The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  The Hounds had pulled back from the gateway, following screamed orders to form up in the town square. Abandoning the wall was foolish. They had let the Hawks in, had not even tried to clog the gate or break the Hawks’ formation. These Karesian idiots were not worthy to occupy a town of Ro.

  ‘Easy, lads!’ said Xander. ‘Keep it tight.’

  They fanned out within the enclave while the Dokkalfar finished clearing the battlements. So far, things had been easy. She wasn’t optimistic enough to think that would continue.

  The Hounds were in lines before them. They held black steel shields, but they were not formed up in a defensive position. They simply stood in a group, holding their swords and shields. Izra and her captains had not even put on their helmets. They stood behind the mass of Hounds, gesturing and shouting to their troops.

  Xander and Brom formed the five hundred Hawks into a column and stopped. They had not been challenged and had taken their time, eyeing up their opposition.

  ‘Things are never as simple as they appear,’ she said to her husband.

  ‘I’ll take staying alive over simplicity,’ he replied, reaching across and stroking her hand.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ said Brom, pointing his longsword at the mass of Hounds. ‘I could ask them to wait while you two fuck.’

  Gwen smiled at him. ‘We do that after battle, not before.’

  The three of them laughed. Their laughter seemed more terrifying to the Hounds than any threat of violence. The Karesians had had everything their own way until just now, when a small company of Hawks had ridden into their world armed with swords, confidence and laughter.

  ‘Right, I’m going to call her out,’ said Xander. ‘Kill their leader. Get the rest to surrender.’

  He didn’t wait for a response.

  ‘Forward!’ he shouted, riding away from the gatehouse.

  The company moved as one behind their general. They rode past stables and densely packed wooden buildings. Sigurd and the Dokkalfar were ghosting them on either side, covering their advance and clearing the side streets of stray Hounds.

  The advance halted at the edge of the square. Before them, the Karesians were a mass of shining black metal, covering half of the enclave and stretching back to the southern gatehouse. The sun was disappearing now and dotted campfires provided some light.

  The Hawks dismounted and assembled behind their general. Their horses were led away and the two forces faced each other. This was not a battlefield or a large open space and the men on both sides stood amid broken buildings and detritus. Only the advance units were in the square, with the rest jammed into adjacent streets. Cozz was filled to the brim with armed warriors. Some stood in overgrown gardens, others had to perch on barrels or duck under planks.

  ‘Can we now talk politely?’ Xander asked of Izra, letting his voice rise.

  ‘You may say your words before you die,’ she replied, still hiding behind the ranks of her men.

  ‘My words are simple – your army will withdraw, you will remain.’

  ‘You’re outnumbered, prince of Ro.’ Her words were slurred and indistinct.

  ‘And yet you haven’t attacked or even defended your walls,’ replied Xander, pointing Peacekeeper at the Hounds. ‘I say you are a coward. It takes a brave warrior to kill merchants and common folk. Step forward and prove you’re more than a butcher.’

  Gwen found the faceless soldiers unnerving. Maybe they were scared and ready to run, or maybe they were fanatics, waiting for the opportunity to attack.

  The senior Hounds were arguing now. They spoke softly and their words couldn’t be heard, but she reckoned Izra’s command was precarious. The man with the scar was pointing around him, to a nearby stable, a cracked well, a cluster of barrels. She didn’t know what he was worried about, but Izra appeared not to care. She shoved her captains out of the way and pushed to the front of the mass of Hounds.

  ‘I have killed hundreds of men,’ she snarled, emerging into the square. ‘I have severed arms, legs, heads and cocks. I will kill you slowly, man of Tiris. I will kill you slowly and your men will watch.’

  Xander looked at his wife.

  ‘Stay alive,’ she whispered.

  He signalled for the Hawks to stand at ease and took two long strides into the square. Izra followed his movements and the two warriors met between their soldiers.

  The whip-mistress was tall and her bulky armour suggested a well-muscled physique. The black metal plates covered her from neck to thigh, ending in interlocked segments that gave her complete freedom of movement. She moved like a cat, keeping her steps light and her two-handed sword loose in her hands.

  Xander was on guard, with Peacekeeper across his chest. His leather and steel armour was lighter than his opponent’s, but his sword was smaller. He wasn’t used to parrying such weapons, but Gwen could tell he was the better fighter.

  Izra attacked, stepping forward and swinging her scimitar at Xander’s head. It was a wide overhead swipe, using the heavy pommel to put maximum strength into the blow.

  Xander didn’t parry. He nimbly sidestepped and swung Peacekeeper at her arms, severing her left hand.

  ‘His name was Wesson,’ said the Red Prince.

  Izra howled and dropped her scimitar. She grasped at the stump where her hand had been and dropped to her knees.

  ‘My hand!’ she wailed. ‘My hand!’

  The Hounds didn’t react. They didn’t move an inch as their mistress slumped in the main square of Cozz, spraying blood on to the cobbles.

  ‘He was my squire,’ growled Xander. ‘And you cut off his fucking cock!’

  Gwen could tell that he was fighting the urge to make the whip-mistress suffer. He should kill her cleanly, but his lips curled and his eyes betrayed his anger. He held Peacekeeper level, contemplating severing her other hand.

  ‘My general,’ Gwen shouted. ‘The woman has admitted her crime. The punishment is death.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Brom. ‘Let’s get this over with. I need a rest.’

  Xander nodded, pivoted on his right foot and decapitated the whip-mistress with a backhand strike.

  In unison, the Hawks of Ro signalled their approval by striking their rectangular shields. Each man puffed out his chest and stood confidently. The Karesians had no faces to stare down, but the Ro glared nonetheless. It was a moment of victory.

  ‘Scorch the earth!’ roared the scarred man.

  A series of bright flashes. A barrel exploded to her left, turning three Hawks into a bloody mist. Detonations rose all around them, tearing apart Karesian and Ro. Houses, stables, barrels and yards all filled with fire and dust in a dizzying instant. Gwen reached for Xander and began to speak, but a broken well next to her erupted in fire and her world turned to black.

  * * *

  Smoke, pain, burning lungs, hazy vision. She awoke, or at least she thought she did. Gasping for breath, she sat up and vomited. She could barely see her hands in front of her face. All she could hear was a high-pitched whine that cut into her brain and shut out all other sounds. She recognized the smell and the heavy fog. It was black wart.

  She coughed, winced, spluttered and gritted her teeth. The fog was total, restricting her world to ten feet or less. Small fires smouldered in the distance, giving some light, but they were mere red spots and provided no orientation. Her ears were ringing. It was painful and repetitive, a whine that wouldn’t abate.

  A severed and bloodied arm lay next to her, a broken Hound hung from a wooden fence post. She had been blown backwards a great distance. Her back was dotted with points of sharp pain and her right leg was deeply cut.

  ‘Think!’ She couldn’t hear her own voice.

  Feverishly trying to clear her ears, Gwen crawled forward. She needed to know where she was. She needed to find Xander and Brom. She needed to stay alive. She felt as if she were under water, as if her ears were full and her limbs were being pulled down into a rough sea.

  Black wart was a Dokkalfar explosive, and the Hounds
had used a huge amount. The thick fog would remain for a time.

  A figure appeared, a Hound with half his face burned away. He rushed at her, roaring soundlessly. His scimitar thrust down, but was poorly aimed. With a shriek of pain, Gwen tackled him, wrapping herself around his legs. The whine in her ears dulled everything, but she managed to crawl up his flailing body and ram her elbow into his throat. Four times she struck him, putting her body weight into each blow, until he was dead.

  Who was still alive? How many Hawks, how many Hounds? They knew they couldn’t win, so they had levelled the playing field. These Karesians were not true fighting men. They were barely men at all.

  She took the dead man’s scimitar and used it to help her stand. Her leg wouldn’t bend at the knee and she tried not to look at the wound. It would take just enough weight to allow her to hobble forward into the dense smoke. She stumbled through small pockets of the dying until she reached the corner of a building. She couldn’t see the roof or any adjacent structures.

  ‘Help,’ mumbled a young voice, which came to her as a vague grunt.

  Gwen crouched as best she could and edged her back along the wooden building. A little way down the street was a young Hawk, trapped under heavy wooden logs. His head was wounded and blood stained his hair and face.

  He mouthed some words, but she couldn’t hear him.

  ‘Speak louder!’

  ‘My lady,’ he said, the words echoing through a filter of dull sound. ‘Please...’

  ‘Easy, soldier,’ she replied, gritting her teeth with the pain.

  ‘Your back, my lady,’ said the young man. She read his lips, rather than heard his words.

  She reached behind and felt blood on her back. Small wooden splinters had stuck in her flesh and pinpricks of pain penetrated her.

  ‘Let’s get you out of there,’ she grunted, unable to hear herself speak.

  She used the scimitar to lever the wooden planks off the man’s chest. He was strong, and between the two of them they freed him quickly.

  ‘I can’t hear,’ he said, wiping blood from his eyes. ‘And I lost my sword.’

  Gwen leant against the wall and handed over the scimitar. The young man had a deep cut to the front of his head, but he was less badly wounded than she was. He could at least stand unaided.

  ‘Watch my mouth,’ she said, pronouncing each word slowly. ‘Your hearing will get better... I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, lad.’

  He frowned, guessing at what she was saying. ‘Sergeant Symon of Triste, my lady,’ he replied. ‘Third cohort.’

  ‘Did you see the general or Lord Bromvy?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand... the general? I didn’t see him. I was standing near to Lord Bromvy. He flung himself at the general before the world went black.’

  She leant in close to hear him over the whine in her ears, then nodded and tried to assess the situation as best she could. The Hounds had detonated the enclave, scorching the earth rather than surrendering it. The bastards had prepared their explosives well. They were poor soldiers, but they committed suicide with great skill.

  ‘Come on, Symon, we need to move. There will be others still alive.’ The young Hawk tore a strip of fabric from his tabard and she helped him wrap it around his head. The wound bled heavily but it was not bad. It would heal with an impressive scar.

  He helped her stand and they moved along the wall towards a crater at the corner of the building. They were at the edge of the main square and the crater was filled with body parts. Unidentifiable chunks of dark and pale flesh among smouldering and broken armour. She was thankful that the darkness and smoke obscured much of the grisly scene.

  Symon patted her shoulder so that she’d look at him. ‘What happened, my lady?’ he asked, mouthing the words deliberately. ‘Was it Ranen pitch?’

  ‘No. The Hounds have been killing Dokkalfar for a long time. It appears they’ve stockpiled a lot of black wart.’

  She leant heavily against him. Stubbornness was keeping her upright, but her back would need attention soon.

  ‘Identify yourself!’ The voice was just loud enough to be heard over the ringing in her ears and came from a Karesian man.

  Gwen and Symon looked at each other before he slowly lowered her into a seated position. Three Karesians appeared out of the mist and Symon raised the scimitar.

  ‘We are Hawks of Ro, stand down or die,’ he shouted.

  The Hounds were not wounded and they rushed forward. Symon ducked a clumsy swipe and opened up the man’s neck. The second man kicked the Hawk in the chest, pushing him to the ground. He rolled backwards into a crouch next to Gwen.

  ‘Feint at his left and step right,’ she mouthed, shoving him upright.

  He nodded and faced off against the two remaining Hounds. He lunged at the first man’s left-hand side, making him attempt a clumsy parry. Symon was skilled enough to pull back his blow and step to the right, striking the man in his exposed side. The last man tried to tackle him but received Symon’s blade in his stomach. The young Hawk was a good swordsmen, in spite of his wound, and he made sure all three were dead before he returned to Gwen.

  ‘You did well, sorry I couldn’t assist,’ she said, accepting his help to stand up.

  ‘I still can’t hear,’ he mouthed. ‘Just every other word... I don’t like this scimitar, it’s poorly forged.’

  They stumbled away from the crater, further into the square. Points of firelight danced across her field of vision, but everything else was dark and misty. Symon found a longsword and discarded the inferior Karesian weapon. Gwen found her stride and the pain in her leg softened. She still needed his help, but her knee would now bend a little.

  A Dokkalfar appeared, lying in a heap on the cobbles. He had lost an arm and was not moving. Another forest-dweller sat nearby, holding his head in his hands. Blood seeped out from between grey fingers and broken leaf-blades lay at his feet.

  ‘Brother!’ said Gwen. The Dokkalfar didn’t hear her. ‘Brother... how serious are your wounds?’

  He removed his hands and revealed a scorched face and neck. His eyes were intact, but his smooth features were a mess of burns and deep cuts.

  ‘I am in pain,’ replied the Tyr. ‘My skin burns, but I live.’

  Gwen and Symon drew closer and faced him, pronouncing their words carefully in order to be understood. The ringing in her ears had faded into the background but she could still only hear loud noises.

  ‘Your name, friend?’ asked Symon, collecting two more discarded longswords.

  ‘I am Tyr Kalan,’ he replied. ‘I can still fight, woman of Haran.’

  Symon gave the Dokkalfar one sword and Gwen took the other.

  ‘He will need to be burned,’ mouthed Kalan, pointing to the dead forest-dweller. ‘But we have time.’

  ‘How much black wart did they use?’ she asked.

  They were clustered closely together to hear each other’s words.

  ‘They chained the explosions,’ replied Kalan. ‘Each detonation caused the next to be larger, more explosive. The fog will remain for hours.’

  The three of them walked tentatively away, towards where Izra and Xander had fought. She could just hear Karesian voices, pained and urgent, coming from all around them. The fog hadn’t lifted and it was now night-time.

  ‘Many Hounds ahead,’ said Kalan, facing Gwen so that he could whisper. ‘I can see them, standing over their dead comrades.’

  ‘Your eyes are sharp, friend,’ said Symon.

  ‘I see better with no light,’ replied the Dokkalfar. He wore the pain from his burns wordlessly, with barely a twitch of anguish on his grey face.

  ‘How many?’ asked Gwen, flexing her leg.

  ‘Ten or more, spread out. Some wounded, most not.’

  She stopped and tried to focus through the mist. Kalan’s eyes were much better than hers and she could detect no movement in front of them. The voices grew loud as the Karesians struggled to hear each other. They came to her as wis
ps of sound, as if travelling through heavy air.

  ‘Keep quiet,’ she said. ‘Kalan, lead the way. We’ll attack from cover.’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ said Symon.

  ‘Clear,’ said Kalan.

  She tested her leg, feeling a dull throb. It hurt, but light movements were possible. She could still fight. Her back was now more numb than painful, making it easier to ignore it.

  They stalked forward, weapons held low, until Gwen saw opaque figures swirling in the mist before them. The Karesians had gathered into a broken squad of men, with a few of the wounded being tended to. They spoke of retreat and spat out words of hatred about Izra and their masters. These were undisciplined men who had survived by chance.

  She waved Kalan and Symon to flanking positions and the three of them attacked as one. The first sound was a gasp of surprise, the second a gurgle of pain as Gwen severed a man’s neck. Kalan floored two, kicking one in the groin and driving his sword through the other’s chest. Symon killed a man with a powerful strike through the helmet, splitting his head.

  All three of them were wounded, but their skill was far superior. The Hounds swung and shouted, using strength and brute force, but their training was limited. Their parries were weak and they were permanently off balance. Each time Gwen engaged one it was easy to make him fall forwards or topple over. She was quick, and her leg hurt less and less as she fought. The Hounds died cleanly, cut down by the superior warriors, until they stood again in silence. They had barely heard the ring of steel on steel and the encounter seemed surreal and dream-like.

  ‘We have won,’ mouthed Kalan, finishing off a wounded Hound.

  She nodded. ‘So, three of us are worth ten of them. Worth remembering.’

  ‘We could have taken more,’ said Symon, cleaning his blade.

  ‘Hawks!’ announced a gruff voice.

  From the mist, men appeared. The sounds of combat may have alerted them, and five more Hawks joined them. They had red, sticky fluid coming from their ears and appeared disoriented.