by Tom Lloyd
'Exactly – I'll deal with this weapon myself and leave King Emin stranded. He'll learn the hard way that no defence is absolute.' Styrax stared at the fort, where the king was commanding its defence. 'But of course, full honours to any man taking the king's head before they surrender, Menin or otherwise. Ensure the men know.'
The fighting along the tree-line was growing increasingly desperate. Daken prowled behind the lines of troops like a hunting lion, all the while bellowing orders and cursing. Osh watched him, blood-stained and battered after the desperate fight with the Chetse but as unrelenting as winter. Intentionally or not, Daken was performing exactly the role King Emin had intended for him: the raging, indefatigable white-eye hero. He was egomaniacal by nature and blood-crazed in battle; it was impossible not to take heart from the Mad Axe's presence. Daken's legend was mixed, but Osh could see Daken's past crimes meant little here.
Large numbers of Chetse had got lost in the tangled forest, trying to skirt the troops stationed there, making little headway as they'd attacked piecemeal. Now the men were gathering up the several hundred Menin dead and piling them up as makeshift barricades – they wouldn't stop anyone attacking, but it channelled the remaining forays to ground of Osh's choosing as well as keeping the troops busy.
The Menin had withdrawn to regroup after half an hour of brutal hand-to-hand combat, the sobbing cries of the injured filling the air as they were dragged back from the front line. The grass at their feet was stained by the blood and loosened bowels, and Osh could see from the faces of those left that the full horror of the battle was settling in. The only thing he could do about it was to keep the men busy, bringing up the next line of troops and withdrawing the battered legion that had borne the brunt of the first assault.
Counting the dead was difficult amidst all the bustle and chaos. The open ground was a hundred yards across, and the dead lay strewn across it. The enemy had brought makeshift walkways to cross the fifteen-foot-deep ditch and used their archers to pin the down the defenders while they got enough troops across to take them down. Their attack plan had nearly succeeded.
Shouts suddenly rang out from the front rank of troops. Osh scanned the ground, at first thinking the Menin were advancing already, but he could see nothing. When he listened more carefully he realised it was anger, not alarm, that he was hearing.
He sent one of the young officers attending him to investigate while he checked behind him: an old man's battlefield paranoia never died. Troops behind stood in neat blocks; a division of five hundred spearmen was heading over to bolster his numbers. Companies of fifty were stationed all around, watching for surprises from the rear. They'd had to deal with a second pair of minotaurs, but now all was quiet; it appeared they'd weathered the worst of the flanking attack. He doubted they'd try to surprise them again from the forest – it was impossible to maintain any form of order there, and a piecemeal assault wasn't going to be enough.
'Sir,' called the lieutenant as he returned, face pale, 'sir, they've got captives out on their line – they're torturing them.' The young man was barely old enough to join the army – seventeen winters if that, and most likely a year into some commission promised before his parents had known what was coming.
'Tell our archers to fire on them,' Osh ordered.
'But they're women and children, sir!' the youth exclaimed in dismay.
Osh lurched forward and grabbed him by the throat with one powerful hand. 'Sonny, they're going to die, no matter what – so you'd wish them something slow and agonising, or the peace of a swift death?'
'No, sir – yes, sir,' the lieutenant spluttered.
Osh released him. 'Exactly. So give the order.'
He watched, his teeth gritted, as the first few arrows were fired. Despite the deaths they'd just seen, the slaughter of hundreds whose blood now stained their boots, shooting at captives was clearly a reminder of things they'd pushed to the back of their minds. Osh knew men faced battle in different ways, but none wanted to dwell on thoughts of family and loved ones: that sucked the fire from a man's belly, and sure as anything would see him face-down in the mud before long.
And now I'm at it, Osh chided himself, Gods, man – you are getting old!
'No time for all that,' he said aloud, ignoring the questioning looks he got from his remaining aides, 'what are the bastards going to try next?'
'Ah, Reavers, sir?' opined the boldest of his aides, a tall olive-skinned youth who has been one of Osh's pupils until war had broken out, when he had begged to join his teacher's staff.
'Let's hope not,' Osh laughed. 'Last thing we need's more bloody white-eyes here! But you're right – it'll be something to disrupt us. Maybe mages, something to give them a step forward, at least. They won't win the ground easily, there's too many of us to push back, so they'll need to chop a path through.'
'Shall I send another division to support? Increase the number of ranks?'
Osh frowned at the lines of fresh infantry, their pike-heads glinting in a rare shaft of sunlight. The men were eight ranks deep and tightly packed. He shook his head. 'No, it's sufficient. Bring the reserves up in regiment blocks with free ground around them. I want them to be able to react when the unexpected is thrown at us.'
'Tachrenn Lecha,' General Vrill said slowly, as he watched the last of the captives discarded after having their throats cut.
The Chetse commander turned to face the white-eye, screwing his eyes up slightly as the Menin's enchanted armour fluttered in a breeze that Lecha could not feel, the air around it appearing to constantly dance and twist.
'General,' Lecha said dully, letting the head of his axe fall to the ground. The tall Chetse's skin had turned almost bronze in the summer sun, a similar hue to his polished armour. He tugged his helm from his head and tucked it under his arm as he waited for Vrill to speak. He had little time for most Menin officers, despite acknowledging Lord Styrax as a man capable of leading them all to glory.
'Your troops are ready?'
'For what?' Lecha spat. 'Another suicide mission? It looks to me as though most of the Flamestone Legion aren't coming back out of that damn forest.'
'For the decisive action,' Vrill growled, swinging abruptly around towards Lecha and forcing the smaller man to step back. 'Your legion is the Caraper Guard, is it not? And is that not a powerful, armoured predator?'
'It is,' Lecha said warily.
'Well, emulate it then.' Vrill pointed at the left flank of the open ground, where the ranks of enemy abutted the long defensive ditch. 'We've heard enough of the strength of Chetse warriors; now it's time to prove it. Reform your legion, forty ranks deep, and punch through the enemy. Add whatever remains of the Flamestone Legion to extend your front ranks and conceal your depth.'
'Just us?'
'Not alone.' Vrill assessed the two Menin heavy infantry legions briefly. 'The Second Tocar Legion on your right flank, the First behind you. We'll move up the line to widen the breach.' He gestured towards a hairless mage with unnaturally pale skin hovering nearby. 'Lord Styrax intends to penetrate the line behind the fort – let us show him how it's done.'
Tachrenn Lecha bared his teeth and jerked his axe up into his hands. Heading back towards his men the Chetse called back to Vrill, not caring who else could hear, 'Tsatach's chosen people will show you all.'
CHAPTER 37
Osh watched a line of shadow sweep from the north over the Narkang lines as a bank of cloud drew in. The late morning sun was again hidden as the king's mages kept the threat of a storm close to dissuade Lord Styrax from employing his wyvern.
'Enemy advancing,' called one of his aides, hurrying up from his position at the ditch, 'Menin legion in deep order on the left. Chetse legion tight to them, and more Menin approaching the ditch directly.'
Osh hissed a curse as he turned to wave forward more troops. 'Major, take your troops and brace the left flank – shoulders in their backs, man.' He pointed to where he wanted them, and didn't wait to watch them go. He walked to the aide's station at the ditch: th
ere was a division of archers on the right of the Chetse, then a gap of fifty yards before two legions of infantry in Byoran colours. He could see they carried more bridges to throw across the ditch; many of their front rank were using them as shields against the continuous arrow-fire.
Daken appeared at his side, clapping a massive hand on the ageing warrior's shoulder. 'Not getting enough action at the back, eh?'
'I'm trying to work out if they've got anything more up their sleeves than brute force.'
'Force works fer me. Strongest man wins, that's the way o' things,' Daken declared.
They watched the enemy approach at a steady tramp. They wouldn't want to be running more than two hundred yards in heavy armour, however quickly they wanted to cover the ground. The Menin approached with spears ready to be levelled, hunched down behind their shields, while the Chetse carried shields only in their front ranks, to protect the majority while they closed for the kill.
At seventy yards, Osh suddenly felt a cold ball of dread appear in his stomach. The Chetse legion had angled unexpectedly, just as they were readying to charge, moving ahead of the slower Menin. Suddenly the right hand side of their line faltered and Osh realised what they were up to: the Chetse were in deep formation, massed on one side behind a standard front rank. The effect of the men of the right halting slanted the legion's advance so when the charge was sounded, they were coming at an angle.
'Merciful Gods,' Osh breathed.
For once Daken had nothing to add. He pointed with his axe to the alarmed aides behind them. 'Summon the reserves, everyone you can – now!'
There was little time for anything more. A great roar came from the Chetse legion as they gathered pace, their shield line intact and closing. Osh felt the rumble of their feet through the ground: fifty yards, now thirty… The pikemen lowered their weapons to present a spiked wall, but now the pikes weren't pointing directly at the enemy.
Osh looked around as enemy arrows began to fall and the Byoran troops marched steadily towards him. He stood only twenty yards from the end of the ditch and felt as much as heard the impact as the Chetse collided with their line. It rang out like a long peal of thunder, distantly building before crashing against his ears.
The ranks shuddered visibly, and a dozen men in the final rank were thrown from their feet as the force was transmitted back through the press of bodies. Any screams were drowned out by the clatter of weapons and the bloodthirsty bellows of the Chetse… then it went suddenly and terribly quiet. Normally the front line would hunker down behind their shields and let the heavy axes do their horrific work, but not this time. Osh found himself frozen, unable to move as the line of conflict paused, held in the balance, before the Chetse drove forward as one.
The concentrated mass of troops was too much to bear and more fell at the back of the legion and were trampled as several hundred men were physically shoved backwards a step, then another. The front rank was hidden from him but Osh could picture it easily enough, his troops pressed further up against each other, able to do little beyond keep their pikes level while the Chetse drove harder and harder into them. However many Chetse were dead at the front, those at the back would know nothing of casualties, only that they could not stop pushing at any cost.
On the left he heard the Menin crunch into the supported side of the line with another terrific crash, though without the momentum of the Chetse charge. Directly ahead Osh saw the remaining infantry, lighter-armed spearmen, running forward amidst a hail of arrows from all directions. He flinched when one thwacked into his helm, but it glanced away harmlessly.
The spearmen threw down more than a dozen bridges and walkways, some six feet or more wide; the defending regiments ran to meet their attackers, and a savage struggle for each began, as they battered each other to death in the restricted space. One bridge was thrown down barely ten yards from where they stood, and Daken forced a path to the head of it and stood with one foot on the wooden platform as he waited for the attack.
He smashed at their shields with his great axe, pitching one after another down into the ditch through his sheer strength. After four men had fallen, the enemy hesitated, stunned by the raging white-eye with glowing blue tattoos, and the defenders had enough time to chop away at the end of the bridge and shatter the wood until that too dropped into the ditch below.
The Narkang pikemen were not faring so well. The Chetse continued to heave forward with practised skill. Their long two-handed axes decimated heads and pike-shafts alike, and Osh saw the line weaken further and started to buckle. Men started thinking only about survival, and began to give way to the pressure as they were forced further back. With each step the Chetse gave a triumphal shout, driving forward with one will, and after barely a minute their greater strength told and the line of pikemen parted and split.
Some scrambled madly backwards as the front ranks collapsed, only to be trampled in the onrush, while the right flank disintegrated, dozens pushed by their terrified comrades into the open end of the defensive ditch. Others found themselves colliding with the line of defenders behind the ditch.
Icy fear filled Osh's gut as the first of the Chetse shields burst through. 'Where are the reserves?' he croaked. 'Daken!'
The white-eye looked over and saw the danger. The Chetse were still advancing in close order, towards the archers strung behind the main line, who panicked and fled, most heading directly into the forest. Beside them was a division of pikemen, the troops who had held the line in the first assault.
Leaving his own position Daken brandished his axe to wave the reserve troops forward. 'Charge, you bastards!' he hollered, and without waiting, the white-eye followed his own orders, heading straight for the exposed flank for the Chetse, his axe raised. As he ran, a long tendril of bluish light darted out from his body and snagged the ankles of several soldiers, who stumbled and fell, sprawling under the feet of their comrades and causing a moment of confusion just as Daken arrived to decapitate the nearest. He wasn't alone for long as the pikemen followed their white-eye general's lead. They all knew what would happen if the Menin gained a foothold inside the Narkang lines, and that knowledge overrode their fear.
Daken battered away at the nearest Chetse, hacking furiously at the smaller soldiers, whilst being careful not to cut a path into their ranks and find himself surrounded. The flank of the legion ground to a halt as the soldiers turned to face the new assault, and their tight formation stretched, becoming ragged as the rest continued to advance on through – then a chorus of whoops and shouts came from the forest side and a disordered crowd of soldiers raced out from the trees into the Chetse's other flank. The Narkang Watchmen had arrived.
Finally the Chetse stopped and prepared to defend themselves. The reserve pikemen were advancing towards their short front rank and the mass of Watchmen, bolstered by some of those archers who'd just fled into the trees, slammed into the side of the Chetse, attacking furiously.
Osh took a moment to look back along the ditch and saw they were holding – but only barely.
'Sen, get that messenger to summon more troops from the reserve, as many as he can!' Osh yelled, grabbing his former pupil by the arm and shoving him towards a horseman stationed behind the advancing pikemen. 'Is the ditch breached?'
'No, sir,' answered another aide, looking down the defensive line, 'only one bridge has gained ground and there's a company already surrounding the incursion.'
The Mystic of Karkarn turned back to the Chetse. They may have been under assault on three sides, but they were by far the most ferocious of the troops involved. Making a decision, he yelled at a squad of pikemen standing ready to see off the next bridging attempt and beckoned to include his own small command staff too, 'All of you; come with me!' With that, Osh started limping towards Daken's small group attacking the left flank of the Chetse, but before they arrived he could see the Chetse line had relaxed and lost its tight formation, the better to surround and slaughter their attackers.
'But, sir, look!' said his young
lieutenant, the fear evident in his voice as he pointed to a second block of troops following in the path of the Chetse.
'I know that,' Osh growled, grabbing the youth by the arm and dragging him a few steps along, 'but you don't get to choose every fight – the longer we hold 'em, the better chance the rest have.' He released the lieutenant and drew his scimitar. 'Form up on me, you coddled girlies! It's time to see if any o' you had a teacher worth a damn!' And he headed straight for the few dozen Chetse who'd broken away from their line, intent on surrounding and destroying Daken's men. Under his breath he muttered a prayer, one he'd never spoken before; it was reserved for moments such as this: 'Karkarn aid me, for these offerings with my blade. Karkarn welcome me, for this day I die.'
Lord Styrax watched the second wave march within bowshot of the fort and raised his own sword. All around him the heavy infantry roared with one voice, thumping the butts of their spears against the ground. The beat of the war drums behind cut through the noise and they set off, marching in time towards the open stretch of ground between the wooden fort and the defensive ditch. With only seventy yards of ground to work with he'd stood two legions side by side, fifty men in each tight rank, and he'd placed himself in the centre.
Since the Cheme Third Legion had been decimated, the Second was on his right, the Arohat Fourth on his left and the more manoeuvrable Cheme First in front, already closing on the defensive ditch. The archers there started firing as soon as they were past the marker, but Styrax's attention was on the solid line of defenders ahead. There were at least three legions packed into one solid line – it was impossible to judge how many, but it looked like the commander had pushed as many troops as he could into that gap. No doubt there were several legions of archers behind.
'My Lord?' said a cultured voice behind him, 'my coterie-brother has contacted me.' Mage Esetar sounded animated for a change, the prospect of marching into battle and being surrounded by death apparently exciting the Adept of Larat. It didn't surprise Styrax; Esetar epitomised everything that folk hated about his kind: he was sadistically cruel, and dispassionate about almost everything. Only power and death could spark some life in his washed-out, almost reptilian face.