by Tom Lloyd
The Elf lazily swept the ancient weapon left and right, loosening its shoulder, observing the Mortal-Aspect’s reaction. It made the blade look almost weightless in its grasp.
Vesna did nothing. He ignored the movement, just stared straight into his enemy’s eyes. He let his rage warm his muscles.
Without warning the Elf exploded forward, swinging his great sword at Vesna’s unprotected head, but the count stepped back out of range and flowed right, parrying the follow-up blow aimed at his ribs. He used his armoured knuckles to try to beat the sword wide and create an opening for himself, but the Elf avoided his lunge with ease.
So you do know how to fight, Vesna thought, forcing himself to block out every thought beyond the enemy in front of him. Time to change the game.
With a thought he flooded his body with magic, raw coursing power that thrummed through his bones and crackled over his armour, the same way he’d seen Isak do it, many times before. White-hot sparks hissed and danced as they wrapped his gauntlet with spitting power. When he saw the Elf’s eyes shift towards it, he felt cold satisfaction: he knew he had made it uncertain. He increased the flow of magic and let it bleed out over the ground around him, sending jagged lines of light snaking over the cobbles in all directions.
When the Elf glanced down, Vesna attacked.
Holding his sword in both hand he cut across the Elf’s body, then down, then up. It gave ground as it parried each blow without much finesse, until it was able to plant its feet and start trading blows. The swords flashed through the air with unnatural speed, as the smallest nick might be enough to make the other hesitate.
Vesna’s arm screamed under the jarring impact of the greater blade on his own, but he refused to slow down. He caught a high cut and blocked it, then stepped in towards the Elf and swung his armoured fist at its face. Magic crackled in the air and the Elf howled as it stepped through the web of seething power and pushed its shoulder into Vesna’s midriff.
Despite his greater bulk, Vesna felt the body-blow hit his chest like a hammer and found himself being driven back. He tried to punch the Elf in the shoulder in return, but he swung short and had to throw himself to one side, the copper sword just missing his stomach.
Vesna found himself with a moment to regain his balance while the Elf was shaking its head from side to side and cursing - its cheeks and narrow chin were scorched black by the magic, and only its height had saved it from being blinded.
Suddenly, each realising at the same instant that the other was catching their breath, they both ran forward —
They barely avoided impaling themselves on each other’s swords, but Vesna had the faster reactions; he had twisted left, and used his own sword to force the Elf’s weapon aside, at the same time stepping close and smashing his armoured elbow into its arm. For a moment he thought he had it - then he felt the resistance vanish as it spun away.
Vesna lurched to the right as the Elf turned right around and lunged for his face. He twisted violently, avoiding being impaled, but he felt the weapon bite into his pauldron, slicing away a chunk of metal. He batted the blade away with his left arm, ducked and thrust his own sword underneath it, hearing metal clash with metal, before he was facing his enemy again.
He cut high, then low, and the Elf blocked, then as his third strike whistled through the air the Elf stabbed at his left shoulder, trying to bring the copper sword’s power to bear, but Vesna twisted out of reach and attacked again, relentlessly. He pressed forward, parrying blows, trying to get inside its guard, but when he got close, it kicked out at his leg with frightening speed.
He moved just in time, turning his half-bent knee into the blow, and though pain exploded in his kneecap, he was ready and it didn’t knock him over. Vesna saw the impact of its kick had hurt the Elf too; it had retreated a step. Scowling, it charged straight back into the fray, hoping to take advantage of Vesna’s disorientation, but it moved too slowly and he dodged, deflecting the copper sword as it swung past him.
Vesna struck at the Elf’s back, but he missed, his reach too short. Now the monstrous copper sword arced down towards his head and this time when Vesna tried to move, his feet failed him and he froze, his arm still extended in the lunge as he watched his own death coming towards him.
At the last moment he threw his left arm up, as he had at the shrine, and the broadsword smashed down onto his armoured limb in a coruscating explosion of light and pain. The force drove him to one knee and he swung blindly at the Elf’s ankle, but its knee hit his face before his blow could connect.
The impact snapped his head back, but his greater bulk let him ride the blow and he brought his sword up to catch the lower edge of the Elf’s gleaming weapon. He forced it up and hooked his armoured arm over the flat of the blade. The Elf tried to lift it away, but that only succeeded in helping Vesna to his feet again.
Releasing his grip on his own sword, he tugged down with his left hand to pivot his weapon around the other blade. The momentum of the movement brought the hilt up and Vesna, turning away from the Elf, ignored a vicious punch to his kidneys, grabbed his sword in a reverse grip and jerked it back as hard as he could.
His aim was true and the sword bit deep into the Elf’s guts. The Elf staggered under the force of Vesna’s blow, and its own blade clattered to the ground as its hands moved to its belly.
A gout of blood gushed onto the cobbles as the Elf managed to pull itself off the weapon on which it was impaled.
Vesna turned and chopped down into the back of its right knee, nearly severing the joint. The Elf dropped, but before it could hit the ground Vesna had grabbed it by the throat with his left hand.
‘Her name was Tila,’ he shouted, and raised his reversed sword. He punched the pommel into the Elf’s beautifully shaped nose.
The Elf gurgled something, but Vesna couldn’t make out the words, nor did he care. He held it upright, ignoring the blood that spilled out over his polished boots. He punched its face again and again until the right-hand side was reduced to a pulp.
‘Her name was Tila,’ he repeated in a whisper, and the boiling sea of rage inside him suddenly drained away. He released the Elf and it crashed onto the cobbled street, where it squirmed weakly, pawing at the wound to its stomach. Dark blood had drenched its clothes, but it had some time left yet. Normally a soldier would pray to Karkarn for such a wound to be quick, but as Vesna stared down at the mewling figure at his feet, no words would come. He realised tears were falling down his cheeks and he sank to his knees, his strength sapped. His hands shook and the aching blackness in his stomach returned, but as the Elf died he did not move, only trembled, sobbing silently as Tila’s face filled his mind. Above him, thunder split the clouds.
CHAPTER 25
‘Major, we’ve found the trail!’
Captain Hain and Major Darn turned to see a sergeant of the scouts running up to them. Though it was midday, the sun had crept behind a cloud as they stopped to rest and sketch their route. The Menin maps of Narkang lands were poor and untrustworthy; more than once that week they’d been forced to stop and retrace their steps as rivers appeared to block their way, or some other obstacle appeared, making them wonder whether they’d misread the things entirely, or if the original cartographers had been blind drunk when they drew these particular maps.
‘How far?’ Major Darn asked once the scout had reached them. He grinned at the prospect of catching up with the enemy at last, some four hundred men, the remains of a small town’s garrison that had fled when the Menin approached.
‘An hour’s march, no more.’
Major Darn looked past the scout. An elongated hump of ground stood between his men and the enemy; what was marked as just a blob on the map was in fact a steep rise, and now he was within sight of it Darn knew he’d have to take his troops around.
‘The map says woods all beyond that,’ he said, pointing at the hill.
‘Some, aye, sir, but it’s grassland for the main - the forest’s north o’ it, dense ground - it’
d be a bastard t’march through, no space t’move. The road leads to a village, two miles past, and there’s probably another a few beyond that, too. The way they’re going they’ll be just past t’village - sorry bunch o’ stragglers they look now too. There’s open ground all the way left o’ the hill; we’ll catch ’em before t’day’s out.’
‘I’ve heard this before,’ Darn growled, unconsciously fingering a roughly stitched cut on his cheek, ‘and I’ve lost my taste for taking the inviting option.’
The last fleeing garrison they’d tried to catch had been a decoy. In his eagerness to chase them down, Colonel Uresh, Major Darn’s legion commander, had sent him on ahead without waiting for scouts to find out how many men were left in the town. The first division had been badly mauled that day, despite Darn’s efforts to pull them out, and Uresh, realising his mistake, had walked straight into another when he charged straight in with the second division.
They lost the colonel and two hundred men that day, a quarter of their remaining troops, with as many again injured. The previous day Major Darn had been a middle-aged man with prematurely grey hair; this morning the years looked to have caught him up.
‘You don’t want to follow ’em?’ Hain said, surprised. For days now Major Darn had looked like a man champing at the bit to exact some revenge.
‘Of course I do, but how many straight engagements have we had since crossing the border?’ There was no doubt the Narkang forces were engaged in a fighting retreat. They might be steadily giving ground, but they were avoiding direct confrontation in favour of guerrilla tactics, ambushing the Menin wherever they could hurt the invaders. They were only a few days’ ride from Aroth, the most easterly of King Emin’s cities, and had yet to see a real battle.
He looked at his captains and the Dharai assembled around him. He wasn’t surprised when the two warrior-monks remained silent - they were impassive at the best of times - but none of the captains spoke either.
‘There’s scrub all round that hill, easy enough to hide troops in if you’re looking to ambush,’ Darn continued, ‘unless you got close?’ He looked at the scout.
‘No, sir, but ain’t many going t’hide there, doubt enough t’worry us - the garrison’s too far away, couldn’t double-back fast enough t’catch us on both sides without bein’ too blown t’be any use.’
‘There could be more in the trees on the right flank,’ Darn said dismissively, ‘enough men to strafe us.’
‘Nothing at our backs still,’ the scout said, looking anxious about contradicting the major, however certain he was. ‘We’d’ve seen anyone strong enough t’threaten more’n a division o’ heavy infantry. My men din’t go inta the woods, but they were close enough t’see signs o’ a legion easy enough.’
Darn gave a curt nod. ‘I understand, sergeant, but the fact remains this is a fine place for an ambush and I don’t want to be surprised again.’
‘Send the cavalry through the trees? Maybe ahead of a regiment or two? We meet on the other side and if anyone’s in between they’re going to get it from both sides,’ Hain wondered aloud.
Darn shook his head. ‘It leaves us fractured. Neither flank can move fast, and if there is an ambush waiting, it gives them what they’re looking for. We’ve barely more than a company of cavalry, including the scouts, and that’s not enough to be of use if they’re hit. However, even a regiment or two on the hill or in the trees can wait for us to pass, then follow us - and if we do that, we’re the ones getting it from both sides. While they’re sticking us full of arrows and running away if we react, that garrison’ll make up the ground in double-quick time - and I’ll bet they’ll miraculously stop looking like a sorry rabble. Either way we’re left chasing our arses like half-witted dogs.’
‘Where’s a bloody scryer when you want one?’ Hain growled. ‘Even that piss-poor fool was better’n nothing.’
An infiltrator had somehow managed to stay concealed in the high branches of an oak while the Menin made camp around it, and he’d managed to assassinate their only mage before he’d gone down fighting. What had shocked Hain the most was the assassin’s youth - he was fearless and beardless, and well short of his twentieth summer. A fanatical loyalty to one’s lord was hardly surprising to a Menin, but Hain had never before seen it shine so fiercely in the eyes of an enemy.
‘Our God will provide,’ rumbled the smaller of the Dharai unexpectedly. The shaven-headed monk had as many scars as wrinkles on his face, and the diagonal band of swirling tattoo crossing one eye showed him to be a Dharach, the highest rank. But even those with years of military experience rarely interfered with decisions, choosing instead stoic acceptance of orders.
The soldiers all turned in surprise as he continued, ‘The hill is too steep for troops, but not for my Dharai. If there are men there, we will find them.’
‘If there are men there, you’ll be cut to bloody pieces,’ Major Darn retorted bluntly.
‘If that is Lord Karkarn’s will,’ the Dharach said solemnly.
‘Karkarn’s will be — ’ Darn snapped his mouth shut before he finished the sentence and swallowed his irritation. ‘That is to say, Dharach,’ he continued rather more respectfully, ‘I do not intend to sacrifice any troops today, certainly not those of your calibre. No, the cavalry scouts will lead the way, and we will move in two blocks, one wide, one tight behind the hill. The cavalry will sweep the way before we advance. We’ll deal with the garrison troops tomorrow.’
‘No, Major. If we die in battle, then that is Lord Karkarn’s will, but one more day may see them to safety,’ the monk said firmly. He hefted his halberd, damascened to echo the tattoos on his face, and pointed northwest. ‘We are too close to Aroth to delay. It is our calling to embrace such risks, to perform the twelve noble actions when such deeds are required. It is how we honour our God.’
Darn had no actual authority over the Dharai, and it was obvious he had no say in the matter now. The Dharach had made his decision, and they were separate from the army structure precisely for such eventualities.
Darn scowled, his lip twitching as he stroked the stitches in his cheek. ‘So be it. Drummer, signal the advance. Dharach, get your men up that hill, double-time.’
‘Oh fuck me,’ moaned the lookout, turning round in search of his officer, ‘Sir, the bastards are sendin’ a company o’men right over us.’
Doranei scrambled after Count Reshar as the burly nobleman went forward to join the lookout. Crawling on his belly, the King’s Man wormed his way through the thick tufts of grass until he had a view of the other side. He winced as the pommel of his new sword caught him on a long cut down the side of his head. The cut had been fire-sealed by Ebarn, the Brotherhood’s female battle-mage - not a fun way of dealing with injuries, but it was the best patch-up she could offer in the circumstances, and it was a fair defence against infection.
‘We’ll have to pull back,’ Count Reshar muttered to Doranei, keeping his eyes on the red-robed figures at the bottom of the hill. ‘Back into the woods, where they can’t see us.’
‘Where you think they’re going next?’ Doranei said firmly. ‘We hold here.’
The count turned as best he could, anger on his face. ‘Master Doranei, you are not a man of rank nor a man of title and you are not the one giving the orders here: you will do whatever in the Dark Place I tell you to do!’ he snarled.
Doranei matched the look. Count Reshar was a good soldier, and he was a count, but Doranei was a King’s Man and he knew the full story. ‘Make no mistake, my Lord, my orders come from the king,’ he said softly.’ You agree with me when I tell you what we doing, or I will take command. Do you understand me?’
‘You’ve lost your mind, man,’ the count hissed, his face darkening as he tried to stop himself from bellowing. He was an experienced officer and utterly loyal, and he had raised no objection to the presence of a King’s Man in his regiment, however obviously he disliked it. ‘We’ve a few minutes before they discover us, and after that we’re as good as dea
d.’
Doranei’s expression was one of a man resigned to his fate. ‘We hold here,’ he said firmly.
‘I will not condemn these men to death!’
‘The decision ain’t yours to make. If you prefer I can kill you now, waste of a good soldier or no.’
Doranei’s tone didn’t leave any room for uncertainty and Count Reshar hesitated. He was dressed like the rest of them, not too proud to wear dull, dirty leathers and mail instead of noble battle-colours. Only the small bronze device on his collar and the quality of his weapons indicated his rank.
‘Why?’ he asked at last.
Doranei scowled. The last thing he wanted to do was admit their fate had been decided days ago. He settled on part of the truth. ‘This legion needs to be held up, and we’re on the best defensive ground.’
‘How long do you think we can hold?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘We hold as long as we can.’
‘Alone?’
Doranei shrugged and looked to the west, towards the village and the remaining garrison regiments. ‘You gave the others their orders; you know how they’ll react.’
‘We’re outnumbered and facing heavy infantry!’
Doranei craned around the count to check on the progress of the men ascending the hill. A band of sunshine drifted over them, sweeping the slope with momentary brightness before moving on towards the hump of road that went around the hill. It wasn’t an easy climb and they were taking their time, picking their way along a winding path to avoid the steepest parts. They were obviously not normal troops: they weren’t in livery but red-robes, longer than anything a soldier would wear.