by Tom Lloyd
In the distance there was sound. He tried to concentrate on the noise to block out the pain, but it was not enough. Sometimes he could hear faint screams, sometimes laughter. Often there was only the slither of scales and skin over stone, or a distant booming that he felt through the rock more than heard. Whatever the sound, it was always dull and indistinct, even when the claws clicked close enough to touch his body. Hot huffs of foetid breath came accompanied by guttural snorts. Their whispers produced images in his mind, horrors he had no name for, and the words themselves were unintelligible.
It was too dark to see, but on occasion flashes of vermilion-tinted light burst in his eyes. His prison was a forgotten fissure. His blood was a feast for his monstrous attendants who crawled up walls and along the roof; sometimes they fought desperate battles, tearing shreds from their enemies; greedily gulping down chunks of hard-won flesh before the battle was even over, or they got cast into the jagged pits and yawning chasms below.
His head sagged and he stared down into the emptiness beneath his feet, mindless of the cruelties inflicted upon him. His tongue was a lead weight that filled his mouth; he could no more gag than scream. For a moment he thought perhaps he had succeeded in howling, until the stench of putrefaction and heavy rasp of limbs told him there had been another victory on the walls around him. In the prison of his mind, his screams were deafening.
Isak wrenched himself awake with such force he fell from his camp-bed. He moaned and dry-retched at the memory of the dream, shudders rattling down his spine. After a few moments he forced his head up and saw the grey light of dawn creeping through the entrance of his tent. He’d managed no more than two hours of sleep and his mouth felt like it was filled with sulphurous ash.
‘No good reason it’s today,’ he said hoarsely, and reached for the wineskin hanging from the ridgepole. ‘Could be nothing but some damn shadow messing with my mind, or the Reapers giving Aryn Bwr a reminder of what’s waiting for him.’
The wine was sour and weak, but it took away the foul taste from his mouth. His tent was simple, barely long enough to fit the whole of his oversized body, and far from the luxury some dukes went to war in. Isak was beginning to regret his decision to set an example. The fact that Chalat had burned or redistributed the finery some clerics had brought with them was small consolation on a cold, grey morning.
The bowl of water beside his bed was far from clean, but it was good enough. Isak plunged his hands in and started scrubbing roughly at his face, desperate to get rid of the hot, greasy feel of his dream that lingered still.
Afterwards, feeling a little refreshed, he struggled into his armour. The cold in his bones began to ease once Siulents touched his skin, and he felt almost human again by the time he buckled Eolis around his waist and stepped out into the dawn light.
Two men were waiting for him under a sky of heavy black clouds: the implacable white-eye and the flamboyant hero. Count Vesna was resplendent in his legendary black-and-gold plate, while General Lahk wore the austere black-and-white livery of Lord Bahl over the lighter half-armour of the Ghosts. The sight of Lahk reminded Isak that one cleric had even gone so far as to demand command of the Ghosts be given over to the cult of Death, since they wore the livery of a dead man.
‘Where the buggery is Torl?’ Isak snapped.
‘He presents his apologies,’ General Lahk replied in his usual flat voice, sounding almost disinterested. ‘Suzerain Torl says he cannot leave Chalat’s army; that he must finish what he started.’
‘He does remember he started it because I ordered him to?’
‘Isak, he’s a proud man; a man of honour,’ Vesna said.
The hero of the Farlan Army somehow contrived to look fresh and awake, despite the fact dawn had not fully broken yet. His golden earrings of rank gleamed in his left ear and his shining hair was neatly tied back; he looked ready to attend a parade in his honour. The scattering of grey hairs among the black contrived only to add a certain sage dignity to his ever-handsome features. Isak glowered at him.
‘He will not leave them now, not after he has force-marched them here.’
‘He’ll bloody die!’ Isak protested as loudly as he dared; he did not want to attract the attention of the entire legion of Ghosts surrounding them.
‘I’m sure he understands that,’ Vesna hissed fiercely, ‘but it is his choice. Torl is not a man who walks away. He’s sent Tiniq back, and all those seconded to him from your personal guard, but that’s as far as he’s going.’
Isak scowled as a woman in the quartermaster’s livery ran up to him with a steaming clay pot and a large hunk of bread. He accepted both with a grunt, and when the woman looked worried, fearing she’d offended him, he managed a small smile of thanks.
‘What do the scryers say?’ he asked through a mouthful of bread.
‘The enemy have held their position. There were a few probes in the night, but nothing serious, just scouts trying to draw us after them.’
‘And the reinforcements?’
‘Theirs or ours?’ Lahk asked.
Isak shook his head in irritation. ‘Theirs, of course - ours are so far behind we might as well have not even bothered calling them up. I doubt they’ll be here in time to bury the dead!’
‘Fifteen legions, no more than two days away. We could sacrifice our light cavalry to at least slow them down, but only if we could get Chalat to hold off his assault long enough for us to outflank them.’
‘So he didn’t bother bringing his full army to conquer the Circle City?’
‘You are right to be suspicious, my Lord, but where the remaining troops are I cannot say. The scryers cannot find them anywhere.’
‘Let’s count what blessings we do have,’ Vesna said firmly. ‘Chalat is determined to march straight into Styrax’s men, making himself a damn big target for whatever Styrax intends. That saves our troops from the worse of their surprises, and gives us a chance to watch out for the rest of the Menin, whether they’re behind the walls of Byora or elsewhere.’
Isak nodded. ‘And also giving us the chance to not engage at all unless we really have to. The closer we can get to Byora the better. With luck the Ghosts can break through the gates and take the Ruby Tower. Either way, we don’t want to give Azaer any space to intervene if we can help it.’
‘I doubt the opportunity will arise, my Lord,’ Lahk said. ‘Everything I hear about Kastan Styrax makes me certain there will be a surprise waiting.’
‘I know, but it’s still not why we’re here. There’s a fair chance he’ll take Chalat out after the initial charge - if he does, those mercenaries will fall back. That’s our opportunity to treat with Styrax - we can tell the clerics it’s a ruse; if they do object, they’ll be too disorganised to do anything about it in time.’
Lahk bowed, his face expressionless. ‘As you wish, my Lord.’
‘How near ready are we?’
‘Two legions mounted and formed up, plus the First Guardsmen to the east,’ Vesna said, pointing to Isak’s left, ‘and the Fordan and Tebran divisions behind you.’
As he spoke, an aide ran up with a scout in tow. The soldier was dressed more like a forester: his poorly fitting tunic had been reinforced with steel strips and he carried a light helmet. A long dagger was tucked into his belt; if he had a bow, clearly he’d left it with his horse.
‘Report,’ Lahk commanded as the pair saluted Isak.
‘General,’ the aide began breathlessly, ‘Lord Chalat has given the order to advance.’ Isak guessed the youth to be a couple of years younger than he was himself, probably a noble son assigned to Lahk’s command staff since it was deemed a relatively safe post.
‘Disposition?’ he asked.
‘Wide advance, sir,’ the scout replied confidently. His accent marked him as a man of the mountains, despite the absence of any identifying badge. He was twice the age of Lahk’s aide, and obviously experienced, if the scar on his face was anything to go by. ‘Divisions o’ Knights o’ the Temples and penitents, wi
th Chalat and the Cardinal Paladins in the centre, Dark Monks on the left flank and the rest o’ the penitents on the right - penitents’re in tight division blocks, though Suzerain Torl don’t look like he ’eard the order quite right and chose to stay loose.’
‘Damn Chetse don’t know anything about cavalry,’ Vesna muttered. ‘It’s a wonder he’s got them moving at all.’
The scout wisely chose not to comment, but continued, ‘The Siul legions are clearing ahead; enemy’s got archers and light cavalry stationed at each bridge. They’ll have engaged by now.’
‘What state are the rivers in?’
‘Look high to me, sir - the ground’s soft, so I’d say there’s been a fair amount of rain. Can still be crossed, but only slowly. I’d not want to be the one trying to outflank the enemy.’
Lahk turned to Isak. ‘My Lord, we should have the Tirah cavalry standing ready as rearguard - if the enemy does have reserves hidden behind Byora’s walls, we need to move now to ensure they’re not exposed.’
Isak sighed and looked up at the sky. It’s promising rain, and if it does, it’ll be even harder going. The more bogged-down the clerics get, the more likely it is we’ll engage and I’ll end up face to face with Lord Styrax.
‘Give the order,’ he said to the general. ‘It’s going to be a long, hard day.’
Dawn turned into morning with a sullen reluctance. Isak had a clear view of the battlefield from atop a small rise. In the east was the massive bulk of Blackfang, and in front was Byora. He had a fine view of the two levels which rose up from behind the main wall of the city. The quarter’s unnaturally tall towers were dwarfed by the great black cliffs behind.
He couldn’t see Akell; it was hidden by a sloping spur of rock that jutted out from the main bulk of Blackfang. Pretty obvious the Circle City isn’t really one continuous city, he thought to himself. Outside the Byora city wall was a wide skirt of buildings that looked like shanties, getting progressively larger and nicer the further they were from the wall. Larger detached houses and farms dotted the land all the way to Ismess.
To the west were the mist-covered fens that spoiled the view from the Duchess of Byora’s Ruby Tower. They looked closer to the city than Isak remembered. Even in his childhood when he was running wild, Isak had kept away from the fens: they were treacherous at the best of times. The wagon-brat might not have been welcome on the streets of Burn or Wheel, but all the same he’d never wandered far from the city.
The waterlands were gateways to Death’s realm, like ponds and lakes: still waters attracted all sorts of malign spirits and creatures, quite apart from whatever might come through those gateways. The fens were studded with copses of bent and twisted marsh-alder and silvery ghost willows, and they looked forbidding even in high summer. Isak had heard more stories of the Coldhand Folk, will o’ the wisps, Finntrail and the like in Byora than anywhere else outside of Tirah. The hunting could be good in the fens, and the willows from which the medicinal bark was harvested were plentiful, but no one disputed the very real dangers either entailed.
‘Shall I send the engineers now, my Lord?’ said a voice from Isak’s knee, making him jump a little. He looked down to see Quartermaster-General Kervar standing beside Isak’s horse, looking out over the battlefield.
‘The bridges? Aye, it’s time.’
After he’d carried out Isak’s order, Kervar pulled his own mount away from Toramin, Isak’s massive charger. Bored of standing still, Toramin had decided to investigate the horse next to him, and that was making Kervar’s beast decidedly nervous.
Isak gave the reins a tug to quieten the fiery stallion and looked up. He didn’t need to see the Poacher’s Moon, hidden by heavy clouds, to know it was approaching mid-morning. There was a stiff southwesterly breeze running across the plain, which would be enough to blunt the effect of the enemy’s strafing attacks.
Isak had studied the record books in Tirah Palace during the depths of winter, and he had discovered that the Farlan heavy cavalry was always the last weapon to be used in any battle. Most Farlan victories were because the horse-archers were not only excellent marksmen - although that was part of it - but they were so much more manoeuvrable than their enemies. The classic Farlan tactic was to send the heavy cavalry in after the enemy had been weakened by the others - which, Isak suspected, allowed them to sleep late and enjoy a leisurely breakfast while the commoners did most of the work.
‘Chalat is taking his time, I’m glad to see,’ Vesna said, breaking the contemplative silence. They had an almost unrestricted view of the battlefield, all the way to the ancient boundary wall three miles away. The Menin were dug in behind that wall.
‘At least he’s not lost all his senses,’ agreed Lahk. ‘He’s giving the skirmishers a chance to make a mistake before he fords that second river.’
Isak managed a weak smile. The palace records had left one clear impression in his mind as he read them: most battles were lost because of one of three factors: poor communication, bad luck or stupidity.
Chalat’s men were roughly halfway between Isak, at the rear of his own men, and the Menin. It had taken them several hours to cross a mile of ground and the first river. The bridges across the second river had been destroyed by the retreating Menin, who now loitered just out of range, ready to take out anyone who got within bowshot. The problem was simple: how to get across the river without losing hundreds of men.
‘I’m bored,’ Isak announced. He pointed to the horsemen arrayed ahead of him. ‘Sound the advance,’ he ordered, gesturing towards Byora. The main gate lay between the rivers.
On the left flank were three divisions of the Palace Guard’s heavy cavalry, with the College of Magic regiment nestled between them. The colourful centre consisted of various suzerains and their hurscals, a number of other noblemen, all in heavy armour, and two full legions of light cavalry. Next to them were two thousand more light cavalry in loose formation. The reserve troops, the last division of Ghosts and the remaining two cavalry legions, were on the far right.
General Lahk inclined his head. ‘Bugler, sound slow advance,’ he called, and behind him a set of three long notes sounded. The call was quickly taken up and Isak’s army, looking like a great bloated beast heaving itself forward, began to advance.
Isak caught Count Vesna giving him a pointed look and he frowned for a moment, wondering what he’d forgotten. Then he got it and in a loud voice said, ‘Gentlemen, your helms.’ As he settled Siulents over his own head Isak caught a glimpse of Vesna touching his fingers to his left wrist. Even our heroes need a lucky charm, he thought with a sigh. All I’ve got is a contingency plan that scares the shit out of me.
In the distance he could just make out the black dot of Lord Styrax’s enormous army standard. As though in response to his darkening mood he felt a tug at his mind from the Crystal Skull fused to his cuirass. The Reapers were stirring: they smelled death on the air. Up above him, clouds gathered, as though summoned by his call.
‘Good to have you back, sir.’
Amber looked up, his eyes widening. ‘Gods! What have I told you about taking your helm off, Deebek?’
The ageing sergeant grinned, showing an irregular set of broken teeth. ‘I weren’t t’do it, sir. Said it pissed you off when I did that.’
‘Exactly,’ Amber agreed, thumping the man heavily on his armoured shoulder. Standing around Sergeant Deebek was his squad, all young men he didn’t know, and all wearing expressions of relieved anxiety.
‘I know we give you recruits to break them into the harsh realities of a soldier’s life, but for pity’s sake don’t make them look at your face all the time as well!’ he laughed.
There was no getting around the fact that Deebek was an ugly man - he’d not been a handsome child, what with arms looking too short for his stocky torso, but getting kicked in the face by a mule at the age of five hadn’t helped. Then a warhammer crumpled the front of his helm and completed the job, leaving the tip of his nose sliced off by the torn metal. His c
heek had shattered under the impact and his teeth and jaw were so ruined that it was a mercy Deebek had been knocked unconscious by the blow. There’d been no neat way of removing the embedded metal from his face, so it had been done quick and nasty, and that had woken him up quick enough.
‘You really are a lucky bastard,’ Amber said, staring at the ruin of Deebek’s face. Every time he returned from a mission and saw Deebek again, he was reminded of how close the man had come to an excruciatingly painful death - instead of the excruciatingly painful recovery that had left him looking like this. Amber was gripped with renewed fascination and revulsion, as usual.
‘Don’t I know it, sir,’ Deebek said, ‘and that’s why I makes sure all m’boys gets themselves decent headgear.’
Looking around him Amber realised it was true. Every one of the recruits had the top-of-the-range one-piece Y-faced helms. Normally any decent bit of armour got nicked off the recruits soon enough, but clearly Deebek had put a stop to that, at least where his boys were concerned. No one could fault him for that; if he’d been wearing anything less that day twenty years ago, Deebek would have been stone dead.
‘How’s it looking over there?’ Amber looked out past the wall they were dug in behind. He could see the advancing Farlan well enough, but Deebek was one of the most experienced sergeants in Amber’s division, and always worth sounding out.
Deebek’s face went serious all of a sudden. ‘Goin’ to be nasty, Major, that’s for sure. Won’t be long now. They’re workin’ their way over, and our horseboys ain’t done much yet.’