Soldiers' Redemption (First Cohort Book 1)

by M. R. Anthony

  “Good work, Chow, fucking good!”

  Suddenly, I found myself standing in the second row of the battle, shoulder to shoulder with the men who would bolster those in front if they were to fall. I stooped to pick up a shield where it had fallen and saw a bloodless arm still attached to it. I kicked away the limb, not knowing whose it was. The man in front of me fell, a spear taking him in the guts and a sword taking his head half from his neck. I stepped into the gap, my shield held up and my sword to the side.

  “Come to get your hands dirty, Captain?”

  “Thought you might need a hand, Brunt.”

  I swung at the enemy in front of me, a stout man of middle years with fire in his eyes. My sword cut the edge off his round shield, and took half of his arm away. Blood spurted, showering my face and armour. I bellowed, a sound of victory and resolve. The man I’d hit tried to fall back, but the crowds behind him ensured his death. I battered aside a weak thrust and stabbed a second man in his chest, saw the light fade from his eyes.

  Another took his place, screaming at me in the hope that his voice could bolster his courage. My sword struck his shield twice, white sparks skittering away with the contact. His shield broke and I hit him with my own, before the man stumbled and was carried past me by the rush of battle. An axe came out of nowhere, striking the side of my helmet and knocking it free. I stumbled, but the man on my left – I knew him to be called Trank – stood firm and with his support I kept my feet.

  “Hiker! What’re you playing at? The line, man, the line!” I thought that was me saying those words, though I couldn’t be sure.

  A man with a dagger in each hand appeared in my vision – I didn’t know why he was armed so stupidly – but he thrusted and blocked with surprising skill. He cut a finger from the sword hand of the man to my right – Herder – and then aimed a thrust at me, just as Herder cut the man’s arm off, his own runed blade slicing through flesh and bone.

  Screams and shouts rolled over and around me as they sought to disturb my battle calm. I ignored them all, headbutting one of the enemy and flattening his nose across his face, then punching another in the throat with the knuckles of my sword hand. Blood covered my face, my hair, running down into my eyes. A man behind me – I didn’t see who – reached across me with a cloth, wiping my eyes clear in one smooth, hard motion. I shouted my thanks.

  “No problems, sir. Now kill them fuckers, will you?”

  A shield smashed against my own and I almost lost my grip. The infantryman before me was almost as big as Sinnar. He died quickly and the man beside him as well. Trank went down soundlessly, his shield broken, two swords embedded in his chest. At least there’d be two of the enemy without their weapons. Another of the First Cohort took his place – it was Dueller. He fought with skill and finesse, his slim-bladed sword weaving in and out, striking the gaps between armour, while his shield fended away the enemy’s blows. A spear took him in the throat and he fell backwards into the man behind, who cast Dueller’s body aside and stepped into his place.

  “Chow, Demon, Stacks, shore the fuck up! Don’t shit about!” That was Sinnar, now only a dozen paces away.

  “Loopy I’m going to stab you myself, if you don’t move over!” That had definitely been me.

  The spearman who’d done for Dueller died, though I failed to see who landed the blow. My foot kicked at something, one part of my mind realising that it was the severed end of someone’s leg. Blood slicked the paving beneath me and suddenly the fight became as much about keeping my balance as it was about killing the men before me.

  We were pushed back again, another surge from the enemy threatening to swamp us with their numbers. I saw Bonecruncher enter the square, his cruel face twisted with desire to see us crushed beneath his advance. Where he passed, his men attacked with renewed vigour, their hearts swelled with their commander’s hatred, filling them with a fear of what might happen if they failed to overcome the grim, tattooed warriors who defied them.

  Something else caught my eye – up on the walls, a figure had appeared in blood-red plate armour. I had no idea how Gagnol had got up there, nor did I waste time thinking about it. With a gesture, he burned half a dozen of the archers closest. His flames were strong and they had little time to scream. My distraction was almost enough to allow a man to embed an axe in my unprotected head. Herder was there for me, his sword killing the man with a single thrust.

  “Thanks,” I grunted as a second man ran himself along my sword, pushed by those behind him. I kicked him away and he fell to the ground in agony, until the trampling feet crushed his bones and burst his organs.

  “Close ranks! Corporal Langs, close those fucking ranks!” shouted Sinnar.

  “Corporal Langs is dead sir!”

  “I’ll bring him back and kill him again if he doesn’t close those fucking ranks!”

  When things got deep down, blood-and-shit dirty, there was no better man than Sinnar in the First Cohort. If Langs had sprung back to his feet, called back from the nothingness by Sinnar’s battle anger, I would not have blinked twice at it. Before I knew it, Lieutenant Sinnar was at my side.

  “Sir, get the fuck back, sir!” he shouted above the cacophony.

  I knew I shouldn’t have been where I was at the front, but damn it had felt good. I dropped away, merging into the lines behind me, the men in front closing up seamlessly as Sinnar continued his efforts to single-handedly win the battle through the power of his voice alone. Someone gave me a helmet and I slipped it over my head. It was a bit tight, but it would do until I could find a better one.

  With two men between me and the fight, I took stock without worry that I’d take a blade in the eye. Bonecruncher was away from us now, off to the left of the gate with his men crowded around, locked in combat with Commander Wolf’s soldiers. I suppressed a sneer – I should have known that he’d favour the odds against the Treads infantry. I quickly swallowed my foolish pride when I saw the banner of our lady, not twenty yards from where Bonecruncher towered above the combat. Perhaps Warmont’s Fifth had a better eye for the field than I’d credited him for. I swore that I’d see him killed today.

  I had made my vows too soon – the swelling numbers of Warmont’s men pushing through the gateway had started to force a wedge between the First Cohort and our lady, splitting our forces into two and leaving our flanks vulnerable. Our line was now bowed inwards, with Sinnar and Craddock screaming their orders to keep the men in formation. The only way to keep together was to fall back, and this we did, step by bitterly-fought step, until we were thirty yards away from the gate, one end of our line still close to the town wall.

  We’re going to lose this I thought to myself, looking about for an idea, an opening that might help change the tide of the battle. There was no hope of respite and Warmont’s men seemed to take heart from our forced retreat, attacking crudely, yet effectively through force of numbers alone.

  “Spangle, Roots, you’re out of line. Shields together men, shields together!” Even in the tumult, a part of my mind still directed my mouth to speak orders.

  I spared a glance over to where I’d seen Gagnol, what seemed like minutes before, but which had in reality only been seconds. The sorcerer was coming down the steps leading to the town square. I could see his helmet move left and right as he scanned the fighting. Every now and again, he would raise his arm in a gesture, and I knew that where he’d looked, people would have died in pain.

  The Treads soldiers from the wall crowded him on the steps, their swords banging against the sorcerer’s armour, leaving nary a scratch or a dent. I saw three men attempt to grapple with the blood-red figure as they tried to throw him from the steps onto the stone below. Where their flesh touched the metal, their skin turned black and withered, the life sucked greedily from it as the power which charged the amour drained them dry. The three men, desiccated like thousand-year-dried corpses, toppled soundlessly away, as their sword brothers did their best to find a weakness in Gagnol’s plate.

 
; Over to the left, I saw our lady’s banner, seemingly impossibly distant from us now, but only ten yards from Bonecruncher. There was nothing I could do about it and I hated myself for my weakness in the face of this unfamiliar feeling which was failure.

  I had often been told that a man should not regret events which he cannot change or has no control over. These words are easier said than followed and they make for a good lecture around the camp fire at night. The listeners will nod sagely at the advice, for the logic is irrefutable and the words powerful. It is my experience that you should not allow yourself to be governed by this notion. It is more important that you come to terms with your regrets, rather than attempt to ignore them or pretend they do not exist. There was nothing I could do to intervene for our lady, and though it pained me, I could not allow the worry to govern my actions.

  “Back line, reinforce right flank!” I shouted, making my way to the end of our line closest to the wall, with the men following my lead. As we did so, there was a violent, concussive surge nearby, and I watched as a dozen of the First Cohort were blasted aside, their bodies tumbling left and right. Two more near me burst into deep, red flames, which crackled and roasted their flesh. The tattoos on their arms and legs glowed a stark blue as the men’s wards fought the magic. Three others smouldered, thick smoke coming from them as they grimaced at the pain. We of the First Cohort did not suffer the flames of magic as easily as did other men. The first two slumped to their knees as another also burst into flame close by. Another concussion blew a hole in the middle of our line, battering the bodies of the men who’d stood there. Our ranks closed, filling the gap immediately and we were given a short respite from Gagnol’s barrage, when some more of the Treads infantry reached him, harrying him with swords and spears.

  With the extra men behind our right flank, we pushed ahead. This close to the wall the fighting was less chaotic than towards our centre and left – Warmont’s men were concentrating their efforts towards the middle of the town square – so we were able to make some progress. Gagnol saw what we were planning and he hit us with another surge of force, this time close to where I stood. All about me, soldiers of the First Cohort were thrown aside. I felt the magic’s power clutch at me, but I stood unmoved. My protections were better than those of my men.

  With one of the sudden, unexpected surges you see on the battlefield, our right made several strides in progress, reaching the bottom of the steps which Gagnol came down. I made for the steps, hearing the curses of the soldiers behind me as they struggled to stand up again after Gagnol’s attack. His air bursts would likely have slain the infantry from Treads if he’d aimed his attacks there, but we were made of sterner stuff. The Emperor had looked after us well.

  As I reached the bottom of the steps, I saw the last two of the Treads men die for their bravery. The first one made a lucky strike before he perished to the flame – the tip of his sword found a gap between two of the sorcerer’s armour plates, and it penetrated eight inches through to whatever lay beneath. I heard Gagnol grunt in pain as he lit the second man and knocked him away with the back of his gauntlet. Warmont’s Second turned, with the sword still jutting from his hip, and saw me.

  Without warning or gesture I felt agony grip my body, as the sorcerer commanded me to burn. I felt his power surge into me, instructing my flesh to char and light. The patterns and marks inked into my skin glowed as they impeded the assault, but Gagnol’s power was immense and I realised that my tattoos alone would not be sufficient to keep me alive. I did not know what happened, but somehow I quelled the flames before they took hold. I wondered if I had tapped into a hidden well of my own power that I didn’t know existed, or maybe an unknown being coursing the strands of power near to my life glow saw me and took pity, stifling the sorcerer’s magic. Whatever it was, I gave thanks and pushed myself on up the steps towards Gagnol, a dozen of my men behind me. Every soldier needs luck and I knew I must have been close to exhausting my own on that day.

  Although the only part of Gagnol which was visible was his eyes, I was certain I sensed his shock when he realised that I’d lived through his attack. I must have dropped my shield at some point below, so I swung my sword two-handed at the sorcerer’s arm. It was a powerful blow I struck, connecting with his upper arm and deflecting away. My runed sword blade glowed briefly as its magics combatted those of the armour, leaving behind a deep scar across the red metal. Gagnol swung his arm and I ducked beneath, just as Fatch joined me. Fatch burst into flame, but not before he’d taken a hold of the sword hilt protruding from the plate mail and driven it deeper into the armour’s breach.

  More men of the First Cohort surrounded the sorcerer and they hewed at him, their swords bouncing away from the armour with clangs and screeches. Gagnol burned three more of us, before Hurtle and Beamer dropped their swords and grappled with our foe. The sorcerer was tall and heavy, but the men wrestling him were strong, and they were able to unbalance him as Eyeball gave him a final shove and Warmont’s Second fell from the steps, ten feet to the hard ground with a metallic crash.

  I jumped down after him, but Twist got there first, poking his dagger through the sorcerer’s visor and into the eye behind. Gagnol screamed in agony, the sound doubling in its intensity as Twist put his other eye out. I’d known he was a tough old fucker, but it took six of us to stop the sorcerer’s thrashing, placing our sword tips over the joins between the armour plates and leaning on the hilts until the points crunched through into whatever withered remains of the man hid inside. In the end, I had to stand on his chest and drive my sword through the red breastplate and into the organs beneath. I doubted if Gagnol’s heart still beat within his ribcage, but my sword was enough to stop him moving.

  As I withdrew my sword, Hurtle kicked the helmeted head. “You fucker!” he swore, spitting into the visor. I saw that neither he nor Beamer had been drained by their contact with the armour. The armour could only draw on life energy and we had lost ours long ago.

  With Gagnol destroyed, the noise of battle cascaded back into my senses. Sound is a peculiar thing when you are pushed to extremes – it can fade in and out, seemingly at its own whim. I had no doubt that there are parts of the mind which we can’t access, which work of their own volition, protected from interference by our consciousness as they decide which information our bodies need and which they do not, in order to maximise our chances of survival. Our vision is similarly affected, bringing the immediate dangers into sharp relief, while the objects on our periphery become even more blurred and faint.

  In the brief time it had taken for us to kill Gagnol, I saw that the First Cohort’s lines had been pressed back once again and were close to buckling at the far left. I watched as Warmont’s men tried to circle around us so that they could attack from the rear. Sinnar and Craddock thundered their orders and the men did their best to overcome the odds facing them. It wasn’t going to be enough.

  Our lady’s banner was still visible, so I knew that she hadn’t yet fallen or been taken. Bonecruncher was close to her now – only five yards away I guessed. In each of his hands he held the body of a soldier – his own – and he swung them ferociously like clubs, lifting them high above his head before crashing them down onto the people below. I’d seen Bonecruncher in his madness before and was sure that he was striking friend and foe alike as he forced his way towards our lady.

  Then, something happened. It started as a gentle breeze; indeed, that is what I thought it was at first. The breeze became stronger and stronger as the air was sucked by us. It came from out of nowhere and was drawn through the packed scrum of the living and the dead who crowded the town square. Bonecruncher realised what it was first and he laughed – a cruel, knowing bellow as our lady gathered in her power to fight against the creature who was rallying the Duke’s men.

  “Magic!” he shouted, the word clear and dismissive across the square.

  As he swung the bodies he held, Bonecruncher’s laughter died away and even at my distance I could see his brow f
urrow in pain and he attacked harder, as if the physical exertion would help him to overcome the feeling. I joined Sinnar and Craddock, adding my will to their own as we shored up our crumbling line and I saw Bonecruncher begin to smoulder, slowly at first, the heat causing a shimmer in the air above him. Smoke billowed from him, thick and black. Warmont’s Fifth, the beast that counted himself almost immune to magic, burst into flame, bright and white. Bonecruncher screamed in agony and his efforts to reach our lady became increasingly desperate as the flames ate into him. The bodies he clutched also caught light and other screams reached our ears, distinguished from the sounds of combat by the extremes of pain they spoke of – Bonecruncher was burning the men around him as he tried to reach his tormentor before she charred him to the bone.

  In moments, the outline of Bonecruncher could no longer be seen and the flames which consumed him became too bright to stare at directly. They surged and coursed as the creature inside fought to the last, continuing for what seemed like an impossibly long time. If the dying Bonecruncher made a sound, it didn’t reach us where we of the First Cohort were standing. Whatever remained of Warmont’s Fifth did nothing more than topple to one side, the flames extinguishing even as he did so. More screams reached us, as the burning remains fell into the densely-packed infantry.

  There had been times, when a battle was at its fiercest, with both sides locked together and neither budging or giving quarter, that I had seen one side crumble, suddenly and totally. I sensed it first nearest to where Bonecruncher had fallen. The panic of men trying to escape the heat, combined with the visible death of their commander turned their certain victory upon its head. No longer did Warmont’s soldiers think about glory, now they thought about escape and survival, as those at the front turned on their heels, pushing and shoving at those behind. Once that began, there was no hope of recovery and the panic spread rapidly through Warmont’s infantry.