by Tom Lloyd
The tornado charged inexorably for the next, driven by a vicious will, and ripped it apart, plank by plank. One, then two, then four, all of them torn apart like the toys of an enraged Godchild, while the Malviebrat danced and worshipped at its base, the shrieking wind a fitting prayer for their monstrous fervour. In seconds the artillery barges had been reduced to kindling, and now the waterspout lurched again, changing direction to rip a path over the stony shore of the causeway. The air filled with dirt and the tornado took on a darker hue as it gathered weapons to smash the remaining flotilla on the Hound Lake, already abandoned by its terrified crews.
‘Summon the troops,’ Beyn whispered hoarsely, his throat suddenly dry. ‘They’re coming up the causeway. Piss and daemons, they’ll punch straight into the city unless we stop them at the wall!’
‘Move you bastards!’ the sergeant roared as wardrums sounded from the back of the legion.
The heavy beat rolled over the thousand soldiers who moved off, spear-points high. Behind them the scarred savages of the Chetse Lion Guard bellowed, axes raised high as they screamed their berserk rage at the distant enemy. The rain continued to beat down, smearing the blue painted symbols adorning their segmented bronze breastplates.
The Chetse warriors wore bronze helms sporting Lord Styrax’s Fanged Skull emblem, with gauntlets and greaves all built to be used as additional weapons. Every other man carried a heavy shield on his back, for when arrows were raining down or they were about to charge a wall of spear-points.
Lord Styrax nudged his wyvern forward and looked down the line of troops. The massive creature huffed and waddled forward, unused to walking with its wings furled but obeying. The flight had temporarily drained its eagerness for battle, he was glad to note, not intending to use the creature further. For the first time his Chetse allies and own heavy infantry would fight side by side. He wanted to be in the midst of them, leading from the front and reminding them all why they followed him.
A bolt of lightning arced down from the heavens with an ear-splitting crash, striking the smoking tower Styrax had already attacked, adding to the ruin. From his position atop the wyvern he could see the wreckage of boats and barges on the two lakes. His arm was outstretched toward the Hound Lake, fist half-closed, as he contained and controlled the power of the waterspout. It was smaller now, its energy bleeding up into the ever-darkening clouds above as the storm howled with increasing fury, driven on by Styrax’s steady release of the magic until it was safe to let free.
The Menin troops were undaunted. With two regiments out in front they tramped with grim purpose towards the causeway, tight ranks of steel-clad infantry forcing their way through the deepening mud.
Styrax dismounted and beckoned over a messenger. ‘Tell General Gaur he has the command,’ Styrax roared over the shrieking wind. Once he was stuck in the thick of the fighting, Styrax knew he’d be in no position to issue tactical commands.
The messenger’s reply was lost in the tumult, but his salute indicated he’d heard the white-eye’s order. Gaur was stationed with the rearguard, waiting to give the order to the flanking divisions to march on the city, assuming there were no surprises waiting.
As the messenger hurried away Styrax waited for the legion to move ahead and his bodyguard to fall into position beside him. A regiment of Bloodsworn knights, much of their heavy black armour stripped down so they could march on foot, quickly took up their positions around him. The fanatical Menin élite numbered only five hundred in total: a mix of young nobles and experienced soldiers, the match of any troops in the Land. It was rare to see them on foot - they were normally the heart of a Menin cavalry charge — but their horses would be no use here.
The troops on the road made good progress, unassailed by defenders on land or water, and within minutes they were at the Tollkeeper’s Arch. The long stone building had been abandoned by the city’s defenders, and although regiments of archers were stationed behind the shallow canal, a hundred yards from the Tollkeeper’s Arch, the wind and rain took their toll.
The leading regiments barely noticed the falling arrows as they swarmed over the yellowstone building, and when the remaining legions reached the arch and began to negotiate the ditches flanking it, the archers and crossbowmen gave up entirely and scampered back towards their lines, leaving the Menin free to reform their ranks at leisure on the causeway.
Styrax made his way to the long central hall of the Tollkeeper’s Arch, past the abandoned stations where goods were checked and taxed before entering the city. At the other end he stared out at Aroth. On his right the rain, funnelled by some quirk of the roof, formed a sheet of falling water that almost entirely obscured his view of the larger lake. He took a long breath and tasted the air; the rain had washed away all other scents, leaving the morning air clean. Under the deluge Aroth seemed smaller, diminished somehow. Its sandstone towers took on an aged and decrepit mien, like long-abandoned watchtowers on an unused frontier.
‘My Lord,’ called a man behind him, and Styrax turned to see Army Messenger Karapin standing to attention, a rare fervour in the man’s grey eyes. Karapin had volunteered to follow him into battle, his ceremonial brass vambraces and a broadsword his only protection as he waited to carry his lord’s orders. He had been born less than fifty miles from Styrax’s home village, and he considered the risk to be the greatest honour of his life.
‘All ready?’ Styrax asked.
‘The legions are in position,’ Karapin confirmed with a bow.
‘Drummers, sound the attack.’ Styrax heard the hunger in his own voice, the red rage straining to be released. If Karapin noticed, he made no sign as he stepped out into the rain and signalled the nearest regimental drummer. In moments the call was taken up and the Menin troops roared their approval.
Amidst the tumult he could still make out the thousands of Chetse voices bellowing lustily, ready to follow him to war. Styrax stepped out from the arch, surveying his men as he drew his fanged broadsword. The clamour increased a notch as the first ranks set off, within them units of engineers who carried the temporary bridges for the canal.
The Bloodsworn knights gathered around him and one unfurled Styrax’s stark black and red banner. Styrax reached over and plucked the tall standard from the man’s hands, raising it and turning to the troops behind him, both Menin and Chetse.
‘Tell them!’ he shouted over the tramp of feet and the pouring rain, ‘raise your voices and tell them we’re coming! Tell them even the Gods themselves should fear us!’
The thousands of soldiers howled in response and hammered weapons on their shields. The sound boomed out across the Land in rising waves, almost drowning out the thunder that crashed over the city. Legion after legion lifted their heads and roared a warning to the skies. In the distance the towers of Aroth reverberated, shuddering behind the curtain of rain.
Beyn ran forward, beating at the disordered mob and screaming himself hoarse in an effort to get them to move. Frightened faces turned his way, uncomprehending, until those in the lead finally set off again.
‘You! Captain! Look at me, you fuck!’ Beyn yelled, lurching to the left as he spotted another regiment of pikemen appearing around the corner of a building. It was only when Beyn fought his way over and grabbed the captain by the throat that he caught his attention. ‘You, what’s your name?’
The young man looked at him in blind panic for a moment, struggling in vain to free himself. The soldiers around him started forward, then shrank back as they saw the golden bees on Beyn’s armour, the mark of the king.
Beyn shook him like a terrier, and screamed for the third time, ‘Your name, soldier!’
‘Dapplin,’ the young captain croaked shakily, ‘Captain Dapplin of the First City Legion.’
‘Congratulations, Captain,’ Beyn shouted, ‘you’ve got a mission.’ He gestured at the ground between them and the makeshift wall they’d constructed across a bottleneck of loading stations at the wharf. In the centre stood the Tollhouse, the semi-fortif
ied building where the customs-tolls were kept before being moved to the city treasury. General Aladorn and his cohorts had been evacuated and replaced with archers. Behind the wall was a line of troops, three-deep at the moment, with officers frantically trying to drive more in behind. Thought they looked formidable, they were raw troops holding spears in trembling hands, and the Menin had more than just minotaurs to breach the line.
‘Grab another regiment from your lot and form up in squad blocks behind the main line of archers.’ He gave the captain another shake. ‘Don’t get sucked in until your job’s done, and don’t, for pity’s sake, get in the way of the reinforcement troops!’
‘You don’t want us to fight?’ Dapplin yelled back, recovering his senses. ‘The order was to send every last man on the streets to the wall.’
‘You get a shittier job,’ Beyn said. ‘They’ll use the Reavers to breach the line; your job’s to stick those bastards full of steel before they get that chance!’
‘Reavers?’ Dapplin gasped, the colour draining from his face.
‘Aye, Reavers - now you just shut that fucking mouth before I shove my fist down it! They’ll be coming a handful at a time, so each squad surrounds ’em and works together. Do it as soon as they land and you’ll have a better day than the rest of us.’ Beyn grabbed the captain by the arm and shoved him towards the mass of soldiers. ‘Move it!’
Once Dapplin had started to lead his men away, Beyn surveyed the chaotic mass of soldiers. The line was forming as well as he could hope, and tight knots of archers were grouping behind, waiting for the order to fire. What state their weapons would be in was anyone’s guess.
The ground either side of the road was sodden, so at least the Menin would have to struggle through a sucking swamp to reach them, it was a poor blessing when the storm was soaking bowstrings and blowing away range-finding arrows like dandelion seeds.
‘Cober,’ he shouted, looking around blindly until he found the white-eye most recently in the employ of Count Pellisorn. Since the count had been packed off to command the defence of the north wall, Cober had been following Beyn around like a puppy - albeit a puppy carrying a very large axe. Like Daken, King Emin’s newest pet, the white-eye was actually an inch shorter than Beyn, but he was far more powerful - and unlike Daken, Cober seemed happy enough to follow Beyn’s orders, trusting there would be a fight at the end of it.
‘Come on,’ Beyn beckoned, leading Cober towards the wall. ‘We’ve work to do.’ They gathered every man holding a weapon they could and handed them over to one of the officers commanding the wall, who squeezed them into the defensive line. It was untidy, but Beyn knew they weren’t going to win this battle on the straightness of their columns. Their only - slim - chance was to hold on weight of numbers, and that meant pressing into service every man who could hold a spear, and keeping such a press of bodies there that the Menin couldn’t break through.
Before he reached the wall warning cries began to come from the front rank. Beyn craned his head until he could just make out the line of spear-points advancing on the wall.
‘Down on one knee,’ he snapped at Cober.
The white-eye didn’t question him, but dropped immediately, as ordered, and Beyn pulled himself onto Cober’s substantial thigh, balancing himself with a hand on his shoulder, to raise himself above the defenders. The Menin were close, less than a hundred yards from the wall.
‘Archers!’ he bellowed, waving frantically, ‘Fire, as low as you dare!’
The order was relayed quickly. Half of the raised troops were farmers and citizens, conscripted into service, and useful for little more than wielding a spear and swelling the ranks, but amongst the professionals, there were hundreds of fair archers, and Beyn had seeded the units with as many experienced soldiers as he could spare.
Now they took over, screaming themselves hoarse and leading by example. Though the first volley was ragged, the second was an improvement as the bowmen started to get a feel for the cross-wind.
Beyn left them to it and went to shout with the sergeants in the line bellowing for the troops to hold their ground. More men appeared, running to join the rear ranks, waiting for their time of need.
A deep roar rang out: the sound of a thousand voices, foreign voices and more, shouting as they charged. Beyn felt the impact through his feet as much as he heard it, and he was tugging his axes from his belt as the first screams came.
‘Aroth and the king!’ he roared, holding one axe up high, and the call was picked up by all those around him and rippled through the defenders.
From behind the archers a line of trumpeters and other musicians began to sound their instruments: they all played the same notes, a repeated refrain with no specific meaning other than to add to the noise of battle. He hoped the strange cacophony would remind the soldiers of their homes and their families, whose survival rested on their men holding the line. It wasn’t much, but Beyn knew soldiers would cling to any small hope to give themselves cheer.
‘Not today,’ the King’s Man growled. ‘I’m not fucking dying today.’
Kastan Styrax watched his troops throwing themselves with abandon at the enemy. As they slammed into the wall, some succeeded in driving the spears aside with their shields before stabbing with their own, others were impaled, and in their haste some smashed straight into the wall itself, a hastily built mishmash of rubble and sodden wood that stopped them in their tracks and left them staring at the face of some astonished Arothan barely inches away.
The Menin infantry pounded at the varied array of weapons, driven on by bloodlust and the press of ranks behind. Styrax himself couldn’t reach the defenders, such was the mass of his men attacking the wall. Another volley of arrows flew into the Menin and Chetse troops, and more came from the buildings, though most were blown about by the gale and dropped like exhausted sparrows, their energy spent.
Styrax threw a lance of flame at the nearest city building, and an orange-gold stream of fire illuminated the sodden combatants below. Before it struck, the flames were wrenched upwards and soared over the roofs of the city like a comet before dissipating into nothingness.
Styrax smiled grimly and drew on the Skulls fused to his armour. He threw a crackling burst of iron-grey energy at the building, and this too was diverted by Aroth’s mages, although its tail clipped one corner of the roof, exploding some tiles. The pieces clattered down onto those below, and told Styrax all he needed to know about the mages defending the city.
He was quite safe from attack by them; that much he was certain. The vast majority were men and women with minor skills, sitting within a network of defensive wards and channelling their power to the strongest. That one knew what he or she was doing well enough, whether or not they were a battle-mage. How long they could defend against his efforts depended on how many they numbered, but Styrax didn’t care — endless power was his to command ...It would be easy, he thought, to get carried away as he punched through the mages’ defences. For the first time in years, Styrax didn’t trust himself not to get lost in the storm of magic. Even a white-eye of his skill could easily be overwhelmed by such colossal energies, and grief had made him ragged at the edges. It would be easy for him to become careless and unfocused.
Let this be a victory for the army, he thought with a quickening sense of anticipation; let it belong to the soldiers alone.
He turned and waved forward the minotaurs, who were straining to drag the battering ran along the road that was swiftly turning to mud. Behind them came the Reavers. He would commit the regiments of white-eyes soon enough - their value was in exploiting vulnerabilities once he threw them into play.
As Styrax advanced towards the wall and joined the press of soldiers, a burgeoning corona of light played around his shoulders. The troops made space for him quickly enough so he could attack the nearest Arothan troops with his spitting whipcords of bright white energy.
At such short range the coterie of defending mages could do little to defend the men and as their scr
eams of agony rang out, so the Menin soldiers cheered and pressed harder against the line, ignoring the dead at their feet except to step over them.
On the right the minotaurs got the battering ram into position and started to drive it forward. A bronze head capped the pointed tip of the ram, inscribed by Lord Larim with runes of fire and strength. As it struck the heavy door to the Tollhouse with an almighty thump, so fire burst out from the bronze head and licked over the iron-bound wood of the door.
The fire quickly dissipated when the ram was dragged back, but the wood remained scorched, and every time the head hit it burned a little more. The minotaurs bellowed with frustration and rage as the door continued to resist, most likely blocked with rubble behind, but they kept at their task.
Above them a handful of archers braved the Menin arrows to lean out and shoot down at the minotaurs. One was successful, catching the largest of the beasts in the neck and causing it to reel away in mortal agony, then the Menin bowmen responded, peppering the upper levels of the Tollhouse.