The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard
Page 22
“Solek? No. At least not like men get scared.”
“But he is a man. At least he was.”
“He was. If the Dark One left him, assuming he could even live without the dark spirit, yeah, he’d be scared. But the being he’s become… Angry maybe. Annoyed. But not scared. Not yet, anyway.”
“What about you?”
“I’m past that. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been scared plenty before, but I’ve gotten kind of numb to it. Almost like I’ve accepted death is part of this game, and if it’s my turn, it’s my turn.”
“Well, I’m scared, but I’ve bottled that part of myself up and kept it buried. I do feel better with all these armies about, though. Don’t know that I’m ready to die just yet.”
“Very few are. I’m not. I want to see a ripe old age and bounce your kids on my knee.”
“What about your own kids? Don’t you want to settle down when this is over, find a good woman and a nice little plot of land somewhere?”
“Haven’t thought that far ahead. I’ve always thought you were more the marrying and raising a family sort. I’d settle for a comfortable chair and a good tale by the fire.”
“Well, if we get through this, you won’t lack for tales to tell.”
“None of us will.”
Overhead a shooting star blazed briefly and then died out, the fiery arc pointing the way to Citadel, Veldoon’s fortress city and Solek’s lair.
* * *
One day of blue skies was apparently enough for Veldoon. The morning was gray, and a chill wind swept down from the north, though it felt only pleasant considering the temperature was normal for June, that is to say comfortably warm. The movement for the day had hardly begun—the Lorgrasians going to the point while the elves fell back to their left rear, when the riders who probed ahead as scouts raced back into camp with shouts of warning. From her perch on her steed Alexis peered toward the horizon, seeing there a dark mass of figures which appeared out of the dawn dimness. Mounted and on foot they came forward, and their line stretched from left to right as far as she could see. They moved as men do, and for that she gave quiet thanks. The spear in her hand felt solid and real, a useful weapon against a foe that would bleed just as she and her people.
She formed her lines, wanting to gauge the enemy better before deciding whether to charge, stand, or try to flank them using the speed of her horses. The steeds whickered and pawed at the ground, knowing what was coming, while their riders waited with spears in hand and steel in their eyes.
The advancing army stopped within sight but out of bowshot. Their banners rippled and snapped in the breeze. The flags were not the Veldoon black and tan Alexis had expected, but rather were solid black with a blood-red tear—or was it a drop of blood—affixed on the center of the field. As she watched she could see that only the center portion of the army had stopped, the right and left flanks continuing forward, the marchers swinging as if on pivots from time to time so that their force could envelop the invaders. As strong and large a force as Alexis and her companions had managed to bring to Veldoon, this army was unquestionably larger.
As they neared she could see that indeed they were men, the men of Veldoon they would have been called in years past. But like the land the Dark One’s reign had changed these men. They had grown large and strong, but they were stooped as if burdened with some tremendous weight. Their brows were low and their hands gnarled, their helms, armor and clothes dark and worn. She wondered what she would behold when she looked into their eyes—a spark of rage and hatred or a dull lifelessness. She was uncertain which she would prefer.
“Warblades taste blood today,” Lucien said.
Alexis thought she heard a touch of eager anticipation in his voice. “As will spears and swords,” she replied. “Theirs as well as ours.”
Rowan saw what the Veldooners were doing and got his forces into line and tight against the Lorgrasians, angling his troops to try to refuse his line to the attackers. The riders from the Westerland had been in a flanking position on this end of the Arkanian Army, as the assembled group had started to call themselves, and Rowan had flagged Zald down, told him how he was planning to array his troops and asking him to relay the information to the goblins who were to his right and rear, so that they might form one unbroken line. The Westerlanders would ride on past the goblins, forming the very end of the line, holding it if need be, attacking if they could, always looking to exploit any advantage they might gain from being mounted. Rowan saw the goblins falling into proper position and allowed himself a small smile. He saw their flags—black and red, brown and orange, black and gray, purple and green, and the solid gray of the Allagon—and spared a moment to find Delving’s red and white. A young girl held the flag of his land, straight and true. She couldn’t be more than fifteen and had to be terrified, yet he didn’t doubt she would stand fast when the battle started. He felt his throat tightening and looked away, focusing on the banners again—the silver and white of the elves, the green and gold of Corindor, the blue and gray of Lorgras. Only the Westerlanders and the dwarves carried no standard, but the latter carried their axes and a smoldering fire in their hearts. A shame, he thought, that only in war could they all find their way clear to stand as one.
A shout came from the Veldooners, splitting the air like a piercing dagger. They screamed, brandishing their weapons overhead or smashing them against their shields.
“They’re coming,” someone behind Rowan said in a hollow voice. Rowan drew his sword and raised it skyward, waiting for the onslaught.
* * *
Demetrius glanced anxiously to his left. Joss had placed him to the far end of the Corindor line, telling him he had to hold his position—the far left flank of the Arkanian Army—at all costs. He had only fifty-three men under his direct command, and Corson another fifty to his right. The advancing Veldooners seemed an overwhelming horde, far outnumbering the Corindors and easily overlapping the end of their line. Riders from Lorgras had swept past, moving west. There they would circle back and strike the Veldooners from the side or rear, the goal being to pick the best moment to break up the attack, or to come to the rescue if the line was crumbling. But as the Veldooners closed, the horsewomen seemed woefully small in number as well.
Demetrius knew the shock of the first wave was the key. Could they stand against it? The Veldooners hit hard, confident and not yet bloodied, and this was their land, sickly though it might be, which they were defending against an invading army. Demetrius could feel it, even as he fought off the first blows, even as his sword cleaved an attacker and then another, could feel the weight of the attack threatening to sweep them all away.
Somehow they held. Many of them were scared beyond reckoning, but they were not ready to turn and run. If the Veldooners wanted this piece of land, they would have to earn it.
The attackers were grim of face and strong of limb, but what they had gained in physical strength under Solek’s tutelage they had paid for in speed and wit. They were clumsy fighters, no less deadly but with weaknesses a skilled warrior could exploit. The tumult of battle left Demetrius no chance to discuss tactics with his troops—he only hoped they were observant and quick learners. If they weren’t, this field would likely be their final resting place.
Unsuccessful in their first charge, the Veldooners retreated just long enough to re-form and press in once again, shifting further to their right to try to crush Demetrius’ flank. Demetrius pulled his remaining forces together, tightening his line, making sure they did not lose contact with Corson’s men. He caught himself glancing over his shoulder, expecting Corson to be there as always, ready to support him and to fight, but always doing so a step or two to the rear. Of course, his younger friend wasn’t there. Rather he was to the right, encouraging his men, standing in front of them with his sword and sword arm soaked with blood. Despite all that was going on around him, Demetrius could not help but smile. The change in Corson, and in the man’s attitude about himself, was obvious.
Lorgrasian timing turned out to be impeccable. Just when the Corindors were sure they could hold out no longer, the women riders charged in, scattering the Veldooners with spear and hooves. Pressed from both sides, the Veldooners broke, racing away to find a place to regroup. The riders chased them for a time, until turned away by archers that had been kept from the main attack for just such an occurrence.
“Steady!” Demetrius cried. “Hold here! Tighten up! Leave no gaps in the line!”
Corson moved close. The blood on his sleeve was drying, apparently not his own, but he had taken minor wounds to the left leg and forehead. He wiped the blood from his brow, trying to keep it from his eyes. “How are we doing?” he asked.
“Well enough for now,” said Demetrius. “The horses surprised them. That won’t happen again.”
Corson watched the Veldooners regain order and turn to face them once again. Their leaders shored up their lines and then stirred their hearts for a renewed assault, the effectiveness of the speeches evident by the look in their eyes as the panic left them. Their numbers were still clearly superior and they had been reminded of that fact. Corson sighed as one of their captains lifted his sword arm and shouted out orders. “Here they come again,” he whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear himself.
The battle went best for the defenders on the far right. The goblins, who had marched the longest of all the armies here, who had taken the rear position through the Saber Pass, who had suffered through the mental anguish of a magical assault of acidic rain that only other magic could thwart, released their pent up energy and rage on the Veldooners. The attackers may have known goblins were present in the Arkanian Army, but those in close contact with them clearly did not understand what to expect from them in battle. The goblins were ferocious and quick, brutal and merciless, and the Veldooners’ superior numbers were not nearly superior enough here. The Veldooners at this end of the battle swiftly fell apart, falling before the goblins’ warblades. In their bloodlust the goblin warriors might have chased their fleeing foes until they finished them, but their leaders kept discipline, loosing only a few to the chase. (And an odd sight it was, less than a dozen goblins pursuing thousands of armed Veldooners, who fled as if the numbers were reversed.) The victorious goblins wheeled, now hitting the Veldooners engaged with the Ridonians and Delvish in the flank. Here the Veldooners were having the best of it, but the sudden attack of the goblins threatened to sweep them from the field.
“The goblins!” Rowan shouted, raising a sword dripping with fresh blood. “Rally to the goblins!”
The Veldooners lost their momentum, and rather than driving to crush the enemy they were now trying to keep their lines together, pressed from front and side. Suddenly one of their leaders let out a roar, not one of admonition or command, but one of hope and victory. He pointed skyward and the Veldooners cheered as one.
Rowan turned to see what had prompted this instant reversal, and was greeted by a swooping black shape. Instinctively he dropped and rolled, then watched his attacker fly off. Apparently the winged demons that had watched them advance could do more than watch.
Hand-to-hand battles involving thousands of combatants are by definition chaotic, but where the winged creatures assailed the line the madness rose to another level. The demons, on average, were slightly larger than men, but their huge membranous wings made them seem much larger. They were fearfully strong, and preferred to grab a victim, rise into the air a hundred feet or so, then drop their load, swooping in again to repeat the process. They carried no weapons, but their sharp teeth and raking claws made them effective fighters at need, and they were lightening quick and just as fearless and ferocious as the goblins.
Rowan saw a demon snatch a goblin and soar skyward. The goblin, with an arm pinned, tried ineffectively to slash his tormentor with his warblade. After two failed swipes the demon swatted the weapon from the goblin’s hand. It tumbled to the ground with its owner close behind. Rowan turned away before the goblin met his fate on the unforgiving terrain. The demon came on again, but chose poorly this time. The goblin targeted realized it in time, but rather than fleeing he stood his ground, bringing up his warblade and slamming it into the creature’s midsection just as it reached out for the goblin. The two fell to the ground together, a blur of wings, claws, and steel. Finally the goblin rose, torn and bloodied but alive. He drove his warblade downward one last time to be sure his victory was complete.
And so the battle ebbed and flowed, the losses on both sides staggering, but the Veldooners and their foul brethren eventually gained the upper hand. They pressed the Arkanian Army inward, the right and left and center giving ground until they were pushed into a shrinking semi-circle. The Veldooners extended their own line, ready to completely envelop their foe except for some riders who had broken free before the trap could close, and who now frustrated the Veldooners with hit-and-run attacks. Many of these were Lorgrasian, Alexis leading the largest group, and the winged creatures now paid the riders the most attention, just as the elven archers had been most intent on bringing down the flying demons. Their aim was true, but they found their targets to have tough hides and the ability to take many arrows before succumbing to the damage.
Neither the arrows, nor the riders, nor the spears, staffs, and warblades, nor the valiant hearts of the Arkanians was going to be enough to see them through this battle. None put down their weapons and none fled, though as the trap closed there was little chance of escape. But hope dimmed, and doom like a dark cloud settled over them.
Through the raging battle Demetrius saw new arrivals coming from the north, and his already heavy heart sank further. The huge wolves of the Great Northern Forest had come, racing like the wind across the sickly fields. Called by Solek, he assumed, and more than enough to help the Veldooners and winged demons complete their day’s work in total victory.
Alexis’ heart, however, did not despair, but rather sang. She had kept her own counsel in one matter, and now she would see the fruits of her secret task. Whether it would be enough for them to win this fight…she would soon find out.
The wolves struck hard, and it was the shocked Veldooners that felt their raw power. The wolves were savage at the outset, and once they tasted blood they frightened even those they aided. They were no more than 200 in number, but they ripped through the enemy like a sharpened scythe, shredding and scattering their foes. Even the winged demons, who so fearlessly attacked the frenzied goblins, hesitated in the face of these raging beasts, and once the ground forces were routed, they flew away to the northeast, considering the battle beyond salvaging.
The wolves did not readily check themselves now that their blood was up, and many a fleeing Veldooner fell to their terrible pursuit. But eventually the Wolf King let out a howl of triumph that also called his pack to his side. He led them back to what remained of the Arkanian Army, his step spry and his head held high and proud. His eyes sought out Alexis, and once he found her he moved directly to her.
The Queen of Lorgras dismounted and knelt before the Wolf King.
“If you kneel in thanks, then you are welcome,” said the wolf. “If in homage, you should not do so, being a queen yourself. Either way, rise up.”
Alexis stood. Even at her full height she looked up at the great wolf. “It is thanks I give. I was not sure you would come.”
“The decision was swift, but our departure was delayed,” he said. He let his eyes drift over the field of dead. “For that I am sorry. In the forest, I and I alone command. But to depart, I would have agreement. Many did not want to become involved with this battle of men. But your words were true, I saw, and the evil threatening you threatens us all. You have already proven yourself by destroying the nest of foul insects in my domain. Some of the wolves, howeve
r, did not agree, and did not think an amicable parting to be in their best interest. They challenged my leadership.”
Alexis was sure what that meant, but she kept silent, wanting the Wolf King to go on.
“Obviously, since I am here, I met this challenge. But many a good wolf died, and others chose to flee rather than follow. Those true to me are here. The challenge cost us time, however, and we have been following your scent for several days now. We came as swiftly as we could, running day and night. I am sorry for your losses here today.”
“You have saved all that stand alive before you,” Alexis said. “I will not hear you apologize. I know what it is to lead and see your people divided. And I say to you that what you have done here today will not be forgotten.”
“Well spoken,” said the Wolf King. “But now you have dead and wounded to see to, and my pack is weary from their journey and the battle, swift though the latter was for us. We will draw off a way now and see to our needs.” He said this with an unmistakable hunger in his eyes, about which Alexis tried not to think. “Will you camp here tonight?”
“A mile or so away perhaps. Not on this part of the field.”
“We will rest now, and then see to your safety when darkness falls. You may have a well-earned, unbroken sleep tonight.”
Alexis bowed in thanks. The Wolf King bobbed his head in recognition of the gesture, then led his pack away with a howl that echoed over the field. No one doubted the sound would have sent a chill up even Solek’s spine.
Seeing to the dead and wounded was a grim and trying task. By the time full night fell, there were two large pyres burning, one of Veldooners, and one with the fallen of the Arkanian Army. The winged demons that had died were marked only by ashes where they fell, their spirits recalled to the pit and their corporeal forms collapsing and disintegrating without need of flame. There were no Veldoon injured—the goblins saw to that.