by Gav Thorpe
"As you command, lord of the skies, watchful guardian of the deserts," said the shaman, bowing low and backing away. The group held a brief conference and then hurried off in different directions, calling out for others.
"And where will you fight?" asked Eriekh. "What if they withdraw to their camps?"
"I am going to kill Ullsaard," said Orlassai-Erlaan. "His death will not win the battle, but it will certainly shorten the war. He has brought us here for a reason; he cannot simply let us walk away this time. He needs to win this battle as much as we do."
The first tribes were already pouring from the camp, spreading out along the road towards the Askhan army. The ground trembled as behemodons lumbered forward between the clusters of warriors, the crews in the howdahs shouting and laughing down at those forced to walk.
"And have you anything to add to our strength?" the king demanded of Eriekh.
"I am not a master of the sword," the priest replied. "Our powers are subtle, and I possess no particular skill for battle. Remember the other gifts we have bestowed upon you, not just that fine body. Lead your army, let them hear your voice, let them see the slaughter you wreak. I shall do my part to aid you, do not fear for that."
"I heard rumour that when Ullsaard sought the Crown, Lakhyri visited upon him nightmares, and inflicted pestilence, snow and grief upon his legions," said the Mekhani king. "Can you not use such sorcery now?"
"Such things take time to prepare and to work their way into the hearts and bodies of men," said Eriekh. "You think that if we could conjure up storms in an instant, raze the ground in fire with a word, we would have kept ourselves secret for these thousands of years? These things, the eulanui could do, but we are only their servants. Be thankful for the powers you have already been given."
Orlassai-Erlaan grunted his disappointment and turned away. He joined the flood of warriors pouring out onto the grassland, taking up his position at the front and centre of the army. Harsh horns blared and the Mekhani shouted boasts and threats as their numbers swelled.
The king-messiah studied the Askhan formations. They did not move in response to the assembling Mekhani horde. Two legions formed the centre, arranged narrow and deep, the long spears of the phalanxes like a forest. On their left, the spear blocks were dispersed and Orlassai-Erlaan's keen eyes spied lava throwers between the legionnaires; to any other they would have been hidden from view. On the Askhans' right, the phalanxes fell back in echelon, each a few paces further back so that the line appeared to curve away from their foes.
From this, the king tried to discern Ullsaard's plan and work out if his own would succeed. On the face of it, the Askhan deployment favoured Orlassai-Erlaan's approach. The right would commit to attack, allowing the Mekhani numbers to spill out further and surround the phalanx. The left looked set to defend with the lava throwers, while the centre was poised to respond to either direction.
Checking his own troops, the king saw that they were almost ready. He glanced at the sun, judging the time to be close to noon. The king-messiah was confident his scouts would have spied any reinforcements within ten miles. That gave him at least two hours grace, probably more. Ullsaard had thought himself clever to set the timetable, but Orlassai-Erlaan was wise to his tricks now. He would decide when they would fight.
He waved to the chieftains of the lacertils and the lizard-riders set out, fanning across the grass in front of the Mekhani. As expected, the Askhan kolubrids issued forth from between the phalanxes to combat the approaching skirmishers. The lacertils closed fast, braving the clouds of bellows-arrows to bring their slings into range. With little room to withdraw and keep their distance, the kolubrid riders suffered in the exchange; their bellows bows hit hard but could not match the weight of missiles unleashed by the slings of the Mekhani cavalry.
Another lesson learned from the first encounter.
As the kolubrids fell back, the lacertils did not follow directly, but moved sideways, trying to force the Askhans back towards their own centre where they would impede any advance from the phalanx.
Orlassai-Erlaan drew his sword and raised it above his head.
"Attack now, my brave followers!" he roared. "End now the days of deprivation that have been heaped upon us. Take back your pride with your spears. Let your weapons feast on the enemy as we will gorge on their food and women!"
The king looked on proudly as the army advanced. No mad dash, no hoarse shrieking; just a steady push with shields held to the front and spears shouldered. It was not quite the in-step march of a legion, but it was better than what Erlaan-Orlassai had seen of the Mekhani the first time he had encountered them.
The ground was soft underfoot, still sodden from the spring rains. The Mekhani left a swathe of flattened grass nearly a mile wide in their wake, great holes left in the mud by the tread of the behemodons. Ahead, the Askhan legions shifted. Trumpets blasted and drums beat the orders as companies split along the left of their line, moving out to match the overlapping ranks of the Mekhani. In response, the legion next to them widened its lines, bringing forward the rear ranks of the phalanxes to fill the gap.
Urged on by their drivers, the behemodons moved ahead of the infantry, stomping across the soft turf, studded armour plates slapping at their flanks. They dragged sleds behind them laden with more ammunition, young warriors clinging on as they bumped over the uneven ground. Erlaan-Orlassai could see the brightly feathered headbands of the shaman-chiefs waving in the wind as the tribal leaders called to each other from their howdahs, their ceremonial staffs waving and pointing to keep a safe distance between the monstrous war beasts.
Startled birds launched from their hidden nests in front of the advancing wave of warriors, squawking and flapping madly. Gusts across the plain fluttered the feathers upon the army's totem standards and sent chains of bones rattling. The steady trample of thousands of sandalled feet set the ground to shaking, and as the Mekhani came within half a mile of the Askhan line sonorous chants lifted into the air; each tribe giving voice to its traditional war songs, rising in volume in competition with each other.
In the narrowing gap between the two armies, the kolubrid squadrons made a break towards the behemodons, enduring a hail of sling bullets for a while until their faster mounts took them clear of the lacertil-riding warriors of Mekha. Their bronze arrows flew up towards the giant warbeasts, joined by bolts hurled from the Askhan spear throwers on the hill nearly half a mile ahead. The advantage of height was with the enemy and the behemodon mahouts pressed their mounts on into the flurry of missiles to close the range. From the howdahs, the nobles of the tribes hurled spears at the harrying kolubrids while the lacertils closed in behind to drive away the enemy.
Two spears caught the foremost behemodon simultaneously, one lancing through its neck, another smashing into the woven cane howdah. Even as the beast slumped forwards, the structure fell apart, spilling red-skinned warriors into the grass. Several did not rise, but the rest recovered quickly and dashed away, bellows arrows chasing them from the kolubrids.
The beasts with catapults upon their backs halted first, five in all, Mekhani scrambling down ropes to secure the chains hooked into the skin of their beasts so that they could not move too much. The arms of the catapults were pulled back and piles of fist-sized rocks loaded into the cups. At the cries of their chieftains, the war machines were loosed, the catapult arms snapping forward under the power of twisted rope to hurl their projectiles far up the hill, dark blurs falling upon the raised shields of the legionnaires.
Onwards pressed the Mekhani, their chanting growing ever louder and faster, the shouted warnings of their leaders reminding them not to charge too soon. The hill occupied by the Askhans seemed to get steeper the closer the army approached. From here the Askhans looked like a wall of bronze and ErlaanOrlassai realised that the front ranks were kneeling, so that the back ranks could angle their spears down the slope.
The king-messiah looked for gaps in the line as the ground sloped upwards. He searched a
lso for Ullsaard, but could see no sign of the Askhan king. Instead he made directly for the icon of the legion in front, knowing that it was borne by the first company, the best fighters. He would destroy the veterans and sow fear into the hearts of the others with the ease of their destruction.
To his left, the behemodons carrying spear throwers had also come into range. A fierce artillery battle had broken out, rocks and bolts raining down from the hillside and soaring up into the ranks of the spear companies.
A new wave of kolubrids emerged from behind the Askhan line, held in reserve by their commanders. The snake-like mounts swiftly circled around the end of the enemy line and joined with the others to drive back the lacertils. Into the space created, half a dozen spear companies advanced, guarding the lava throwers. The men manning the Mekhani war engines saw the threat and directed their weapons against this advance. Two black-red blossoms of fire erupted amongst the Askhan ranks as the machines found their marks on the fuel barrels of the volatile weapons. The engineless behemodons lumbered into the legionnaires, their crews jabbing down with long spears, the beasts crushing men with their bulk and snapping off limbs with fangfilled mouths.
Five of the lava engines had been dragged into range and gouts of flame spat out towards the enemy, engulfing three of the behemodons. The howdahs ignited swiftly, sending charred corpses tumbling, sticky fire clinging to the hide and armour of the monstrous lizards. Panicked, the creatures ran amok, smashing into the Askhans and lunging at each other in their madness.
Erlaan-Orlassai was no more than two hundred paces from the waiting Askhans and could spare no thought for the battle to his left. He looked in the other direction and saw that the left flank of the Askhan line was pulling back from the overlapping hook of the Mekhani right, anchoring their flank against the walls of their camp. More figures appeared at the rampart and arrows rained down on the desert warriors from above. The king-messiah heard the furious shouts of the shaman-chiefs and the Mekhani surged up the hill, straight at the retreating phalanx.
Erlaan-Orlassai fixed his gaze on the First Captain standing beside the legion icon ahead. There was nothing more the reborn king could do for the moment, save fight himself. Ullsaard had done well to defend against the advantages of the Mekhani, but his army was still outnumbered by at least ten thousand warriors, probably more. Erlaan-Orlassai would break the shield wall himself and the advantage of numbers would do the rest.
He broke into a run at a hundred paces, arms pumping, massive shield on the left, his sword gripped tightly in his right hand. His strides took him quickly clear of the sprinting Mekhani and a thicket of spears seemed to converge on him. He trusted to the gifts of the eulanui and charged straight in, head bowed, sword lifted for the attack.
Wood splintered as Erlaan-Orlassai crashed into the first company. Bronze spearheads bit at his flesh, pricking his thick skin like thorns of a bush would scratch a lesser man. The impact of his arrival hurled two legionnaires backwards with buckled shields and snapped spears. Sweeping down his sword, he carved through three more and plunged into the heart of their formation.
Metal screeched on metal as bronze spear tips met bronze armour. The king-messiah used his shield as a weapon, smashing aside the enemy, crushing their fallen bodies beneath his booted his feet; his sword severed heads and limbs with every wide swing, slicing through shield, armour and flesh without hindrance.
He howled his excitement, the deafening noise terrifying the legionnaires around him. Most of them broke and ran, overwhelmed by the nightmare warrior that confronted them, their bravery washed away by the ensorcelled cry that rang in their ears. A brave few mastered their terror to thrust their spears toward his face, but such was his height, it was easy to sway aside. Erlaan-Orlassai's sword descended in a flash, carving apart a legionnaire from head to waist. With a snarl, the kingmessiah wrenched the blade free and swung backhanded, the edge of his sword chopping through a shield and decapitating another legionnaire.
Around and about their godlike king, the Mekhani poured through the breach in the line. The spear companies hurriedly adjusted their facing, turning their spears to confront the redskinned savages wailing and shrieking in their midst. Some were successful, greeting the charging warriors with a wall of spears; others were caught in mid-manoeuvre by the lightly armoured warriors leaping between their ranks.
With his foes dead or fleeing, Erlaan-Orlassai paused for a moment to take stock. He caught a glint of gold out of the corner of his eye and turned. Kicking aside the corpse of a second captain, he found the fallen icon of the legion, the numerals of the Seventeenth etched into a plaque beneath the disc of Askhos's face. For a moment, he considered mangling the standard, crumpling it beyond recognition with his bare hands. He stopped, remembering that he fought to become king of the empire. He was not some Mekhani savage; he was the future commander of the legions.
He sheathed his sword and stooped to pick up the icon. The stylised bearded face of Askhos was half-covered in blood and spattered with mud. With barely any effort, Erlaan-Orlassai drove the haft of the standard through the body of the dead captain and into the ground beneath. He tore the officer's cloak from his back and used it to wipe away the filth from the face of his ancestor before casting aside the ragged scrap.
Shouts and the ring of weapons sounded out from the left and right, mixed with the cries of the wounded and the screams of the dying. Towering above the normal men around him, ErlaanOrlassai could see some considerable distance along the line. From one end to the other, the Mekhani and Askhans were locked together. Several more companies advanced from a position in reserve to plug the hole opened by the king-messiah. Erlaan-Orlassai drew his sword and headed straight for them.
He met the nearest reserve company a few dozen paces from the mass of fighting. Perhaps having seen the destruction he had inflicted on their first company, the legionnaires did not wait for his attack but pressed forwards, both sides charging at each other.
Blood flowed from biting wounds as spear points found ErlaanOrlassai's face and exposed flesh between the plates of his armour. He ignored the stinging pain and slashed left and right, hewing down the legionnaires with no finesse. He laughed at himself, thinking about the careful guards and postures he had learnt for use on the bloodfields. His raw strength was now such that brute power served him better than any amount of guile or skill.
It was like being swarmed by wasps. The legionnaires converged on him from all directions, jabbing and slashing with their spears, setting his armour ringing, grazing his leathery skin, probing for eyes and joints. He swatted away a handful of foes with a swipe from his shield, bones splintering through flesh from the blow. A spear drove up between the plates protecting his lower back, digging the length of its point into his flesh.
He whirled around, the movement ripping the weapon from the legionnaire's grip and sending him to his back. Erlaan-Orlassai drove his sword point through the man's helm, slicing off the top of his head. Shields battered at his legs and more spears rattled and scratched as the legionnaires closed in again from every direction. Though he felt little pain, Erlaan-Orlassai could feel the trickles of blood flowing from under his armour, staining his hands and pooling in his boots. He swung his sword in a wide arc from right to left, not looking, the serrated blade savaging four men in a sweep of gore.
"Where is Ullsaard?" the king-messiah bellowed. A spear snapped, leaving its head in the side of his throat. With a growl, Erlaan-Orlassai kicked out, his foot crushing the chest of the legionnaire who had struck him. Hands grasped at his left arm, trying to drag down his shield, and he fought back, lifting two men from their feet, tossing them into their fellows with a casual flick of his shield. "I'll kill you all if I have to!"
Another spear point took the king-messiah in the back of his right knee, forcing him down for a moment. Before he could right himself, his ears picked up another sound amongst the cacophony of melee: a deep-throated growl.
He half-turned, just in time to se
e the ailur leaping for his shoulder, claws bared, mouth wide. Her weight slammed into him, pushing him to one knee whilst her claws left gouges across the bronze of his armour. Her masked face snarled and hissed a hand's breadth from his face, hot breath on his skin. With a snarl, he flung out an arm, smashing fist and sword hilt into the giant cat's chest, hurling her backwards. She twisted and landed and sprang again, claws raking a furrow across the king-messiah's cheek. He kicked her away again and raised his sword to cleave her in half.
He stopped mid-stroke, hearing the steady tread of booted feet to one side. He caught a whiff of a familiar smell. It was Ullsaard. Almost absent-mindedly, Erlaan-Orlassai caught the leaping ailur on the flat of his shield. He pushed against the momentum of her attack and drove downwards, crushing her against the ground at his feet with the rim of his shield. She scrabbled for a moment in the last throes of life, blood leaking into the mud, mewls escaping her red-flecked muzzle.
The king-messiah of the Mekhani rose up and turned to face the king of Greater Askhor. Erlaan-Orlassai's sword was smeared with blood, as was his shield and armour. A hundred dents and scratches marred the bronze of his war gear. He felt nothing of the dozens of small wounds leaking blood along the swirls of runes etched into his skin.