The wind was stronger here and he clutched his cloak around him as he picked his way up the stone steps to the city wall. The moonlight may have been enough to see by but he'd have given a lot for a torch or lantern.
“Your people,” Aervern said. She spoke without turning, pointing out over the harbour to the dark seas.
Klöss followed her finger, squinting. “I don't see anything.”
Aervern shrugged. “That is no surprise. They approach still, however. The vessels will reach you this night.” She gave him an appraising look. “I could take you to them, if you desire it.”
Klöss shook his head, hoping the darkness was enough to cover his expression. The trip to Rimeheld had been a thing of nightmares and his stomach lurched at the memory of all that empty air gaping beneath him. The thought of willingly letting the fae woman lift them into the air again, and then over water… “No, Aervern, I'll wait here.”
“You are certain?”
The words were innocent but he wasn't sure there wasn't a sly smile hidden amongst them. He nodded.
“I will leave you then. I would return to Joran before the Wyrde falls.”
He looked at her, for the first time seeing past the glowing eyes and the alien cast to her skin. Perhaps she was right, perhaps they weren't so different.
“Would you wait?” he asked her. “Kieron can lead the men west as well as anyone. I'd like to be there, with Ylsriss, when it happens.”
She nodded gravely and turned to face the darkness of the ocean. Klöss stood beside her staring into the darkness as they waited for the fleet.
***
“You want me to do what?” Kieron demanded, slamming the tankard down onto the table. Rimeheld had changed in the daylight, revealing damage that had been hidden by the darkness and exposing large sections of the city that seemed untouched by the attack. The docks had escaped unscathed and the fleet rocked gently at anchor as Klöss met with Kieron in an abandoned tavern on the edge of the harbour.
“I want you to march west,” Klöss repeated. “Unload any supplies from the fleet and head inland as fast as possible.”
“Why in the name of the frozen hells would we want to do that?” Kieron burst out. “In case you hadn't noticed there's a little mess here to clear up.”
“I can see that,” Klöss said, pitching his voice deliberately low. “I'm telling you to form the men up and march west. Rimeheld is chock full of extra supplies but if we don't move soon it'll be too late.”
“Too late for what? The Anlish will be long gone by now,” the grizzled shipmaster said, taking a long pull on his ale without waiting for Klöss to speak.
“It's not the Anlish,” Klöss told him. “And you'll do it because I order it.”
Kieron raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh aye? I will, will I? And just what is it gives you authority over me Klöss? Rimeheld has fallen. You're lord of a pile of rubble here not seamaster. We may as well be at sea at this point which gives you no more say over me than any other shipmaster.”
“Rimeheld wasn't the only thing that fell, Kieron,” Klöss told him, reaching into a sack beside him. The gauntlet thudded onto the table, the ugly sound at odds with the quality of craftsmanship that must have gone into the gold-inlaid piece.
“The sealord?” Kieron muttered. “Not that surprising I suppose.”
Klöss nodded. “And as Seamaster of Rimeheld, in a time of war, I claim the rank of sealord until the thane himself orders otherwise.”
“Damn you've a weighty pair, lad.” Kieron grunted. He held a hand up as Klöss's face darkened. “Hear me out, I won't dispute your claim but you're going to need some support. You won't take command of the fleet with nothing more than a shiny glove. If you want us to march west then you're going to have to give us a reason. The Anlish won't be hanging around, we're way beyond their lines. This was a raid. It must have been a damned big one, I'll grant you, but still a raid.”
“It wasn't the Anlish, Kieron,” Klöss told him again.
The old shipmaster's face creased in confusion. “Don't be daft, lad, who else?”
“The fae,” Aervern said, dropping the glamour that had wreathed her in the shadows of the corner.
“Lords of the bloody frosts!” Kieron spat, lurching back out of his chair so it landed with a crash. He scrambled back, crab-like, across the floor.
“Don't worry,” Klöss managed between laughs. “She's not here to eat your soul, she's here to prove a point.”
Kieron looked at him incredulously, glancing back and forth between him and the fae.
“This is what attacked Rimeheld, Kieron. Fae like Aervern here, and there are more coming. We have one chance to stop them, us and the Anlish together.”
“What?” the man's face was ashes, fear wrestling with confusion.
“They're already in Hesk, Kieron, already in our homes,” Klöss told him, boring in. “They took my wife and still have my son. And if the bastard that leads them has his way they'll drive an army over Haven, killing everything in their path. So that's why I'm taking command as sealord, and that's why your going take our men west, to meet the fuckers and feed them some iron bolts from the arbelests.”
Kieron blinked, seeming to realise he was still crouched low, and stood slowly. “And this one?” He shook his head. “Hold on. What do you mean I'm going to lead the men west?”
“I'm going with Aervern,” Klöss told him. “If I stay here I'll be bogged down in endless conversations with shipmasters, all with their own ideas. You're better off with me gone. Just take the orders and go.”
Kieron nodded, still frowning as he took it all in. “And the iron?”
“Fehru, what you call 'iron,' is the most effective weapon you have against my kind, manling,” Aervern told him, speaking in a low menacing tone. “Blade or arrow, it matters little if you use this foul thing.”
The shipmaster swallowed hard, looking back to Klöss “West? That's a bit vague, Klöss… I mean, Sealord,” he added with a weak smile.
Klöss nodded, reaching for the sack again to retrieve a chart. “Head for this village,” he told Kieron, unrolling the map to stab a thick finger onto the mark. “You should find them here, probably already in battle with the Anlish. They call it Widdengate.”
***
The scouts came in, riding hard on horses that were foam-flecked and close to panic. Rhenkin climbed down from his own mount and rushed to the first scout, reaching for the bridle of the horse and patting its sweat-soaked neck as the scout climbed out of the saddle. It was less of a climb and more of a fall but the man managed to keep his feet, clinging to the pommel as if he didn’t quite trust his legs.
Rhenkin winced as he looked at the man. A latticework of tiny slashes covered his face and neck. His leather scout’s armour was probably the only thing that had kept him alive and even that was slashed half to ribbons.
“Report, lad,” Rhenkin said in a gentle voice, pitched too low for anyone else to hear. “Keep it simple, you’re barely on your feet.”
“The fae, sir,” the scout managed between gasped breaths. “No more than thirty miles from us, possibly less by now.”
“Numbers?”
“Couldn’t tell, sir,” the scout said, white-faced. “They filled the skies…covered the land as far as I could see.”
Rhenkin nodded, his eyes going distant as he juggled distances and the time necessary for formations and defences. “Kennick!” he roared over one shoulder as he reached for the waterskin from his own horse and handed it to the scout.
The Lieutenant arrived quickly. “Sir?”
“Take these men and get a full report, and get them patched up too,” Rhenkin ordered.
“Where shall I find you, sir?”
Rhenkin glanced back at him from where he’d been scanning the closest ranks. “I’ll not be long. I think we’ve reached a point here. We’re not going to get much farther. It’s time to get the old man and his company going.”
Kennick nodded. “If we can
crest this rise, sir, I believe it would give us a better position.”
Rhenkin looked and grunted. The man wasn’t half bad. Thinking ahead and not getting caught up in the smaller details. “Agreed. Send runners and get the officers up to speed, I don’t want to waste any time.”
Kennick nodded but Rhenkin was already moving, pulling himself back into the saddle and searching for the druid. It didn’t take long. He’d had them attached to a unit close to the front lines for this very reason. The lad seemed to have a firm grip on things but, in many ways, dealing with Obair was like talking to a child.
“We’re sending you out,” Rhenkin announced as he drew close. “I don’t know how long we have and we can’t run the risk of you getting caught here when this battle starts.”
Obair looked about in alarm, eyes wide as if the fae were moments away. “Already? Are you sure?”
The old man looked close to panic. Rhenkin shook his head with gritted teeth. “What did you think this was, old man?” he demanded. “A little country walk? Those men are cut half to ribbons. Tiny slashes all over them, it’s a miracle they even made it to us. You heard Erinn’s story the same as I did, this is the fae’reeth. You need to move, now!”
Devin pushed closer as Obair gaped. “We’re ready, marshal,” he said in firm voice. Rhenkin looked him over and nodded, liking what he saw. “Good man. Riddal will lead you out. He’s a good scout, a good man, and he has experience fighting the fae with Erinn. I’m sending ten men with you. You’ll have the Bjornmen too. Any more than that and you’ll be too visible.”
“If the fae find us with any real numbers then a hundred wouldn’t be much help anyway,” Devin told him, sounding calmer than he probably felt.
“Is there anything you need? Anything other than the obvious?” Rhenkin asked.
“Ironheads, some bags of the filings.” Devin shrugged. “If that’s not enough then nothing will be.”
“Good man. Riddal will be along shortly. Grab your gear and anything else you need for supplies. I want you gone within the half hour.”
Devin reached for his hand, grasping it firmly. “Good luck, marshal.”
“And to you, lad. Try and keep the old man in one piece.” Rhenkin turned away and headed back for the front lines. Wishing luck wasn’t the done thing. It was something only the newest of recruits would do, none wanted to invite disaster, but he had the feeling they’d all need it before long.
Kennick was waiting for him as he emerged from the waiting ranks. “Why are we still standing here?” Rhenkin demanded.
“I’ve sent runners, sir. We’re simply awaiting your order.”
Rhenkin bit down half a dozen responses. The man was just doing his job. “Signal the troops then, we move.”
Kennick nodded and snapped off a salute before turning to the flagmen behind him. The army surged forward, reaching the crest of the low hill in short order. It wasn’t ideal by any stretch. Rhenkin grumbled to himself as he considered the terrain but it was more than he’d hoped for. Woods lay a few miles to their north but the immediate terrain was grassland. They were lucky for what they had. The rise was actually the southernmost of two low hills, sloping down to form a small gully between them. It wouldn’t be enough to influence any human army but, perhaps… He squinted up at the sun, already more than halfway down to the horizon and around again at the terrain.
“Get the men to it. I want stakes and trenches on both these slopes, as many rows as we can get done. Archers to the front and get those engines ready. If those bastards come in the rush I expect them to we’re not going to have the time to piss about. Send some men with axes to those woods, we’ll need the firewood.”
The army deployed as fast as possible for a force of that size, as units formed into ranks and set to work creating the field fortifications. Within the space of an hour the hillside had been transformed as rows of trenches were carved into the soft green grass and stakes rammed into the mix. Here and there the sun caught on an iron spike mixed in with the wood.
He watched the men work as runners came and went, bringing reports to Kennick. Only occasionally did the man need to bring the issues to him and so Rhenkin watched, and waited, and worried. Any man that tells you they are not nervous on the eve of battle is a liar and Rhenkin had told this lie a thousand times. A commander is a living flag. He hadn’t the luxury of allowing his emotions to play over his face. Instead he scowled at the men and the field fortifications as he watched, grunting at the readiness reports that Kennick delivered.
The clouds rolled in, taking the warmth of the autumn sun and painting the skies in drab greys. Rain wasn’t too much of a threat, the clouds were too pale for that, but the light faltered early and evening came too soon.
They waited. Men were still working, building huge stacks of logs and dousing them with lamp oil, but most simply waited. Rhenkin sighed explosively and looked to Kennick. “Scout reports?”
“Due any moment, sir,” the man told him. “The last three had nothing to report. It’s as if they were never there.”
“Or that they’re not advancing,” Rhenkin suggested, chewing on his lip. “How far are we ranging?”
“Two hour’s hard ride, at last reports,” Kennick told him with a wince.
Rhenkin shook his head. “And there’s no sign? That’s past where the scouts were attacked.”
Kennick shrugged. “As I said, sir, it’s as if they vanished.”
The wind had picked up as darkness fell and the night was full of the snap of canvas as it tugged at the tents. Rhenkin picked his way through to the perimeter, squinting against the darkness as he headed for the closest of the men on watch.
“Anything?” he asked.
The man didn’t stop his inspection of the night. “Not a bloody thing.” He glanced at Rhenkin and stepped back half a step in shock. “Um, sir,” he added.
Rhenkin snorted a laugh at the man’s discomfort, “Don’t worry about it, son.”
The horn sounded as he finished speaking. It sang out long and low, a mournful sound that would have had the men twitching even if it hadn’t come from nowhere. Rhenkin turned his head, trying to pinpoint the source but the sound had seemed to come from more than one direction. Another joined it, calling from a different direction, and then still others sounded, until the noise was loud enough that he felt it in his chest. The men closest to him looked about in all directions, as panic reached for them.
“The hell with this!” Rhenkin muttered and pushed his way back to the command post.
“Lord Marshal!” Kennick rushed to meet him. “We have reports of movement at the eastern perimeter.”
“You think?” Rhenkin muttered dryly. “They’re playing games with us and I’m not in the mood. Get those fires lit and let’s see if we can spot the bastards.”
Fire arrows were touched to braziers and lofted high into the darkness before they fell on the mounds of oil-soaked wood. The bonfires were as large as haystacks and the flames tore through the lamp oil before eating away at the logs.
Within moments the gloom of the night was lifted as the flames of thirty fires reached up to the heavens. The air shimmered with the heat as men squinted past them and still the horns sounded. Whatever illusion the fae had employed fell like a dropped sheet and the banners of the fae blazed blue and silver as they were revealed.
“Archers!” came the call from a dozen mouths but men were already moving. The fae had appeared only fifty yards from Rhenkin’s front lines, a sea of shining silver armour and glowing eyes that extended as far as anyone could see. The rushed shots of the Anlish archers were panicked and rough. Blue fire exploded among the fae as ironheads stuck home but far more were lost in the darkness.
The fae paused, almost seeming to recoil for a moment, like a great shining wave reaching its limit, and then a great howl rose from the host and they charged.
Anlish archers exacted a terrible toll and sheets of ironheads carved a broad channel through the fae. The range was such th
at the arrows almost couldn't help but hit something and, unlike human armies, the fae carried no shields. Wherever the ironheads tasted blood, fire raged, and the arrows rained down upon the fae leaving a river of blue fire behind them. And then the fae closed.
The battle was chaos. The fae didn’t fight like a human army and the Anlish troops splintered and faltered as fae and satyr leapt over whole units to attack from within their own lines.
Rhenkin watched in silence. His men knew their jobs and there was little point in screaming orders at those already on the front lines.
“Sir?” Kennick said in an anxious tone.
“Yes, Kennick?” Rhenkin’s voice was flat.
“Orders, sir?”
Rhenkin glanced at the lieutenant, the man’s fear tinged with panic. “Calm down, lieutenant. Let’s let them arrive at the party before we pour them drinks.”
Kennick gave him an odd look, “Sir?”
“Fine,” Rhenkin sighed. “Send runners to Salisbourne and have him ready the lancers.”
Rhenkin barely noticed the man leave. The front rippled and surged as the fae slammed into the Anlish army and the air was thick with screams and the sickening crunch of weapons on bone. They were more evenly matched than he could have imagined. The incredible speed of the fae was offset by his own men’s iron weapons and often the smallest scratch was enough to send a satyr screaming to the earth as flames erupted from the wound.
White arrows came screaming in from the fae host. Some trick of the fletching Rhenkin assumed, but the keening sound was unnerving. Despite the fletching their power was undeniable. The arrows tore through the Anlish, often passing through shield, armour and body before they erupted from their victim’s backs. Entire companies fell in moments and Rhenkin grimaced as he looked to the north for the lancers.
He did not have to wait long and the ranks of horses thundered towards the fae flank, dull, iron-tipped lances lowering as they rode. The first fae to meet the lancers simply darted out of the way. Satyr and fae both, taking the single step or two needed to avoid the iron tip, and then the horse was past them. As they penetrated however, the weapons found flesh and the creatures screamed as the heavily armoured lancers tore through the flank of the host.
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