by Damien Black
Vaskrian fingered the hilt of his fine new sword. He’d need its workmanship right soon by the looks of things. The Earth Witch’s words returned to him. You too have a part to play... He should be overjoyed. He’d always thirsted for glory, now it looked as though the Almighty Himself had marked him out for something big.
Yet no man shall give you a title for your deeds…
That thought filled him with despondency. Was that his fate, to take part in a great quest and never get credit for it? Typical, just typical. Life wasn’t fair. The rest of the war counsel faded into the background as he sank into a melancholy mood. He was bored of listening to talk in any case. He just wanted to get the next battle over with: another thankless task set before him.
Perhaps he’d quit service after the battle was done, take a job as a freesword. Maybe he wasn’t destined for title and glory, but at least he could earn a decent living selling his blade to the highest bidder. He sighed at the thought. Frustrated ambition was a bitter draught to swallow and no mistake.
Reus damn the Earth Witch and her unearthly ways! What man in his right mind would ask to know his future?
‘Look!’ Anupe caught Balthor’s sleeve, gesturing towards the lip of the Argael. Peering in that direction he could see groups of lithe-looking bowmen dressed in green emerging from the trees.
‘They’ve come!’ she said excitedly. ‘Three days as he said – perhaps I was wrong to suspect our friend.’
‘How many?’ asked Sir Balthor. It was getting dark, but there was still just enough light to see by. They had spent a frustrating two days camped out on the ridge, struggling to assess the foe as best they could. Judging by its comings and goings, and movements within the compound, there had to be at least two hundred beastmen garrisoned there.
Of their captives he’d only seen one sign, and that had been enough: what looked like the corpses of two women, their blood-spattered bodies dragged from a low building at the far end of the compound and burned on a pyre. He’d guessed they had just given birth to Wadwos, an experience few if any could survive.
The thought of the same thing being done to Her Ladyship and her friend made him sick. He yearned for combat, the chance to rescue them from such a horrid fate.
Now that chance had come.
‘Well over a hundred I think,’ said the Harijan, her quick eyes providing the answer to his question. Balthor felt cold fear clutch his innards with icy hands, his hot excitement receding at its touch. He knew from hard experience that wouldn’t be nearly enough.
Then he caught a glint of dying sunlight on armour.
‘Looks like they have some knights with them,’ he mused, some hope returning to him.
‘Some of yours?’ asked Anupe.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I can’t see their coats of arms at this range, but the colours aren’t familiar. Let’s get down there and find out who they are.’
It took them several hours to scrabble back down from the ridge, clambering over the hard knuckled terrain by light of stars and moon. Balthor glanced upwards several times at the latter, but of course it was nowhere near full yet.
A guard posted on the woodlanders’ camp challenged them as they arrived. They had set up on a stretch of broken slopes just where the forest’s edge petered out into rocks and shrubs. Glancing up at the fortress he could see torchlight flaring on its ramparts, but if the waking Wadwos had seen their attackers, they gave no indication of it.
‘I am Sir Balthor Lautstimme, Dulsinor’s foremost knight, sworn sword to the Eorl of Graukolos,’ he declaimed. ‘I sent my employee, one Ratko of the Argael, to fetch you.’
He heard muttering. There were hardly any lights across the camp; an amorphous mass of silhouetted forms were all that told of the woodland force.
‘A’right,’ came the response. ‘Come through. We’ve a dozen arrows trained on ye, so dunna think o’ tryin’ nowt.’
A sentry escorted them to the middle of the camp. A steady night breeze was blowing, billowing up Balthor’s surcoat. He hoped there would be none of that tomorrow, it would be bad for the archers.
As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light he could see more than half the company were making ready to march, bows and quivers slung across backs and cloaks wrapped tightly around them. Someone struck tinder to taper and his eyes blinked as the sudden light blinded him momentarily.
When his vision cleared he found himself surrounded by a motley band of adventurers. Two Argolian friars, a richly-dressed knight accompanied by a lean squire, Ratko and another pair of woodlanders, two more knights wearing chequered cloaks, Northlending by the looks of them… He recognised the older monk. Horskram of Vilno had stayed at Graukolos on several occasions. Balthor felt sure he didn’t like the haughty secretive monk, who had rarely deigned to speak to him. He also recognised the emblem on the Northlending knights’ surcoats. What in Reus’ name was the Order of the White Valravyn doing this far south? King Freidheim’s sworn knights seldom left his Dominions, never mind Northalde.
He introduced himself formally and the men staring at him did likewise. They spoke in Decorlangue now, the common tongue used between high-born peoples throughout the Free Kingdoms. He translated into Vorstlending for the benefit of Anupe, inwardly cursing. He hated foreign languages, why couldn’t everybody just speak bloody Vorstlending?
‘My thanks for coming,’ he said, addressing Madogan in his own tongue when the introductions were done. The high speech of Old Thalamy would be quite beyond a commoner.
‘My thanks fer spyin’ on ‘em fer us,’ replied the woodland chieftain affably. Balthor didn’t care for the commoner’s tone. ‘How many d’ye reckon are up there?’
‘Hard to say for sure,’ ventured Balthor. ‘At least two hundred.’
The woodlander whistled. Horskram translated for his foreign companions, who exchanged grim looks.
‘Look, what are you doing here?’ Balthor asked Horskram, who spoke his own language fluently. ‘What concern is it to a bunch of Northlendings and a Thraxian what happens in the Argael on the Vorstlending side of the border?’
‘That tale would be over long in the telling,’ replied the monk. ‘Suffice to say for now we are very much on your side.’
Madogan gave a low whistle and the woodlanders began marching off, their inky forms moving against the craggy slopes as they began the ascent towards the ridge.
‘We attack at dawn, so best to get some rest now,’ said Sir Torgun. Stepping forwards he clasped hands with Sir Balthor. ‘It will be an honour to fight alongside Dulsinor’s greatest knight.’
Balthor returned the grip, suddenly feeling a little unsure of himself. So far as he could tell the Northlending wasn’t being sarcastic. He could barely admit it even to himself, but next to Sir Torgun he felt like a child.
‘Aye,’ he said, recovering his composure. ‘There’ll be a bloody morning and no mistake.’
The woodlander holding the taper extinguished it, and Balthor went by starlight to find a space to rest as best he could.
A cowl of brooding clouds covered the rising sun as the archers took up their positions. Sir Balthor hastily ran a whetstone across his blade before joining the foreign knights who would be his allies in the coming conflict.
Sir Torgun had briefed him of the battle plan over a snatched breakfast in the pre-dawn light. It sounded simple enough, but then oftentimes simple strategies were all it took to win the day. Sir Balthor fervently hoped this would be one of those days. He glanced at his blade, but it showed no signs of the Wose’s Bane. He supposed that was a good thing: hopefully it should make the Wadwos even more likely to take the bait.
Madogan gave the order and his men dipped their arrows in the makeshift braziers before them, then drew the flaming shafts to their lips. Did some of those burning arrow points tremble slightly as they pointed accusingly at the leaden skies? He could hardly blame the commoners if so: even noblemen of courage would quail before such a foe. The thought of poor Sir Rufus flashed thro
ugh his mind, his sightless eyes fixed in terror as they peered from his mangled corpse.
‘Fire!’ The command was appropriately worded. Balthor prayed no such thing would be caused by the volley. He wasn’t here to rescued the charred corpses of high-born maidens.
The flaming arrows curled a graceful arc, their trails blazing across the grey firmament before dipping down into the compound like a vicious claw. Many shafts lodged in the walls, but some made it over the ramparts, which appeared to be unmanned. It was too far to hear if the Wadwos were discomfited; perched on its rock-strewn slope, the fortress stared impassively down at its attackers.
Madogan repeated the command and another fiery wave crested the hills. Sir Balthor glanced nervously up at the ridge overlooking the fortress. The bulk of the woodlanders lined it, crouched down to conceal themselves as best they could.
A third volley fell on the fortress. A few tendrils of smoke could be seen, wafting up above the wooden walls. Sir Balthor prayed for the damsels’ safety. No winds disturbed the smoky wreathes as they ascended to the stony heavens: at least his prayers on that count had been answered.
A flash of movement came from the fortress. Its gate creaked slowly open.
‘They’ve taken the bait!’ cried Sir Torgun, who appeared to have assumed command. ‘Switch arrows now!’
Madogan repeated the command and the woodlanders knocked arrows dipped in Wose’s Bane to their bows. On the ridge the others could be seen doing likewise. The ridge wasn’t deep but it was long enough to fit the hundred men and women who lined its rocky lip. Balthor held his breath and returned his gaze to the fortress.
They began to emerge, in an orderly column two abreast.
‘They’re in contempt of us,’ remarked Sir Braxus. ‘They think we can’t harm them from such a distance.’
‘It’s only their lust for blood that draws them out,’ said Madogan. ‘That’ll be their downfall.’
Or you hope as much, thought Sir Balthor, minding the commoner’s shaking voice. He raised the shield he’d taken from Sir Rufus and brandished his sword. Let the woodfolk have their turn with their bows; good strong knights would finish the work with cold steel. Well, cold steel and poison for monsters.
The Wadwos had chosen their spot for a fort well. Perched atop a flat shelf of land, it overlooked the only pass up into the mountains for leagues. The rocky hills that stretched up to meet it flattened out, giving it the perfect vantage spot.
As the Wadwos drew towards its edge and he saw how they planned to make use of that advantage, his heart quickened.
‘Hold steady!’ cried Sir Torgun, also spotting it. ‘Madogan, give the order now!’
‘Release!’
Another rain of shafts arced up and down towards the beastmen. They did not even try to avoid them as they hurtled down towards them, but stepped over to the lip of rock and let go of their burden.
There were some forty in the sally. Each one clutched a round rock the size of a man’s chest. Letting these go the white-faced creatures gave a unified yell as they watched them tumble down towards their attackers.
The arrows found their mark just then. Half the beastmen dropped, convulsing as the poison took effect. The other half began moving back towards the gate but were struck down by another volley from the archers on the ridge. Not all the bowmen up there were aiming outside the fortress. He guessed more of the beastmen were assembled in the compound.
The first sally was wiped out, but that was small consolation to their killers as dozens of boulders crashed down the slopes towards them.
‘Down!’ yelled Madogan. ‘Flatten yourselves to the ground!’
Not all the woodlanders had the presence of mind to obey his order. Several screamed as they suddenly shot backwards, their bodies transformed into bloody masses of bone and flesh wrapped around great balls of rock. Not all those who obeyed in time were lucky either: a few unfortunates were crushed into the hard rock as they lay. When the surviving company rose there were scarcely more than thirty left.
Another sally of Woses came pouring out of the gate, moving swiftly now. Pausing to hurl more rocks down the slopes, they drew weapons and came loping down in the wake of their tumbling phalanx of stone. This second attack was too swift to give them time to fire another volley.
Pressing himself behind a narrow dip in the rock, Balthor tensed as another boulder crashed off it just inches above his head, careening upwards on the rebound before landing a few feet downwards from him and continuing its descent towards the line of trees below him.
Looking up he saw at least fifty Wadwos pouring down towards them, their horrible ululating cries filling the air between them.
Reus dammit, why weren’t the others on the ridge giving them another volley? Then he had his answer. The winds had started blowing. Hard. Glancing at the ridge he saw several archers plummeting off it as they were swept to their deaths by what looked like flying tornadoes. Those that weren’t being menaced directly had no hope of a clear shot in the suddenly fierce winds.
‘Battle formation!’ cried Sir Torgun. ‘They’re nearly on us!’
The beleaguered woodlanders got to their feet. Many were trembling visibly.
‘You heard the man!’ shouted Madogan. ‘Do as he says!’
A thin line of some twenty five woodsmen prepared to receive attack. Sir Balthor stood at the forefront with the other knights and the sinewy looking squire, who was obviously hell-bent on making some kind of a name for himself.
A horde of beastmen twice their number and nearly twice their size hurtled down the hills towards them…
‘Now!’ cried Sir Torgun. Madogan echoed his command in his own tongue, and all of them flattened themselves to the ground again. The beastmen tried to check themselves and pick off the prone targets, but the laws of nature were against them. Their heavy forms crashed onwards, staggering as they struggled to right themselves and turn to face the enemy that was now behind them.
As one they rose and tore down towards the beastmen, striking and gouging at their legs and torsos, taking full advantage of the sudden height and initiative their unorthodox tactic had gifted them. Some two dozen beastmen went down, convulsing horribly. The others regrouped and began lashing about them, spattering blood far and wide as their giant weapons found flesh and bone.
Screaming his family war-cry, Sir Balthor lost himself in the fury of battle. An anarchic tapestry of white and red seemed to envelop him like the work of some mad artist as he plunged himself into the fray. All thought of tactics was gone. He laid about him like a madman himself, leaving it to the archangel Ezekiel to decide whether he should live or die. The winds whipped furiously around him, the unnatural weather seeming to echo his unbridled battle rage.
Adelko squatted on the large flat-topped boulder they had picked for a vantage spot, silently mouthing words from the Holy Book of Psalms and Scripture. The first volleys had been fired, though from where they were he could not tell if the fortress had been affected. He and Horskram were positioned to the southwest of their comrades; from there they had a clearer view of the ridge, but between them and the fortress the rocky land surged upwards and inwards from the path it guarded before cutting back on itself sharply. They were positioned just at the tip of that point, guaranteeing them some security from the Wadwos. It wouldn’t have been a good spot for archers or fighting, but it was perfect for keeping an eye on one’s allies and intervening with sacred words of prayer if needed.
And needed they were, before long.
‘Just as I expected, a timely intervention from our sorcerous quarry,’ said Horskram, indulging a ribald turn of phrase. ‘Get up, Adelko, and summon your fortitude. It’s time for us to get involved.’
It was true enough. The Aethi had coalesced out of nowhere, just above the ridge. He could discern the faintest of humanoid forms within the tornadoes that suddenly assailed the archers, sending some to screaming deaths and scattering the shafts of the rest like twigs caught up in a gale.
Taking a deep breath, he joined his voice to Horskram’s as he began reciting, focusing on the words on the page and his master’s psyche simultaneously:
Spirits of the Other Side
Thou hast crossed the great divide
Set by Him who made the gales
That sweep across the glades and dales!
Spirits from beyond the rent
‘Tis He commands thee to relent
Still your stormy voices keen
Share silence with thy lords Unseen!
He could feel the spirits fighting him, struggling to ignore the divine ordinance he and his mentor now invoked. The Aethi continued to envelop the woodlanders in swirling clusters, sweeping several more off the ridge. Pushing the spectacle from his mind, he pressed on with the Psalm:
Spirits of the Other Side
By He who sends the winds from high
To bring the rains that nourish seed
I command thee cease thy screed!
Spirits from beyond the rent
Thy trespass ‘gainst Him now repent
End this stormy ruinous lust
Or see thy breath choke in the dust!
His soul and Horskram’s intertwined, becoming one and not one, separate and consubstantial; acting together in concert as one entity, yet not the same. It was one of the great contradictory mysteries of their Order, but Adelko had little time to ponder it as they pushed, their words bolstered by a growing spiritual fortitude. The air spirits receded, giving the woodlanders a breathing space as they bent their essences to combating the words sent to banish them:
Spirits of the Other Side
Return across the great divide
Despoil no more the fair wide lands
That Reus gave to mortal man!
Spirits from beyond the rent
By unclean powers thou wert sent
Pay no heed to warlock’s call
Obey the laws of the Lord of All!
Now the Aethi were weaving frantically amongst one another, conjoining and separating in the blinking of an eye as they struggled to abjure the sacred recital. The winds they commanded began to disperse, losing their cogency as they dispersed and flurried in all directions.