by David Waine
The men strung out in a straggling line, as directed. As one, they untied long, wooden stakes from their backs and began to hammer them into the packed snow. It was cruel work at this height, but they laboured as beasts.
“Scout signalling, Sir Simian!” called the man nearest to him. “Enemy main force about to enter the pass.”
“Keep hammering!” Simian lent his moderate weight to his own stake.
Almost at once they heard a deep, tearing sound from beneath them. The snow shifted. A crack appeared between the first two stakes, then spread to the next, then the one after that. On and on it spread, widening with little jerks and a deep subterranean rumbling, from stake to stake.
“Back! Back up the slope, and yell for all you are worth!” cried Simian.
His men withdrew from the line at once, scrambling up the slope to fling themselves on whatever outcrops of rock they could find, screaming raucously. The whole mountain seemed to be on the move beneath them. The rumbling deepened and grew into a roar that blocked out all other sound, hammering on the very dome of the sky, rending the rock and ice beneath their feet and sending several of the slower ones hurtling to their deaths.
Simian grabbed an outcrop of black, icy rock and clung on for all he was worth. A roaring torrent of razor sharp white shards cascaded all around him, blinding him and obliterating his hearing.
Down in the pass, swords ceased their clashing and were lowered involuntarily as all heads turned to the new sound. A towering white wall hovered over the Draal host, shimmering in the morning sunlight, teetering on the very brink of collapse. Then a crack that tore the world apart rent the very air.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Loose!”
The captain’s sword flashed down and seven hundred bowstrings twanged in unison. A darting, flaming cloud gathered above the ramparts of Graan, hung there for a second, and then struck home. Scores of Draal soldiers fell to the ground, either killed outright or clutching at the burning arrows embedded in their flesh. Others struck the siege towers, but were brushed off by their crews. Too many arrows had gone astray, however. They had checked their enemy not a jot.
“Loose!”
Another hail of arrows flashed away. Coreth knew that it would take more than this.
“Loose!”
A third volley shot into the air, hung, then scythed down. They were closer now and the effect greater, but still insufficient. Now Grelk brought his own archers into play. He had many more and directed them to fire over the ramparts. Not being able to see what they were shooting at, however, much of their initial fire was ineffectual.
They had reached the outer ditch. The bridges were thrown down.
“Bows down! Engineers!”
A new clarion call rang out from the citadel. Immediately parties of engineers, armed with buckets of oil and burning brands, clambered out of the ditch into the face of the oncoming Draal horde.
They waited not a moment, before the Draals realised what had happened, the bases of their siege towers were drenched in oil and set ablaze. Those engineers that Grelk’s archers had not already felled immediately turned and threw themselves back into the shelter of the ditch.
From his position at the head of his cavalry unit waiting in a hidden defile outside the city, Coreth noted the advance of the enemy checked, but at a terrible cost among his engineers. Two towers were well ablaze but the crews of the others were bringing their fires under control. Grelk then did what the baron had been praying he would do.
The Draal cavalry thundered forth into the ditch — steep sided and pitted with stakes. A large number of horses and men perished, impaled on these, but the vast majority broke through and swept up onto the far side, facing the city.
“Terriok, now would be a good…”
His last word was drowned out by a deafening bang from high on the mountainside.
*
A mountain of white death, stretching to the sky, swayed high over the pass. The searing, roar shook the ground, as the split speared to the very bedrock and the whole mound began to slide. Soldiers on both sides fled.
Simian hugged his pathetic little rock with all his might. Around him, the world was blotted out in a whirling, blanched fury. His men were screaming and some, at least, had been hurled to their doom in an ocean of deluging snow. His own footing went as the snow beneath him gave way. He felt himself dragged out, the frozen torrent tearing him from his refuge, dragging him out and out until he felt the sinews of his arms would snap. He lowered his head and gritted his teeth, unable to cry out, unable to move, unable to do anything other than hang on for life itself. The pain in his meagre biceps built continuously until he was convinced that his arms would be torn from their sockets before the monstrous white fury subsided. His grip began to slip. He fought to re-establish it, but each slight movement of his hands seemed to have the opposite effect, loosening his grasp on the rock until his fingertips were taking his entire bodyweight and the weight of the onrushing avalanche. Then he was ripped from his anchor and adrift in the swirling white madness.
The enormous barrage of furious snow hurtled down the mountainside and smashed into the pass with an impact that shuddered the very rock, exploding in all directions as it hit. The defenders of the Border Force were well used to avalanches and knew where to hide themselves. Not all of them made it to a shelter.
The Draal forces were not so prepared. The bulk of their country being low lying, most of them were not mountain men and had no idea of how to escape. They simply turned and fled in the blind, and futile, hope that they could outrun it.
Like a vast white predator overcoming its prey, the avalanche pursued them down the pass and blotted them out in their thousands.
As suddenly as it had started, it ended. The titanic roar slowed to a rumble, sighing eventually to silence. The monumental shaking subdued gradually until the world was still again.
Pale faces peered out from behind the strategically placed stone walls. The pass had vanished. In its place stood a hill of tumbled snow, higher than a castle wall. The road was blocked completely.
An unreal silence hung on the air after the clash, scream and tramp of battle. Where blood and death had swamped the ground but moments before, now all was clean and white. The sudden stillness became oppressive.
Then a finger, directed further up the mountainside, jabbed forth. “Look!”
A straggling line of white figures made its way gingerly down from above. They were caked in snow from head to foot, many had been buried and had punched their way out of their frozen tombs, and all looked unbearably weary. At their head shambled an exhausted Simian Treponic.
As soon as he reached the border station, he was ushered into the blockhouse, where lay the mortally wounded General Vlaan. Simian rushed to the old soldier’s side and laid a caring hand on his brow. The wrinkled old eyes flickered open and smiled weakly.
“One of them caught me,” he murmured faintly. “The line stood as I was carried in here.” His face crumpled in pain.
Simian smiled gently and stroked the old man’s hair. “The line stood,” he said softly. “You have not yielded a step of our territory.”
“The enemy?” There was hope in Vlaan’s eyes.
“Destroyed. The avalanche obliterated their vanguard and rolled over their main force as well. The pass is blocked so completely that even a donkey will not be able to get through until next spring. Brond is safe from this direction.”
The old soldier’s eyes closed and a smile of weak satisfaction spread over his face. “Then we have done our duty,” he whispered. His eyes flickered open again. His breathing was becoming laboured. Gripping Simian’s shoulder with his remaining strength, he croaked, “I appoint you my successor. The Border Force is yours, Simian. Take it and rout our enemies.”
Then his strength was gone.
Simian stood over the grizzled old warrior, who had become his mentor and his friend in these past few weeks, tears starting in his eyes. Sorrowfully,
he passed his hand over the dead soldier’s eyelids and closed them.
Several moments passed before he realised that he was not alone in the room. Seven more officers stood by the door, helmets off, heads bowed. The most senior of them approached and saluted.
“Sir Simian,” he announced respectfully, “we know the general’s last wish and would have you know that it is our wish also. What would you have us do?”
“Prepare a funeral fit for a hero,” replied Simian.
At that moment a soldier entered and saluted uncertainly.
“You may report to me,” said Simian quietly.
“Sir Simian,” replied the soldier, drawing himself up to attention, “You should see this.”
*
The carriage shot forward with a jolt. Mirial and Angma both screamed in shock at the sudden jerk. Having been knocked sideways, Avalind found her balance and threw the grille open. Dorcan was still by the door, but his cloak flapped behind him and his sword was naked in his hand.
“Count Vorst!” she cried over the din of thundering hooves and jolting wheels.
“We are pursued!” he yelled back. “Scouting party. We will try to outrun them but I don’t hold out much hope of that!”
As if to underline his statement a black-fletched arrow thudded into the woodwork of the coach and another passed clear through the grille, within a whisker of Avalind’s nose, and embedded itself in the far bulkhead.
“That’s it!” yelled Count Dorcan. “Stop the coach!”
Immediately the driver hauled on the reins and the coach slewed to a halt, the wagon slewing immediately behind it. Dorcan threw open the cloth awning to find a terrified Mussa and her companion clutching their babies inside.
“Out! Get in the coach!” he shouted. “We need your wagon for cover from their archers.”
Dorcan’s men manoeuvred the wagon into a defensive position in front of the coach. His face appeared at the grille, his old flashing smile still there.
“On the floor, ladies. We will have to fight them. God send us good fortune.”
As he turned away, an arrow took him full in the chest.
*
The Draal cavalry wheeled at the sound above them. The mountain had just sprouted a new waterfall, a powerful cataract rushed straight down into the network of ditches around them, filling each with fast running water within moments. Their retreat was cut off. Too late, they realised that their advance was also cut off. They were marooned on an island in front of the city walls. Hundreds of archers immediately trained their weapons.
“Loose!”
Volley after volley was discharged into the swirling mass, now at no more than medium range.
“Charge!”
Coreth and Keriak at their heads of their detachments, the Graan cavalry swept from the hidden defile and the city’s mighty gates respectively and out onto the plain. With the horses of Grelk’s right wing isolated, Coreth hit them from their flank. Keriak led his forces in a spearhead formation between the infantry centre and Grelk’s left wing, which was also mounted. With Coreth and Keriak now engaged, the archers switched their aim to the centre and poured shaft after shaft into it.
Grelk watched his advantage evaporate with the morning dew. He had gone from the very cusp of conquering Graan to regrouping in less than ten minutes. One wing was isolated and massacred, the other was wrong-footed and even now, was being driven backwards over a cliff. His heavy siege machinery was baulked hundreds of paces from the walls. His main force, however, was pressing home its assault on Graan’s forward infantry, despite furious archer attack from the battlements. His rearguard stood intact. Coreth had blunted his first foray, but the ditches were, even now, draining and he was likely to face the full weight of Draal’s forces very soon.
Coreth also knew this. Already the Draal host was massing on the far bank to pour across in overwhelming numbers.
“Stand fast!” He roared his order. It was relayed along the serried ranks of his infantry, but he could see that the lines were already wavering. They had to hold until a safe withdrawal to the citadel could be completed.
“Spears to the fore!” he yelled.
The front row presented their spears, but still they wavered. With a whooping roar, the vast host of Draal infantry poured across the muddy ditch to engage Graan’s forces directly at last.
Knowing that he had to gain his troops precious seconds if they were not to be crushed before they could regain the citadel, Coreth spurred his horse, levelled his weapon and galloped straight for Grelk’s oncoming banner, his personal guard and standard-bearer in train. Disciplined, as they had been, to follow their leader, his troops moved after him.
Seeing Coreth’s approach, Grelk altered course and made to meet him.
Moments later the two armies crashed together. The sun glinted on a lurching forest of whirling blades and thrusting spear tips. The air rang to the screams of the wounded, the thunder of trampling hooves and the whinnies of many, many terrified horses.
A twitching mound of broken horses and men littered the beach. The remainder broke and fled. Keriak reined in his mount and checked the scene.
Coreth and Grelk met with a clash of steel as they passed one another, turned and clashed again. Round and round they circled, exchanging blows with every pass. A space opened in the struggling men around them, their respective personal guards isolating the two from the general battle as they pursued their particular duel.
Keriak swept his forces into the main body of the battle, scattering foes to right and left. The Draal ranks quivered, wavered on the very brink of breaking. Coreth’s plan had worked so far. With his mounted wings neutralised, Grelk had only his massive centre and rearguard with which to mount an attack and, with his heavy machinery bogged down, his capacity to do that was diminishing. It seemed that only a disaster could prevent Graan from dealing a severe blow now. Keriak wheeled round on his rearing steed, his eyes widening in disbelief as the disaster unfolded before him.
Coreth was down!
Smashed from his horse by a particularly savage blow that he had failed to parry properly, Coreth was on the ground, winded, bereft of either sword or shield. Grelk bore down on him, a grin of triumph contorting his lips. Collecting his wits at the last moment, Coreth, rolled out of the way of Grelk’s scything slash, as he thundered past, and scrambled to his feet.
“My Lord!” A sword came through the air towards him. He caught it by the hilt, with a quick grin of gratitude and turned to face his foe again. Too late. Grelk, having grabbed a spear from one of his men, was on him already. Despite his desperate final effort, Coreth failed to dislodge the spear as it seared right through him and lifted him into the air.
Casting his vanquished foe to the ground, where he lashed in his death throes, Grelk raised his sword in triumph. A ragged cheer broke from the throats of his hard-pressed troops as they renewed their struggle against their now leaderless foe, who looked to one another in dismay.
Aghast, Keriak’s first instinct was to avenge his master’s fall, but a cautionary hand on his arm staid his recklessness. Turning to his lieutenant, whose hand it had been, he gave his terse orders.
“Withdraw the forces to the citadel. My guard with me to recover the baron!”
Now in command, Keriak, flanked by his personal guard, burst through the cordon, intending to destroy Grelk if he could. The Draal, however, was elsewhere by now, pressing home his attack. Coreth’s personal guard still formed a tattered cordon around their fallen leader, fending off the Draal hordes who would have hewed his body to pieces if they could get near it.
Keriak and his retinue carved a bloody path through the milling throng to reach the cordon. Dismounting, he lifted Coreth’s body gently over his own horse and gave the order to retreat. Flanked by his own men, and Coreth’s, Keriak hacked and trampled his way back to his own lines, now on the point of breaking under the weight of Grelk’s assault. Seeing his approach, the Graan infantry gave way. Still they maintained the
ir discipline. They poured through the gates in their hundreds, Keriak and his tragic burden among them, while their front rank held back the Draals with their very lives and the archers loosed volley after volley into the oncoming hoard from above. All was weakening, however. Sensing their advantage, the Draals poured on and smote the retreating Graans mercilessly, finally washing up against the walls like a raging human tide.
There, however, they stopped. The gates were closed and barred against them with the great majority of Graan’s forces now inside.
*
Outside, the sun shone benignly on a scene of monumental whiteness. Border Force soldiers were still picking themselves out of their refuges, smacking caked snow from their tunics and straightening their hauberks. The news of Vlaan’s passing had already spread among them and they greeted their new leader with grave salutes and grim smiles. After the overwhelming din of battle and the avalanche, the silence was unreal.
“What is it that you want to show me?” asked Simian quietly.
The messenger pointed directly at the huge mound of fallen snow. Simian’s eyes widened in amazement. Despite the intense cold given off by the mound of snow, it was thawing already. Before his very eyes, the track of the newly built Draal road reappeared heaped with enemy corpses and more than a few of their own. It was as if the road was hot and melted the snow that lay on it, no matter how thick. With increasing speed, a valley developed in the mound exposing the Draal highway throughout its tortuous length as far as their eyes could track it. A valley barely wider than the roadway itself and with white walls that were, at times, higher than those of Castle Brond.
“What do you make of it?” asked an officer, reverting to the Force’s traditional lack of formality.
Simian shook his head. “I have no idea,” he confessed, “but it is an omen. We are being given the high road into Draal — and not by Sulinan. Send a message down to Brond, informing the king of our victory and our tragic loss. Leave a basic guard at the pass. The rest of us will make our way into our enemy’s land, find his second point of entry and seal it up.”