by Tom Lloyd
They reached the tower and Styrax wrenched the wyvern over, tilting it to glide with one wing pointing at the wall below. At the same time he tore his hand away from the Skull and released the strands of magic engulfing it. He watched them leap away like a net cast behind a boat. Holding tight to his saddle with his right hand, Styrax guided the wyvern around in a tight spiral, swinging dangerously low over the city to avoid its slender tail catching on the trail of magic.
As they passed, the net of magic snagged on the tower’s wall and latched on. The remaining energies unravelling from his hand were violently jerked clear and the unfolding net dropped down over the contraption on the tower roof. It caught two thirds of the entire roof surface, a close-knit blanket of fire that sagged off the weapon’s protruding edges and ran like molten iron down its sides.
This close he saw the faces of the gunners manning the fire-thrower, staring up in horror at the descending threads of light. The quickest few ducked under the wooden arm of the thrower, but the threads burst into flame as soon as they touched wood or flesh. As the first started screaming, Styrax pulled the wyvern up into a climb. He had no need to hear the cries of pain as the threads cut through flesh and bone. He knew none would survive. The trailing threads had caught it squarely enough to set the entire tower alight.
The wyvern flapped heavily in the suddenly close, heavy air, struggling for a moment to climb before rising above the handful of artillery boats stationed on the Hound Lake and pushing on to the Menin Army beyond. Styrax turned and sensed the calls to the sky renewed with fearful vigour, the magic becoming ragged with haste. Before his eyes the clouds darkened and turned threatening.
‘Most obliging of you,’ he murmured. He looked towards his own army and saw the troops had begun to advance to the edge of the artillery barges’ range. ‘Now see how the winds come to your aid,’ he shouted.
Beyn charged up the wooden stair, his boots drumming a hollow tattoo that warned those in his way to move. The Tollhouse was an odd-shaped building, the guard platforms at the top a mere afterthought of construction. He ducked his head through the doorway and blinked away the gloom of inside, heading straight towards General Aladorn, who stood at the thin horizontal window on the eastern wall.
‘General, the fire-thrower’s almost entirely destroyed,’ Beyn blurted out, not bothering with formality now. ‘It’s inoperable, even if we could replace the gunners quickly.’
‘But why,’ asked the general, still squinting out of the window, though Beyn knew the old man’s eyes were not good enough to see the enemy. ‘Why destroy that one in particular?’
‘Because he intends to attack that flank,’ blurted out Suzerain Etharain, standing next to the general. He was the ruler of the region west of Aroth, and second chair of the Honour Council, but he was an inexperienced soldier.
‘Bah, too obvious for this one. Beyn, any reports of the other legions moving?’
The King’s Man shook his head. ‘They’re holding position beyond artillery range.’
The Menin Army had split into three groups to surround the city, each digging defensive encampments to ward off Narkang sorties. Worryingly, one of the armies was composed mainly of Chetse legions, which suggested the invasion force had increased in size since crossing the Waste.
‘Daily runs?’ Aladorn said, cocking his head at Beyn. ‘He waits for the weather to clear and takes out the next - before long his troops have a free run at the walls, eh?’
‘It gives us time to repair,’ Beyn pointed out. ‘The sky looks ugly now, might take days to clear, and the man’s in a hurry — sooner he takes Aroth, the less time he gives the king to prepare.’
Aladorn shook his head. ‘Only a fool would plan it so - to try and win the war at a stroke is to forget to win the battle. Let them try to take the city in a day; I would welcome it!’ The old man had a defiant look in his eyes, as though daring Beyn to argue.
The King’s Man looked away, realising he wasn’t going to win any arguments here. Before the silence could stretch out further the first fat raindrops began to fall on the flat tarred roof of the guardroom. Etharain raised an eyebrow as the rain increased rapidly in the next few moments and a rumble of thunder echoed from the heavens. In less than a minute the rain had developed into a deluge.
‘The mages know their work,’ he commented. The suzerain was a fit-looking man of forty-odd winters. His father had been a trusted captain of General Aladorn’s during the conquest of the Three Cities and he had made sure his son knew how to use the sword he carried, but like so many of Narkang’s soldiers he’d never been tested in battle. ‘Gods, look at it out there. The ground’ll be hard going for anyone marching on our walls.’
‘Don’t rejoice yet,’ Beyn said, looking out. The suzerain was right, the mages had done well and a furious rainstorm now battered the city. ‘It cuts our visibility, makes life tough for our artillery - Karkarn’s iron balls, I reckon they’ve overshot this time!’
Deafening peals of thunder crashed out across the plain. A great gust of wind flung a curtain of rain across their view, briefly obscuring everything apart from the dull yellow of the Tollkeeper’s Arch ahead. The wind continued to strengthen, becoming a great fist of rain sweeping across the Land. Beyn could just make out the inelegant shapes of the artillery barges, lurching on the lakes.
‘Hastars?’ General Aladorn snapped, turning to glare at the mage behind him. ‘Order them to desist!’
The mage blanched at Aladorn’s wrinkled face, despite the fact he was more than a foot taller than the general, bigger even than Beyn. ‘This is not the work of the coterie,’ Hastars yelped in protest. ‘They broke off before he returned!’ he added, pointing at Beyn.
‘This isn’t natural,’ Beyn said, advancing towards the mage. ‘Look at it.’
Hastars closed his eyes, mouthing a few words then pausing, as though listening to a voice inside his head. The man was modestly gifted, but he was knowledgeable, and able at least to communicate from afar with the two dozen others sitting with linked hands in a nearby warehouse. There were only two battle-mages, but this coterie in unison would most likely serve a more useful purpose against the Menin’s overwhelming strength anyway.
Hastars gasped and staggered back, hands clutching his head. A grizzled marshal grabbed him before he fell, but Hastars still looked dazed when he opened his eyes. ‘Gods preserve us!’ he moaned, ‘the storm is being fuelled — The Menin, they are pouring energies into the sky!’
The mage sank to his knees, gulping down air. ‘Such power, such power! I barely reached out and . . .’ he tailed off, shaking uncontrollably.
Beyn scowled as the rest of the room fluttered round the mage, returning to the view with a growing sense of trepidation. Outside the weather was worsening, grey trails dancing and whirling through the air with increasing fury. Two bursts of thunder boomed out in quick succession, then another as a lance of lightning flashed down to strike the Tollkeeper’s Arch.
Oh Gods.
On the surface of the lake something rose up from the water. Though they were indistinct, the grey-blue shapes were far from human. Beyn felt his guts turn ice-cold as the figures reached up to the heavens and began to grow, drifting over the water to form a circle. All around them the storm slashed at the lake and ripped furrows through the surface, churning and spinning into ever-tightening spirals. The figures twisted and danced, writhing with frenetic energy as the lake became increasingly choppy.
‘Oh Gods,’ came a distant voice, muted against the howl of the wind through the gaps in the wooden walls. Beyn found Suzerain Etharain beside him, face white with horror as he too realised what was happening.
The artillery barges and their attendant boats were rocking violently; Beyn caught sight of one smaller craft just as it was smashed against a massive catapult platform. A great spinning column of water heaved up from the surface on the furthest part of Lake Apatorn, and a terrible, unnatural shriek pierced the air.
Around the tower’s
base danced half a dozen water elementals, the spirits of the lake, whipped into a frenzy of power, while the wind heaved and thrashed around them. Malviebrat were known for their savage, remorseless nature, and now they were being fed power by a grief-stricken white-eye.
The clouds reached down to embrace the huge waterspout, enveloping it with dark, nebulous hands. Thunder continued to crash all around as the storm surged. A sheet of water washed across the narrow window and Beyn and Etharain both flinched back. The King’s Man realised he was digging his fingernails into the wooden sill. With a great groan the waterspout lurched abruptly forward and Etharain moaned with dismay as it started for the barges.
The smaller craft started away from its terrible path, only to be hunted down by the tornado’s savage outriders. Standing tall on the water, twice the height of any man, the water elementals smashed and pummelled at men and boats alike, battering both into broken pieces while the waterspout roared on. With one final lurch it caught the first of the artillery barges and ripped the arm from its catapult.
The great wooden beam was tossed high in the air, discarded like a broken match. The rest of the weapon soon followed, then the entire barge was flipped on its side with careless ease and hurled end-over-end to carve a path of destruction through the remaining scows.
The tornado charged inexorably for the next, driven by a vicious will, and ripped it apart, plank by plank. One, then two, then four, all of them torn apart like the toys of an enraged Godchild, while the Malviebrat danced and worshipped at its base, the shrieking wind a fitting prayer for their monstrous fervour. In seconds the artillery barges had been reduced to kindling, and now the waterspout lurched again, changing direction to rip a path over the stony shore of the causeway. The air filled with dirt and the tornado took on a darker hue as it gathered weapons to smash the remaining flotilla on the Hound Lake, already abandoned by its terrified crews.
‘Summon the troops,’ Beyn whispered hoarsely, his throat suddenly dry. ‘They’re coming up the causeway. Piss and daemons, they’ll punch straight into the city unless we stop them at the wall!’
‘Move you bastards!’ the sergeant roared as wardrums sounded from the back of the legion.
The heavy beat rolled over the thousand soldiers who moved off, spear-points high. Behind them the scarred savages of the Chetse Lion Guard bellowed, axes raised high as they screamed their berserk rage at the distant enemy. The rain continued to beat down, smearing the blue painted symbols adorning their segmented bronze breastplates.
The Chetse warriors wore bronze helms sporting Lord Styrax’s Fanged Skull emblem, with gauntlets and greaves all built to be used as additional weapons. Every other man carried a heavy shield on his back, for when arrows were raining down or they were about to charge a wall of spear-points.
Lord Styrax nudged his wyvern forward and looked down the line of troops. The massive creature huffed and waddled forward, unused to walking with its wings furled but obeying. The flight had temporarily drained its eagerness for battle, he was glad to note, not intending to use the creature further. For the first time his Chetse allies and own heavy infantry would fight side by side. He wanted to be in the midst of them, leading from the front and reminding them all why they followed him.
A bolt of lightning arced down from the heavens with an ear-splitting crash, striking the smoking tower Styrax had already attacked, adding to the ruin. From his position atop the wyvern he could see the wreckage of boats and barges on the two lakes. His arm was outstretched toward the Hound Lake, fist half-closed, as he contained and controlled the power of the waterspout. It was smaller now, its energy bleeding up into the ever-darkening clouds above as the storm howled with increasing fury, driven on by Styrax’s steady release of the magic until it was safe to let free.
The Menin troops were undaunted. With two regiments out in front they tramped with grim purpose towards the causeway, tight ranks of steel-clad infantry forcing their way through the deepening mud.
Styrax dismounted and beckoned over a messenger. ‘Tell General Gaur he has the command,’ Styrax roared over the shrieking wind. Once he was stuck in the thick of the fighting, Styrax knew he’d be in no position to issue tactical commands.
The messenger’s reply was lost in the tumult, but his salute indicated he’d heard the white-eye’s order. Gaur was stationed with the rearguard, waiting to give the order to the flanking divisions to march on the city, assuming there were no surprises waiting.
As the messenger hurried away Styrax waited for the legion to move ahead and his bodyguard to fall into position beside him. A regiment of Bloodsworn knights, much of their heavy black armour stripped down so they could march on foot, quickly took up their positions around him. The fanatical Menin élite numbered only five hundred in total: a mix of young nobles and experienced soldiers, the match of any troops in the Land. It was rare to see them on foot - they were normally the heart of a Menin cavalry charge — but their horses would be no use here.
The troops on the road made good progress, unassailed by defenders on land or water, and within minutes they were at the Tollkeeper’s Arch. The long stone building had been abandoned by the city’s defenders, and although regiments of archers were stationed behind the shallow canal, a hundred yards from the Tollkeeper’s Arch, the wind and rain took their toll.
The leading regiments barely noticed the falling arrows as they swarmed over the yellowstone building, and when the remaining legions reached the arch and began to negotiate the ditches flanking it, the archers and crossbowmen gave up entirely and scampered back towards their lines, leaving the Menin free to reform their ranks at leisure on the causeway.
Styrax made his way to the long central hall of the Tollkeeper’s Arch, past the abandoned stations where goods were checked and taxed before entering the city. At the other end he stared out at Aroth. On his right the rain, funnelled by some quirk of the roof, formed a sheet of falling water that almost entirely obscured his view of the larger lake. He took a long breath and tasted the air; the rain had washed away all other scents, leaving the morning air clean. Under the deluge Aroth seemed smaller, diminished somehow. Its sandstone towers took on an aged and decrepit mien, like long-abandoned watchtowers on an unused frontier.
‘My Lord,’ called a man behind him, and Styrax turned to see Army Messenger Karapin standing to attention, a rare fervour in the man’s grey eyes. Karapin had volunteered to follow him into battle, his ceremonial brass vambraces and a broadsword his only protection as he waited to carry his lord’s orders. He had been born less than fifty miles from Styrax’s home village, and he considered the risk to be the greatest honour of his life.
‘All ready?’ Styrax asked.
‘The legions are in position,’ Karapin confirmed with a bow.
‘Drummers, sound the attack.’ Styrax heard the hunger in his own voice, the red rage straining to be released. If Karapin noticed, he made no sign as he stepped out into the rain and signalled the nearest regimental drummer. In moments the call was taken up and the Menin troops roared their approval.
Amidst the tumult he could still make out the thousands of Chetse voices bellowing lustily, ready to follow him to war. Styrax stepped out from the arch, surveying his men as he drew his fanged broadsword. The clamour increased a notch as the first ranks set off, within them units of engineers who carried the temporary bridges for the canal.
The Bloodsworn knights gathered around him and one unfurled Styrax’s stark black and red banner. Styrax reached over and plucked the tall standard from the man’s hands, raising it and turning to the troops behind him, both Menin and Chetse.
‘Tell them!’ he shouted over the tramp of feet and the pouring rain, ‘raise your voices and tell them we’re coming! Tell them even the Gods themselves should fear us!’
The thousands of soldiers howled in response and hammered weapons on their shields. The sound boomed out across the Land in rising waves, almost drowning out the thunder that crashed over the city. Legion
after legion lifted their heads and roared a warning to the skies. In the distance the towers of Aroth reverberated, shuddering behind the curtain of rain.
Beyn ran forward, beating at the disordered mob and screaming himself hoarse in an effort to get them to move. Frightened faces turned his way, uncomprehending, until those in the lead finally set off again.
‘You! Captain! Look at me, you fuck!’ Beyn yelled, lurching to the left as he spotted another regiment of pikemen appearing around the corner of a building. It was only when Beyn fought his way over and grabbed the captain by the throat that he caught his attention. ‘You, what’s your name?’
The young man looked at him in blind panic for a moment, struggling in vain to free himself. The soldiers around him started forward, then shrank back as they saw the golden bees on Beyn’s armour, the mark of the king.
Beyn shook him like a terrier, and screamed for the third time, ‘Your name, soldier!’
‘Dapplin,’ the young captain croaked shakily, ‘Captain Dapplin of the First City Legion.’
‘Congratulations, Captain,’ Beyn shouted, ‘you’ve got a mission.’ He gestured at the ground between them and the makeshift wall they’d constructed across a bottleneck of loading stations at the wharf. In the centre stood the Tollhouse, the semi-fortified building where the customs-tolls were kept before being moved to the city treasury. General Aladorn and his cohorts had been evacuated and replaced with archers. Behind the wall was a line of troops, three-deep at the moment, with officers frantically trying to drive more in behind. Thought they looked formidable, they were raw troops holding spears in trembling hands, and the Menin had more than just minotaurs to breach the line.
‘Grab another regiment from your lot and form up in squad blocks behind the main line of archers.’ He gave the captain another shake. ‘Don’t get sucked in until your job’s done, and don’t, for pity’s sake, get in the way of the reinforcement troops!’