by Swanson, Jay
His sergeants called for the charge, and his troops let out their battle cry as they advanced and closed with their enemy. Discipline will carry the day, his father's words echoed in his head. Let's show these lizards what men can do.
Six rows of spearmen advanced, prickling with the long dark shafts of oak carved from the trees along the southern coast. They had carried them thousands of miles to bring death to the Relequim and his abominations; now death did they deal. The distance the soldiers could maintain with their razor tips put the Knobacks on their heels, the monsters' advance still nullified by the terror of the fire. But the Dunmar had had enough. They didn't fear fire and they wouldn't be cowed. They drew their broad, crooked blades and hacked at the rear ranks of each squadron of Knobacks that refused to press on.
The pressure built, and soon the Knobacks were bursting to fight. They pressed back into his spearmen, forced onward by their angered and terrified comrades from the rear. The front row lowered their shoulders and pressed on, attempting to charge into the few yards that rested between the two lines. Some managed to close the distance, avoiding the spikes upon which their neighbors died, but many were skewered by their own weight and dropped to the ground in massive, twitching piles.
This isn't going so badly, Beldin allowed himself to think with a pained smile. He craned his neck to check the waning sun when he noticed motion on the walls above. Oh damn you...
He turned to face his archers. “The walls!”
But arrows already flew overhead from the archers on the mountain behind them. They too had seen the Brenluck archers scrambling up the cliffs and were taking matters into their own hands. Their path up the side of the mountain was obscured from view to Beldin for the first three quarters, and he cursed himself for forgetting the possibility of the battle escalating literally to a higher level.
The first group of Brenlucks running the edge of the mountain were obliterated by his archers on the mountain behind, but the distance was too great for his own to reach them where they climbed. It was too high and too far for them to hit. He waved them down and shouted on them to fire over the front lines and into the enemy beyond.
“Swordsmen!” He rode his horse over to where his Tenth and Seventh units held the left flank. The front rows of spears were slowing as the Knobacks entered the fight for real at last. “Mighty Tenth, do you see that path?” He pointed to where a little shelf grew and dropped over the line into the Knobacks ahead. “Can you find a use for it?”
His men grinned up at him as their sergeant shouted back, “We shall become as death from above, my lord!”
The unit's ranks liquified as his men scrambled up onto the shelf and ran the full length of its incline in a steady stream. Beldin ordered the Seventh to fill in the space and collapse into fewer rows to support the spears ahead. The Tenth was his elite light unit. They were his most veteran troops, and they would indeed carve out a hole in the Knobacks if anyone could.
“First Cavalry!” He rode back to his heavy cavalry, who were anxious to regain the honor he knew they felt they had lost in the skirmish from before. “Are you finished resting on your laurels?”
“We have rested enough, my lord!” Their commander was one of the wealthiest traders in the south, a swarthy man who loved his horses second only to his trade ships. “Put us to the front!”
“The mighty Tenth are carving their mark in the enemy as we speak!” The adrenaline pumping from the rush of battle quieted his headache for the moment. He rode back along their line as he stood in the stirrups. “Can you break it wider still for me with your lances?”
As one they raised the lances in question and cheered.
“Form up on the left flank and make the widow's wedge! Break them and run them back to the pit in which they were spawned!”
He led them back towards the front, shouting for the Seventh to part to the right. He allowed the commander of the First Cavalry to pass him, the widow's wedge taking form as an angle out from the canyon walls as opposed to the arrowhead formation of a usual wedge. The last of the Tenth were jumping down off the shelf. Their presence had caused a new panic among the slow-minded Knobacks, and the left flank of spearmen advanced steadily to fill in the gap they were creating.
Now the First Cavalry forced their own way along the wall, their wedge not meant to break the enemy line in the center but to force a gap at its flank. Their commander was already scraping past the last of the Tenth against the stone and rounding into the gap that was left by the slowly retreating Knobacks. He splintered his lance on the first he came into contact with and then led his men along the outside of the unit, sword swinging overhead as he shouted his challenge.
More arrows flew overhead as the archers above held the Brenlucks at bay. The difference in the range of their weapons and the wind at the backs of his own archers made all the difference now. He turned to check his right flank, holding steady but gaining no ground against Knobacks and now two Dunmar that had moved forward to join the fight. They let their whips sail out a few more times before they dropped them in favor of their crude, square blades.
The First Cavalry curved back along their own line to eat more at the right flank of the enemy. They were on the verge of breaking, but his own right flank wasn't doing well either. The men there were giving way to the Dunmar, who stepped forward confidently and grabbed at the soldiers, tossing them back or hacking them up with such ferocity that soon they had made a hole into the ranks of the spearmen.
They hacked off the heads of the spears that stabbed out at them, ramming their square blades through fully-armored spearmen and hammering them so hard that helmets caved in from the impact. Beldin worked his horse along the rear of the infantry, shouting for the light cavalry to join him. There was no room in this press for armored horses, but he needed something to stop the Dunmar.
One was wounded now, but ferocious in its response to the strike that drew blood. It swung its blade so hard and with such untempered rage that soon it was in a frenzy, blood and sparks flying in its wake as it forced its way farther on. By the time they had killed it, the monster was at the back of the final rank of spearmen.
Beldin could sense his men wavering as he pressed forward at the head of the light cavalry, shouting to encourage them. The second Dunmar toyed with its own death now, surrounded by spearmen, but the wake it had left was filled with Knobacks. They were in his ranks, No... Beldin turned in the saddle to call his cavalry forward. “Now! Get in there!”
But as he plunged his horse forward to mend the gap in his troops, he heard what sounded like heavy rain on a metal plate. He turned to look at his left flank where the Tenth and First Cavalry had pressed the Knobacks to the breaking point, only to discover they were being showered with darts. The red plumes blurred against the walls of the canyon, but they were finding their marks and driving his soldiers to guard from above rather than attack from below.
“No.” His eyes grew wide as he realized what was about to happen, but he was committed to this strike and could do nothing to save his men.
The Brenlucks had carried shelter up the mountain in the form of wooden planks and crude shields. They had been able to cover their advance and now fired not only their short arrows but threw stones at the soldiers below. The impact from the hundreds of feet of freefall was enough to kill a horse on impact.
Beldin pressed forward, his anger turning to fury as he neared the Dunmar amidst his men. The monster saw him coming and roared, its massive head tilting back from its jaw like it rotated on a hinge. He kicked his horse forward the instant he saw it lean forward, and caught it in the throat with his sword before it had finished its cry.
He brought his sword back around and down, severing its head clean from the shoulders in the motion.
“That's what I need from you right now!” He looked at his infantry in the midst of battle as if there was nothing on the field save himself and his students. “If you aren't going to kill these bastards, then get out of my army!”
He turned his horse to move back through the lines. “Fill that gaping hole with troops or I'll fill it with your corpse!” he yelled at the cavalry commander as he passed him.
He turned back along his line, his stomach churning to think of his left flank. It was withering under the storm that unleashed itself upon them, and the Knobacks were moving back in against their weakened foes.
Beldin called for a unit of archers to follow him as he passed. He arrived at the left flank where the Seventh worked hard to press forward and relieve the Tenth.
“Archers!” He shouted as the checkered men ran forward and threw their quivers on the ground. “Kill those ugly goblins before they kill your countrymen!”
Their arrows could just reach, but were too little too late. The left flank crumbled. Beldin watched as the cavalry were separated from the Tenth by a resurgence of the Knobacks, and then suddenly they were trapped in a shrinking wedge of ground as the column behind them pressed in to remove their advantage.
He was about to lose his best units and in the process faced losing his line. “Twelfth!” He rode over to the unit next to the Seventh Infantry. “Support your left flank!” He turned to find the commander of the Second Cavalry. “Do we have more infantry in reserve?”
“Everything is before you, my lord, save the King's men in the other canyon.”
The King's men... How they were faring hadn't even registered in his mind since his own men had closed with the enemy. God help us if they falter.
“Press forward to support the line,” he said as he turned to look back towards the right flank. The spearmen were rejoining their comrades as the light cavalry supported them, but too slowly and at too great a cost. “But don't be foolish! Keep away from those cliffs until the archers have cleared them.”
“Bloody archers,” the cavalry commander scoffed as he waved for his men to come around the right flank of the archers to the line.
But the soldiers were backing up, the spearmen were thinning as his entire line lost ground; he could see the rear ranks looking to run. I need a miracle.
As if his prayers had been heard by the Trench himself, the Chaplains burst into the canyon just a half-mile on. Beldin felt a surge of hope as the heavy white cavalry burst into the midst of the rear ranks of Knobacks in the fourth column and didn't stop moving even as they churned through it.
“The Chaplains!” He shouted, hoping that morale would raise with their appearance.
The holy knights made good headway through the left column, but suddenly the earth shook to a different rhythm as Beldin could make out something red rise just behind the final ranks of Knobacks and Dunmar. Ten warriors of glowing red covered in lines of black, razor-sharp spines rose from the ground and began making their way towards the Chaplains.
Beldin's heart dropped as he suddenly recognized them for what they must be. “Daemons...”
THIRTY-FOUR
THE TRENCH SWUNG HIS WAR HAMMER LIKE A WHIRLING PROPELLER, CRUSHING THE SLOW KNOBACKS LIKE CLAY POTS AND RELISHING EVERY KILL. The Knobacks were the main body of their enemy's army, strong and slow and stupid, but effective for locking up an opposing force at close range. They were, however, useless against the might of the Chaplains. Their simple magic coursed through them and covered their horses, giving them the energy they needed to maintain their momentum as they carved a hole through the rear columns of the Relequim's army.
The Trench hurled insults along with the death he dealt, laughing at the creatures he trampled as his horse kicked and bit its way along. There was penance to pay, he shouted, and the penalty was most certainly death.
“Relequim!” He shouted as if the Demon could hear him over the carnage. “Show yourself you bloody worm!”
His laughter died in his throat, however, as the ground shuddered, and ten red warriors rose from behind the column he was eating alive.
“So this is what you send in your stead?” He called out. “Your forsaken Daemons?” He pulled on the reins as he reached the far side of the column of Knobacks, correcting his course and making north between the columns as the Daemons stepped into the space themselves.
“Well then,” he said as he slowed to allow his men to join him. “Let the game finally begin.”
The Relequim's Daemons were the champions of his army, and the Trench had been led to believe that all of them had been destroyed at the final battle of the Magi. The Relequim's dark and twisted religion gathered many adherents, followers from every corner of the Truan Empire, but the ritual and the exercise of the magic corrupted most. It left them crippled, wretched, and dying. Daemons were the few whose minds had not been broken by the power, whose bodies had not deteriorated but had been reborn and rebuilt into something cruel and mighty.
Now they stood eight to ten feet tall, armored in glowing red with serrated swords and the Relequim's own magic at their beck and call. There were nearly two hundred men of the Chaplaincy with the Trench that day, and for all of his cocksure bluster, he knew they were just evenly matched.
“Come then.” His booming voice carried well above the din of the battle. “Forge your fate, my Chaplains, and restore your righteousness with your sacrifice. For this is the greatest chance at glory the Creator will ever bestow upon you!”
His horse moved forward at a trot, saving his fire for the final charge. The mighty warhorses of the Chaplaincy were no normal beasts, but they required rationing of their energies just like any other. The Trench pulled out an amulet of his own, a heavy crystal between long sharp silver wings that rose along its sides. The sparkling white gem glowed brilliantly in the low light of the waning sun. He fixed it to the crux of his war hammer at the base of its head and spoke low words that made it shine like he had captured a star on a staff.
He howled his challenge as his horse launched himself forward into a gallop. The Daemons ran for them now too, closing the distance so quickly that they alone were clear amidst the blur of the world through the visor of the Trench. Their swords flamed an ethereal red in unison as they left the ground, their leap giving them the advantage of height over the charging Chaplains.
The Trench was expecting it though, and swung up to meet the downward strike of the largest Daemon, who had picked him out. His horse swerved to the right without needing him to beckon, and the tight ball of fire intended for his head flew wide as a result. The Trench turned quickly then, bringing his brilliant war hammer over his head and striking down hard at the Daemon. It caught the hammer on its blade, the jagged wave of the serration holding the weapon as the monster's silent stare bored into the Trench's soul.
For a split second his spirit wavered in the face of such deeply-concentrated evil. This had been a man once. A man with a soul and a family and the ability to love, yet he had cast it all away for a slim chance at the transforming power of the Relequim. He had attained it, but now he was a mere shell, a conduit for all of the Relequim's spite and hatred and malice.
And power, the eyes seemed to say a split second before a shockwave of force emanated from its core and sent the Trench spiraling off of his horse. He collided with the ground to the sound of a thousand pans clattering to the floor. The intention of his armor's design was not for lying down, and it took a concerted effort to get his feet under himself.
The Trench roared in anger as he spun to face his enemy, but the Daemon was already upon him. Its spiked boot shot out to catch him in the chest, the sole sticking to him with the grip of an earth metal, and threw him on his back into the ground. The strap to his helmet broke as they slid to a halt, the helm rattling and clanking away as the Daemon pressed down with all of its weight, threatening to cave in the white breastplate as the metal groaned against the intrusion.
Its vacant black eyes took on a sharp red glow at their core as it breathed in the scent of the Chaplain's soul. The Trench reached for the blade at his side but was confounded as the Daemon shoved him farther along the ground with a shift of its weight.
The Trench roared in defiance
as the Daemon swung its massive blade and severed his head clean from his shoulders.
“Thank God the Knobacks are stupid.” Theddalt reined in alongside the king. “Had they pressed the advantage, they could have broken our left flank.”
“I'm grateful they seem to have run out of Parnithons,” Blassen said flatly. “Their presence would change far too much on this field.”
“Move the archers forward again,” Rendin said as he turned to make his way to his other line. “Clear a path for those engaged with your men to retreat.”
Theddalt shook his head at the sheer confidence the king exuded. “Just like his father,” he said quietly as he turned to find his archers and give them the King's orders.
“Blassen.” Rendin pointed along their path at the cavalry reserve that stood ready to move to whichever side should need them most. “Where is the courier I sent to the north?”
“He hasn't returned yet, Sire.”
“Send half of our reserve cavalry then. I don't want to risk losing them all, but we don't need them here, not the way things are going.”
“Sire.” Blassen peeled off to give the king's orders as the Renault bodyguard continued on to the right branch where the fighting seemed more intense.
The southern path had been left open to this point, their escape route allowed to remain clear as he had guessed so that they could retreat and die in the desert south. He kept an advance unit of light cavalry mobile down that path to warn of any enemy sightings, but so far the battle had remained fully engaged on the two fronts of the branching, narrow canyons. He even allowed himself to believe the enemy had made a fatal error in leaving the way clear, freeing up more men to support the other fronts. Why he persisted in leaving that way clear now was slightly concerning, but Rendin hoped it meant the Relequim was running as low on troops as he was himself.
His exhaustion was becoming difficult to hide as well. Blessedly, his mind was as sharp as ever, but his body was weakening under the constant pull of his feather-weight armor. He could make decisions, but if his bodyguard was needed to fight, he was afraid he would not be able to lead from the front; in fact he knew it would be impossible.