He picked the axe up from where it rested against his thigh and tested a few swings into the air.
A soldier picked himself up off the ground behind him and resumed course, granting Renir a filthy look as he passed.
There was none of the forced camaraderie of earlier; everyone had seen the true nature of war. And it was a war. A small one at that but Shorn could imagine its body hidden undersea, like the iceflows that came past the northern boats. The tail would be massive. This was just a tooth.
Shorn hoped they knew their jobs. Without all the others he and Renir would die where they stood, and this battlesong would never be sung. Not by Sturmen, anyways. By the Draymar. He thought he might get a better reputation in their stories – how the Draymar had slain the six headed beast of Sturma or some such. He would not give them the satisfaction of turning him to their own legends. Fight or die, it wouldn’t be for the sake of a story.
The mercenary had earned his price. To be able to fight again. He laughed at himself. What a price. The defenders had worked long and hard while Renir slept to make the killing ground. The courtyard was now lined with vicious splintered and sharpened rolls of wood. The barracks sat invitingly at the end of the spiked road, waiting for the attackers to destroy. They had made their target. They even went as far as to stand unused armour and weapons outside on racks. Rope attached to the far side of the fort ran to harnesses on eight horses. The horse would pull and each wooden shape would roll/fall over to the centre of the camp, crushing and impaling as many Draymar as they could lure to the centre. The defenders, the bait, would likely all be killed, but they and the Draymar would pass Madal’s gates together.
Two throwing platforms made from caravans lay either side of the trap. The archers could no longer run across the centre…if they were needed elsewhere – well, they would be in trouble. The Draymar could not see into the camp though, so Shorn was hoping this would work for long enough. Renir had suggested this. He was none too sure.
Men that died in the tent were carried out by Drun and the doctor. They would not make the soldiers carry out their own brethren. Each body was dumped unceremoniously outside the fort’s gates to rot in the air. The bodies lay outside, haphazardly strewn across the entrance to make the advancing soldiers clamber over – the wall was now high enough to prove an obstacle. Thankfully, the charred bodies that would be the most noxious for the next few days were at the bottom of the pile.
Today the Draymar would fight their way in. The Sturmen would take the enemy in their arms and squeeze the life out of them.
Renir finished swinging his axe and staring dreamily into the sky. He took his position next to Shorn. His own sigh sounded like it went on forever. He did it again. He quite enjoyed the sound. There, ‘aaaaaahhhhh’.
Renir was still aahing and swaying now with each syllable. Shorn put his right hand on Renir’s shoulder to steady him. He noticed Renir blinking furiously at the early sun. Renir grinned back his thanks mid-ah.
They both stood without thought and smelled the air.
Shorn knew they would strike here. They would go for the strongest. (Renir didn’t think so, but he had killed almost as many men as Shorn earlier, and fought on until his blood drained and he weakened. The south wall team had relieved him after the first hour when they had driven the attackers to the gate. In an hour, adding his blood to that of the slain, Renir must have killed ten men. The riders surged and ran on through thick smoke and blackened reeking flesh to attack and again and again while Renir’s axe rose and fell.).
Dow was high as the Draymar ran straight past the walls to the back gates. For this, they were prepared.
The first Draymar raider ran round the corner. They had learned – they came in a line.
He fell with an arrow through his skull.
“Why won’t you put a helm on, Renir?”
Another attacker fell as he ran round the corner. There were four archers in tower now. Shorn was glad of any help.
“I don’t like any. I can’t see through them. Also, if I wear armour and no head gear everyone will go for my head. Then I only have to protect one part.” He paused for thought. “And, if the odd blow happens to get through elsewhere, well, hey! I’ve got armour on!”
“You’re perky.”
Renir says, “I know. The doctor gave me moulje.” He laughed. “I can see through my axe.”
Hooks sailed over the gates again. The Draymar, through a hail of arrows, heaved again, and the gates, already weakened, fell.
An attacker rounded the corner. Two arrows appeared, flights clear and yellow, in the trampled ground…behind, and he was on them. Shorn’s sword came from his scabbard and Renir hefted his axe. It was strange, Renir thought to himself.
I remember that first fight outside my home. I was in so much pain after that. And I didn’t really do much. This time I got a sword stuck in my leg and yet fought. I feel stronger.
He stepped forward, past Shorn, as he knew the warrior was going to feint under his blow and drive up for his head with the short sword he held. Renir blinked slowly and lunged forward and to his right as Shorn’s swinging sword passed overhead and upwards into the ducking warrior’s face. His face came up and Shorn’s backswing took the top part of his head off.
Then, they were upon them.
Two more men joined Renir and Shorn. The Draymar were piled high, but still they came on. Men breeched the walls rarely, jumping and leaping over the fort’s walls from horse’s backs. They were acrobatic but where there was platform the defenders quickly struck them down. Where there was none, they fell and broke bones in the pits. Some made it over, but were shortly cut down. Outside the walls, Draymar acted as long range attackers, and were effective. They hurled wooden spears over the walls. Occasionally, they struck a defender.
Shorn and Renir, together with two other men, fought their way back into the camp, bringing the surge of defenders with them, desperate to get within after all the men they had lost.
As the defenders fell back some hundred and fifty men charged at the walls. They wanted this fort so badly they would not burn it now. The challenge was something that Shorn thought it best the captain not know about. The challenge the Draymar secretly enjoyed, for all their talk about need.
“Inside! Fall back!” Shorn cried. A spinning scimitar emblazened with a hammer span past and knocked the Sturman border guard beside him dead on his back.
Renir’s heart felt like it was stuck on his ribs and he gulped for air. He knew he felt strong. He could also see the blood pouring through the bandage covering his leg. He needed to stop that bleeding.
“Can you hold?” Renir shouted to Shorn. A Draymar warrior attacked him with a wild swing of a spear. His axe came up and the spearhead fell harmlessly to earth. The strength of the swing carried his attacker round. The man flicked matted hair back over his shoulder, switched his grip and swung the haft underhand, aiming between Renir’s legs. It rapped against Renir’s gauntlet…with his other hand Renir clove his axe into the man’s chest. The man fell to the dirt, wrenching the axe free. Renir stooped and wiped the blood away on the man’s split jerkin.
Two replacements drove forward through the narrow opening.
“Go!” Shorn shouted. “Send more men back!” Shorn blocked a blow with his sword, turning the blade away and into a second warrior, bringing his blade up and through hide armour. Both attackers fell, the first still moaning. Shorn thrust his sword down through the man’s neck.
Another two defenders came to their aid. The walls held and the five men now at the gates were still being pushed back. The price for the Draymar was heavy.
The men fought with steeled hearts against the pouring Draymar, fighting slowly back, ever back. Renir took one look at the swelling ranks and fell back to the tent. Five men now stood alongside Shorn and Renir could tell from the sounds of battle coming from the walls that they could hardly spare them. The Draymar would fight their way into the fort today and Renir could lend no aid. He fe
lt weak. Ashamed.
To the sounds of death Renir limped to the medical tent. The exertion had pulled his stitches free. Blood ran down his naked calf and pooled in his boot. He was sick outside before he went in to meet Drun.
Inside the tent the wounded cried and moped and waited for release through death or Drun. The doctor was working miracles but ceded each decision to the older man. The hardest decisions always came toward the end – leave the man to die or send him on his way.
Drun was busy with guiding the doctor’s hands inside a wounded man so Renir sat on the floor, waited, and passed out unobserved.
Shorn slashed aside another blow. It had been so long and now he felt the cry of blood in his pounding heart all the sound drained from around him. Everything seemed further away. He let his rage build and flow – slow, turn – a sword flashed past – unleash!duck – a defender to his right fell with a spear through his chest and died the instant a Draymar fell, bilious flesh visible through the sword slash. No one ran to take the defender’s place.
All around Shorn, out of earshot (this was why he could never be a general) came the cries of men trying to drive back the Draymar from the walls, each of the attackers using footholds to climb the wagons, while others climbed at corners or leapt from their horse’s backs. The fort stood but the shouts of men locked in battles to the death came. Whimpers, curses and screams. Shorn’s sword came crashing down against a helmed head, turning it aside and into the rising blow of another defender. He slid his left foot back and let his right follow it.
Timing now, timing. Come, follow me.
He slashed another blow aside, his arms tiring, the new gauntlet a boon but unable to grip the now-slick hilt. Blood flicked from the tip of his sword as he swung again. The Draymar sensed a prize in him. “Their leader fights here! On the gates!” they cried, and the pressure on the walls finally lessened. Shorn heard nothing but realised Renir’s plan was working when through his heightened senses he felt time return to normal. He was still faster than the others but now there were so many of them. Being fast no longer helped. Now he needed skill and failing strength.
The Draymar gradually pushed into the fort. The front ranks could now see the wooden spikes…but not the rope hidden underneath.
*
Chapter Seventy
High above the rock caves where the Sard and Tirielle broke their fast after an unusually long, sleepless night, the Guryon stamped in frustration. They shifted into each realm and fizzled at the ground as they tried to enter the caves. Each time they tried to pass through the rock that formed the caves’ massive domed rooms, they jumped back as though stung. The best they could manage was worrying its edges. To an observer it looked like the Guryon was testing freezing water with a toe, preparatory to an unwanted dip. They tried to appear in the caves, they tried to steal a body (and what strange bodies!). They had tried everything, to no avail. They could smell Tirielle down there. But something else, too. Something Jek would like but would not get.
They did not need to enter the caves. It was just a matter of pride.
Defeat tasted…sullen. As they prepared to leave a sound made them crane their necks to look down at the ground. Quizzically, they listened. Ululating cries of power, like the bands of light from one of the planes’ demons, or the angels – light trapped in a cage. The Guryon would like a song like that. Something to keep them company. That would be a companion worth having. From the sound of it Jek was bargaining short.
The Guryon transferred themselves through the nexus between worlds in a flurry of spastic jitters. Greed assailed them as they travelled and split into each individual part that made its whole.
Jek could have the girl. The Guryon would have the weapon and the future song. Desire burned in its myriad souls as it stepped into Jek’s room.
*
Chapter Seventy-One
Renir awoke from his seat (with the fading memory of dreams of youth and a wise man’s words in his head. He remembered a woman, too, a witch, staring at his body as he stared down at himself, naked and face down on a bench as she probed the gash in the back of his leg. She pulled the muscles apart and spoke. As she let each layer fall into place it closed and snakelike veins retracted and hid under the skin) and wandered out to return to the battle.
The late sun, Dow, was finally passing over the horizon.
The battle was over, for now. Bodies were strewn across the floor, impaled on broken spikes of wood, pierced through every conceivable place. The remainder of the defenders – too few – sat with their own thoughts, each guided by the sight of blood pooled in the centre. The dirt floor was black with spilled blood. Darker spots were flies. They would feast tonight.
All Renir remembered from when he passed out was dreams. He did not know what the doctor had given him this time but the dreams of his childhood stood vivid in his mind, overlaying the horror about the camp.
He joined a battle-weary Shorn, seated with his back against the fort walls and his booted feet propped against a sword tent. Jermin sat next to him, sipping brandy from a flagon. Drun was still in the medical tent where he and the Doctor were trying against the odds to save a man with a broken sword crammed through his chest. They would fail.
Renir plopped himself down next to the two tired warriors. Both men were coated in blood. Renir could not tell if they were injured. Jermin looked up and without moving passed Renir the bottle of brandy.
“It is good to see you still live. I’ve never seen a man bleed so much and walk under his own power from battle.”
Renir passed the bottle over to Shorn.
“Well, Drun must work wonders. I came to and the bleeding had stopped…he could have changed the bandages, though.” The bandages were crusted and blood coated Renir’s lower leg.
“Well, I take it we won?”
Jermin laughed. “If this counts as winning. I think it may just be procrastination. Your plan worked astoundingly well but tomorrow they will come again. Tomorrow we will die.”
Shorn nodded his head, in agreement with the assessment. “There will be nothing we can do to hold them back tomorrow. Seek peace tonight, Renir. We will not see another sunset.”
“Aren’t you cheerful tonight? In that case we may as well have a proper drink.” Renir held up the bottle to the light. It was only half full. “Any more where this came from?”
“Yes, plenty. The former Captain was a drunk. He kept a few bottles in his quarters.”
“Well, then,” began Shorn, “if you’ve no objections, I suggest we hand it out around.”
Renir agreed. “I’ll die sober but a hangover will do for second best.”
Jermin stood, slightly tipsy already, and spoke. His voice was loud enough that it bounced back from the wood and in turn gathered strength. He shouted out first, and checked everyone had a drink.
“Men! And those whose assistance we could not have lived without,” he began. “Tomorrow we will see the battle of our lives. I cannot promise that you will live but I can promise that you will be brave. We have fought alongside one another. I have seen bravery beyond belief. Bravery the army does not pay for but that which lives in each man’s soul. If we die here, we die proud and take that with us.” He raised the bottle to the listening survivors. “I am proud to serve with each of you. I am proud to know each soul living, and dead, here today. Let us drink to the fallen. Let us drink to life!”
A cheer came from the weary. Each took a swig and passed bottles to others gathered there. Jermin sat back down.
“Good, you’re getting better at this as the day goes by,” remarked Shorn.
“Well, it’s a short learning curve.”
Renir said, “So then, what happened?”
“I myself whipped the horses.” Jermin settled himself and stared up at the stars. “They pulled and the spike barrels rolled into the crowded Draymar. They died like a shrike feast. It was awful, Renir. Finishing them off in the confusion was too easy and the thought of it makes me sick to my stoma
ch still. With the rest of the Draymar attackers bottled up behind, unable to advance or retreat, we mounted the platforms and rained down the greased spear on their heads to great effect. They panicked and tried to throw the spears back. The attackers that tried to pick them up to throw back got grease on their hands as soon as they did – they were all in desperation. When their hands were greasy and slick, as you had said they would be, we counter-attacked round the walls. Thirty men in all was all it took – a huge gamble to allow our men outside the walls, cut off, but they too found the going surprisingly easy. The speed of our counter-attack alone took many of the back rank and we crushed them in panic between us. It was a dark day for them and us. But we live.
“Then they broke. We did not break them, a horn sounded and they retreated in a shambles. Most made it back to the trees.” He looked at Shorn. “We slaughtered over a hundred today. I fear there may be more tomorrow – when they left a dispatch rider ran past. We tried to catch him in time. I don’t know what it said, I only hope he was running from our reinforcements. That is our only chance of survival.”
The three all took another drink. The defenders all drank. Today, one of the children had fallen – a Draymar spear, arching over the walls, had taken him cleanly. They fell into contemplative silence. There was sobbing coming, quiet among the growing noise of drunken men but it was mostly a quiet, still evening. The sobbing was beginning to grate Shorn’s nerves. He spoke to fill the silence.
“You know,” he said, pulling the sword from his scabbard and laying it before Renir and Jermin. “This sword is the one keepsake I have. There is nothing left of the past for me but this. I know little of my parents and have nothing from them.” He paused and looked to the east. “I had a home once. Yet my legacy to my children will this sword. I ask myself why.”
“Well, why?” said Renir.
Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 31