by T. O. Munro
***
“He will break,” Willem said. “He must break.”
“It matters not when or whether he breaks,” Dema growled. “He is doomed. All the discipline of the parade ground will not save him now.”
Kimbolt, breathing heavily after his gallop back from the wizard, stared out over the developing battlefield. The forces of Medyrsalve were streaming out to cover the new threat from the south and still offer some resistance to the army of Dema to the west. The L-shaped deployment was a hasty improvisation to try and cover a fighting withdrawal from two battle fronts. Kimbolt could tell it would not work. Neither arm would have the strength to withstand the forces opposing it.
“Gap, there lady,” Barnuck growled, pointing East.
“He wriggles hard this half-breed,” Dema admitted as they watched the Prince’s heavy cavalry galloping across the rear of his army to stop the vanguard of the army of Undersalve.
“He’s trying to keep open a door to retreat,” Willem said. “Trying to keep a pathway to the Palacintas so his dogs can take refuge in the hills.”
“But if the heavy cavalry has gone south, he has left nothing but a screen of skirmishers to cover his North side against Porgud and the Blackskulls!” Kimbolt found he had thought aloud.
“Exactly,” Dema concurred. “See Willem, the good Captain has spotted the enemy’s mistake before you. Perhaps it should be you I send with messages and he that I hark to for matters of battle.”
The big outlander glared at Kimbolt with deeply hooded eyes.
“The question,” Dema went on. “Is why chief Porgud has not seized his advantage. The Blackskulls should now be able to trample all the way up Rugan’s arse.”
Kimbolt looked away from Willem’s hostility across the Southern portion of the battlefield. A movement caught his eye, something cresting the rise that separated the channel of Torrockburn from the plain where the Eastway ran. He hesitated to say anything, for fear of attracting more ire from Dema’s generals, so it was Barnuck who called it first.
“Lady, more come! There!”
“Horsemen?” Willem was puzzled as he squinted towards the fresh arrivals. “Are they giants riding, or are they far away?”
“Not horsemen or giants,” Dema snapped. “They’re men riding ponies. It seems the force of Oostsalve is not so distant as Odestus had thought.”
“Make no difference,” Barnuck growled. “More fools to kill.”
“Exactly. Barnuck, Willem get your troops mounted. It is time we joined this battle. Let’s show the Redfangs how a warrior makes an end of it. Kimbolt, head south. Our nomads take too long chewing over Rugan’s spears and archers. Bid them get back into battle. Tell them the despatch of the dying and the looting of the dead can wait.”
“Mistress,” Kimbolt dipped his head, and reluctantly turned his horse away from Dema’s side.
***
Abroath had never ridden so fast, his slavering pony threatening to cast him off at every jolting step. The moustachioed Sergeant kept easy pace beside him. “Ride on, master Prior! Glory or the Goddess awaits,” Jolander called.
“My soldiers…. are spearmen,” Abroath stammered through teeth chattering with the ferocious ride. “They are not cavalry. They dismount to fight.” He felt obliged to point it out, for Niarmit, leading them in a pell-mell charge towards the human head of the Undersalve army, seemed to have given no thought to when or where the hobilers might dismount for their conventional deployment.
“They’re soldiers on horseback, your reverence,” the sergeant laughed. “Of course they’re fucking cavalry – an’ you pardon my language, master Prior.”
“Pardon granted, sergeant.” Abroath accidentally bit his tongue in expressing his courteous absolution. The blood tasted metallic in his mouth, he hoped it would be the last he tasted today.
“All they need to do, is point the sharp end of their spears at the enemy and dig their spurs in and you’ve got a cavalry charge. If they try it once, your reverence, they’ll not want to go back to fucking foot soldiery – ‘an you pardon…”
“Granted,” Abroath said hastily trying to keep in the saddle and hoping that at least some of his hobilers might survive to consider the potential career choice.
There was a flash of lilac flame ahead of them, a crash of steel. Steeds neighing, men wailing and grunting. Abroath saw a standard with a black eagle swaying above the melee. The sergeant spurred his horse away in a charge the Prior could not emulate. Around him the hobilers gave a fearsome cry swept along by the unaccustomed fury of mounted combat.
Abroath waved his staff, though he could find no foes to strike. Then, crawling from the press of combat ahead came a man in black livery. From his unfamiliar colours and the fact he was on foot, Abroath decided he was an enemy and promptly clubbed him on the head with his staff. The man went down like a toppled tree and the Prior consoled himself that whatever else might happen today he had struck at least one blow for the honour of his house and his province.
The sounds of battle seemed fainter now and the throng of mounted soldiers thinner. Abroath worked his way towards the Golden pennant of Oostsalve which Niarmit, in the absence of any alternative, had chosen as her standard for the day. His pony was treading on bodies, many in black, but some with the gold piping of his hobiler’s surcoats.
As the horses parted he blundered into an impromptu council of war, a plate mail clad silver knight of Medyrsalve faced the slender form of Niarmit, his huge destrier adding weight and height to his pronouncements.
“You came Lady, but late!” he said.
“We came,” she replied. “And in time to dice these southern collaborators between your lances and our spears. We have cut off their attempt at encirclement, now let us see what we can extricate from this devilish trap.”
“The Blackskulls are on the move, Sir Ambrose” a silver clad sergeant called to the knight.
Ambrose touched the crosspiece of his sword to his helmet in salute to Niarmit. “I have an unmarked foe to return to, Lady Niarmit. The southern flank of my Prince’s army I entrust to you. If fate should spare you today, look out for me tomorrow, or perchance we will meet again in the arms of the Goddess.”
Niarmit opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come of courtesy or otherwise. The knight lowered his sword and had turned away before the Queen could frame a reply. “Let us not wish it so, Sir Ambrose,” she called and he gave a gauntleted wave before urging his exhausted mount once more to motion across the rutted battlefield.
“Form up,” she called as the hobilers and lancers aligned their mounts facing West. “There’s plenty more to fight.” Their charge in combination with the heavy cavalry of Medyrsalve had bitten off the tip of the Undersalve army on the brink of them rounding the Eastern end of Rugan’s new formed line. However, even with that peril averted, the southern orcs were forming up both to repulse the hobilers and to assault Rugan’s depleted centre as the battle lines zigged and zagged in a series of dog legs which had no place in the coaching manuals or the parade ground.
“By the Goddess!” Abroath gasped. From the higher ground, lifted by the roots of the Palacinta hills behind them, Niarmit’s force had a panoramic view of the carnage. It was a scene befitting any image of hell with which his father’s priest had sought to berate and shame the ungodly and immoral. The Prince’s standard still flew in the distance at the very point of his army as its two wings bent back under the press of foes. Beyond that sharpened point a wedge of enemy cavalry was streaming from a low hillock on the bank of the Saeth towards the point of Rugan’s army. There could be no hope of victory, merely a frantic struggle to manage defeat.
***
Dema and her four hundred veterans had succeeded where four thousand Redfangs had failed. They had broken through the silver lines. Dark clouds were gathering over the battlefield as though night were falling on the hopes of Medyrsalve.
The Medusa’s hood was down and her mask was off as she carved, bit and ston
ed her way towards Rugan’s standard. Even her allies gave her and her steed a wide birth as, at the peak of her powers and the crest of her rage, she swept all before her.
A silver soldier, braver than the rest, dared to ride near and catch her sword with his. Their blades both wet with blood of different hues, slid down until they were locked hilt to hilt.
“Major, no,” a voice called. “Leave this abomination to me.”
Too late, the soldier’s eyes met the Medusa’s sparkling gaze and with an inward breath he turned to overbalanced stone. His mount buckled beneath the weight and the leaning statue of the rider toppled against Dema’s palfrey. As the horse slid and skittered its way free of the falling new formed masonry, Dema slipped from the listing saddle and turned to face the owner of the voice.
“Prince Rugan, I presume. Tired of running at last?” she sneered with a hissing serpentine accompaniment. The stocky half-elf faced her on foot. He hefted shield and sword in readiness for her onslaught.
“I hope you’re tired of living bitch,” he told her. “It is your time to die.”
***
Kimbolt spurred his horse onwards, a lone rider streaking across the gaps in the desperate battlefield. The message to the nomads delivered he had left them well behind him, racing to be at Dema’s side, heading for the press of battle where Rugan and the Bonegrinder’s banners met. To his right the undead horde had all but finished their ghastly feasting on the remnants of Rugan’s archers. To his left, the Redfangs were gathering their strength to pour into the breach Dema had made. He would be in time. He must be in time.
A half-heard voice carried on the wind caught his ear. It called again, shouting his name. He slowed a moment, looking to the right. Beyond the zombies’ feast were two ponies ridden hard heading his way. They were some way in front of the greater mass of Oostsalve mounted archers. Without breaking the gallop to his mistress, he saw the second rider catch the first, yanking it to a tumbling halt.
The captain shook his head, to free his thoughts from the oddity of it, and plunged on towards the nexus of the battle, where his Mistress was fighting her life or death battle.
***
“Why did you do that?” Hepdida demanded as her pony rolled itself upright and limped away.
“I had to stop you, you mad cow,” Thom shouted, fear and panic fuelling his anger. “Stay with the archers she said, they’ll keep you safe, she said. What in the Goddess’s name were you doing taking a buck leap and riding into the heart of the bloody enemy.”
“I thought I saw somebody I knew,” she replied. “I was sure.”
“By the Goddess, Niarmit will kill you for this, kill both of us,” he growled adding, as he took a glance around, “that is if your rank stupidity hasn’t just saved her the bother.”
Thom’s own pony was in no fit state for another hard ride, least of all with two on its back. As the illusionist and the princess looked around, they saw how far they were from the protection of the mounted archers, and how close they were to the undead horde and the leering necromancers who were the zombies’ darkly robed shepherds.
***
The half-elf and the Medusa circled round warily in a space cleared by consensus of other combatants. They eschewed the risk inherent in being close to their generals’ full battle fury. Behind his shield Rugan’s fingers worked in a spell, a spark of fire that flashed towards Dema. She flung up her sword, catching the enchantment with a hollow ring upon its hilt. “There is a twenty year old magic in my veins, half-breed,” she laughed. “A dweomer that is proof enough against such petty spells as yours.”
With a cry Rugan leapt at her. She met his sword with hers, snakes hissing blades whirling. The Prince worked hard, sword and shield manoeuvred in smooth harmony. The Medusa lazily swung her own weapon alternately hammering Rugan’s buckler and parrying his blade. She buffeted his shield to one side and caught the Prince’s right wrist with her left hand.
“Come, look into my eyes, half breed. I need a new statue for my collection.”
He glared back at her frozen for an instant in time, but no grey pallor of stone subsumed his complexion. “Do you like what you see, bitch,” he hissed as the snakes spat her confusion.
She cocked her head to one side, about to speak, when he raised his knee and thrust her away. Dema staggered a little and then raised her sword just in time to meet the Prince’s fierce slash. Hilts locked she glared once more into his dark defiant eyes. “You must thank your mother’s side. I guess you always knew you had sufficient elfish part to be proof against my gaze.”
“I didn’t know. I hoped,” Rugan snarled. “And now let your hope die, abomination!”
“It is better this way,” Dema concurred. “Cold steel, so much more certain than stone.” This time it was the Medusa’s thrust that drove them apart, giving space to wield their swords. The blades sang as they shivered against each other. Dema’s sword swung, high and hard but Rugan caught it on his shield, angling the buckler so the blade slid down, taking the Medusa off balance for a fraction of a second. His own weapon jabbed a cramped little thrust as Dema dodged a moment too late and then they separated, panting from the exertion.
The Medusa put a hand to her cheek where the edge of Rugan’s blade had scored a deep long cut. The blood ran freely in a curtain of red over her jaw. “Why, Prince Rugan,” she declared. “I do believe you have marred my beauty.” The snakes squirmed and writhed atop her head, a seething mass of serpentine fury.
“Get used to bleeding, bitch,” the half-elf snapped, raising sword and shield for another assault.
***
“Shit!” Thom swore, as the nearest dozen staggering zombies shuffled towards them.
“Feed my beauties, feed on live flesh!” a ragged necromancer called as he strained to drive his undead command in their direction.
Thom pulled Hepdida back. “Quick, get away. If they get close enough they’ll smell us and the bastard won’t even need to shepherd them. Get on my pony.” He tried to push the girl into the saddle but she would have none of it.
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine, right behind you. Now just ride,” he lied. Frantically he tried to marshal his thoughts for the foul business of undead command. But he had never been good at it. He might deflect the odd stray zombie from its course, but to wrest control from another wizard, one infinitely more dedicated than him? He could feel his efforts barely scratch the surface of the zombies’ purpose.
“Feed!” The necromancer was screaming.
“Get up with me,” Hepdida was calling from the side of a pony that seemed too exhausted to carry its own weight.
“Oh shit!” Thom swore, backing away from the approaching undead. “Oh shit!” The zombies were gathering pace, many of them pierced with several arrows through chest and thigh which had slowed them not one jot.
“Come on,” Hepdida cried.
The nearest zombie erupted in a pillar of flame, but still it staggered on, a walking torch that would press on until it was reduced to ashes. Another burst into fire to the same minimal effect.
“Eadran’s blood,” a lilting voice exclaimed behind him. “Who would have thought that keeping you two out of trouble would be so hard!”
“Quintala!” Hepdida gasped. Thom turned just as the half-elf fired another burst of magical flame from atop her courser igniting a third zombie.
“What does it take to stop these witless corpses?” the Seneschal snarled. “Come, Hepdida get on my horse. That pony’s barely wind enough left to save itself.”
“Feed!” the wailing necromancer persisted. “Hurry and feed my darlings. Drink their warm blood.”
“The shepherd, Quintala,” Thom shouted. “Get the shepherd.”
The half-elf looked at him in puzzlement and Thom jabbed a finger in the direction of the braying wizard for emphasis. With a nod of comprehension, the half-elf twisted her fingers in an act of swift but intricate prestidigitation and this time it was the necromancer who b
ecame a pillar of flame.
The fire troubled him far more than it had troubled his creatures, for he gave a great scream of pain and fell to the ground rolling in a frantic bid to extinguish the flames. Freed from his mind control, the mindless zombies stalled, sniffing the air in search of fresh meat. While the illusionist, the girl and the half elf promised a tasty repast to be sure, there was now a far closer if slightly roasted meal at hand. They turned in stumbling harmony. The necromancer had put out the fire in the dirt, but whimpering and blinded by pain he sat up to find his erstwhile charges closing remorselessly on him.
Whatever effort he might have made to control them was driven from his wits by the wounds he had suffered. All he could do was scream once more as they descended upon him.
“There’s more of them beyond,” Quintala snapped. “Shepherds and these vicious sheep. Come you pair of fools, let’s get back to the archers and our own lines. You’ll be safe there for a while at least.”
The half-elf pushed them both into the saddle of her horse and then jogged easily alongside as they headed to the division of mounted Oostsalve archers on the southern edge of the battlefield.
Thom looked back at the raging conflict. All along the Prince’s thin line the enemy were pressing hard. Orcs, and nomads were driving forward as the forces of Medyrsalve inched their way backwards towards the security of the Palacinta hills. The hobilers of Oostsalve to the East still held their position. They were dismounted now, spears held in front of them as they advanced westwards into the throng of fresher orcs of the Undersalve army. They were pushing back the enemy, holding the southern edge of Rugan’s contorted battle lines so as to prevent the remnants of the Prince’s army being outflanked from the South. It held open the glimmer of a doorway to escape into the Gap of Tandar.