by William King
“The Lady has asked Lord Azaar to be allowed to have the heroes of Achenar be her bodyguards on the morrow. His Lordship had kindly granted permission,” said the chief servant who had brought the clothes.
Rik changed right there and then, grateful for the moment to be dry and well-fed. As he rested he heard couriers being dispatched with messages. It looked like Lord Azaar had some plans for the morrow.
Rik woke early the next day. His head lay on a rolled up cloak. Someone had covered him in a greatcoat. The Barbarian lay nearby. Weasel lay on one elbow, smoking a pipe. He winked when he saw Rik was awake. They were still in the great pavilion. No one had come to ask them any more questions in the night. They seemed to have been forgotten. Rik remembered sleeping uneasily, constantly awakening to the shouts of men, the clatter of carts, the passing of horses and wyrms. He sniffed. The air smelled of sour wine and stale incense.
“Morning, Halfbreed,” said Weasel. “Breakfast?”
He offered a crumbled pastry from the pocket of his greatcoat. Rik shook his head and rose. The table had been cleared during the night, but someone had thought to leave some cold meat and some half-stale bread. Rik was surprised to find the servants so thoughtful. Perhaps they had been given orders.
“What’s it like outside?” he asked.
“Stick your head out the door and take a look. I’ve not been out myself.”
The sun was bright. The pavilion sat on a rise. The standards of the army flapped in a light breeze nearby. He looked down on a camp buzzing with activity, an anthill poked with a stick. Units of men moved in controlled chaos. Massive, long-necked bridgebacks, big as houses, headed off towards the east. Units of cavalry followed them. Scarlet-coated Terrarch officers bustled over the hill, coming and going, doubtless getting final instructions.
Asea’s black clad bodyguard approached. The cowl of his tunic covered his hair; a scarf was wrapped around the lower part of his face. Only his eerie animal-like eyes and the swarthy skin of his forehead was visible.
“Good,” he said, his accent foreign. “You are up. The mistress commands you to her presence. In the absence of my brothers, she requires bodyguards and she seems to think you three are worthy.”
The rest of Asea’s black-clad protectors had died in the hellhole beneath Achenar. Rik wondered how this man felt about that. Had the men been his kin or part of his religion or was there some other reason for his calling the dead men brothers.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, hoping to draw the man out.
“Do not be. They died performing their duty. It is what they wished. There is no greater honour.” Rik could think of a few but now did not seem to be the time to point this out.
“I am Rik.”
“Karim is my name.”
He glanced inside to see that Weasel had already woken the Barbarian. They were eating away merrily.
“Time to go,” he said. “The Lady Asea commands our presence.”
Sardec rose. He was tired but he could not sleep and he wanted to check the sentries. He found most of the men already awake, readying their weapons, preparing to fight. He strode up onto the wall and saw that mist covered the land below them. It was quite common at this time of year in these woods, but it would not help their cause any. The enemy could get almost to the walls without being shot at. He wondered why they had not tried that already. It was what he would have done. He prayed to the Light for the sun to rise and blow the stuff away. They had little enough chance in this fight already. The mist would only work to their enemy’s advantage.
He wondered once more whether the messengers had made it through. It was all too easy to imagine the things that could have gone wrong. The men could have been captured or got lost. The high command might not believe them. Sardec shook his head and tried to ignore the pain at the end of his stump. There was no sense about worrying about such things now. They were outside of his control. He would deal with the things that he had some sway over.
It looked like Sergeant Hef had already done a good job of preparing the men. Half of them were already on the walls, crouching down out of sight so that no random shot could get them. All of them had loaded weapons near at hand, and bayonets ready. They were going to be needed, Sardec guessed. Sergeant Hef saw his approach, rose and saluted.
“Good work, Sergeant,” Sardec said.
“I’ve got a few men in the old mansion house preparing a field surgery, sir. The rest of the lads are down below having breakfast. I thought it best to get them fed before the fight starts. Who knows when they’ll next have a chance? One thing gets me, sir.”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Why have they not attacked yet?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant but perhaps we’ll get a chance to ask them.” He pointed with his good hand. A group of Terrarchs emerged from the mist below. One of them held a stick with a bit of white cloth on it. It was obvious they wanted to parlay.
“Do you accept the flag?” shouted the leader. Sardec raised the spyglass to his eye, and fumbled with the hook to adjust it. He studied the speaker carefully. He was a tall Terrarch wearing a long blue frock coat and a half-face mask of archaic style. A waterfall of pure white hair descended from below a tricorne hat.
“Aye,” said Sardec. “To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”
“I am Esteril of House Morven. May I ask the favour of knowing your own name?”
“I am Sardec of House Harke.”
“A good name. I knew your father.”
“Then our acquaintance is doubly welcome. I will mention you to him when I next write home.”
“Do remind him of the day we routed the Lords of Valastne together.” Sardec remembered his father speaking of the day. He recalled also what he said of Lord Esteril: a Terrarch of great courage and honour but unburdened by high intellect. If he was in charge down there, that would certainly explain the slackness.
“It will be my pleasure.”
“I regret to inform you that you are surrounded.”
“I had noticed this,” said Sardec.
“It would do me great honour if you would accept my protection.”
“That is as gentile a surrender request as I am ever likely to hear, but I regret I must decline it.”
“Surely you can see that you are greatly outnumbered.”
“I can, but I hold the superior position.”
Esteril laughed. “I like your spirit, lad, but you know that if I order the attack there can only be one outcome.” Sardec decided to play to the elder Terrarch’s sporting instincts.
“Surely you cannot expect me to leave my command without a shot being fired.” Again Esteril laughed. It was the sort of laugh that would not have been out of place around his father’s table after a hunt, the laugh of the sort of warrior to whom war was another form of sport, like hunting or shooting game.
“Nay, lad. I respect your gumption. Let us try your lads against mine, and see whose humans are better.”
“Very well, Lord Esteril. Let us have some sport.” Sardec turned to Sergeant Hef. “Be prepared to give milord’s men a warm welcome. I have a mind to hold our position for as long as there is a chance of Lord Azaar relieving us.”
“Very good, sir,” said Sergeant Hef. “After seeing what happened to Kalmek I doubt the lads are in any mood to down arms.”
Sardec could have told him that things would be different now with a Terrarch like Esteril in command. Such a one would no more torture men who had surrendered than he would mistreat a dog. At least Sardec hoped that was the way of it. In any case, he saw no need to share this information with the men. He wanted them to fight as hard as they could.
Briefly he felt a surge of guilt about condemning some of them to death. It occurred to him that he might be condemning himself to death as well. This was the sort of bloodsport in which accidents happened all too easily.
A line of soldiers emerged from the mist. “Give the bastards hell!” he shouted. Musket fire erupted
all around him. He stood firm even as musket balls took chunks out of the palisade before him.
“This is the way to travel,” said the Barbarian. They sat at the back of the howdah of Asea’s bridgeback. The enormous quadrupedal wyrm strode through the forest, picking its way through the trees and over the rough ground with surprising delicacy. Asea sat at the front, just behind the mahout. She was garbed in the odd sorcerous armour she had worn beneath Achenar. It was made of leather strips that seemed to hug her figure without support and flowed sinuously with her slightest movement. A cowl of the same leather emerged from the shoulders to cover her head. A mask of living silver covered her face, turning her into a mysterious goddess.
Branches scratched along the awning that shaded the howdah. It looked like silk but it must be made of something tougher to resist the constant abuse.
The ground here was rough and unsteady. The earth had the contours of a scrap of parchment crumpled by an angry scribe. The mountains were close. At this early hour, mist still hung over the woods giving the morning a faint wet chill. Rik stifled a yawn. He realised that he had managed only a few hours sleep. Excitement warred with fatigue.
All around them soldiers moved through the woods. Most of the companies moved in column along the narrow path. Long lines of light infantry threaded their way through the trees on either side. Rik knew that there were more scouts up ahead and watching the rear behind. There were a number of great wyrms. On their backs sat high Terrarch officers, the greatest of whom was Azaar. Most of the army’s battle wyrms and artillery were not present though. They had headed east with the cavalry before first light. Clearly the General had a plan, but Rik was not entirely certain what it was. He guessed there were enough infantry present to match the enemy force he had seen last night, probably more.
He hoped they would be in time to relieve the Foragers
Chapter Five
Sardec poured a splash of wine on his wound. It burned like hell. Holding one end of the bit of fabric in his teeth, he wrapped the rest of it around the holed area with his good hand, telling himself that it was one of those cuts that looked worse than they were.
Desperate men crouched behind the battlements, ramming powder and ball into muskets, making ready to fire. Sergeant Hef bellowed encouragement. A bold few stood and fired and were rewarded with screams from their foes as their musket balls ploughed into flesh.
Down below, the courtyard was full of bodies. The wounded lay in their blood-stained rags. A few of the older men hacked at wounds with saws and sealed stumps by searing them with flame. The screams echoed in Sardec’s head.
Why had he not surrendered?
The answer was simple, he reminded himself: because it would not do to have this enemy force fall on the unprotected flank of the Talorean Army. If that happened, that might prove to be the end of this campaign and a grievous blow to the whole war in the East.
It was odd how the fates of armies and nations, could sometimes balance on the courage of a few determined soldiers in a god-forsaken flyspeck like this. Or maybe that was simply his vanity. Maybe this was an essentially meaningless skirmish fought because of his foolishness and pride.
More screams sounded outside the walls. The stench of powder and voided bowels filled the air. Had war always been like this, even in the age of dragons and knights? Probably. The aura of chivalry and heroism that clung to the old tales was most likely a product of time and distance. It did not matter if you wore armour and carried a lance, or dressed in broadcloth and fired a musket, in the end, the truths of war would always be the same. Men died. Terrarchs died. The winners made policy. The losers nursed grudges.
A thump and a faint vibration of the wall against which he leaned told Sardec that the attackers were about to try swarming over again. The enemy had not wasted all of their time last night. They had found ladders somewhere. There were ropes too with their ends wrapped round heavy sticks. When thrown through the crenulations they could sometimes find purchase and anchor and provide another means of climbing. These walls were not castle high.
Sergeant Hef crawled over on hands and knees and handed Sardec a loaded pistol. He took it in his left hand, and cursed the fate that had left him a cripple and his father’s sword embedded and ruined in a mad wizard’s body. Once he would have faced the oncoming attackers with Moonshade in his hand, and killed them where they stood. He had been a formidable swordsman and the old magical blade had made him more formidable yet. Now all he had was this accursed hook.
No use crying over spilled wine, he told himself. He would have to make do with what he had. One of the enemy yowled coming up the ladder. Sardec rose. A man’s face stared up at him. He had just time to take in the horror in the man’s eyes then he put his pistol against his target’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The hammer flashed forward. Powder sparked, smoke belched, but nothing else happened.
It was a bloody misfire.
The man on the ladder looked demonic now, his face soot blackened, his teeth showing wild and white. He began to pull himself over the wall. Sardec felt a brief flicker of remorse, that he should do such a thing to one who had just survived certain death, then smashed the man across the face with the barrel of the pistol. Teeth flew out, blood splattered and the attacker fell backwards from the wall. A bullet whizzed past Sardec’s head but he remained upright just long enough to kick the ladder free of the wall and send it tumbling backwards towards the ground.
He squinted through the gloom and saw nothing but more men emerging from the smoke clouds, shrieking with fear and battle madness.
Sardec dropped back down behind the battlements and saw to his horror that a group of the enemy were clambering over the barricade at the manor’s gateway and pouring into the courtyard. Among them were a group of ripjack wyrms, more massive than men, with jaws that could tear off a soldier’s arm at a bite. The very sight of them caused fear among the Foragers. Sardec took the stairs three at a time as he bounded to meet them, praying that someone would follow him.
Where in hell was the relief column, he wondered?
The wyrm crossed the ridge. Rik could see the ford and the fortified mansion, wreathed with smoke and surrounded by men. Those he could see had Blue armbands. A Terrarch officer in a blue frock coat roared orders. Bugles sounded, drums banged loud as demons bashing down the walls of Bedlam. It was chaos.
“This is madness,” he heard Asea say. “What do those men think they are doing?”
Rik wondered if she was going to try any magic, but she sat still and silent. If she had anything like the wand she had used in battle with the hill tribes, she kept it out of sight. Rik saw the rest of the Talorean force top the ridge.
“I think they are attacking the manor, milady,” said Rik.
“They have left no sentries, no rear guard, nothing. Their commander should be shot for incompetence.”
“I will try and arrange it if the opportunity arises.” As soon as the words had left his lips, Rik regretted them. Jesting with a great Terrarch lady was not something humans were supposed to do. To his relief she saw that she was smiling. Even that, lovely as it was, made him deeply uneasy. It was as if she was smiling at some secret joke of her own, not the one he had made at all. Another realisation hit him. He did not like having so much of his hopes for the future pinned on one person. He did not like being bound to her. Part of him resented the loss of freedom deeply.
“It seems you have something of the assassin in your blood, Rik,” she said, still smiling at her secret joke. He looked at her. Her words obviously had more meaning to her than to him.
“If you say so, milady,” he said.
“I do.” She gave her attention back to the battle. Most of the battle wyrms were headed towards the ford now. On the backs of the leaders, horns sounded, calling the beasts to war. Behind them, the infantry surged forward. There was no way to keep formation on terrain like this, although their officers did their best to hold them into units. As they advanced into the besieg
ers, fire and smoke spouted from their muskets. The battlefield became obscured once more in drifting clouds of powder smoke. From inside the billows came all the horrendous sounds of combat.
More horns sounded in the distance. These were of a subtly different tone from the ones the Talorean Regiments used. Someone played a series of martial notes. Rik heard the thunder of hooves from somewhere. Moments later he saw cavalrymen racing down to the banks of the ford, sabres flashing as the hussars cut into the Talorean infantrymen. They were met by a volley of fire from atop the nearest bridgebacks. A long-necked wyrm head snaked down to rip one rider from his saddle.
A chaotic tone entered the sounds of distant bugles. Rik heard the charge of the Talorean cavalry sound off in the distance. That was strange, he thought, how had they got there? Then he remembered they had been dispatched east in the morning. They must have crossed the bridge and turned north and then west. The besiegers were caught in the claws of a pincer.
Surely now, the Taloreans must have overwhelming force, Rik thought. Surely now the battle must be decided. The obscuring smoke made it difficult to tell.
Sardec slashed the screaming soldier across the face with his hook. Only then did he realise it was one of his own men. In the madness of the melee, the wounded Forager had lashed out at him with a bayonet. Maybe it was not an accident, Sardec thought. Maybe he had known all along he was striking an officer, perhaps settling an old score. He was saved from having to decide whether the man should be court-martialled when a bayonet ripped through the human’s chest and he fell to his knees.
A monstrous ripjack wyrm loomed out of the dust and smoke. Its great jaws snapped so close to Sardec’s face that he could smell the rotting meat tang of its breath. Ferocious rage and hatred showed in its tiny mad eyes. Round its neck was a jewelled collar. The gem glowed in such a way that Sardec knew that there was an enemy officer somewhere nearby controlling it with a Leash.