Coyote Chronicles (The Veteran Book 1)

by Anton Le Roy

  The Captain nods and looks back over to his men. “It may be hard to believe, but you know what? At the core of this platoon are some damn good soldiers. Might not look it at first, and they’re a little green around the edges, but I think when we start to truly get our backs to the wall and the shitstorm rains down then you’ll be pleasantly surprised. My superiors had faith in us holding this outpost if needed for a damned good reason.”

  If you say so. “And what of the mercs?” I ask, “Will they stay?”

  He nods. “That Razor, he’s like a lodestone for wannabe heroes. This is just another challenge and the others will want to prove themselves to him. He’s a bit like you two in that respect, I guess.” The Captain scratches his belly with fat fingers. “Old Ned, maybe he wasn’t such an idiot. I’m almost glad he did what he did.”

  “Now you can fight in honour, Capt,” Gregor declares.

  The Captain nods sheepishly. “Surrender didn’t sit right in the gut. And then I wonder if what we do today will be remembered anyway?”

  Chapter 9

  They come pretty quickly that morning. The blizzard has eased off, giving us visuals of the valley floor and the small battalion made up of about two hundred and fifty lightly armoured soldiers. We have no clue if this is a paltry group sent from the main army lurking in the forest. I suspect it is. For a while they’d first stood at the base of Dead Man’s Drop, maybe to suss us out, maybe to let us piss our pants. Then finally they began their slog up towards us. Remaining behind are a few officers sitting on horses, watching the proceedings with vague interest while the standard of Ellen flutters in the wind. Some of Blackwater had mentally fallen apart, been sick or near fainted at such a sight, leaving the Captain and Jones to rally the troops or in extreme cases provide a slap while telling them to sort their heads out if they want to get out of this alive. That might be wrong; the lesser skilled of our group would be better off cowering in a corner or simply legging it back to Cort instead of being the usual fodder to die horribly at the beginning of any fight. Someone always dies horribly at the beginning. Bast and the other twitchy mercs remain – surprisingly no one deserts though there would be no way of really stopping them if they did.

  We fill up the blocked up gateway with boulders and a number of archers wait on the fort roof or further along the battlements. We’ve all removed our thickest furs, because they would only impede our movement in battle and we’ll warm up when the action starts anyway.

  “Still confident?” Razor asks us in excitement.

  “Always,” sniffs Gregor, “There ain’t no fight I ever lost.”

  Well that’s a lie, but I’ll let it slide.

  “Me neither,” grins Razor, with those big razor teeth of his. Raising two big cutlasses he slaps the wide blades together while he screams, “Come get us, you whoresons!”

  The other mercenaries follow suit, shouting and jeering, while the rest of us do nothing. Their noises quickly fade as the enemy start approaching. Myself? Well I just clear my mind like in the old days when I was a true soldier, clear my mind of any fears and doubts and then roll my shoulders. A small part of me buzzes. Some would call me sick to feel even just a hint of enjoyment at what approaches and I would agree with them wholeheartedly. I can’t help it though. There’ll always be a part of me left over from my younger days that will revel in the thrill of a battle and, even though I’m saddened by the deaths dealt by my own hands, that part of me will never let me escape it. I’m a contradiction of sorts. A glance at Gregor and he gives me a grim smile. I know what he thinks too.

  And so it begins.

  *

  They come at us with pikes. Hauling themselves up that turgid slope, a wave of impending doom slowly reaching the shore. Once here they will crash down upon us, but we are like rocks and this wave will merely bounce from us, spraying back into the sea. The rocks, although slightly worn and stung, will stand and wait until the next wave hits and again we’ll stand firm.

  I like this metaphor, so I tell the men of it and, unlike the approaching wave, my words instead soak into these rocks like the sun, warming them until they become hot to the touch. The wave will sizzle and boil on contact.

  We are ready. I know it.

  The wave hits us and in that opening moment the first from Blackwater Platoon to die is a man who I never took much notice of called Juakim. I later heard he was a simple farmer who owned a lot of land at the foothills of the Gadrobi, where the terrain is unusually rich and full of nutrients and where he made a very popular cheese from the milk of his black goats. There, in what I imagine to be beautiful scenery, he lived with his family and probably had a happy life. Hard, yet happy.

  Looking after his goats. Laughing with his farmhands. Raising his sons to take over his business, every day teaching them new skills and lessons in life. Watching his daughter grow into a beautiful young woman. Sleeping each night snuggled tightly against his loving wife. The sort of life that I’d be envious of, if it suited me. Now he lies face down in thick snow, all life spilled from him to soak into the whiteness. Cold snow sucking out hot blood. Those clever hands of his will never again create what brings delight to the rest of us. Someone like him shouldn’t die in a place like this. A moment of wild violence took him from the world and that moment of impact caused a shockwave that will travel all the way back to the Gadrobi and tremble those foothills.

  Does his family stand on those far away hills watching the horizon, wondering when he will return? Do the boys imagine his great deeds and heroic acts? How long will they wait? How long until they learn the truth? I hope at least for their sakes that we do make a difference here, or that this near suicidal stand is remembered.

  Of course, the man might have instead been a complete arsehole. That, I’ll never know.

  These are only things that I reflect upon after the first strike. Until then, my mind is clear of all random thoughts as the battle rages. For now, mere seconds into the fight, I only notice at a glance that Juakim crumples over a pike in his chest and then he’s forgotten as I dodge an attack and hack at a soldier in front of me. Arrows whiz over our heads from our archers led by Gurny, the chap with a cleft lip and natural talent.

  Somehow, despite the hammering wave, we hold. The Ellen soldiers struggle to reach us and by the time they do, they’re tired and laden with snow, mud and water while their pikes only prod hopefully and bang loudly against our shields. Their numbers are great and perhaps this is to their disadvantage. They stumble over each other. Many we kill slide back down, which knocks even more men over until a man-slide begins and scores of them fall quite a way. From there they have to start their climb once more, doubly tired. And then there is the fact they’re funnelled into only a tight bunch at a time, small enough for us few to have a good go at.

  “Keep at it, lads! We’re holding!” screams the Captain at the centre of our line.

  Surprisingly, he’s right.

  He seems to be doing well for himself and with a very competent Lt Jones at his side they form a solid centre to our line.

  Razor can be heard laughing at the other end, standing on the ramparts to stop a group of Ellen from sneaking around the side of the fort. They’re stuck now, hemmed in by the stakes and wall and caught up in a great whirl of violence as Razor hacks and kicks at them. I sense Gregor rising to the challenge, not wanting to appear second best. He surges forward in a torrent of death dealing savagery. Two men, standing like giants before mere mortals.

  The blizzard picks up again, trying to bury this scene of carnage and dull the sounds of screams, metal upon metal, metal upon flesh, grunts, groans and shouts. A sickening thud as my blade chops into someone’s face. The clang of metal to my left as Gregor's axe bounces from armour, the blow catapulting the man into the air. Sephan's desperate gasps to my right as he struggles to stay alive and comprehend the terror no doubt bubbling within. Everything beyond this tight bubble is lost in a muffled din by those walls of snow. How many battles have I stood in like th
is with Gregor and other old comrades at my side? Way too many to count.

  And still we hold. The wave thickens, bunches against us and then at last breaks and there’s a pause. There’s no one for us to fight. They’re retreating, staggering, falling or sliding. Sephan collapses to his knees and sobs, stricken with shock. Another man further down vomits. Someone else wails in pain from a wound. Razor raises his large cutlasses and roars a victorious war cry, echoed by others relieved to be alive.

  “Well done, my boys!” barks the Captain in high spirits, moving along the line with many a hearty backslap.

  Finally, my eyes rest upon Juakim and now begin my thoughts of his loss: the mountains, the goats and the lost loves. And still I choose to live amongst ghosts.

  *

  “You’re loving this, aren’t you,” I tell Gregor.

  A wide smile. “A rag tag bunch of misfits and amateurs, possibly with hidden talents. A fight we can't win. Aye, reminds me of the old days alright.” The very old days.

  Our old gang. Mostly all very young and raw soldiers in the Army of The Six, men and women, thrown into the thick of it early on and those that came out alive went on to become a formidable unit: the Red Dogs. From this all my best friends were slowly decimated or cast aside over the years because after the Six fell we became mercenaries not soldiers in the Red Dog Gang until us two finally hit the road on our own, still haunted by that terrible day when the battle went sour and everything turned to crap. When mistakes were made and lots of people died.

  I wonder which members of Blackwater could stride forward and form another legendary unit of warriors like us. Without boasting that would have to be a massive achievement because we were bloody good. Inspecting all their faces in detail now, watching how they move and judging how their minds must think, I do wonder. Here and there, the odd figures now standing out as potentials. They’re certainly not as hopeless as I first thought. Even Sephan has done well and I didn’t expect him to survive that at all. Just goes to show what some people are capable of when pushed to the limit.

  “You gotta good hunch about them, right?” invites Gregor. “Assuming the worst, we're gonna be fighting for our lives when more of that army comes.” And they will come. And we’ll stay to fight, no matter what.

  “Yep. There's some fine men here, I can feel it.”

  The enemy are rapidly regrouping. Vague shouts and orders. It seems that more numbers are appearing from wherever the main army must lurk. The worst wounds among us are quickly stitched while Juakim and other Blackwater dead are moved, along with the body of a mercenary who finally bled out from a slash to the groin. I push aside memories of all the battles from my past, visions of dead bodies once called comrades. Always that terrible question lodged in our brains from the most traumatic of battles: why am I still alive? Why me and not those that fell? That unanswered question is enough to destroy something deep inside of you forever, can even turn a person insane.

  Resting near the fire-pit I chew on a little Redleaf from the stash on my belt. My body feels beat to shit already and I think I pulled something in my left arm and this wonderful stuff fades that pain into the background so that I can still operate as normal.

  “My nanna got addicted to that,” says Sephan, suddenly at my side.

  Irritated I grunt and shrug, swallowing it down. Wait till you get to my age, kid. You’ll want all the help you can get to keep going.

  “We've lost six men already,” he mutters. Kid looks pale and ill. Eyes are distant, no doubt reliving all the terrors witnessed today and reminiscing lost friends.

  “Weaker ones are always taken first,” I reply, while all the others gather round the fire pit or hot springs for brief warmth, briefly huddling back into thick furs, some in deep conversation or tending wounds. I wave a dismissive hand. “You survived the first test. You did fine.”

  At last a vague smile and a little colour in his face. “Thanks.”

  “Be grateful the Ellen ain’t using any mages,” adds Gregor.

  Aye, strange that. I thought they’d have at least one.

  “I noticed,” begins Sephan, “That more than once you both stepped in and saved me.”

  Gregor shrugs. “Ain’t no point in letting you get killed, lad. We all look after each other and we all live longer.”

  “Thanks,” he says, calming a little further. “I still don’t get why you stayed. Not that I’m ungrateful or anything!”

  “Need to get down Dead Man’s Drop,” I say. Got no other option. For now anyway. No way the Ellen will simply let us walk down there unharmed.

  “Oh I see,” I sense disappointment, as if he thought we were utterly selfless heroes. “Because of those men you’re following?”

  I nod.

  “You must wanna find them badly.”

  Could say that. I huff a half laugh response.

  “Who are they?”

  “Priests of the Newborn. We don’t care about that though. They just know someone else we’re looking for.”

  “The Newborn,” repeats Razor to one side of us. I hadn’t thought anyone else was really taking notice of our conversation. “I heard of them. That Ellen you chatted with earlier was one, wasn’t he?” As an incentive I show Razor the symbol on the neckerchief I’d taken from the Newborn in the Herald’s entourage. He responds with a nod and, “Aye, I know what that is. Before I came here I had a buddy who did some paid work for them. Came back a fully-fledged priest he did. When I declined to join his stupid cult the little shit tried to kill me!”

  “What happened?” asks Sephan.

  Teeth show in a wicked smile. “I killed him instead.”

  I pipe up. “What did he say about The Newborn?”

  “Beyond his bullshit preaching? Not much. He helped steal a magical sword for his new pals. Said it was a blade of lightning! Also mentioned a Goddess called Umbra, or something, who he called his mother. Sounded like a right loony. They really messed up his head.”

  “He speak of a man named Satipo?”

  A shake of the head, “Dunno who that is. What you want him for?”

  Gregor interrupts with a well-timed grunt, “The Twins. You see them, Vet?”

  “No, why?”

  He doesn’t answer. The two boys are sitting on the ramparts, swinging their legs in perfect unison over the incline where the bodies of dead Ellen men still rest, squished deep into the snow by their comrades. If anything, those bodies will prove useful to the enemy, like steppingstones, especially the ones stuck down in the river mud. The Twins stare into the distance, their gaze almost blank and then suddenly, as one, they both look at me and smile. Such a strange sight, almost childlike they are, meek, and yet their swords are still in their hands, smeared with blood and gore while on their heads are helms stolen from the herald’s entourage, although this time the silver faces have been decorated with swirling patterns made from some sort of red paint.

  “You get used to them after a while,” mentions Sephan. “Ned used to say they’re blessed in the head. They take orders well enough though and they're good in a scrap. Really good.”

  To pass the time I insist he tells us more while I help fix his sword grip. From what he overheard between the Captain and another officer, the Twins had joined the army fleeing an abusive father and trouble at their village. Referred to as simpletons wherever they go the villagers had ousted them as if touched by demons.

  “I’ve been wondering why you helped me back in Cort,” Sephan then asks, “I could’ve been the bad guy, you know.”

  I laugh at that.

  A crestfallen face. “What, I’m that hopeless?”

  “You’re still alive, right?” A gentle nudge to his shoulder. “Right?” And I finally get a smile out of him.

  “Enemy advancing!” calls one injured makeshift archer sitting on our building roof.

  That didn’t take long.

  The passing Captain hauls Sephan onto his feet with a, “Be strong, kid, you’re doing great,” before telling
the Twins to get back into position. They jump down from the ramparts and flip down their face visors like two scolded children.

  We watch the advancing battalion. At a guess, their numbers fell from two fifty by about fifty or sixty and now their numbers seem to have doubled from what had remained. The Captain barks out a few confidence boosters to counteract the returning panic amongst Blackwater Platoon.

  “There's too many!” hisses Sephan amongst the clamour from others in Blackwater.

  I roll my heavy shoulders, crack my neck and shake out my legs to loosen up again. Sitting down has made me go all tight and I don’t want to pull a muscle or anything. “Nah, just means we kill more of them,” I say. Besides, we’ll still face the same number at any one time as before because of how they’ll be funnelled by Dead man’s Drop.

  The blizzard picks up again with ice cold winds mercilessly battering us. I don’t really feel the cold right now though. Through this barrage of whiteout the hazy front lines of the enemy advance. Something is unnervingly different about this lot.

  More alarmed murmurs from my companions.

  Gregor growls. “Pig Stringers.”

  “Oh shit…” whimpers Sephan.

  Pig Stringers: cave dwellers and ferocious barbarians of an old tribe in a small set of mountains deep within Ellen lands. Big men with faces warped over endless generations causing them to now resemble pigs. They wear no armour, merely lots of string, twine and rope wound tightly about themselves tightly enough that it cuts into their flesh over the years, becoming one with their bodies. Even the young practice it and as they age their skin grows around the string until they’re grossly disfigured.

  “Cannibals,” utters Miller with disgust.

  “Who cares? They’ll all die!” Gregor shouts plainly above the storm, “Just like the scum before them!”

  A great cheer amongst the platoon, with Razor slapping his cutlasses together.

  The Pigs may be hardy warriors with axes and clubs, yet they’re just fodder to aid passage for the real Ellen soldiers that follow.