by Tom Lloyd
The captain bared his teeth in anticipation. ‘Reckon the Mad Axe will want it as a souvenir?’
Dassai laughed as he turned with the rest of the unit and they started back to the high ground the other legion was holding. He cocked his head in thought.
‘You know, Captain? He might just.’
‘They come.’ The scryer was a hairless woman with delicate features, one of only a hundred or so women still supporting the army; most had been left behind at the camp with the supply wagons and a few hundred cavalry as escort.
‘As planned?’ Amber asked.
The scryer closed her eyes to focus her magical sight and Amber realised with a start that there were thin white scars on her eyelids. He’d heard of some who intentionally put out one eye to better channel their abilities, but he’d never seen magical runes cut into the eyelids. The symbols reminded him of when he’d been in the Library of Seasons at the Circle City, and a black pain throbbed at the front of his head as the memory blossomed in his mind: the Fearen House with its hundreds of magical books, Nai at his side and his lord at the desk. The man’s face was a blank, a featureless mask of flesh without expression or animation. Amber shuddered, involuntarily bowing his head and drawing his hands to his chest.
A cold and hollow sensation blossomed in his chest: he heard his mother’s voice in his mind, distant and garbled – an old memory, his mother calling his name from the verandah at home, but it had been a powerful one. Now it was barely within reach, eroded by the magic of the Gods as they erased his lord’s name. He had been at his training temple, still several years off his army commission, when his mother had died giving birth to a baby girl. The child had died too, but Amber had named her Marsay in private, despite Menin tradition not to name stillborns. He still thought of her in his quieter moments. The pain in his chest intensified. Marsay’s life had ended before it had even begun; now her family name had been torn from history too.
‘Amber?’
He became aware of a hand on his elbow and he looked up at Nai’s anxious face.
‘No time for memories,’ the King Man’s said. ‘You hear me, Amber?’
Hearing his name repeated dulled the chill seeping into his bones. He forced himself to take a breath, to fill his lungs with the surging energy that filled the air above them.
‘No memories,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘Scryer, where are their infantry?’
‘Advancing from the camp,’ the scryer replied. ‘Heavy infantry, coming to match ours.’
‘Nai, do they have mages?’
He nodded, his fingers closing around a silver charm hanging from his neck that shone brightly in the dull light. ‘Two, but neither surpass me, I’m certain. You’ve no need to worry about them.’
‘Will they discover our plan, though?’
Nai’s eyes flicked towards the Legion of the Damned, tramping in silence behind the left flank. ‘Only if they investigate closely, and there’s nothing to attract their attention. They’re not strong enough to bother wasting their energy.’
‘Good.’ The black birds swooped and danced over the ground between the armies and for a moment he imagined they were tracing letters in the sky: a distant, desperate attempt to restore the name that had been stolen from him.
‘Cavalry pushing ahead,’ the scryer reported, eyes her closed once more. ‘Four legions-worth on the slopes of the high ground, more getting into position behind.’
‘Sound the drums, close for charge,’ he ordered, and the deep, heavy boom of Menin wardrums rolled like thunder over the plain. The drums confirmed the orders every officer had been given. In normal circumstances they might be alarmed at being told to present a flank to cavalry, but they all knew the plan of attack.
Amber gestured for his guards to start towards the left, heading for the gap between the undead mercenaries and the rear of his infantry lines.
‘I need to be closer,’ he said aloud, though not even Nai had questioned his movement. ‘We cannot rely on the Legion alone.’
The sound of hooves grew louder, then there were shouts of panic from the flank they were heading for. The Menin cavalry were scouts and skirmishers, not troops of the line. Amber knew he could rely on them to follow their orders: to visibly and noisily panic when the enemy closed on them.
He’d wondered if Colonel Dassai would argue, but he had accepted his orders and Amber knew he’d follow them to the letter. Not even the famous fighting spirit of the Green Scarves would stop him letting Menin and undead mercenaries take the brunt of the enemy attack.
‘Dassai’s men are running from the field,’ Nai commented, ‘and the flank’s crumbling, just as you commanded. So this is what battle looks like, eh?’
Sergeant Menax hawked and spat noisily. ‘Battle’s worse,’ he said with contempt. ‘Whole fucking lot worse. This is just folks running away.’
‘But still, for my first battle – even knowing the plan, it’s a little alarming to watch our flank crumble like that.’
Menax grinned. ‘They raise conscripts to fight us and you’ll see what fucking crumbling looks like! I saw the Cheme Third face down fifteen thousand savages from the waste once. All fighters, true enough, but no order: field looked like a slaughterhouse once the Third had finished chopping their way across half a mile o’ ground.’
Amber loosened the ties on his scimitars. ‘Lost both my swords that day,’ he commented. ‘The earth was stained red by the end, blood soaked everything.’ He voice hardened. ‘But the Third’s gone now. I’m the last of them, because they never learned how to retreat.’
‘Buggered if you’re learnin’ today, sir,’ Menax said with feeling.
‘No, there’s no retreat for us,’ Amber agreed, his eyes on the stirring crowd of undead right in front of them. The Legion of the Damned had seen their enemy. ‘Nai, they ready?’
‘They know.’
‘Good. This is the first step home. Every one’s going to be stained with blood.’
A torrent of cavalry swept away from in front of the Legion – his Menin cavalry, eagerly following orders. Amber would have used this same tactic against the Farlan too, so proud were they of their élite – that battle would never be fought now, but before they reached the Waste and started the long, dangerous journey home, Amber was determined Menin prowess would be remembered across the West.
He drew his scimitars as the Legion of the Damned advanced into the attack. This close he could smell them. Nothing living smelled that way, mouldering and ancient. The thunder of hooves intensified—
Then it faltered, and Amber felt his hands tighten around the grips of his swords as the scream of horses rang out and rooks cawed derisively overhead.
Dust and movement obscured his view, but Amber knew the horses had caught the scent of the Legion and started panicking. He started to run forward, suddenly desperate to be in the midst of the fighting himself, and from the maelstrom emerged a rider in the blue and red of the Knights of the Temples, at full pelt. Amber stepped away from his men to meet him before any of them could stop him, but the rider was clinging frantically to his steed and barely aware of anything else. Amber swung a scimitar as the Devoted soldier passed, cleaving up into his ribs and tipping the man from his saddle.
Before Amber could finish the man off, one of the Legion had spotted the enemy on the ground. The injured soldier shrieked in terror at the sight of the undead mercenary, but his cries were short-lived. Wielding a spiked axe with little effort, the mercenary grabbed his prey with one emaciated hand and drove the spike into his gut.
Discarding the corpse, the mercenary took a step towards Amber, a look of dark malevolence on its desiccated face. It wore a skullcap helm, one large steel pauldron on its left shoulder and a leather cuirass that sat at an uncomfortable angle on its hips. The big Menin faced it down, scimitars at the ready, but in the next moment the mercenary refocused its attention and it stalked jerkily back to the fighting.
Amber looked back at Nai. The King’s Man was far
smaller than the Menin around him, but a black flame flickered lazily on the edge of his mace. For all his apprehension, Nai’s magery made him more deadly than the rest.
Amber led the way. They ploughed into the flank of the cavalry, where one regiment had broken off to protect their rear. A javelin glanced off his helm and fell between him and Nai, but the Menin didn’t even flinch as he slashed up at his attacker’s legs. The Devoted soldier caught the blow on his red-painted shield, but before the man had a chance to draw his own sword he was thrown unceremoniously to the ground. As Amber watched, a dark figure dropped down onto the soldier and pinned him down with one knee on his chest as it pounded at his head.
Amber looked around; he could sense the tide of movement falling away from the assault. At the back the Devoted were still pressing forward, unaware of what awaited them, but the Damned were surging through the kicking mess of cavalry with unnatural purpose, chopping through limbs and dragging men from their horses. Someone shrieked for the retreat, rendered incoherent by terror and drowned out by the clamour and screaming, before he too was savagely cut down.
The undead were killing whatever they could; even the horses were not immune, and Amber was powerless to stop them. He saw one axe-wielding warrior near-decapitate three in as many swift strokes. Distantly he heard more hooves, and he realised the slaughter would not end there: either Colonel Dassai was coming to cut off the Devoted’s retreat, or the Devoted reinforcements were arriving – only to find themselves collapsing into confusion when their horses shied away from the unnatural assault.
However, the Damned were not immune from harm. Amber watched one Devoted soldier stab his spear into the face of a mercenary, the weight of the blow snapping its withered neck. The mercenary dropped like a stone – but the victory was short-lived as another came from behind a horse to open the soldier’s ribs and behead him in the blink of an eye.
Amber let his scimitars sink to the ground. The cavalry were in total disarray. Some would probably escape, but the Damned were swarming through them so quickly that many could not even see the danger as they died.
‘Sound the drums,’ he croaked, ‘ready the charge.’
Somewhere nearby the alarm was being sounded. General Afasin wanted to turn and curse at whoever it was – their efforts were only increasing panic in the camp – but he found himself transfixed by the sight before him. The bulk of his army, more than twenty thousand men, were spread out across the floodplain – and they were crumbling. The battle had been raging for an hour, and the infantry were now heavily engaged, but barely any of his cavalry were still fighting – somehow their first assault had been routed entirely, even the reserve driven back.
‘Captain Kosotern,’ he said quietly, ‘where is that mage?’
The captain appeared, dragging a bearded figure after him.
‘Mage Bissen, sir.’
Afasin stepped forward and though Bissen stopped struggling, Kosotern had to hold the man up as he sagged under the white-eye general’s gaze.
‘I made no—’ Bissen started, breaking off as Afasin raised a hand.
The general bent down and with his face inches from Bissen’s, he said softly, ‘Light cavalry, horse-archers, and scouts protecting the flanks. That was your report.’
‘Your scouts confirmed it,’ the mage protested. ‘You saw them raiding our lines yourself!’
‘I saw some of them,’ Afasin agreed. He straightened and rearranged the red sash of his order, which had snagged on a link of armour. ‘And yet somehow two legions of heavy cavalry have been routed and slaughtered.’
Bissen opened his mouth to reply, but Afasin never gave him the chance. In one swift movement he drew his sword and ran the mage through.
Mage Bissen staggered back and crumpled to his knees, reaching one hand out to the captain in a desperate, dying plea for help. Misinterpreting the action, Kosotern snarled, drew his own weapon and stabbed Bissen in the chest to finish him off.
Afasin watched the blood drip from his sword a moment then raised his eyes to watch the battle. Even at this distance he could see the line buckling, the right-hand legions disintegrating as they were outflanked.
‘The day is lost,’ he commented, quelling the roiling anger in his belly. ‘Send out the remaining cavalry to cover our retreat.’
‘General!’ came a shout from further down the line, and he and Kosotern turned, swords still drawn, to see a man on horseback racing towards them. ‘A message from Colonel Gittin!’
Without waiting for a response the rider reached them, dropped from his saddle and lurched the remaining steps to fall at Afasin’s feet. The horse was lathered and caked in dust, the soldier himself filthy and exhausted. ‘General, it’s all true!’ he wailed, drawing himself up to his knees.
‘What is?’ Afasin snapped, reaching out and dragging the man upright.
‘What the preachers said – the warnings!’
Afasin glanced back at the knot of white-cloaked followers of Ruhen who stood at the head of a rabble of civilians. He’d barely been able to prevent them from marching out with his troops; the zealots had been quite certain Ruhen’s divine presence would protect them from any harm.
‘Warnings?’
‘The army of daemons,’ the soldier gasped, ‘they march with daemons! Our cavalry are slaughtered, broken entirely.’
‘By daemons? The bloody sun’s shining!’
‘The colonel’s words, I swear it!’ he pleaded. ‘I saw the cavalry charge. They never reached the enemy flank – and in the next moment they were overrun. No humans could move or kill so quickly.’
Afasin threw the man down. ‘Kosotern, sound Full Retreat – we go as we are. Belay my last; they’re on their own. No idea what that fool Gitten’s talking about, but we’re too few to protect the camp once they’ve cover of night on their side.’
‘Full Retreat? What of Ruhen’s Children?’ the captain asked in dismay, glancing back at the preachers. ‘They’ll fall behind, and we’re not positioned to escort them. They’re barely armed, sir!’
Afasin’s lip curled into some form of smile. ‘They want to fight so badly, let the bastards cover our withdrawal. Someone fetch my horse. We don’t have long.’
CHAPTER 26
Darkness came quickly to the forest. They waited in silence as the shadows descended, watching the light of an ill-omened moon play over the distant grass. The creatures of the forest were wary of what walked the Land after sunset.
When a cloud briefly masked Alterr’s yellow eye, Grisat noticed a pale light far out on the moor and shivered. It moved steadily, keeping well clear of Moorview’s ordered boundaries, yet unafraid to be seen. It was well away from the moor road, he knew; nowhere any sane traveller would be at night.
Daemons, Grisat thought to himself, his fingers pressed against the coin charm half-embedded in his skin. He had been finding that coin less of a threatening presence the closer they came to Moorview, seeing what creatures were being drawn to such a place of slaughter. Now the cold shadow settling over his shoulders felt like a greater protection than the steel plates sewn into his jacket.
Most villages he had passed had been draped in mourning cloths, black banners hanging from the gates and long ribbons of cloth fixed to the branches of prominent trees. It was hard to tell if war or daemon predation had started the mourning, but many of the ribbons looked recent, not yet touched by the elements.
The countryside was still and empty for the main part. Even during the day few went too far from home without company. There were a few ancient, vague stories of the Age of Darkness, but now folk’d be scouring their memories for everything they had ever heard of that time, when the Gods had weakened themselves as gravely as now. He’d left a package by the highway leading north from the moor, pretty sure no one other than the intended recipient would stumble across it – but if any did, they’d mutter a charm against Finntrail and their deadly gifts and hurry on.
‘Our friend is coming,’ whispered a voice
in his ear.
Grisat bit down onto his lip. He’d not heard Ilumene creep so close; the man had got right up to him without disturbing the forest undergrowth.
‘Where?’ Saranay, the third of their party asked. She was dressed little differently to when Grisat had first met her in that Narkang bar.
Ilumene pointed back into the forest and they both turned to look. The ground undulated for miles up to this ridge abutting Tairen Moor, providing ample cover for anyone approaching. Grisat could see nothing except a mass of black overlaying the chaotic tangle of trees behind them, and he could hear as little as he saw.
‘Who is it,’ Saranay muttered, ‘some bloody Harlequin?’
Grisat flinched and fought the urge to giggle hysterically. He could well guess who it was, and idle comments like that in the company of cruel men often proved to have consequences.
It was a few minutes more before three ghostly faces loomed out of nowhere. Even though he was expecting them, Grisat had to muffle a whimper when he saw the Harlequin masks and Venn’s tattooed face. They wore dark woollen cloaks over their regular clothes, as much for concealment as warmth, Grisat guessed.
They really mean to do this. We’re to steal past hundreds of soldiers – into the castle to murder men who could turn us inside out with a word.
‘Shall we go?’ Venn asked curtly without greeting them.
Grisat’s eyes widened: the black Harlequin had his right arm in a sling, his wrist in a splint. Though he’d never seen the man fight himself, he had heard of him from Ilumene. That someone had injured Venn was as remarkable as Venn betraying no apprehension at assaulting a castle left-handed. He’d heard Venn was a powerful mage, though when he’d asked Ilumene back in Byora he’d just laughed and said, ‘One of ’em is anyway’, without deigning to explain further.
‘You’ve found them?’ Ilumene asked, and Grisat turned his attention back.
‘No. They would notice my efforts to scry the castle,’ Venn admitted.
‘As much as I’d like to kill every soldier here, I don’t think we’ve got time,’ Ilumene said.