by John Gwynne
‘Easy,’ Veradis barked at Balen, ‘they’re not going anywhere.’
Balen shot him a glance, eyes wide and white, but his blade work became less frantic.
Men fell, blood sluicing down Veradis’ blade, soaking his hand, muscles burning, the unrelenting thud of blows against his shield pushing his straining body to its limits. Sinews screamed against the constant pressure as men piled against the shield wall, some throwing themselves, others crushed by the oncoming mass behind them, like the sea against a tidal wall.
Fingers grabbed at the rim of Veradis’ shield, pulling it down, and Veradis saw a woodsman, caught a glimpse of the road and forest behind him. Veradis chopped; another scream as fingers flew through the air. The constant pressure was easing, still the thud of weapons as men hammered at the wall, but the unrelenting press of bodies was gone.
The end is coming, Veradis recognized, when the initial rush of that first battle fury was spent and men looked about at the carnage reaped by the shield wall. He had seen it before, knew that the ground would be piled with the dead, warrior spirits crushed by the shield wall’s faceless brutality.
We must strike now and break them.
‘Forwards,’ Veradis cried. He punched Balen to his right to get his attention, yelled his command again and took a step forwards. For a moment he thought he was alone, stepping out of the wall into certain death, but then Balen followed him, a heartbeat later the man on his other side doing the same, and with a stutter the front row of the shield wall took one shambling step forwards. Veradis stumbled on a body underfoot but managed to stay upright, even though the ground was slick with blood and snared with limbs. He felt the line sway, thought that the wall would splinter, break and be scattered, but then it steadied. Veradis felt the strength and solidity return.
He set his feet and stabbed through the gap in the shields, felt his sword pierce flesh, heard more screams as others did the same.
It’s working.
‘Forwards,’ Veradis yelled again and did not wait this time to take another step. The shield wall shuddered forwards. Swords snaked out, more men falling, dying.
‘MARCH!’ Veradis shouted, his voice hoarse and dry. Banging his sword against his shield to set time, he felt the whole shield wall move with him, some of the men behind him thudding their swords against shields in time with him, the front row still stabbing as they marched.
They were a ragged mass compared to the disciplined ranks that Veradis was accustomed to leading, but still he grinned with the joy of it as his enemy fell before him, felt as if they were unbeatable, unstoppable, and then the pressure before them was gone, the sound of feet drumming on the road as men turned and ran before them.
Veradis called a halt. The wall stumbled to a ragged stop, and Veradis lowered his shield.
Bodies lay strewn everywhere. Trees loomed before them, the camp ablaze behind. Dim figures could be seen fleeing along the road, some escaping into the gloom of the forest to either side of the road.
Not enough to challenge us again.
Relief flooded through him.
They are broken. We’ve won.
They had all known that the greatest threat would come from the warriors and workers who were away from the camp, spread along the road. They were the ones who would be alerted to the attack, would be able to gather their courage and attack, unlike all those within the camp, who would be caught by surprise.
He looked and saw Balen grinning, the recognition of survival, the joy of victory, saw the same expression spreading amongst those about him.
Then voices yelled a warning. Death screams rang out. Veradis spun around, searching for the new danger. It came from behind. Figures were emerging from the camp, a solid mass of warriors appearing, dressed in black mail, curved swords in their hands.
Kadoshim.
They were running up the embankment, carving into the flank and rear of Veradis’ shield wall: twenty, forty, sixty of them, more appearing from amongst the tents, as well as a tight knot of others behind them.
Gundul and his honour guard. He cannot get away.
Veradis began moving towards the Kadoshim, even as his mouth opened to shout for the wall to reform he knew it would not defeat these demon spawn.
We have to take their heads, and the wall will not help us do that.
He saw men crunching shields together, falling back on the strategy that had just served them so well, but a handful of Kadoshim leaped at the hastily formed wall, ripped it apart with savage fury, swords rising and falling in deadly arcs.
My men are dying. The Kadoshim are slaughtering my men!
Veradis broke into a run and hurled himself at the Kadoshim.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JAEL
Jael ran through the camp, with every jarring step, every wheezing breath, trying to somehow lessen the pain of his broken ribs.
Though that doesn’t seem to be working.
Blood was still leaking into his eyes from a wound on his forehead, and Maquin’s sword cuts on his leg and forearm burned as if he’d been branded.
He took me by surprise, before I was ready.
He risked a look over his shoulder, relieved to see that there was no lunatic armed to the brim with knives chasing after him. In fact no one was in sight, before or behind. It felt as if he was alone in a world of white tents and narrow aisles, of smoke and fire and distant screams.
The last he’d seen of Maquin he’d been rolling in the dirt with Dag. He looked like a man with a serious grudge, and I really could do without that right now.
Could be that Dag has killed Maquin? Much as he wanted to believe it, he wasn’t convinced. The ease with which Maquin had shattered his ribs had shocked Jael.
How did he move so fast? It must have been a lucky blow. He’s old and broken!
He heard screaming off to his left and so veered right, taking a new path through abandoned tents and cook-fires.
No more battle if I can help it.
Ahead of him the trees of Forn loomed, overlooking the fringes of the camp like a tribe of dour ogres.
Nearly out of this hell-hole. Even if Maquin still breathes, he’ll never find me now. I just have to find my men – three hundred swords waiting for me half a league along Gundul’s cursed road.
The clamour of battle drifted down to Jael. He was travelling straight towards it. He didn’t turn away this time, though, as it was exactly where he needed to go. My men are out there somewhere, and if I’m going to get out of Forn alive I will need them about me. So Jael gritted his teeth and ran on.
He emerged from the tents into a scene of carnage.
Warriors were massed upon the road, more of the enemy in the black and silver of Tenebral, but to Jael’s pleasant surprise the Jehar were loose amongst them. The road was a heaving mass of battle, the path into the forest blocked for the moment, but the Jehar were doing all that they could about that. Even as Jael watched, he saw one of the Jehar lift a warrior into the air and hurl him down the embankment.
Might be able to sneak through in the chaos, he thought, and began to climb; then he saw Gundul. The young King of Carnutan was standing upon the road, separate from the battle, his sycophants huddled about him, though their numbers looked somewhat thinned. About them were a dozen or so Jehar warriors, the rest of Gundul’s honour guard trying to carve a way through the wall of flesh and bone that barred the way to escape. From what Jael could see they were doing a good job of it.
Stick with Gundul, or try and sneak past?
A warrior in black and silver flew through the air a handspan from Jael, struck the ground and rolled bonelessly down the embankment, crashing into a tent and bringing it down around him.
Jael reached the road and tried to skirt the combat, which had broken down into a series of scattered and brutal skirmishes. The enemy looked to be rallying against the Jehar – one man leading a charge that sent two of those disturbing black mists jetting into the air.
‘Break, damn you,�
� Jael muttered at the enemy. ‘Don’t rally.’
‘Jael,’ a voice called, and for a terrifying moment Jael thought it was Maquin. His head jerked around to see Gundul waving wildly to him from the midst of his protectors.
‘Over here,’ Gundul beckoned to him. For a moment Jael considered his options and quickly concluded that he was safer within a ring of Jehar warriors. He hobbled over to Gundul, a Jehar stepping out of the way to let him through.
‘I’m glad you are still alive,’ Gundul said. ‘Three hundred men, you said. Where are they?’
For a moment Jael didn’t understand what Gundul was talking about, then he realized he was referring to Jael’s men, left waiting further along the road.
Not a complete idiot, then.
‘That way,’ Jael pointed over the combat before them into the dark tunnel of the road.
‘Good. Drassil is that way, too, and a few hundred more swords around me would be a good thing.’ He looked back at his camp, at the flames and the black clouds of smoke, at the dead scattered all around.
‘Look what they’ve done,’ Gundul wailed, face twisting in misery. ‘They’ve destroyed my camp, crushed my warband!’
Best hope they don’t do it to you, too, you whining little worm. And more importantly, not to me.
‘We need to move,’ Jael muttered, not liking the feeling of standing still. The knowledge that Maquin was out there somewhere, hunting him, hovered at the back of his mind like a black cloud.
‘Yes. Onwards,’ Gundul yelled.
A Jehar warrior turned its black eyes upon Gundul, then with a shrug began to lead their small group along the road. The other Jehar – a dozen left with Gundul at best – fanned out in a tight half-circle, pushing into the fringes of battle.
Then something crashed into their group from the left, sending men tumbling, Jehar reeling, turning to face this new attack. Jael staggered into one of Gundul’s followers, shoving the man to the ground as he righted himself.
They’d been attacked by a knot of warriors in black and silver, charged and rammed by them, all with shields raised and interlocked. Even as he looked, short swords darted out from the small wall of shields. Two of Gundul’s followers were caught in the attack and fell, pierced many times. Gundul was shrieking, waving his sword around ineffectually. Jael saw blades sink into the flesh of a Jehar, but it shrugged off the blows and grabbed a shield rim, dragging the warrior behind it forwards and chopping into his neck, sending him crashing to the ground in a spray of blood.
The small shield wall fractured, men breaking away and attacking Gundul’s party the old way, man to man.
Not a wise choice against the Jehar.
Jael backed away, put a few of Gundul’s followers between him and this new attack.
I’m scared of no man, but . . .
He put a hand to his throbbing ribs, glanced down at the blood crusting his thigh.
Another warrior came at the first Jehar, this man in a black and silver commander’s cuirass, using sword and shield together to push the creature back a pace, sword darting out to stab at its thigh, shield-boss punching into the Jehar’s face. There was something familiar about the warrior . . .
I know him.
The Jehar staggered back a few steps, black blood dripping from its broken nose. Its face twisted in a snarl as it launched itself forwards, shoulder ramming into the warrior, sending him stumbling backwards, tripping over a corpse and falling hard. The Jehar stood over him, curved sword rising, then another figure was there, plunging a spear into the Jehar’s throat.
A woman! She was dressed in travelling fur and leather, richly made, dark hair pulled back tight. Then warriors were swarming either side of her, chopping at the wounded Jehar as she wrenched her spear free. The Jehar warrior went down in a hail of blows, its head hacked from its body, that black mist spilling from its neck. A figure formed in the air, black-winged and red-eyed, hissing its fury, then it was gone, only a few ragged wisps remaining.
I wish they’d stop doing that.
Gundul was screaming orders to attack, though nobody seemed to be paying much attention to him. Most of his hangers-on were running in different directions. Jael saw one of the Jehar grab Gundul by the scruff of his neck and start dragging him through the crowd, three or four Jehar carving a way for them through the melee. Gundul spluttered a protest but the Jehar just marched resolutely on. Jael lurched into motion, saw them as his best way of getting out of this and stumbled close behind them.
A huddle of warriors crashed into them, mostly enemy all striking at a Jehar in their midst. With a grimace Jael drew his sword and pulled a knife from his belt.
Pain over death, always the better option. He hacked at a warrior’s head, bursts of agony pulsing from his damaged ribs. He dented the man’s helm, then slashed at another with his knife, leaving a long red wound, this warrior lurching away, then they were past them, Jael adding his blades to the Jehar as they cut, hewed, punched and stabbed their way through the battling mass. Off to his left Jael saw the woman, still wielding her spear, a group of warriors tight about her. He had seen her before, at the great-council of Aquilus in Jerolin. He blinked as recognition dawned.
Fidele! Aquilus’ wife – or widow, now. Nathair’s mother. What is she doing here? And fighting, against Nathair’s ally? He grunted as he ducked a sword blow aimed at his head, chopped at an ankle, then glanced back to Fidele.
She’d make a good hostage, either to buy me safe-passage out of here, or a good trophy to present to Nathair, something to win back some favour and prestige from the disastrous mess this campaign has become.
They were almost through the main press of battle now. Jael could see empty road beyond a few clumps of combat, the darkness of Forn beckoning, promising safety.
Battle-cries snapped his attention back. Beside him one of the Jehar fell to its knee. It struggled to rise but another warrior lunged in close and his sword swing took the Jehar’s head; black vapour spewed from the wound.
The Jehar that had been dragging Gundul let go of him to join the fray, sword rising and falling, a warrior staggering away with a terrible gash from his forehead to his chin. Gundul slipped and fell to the ground beside Jael and grabbed at his boot.
‘Help me,’ Gundul cried, trying to climb up Jael’s leg and pull himself back to his feet. Jael sneered down at him, remembering how Gundul had mocked him back in his tent.
I don’t need you or your horses now.
He pulled his sword back and stabbed it into Gundul’s screaming mouth, smashing teeth, on into the soft tissue of his throat, jerked it out red, left the King of Carnutan bleeding out his life in the dirt of Forn.
Looking up again he saw that the last few moments of frantic combat had swung them close to the woman he was sure was Fidele.
At last, fate smiles upon me once more.
He swerved around a mass of combat and strode straight towards her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MAQUIN
Maquin burst out from the rows of tents onto the embankment. The tangled snare of Forn Forest loomed close by. At the top of the embankment Gundul’s new road carved a line into the trees. Figures fought upon it, the clamour and stench of combat drifting down to Maquin.
Where is he? Where’s Jael?
As he had run through the fractured camp, memory upon memory had flooded Maquin’s mind: of a lifetime served as Kastell’s oath-sworn shieldman, of friendship, loyalty and love, and finally one memory overwhelming all of the others, of Jael plunging a sword into Kastell’s belly, those few heartbeats replayed in his mind time and time again, until his whole world was a place of heartbreak and rage.
Where is he? He came this way, I know it. Maquin had lived in Forn with the Gadrai and learned the way of wood and forest. Not that Jael was hard to track. He’d left a trail of his own blood for Maquin to follow.
But where now? Which way did he go?
Maquin knelt in the grass, searching, fingertips running across the gro
und. They came away sticky.
Blood.
Another patch a pace up the embankment.
Something crossed Maquin’s face, part snarl, part smile, and he bounded up the slope to the road. Battle was mostly finished here, the dead littering the ground, others lying and waiting for death’s last touch, wounds gaping. Screams and weeping, ragged breaths, some men just sitting, staring at blood-crusted palms. Battle still raged further along the road, the trees of Forn a tunnel about them. Maquin glimpsed Kadoshim in their coats of dark mail scattered amongst the black and silver of Veradis’ rearguard. A figure moved beyond the combat, drawing his eye, disappeared, reappeared: a man, dark-haired – just a glimpse, but Maquin knew him.
Jael.
He ran, leaping the fallen, a short sword hissing from the scabbard across his back, a knife gripped in his other hand, never taking his eyes from Jael.
Behind him Maquin heard the drum of many feet, over it a heavier thud, knew that Alcyon and the others had arrived. He ran on, skirting the combat, glimpsed Veradis with a handful of men bring a Kadoshim to bay, like hounds snapping at a bear or wolven. Maquin gave it all barely a glance, because he was close to Jael now, so close he could see his eyes, the cut across his scalp. He was heading diagonally across the combat, through it, and Maquin followed, a wraith that wound his way through the tumult, ducking, bending, swaying, always moving. Dimly behind him he heard voices raised in battle-cry, Alcyon’s deep bass rumbling over it like an avalanche as he joined the fray. Maquin hardly noticed. He was so close, a dozen paces behind Jael when he lost sight of him for a moment, heard the harsh clang of iron, a grunt, the thud of a body hitting the ground, then a scream, higher pitched. A woman’s scream.
No. Dear Elyon, no.
He knew that voice, would recognize it anywhere.
Fidele.
He shouldered one of Ripa’s warriors out of the way and burst through the last knot of combat. A warrior lay dead at his feet, others standing, pointing swords and spears at a figure further along the road.