran the risk of opening up dangerous rifts among the foot-soldiers. It was unthinkable that somebody had attempted it. Only a long chain of such mistakes could lead to such a crushing defeat. And Adraman had done the rest from behind. Said and said again. A thousand times. Loralon was still waiting for his culprit. Nobody wanted to serve one up to him on a platter.

  “AND ADRAMAN?! LET’S SPEAK ABOUT ADRAMAN!”

  That aspect too was shrouded in darkness. How the rebels had unearthed the Empire’s plan in time to prepare a counter-attack. Various theories were advanced – all of course summarily invented. In any case, the generals all hotly concurred on the fact that when Adraman arrived with his reinforcements, the battle was already lost.

  For the reasons previously and broadly discussed.

  “Nobody feel it’s his duty to shoulder the blame, EH?! All too clever and too astute to have made a mistake, isn’t that right? I’LL HAVE YOU HANGED! FODDER FOR SWINE, THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE! I’LL HAVE YOU STRUNG UP BY THE BALLS AND LEFT TO DRY IN THE WIND!”

  Loralon grabbed a fistful of cubes and flung them at his councillors, generals and section commanders. The armour tinkled as if in a sudden downpour. Asaeld spotted the pellet in time, and tilted his head just enough to avoid it striking him in the eye. His lips curled in a faint amused smile.

  “One hundred and twenty Lances dead! One hundred and twenty for love of the Gods – we haven’t even lost that many in ten whole years! Over eight thousand foot-soldiers! Nobody knows how many lame, escaped, maimed or disembowelled horses! The men on the Rampart even seized control of the back lines, the tents, the food, the gold – everything! You ran away deserting an entire camp! WE GAVE ELDAIN A FINE GIFT! I WANT THE CULPRIT!”

  “Sir, the Alliance suffered extensive losses... and there are few of them compared to...”

  The poor councillor – a bright young man who’d graduated from the Military Academy with outstanding marks and great praise – was literally overwhelmed by inarticulate shouting and cubes of bone. One landed in his eye, and he had to stay standing to attention with an absurd expression on his face.

  “FEW OF THEM?! AND MANY OF US! AND LOOK AT THE RESULT! A FRIGGING DI
SASTER!”

  “If Eldain was planning on attacking our lands...” Asaeld suddenly interjected in a firm steady voice, “he’ll have changed his mind now, because we’ve shown him what can happen if he tries sticking his nose outside his territories.”

  “And what happens? That we lose all the battles?!”

  “No. That as soon as he moves, he bumps into an army that, without his lovely packed earth wall, can flatten him like an insect.”

  Loralon was ready to counter, but Asaeld’s vision had brought a chink of light to the gloomy shroud of defeat.

  “So you say the Alliance fears us even more now?”

  “I’m certain of it,” he replied confidently. “They saw us sacrifice hordes of men without batting an eyelid. They can’t afford that luxury. They’ll think two... no, three... times before making another move.”

  “I wasn’t aware Eldain wanted to attack us...” two generals nearby murmured among themselves. Asaeld froze them with a stare.

  “So it wasn’t such a humiliating defeat...” Loralon stammered, almost with a pleading tone. Without his yelling and threats, he’d quickly clicked back to being the usual Emperor.

  “Absolutely not. You have my Lance’s word on it.”

  “Well, if that’s how things are...” he bumbled, as the skin on his face went back to pallid, dry and waxy. “BUT SOMEONE WILL PAY FOR IT! YOU CAN REST ASSURED!”

  The council broke up. Once they were outside the great hall, and the doors were securely shut behind them, many generals gave Asaeld a quiet pat on the back. Others left, without deigning him a look, even avoiding passing anywhere near him. The commander paid not the least attention to his flatterers or to his denigrators. That meeting was nothing but a tiresome and pointless waste of time.

  He still had many people to talk to, that night. About many different – and far more stimulating – topics.

  ***

  The steel shield mercilessly reflected his head swathed in the broad linen bandages. A rust-coloured blood patch had appeared on the side of his face, despite the dressing being fresh and sealed to perfection. He still hadn’t viewed the wound. He could only imagine it: a torn and toothless smile gaping on his left cheek.

  His tongue felt the thread the doctor had used to sew him up. Even if it was terribly painful, he couldn’t help toying with the stitches. Like a dog licking his wounds, he also had his pride to appease. He’d almost died at the hand of a simple soldier. A solitary maniac against ten Lances. But against him above all.

  A disaster. A failure along the whole line. Most of his ideas had been discarded and the few put into action had been handled atrociously. In the worst possible way. And all because of Loralon.

  ‘We’re ruled by an incompetent. An insane fool. Cambria against the peasants, the Empire against the rabble. It’s unbelievable... a nightmare!’

  He’d woken up on a camp-bed in a corner of the large tent for the wounded, already medicated and stitched up. The other soldiers hadn’t had his same luck. Many were crying or yelling in the hopeless attempt to attract a doctor to attend to them. Others lay stiff or motionless, the skin on their faces white, bluish, green or black. He recalled practically nothing of what occurred following the battle. The sword whirling towards him, the scuffle tightening around him, the ground stinking of iron and blood, the horse carrying him to safety. Then a void. He did not see Asaeld again, nor any other Lances. He felt a desperate desire to drink, preferably accompanied by a decent pipe of tobacco. But more than all else, he wanted to find out how they’d managed to lose a battle that should have been a guaranteed victory.

  “Captain, please return to your bed...”

  The healer who’d changed his bandages, a most attractive dark-haired lady who only took care of injuries among the upper ranks, caught hold of his hand and gently guided him to return to the tent.

  “I don’t need to rest,” Dunwich grunted, failing to articulate his words.

  “Yes, you do. The herbs I gave you soothe the pain, but make you weak. You could faint any moment.”

  “I don’t care. I have to see Commander Asaeld, at once!”

  The woman shook her head imperatively. “Then I’ll send someone to summon him. You’re my ward now, and you’ll do as I say. Also because if anything bad were to happen, it would be the end of me. Your life is far more precious than those of the others in here.”

  Dunwich withdrew his hand from her grip in annoyance, but followed her without protest.

  “This place gives me the judders,” he muttered, as he passed through the entrance flaps. “Can’t I go back to my own tent?”

  “Don’t you know the answer?!” she burst out, glaring at him in amazement. She really was a beautiful lady. Dunwich felt even less at ease. What state was his face in, he wondered.

  “The rebels took everything. The army’s back lines weren’t positioned far enough away, and their captain, Adraman, raided by attacking from behind. We lost practically everything.”

  “And where are we now?!” Each word was torture, but it was nothing compared to that additional shame.

  “In a mid-way camp, between the Rampart and Hann Creek. It’s been a tremendously hard week, captain.”

  “Have I slept for a week?”

  “No, we kept you sedated. Your wound was infected. Your fever was on the verge of killing you, and you were suffering terribly...”

  “I remember nothing...” uttered Dunwich in confusion.

  “Better that way. As I said, it was a gruelling week.”

  They were met by the usual agonising screams. Dunwich sat heavily back down on his bed and pulled the curtain to separate himself off from the rest of the room. “My life’s worth more...” he groaned, trying not to chew the limp frayed flesh of his cheek. He’d thought it many a time. But it didn’t sound particularly good at that precise moment.

  “I’ve already told you – I’m sure. I can’t have misheard it.”

  A couple of soldiers who’d already been treated were chatting to each other. Dunwich lay back with his arms behind his head and sharpened his ears. He decided to eavesdrop on their conversation for a bit of company.

  “I’ve never heard of him. So he’s not an Allied general... Many say it was Ice. But, me, I don’t believe it. I think it was Berg. He’s a real beast.”

  “No, no. I was too close to have heard wrong. You know Gren? He was next to me. That man chopped his head off in one fell swoop, and nearly got me too! Berg was behind him, he’d broken away from the enemy. I’m sure of it.”

  “They can’t have sent a simple soldier to lead the attack...”

  “Ah, I don’t know who it was. I only know his name was Mordraud...”

  Dunwich tore back the curtain and sprang to his feet. The two soldiers nearly rolled onto the floor in fright.

  “What was that?!” he yelled, sounding ridiculous through eating his words.

  “Nothing, sir. I was just talking about Gren and...”

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY THAT REBEL’S NAME WAS?”

  “M... Mordraud, sir...” the young man stammered. His face was whiter than Dunwich’s linen dressings. They all knew there was a prominent Lance in the tent with them, but the pair didn’t realise he was merely a couple of paces away.

  “Mordraud? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, nodding with extreme conviction.

  “And was he wearing a shiny steel helmet with no crest? With a short chin-plate?”

  “Well... I’m sure he wasn’t wearing one when I saw him... Black hair, cut military style, light eyes... but no helmet, sir.”

  “You know, I think he had one hanging from his belt,” the other soldier added, watching warily for Dunwich’s reaction.

  “Hmm...” was all he managed to utter. He went back to sitting on his bed, drew the curtains again and shut himself up in his thoughts, without listening to anything more the soldiers said.

  ‘Brother... was it you? And maybe not?’ he wondered.

  Dunwich
delicately brushed his blood-soaked bandages. His eyes focused on his fingertips smeared with a sticky deep red.

  “No, it wasn’t you... It had better not have been...”

  ***

  “MY SWORD!”

  Adraman ran into the tent gathering together a few soldiers who’d come to visit their wounded companions. Two rather brawny doctors were struggling energetically with a young man stretched out on a wooden board.

  “WHO TOOK IT?! I WANT IT BACK NOW!”

  “I’ll see to it. Come on lads, give me a hand!”

  Pacifying the injured soldier was not child’s play. Four of them got on top of him, but the more they pushed down, the worse he grew. Adraman grappled with his belt and pulled off a brand new leather scabbard.

  “I’ve got it, Mordraud. Calm down now...” he said, stroking the lad’s short hair. Then he slapped his face with all his might. Mordraud opened his eyes wide and stopped stock still.

  “What’s happening?! Who are these people? Ow...”

  Adraman sat down at his side and placed his sword on his chest. “Sometimes, a person can fall unconscious during battle and not realise it’s over... He wakes up somewhere else and doesn’t understand... I’ve seen many in your state, my boy.”

  “The fighting... is it over? And did we win?!”

  “Yes, we won. Unbelievable, wouldn’t you say?”

  The soldiers and doctors went away, rubbing their arms that were sore from the effort. Mordraud unsheathed the blade, just to check it really was his, and vented a sigh of relief. “It’s not my scabbard,” he observed sorrily.

  “I know, you lost yours. Your helmet was scrunched down to a ball of tin. I had to prise it off your head with forceps – I thought I was going to end up with your brains in my hands! But it saved your life, and I really don’t know how... When I found you, you were on the floor, curled up around your sword, mixed with a bed of corpses. A horrific sight. You must have been trampled by a horse, too.”