Looking hard along his own front to make certain that his commanders had their struggling troops in hand, Boman then turned and sprinted toward the road and the right of his lines. As he ran, he looked up the hill and spied Matibar standing a few yards in front of his line of archers, gazing down the road toward the gathering clot of lashers.
“Do you still have arrows, captain?” Boman yelled up at him.
Matibar dropped his gaze for just a moment. “But two per archer,” he replied, and then he turned and looked to his left, toward Donnick. “I must send one more volley to aid General Donnick,” the captain stated tersely, “but I fear I will wish it back when that lot to our front charges up the road – as they will surely do.”
Boman slowed and looked back toward Donnick, where pandemonium reigned and then glanced down the hill toward the beasts gathering upon the roadway. “Timmon has the cannon,” he reminded Matibar.
Matibar nodded. “Yes – and we have our swords when the arrows are gone.”
Briefly inclining his own head in reply, trusting the Senecan’s judgment to do what he could, Boman picked up the pace and continued running toward the center. Just what he would do when he got there, he had no clear idea.
But things were unquestionably about to become perilous at the center of Lord Aram’s army.
And Lord Aram was not there.
35.
As Aram sat on Thaniel’s back, watching the enemy charge up the hill in the wake of their missile assault, he could not shake the feeling of irrelevance that had descended upon him. He had done all that he could to prepare his commanders and their men for that which they now faced. And the evidence of the men’s willingness to fight was apparent in the way that spikes were launched into the foe, and how, upon the heels of that action, pikes were lowered into position to receive the enemy.
But it was all so big.
How and where could he and Thaniel make a difference? Mallet would very likely need him, but there were obvious points of weakness here along this front as well. He and Thaniel could not just simply choose a spot at random to enter the fray – the peculiar aid that could be rendered by him, his horse, and the Sword must be targeted.
Restless and anxious as the enemy closed upon his front, Aram nonetheless realized that he must be patient, allow the battle to develop, and then go where he was needed most – where he and the Sword would do the most good.
Standing in the stirrups as the gray men, driven by the lasher commanders that had survived Seneca’s onslaught, crashed into the waiting army, he peered first this way and that, trying to gauge where he was needed.
As the fight erupted along the line, unevenly at first because of the disarray in the enemy lines, but then everywhere as the tens of thousands of gray men reached the front, the lines of Aram’s army held. Though there was some initial buckling, reserves were sent in by the various commanders and the line held.
Aram stood higher and strained to see where the lashers might try to concentrate their power and break through. But their numbers had been reduced by Seneca’s skill and prowess, and along most of the front, the great beasts remained in the rear, driving the gray men into the fray.
Then, off to his left, upon the level ground that had worried him earlier, a large group of lashers, hundreds of them, perhaps more than a thousand, began to gather. Almost immediately, however, Andar over on the left behind Elam, and Matibar here in the center, trained their remaining missiles upon them and began to wreak havoc among their company.
Those that survived that assault immediately turned and stormed toward the front, right at the point where Elam and Duridia came together and Donnick was in command.
Instinctively, Aram turned in the saddle, and prepared to send Thaniel in that direction.
Still, he hesitated, his mind filled with doubt over Mallet and that little hill, way over there on the right. It would not do to commit himself into the line here anywhere if it meant that his right flank was enveloped, shattered, and rolled up. It would be impossible to hold the field if that happened.
A few moments later, while Aram was still deciding whether Donnick’s position was indeed the place where he would be needed most, Wamlak led his troops down the slope toward his father’s lines. The horsemen expended their arrows into the charging lashers, and then drew forth lances and swords.
He was leaning leftward in the saddle, becoming increasingly intent on going to the front at that spot when Thaniel suddenly stiffened and swung his head to the right.
Aram looked down. “What is it?”
“It is Markris, my lord,” the horse replied. “He states that Mallet is in imminent danger of being overrun.”
Upon hearing this, all hesitation left him. “Go,” he said, and as the horse plunged toward the eastern end of the field, he glanced back toward Findaen. “I am going to aid Mallet – Markris sends word that he is in danger. Go see about Donnick,” he said. “See if he can hold until I return. Come and get me if his situation worsens.”
Findaen nodded silently and he and Andaran peeled away to the west. Just at that moment, Matibar sent another volley into the lashers to Donnick’s front. Aram looked back to see what effect the assault had upon the enemy. Many fell, but there were plenty left to wreak havoc upon the men of Elam, and contact was imminent. Wamlak was there now, almost to the lines of men surrounding his father.
He looked back toward the east as Thaniel drove to the right behind the lines of straining, shouting men. The situation to Donnick’s front troubled him deeply. Leaving the road, with its obvious though so far unexecuted threat, worried him as well. At the same time, for many reasons, Mallet could not be abandoned.
And now, despite the dangers that crowded upon his army at many places, Aram felt right. He had never grown comfortable with simply being in command – he had to be engaged in the fight.
36.
When the enemy crashed into his front, Muray drew his sword and dove into the eruption of sound and fury, right at the place where two lashers roared at the gray men in front of them. He had slain one of those beasts before, and now he lusted for the chance to do it again. The thought, odd and unbidden, flashed through his mind at that moment that he was very much like Larnce, a farmhand that had once worked for his father.
Larnce was a large, very strong young man from the north of Lamont, from the rough hill country that tumbled up on the west of the great mountains above Condon. There were poisonous serpents in those hills, serpents whose venom reportedly could slay an ox. Despite the fact that they were seldom encountered, Larnce had been deathly afraid of them from his youth.
One hot summer day, as he labored to help his father and brothers bring in their crop of hay from the slopes of the rocky hills, he had stepped on one of those serpents and been bitten on the foot.
Ill and feverish for days, he had lingered near death while his mother fretted and cried over him, and begged his father to send for a doctor that could not have arrived on time in any circumstance.
But Larnce had survived. In the end, his constitution had matched his great size, and was better and stronger than the viper’s sting.
Once he began to recover, Larnce grew even stronger than before. His father would often grin and state that, “That boy got something from that snake – what, I don’t know, but he is stronger, bigger, and a better worker than ever.”
One thing for certain, Larnce’s fear of serpents was gone, having vanished with the act of surviving that which he had feared.
Now, Larnce was in these very lines, upon the rocky slope before the tower of the grim lord, somewhere over to Muray’s right.
Muray, like Larnce, had survived a struggle with an opponent thought to be much stronger and deadlier; and though the lasher that he had slain wounded him severely, Muray became, if anything, fiercer in his desire to kill more of the beasts.
Now, with his men fully engaged and standing firm, Muray forced his way into the front lines, stabbing and slashing at the gray men
that stood in his way, and felling any that replaced those that his sword disposed.
When the soldiers to either side of him realized that their commander fought with them, they redoubled their efforts. Within moments, a substantial gap appeared in the enemy lines, and there were no reserves to fill it.
Two lashers hove into view.
Muray twisted his sword free from the body of a gray man he’d just slain, sheathed the blade, and picked up a pike. He grinned a savage grin at the twin behemoths.
“Alright, big boys,” he grunted. “Ready to taste of my steel, are you?”
The monster to Muray’s left, though slightly behind the other as they came up, was larger than his comrade, and evidently anxious to rid the battle of this pesky human with the bushy red beard.
Shoving his companion aside, the lasher raised his halberd and brought it down and across in a slashing side stroke, designed to sever Muray’s head from the rest of him.
To the beast’s surprise, Muray stepped into the falling stroke, ducked down and shoved the butt of his pike into the rocky earth. Then, using it like a lever he thrust upward, intercepting the lasher’s stroke and causing the broad blade of the halberd to ricochet off the shaft of the pike and sail upward.
The shaft of the pike shattered under the force of the blow and Muray’s hands and arms vibrated painfully. Ignoring the pain, he quickly drew his sword and struck at the twisting body of the beast, driving the steel deep into the sinewy flesh below the rib cage, and then, with a savage twist, yanked it free. Brackish blood spewed and the beast gave vent to a howl of torment.
Seizing upon their commander’s brave actions, those soldiers nearest him assaulted the lasher with hard thrusts from their pikes, and at least one man succeeded in piercing the great beast, causing him to lose his balance and tumble back down the slope whence he’d come. As he fell, the lasher collided with his companion, shoving him sideways. Roaring in anger, the second lasher regained his balance and spun to continue the attack.
But Muray and his men were ready.
“Come on, boys!” Muray shouted. “Give him the sharp end of your pikes!”
Emboldened by their success in driving off the first lasher, Muray’s men lunged forward with their pikes, impaling the second beast in several places. As the lasher twisted and swung his halberd in an attempt to wrestle free of the offending steel, Muray leapt to the side and slashed at the meaty part of the beast’s thigh.
Ducking around to the other side, he slashed at the other leg, his blade cutting deep just below the knee. Then whirling back the other way as his men strained to keep their pikes in the beast while avoiding the massive halberd, Muray stuck his blade deep into the meat of the thigh he’d slashed moments earlier and twisted with his might.
Something cracked, and the beast went down.
“Swords!” Yelled Muray. “Strike at his hands and arms. Kill him!”
Then he turned to face the first lasher, who’d managed to regain his feet and work his way back up the hill.
“Pike!” Muray yelled again, and someone thrust one into his hands.
Before the beast could rise to attack Muray upon the same level, Muray thrust the pike with his might. The beast swung the butt of his halberd and Muray missed, losing his balance and going to one knee. But his leadership had raised the blood of the men near him to feverish levels.
Other pikes assaulted the great beast. Some were thrust into his face, while others found exposed parts of his massive body. Having lost his own pike in the melee, Muray once again drew his sword and went to work on the lasher’s arms and legs, sawing and hacking with his might.
Within moments, the beast was down and at their mercy.
The news flashed along the front like lightning.
Muray and his men have slain two lashers!
Where this incredible rumor went, courage seemed to go with it. Men’s hearts were raised. If Muray can do it, so can we.
Muray and his men had created a gap in the enemy lines and now the fierce commander meant to exploit the opening. Shouting hoarse commands at his third rank, he moved men through the lines and formed them up, facing each way along the front. Directing his attention to the east first, he sent those men on a flanking maneuver into the ranks of gray men.
There was another lasher a short way along, and Muray raised his voice. “You know now that they can die, lads. Forward – and I will be with you in a moment!”
Then he pivoted and focused his attention on the men facing west.
His savage heart almost pounded to a stop.
He was looking at the road, in clear view a few dozen yards away.
Massed upon that road, preparing to charge straight into the heart of the army, was a clot of at least a hundred lashers.
37.
Edwar was heartened as he watched lashers fall by the score beneath the terrible assault of Senecan arrows. Again and again those deadly missiles rained upon them out of the sky. Beasts went down. Many never got up again. With each gap that opened up in the ranks of those great monsters, Edwar’s spirit lifted a bit more.
His men had not faced those beasts at the Bloody Stream, and he was not anxious to meet many of them here. He gave the order to employ the spikes when the gray men were but twenty yards away, all the while wishing he had hundreds of the things and could use them upon the surviving beasts that trailed behind.
The slope in front of his lines was fairly steep and rough. When the enemy made contact, it was spotty at first and those men that felt the first brunt held, giving courage to those that still waited for the fateful moment to arrive.
“Hold, men – hold!” Edwar shouted as he roved back and forth behind his soldiers. “Lean your weight into your weapons.”
The noise of the battle began abruptly, like an explosion, but quickly escalated further, into a horrific cacophony of grunts, curses, and screams of pain.
The steepness and roughness of the ground to the front aided his men greatly, but over to the right, on a ridge that ran out in front of Kaspar’s troops, a group of lashers bunched up and punched through. Edwar yelled for reserves and sprinted that way, drawing his sword as he ran.
But Findar, positioned over to the right behind Elam, saw the danger, too, even across a distance of more than two hundred yards. Before Edwar could reach the breach, as the beasts began to lay about them with their massive halberds, killing and maiming with each stroke, the Senecan captain sent a concentrated volley of death into them.
By the time Edwar reached the clot of lashers, all were injured, many were down, and some were prone, kicking at the ground with their clawed feet in the final throes of death.
“Swords!” Screamed Edwar, as he brandished his own above his head. “Muray slew one of these beasts with his sword,” he reminded the men nearby. “Upon them – now!”
And the men of Lamont fell upon the hapless lashers, all of whom were wounded by Findar’s volley. Within minutes, they were dead, and the breach sealed.
A great shout went up, even as word came from the west.
Muray’s men have slain two lashers!
Kaspar, his face fouled by brackish blood, grinned and lifted his sword high.
“Yes? Well, tell them – we have slain eleven.”
But there was little time for celebration. The enemy still pressed upon them all along the front.
“Back into line – form up the line!” Edwar yelled. When the line was reformed and the breach stopped, before he turned back toward the west and his own center, Edwar looked at the distant line of Senecan archers and raised his sword in salute.
Having averted disaster here on his right, Edwar found some high ground from which he could examine the whole of his front, in case there were other imminent dangers.
It was when he looked to the west, at Muray’s position upon the road, that he knew disaster was not only imminent but upon them.
38.
Thom stood in the front rank of his troops as the enemy advanced upon them
. Feeling a touch upon his shoulder, he looked to his right. A young Elamite by the name of Braden stood there, his pike in his other hand as he pointed to the rear.
“General,” Braden suggested, “shouldn’t you be back there?”
Thom grinned. “No more than you should be, son.”
Braden glanced down the slope at the approaching enemy before looking back at Thom. “But what will we do if you are injured or ….. or slain?”
Thom’s grin widened and grew savage.
“Then you will avenge me,” he said.
Braden stared at him for a long moment, and then swallowed and nodded. “I’m glad you’re here, sir.”
“I would be nowhere else,” Thom assured the young soldier. Then he looked down the slope. The enemy had picked up the pace and were coming on the run.
Thom raised his voice. “Ready spikes!”
After those unwieldy weapons had been employed and had pierced gaps here and there in the line of gray men, Thom looked at Braden before raising his voice once more. “Ready pikes!” He yelled, dropping his own down into position, grasping it firmly with both hands. “Here they come!”
There was little, if any, emotion in the slitted eyes of the gray-skinned soldiers that stared at Thom through the eye-guards of their helmets. But there was surprising strength in their muscle and sinew. As he blocked the pike that was thrust at him with his shield, Thom dropped his own and then abruptly brought it up, stepping into the stroke.
The gray soldier made no sound except for a guttural grunt as the sharp steel pierced him, but the black eyes widened for a moment in pain and then dulled. Thom twisted his pike and drew it out, falling back a half-step as he prepared to face the second enemy in line.
This one was quicker and cleverer than his fallen comrade. As Thom feinted to the side, lifting his shield with his left forearm, drawing back his pike for a killing stroke, the gray soldier moved the other way, and plunged his pike behind Thom’s shield, and found the exposed flesh of his shield arm.
Kelven's Riddle Book Five Page 25