Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  Arad nodded. He ran up a thick tree’s protruding roots, hung by his sword arm from a branch above his head, and addressed the men. “SOLDIERS OF SOMRIA!” he bellowed, producing his deepest resonance, as he had been taught during his years of krakar training. “FORWARD TO GLORY!” He thrust his sword toward the mountain, leaping from the root and advancing as he did. Josel followed.

  The Somrians shoved, and the Lordslanders fell back; they were ill equipped with mostly makeshift leather shields that were nearly useless for shield walls. Some hacked viciously at the Somrian line, though, and men went down. Three fell ahead of Arad, and a swarm of enemy soldiers began pouring through the rift.

  “Close the gap!” Josel yelled, lunging forward; Arad was with him, stride for stride. Three enemies came at them to keep them from sealing the breach; two tall, blond-haired giants, and a shorter, wider man. All outweighed Arad and Josel, but they advanced to meet them nonetheless.

  Josel had learned how quick Arad could move; he didn’t bother staying at the younger man’s side, but instead slipped immediately to his right, drawing one of the larger men aside. Arad saw the Lordslander bring up a great mace and swing it down at Josel’s head, and the Captain-General deftly stepping aside. Then he was forced to face the other two.

  The taller man was, unsurprisingly, overconfident. As Arad’s perspective slowed and he dropped into a Cat’s Crouch—the best way to fight a big man was to be small—the Lordslander bellowed and hurled a wild chop at his skull, holding his leather shield before his chest. In the same moment, Arad noticed the shorter man circling to Arad’s left, intending to flank him.

  Arad slid to his left, allowing his sika to deflect the incoming sword over his head, and shield rushed the shorter man, who backpedalled in astonishment. He knew the bigger man would be on him in a moment; as the soldier before him shrunk to bring his shield up, Arad pressed his shield against the other man’s and leapt. His opponent reflexively pushed up on his shield against Arad’s, allowed Arad to cartwheel over him. Time froze for a moment as he was directly overhead, looking down into the man’s eyes, his sword stabbing out and turning over. By the time he landed on his feet behind the Lordslander, his blade had rotated a half-turn inside the man’s neck. He fell without a sound, and Arad straightened, facing the taller man over the unmoving body.

  The big Lordslander’s mouth dropped open. Then it spread wider and his head rolled back in agony, his sword falling forgotten in the dirt; Josel had finished his man quickly and taken advantage of the distraction caused by Arad’s display. The man fell, groaning, with Josel’s eating dagger buried deeply in the centre of his back.

  “The line!” Josel exclaimed, rushing forward. Two other Lordslanders had rushed through but were already on the ground, their legs hacked at by the Somrians pushing the shield wall. Arad and Josel came up behind the men in front and pushed them forward; two alongside them took up shields and filled the hole. The advance continued.

  ・

  “Hold the line!” Gallord-Smit hollered, his arm on the man in front of him. The Somrians were using their numbers to press, taking advantage of their metal shields verses the soft leather ones the island defenders had improvised. Gallord-Smit himself had a metal one that had been liberated from a fallen Somrian soldier, but there were few like him. He knew they couldn’t last long against the enemy’s strategy with the mountain at their backs.

  He looked behind him; the sharp slope was only dozens of paces away now. They were falling back trying to hold off the Somrians, while simultaneously attempting to find a weak point to escape through. It would not be long before the other army arrived now, and the Somrians were hitting them fiercely—too fiercely, compared to the careful, plodding tactics this Josel had used thus far. There was almost a desperation to this last thrust; had a new urgency come to the campaign for some reason?

  It didn’t matter; the damned Somrian whistling was almost all around them, now. If Gallord-Smit couldn’t find a way through soon, they would have to stand and fight or face being pressed against the slope of the mountain, and slaughtered.

  “What’s the situation west along the slope?” he asked the scout at his back; Milson was his name, a red-faced, nervous youth who seemed better suited to running messages in Benn’s Harbour than on a battlefield. Despite his demeanour, however, he had proved brave and capable, and had been back and forth behind the Somrian lines several times without being caught.

  “They have another company there, Front-Captain,” Milson said, shaking his head. “It’s at least as thick as this line.”

  “Rot,” Gallord-Smit cursed. They were running out of time. If he deployed his full force against this pressing mob, they would be too entangled to disengage when the larger army showed up, and they’d be doomed.

  A low rumble filled the air, and the ground slid back and forth slightly, forced Gallord-Smit to adjust his footing. Around him, men did the same; on the line, both sides swayed like a ship being rocked by a long ocean swell.

  “What in the Link was that?” he said, looking around, confused.

  “Front-Captain,” Milson said, his voice strangely cold and distant. Recognizing stark fear in his tone, Gallord-Smit spun on him immediately; the man was staring upward behind them, his eyes wide and white.

  High up the slope of the mountain, an angry red was showing. A low rumble could be heard from the summit, and as he watched, Gallord-Smit saw flashes of orange.

  “The mountain rose from the sea, spitting fire,” he quoted from the child’s tale every man in Promotory had grown up with.

  In reply, the mountain belched, and a dribble of glowing orange could be seen running down from the summit.

  “It’s all coming down,” the scout said. It was an assumption, and one based on nothing but fear, but Gallord-Smit couldn’t help but feel he might be right. He seized the scout’s jerkin, and spun him around. “Don’t look at it,” he commanded, attempting to exude certainty that he lacked. “It won’t affect this battle, and we don’t want to alarm the men.” The scout nodded, appearing to understand, though he licked his lips nervously.

  “Front-Captain!” a voice called from far to his right; he turned and saw a group ploughing their way through the second line from the side. It was Charese.

  She ran up to him, pulling off her black helmet, her team at her heels. They all appeared, to his great surprise, unharmed, though every one of them was sweating heavily and their chests heaving.

  “Charese—why are you here? What’s happened?”

  She shook her head madly, her expression a mixture of astonishment and, he thought oddly, excitement? “Front-Captain, they’re all dead. The northern army—they aren’t coming.”

  A roar went up from the Somrian side of the line, and they lurched into the Lordslanders with renewed vigour. Gallord-Smit heard a young, confident voice call out from behind them. He thought it might have been Arad’s.

  Charese, however, held his full attention. “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t tell you why, Front-Captain,” she cried, her voice thick with hope. “You wouldn’t believe me. But trust me on this—they aren’t coming. This army you are facing is all there is. There aren’t any more!”

  Gallord-Smit stared at her. Had she gone mad? Her eyes were full of excitement, but also certainty. A feral grin spread across his face. “At my side, Charese,” he commanded. She thrust her helmet back on, and pulled the strap tight under her chin. Gallord-Smit turned to the second line surrounding him. “MEN OF THE LORDS LANDS! THE ENEMY IS WEAK! CRUSH THEM!” he roared, and charged forward. As one, his entire force lunged ahead with him.

  ・ ・

  A clamour went up behind the enemy lines. Suddenly, the front line swayed back violently, and men all around Arad were knocked down. Josel fell, and Arad tried to get to him, but was driven away. The shield wall had not collapsed, but the Lordslanders were pushing with tremendous force. Had they given in to desperation and certain death?

  A ma
n ran past him; a Somrian, with a shield. His eyes were full of fear—he was fleeing! Arad looking around; he saw many others doing the same. Why were they running? Surely the Lordslanders could not have mounted that terrifying an attack!

  More men slammed into him, and Arad fell. A young Somrian soldier tried to pull him up, but was carried past; Arad curled up with his shield over his back, and got his feet under him. He was bucked several times by fleeing soldiers as he finally managed to regain his feet. What was going on?

  “SOMRIANS!” He roared, turning to face the onrushing Lordslanders. “TO THE FORE!” He charged forward, right in to the fray.

  Men all around him saw him rushing ahead, and turned, partly out of guilt, and partly out of instinct, simply following their commander. Arad reached out to forcefully turn a shield man around who had paused uncertainly from fleeing alongside him. The man took up his left, and together they advanced again, others joining them.

  “We don’t run!” He called out to those around him. “We are Somria!”

  “It’s not the Lordslanders, exec,” the shieldman nearest him replied, his voice tight with fear. “Look!” He pointed beyond the enemy lines, and up.

  The sky was bright blue now, but Arad could clearly see a dark plume of smoke pouring from the top of the mountain. Great fountains of angry, glowing orange were leaping from the peak, and rivers were beginning to form running down its sides, some directly at them. Arad couldn’t help but slow his stride as he stared at it.

  A victorious cheer sounded ahead of him; the Somrian line had shattered completely and Lordslanders came pouring through multiple fractures. Somrians blended with them, and they were enveloped in the melee.

  Arad had never fought in such close quarters. Men were back to back, and shoulder to shoulder, some of them enemies, but too busy fighting other opponents to notice. There was little room for grace, and the cries rang out so continuously that it was impossible to give or hear orders.

  He met a Lordslander swordsman charging. The man had wild eyes, and a woodsman’s axe. It came straight up and over, intended to drive Arad’s shield into his head and press him down, or simply cleave his skull. Arad had not, however, been taught to use his shield to block, but rather to deflect. He slipped under the blow and punched his sword hand up under his attacker’s arm, where it was trapped as the man’s axe came down into the ground. Arad lunged forward, turning away, and felt the curve of his sword bite deeply. It came out with a jerk, and he knew the man was no longer a threat.

  It was fortunate, because the shieldman at his left was gone, replaced by another enemy. This one had a shield and a short, thick lakat like the one Gallord-Smit had used. It was only a boy, though, and his eyes were already turning from rage to fear as he witnessed the ease with which Arad had felled his compatriot.

  No time for pity. Arad’s mind remained silent, and his perspective distant. Behind the boy were two Somrian shieldmen struggling to hold off three enemies. Arad put his sword over the top edge of the boy’s leather shield and straight into his throat, then stepped over the falling body to aid his countrymen.

  ・ ・ ・

  It was a slaughter. Just as his men burst through the front lines, the Somrians began to see what was happening atop the mountain before them, and many were seized by fear. The Lordslanders, with their backs to the spectacle, fell upon them, oblivious to the danger at their backs. By the time the Somrian commanders had rallied them—Gallord-Smit was certain he heard Arad’s voice, this time—they had lost dozens, or more.

  Gallord-Smit targeted metal shields like his own. He battered them left and right, swinging his sword like an axe, forcing them to keep their defenses high while his men rushed past him and felled them. His troops were so deeply penetrated that the Somrians couldn’t fall back; he saw the back end of their line ahead of him, and nothing but fleeing men scattered beyond. His men were in a battle frenzy, and they fell upon the broken Somrians like wolves upon a fallen swamp boar. Here and there the enemy troops struggled to recover, their commanders shouting out encouragement confidently, but he knew it was over. Now, there was simply killing to be done on both sides until one stood victorious, and with half the Somrians fleeing, he knew it would be his men that would do so.

  The mountain trembled again, but Gallord-Smit forced himself not to look back. Instead, he yelled at his own men to fight harder. It would distract them long enough to win—after that he’d learn if they would survive the victory.

  A crowd had gathered where a group of Somrians were fighting fiercely and his own men were pressing them. More of the enemy, recovering their morale, were closing to aid their fellows. Gallord-Smit shouted at the men around him to form up and rush the second group before they could do so.

  His men dashed among them, slashing about wildly, their blood hot. The Somrians fought back fiercely; these men had been bolstered. Gallord-Smit felled a man with a sharp hit to the temple, then brushed another aside with his shield, shoving him into two compatriots to finish him off. Two more Somrians came at him with spears; he twisted around one and seized it, pulling hard, and the man stumbled forward. Then he slammed his shield into the man’s face, knocking him senseless. The other had stabbed at a man to his right and was tugging to free his spear, which was caught in the Lordslander’s leather shield. Gallord-Smit cut him down with a neat overhand chop to the skull.

  He turned just as a third man came running at him. If the man had carried a sword, Gallord-Smit would had been dead, but his luck saved him; the enemy had lost his weapon and carried only a shield. The extra moment it took the man to close the gap was just enough for Gallord-Smit to spin away and raise his shield, and the two metal shields rang together.

  He backed away, bringing his weapon to bear. As he circled his new opponent, he saw that the man wore an officer’s uniform—a captain, if he was not mistaken.

  “Stand down, Captain,” Gallord-Smit warned him. “You are too injured to fight me, and your men are fleeing.”

  “Surrender ya then, rebel,” the officer growled, a whorl of dark hair concealing his eyes. He was a massively barrel-chested man, and Gallord-Smit did not relish fighting him, sword or no, but it appeared he had no choice.

  The officer wisely circled slowly to his left, forcing Gallord-Smit to work around his shield. Around them, Somrians and Lordslanders continued to fight. Struck by one of his men, a Somrian soldier staggered in front in him; Gallord-Smit paused to hack at his throat. The officer started to leap forward, but thought better of it when he saw Gallord-Smit’s lakat swing back toward him.

  He advanced; the officer retreated. He circled, and the man circled away. He tried to back away, and his opponent advanced. The man was toying with him, keeping him at bay until Gallord-Smit made a mistake and left himself open to an attack by one of his fellows.

  It was a valid tactic, but one that would only work with help, and that was unlikely if the Somrians were losing the fight. He had to have a friend; Gallord-Smit scanned the crowd as he circled, and from the corner of his eye detected an enemy trying stay out of his line of sight. He was being stalked, and this officer was biding time while he waited for his partner.

  “Sorry, friend. Not this prey,” he said. The officer paused, frowning at him, but he didn’t give the man time to think; he lunged forward, thrusting at the eyes, and bringing his elbow up so the point of the weapon turned downward. The officer was forced to raise his shield higher.

  Gallord-Smit slammed his shield against the other man’s, pushing him back. Somewhere behind he heard a cry, perhaps from the Somrian stalking him as he realized his friend’s error. Gallord-Smit didn’t check to find out; he dropped to a knee, kicking out at the officer’s lower leg, while simultaneously bringing his sword under the shield, point up. As the officer’s knee buckled he collapsed and, unable to break his fall with his injured arm, impaled himself on the point of the sword.

  The other Somrian was closing fast. Gallord-Smit kicked the dying man over, pulled his sword free, a
nd turned to face the newcomer. It was Arad.

  ・ ・ ・ ・

  Arad saw Elsano go down.

  He had spotted Gallord-Smit in the chaotic melee, and intended to stay away from him—he respected the man, and hoped to avoid fighting him.

  Then he noticed Elsano on a collision course with him. Before Arad could warn him, the Captain sighted the enemy leader and moved to engage. He caught Arad’s eye and, as he came into contact with the Front-Captain, he rounded on him, keeping Arad out of the Lordslander’s line of sight. Arad had no choice; he had to go after Gallord-Smit, or his friend and compatriot would be in grave danger.

  He danced through the battlefield, striking at this enemy and that to slip by, all the while positioning himself carefully to ambush the unsuspecting Lordslander commander—perhaps he might be able to disable him instead of killing him.

  An enemy came before him. Arad moved to keep him between himself and the Front-Captain, who was facing in his direction; the Lordslander he faced, however, was quick enough to be a threat with the two-handed sword he held, and Arad dared not toy with him. He caught the first firm blow on his shield, made a riposte, and dispatched the Lordslander with a slash across the throat. As the man fell, Gallord-Smit’s gaze played across the battlefield and met his.

  Arad knew that awareness of his presence would put Elsano in grave danger. He parried any attacks thrown at him, pushing his way recklessly through the crowd to his Captain’s aid.

  Before he could get there, he saw the Front-Captain feint high and Elsano take the bait, leaving his shield open for a pin. If Elsano had had a sword, he would have guarded low as he did so, but he could not grip a sword. Arad tried to cry a warning for his friend to flee, but Gallord-Smit had already pinned him, and took advantage before he could get there.

  The wound was horrific, and unsurvivable. Arad’s hand tightened on his sword, and he pressed on, unable to stop now.

  Gallord-Smit straightened, and they faced each other.

  ・ ・ ・ ・ ・

  Gallord-Smit had seen Arad practice. The young man was fluid and dynamic, and near perfect in his form. If he had a weakness, it might be in a lack of flexibility. He was also very emotional; as they circled each other, Gallord-Smit studied his eyes and found uncertainty there.