by Tom Lloyd
The enemy clattered to a ragged halt while their commander decided what to do. Their lines were tight; no doubt to keep them ordered and under control, but it wouldn’t help them with what Daken had planned.
‘Get us close enough, then give ’em a volley, let’s see if we can help ’em make up their minds,’ he told the marshal, who yelled the command.
The legion advanced slowly, arrows notched, bolts loaded and ready to fire. To the enemy it must have appeared they were still trying to induce a pursuit, moving cautiously enough to flee at a moment’s notice. They stood their ground and watched the Narkang cavalry approach, content to wait for them to get too close.
Dassai looked askance at Daken; the white-eye was sitting hunched in his saddle, fingers tight around the stained leather grip of his axe. As he gave the order to fire he saw Daken taking deep breaths, and his face slowly broke out into a manic grin. The arrows struck and he saw several men fall from their horses, and a few of the beasts themselves reared and kicked out in pain.
‘One more volley,’ Daken growled through bared teeth. He slipped the half-helm onto his head and watched as the horses continued walking forward all the while, closing the ground slowly and steadily.
Dassai gave the order, wondering idly whether his general would remember to give the order, or if he would just charge out all alone — that was perfectly possible, after all. The second volley killed more, and the reply from the Litse horsemen fell short, the angle of the slope and the wind against them.
‘Move, you lazy fuckers,’ someone commented from Dassai’s left, ‘maybe you’ll get close enough to hit something smaller than a hill.’ As Daken laughed out loud the marshal turned to see the speaker was a squadron captain, probably the most experienced man in the entire legion.
As bidden, the Litse began to edge closer, one block of cavalry on the left flank moving forward to a better position. Dassai felt a surge of anticipation as he saw the Litse advance, the slope taking them away from their allies.
‘Fuckers just dog-legged themselves!’ Daken announced loudly. ‘That’s enough fer me; charge, you mad bastards!’ The white-eye spurred his horse hard and the beast leaped forward as Daken raised his axe.
Marshal Dassai’s own mount followed out of instinct, as did those around him, and even before he’d had a chance to repeat the order hundreds were already charging.
Following the general’s lead, the young marshal urged his horse faster, a javelin held ready. With the slope on their side the distance dwindled with shocking speed and as Dassai hurled his javelin, closely followed by those around him, he saw the shock their charge had already caused. The Litse left flank was still trying to advance, while the right flank was trying to turn and withdraw to the safety of the main body of men, but as he pulled his sabre free, Dassai could see it was too late, there would be no avoiding their charge.
Daken barrelled directly into the exposed right wing of the Litse, screaming unintelligible curses. An arrow caught him in the upper arm, but he barely had time to notice before his horse had ploughed straight into the pale ranks of the enemy. An extended crash followed moments later as the rest of the troops arrived, but Daken was lost to his blood-rage. His horse battered a path through the first rank, and as its padded chest smashed against the first, throwing the rider from his saddle, Daken’s axe missed the man by a whisker. The white-eye whirled around and hacked down at the next, his axe shattering the soldier’s small shield and continuing through his chest.
Daken wrenched the weapon back and struck right as his horse pushed deeper into the Litse ranks. The next was felled as easily as the first, then he felt a horse smash against his own beast and before he could turn, an arm grabbed at his, nearly pulling him from the saddle. The white-eye, screaming curses, hauled back and the moment he felt the man’s grip give he jabbed over-arm with the butt of his axe and shattered the man’s cheekbone.
He raised the weapon again and saw a moment of pure terror on the face of the Litse before the curved blade chopped down into the side of his head and blood exploded everywhere, soaking Daken’s face. The white-eye swore and shook his head, trusting his men to protect him as he blinked the gore away.
Dassai, seeing his commander in need, moved in to cover him, but as his sabre glanced off a Litse’s shield, he realised it wasn’t even necessary - the Litse were barely even trying to fight back. He looked around and realised it was the same everywhere; they were struggling against their own in a frantic bid to escape. Half of the Narkang men had already pushed through the gap as the wing collapsed under their assault and were wheeling around to hit the centre Menin legion in their flank.
He stood tall in his stirrups, but still couldn’t see much more than a chaotic swirl of figures as the black livery and flashes of green tore deeper into the enemy ranks.
‘Watch your back!’ roared a voice beside him, and as Dassai turned the head of an enemy soldier was snapped backwards as Daken lunged and caught him in the throat with the spike of his axe.
He didn’t wait to thank the white-eye but went for the next Litse himself, slashing the man’s shoulder and tipping him from the saddle. He felt a spear bite the wooden shield held close to his body and slammed it against his ribs, but he managed to deflect the weapon and dislodge it from its owner’s grip by battering the shaft with his sabre. Before the man could grab his own sword, Dassai had made up the ground and cut across his exposed face, throwing him back in a spray of blood.
As the injured man reeled away it seemed to Dassai that was the breaking point. Like a herd of cattle, the Litse suddenly turned and bolted, abandoning their weapons and fleeing from the savage assault. A great cheer went up as the Litse broke, but the Narkang fighters wasted no time in exploiting the gap and turned to support those who’d already pushed through and hit the exposed centre legion. Seeing the first legion run, the Menin cavalry wilted under the assault and tried to scatter in all directions.
Seeing the confusion up ahead Daken roared, ‘Dismount!’ at the top of his voice.
As the marshal repeated the order he saw more than a hundred had done so already, anticipating the order. He too slipped from his saddle and followed Daken as the white-eye ran towards the Menin cavalry, knowing from experience it would be impossible to order their lines in time. A man on horseback normally had the advantage, but cavalry in disarray couldn’t properly fight off a concerted assault.
Panicked shouts came from the enemy line as the Narkang soldiers streamed towards them. They were only a hundred yards off, tightly packed and boxed in by the fleeing Litse. In the time it had taken Daken’s men to charge and butcher a significant number of Litse, the Menin cavalry’s attempt to turn and attack had failed miserably, a disordered mess made worse by some of the Litse actually running between squadrons of Menin in panic. Now many soldiers were milling about in confusion while dozens of voices yelled conflicting orders, warnings and curses.
One Menin squadron took the initiative and lowered spears, but as they began to advance, their officers called them back and they faltered in confusion.
Daken ignored everything but his target, an officer in the Menin front rank. A pair of horsemen saw him closing in and galloped to stop him, but before they could run him down, a ghostly figure darted forward in a blaze of smoky blue light. The horses shied away as Litania clawed at their eyes and left long bloody trails torn into their heads. One panicked entirely and ran across the path of other Menin trying to meet the onrush.
The other rider, shouting in alarm, wrenched his horse away from the Aspect’s clawed fingers and wheeled it in a circle as he tried to get the beast back under control, but Daken reached the man before the circle was complete and hammered his axe into the man’s back. The Menin arched in pain and fell, but Daken had already moved on, blood-splattered and roaring his defiance. Again the enemy shrank back as more of Daken’s legion arrived, lunging up with their spears and pulling men from the saddle. Without a cohesive line to defend, the closest Menin tried to
turn away, obstructing their comrades who, not realising the danger, continued to press forward.
Dassai found Daken again as he was carving a bloody circle through the air, swinging two-handed through the panicked Menin. Dassai had his sabre in one hand and snatched up a discarded spear in the other, using them to carve a path through the chaos. He got as close to Daken as he dared, knowing the Menin would be fighting alone, vulnerable to the Narkang men acting in unison.
Ahead of him Daken screamed, and foamed bloodily at the mouth where he’d bitten his own tongue. He gave no thought to tactics as he threw himself at one Menin after the next, determined to massacre his way through the enemy ranks. The young marshal was forced to keep back or be cut down himself as he followed in Daken’s wake, running through those men who wheeled away from the dervish hacking madly in all directions.
The Menin didn’t stay to fight. Within minutes they were sounding the retreat, trying to batter a path through their comrades. The Narkang had discovered over the last few weeks the Menin light cavalry hated close-quarters fighting, and without space to move, their height advantage meant nothing. Men lay screaming all around, many with the spears that had driven them from their saddles still lodged in their bellies.
Just as he began to see daylight through the thinning crowd of Menin, Dassai slipped on a bloody tuft of grass, and by the time he recovered his balance, the bulk of the Menin were throwing their weapons away and fleeing after their reluctant Litse allies. A few Narkang soldiers pursued, but they were on foot and soon gave up the chase, panting and bellowing Daken’s name as they ran back to their colleagues.
‘Back to the horses!’ Dassai shouted at the top of his voice. Fatigue meant the first few words were lost on the bulk of their men, but once again, they were expecting the order. The rest of the Menin would not be far away, and if they didn’t escape now they’d be the ones on the receiving end of a charge.
‘Run, you fuckers!’ Daken roared, staring after the fleeing cavalry, ‘run and tell your lord I’ll do the same ta him!’
‘General!’ Dassai yelled.
Daken whirled around, and for a moment his eyes were filled with blind fury, then it subsided and the white-eye gave him a bloody grin, sweat and blood running from his bald head. There was still a stub of arrow protruding from his left arm and a shallow cut running along his cheek.
‘Dassai,’ he laughed, raising his axe, ‘first blood to us!’
‘It’s who gets the last I’m worried about,’ Dassai said, only half-joking as he watched the advancing Menin.
‘Oh, piss on you, that was the best fun I’ll have all year,’ the general said, slapping Dassai on the shoulder as he passed. Daken paused and leaned close to Dassai’s ear. ‘Now shift yourself, ya bastard!’ he roared at the top of his voice, and with that, the white-eye set off towards the abandoned horses, laughing mightily all the way.
Dassai spared one last look at the rest of the Menin Army, looming large on the moor ahead.
That’s the last we’ll run, he promised them silently. Next time, it’s to the death.
CHAPTER 35
Doranei watched the grainy light of dawn creep over Tairen Moor, his hand never leaving his sword. The Menin were out there, a dark smear in the distance - both nebulous and threatening. He couldn’t help wondering if the fears of the many had come true and they truly were an unstoppable force led by an invincible warrior.
He tried to find the fear inside him, but it wouldn’t come. The King’s Man looked down at the discarded jug of wine at his feet. The contents spilled red, soaking into the earth and wood of the rampart. The wine had tasted like ashes in his mouth - like the pyres of Scree, or the shattered streets of Byora where Sebe had died. He didn’t crave alcohol, not this morning. The feeling thrumming through his bones was something else, an angry impatience.
‘This is another man’s war,’ he said dully, nudging the jug with his toe. ‘Let them come, and quickly.’
‘It’s our war now,’ Veil reminded Doranei as he drank from a waterskin. ‘It weren’t the Farlan brought this plague upon the kingdom; it were coming sure enough anyway.’
Doranei didn’t reply. He didn’t want to speak what was on his mind, to hand the burden on to his friend, but it was there at the back of his mind. He was tired of this all, tired of the years of struggle and seeing precious little victory from it.
Maybe all that drinking’s finally paid off, he thought sourly, it’s finally managed to numb what’s inside.
The Menin had made camp a few miles away, not close enough to contain the Narkang Army, but still a threat. General Daken had arrived mid-afternoon with the news of one final engagement: one little piece of hurt delivered for the thousands murdered in their advance. His scouts had confirmed the scryers’ intelligence: their baggage train was small and their supplies were dwindling.
Doranei leaned forward over the rampart wall, looking past the fire-dampening charms inscribed on the outside and down to the ditch below it. In a few hours he would be killing men at this very spot, spilling their blood and battering them back into the ditch. This was the heart of the army’s defences; a fortress of earth and fresh-cut logs a hundred yards across, intended to meet the crashing wave of Menin infantry and hold firm.
Behind him was the mound of earth where Endine and Cetarn had been hammering stakes into the ground. Only Isak and Mihn went there now, sometimes accompanied by the witch of Llehden or Legana, but Doranei couldn’t imagine what they were up to. The company of guards was still stationed there, to keep all others away, but he’d never seen the three do anything remotely of interest. Isak had stood there for several hours yesterday, just staring into the distance as the ghost hour came and went.
He turned and looked past the squat central tower of the fort. Cetarn had inexplicably chained the mound to the ground, which was now the centre point of a dozen or so buried tendrils, each one a hundred feet or more in length. It was dark now, but Doranei could make out the tattered grey cloak Isak wore. He elbowed Veil and pointed.
‘Aye, back there again,’ Veil said. ‘Harnessing the energies o’ the Land - isn’t that what Cetarn called it?’
The white-eye was a strange figure within the massive army camp. Almost everyone else wore armour, but Isak still shuffled about in ragged clothes, and used his tattered cloak to hide his scars from the rest of the Land. Doranei didn’t know whether Isak even owned any armour any more - although surely the king’s armourers could have beaten something out for him by now.
‘You reckon he’s drawing power from that heap of dirt?’ Doranei’s voice dropped to a whisper so the Kingsguard soldiers manning the wall couldn’t hear. ‘I got to say, I don’t think he’s the man we once knew.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Veil said. He grimaced at the thought of what Isak might have endured.
‘What if the king’s gambling on it though?’ Doranei said. ‘Why’s this all so secret? Not sure he’ll be calling down the storm any time soon these days.’
‘You rein that in,’ Veil said sharply. ‘I don’t give a damn what’s goin’ on in your head these days, there can’t be talk like that just before a battle!’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Doranei protested grumpily, knowing he was in the wrong, ‘just not used to surprises, and now there’s a plan I ain’t party to.’
‘Well you’re the one walked away, and you ain’t a general; we ain’t soldiers. This ain’t our world, so our skills aren’t in demand here.’ Veil gave him a hard look. ‘Now shut the fuck up and don’t let me hear another word. No joke, Brother; you sounded like Ilumene for a moment there - Coran hears that shit and he’ll break you in pieces.’
Doranei gave a start, his mouth dropping open in surprise. As he replayed Veil’s words in his head he realised he’d been right. Doranei found himself recoiling from the realisation: Ilumene’s betrayal had been preceded by increasing resentment towards the king, and the assumption that his advice should always be sought, no matter what
the situation.
The King’s Men were supposed to be faceless and silent, removed from politics and power, personal ambitions and desires foresworn ... Only Ilumene hadn’t been able to accept his place, one he’d embraced until he decided he stood above the rest.
Doranei found himself half a pace removed from the Brotherhood, and his thoughts had followed the same track - and Veil was right; Coran would kill him for taking even a step down that path. The more he thought about it, the more Doranei realised he wouldn’t be able to blame the white-eye for it. Doranei had personally cut down one of the Brothers killed by Ilumene during his bloody defection. He hadn’t just murdered the man, he’d pinned the bastard to a wall using eight shortswords, then ritually disembowelled him and fed his heart to the man’s own dogs.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, abashed. ‘You’re right.’
‘I know,’ Veil said airily, ‘and after this, you’n’me are going to get your shit in order, y’hear? Should be Sebe doin’ it, I know, but that’s not going to happen and he was my friend too. He’d want me in his stead to see the job done and I’ll be proud t’do it.’
Sebe, Doranei thought glumly, this life’s harder without you here. Maybe that’s what I’m impatient for. This war I can manage, been living with horror for too long as it is. Zhia I can handle, or survive her, at least. But do this all without the Brother I leaned on most of all? That’s harder than I’d realised.
‘I hear you,’ Doranei said in a quiet voice. He resumed his position, staring out toward the Menin, willing them on.
See you when the killing’s done, Brother.
Kastan Styrax walked out of his tent and stopped as the Bloodsworn knights who had camped around him in a protective ring raised their weapons and roared, their wordless fervour booming out all around and echoed back by the tens of thousands beyond.
He faced them silently, looking around at the cheering soldiers and matching their gaze. Wearing the black whorled armour of Koezh Vukotic he stood with his head uncovered and accepted their adulation. The thick black curls of his hair were tied back in the manner of a Menin nobleman, neatly, without frippery or adornment, while the ghost of a beard lay upon his cheeks. It was unusual for Lord Styrax not to be clean-shaven, but if anything he looked more Menin as a result.