The Ragged Man

by Tom Lloyd

  Doranei didn’t waste time being surprised, he wrenched the sword back and tugged the axe from the Chetse’s hands; his second strike across the man’s face cut bronze helm, flesh and bone with equal ease.

  From overhead a pair of steel grapples dropped down right in front of him, catching on the logs supporting the rampart; he cut through the rope of one quickly enough, but before he could get to the other, one end of the log was dislodged in an explosion of earth and tugged towards the Menin lines.

  He watched a small trail of soil patter down onto his boots, and it momentarily increased as the ground shook beneath him. Doranei sensed everyone hesitate, and for a half-second silence fell as a heavy reverberation ran forward across the moor. On both sides the men of the Brotherhood recovered quickest and ran through their opponents, but most eyes were on the tremor shuddering through the Menin ranks. A great tearing sound rang out as a circle of ground thirty yards across dropped suddenly away beneath a tightly packed Menin legion, taking a hundred or more men with it.

  Doranei blinked. A great cloud of dust had been thrown up, and in the middle, a sudden blazing light erupted and through the swirl he saw a tall figure in brightly coloured robes, standing with arms outstretched where there was no ground to stand on. Spinning bands of light raced from each hand to the air underneath him and with a flourish the mage started moving backwards. He staggered slightly as he reached firm ground again, but he was otherwise unharmed.

  ‘That fat bastard better step up the pace!’ Coran growled as he smashed through yet another shield.

  Doranei didn’t waste time agreeing. The battle hadn’t been raging for long, barely a quarter of an hour, he’d guess, but that was only Coran’s second attempt, and they were badly outnumbered here. Whatever their advantages of position, their losses weren’t so easily replaced on the line.

  The sudden heavy beat of drums from the back of the Menin line sparked a flicker of hope in his heart. At first nothing happened, but then the call was taken up and the attackers edged backwards, away from the reach of the Narkang weapons. Once disengaged, they wasted little time in turning and heading for the gaps between the men of the second rank.

  ‘Hold the line,’ King Emin shouted hoarsely, Suzerain Derenin repeated it more loudly, and immediately the order was shouted from all sides. Doranei looked at the men standing with him as someone dragged dead Brother Daratin out of the way. No one showed much inclination to pursue the enemy; the sight of Narkang bolts taking them down as they fled was enough for most. The battle was far from won, but they all knew a pursuit could mean it lost soon enough.

  ‘Enjoy it, brothers!’ King Emin shouted after a mouthful of water. ‘Enjoy the sight. They’re not used to this! You’re the first to drive them back - and that won’t be the last lesson we teach Lord Styrax today!’

  Despite himself Doranei raised his sword and cheered with the rest of them. There’d be little enough to cheer come the end of the day. But as he shouted with the others, he found his body didn’t want to stop. Tired though he was, that sudden rush, feeling alive as he yelled himself hoarse, was hard to let go of. Then Veil tossed him a flask of brandy and he felt something better.

  Standing with one foot on the artillery’s marker stone, Lord Styrax watched his first wave fall back without comment. He started to turn to his right, and stopped when he realised no one was there. Under his enclosed black helm his expression darkened: he still expected to find Kohrad in his lee. The young white-eye had been slow to learn restraint, so he’d kept him close, to teach him the skills he’d need when he inherited his father’s empire.

  Styrax’s hand tightened into a fist. There would be no inheritance now. He could nominate a successor - a man he respected, and trusted with the future of his empire - but there would be no swelling of the heart as he watched his son find his own path to greatness. Kohrad’s mother, Selar, had poisoned her own womb when she saw how he worshipped his father; Kohrad’s betrayal had broken her heart.

  ‘Captain Hain,’ he called brusquely. ‘What is the state of the cavalry?’

  The officer hurried up and saluted. What was left of his troops had been temporarily reassigned, and Hain attached to Styrax’s own command staff. ‘It’s good, my Lord. General Gaur continues to shadow the enemy, to ensure they cannot outflank us, so their horsemen are effectively negated.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ Styrax said, still staring towards the fort. ‘What are the casualties from that first tunnelling spell?’

  ‘Severe: at least a regiment incapacitated, probably the best part of two. We must assume the second strike has had the same effect.’

  The huge white-eye was silent for a moment. ‘Tell me, Captain Hain,’ he said eventually, ‘if you were King Emin, how would you approach this battle?’

  ‘I — Ah, I’d expect it to be my last, sir. A lord’s importance to his army is immense, especially when inexperienced troops make up the majority.’

  The white-eye nodded. ‘So you would expect me to kill you as swiftly as I can. Why then would you place yourself in a crucial position?’

  ‘Because my presence would inspire them to fight hardest. If the position falls, then my life is likely lost, no matter where I am. Casualties in the first wave look heavy; it’ll cost thousands to take for sure.’

  Styrax raised a hand to stop him. ‘Or you could place yourself there as a lure, to keep me occupied while the weapon you hope will win the battle does just that.’

  Hain shrugged and tugged the strap holding his axe in place. ‘Didn’t hear what we did at Tor Salan, then. It’s a desperate thing to trust your whole nation to.’

  ‘But if you fear there is no other option?’

  ‘Then I’d defend that weapon with everything I have. Make sure no one gets through, no matter the cost, and aye, risk my own life to drawn the attack away.’

  Lord Styrax turned and looked back at the cavalry. It was hard to make much out as they were spread out to prevent enemy incursions. There had been dozens of small engagements, testing the enemy and probing for weaknesses but Gaur would see they remained inconclusive. The enemy had the advantage of numbers, but the beastman had two heavy infantry legions to hold his centre. If the Narkang cavalry tried to pin Gaur down or swamp him, they’d find themselves blunted on his shield wall, then butchered.

  He looked further, to the seven legions of the reserve, three of which were Menin heavy infantry. They remained in formation directly behind Styrax, ready to exploit any opening.

  ‘Send the second wave to attack the fort and a rider to inform General Gaur I’m committing the reserve. I want the Bloodsworn, Reavers and remaining minotaurs on the right flank of the fort with the Menin reserve, and Lord Larim to take the other flank with the rest, together with Gaur’s infantry. Gaur is to keep tight to the first wave of troops once they’ve reformed and use them as he seems fit.’

  ‘Like pulling the head off a sentinel lizard,’ Captain Hain commented as he saluted to acknowledge the orders.

  ‘Exactly - I’ll deal with this weapon myself and leave King Emin stranded. He’ll learn the hard way that no defence is absolute.’ Styrax stared at the fort, where the king was commanding its defence. ‘But of course, full honours to any man taking the king’s head before they surrender, Menin or otherwise. Ensure the men know.’

  The fighting along the tree-line was growing increasingly desperate. Daken prowled behind the lines of troops like a hunting lion, all the while bellowing orders and cursing. Osh watched him, blood-stained and battered after the desperate fight with the Chetse but as unrelenting as winter. Intentionally or not, Daken was performing exactly the role King Emin had intended for him: the raging, indefatigable white-eye hero. He was egomaniacal by nature and blood-crazed in battle; it was impossible not to take heart from the Mad Axe’s presence. Daken’s legend was mixed, but Osh could see Daken’s past crimes meant little here.

  Large numbers of Chetse had got lost in the tangled forest, trying to skirt the troops stationed t
here, making little headway as they’d attacked piecemeal. Now the men were gathering up the several hundred Menin dead and piling them up as makeshift barricades - they wouldn’t stop anyone attacking, but it channelled the remaining forays to ground of Osh’s choosing as well as keeping the troops busy.

  The Menin had withdrawn to regroup after half an hour of brutal hand-to-hand combat, the sobbing cries of the injured filling the air as they were dragged back from the front line. The grass at their feet was stained by the blood and loosened bowels, and Osh could see from the faces of those left that the full horror of the battle was settling in. The only thing he could do about it was to keep the men busy, bringing up the next line of troops and withdrawing the battered legion that had borne the brunt of the first assault.

  Counting the dead was difficult amidst all the bustle and chaos. The open ground was a hundred yards across, and the dead lay strewn across it. The enemy had brought makeshift walkways to cross the fifteen-foot-deep ditch and used their archers to pin the down the defenders while they got enough troops across to take them down. Their attack plan had nearly succeeded.

  Shouts suddenly rang out from the front rank of troops. Osh scanned the ground, at first thinking the Menin were advancing already, but he could see nothing. When he listened more carefully he realised it was anger, not alarm, that he was hearing.

  He sent one of the young officers attending him to investigate while he checked behind him: an old man’s battlefield paranoia never died. Troops behind stood in neat blocks; a division of five hundred spearmen was heading over to bolster his numbers. Companies of fifty were stationed all around, watching for surprises from the rear. They’d had to deal with a second pair of minotaurs, but now all was quiet; it appeared they’d weathered the worst of the flanking attack. He doubted they’d try to surprise them again from the forest - it was impossible to maintain any form of order there, and a piecemeal assault wasn’t going to be enough.

  ‘Sir,’ called the lieutenant as he returned, face pale, ‘sir, they’ve got captives out on their line - they’re torturing them.’ The young man was barely old enough to join the army - seventeen winters if that, and most likely a year into some commission promised before his parents had known what was coming.

  ‘Tell our archers to fire on them,’ Osh ordered.

  ‘But they’re women and children, sir!’ the youth exclaimed in dismay.

  Osh lurched forward and grabbed him by the throat with one powerful hand. ‘Sonny, they’re going to die, no matter what - so you’d wish them something slow and agonising, or the peace of a swift death?’

  ‘No, sir - yes, sir,’ the lieutenant spluttered.

  Osh released him. ‘Exactly. So give the order.’

  He watched, his teeth gritted, as the first few arrows were fired. Despite the deaths they’d just seen, the slaughter of hundreds whose blood now stained their boots, shooting at captives was clearly a reminder of things they’d pushed to the back of their minds. Osh knew men faced battle in different ways, but none wanted to dwell on thoughts of family and loved ones: that sucked the fire from a man’s belly, and sure as anything would see him face-down in the mud before long.

  And now I’m at it, Osh chided himself, Gods, man - you are getting old!

  ‘No time for all that,’ he said aloud, ignoring the questioning looks he got from his remaining aides, ‘what are the bastards going to try next?’

  ‘Ah, Reavers, sir?’ opined the boldest of his aides, a tall olive-skinned youth who has been one of Osh’s pupils until war had broken out, when he had begged to join his teacher’s staff.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ Osh laughed. ‘Last thing we need’s more bloody white-eyes here! But you’re right - it’ll be something to disrupt us. Maybe mages, something to give them a step forward, at least. They won’t win the ground easily, there’s too many of us to push back, so they’ll need to chop a path through.’

  ‘Shall I send another division to support? Increase the number of ranks?’

  Osh frowned at the lines of fresh infantry, their pike-heads glinting in a rare shaft of sunlight. The men were eight ranks deep and tightly packed. He shook his head. ‘No, it’s sufficient. Bring the reserves up in regiment blocks with free ground around them. I want them to be able to react when the unexpected is thrown at us.’

  ‘Tachrenn Lecha,’ General Vrill said slowly, as he watched the last of the captives discarded after having their throats cut.

  The Chetse commander turned to face the white-eye, screwing his eyes up slightly as the Menin’s enchanted armour fluttered in a breeze that Lecha could not feel, the air around it appearing to constantly dance and twist.

  ‘General,’ Lecha said dully, letting the head of his axe fall to the ground. The tall Chetse’s skin had turned almost bronze in the summer sun, a similar hue to his polished armour. He tugged his helm from his head and tucked it under his arm as he waited for Vrill to speak. He had little time for most Menin officers, despite acknowledging Lord Styrax as a man capable of leading them all to glory.

  ‘Your troops are ready?’

  ‘For what?’ Lecha spat. ‘Another suicide mission? It looks to me as though most of the Flamestone Legion aren’t coming back out of that damn forest.’

  ‘For the decisive action,’ Vrill growled, swinging abruptly around towards Lecha and forcing the smaller man to step back. ‘Your legion is the Caraper Guard, is it not? And is that not a powerful, armoured predator?’

  ‘It is,’ Lecha said warily.

  ‘Well, emulate it then.’ Vrill pointed at the left flank of the open ground, where the ranks of enemy abutted the long defensive ditch. ‘We’ve heard enough of the strength of Chetse warriors; now it’s time to prove it. Reform your legion, forty ranks deep, and punch through the enemy. Add whatever remains of the Flamestone Legion to extend your front ranks and conceal your depth.’

  ‘Just us?’

  ‘Not alone.’ Vrill assessed the two Menin heavy infantry legions briefly. ‘The Second Tocar Legion on your right flank, the First behind you. We’ll move up the line to widen the breach.’ He gestured towards a hairless mage with unnaturally pale skin hovering nearby. ‘Lord Styrax intends to penetrate the line behind the fort - let us show him how it’s done.’

  Tachrenn Lecha bared his teeth and jerked his axe up into his hands. Heading back towards his men the Chetse called back to Vrill, not caring who else could hear, ‘Tsatach’s chosen people will show you all.’

  CHAPTER 37

  Osh watched a line of shadow sweep from the north over the Narkang lines as a bank of cloud drew in. The late morning sun was again hidden as the king’s mages kept the threat of a storm close to dissuade Lord Styrax from employing his wyvern.

  ‘Enemy advancing,’ called one of his aides, hurrying up from his position at the ditch, ‘Menin legion in deep order on the left. Chetse legion tight to them, and more Menin approaching the ditch directly.’

  Osh hissed a curse as he turned to wave forward more troops. ‘Major, take your troops and brace the left flank — shoulders in their backs, man.’ He pointed to where he wanted them, and didn’t wait to watch them go. He walked to the aide’s station at the ditch: there was a division of archers on the right of the Chetse, then a gap of fifty yards before two legions of infantry in Byoran colours. He could see they carried more bridges to throw across the ditch; many of their front rank were using them as shields against the continuous arrow-fire.

  Daken appeared at his side, clapping a massive hand on the ageing warrior’s shoulder. ‘Not getting enough action at the back, eh?’

  ‘I’m trying to work out if they’ve got anything more up their sleeves than brute force.’

  ‘Force works fer me. Strongest man wins, that’s the way o’ things,’ Daken declared.

  They watched the enemy approach at a steady tramp. They wouldn’t want to be running more than two hundred yards in heavy armour, however quickly they wanted to cover the ground. The Menin approached with spears ready to
be levelled, hunched down behind their shields, while the Chetse carried shields only in their front ranks, to protect the majority while they closed for the kill.

  At seventy yards, Osh suddenly felt a cold ball of dread appear in his stomach. The Chetse legion had angled unexpectedly, just as they were readying to charge, moving ahead of the slower Menin. Suddenly the right hand side of their line faltered and Osh realised what they were up to: the Chetse were in deep formation, massed on one side behind a standard front rank. The effect of the men of the right halting slanted the legion’s advance so when the charge was sounded, they were coming at an angle.

  ‘Merciful Gods,’ Osh breathed.

  For once Daken had nothing to add. He pointed with his axe to the alarmed aides behind them. ‘Summon the reserves, everyone you can — now!’

  There was little time for anything more. A great roar came from the Chetse legion as they gathered pace, their shield line intact and closing. Osh felt the rumble of their feet through the ground: fifty yards, now thirty . . . The pikemen lowered their weapons to present a spiked wall, but now the pikes weren’t pointing directly at the enemy.

  Osh looked around as enemy arrows began to fall and the Byoran troops marched steadily towards him. He stood only twenty yards from the end of the ditch and felt as much as heard the impact as the Chetse collided with their line. It rang out like a long peal of thunder, distantly building before crashing against his ears.

  The ranks shuddered visibly, and a dozen men in the final rank were thrown from their feet as the force was transmitted back through the press of bodies. Any screams were drowned out by the clatter of weapons and the bloodthirsty bellows of the Chetse . . . then it went suddenly and terribly quiet. Normally the front line would hunker down behind their shields and let the heavy axes do their horrific work, but not this time. Osh found himself frozen, unable to move as the line of conflict paused, held in the balance, before the Chetse drove forward as one.