The hillside before them erupted as the men stood, throwing off their concealing blankets and setting arrows to strings. The Bjornmen reacted instantly, clustering together and overlapping their shields to form three protective domes.
“Now!” shouted Klöss, raising his sword to give the signal to the weaponsmaster.
He watched as the storm of arrows engulfed his companies. They huddled low, all forward movement forgotten as the arrows slammed into the wooden shields or shattered as they hit the steel central bosses.
The sound of the catapults was thunderous as their operators launched them almost in unison. Stone was hard to come by on the plains and even harder to transport with any speed, but Klöss had learned the lessons his battles had taught him and the woods they had passed through had provided amply.
A hail of rocks, hunks of wood and broken weapons tore into the poorly armoured archers. His arbalests would never had managed the range; the enemy archers were using the height of the hills to add to their reach and they were probably at their limit, as it was.
Those that hadn’t already fled at the sight of the incoming storm were torn to pieces as the deadly barrage struck. The huddled Bjornmen dropped their shield wall and formed back into lines again. They all knew there could be only one response from the enemy.
Klöss waited in silence. It was always a risk to assume your opponent thought the same way as you did, but he couldn’t imagine anyone passing up the opportunity. The men trotted forward, their heavy shields raised in front of them and long spears in their hands. Arbalest men followed, pressing close to the spearmen so they could use the cover from their shields.
The horse-borne heavy lancers came in a wave, passing out of the enemy lines and forming up as they began their charge. A blur of thundering hooves and shining steel, they bore down upon the seemingly hapless companies of Bjornmen, who were now far from the rest of their lines.
The spearmen shifted their heavy shields slightly to the side as the horses flew towards them and, with a sharp report, the arbalests fired. The heavy bolts ripped through the ridiculous steel skirts that hung over the horse's chests and then ripped into the flesh. The spearmen braced their weapons against the earth, as what was left of the line crashed into them.
Klöss watched his men shift backwards, allowing the fight to move them rather than becoming locked in one position. His location afforded him a good view of the battlefield, but the chaos was just too intense for him to see what was going on with any clarity until it was too late.
The second rank of heavy lancers had been positioned far enough behind the first that almost thirty seconds had passed by the time they struck. There was simply no time to reset the arbalests, however. The heavy weapons were notoriously slow to reload. The heavy lancers drove their horses into the Bjornmen, trusting in the weight of the animals rather than their own weapons. They broke through the line before wheeling and stabbing down into the mayhem. They worked swiftly, destroying the Islanders before retreating to the relative safety of their own lines.
Klöss swore and gave the order to charge. He looked out at the battlefield to see a single Islander moving. He continued to watch, even though he knew it was a mistake. The man lay face down in the dirt, surrounded by blood and gore, crawling mindlessly towards his own lines. The lone remaining lancer sat astride his horse, calmly looking down at the Islander. For a moment, he seemed content just to watch as the man dragged himself along, grasping at the grass and dirt. The charging Bjornmen were less than a hundred feet from their companion when the lancer drove his weapon down, ramming it through the man's shoulder blades and into the blood-soaked earth. The Islander screamed then, all his energy spent in one long, agonised burst.
The lancer left his weapon there, pinning the man to the dirt, and gave the charging Bjornmen a mock salute as he wheeled his horse and trotted back to his own lines.
***
“Bastard!” Rhenkin raged, as the catapults devastated his archers. “Send the horse,” he screamed at Kennick. He forced himself to watch as the few men who had survived ran, falling and sliding down the hillside in an attempt to escape the deadly barrage.
“Set the archers three ranks in behind the front lines, ready for when they try and close with us. I want them to use a combination of direct shots and overhead volleys for as long as is practical,” Rhenkin ordered. “Let’s see the bastards try and do their shield wall tricks against two lines of fire. Have small squads of the heavy lancers ready to charge the moment they drop into a tortoise, too.”
They watched as the heavy lancers charged, their two ranks split far apart. Rhenkin was impassive as stone as the Bjornmen fired their crossbows. Kennick, to his credit, said nothing, though he winced visibly as the first rank of horsemen was torn apart by the heavy bolts.
The second rank struck, crashing into the unprepared Bjornmen. For the first time while fighting these people, Rhenkin felt a surge of triumph as he watched the horsemen do their grisly work.
The Bjornmen charged. It was not a probe or a feint this time. Instead, a howling mass of leather-clad savages hurled themselves forwards. There was no time to give orders and Rhenkin surveyed the scene in silence as the men crashed together, hacking and stabbing. The battle descended into pure savagery, with no room for tactics, and men slipped and fell as the ground became soaked in blood and churned into muck by heavy boots.
His remaining archers were sending a steady sheet of shafts high into the air so that they fell within the Bjornman ranks. For the first time though, Rhenkin could see the tactic was having an impact. Bjornmen positioned as far as three or four rows from the front line were being struck. It was likely some of the arrows were striking his own men too, but he forced himself to ignore that possibility. The Bjornmen began to raise their shields, robbing themselves of much of their forward momentum.
“Catapults,” he ordered, sensing Kennick turn to relay the order. They hadn’t found much in the way of stone but now was the time to use it. The barrage tore gaping holes in the Bjornman lines, and the attack faltered and they began to withdraw.
Rhenkin shook his head at Kennick’s unasked question. The temptation to pursue and harry them was strong, but their position was too advantageous for them to consider doing anything that might risk losing it.
The day became an endless succession of attacks, with the Bjornmen coming in waves, steadily grinding away at their front line. They pushed them back twice, emerging from the cover of the hills and spilling out onto the plains, but they'd had to pull back again on both occasions. Now, as evening fell, they were retreating again as the Bjornmen sought to envelop the hills and flank them.
Rhenkin wheeled his horse and ran an eye over the formation of the front line. They'd retreated a good distance from the hills, but the stench of battle was still overpowering. The mingled stink of sweat, blood and horses was overlaid with the fetid smell of fear.
“Do you think they’ll come again, Sir?” Kennick asked, glancing at the sky. “It’s going to be dark before too much longer.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past them at this point, Kennick,” Rhenkin began. “They attack then withdraw, attack then withdraw again. They ebb and flow like the waves on a beach. These Bjornmen know nothing of retreat. They are like the sea itself, pushing ever onwards, driven only by the tides and its own relentless hunger. They are unlike anyone I’ve ever fought before. Unforgiving, merciless and as cruel as the waves of winter.”
The battle slowed as evening fell. The Bjornmen made a succession of half-hearted probes and then withdrew.
“Send the order to withdraw us further. Set sentries and fast response units,” Rhenkin said, fighting a yawn as he spoke. “I want men strung out ahead of our lines. If their men take so much as a step towards us, I want us to know about it.”
“Yes, Sir,” Kennick replied. “I hope I’m not crossing boundaries, Sir, but you should try and get some sleep while you can.”
Rhenkin gave the lieutenant a long look
and then snorted in amusement. “There aren’t many men that would have the balls to make that statement when they're so new to their post, Kennick. I’m impressed.”
“First rule of command support, Sir,” Kennick said. “Mother your commander because he’s too busy to look after himself.”
Rhenkin barked a short laugh. “You’re right, of course. I’ll try to get some sleep as soon as we’re settled.”
***
Klöss gnawed at the chicken leg in his hand. It was an extravagance to be eating fresh meat and he knew he shouldn’t be doing it in front of the men. They would be on a rough stew made from dried meat that would have to cook for a good hour or more. The torches set into the ground by his tent were flaring in his eyes and he stepped around to the side of them to get into the shadows.
He could just make out the lights of the Anlan army in the distance. The name still sounded wrong to him. He'd spent too many months calling the place the Farmed Lands. He tossed the bone aside and fingered the letter tucked into his belt. It was well worn and creased, and he’d lost count of how many times he’d read it now.
Gavin’s story bothered him. It was something he’d had to fight not to scoff at. It was an instant reaction. Keiju and trells, the stuff of fairy tales for children. To hear that one of them had supposedly snatched his son and carried it away was laughable, yet the man had travelled halfway around the world to find him. He’d passed through the Vorstelv just to deliver his message. That, alone, gave Klöss pause for thought.
The note he’d received from his father had mentioned none of this, saying only that Ylsriss had vanished with the child. Rhaven had never been one for long messages, but the letter seemed to be short on details, even for him.
He batted the thought away and looked towards the lights of the enemy camp. They’d pushed them hard today. Twice he'd thought they had them at the point of breaking, as his men broke ranks and worked their way in amongst the enemy lines. The tactic worked particularly well against these men from Anlan. They were so regimented that they couldn’t think outside of a unit. They didn't know how to react when faced with men who were just as happy to fight alone as they were in a squad.
It had been their commander who’d made the difference, sounding a retreat to restore control even though their own men outnumbered those attacking at that point. Klöss smiled in grudging admiration of the man. A commander without vanity was a rare thing.
He glanced up at the sky. The full moon was hidden by the clouds, unlike on the past two nights when it had lit the plains almost as clear as day.
“Christoph!” he called, making his way back into the torchlight again.
A head poked out of the command tent. “Shipmaster?”
“Get me some volunteers for a reaping. A goodly-sized one.” Klöss didn’t wait for the response and stepped back into the darkness, his eyes on the enemy campfires again. If they found it hard to cope with men who could function outside of units, it would be interesting to see how they managed in the dark.
The man worked quickly, passing the word to gather volunteers and lining them up outside of the camp. The Bjornmen's dark leathers worked well in the night and even Klöss struggled to make them out as he worked his way past the sentries. He spotted a form that could only have been Tristan looming out of the dark and headed that way.
“How did we do?” he asked, softly.
“It’s too dark for counting, but I think close to a thousand,” Tristan rumbled. “Your messenger included.”
“Messenger?”
“He means me,” Gavin supplied, emerging from behind Tristan.
“What are you doing here?” Klöss asked.
“I wouldn’t be if I had more sense, but I owe your friend here a debt.” Gavin shrugged.
“You know what a reaping is?”
“Not the finer details, but it’s pretty obvious it’s a night attack.”
“It’s more than just a night attack, boy,” Klöss explained. “You’re on your own in this. We don’t work in units and you don’t owe anything to the men with you. Your only job is to get into the enemy camp and kill as many of them as you can. If you can get out alive, that’s always a plus.”
Gavin nodded slowly. “I understand.”
Klöss gave him an appraising look and then shrugged. “It’s your life. At least for now, anyway.” He looked at Tristan. “Are they ready?”
Tristan nodded.
“Then let’s move them out.”
They jogged slowly, quiet despite their numbers. None carried shields or more than a single weapon, taking nothing with them that could make a noise and give them away.
The reaping expanded behind Klöss and Tristan as they ran, spreading over the grass like ink spilled from a bottle. Gavin just managed to keep pace with the pair. The men spread out, none any closer than ten feet from the next, moving further apart as they travelled.
The only sound the first sentry made was a gurgling moan and, by the time the third guard had screamed his last, the reaping was well within the camp. Gavin pulled his knife as he ran, keeping low and following Tristan and Klöss. The two men seemed intent on killing themselves, as they charged headlong into the enemy camp.
The attack was so uncoordinated as to be a stroke of genius. There were no units, no formations and no plan more complicated than causing damage. The men simply moved as fast as possible. No time was wasted delivering a killing blow when a serious injury could be delivered instead. Dead men can be left behind, but the injured slow and hamper a force.
Gavin darted around the back of a tent and leapt over the guy ropes in an effort to keep Tristan in sight. The sounds of steel on steel were ringing louder than any alarm could have but, from what Gavin could see, the response was more confused than anything else.
There were no attacking units for them to face, Gavin realised. Instead, a thousand tiny fights began and ended every few moments.
A man emerged from between two tents, holding his sword ready. Gavin ducked smoothly under the swing of his blow and moved up behind his attacker, dragging his knife across the man’s throat and moving on. He was ten feet away by the time the body hit the ground.
He caught up with Tristan easily. The man had stuck doggedly to Klöss, fighting when he had to, but clearly acting as a guard. Klöss, on the other hand, was like a fell wind, dealing death and injury to anything that came within his reach. He left a swathe of dead and groaning behind him, moving through the enemy camp in a wide arc which would eventually bring them back out to the front line.
It was the horn that first alerted Gavin. It seemed out of place. The Anlan army used brass instruments - trumpets and cornets. This was a hunting horn. As it sounded, its note was joined by others. He whipped his head round at the noise and his eyes widened.
The skies to the west were filled with a roiling cloud bank that rushed towards them in the moonlight. It seemed almost as if the horns were sounding from within it. Men around him froze and turned as, for the moment at least, the fight was forgotten. The cloud had a strange greenish cast to it, with flashes that could have been lightning appearing from beneath its churning surface. As the horn sounded again, the cloud erupted and a mass of creatures emerged, charging down out of the skies and into the ranks of the army. Tall figures riding on horses as pale as any ghost.
Smaller figures moved through the skies, running alongside the horses, and the crash as they descended into the Anlan ranks was thunderous. Gavin moved to Klöss's side as the reaping was forgotten. Arrows flew up to meet the charge and blue fire lit the skies as they struck the creatures.
Klöss watched the creatures' descent with an unreadable expression on his face. He glanced at Tristan as the man muttered something, then gave him a curt nod before looking at Gavin as if he’d only just noticed he was there.
“This seems like a good time to get out of here.”
Gavin wasn’t about to argue. Tristan gave three long blasts on his horn and they ran. If the camp had been in upr
oar during their attack, it was in chaos now. They sped to the front line almost unimpeded, ducking around men they would have chosen to fight before. It was only as they raced back towards their own camp that it became apparent the creatures were attacking the Islander army as well.
Gavin grabbed at Klöss's arm and stopped for a second.
“Klöss, those things that are attacking...”
“Not now.” His face was hard and impatient.
Gavin grabbed at him again, ignoring the man's furious look. “That's what took, Ylsriss,” he said. Klöss's anger fled in the face of the shock and horror that followed.
Chapter Twenty
Devin looked back, checking the packhorses that were tethered to his saddle. They were fine, which was more than could be said for the rider in front of him. The old man was swaying back and forth on the horse. They’d been on the road for weeks and Devin had quickly learned that Obair pushed himself. He wouldn’t stop to take a break himself and he resisted resting the horses.
“Obair!” He stifled a laugh as the man jumped and nearly fell out of the saddle. Obair turned as Devin's horse drew level and glowered at him from under his hat, a wide-brimmed affair that seemed to use up all of its shape in maintaining the brim before giving up on the rest.
“Was that entirely necessary, Devin?” the old man asked, testily.
Devin grinned. “You were asleep again.”
“I was no such thing!” Obair retorted, the very picture of righteous indignation.
“Obair,” Devin sighed, suddenly not having the energy for this, “do we really need to go through this again? You ride poorly enough as it is. You can’t afford to fall asleep. You'll fall off and you'll probably hurt your horse. Let’s stop for a bit. The horses need a break, anyway.”
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