The battle was over within minutes; the Ninety-First completely subdued the much larger Feral force. Bral’s warning had been the deciding factor. If the Feral army had come on them unawares, Hael’s Legion, the now victorious Ninety-First, would be no more. The actual start of the battle, rather than the official start, was the minute that Bral had finished his report to Hael.
As soon as Bral had completed describing the enemy force, Hael had started to issue orders. Marching directly on such a large Feral force and engaging them would have been suicide. He needed to choose the field of battle and, more importantly, he needed to wear them down.
Hael had sent four of his five Nightfeeders to sow fear among the enemy. They started to strike that very night. They raided the Feral army relentlessly, murdering and killing any that were vulnerable, women, children, sleeping warriors, warriors who were preparing food, even warriors who crept out into the darkness to have a piss. The raids also announced to the Feral army that the Legion was aware of their presence and that they had lost the element of surprise.
Halfway through that first night the Feral abandoned their nocturnal march and hunkered down in a defensive position. As soon as the sky started to lighten they discarded their supplies and commenced a ground-eating forced march. They had lost the element of surprise and wanted to minimize the time that the Ninety-First had to prepare a defense.
As his Nightfeeders raided the enemy that first night, Hael had asked for volunteers. He needed more Nightfeeders. Though the Legion was new, it had been seeded with seasoned troopers. Among these seasoned troopers were older troopers, troopers with health problems, troopers who lost their nerve and troopers who were afraid of dying. It was to these soldiers that Hael appealed to. He offered them eternal life, health, strength, virtual immortality, all in exchange for an eternity or servitude. To some, enough, the deal was appealing.
Hael did not have access to a Temple, so he used the Nightfeeder he had kept back from the raiding party, to turn the volunteers. Applying the curse in a Temple with a team of Adepts created the most powerful of Nightfeeders; however, a lesser version could be created in the field, with the right preparation and some effort. Temples and the rituals performed within them were constructed to circumvent the mind’s natural resistance to a Curse, a Working or a Gaes. The architecture amplified the power of the adepts, and the ritual promoted the acceptance of the curse in the subject’s mind. Without access to a Temple, or adepts for that matter, the volunteer needed to be brought to the brink of death. Only when Death had the subject’s spirit in his bony hands could the mind’s aversion to the curse be overridden, allowing the curse to transfer. The resulting second generation Nightfeeders were not as powerful as their creator, but they were still useful. They healed a little slower and were a little easier to kill, but they were still devastating assassins and skirmishers.
The second night after Bral’s arrival fifteen Nightfeeders harried the Feral army, while another five scouted the surrounding area for the battlefield that Hael needed. The Feral army managed to take down two of his newly minted Nightfeeders, an acceptable loss.
The third day after Ga Bral’s revelation of the approaching army, Hael had found his battlefield. A shallow-sided canyon a half day’s march ahead. He split his army, placing two-thirds of his forces on the slopes above the canyon floor, while the remaining third laid an obvious trail a mile into the canyon and started to build fortifications.
On the fourth day, the Ferals stumbled into the canyon, exhausted, demoralized and hungry. When the Ferals reached the fortifications, Hael’s main forces charged down into the canyon walls, hitting the Feral column from both sides. Hael’s fresh troopers dodged the clumsy swings of the Ferals’ stone axes, hammers and spears while stabbing and slashing with their bronze blades forged in the secret smithies deep within the Ministry of Havoc.
The Feral skins and furs did little to protect them. Occasionally a colored shell or other piece of primitive jewelry would blunt a thrust or turn a slash, protecting the wearer from a killing stroke, though that was rare. The Feral experienced staggering loss of life in that first charge. The sight of their relatives and friends being chopped and skewered in conjunction with the confusion caused by the shouting troopers plunged the Feral army into despair. It only took a few Ferals to drop their weapons before a wave of capitulation flowed through the enemy army. The Ferals dropped to their knees and the battle was over.
It was a triumph, or so Lucan was saying.
“It’s a triumph,” said Lucan. “Not a single injury, except for a couple of troopers who tripped in their eagerness to gut the filthy Ferals. This will be an important rung for us all on the ladder to greatness.”
“Yes, Lucan. Now, can you organize a work party to build a stockade or maybe a series of stockades? We may need a few to contain this horde. Figure out how many we will need and have them built. If you feel we can keep them under control, supplement the troopers with Ferals for the construction.”
Lucan nodded and left, exuding annoyance at Hael’s lack of interest in discussing visions of future glory. Publicly broadcasting annoyance after speaking to a superior officer was impolite, even if the commander was his little brother. It was not, however, an actionable offence. Hael did not need to punish him for it, but he would need to figure out how to deal with Lucan’s recurring minor insubordination at another time.
The first stockade was complete and had been filled with the female, juvenile and infirm Ferals, and construction of the second stockade was underway when Hael lifted his head and looked down the canyon. A moment later he heard the sound of a horn.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
The triple blast announced the approach of a friendly force. A single blast would indicate an approaching enemy, two blasts would indicate an unknown force. The logic was that if a sentry was killed after sounding his horn once, the approaching force was hostile.
An hour or so later a group of fifty troopers led by a Witch Hunter and accompanied by a squad of ten Nightfeeders carrying a plain red palanquin trotted into view. Even the Host eschewed ornamentation in the field. Based on the escort and the fact that he traveled by palanquin outside the City meant that the visitor was Host, and a highly placed one at that. The palanquin was lowered at the edge of the camp; apparently its occupant wanted to inspect the camp as he made his way to the command tent. The door opened and Mi Balor, the Supreme Commander of the Northern Campaign, emerged.
He was dressed in a red toga, his sigil of a hand grasping a sword was embroidered over his heart in gold thread.
He was large for one of the Host, almost as tall as one of the Guest, but much stockier. He probably weighed twice as much as Hael. Hael could also sense the great strength of his mind, which indicated that Mi Balor was an Adept as well as a Marshal.
There was a wave of motion through the camp as Mi Balor approached Hael. Each trooper stopped what he was doing, dropped to one knee and lowered his head as the Marshal neared him, only to rise and continue with his task when the Marshall had passed by. Hael was no exception; he took a knee and lowered his head.
Mi Balor broadcast in the formal tense for all to hear.
Mi Balor, Supreme Commander of the Northern Campaign: Fa Hael, you have done well. This victory vindicates the faith Minister Eligos has in you. I am sure this is the first of many victories.
Hael responded in the formal tense.
Fa Hael, Commander, Ninety-First Legion: The Marshal is most kind. I merely do my best to repay the Debt in an efficient manner.
Mi Balor dropped into the familiar tense, no longer broadcasting his rank, obviously pleased with Hael’s response.
Balor: Efficiency, yes, perfect. Preserving your troopers for future battles is the pinnacle of efficiency. That is part of the reason I am here.
Mi Balor switched to the intimate mode, sending his thoughts to Hael alone.
Balor –> Hael: There has been a sighting of another large
group of male Ferals fifty miles to the west of here. It appears to be even more warlike than this group; there are no females or juveniles in this new group. Considering that force and the one you so ably subdued here, our best guess is that we have a Messiah situation. I suppose it is to be expected, what with the Time of Return approaching.
Hael –> Balor: Messiah situation?
Balor –> Hael: Ah yes, you are fresh from the Academy and to your rank, so you probably have not been told. He paused, thinking for a moment, then continued. This is classified and not to be shared with anyone in your Legion. Understood?
Hael broadcast assent back to Balor.
Balor –> Hael: Every once in a while a Feral comes along and starts to preach about change and how things could be better, that sort of nonsense. This Feral then gathers a following and starts to stir up trouble. Goes right back to Rebellion, and their first Messiah, Uruk. It appears we are now dealing with our ninth Messiah, and it looks like he fancies himself a Warlord. We have also seen Artificers, Sorcerers and my favorite which, incidentally, are also the most common, Explorers. Explorers are the least trouble, as they just gather some followers and move on and we rarely hear from them again.
Hael was astounded. There had been seven other Rebellions. He knew the history of the Host as well as any in the Academy. It was troubling to learn that some of it was false. If this had been hidden, what else could have been hidden or misrepresented? He forcibly stopped this train of thought and his control slipped. He broadcast his consternation for a second before he regained control.
Mi Balor noticed his slip and was peeved.
Balor –> Hael: Get a hold of yourself, man. You are a Captain under my command and you embarrass both me and yourself when you lack control. Think of your troopers. We do not want to lose you to a challenger, not yet, anyway. That brother of yours, for example, looks particularly hungry.
Hael –> Balor: My apologies, Mi Balor.
Hael mentally prostrated himself and opened his shields to accept punishment if Mi Balor felt the need, desire or inclination to reprimand him more forcefully.
Mi Balor looked around. The troopers were watching him and Hael closely from the corners of their eyes, intrigued by the exchange, even though they did not know what was being said.
Balor –> Hael: Let’s finish this in a more private location.
The thumps and shouts from the construction of the stockades became muffled as Hael and Balor entered the command tent. Mi Balor looked around disdainfully at the sparse furnishings. In front of a fold-down table covered in maps was a worn wooden camp chair polished by the backsides of generations of field officers. Off to the side of the tent was a small cot that Hael spent a few sparse hours each night sleeping in. The Marshal turned the chair to face Hael and settled into it like the Emperor taking his throne. He looked at Hael expectantly.
Hael –> Balor: Would you like something to drink, my Lord Marshal?
Balor –> Hael: Wine.
Hael sent a command to Bral, asking for their best vintage. He then activated the wards stitched into the tent walls to ensure that they were not overheard. The silver-stitched sigils on the north, south, east and west walls flared briefly as they were energized. The sounds of the camp cut off completely and the temperature of the tent dropped as the wards became active. The wards were not really needed, as it was unlikely that anyone would be able to intercept their mindspeech when communicating in the private mode, but one never knew with the Ferals, as their mental strength could be formidable. Also, the use of wards was mandated by the Ministry of Havoc field regulations for meetings between senior officers. Hael did not want to lose more face with Mi Balor by ignoring a simple, easily adhered to regulation.
After waiting for what seemed to Hael like a several days, Bral opened the tent flap and entered with a tray with two silver goblets and a silver jug. He placed the tray on top of the maps and quickly left. Hael poured the dark maroon wine into the cups and handed one to the Marshal.
The Marshal took a sip. An expression of disgust briefly flashed across his face. He then drained his cup and held it out for Hael to refill.
Balor –> Hael: Now, that we have some privacy we can continue. Where was I? Ah yes, I need you to take your Legion and catch this Warlord Messiah. When you catch him, I want him contained and shipped to the City for questioning. I need you to strike camp now and march west with all haste.
Hael –> Balor: Understood, Marshal. I will leave a token force to escort the Ferals we captured back to the City and move on this new force.
Balor frowned at Hael’s response.
Balor –> Hael: I do not think you understand; you need every trooper at your disposal to face this force. We cannot spare the manpower to guard your captured Ferals; we need to dispose of them. You need not worry about the slave bonus. It will be paid even though they cannot be transported to the City. Can’t have the troopers losing out on a bonus because of this urgent need. Bad for morale, you know.
Mi Balor stood and the sounds of the camp returned as he banished the wards. He strode out of the tent, and Hael scrambled to follow.
Outside the tent he reached out and grasped the Marshal’s elbow. The Marshal whirled to face him.
Balor –> Hael: UNHAND ME.
Balor used Compulsion with the mental sending. Hael snatched his hand back as if he had been burnt.
Hael looked around quickly, to see if they had attracted any attention.
Lucan looked up from where he and a squad of troopers were guarding the captive Ferals, and his eyes narrowed. The captives were kneeling on the ground in rows of fifty with their heads bowed, hands bound behind them. Lucan knew something unusual was happening and sent a private query to Hael.
Bral, who had been standing to the side of the tent’s opening, moved forward a little, radiating support and concern to Hael.
Hael turned back to Mi Balor.
Hael –> Balor: Mi Balor, I do not understand. What do you mean by dispose of them?
The Marshal switched to the declarative and to the formal tense.
Mi Balor, Supreme Commander of the Northern Campaign: I have given you an order, Captain. Dispose of your prisoners or I will find someone who will.
The captives started to stir. Mi Balor had not shielded them from his declaration. All activities in the camp stopped. The troopers were exchanging glances, not sure how to react.
Mi Balor’s face flushed with anger. His brow ridge became more pronounced as he frowned. He looked over Hael’s shoulder at Bral.
Mi Balor, Supreme Commander of the Northern Campaign: You, boy. Kill the captives.
Bral’s face went pale, and he looked like he was going to vomit. He shook his head.
The bright afternoon light seemed to dim and Mi Balor appeared to gain more substance as he partially manifested his Dread Aspect. He drew every eye like a lodestone. He bent his will toward Bral and Compelled him to obey.
Bral struggled against the Compulsion for a second and then jerkily drew his sword and started to walk towards the captives, one slow step at a time, fighting to overcome the Compulsion. The women and children in the completed stockade craned their necks to see what was happening. Some of the children started to cry quietly, their delicate shoulders shaking.
Hael was frozen by indecision.
His commission provided him everything he had wanted. A bright path of glorious service lay at his feet. He was finally in a position to start paying back a portion of the Debt. He was in a position to make the world a more secure place. He was in a position to beat back the darkness of Feral savagery. He would be able to make his parents secure. All he needed to do was to stay on the path before him and follow orders.
Actually, it was worse than that. All he needed to do was to keep quiet and do nothing.
His troopers were watching him closely, some with hands on their sword hilts.
Bral was approaching the first of the kneeling captives. His whole body was shaking with his fruit
less efforts to resist Mi Balor’s Compulsion. Beads of sweat sprung up on Mi Balor’s forehead. He hooked a finger into the neck of his robe and fished out an amulet with a blue stone in the center. Hael could feel Balor’s compulsion strengthen as he made use of the amulet; it was a Lens.
Hael could not watch anymore. As distasteful as it was, he would give the order to murder the captives.
Hael –> Balor: Please, Mi Balor, please release the Compulsion on my brother. I will give the order to the troopers to dispose of the captives.
Balor ignored the implied invitation to respond in the private.
Mi Balor, Supreme Commander of the Northern Campaign: No need, I have this in hand now. I will have the boy execute them, all of them. Even now he resists me. He must learn the price of disobedience.
Hael looked back to Bral. Tears were running down his face, a body lay before him, his sword bloodied. He moved on to the next kneeling restrained captive and plunged his sword into the junction of his neck and shoulder, deep into the body. He started to moan, the only sound he could get out through the compulsion.
Hael looked back to Balor and saw no mercy in his stony expression.
Three hours later the last of the enemy combatants was dead. Bral was swaying on his feet from exhaustion, crimson from head to toe. His dark brown hair was matted with congealed blood.
The wailing coming from the women and children in the first stockade spiked as the last man was executed.
Hael was disgusted at his own complicity in the entire affair. Now that it was over, he would comfort his sensitive little brother as best he could.
Balor: Come here, boy. You did well.
Bral stumbled over to where Hael stood beside Mi Balor. Balor sat on Hael’s camp chair; he had told Hael to fetch the chair partway into the massacre. Ten feet from them Bral dropped to his knees, hung his head and dropped his sword to the ground.
Ancient Evil (The First Genocide Book 1) Page 25