The Rise of Kings (The Flameweaver's Prophecy Book 1)

by Emery, Ben

  Attais followed suit; adrenaline coursing through him after his first kill, he parried a clumsy spear thrust and countered with a chop into his opponent’s neck. Blood arced through the air. He ripped the blade free, just in time to duck under a sword swing from a new adversary. Crouching behind his shield, the legionary leapt forward, driving the circular steel into the tribesman’s chest, knocking him to the ground. Attais cut his throat with ease. A spearhead hammered into his shield, staggering him, as a third enemy sought his demise. The spear came again, high this time, aimed at Attais’ face. He ducked under it, stepping in close to his opponent, and sliced through an unprotected leg. The Ironhand howled in agony, clutching at his bloody stump. He was silenced with a stab through the chest before his body had even hit the ground.

  For the first time, Attais was able to quickly look around. The battle had been raging for hours now, and the sun beat down relentlessly. The stench of emptied bowels and mutilated bodies filled his nose, and screams and cries filled his ears. But the fear had all but left him, and the hours of training with his father and the Legions flooded back to him. For what little use it was now.

  Though the Ironhand attack seemed to have been stalled, numbers on the Caldoan left were still greatly diminished, to the point that a prolonged skirmish would see them all killed. The centre still held firm while the right continued to push forward, but even they would not be enough to overcome the multitudes of the united Tribes.

  From seemingly nowhere, at first, a low rumbling began. As it grew in volume and intensity, more and more of the legionaries gave their attention to it. The very earth shook beneath their feet, many of them fearing a quake that would engulf them all. But it was no act of nature. On the right flank first, by Jaxon and his men, boulders of staggering sizes had begun to hurtle down the steep slopes of the canyon, crashing through the ranks of the Legions, crushing dozens of men at a time. The young lieutenant hastily tried to pull his men back as the vast rocks followed unnatural paths across the canyon floor, almost seeking out the Allorian troops. The same happened on the left; boulders pouring down, falling out from the solid rock walls, as though wrenched from their sockets by invisible giants and cast upon the scurrying men below. The Ironhand warriors fell back as a wall was formed across the canyon. All was a chaotic mess of stone and broken bodies.

  Galarus swore under his breath. The right flank had been shattered completely by the boulders, the left, for the most part, by the Tribes. And to make matters worse, the rockslide had kicked up a dust cloud across the battlefield, dramatically reducing their vision.

  ‘Fall back as a line!’ the General ordered to the men still gathered around him. ‘Fall back!’

  The retreat was as organised as Galarus could have hoped for under the circumstances. None among their number had faced anything like this before, and the near-panic was almost palpable in the air about him. The hastily withdrawing formation came to an abrupt halt and the sounds of despair rolled toward him, as the soldiers came up against a thick barricade of boulders blocking their escape.

  ‘No way through, General,’ a spearman shouted from the back.

  Galarus cursed again. Any gap they could find in the rocks would surely not allow men through quick enough to form an orderly withdrawal and, in the dust about them, shadows of the Tribal warriors began to gather.

  ‘Form up on me! On me!’ Galarus bellowed, and the legionaries flocked to him, forming a defensive circle around their General; spearmen forming the outer perimeter as best they could, while the swords and macemen filled in the gaps and the centre of the formation. All that was left to do was await the final enemy attack.

  What remained of the Caldoan army, having retreated and regrouped successfully on the opposite side of the wall of rock, were quickly whipped into formation by Jaxon and a wounded Placatas. The older lieutenant had lost his shield at some point during the battle, and was carrying only his trusty mace in his right hand. His left was drenched in blood as he tried to stem the flow from a deep cut above his waist where a Tribal axe had split his armour, still barking orders at the few soldiers they had left, preparing to reengage the enemy.

  ‘Lieutenant Jaxon!’ he called across to his fellow officer. ‘Any sign of the General?’

  Jaxon shook his head. ‘Heard him order the retreat, then lost him in the dust.’

  ‘Same here,’ Placatas replied, glumly.

  ‘If he’s alive, he’s behind those boulders. We won’t get any number of men through there in a hurry.’ Jaxon observed. He moved closer to his friend so they would not be overheard by the rest of the men. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

  Placatas shrugged, and winced at the pain in his side.

  ‘Looks serious,’ the younger lieutenant said, catching sight of the bloody gash beneath his friend’s hand.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Placatas reassured him. ‘As for the General, I know what he would do for us, were our positions reversed.’

  Jaxon nodded in agreement.

  ‘Legionaries, ready!’ he shouted, and the remnants of the Ninth and Tenth Legions stood to attention. ‘We make for the boulders, and try and find a way through. The General is on the other side of those rocks, with who knows how many of our brothers. We will find them, and we will bring them back.’

  Silence followed the orders. None among the assembled men were particularly looking forward to returning to the battle. Most bore wounds of their own; those more grievously injured or no longer able to stand had been carried back to the safety of the supply convoy to be tended to by the Legion’s surgeons. No more than a few hundred of the two thousand legionaries still lived, excluding any that might remain with the General. Were they even to pass the boulders, they would prove of little use in the face of the thousands of tribesmen beyond.

  In the centre of the battlefield, where he and his men had fought so bravely not an hour before, Galarus found himself within a ring of no more than fifty of his soldiers, towering boulders at their back, and an army of tribesmen in front, though they swiftly began to encircle the pathetic force of Caldoans. In the chaos of the retreat and in the dust that still hung thick in the air, it was unclear as to where the rest of the army was. If indeed there was a “rest of it” at all. Galarus hoped they had been able to retreat beyond the rockslide to safety, and had not been crushed or hunted down by their enemy.

  Shields pulled together as the Tribes came into sight, charging with a renewed fervour against the flagging remains of the Legions. Weapons and bodies crashed against each other once more as the enemy grew hungry from the taste of victory. Galarus watched, powerless in the centre of the circle, as valiant legionaries were cut down around him, each taking two, sometimes three opponents with them. To his right, the General recognised the voice of one of the Ninth’s spearmen; a stalwart old man named Elmbard.

  He was roaring defiantly in the face of the Tribal onslaught, doing his best to bolster the dwindling morale of the soldiers around him, fighting with the ferocity of ten men. Downing one opponent with the flat of his shield, he speared his foe to the ground, stunned another with a right hook and buried his spear into a tribal torso. It was a brave but futile effort; for every tribesman killed, another two drove their way into the fray. Galarus could only look on as Elmbard had his shield ripped from his arm, and an axe found a weak spot in his armour, the blade jutting up out of the spearman’s left shoulder. He skewered the assailant with his spear, and tried to remove the axe, but to no effect. Slightly dazed, Elmbard’s gaze met that of his General, and the legionary dragged himself up to his fullest stature.

  ‘Galarus!’ he bellowed with all his might, ‘Galarus!’

  The cry was taken up by the few survivors and Elmbard plunged into the enemy lines, stabbing wildly at any and all before him. Unable to evade the attacks for the press of the bodies behind, men fell to his spear. Even after the weapon broke, the spearman lashed out with his armoured fists, wading through the ranks of the tribesmen, desperately trying to diminish their nu
mbers. Inevitably, he was overpowered, swarmed by the enemy, and dragged to the ground out of sight. The remaining soldiers attempted to follow the spearman’s example, surging forward with rage-filled battlecries in their throats and blood and corpses underfoot. The charge gained but a little ground before the weight of numbers began to overwhelm them.

  Galarus willed his men forward, but to what end he was unsure. He forced his way through the dwindling ranks in an attempt to lead from the front, or at least die fighting amongst them. Only a handful of legionaries remained, and the tribesmen began to back off. From their ranks strode the behemoth, terrifying weapon in hand, blood still running freely from it; the man of impossible size come to finish them off. The tribesmen continued to inch backward, until they formed a makeshift arena for the giant and his half a dozen opponents.

  A maceman, bloodied beyond recognition, leapt at the enormous warrior. With unbelievable speed, the huge weapon rose and fell, crushing the legionary into the dust, then rose again to swat aside another two soldiers, lifting them off their feet and leaving them a broken, tangled mass on the floor. Only Galarus and two Caldoans, both swordsmen, remained against him. The behemoth grinned menacingly, twirling the hammer-axe effortlessly in his hands so that the head span around. He lunged forward without warning, the General and one of his men able to duck under the huge swing. The second swordsman was not so lucky, the blow catching him in the jaw and ripping it clean off. The back swing came staggeringly quickly, and Galarus ducked once more, stepping in this time and driving his spear into the giant’s shoulder. A growl of pain issued from the giants’s mouth as the General wrenched the spearhead free, and attacked again. The behemoth twisted away from the thrust, catching the haft of the weapon with his free hand. He snapped the spear in half as though it were a twig, and followed through with a left hook, sending Galarus reeling. He rolled up from the floor, sword drawn and ready, in time to watch the behemoth hurl himself upon the last legionary, snapping his neck.

  The Ironhand beckoned the General forward, taunting him. The pride of the Caldoan Legions charged, sidestepping a crushing blow and sliced open the tribesman’s arm. The wound did little to phase him, and the huge weapon swung around, too quickly this time, and smashed into Galarus’ shield. He was sent flying through the air, winded, his vision beginning to swim, and unable to move his arm. His shield lay uselessly on the ground next to him. The immense warrior stood over him, weapon raised, almost blotting out the sun. Everything fell silent. All the General could hear was his own ragged breathing as he stared directly into the eyes of his opponent. The weapon fell, and darkness consumed him.

  As the dust settled, the extent of the damage wrought by the boulders became clear. Hundreds of men lay crushed and pinned, with no chance of shifting any of the stones upon them. Jaxon and Placatas had, with their men, frantically scoured the rock wall in the hopes of finding some way through to the other side. They had heard the sounds of battle from beyond, and had desperately increased their efforts, but to no effect. All was quiet now on the other side; an ominous sign to say the least.

  ‘Lieutenants,’ a deep voice called out to them from above. Standing atop one of the boulders was Rohken, the Ironhand leader. He was covered in blood, some of it his own, dribbling from cuts and gashes upon his arms and chest. A wound across his face had removed his left eye, though he seemed not to notice. ‘It is over,’ he said simply.

  Jaxon and Placatas stood below him, staring. The warrior still looked ready to fight if he had to, the sharpened hunk of metal he called a weapon stained red.

  ‘The General?’ Placatas asked hopefully.

  ‘The rest of your men are dead,’ Rohken replied, staring straight at the lieutenant. ‘All of them. You are free to go. Return to your city, or waste yourselves upon our swords. It matters little to me.’

  With that he turned, and disappeared from sight, though he could be heard landing solidly on the ground behind the stones.

  Jaxon and Placatas were left speechless with the surviving legionaries. There was nothing else to be said or done, other than order the soldiers back to the supply wagons, and begin the journey home.

  Chapter Six

  It was an arduous trek back to Alloria; a wretched affair altogether. Barely a word was spoken, other than to comfort the wounded and dying. Looking around, Attais could see how lucky both he and Coran had been to escape the battle with minor injuries, the worst of which was a shallow cut across his chest where a spear had penetrated his armour.

  The pair had searched among the survivors and the wounded for their friends, finally finding Draiden in the care of several surgeons, the lower half of his left arm severed by the axe of the behemoth, if he was to be believed. The maceman had been one of the priorities of the Legion doctors, and they had quickly cleaned and cauterised the wound. He would live, thankfully.

  Elmbard had been counted among those that had been lost beyond the boulder line, alongside over fifteen hundred other legionaries.

  More died en route to Caldoa, and the quartermaster was forced to free up several carts in which to transport their bodies. All were relieved to cross the Arm of Allor and set foot in friendly territory once more.

  Upon reaching the city, Placatas had dismissed the men and summoned additional doctors and surgeons to the training grounds, where it would be easier to tend to those still wounded. Once their subordinates were taken care of, it was the job of the lieutenants to report the miseries of their failed attack to the king. A conversation neither of them were looking forward to having.

  Rural listened quietly upon the Marble Throne, atop the semi-circular dais at the very end of the now Royal Hall, as Jaxon and Placatas’ recounted the details of the calamitous invasion of the Tribal Territories. He betrayed no emotion whatsoever as he was informed that a pitiful two hundred and twelve men had survived the campaign, half of which would be unlikely to ever fight again. Nor was there any hint of genuine regret at the loss of General Galarus, who had been isolated from the main army and killed upon the battlefield.

  ‘I am truly saddened to hear of the death of the General,’ the king said, unconvincingly. ‘Though he and I had our differences of opinion, he was a hero to this city, and he shall be remembered as such.’

  The lieutenants remained silent, Placatas clenching his fists at his sides.

  ‘I think it is most likely that the Tribes will invade us now,’ Rural continued, all trace of feigned lamentation disappearing instantly. ‘Having defeated two of the Legions they will have gained confidence enough for an assault on our lands. We must replace the lost men and attack them once more. They will not be expecting that.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Jaxon replied confidently, agitated by the king. ‘We inflicted as many casualties upon them as they did us; they haven’t the strength to invade. Besides, the Wandeer that led them denied any involvement in the assassination, or any desire for war.’

  Rural failed to disguise his interest at the mention of the Wandeer, and leaned forward on the throne.

  ‘So, they are led by a Wandeer!’ he exclaimed, fidgeting in his seat. ‘And you spoke to him? What did he say?’

  His eyes flickered between the two officers, and Placatas could easily have mistaken the interest for nervousness.

  ‘Not a great deal, your highness,’ the older lieutenant interjected. ‘Only what we have told you; that they were not responsible for the attacks, and we were the aggressors.’

  Rural slumped back into his throne.

  ‘Ah, very well then.’ he said, disappointed, withdrawing into his own thoughts.

  Neither he nor the lieutenants spoke for several seconds.

  ‘Will there be anything else, your highness?’ Placatas asked.

  ‘Hmm?’ Rural said distractedly. ‘Oh, no, lieutenant; the pair of you are dismissed. I will see to the pay of the survivors, with a bonus, and the pay of the deceased shall be given to their families. Get some rest. I will notify you once I have appointed a new General. You will have
fresh recruits to train within the week.’

  With a bow, the lieutenants left the White Palace and headed down the spiral path to the Holy District below. Placatas waited until they were well out of earshot of the guards at the door before he spoke.

  ‘Did you see the way he reacted when you mentioned the Wandeer?’ he whispered to Jaxon.

  Jaxon shrugged. ‘How often do you have a conversation and a battle with a Wandeer? I’d have been surprised if someone said the same to me.’

  Placatas shook his head. ‘No, that’s not it. It was almost as if he knew the Wandeer would speak to us, but expected him to say something else.’

  ‘He wasn’t that broken up about Galarus either,’ Jaxon observed.

  Placatas was less surprised by this, but said nothing on the matter.

  ‘He’s intent on this war against the Tribes,’ Jaxon continued instead, ‘even if it costs every legionary in the city. I don’t know about you but I don’t much fancy meeting that Wandeer again.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Placatas grunted. ‘I’d certainly have a few more questions for him if we did. There’s something going on here, and I’ll be damned if I can figure half of it out.’

  Upon their return to the city, Attais and Coran had left Draiden in the capable hands of the city’s physicians, though there was little the doctors could do other than ensure the maceman recovered well enough. The survivors of the Ninth and Tenth Legions had been granted a ten day reprieve from their duties following the hardships of the campaign, the majority of which Attais spent at home, recalling for his father the account of the battle at Gamga Ridge, and being spoilt by his mother.