A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2)

by J. T. Hartke

  Jaerd pulled out his old spyglass and swung it up to examine the far bank. Even before lifting the glass, a faint morass of movement showed through the heavy cloud of dust. But within the sharpened circle of the spyglass’ vision, Jaerd witnessed a sight that shook even his Highspur-hardened courage.

  “A quarter million may be a little short, my lord,” he stated. “We are going to want for attack engines. It looks like they have a few they salvaged from Highspur.”

  Boris shook his head. “I inquired. The king decided not to bring heavy weapons because they would slow the army. They already had to bring the bridge to cross the Lond, not to mention almost ten thousand supply wagons.” The earl squinted through his own glass. “Once we engage, engines become almost useless. It will be the cavalry that wins us this battle.”

  The brazen sound of a magically enhanced horn bellowed out, casting a single, long note over the entire wasteland. The king’s pikes lowered their spears and began to march forward, the burbling water of the Gallond splashing around their ankles. Even as they approached the middle, the water never reached even the shortest man’s knees.

  The bows followed close behind, and at the water’s edge, the longbows let loose. Thousands of shafts fell among the enemy trenchworks in waves. Screams of anger and pain echoed from the far side, as about a hundred catapults returned missiles, many alight with blackish fire. They crashed into the front lines, but the Bluecloak pikemen in their steel plate held firm and continued their advance.

  The royal Battlemages surged, casting up shields and fireballs of their own. Chunks of the orc earthworks ripped up from the ground and crashed back into the defender’s ranks. Boulders flew from the upstream part of the river and hurled into the enemy’s flank. Lightning crashed down into the orc trenches, and secondary fires began to sprout along their lines.

  Hundreds of orc horns sounded in response, creating a single note that equaled that of Arathan’s magic horn. Tens of thousands of orc warriors leaped up from their cover, pulling cruelly curved weapons. Trolls appeared among them in the center, their loping pace almost as fast as their smaller cousins’. The human archers quickened the rhythm of their shots, but only two volleys hit the orcs before their front lines collided with the pikemen, set in their phalanx positions.

  “By the Waters,” Jaerd whispered.

  The first few hundred orcs to hit the pike lines impaled themselves almost willingly, shoving their bodies onto the spears to weigh them down. The trolls swept heavy iron maces that broke the shafts, shattering the two inches of oak as if they were matchsticks. More warriors charged into the gaps, stabbing with scimitars and long spears of their own.

  The pike lines began to buckle, as the second line battalions charged in to relieve the beleaguered front. The crossbowmen closed in, picking targets and focusing on the trolls, while the archers continued to fire at the wave upon wave of orc soldiers rising up from the defenses. Even so, the army began to lose ground, edging their way back to the eastern shore. From where Jaerd stood, he could see the shift of the river water from white-capped blue to pink-capped crimson.

  A second golden horn call echoed out from King Arathan’s van. Beginning with the left flank, but soon followed by the right, the cavalry formed up to charge. Half a dozen wedges of steel tipped horseflesh charged in from each side in an echelon of racing death. As each wedge crashed into the enemy lines, they veered off, cutting away a slice of enemy forces and circling around to come at them again. But each wedge was followed by another fresh one, and each sheered a chunk of orc warriors off the main host with every charge.

  Bursts of fire shot out from the orc trenches, crashing in among the circling cavalry and causing some of the less experienced riders to scatter. Most reformed on the near bank, while the Battlemage Corps turned to focus on the source of the enemy fire.

  “Shamans battling mages,” Dorias whispered, shaking his head. “What a waste of power and ability on both sides’ part.”

  “I am glad you see it that way,” Tomas returned. “At least with the destruction of your own kind.” He breathed a cumbersome sigh. “All I see is the death of potential, even among the least footman.”

  Offended pride in his inflection, Dorias pointed at the paladin. “You know full well I see all of this as a waste, common, noble, and mage alike. What else am I to do?”

  Twisting his hands on the saddle horn, Jaerd watched the carnage unfold below. His stomach turned at thoughts of the battle being fought at the foot of the Sleeping Gryphon’s hilltop. An involuntary shudder ran down his back, and he tilted his head toward the paladin. “Better out here than back at home.”

  Tomas looked at Jaerd, offering a bow of his head. “Indeed, but think of it this way.” The paladin pointed at the Free City guardsmen nearby, nervously watching the battle. “Elves, dwarves, and humans all have found ways to get along. To coexist. Even to interbreed.” He swung his finger out toward the reddish froth gathering on the river. “All three bleed just as red as the orcs dying on our spears out there. Why can we not find a way of peace with them? Why do we push them into the Northlands, cut them off from the rest of the world with our ships and our fortresses, and kill them on sight within the kingdom?”

  Jaerd drew down his brow. He watched the orc warriors hurl themselves at the Gannonite line. Bile rose in his throat as his comrades fell, fighting back the ferocious attack.

  “Because they raid and kill,” he said, his attention still rapt on the brawl far below him.” Because of Wild Tiger. Because of the Dragon Wars and the Cataclysm. Because they want nothing more than to slaughter as many of us as they can, whenever they can.”

  The paladin lifted one hand in a gesture of calm. “All true. But we have committed our fair share of atrocity too. The sacking of Sourbay. The Purges after Wild Tiger. Orc children are still innocent children, no matter the size of their parents’ fangs.”

  Anger rose in Jaerd’s stomach. He searched for words of argument, but he had been sickened by the slaughter at Highspur on both sides. He had seen the cruelty humans were capable of as well. Men gloating over orc corpses as if dealing death were the greatest glory. The gorge rose again from his stomach.

  Dorias cleared his throat, his own expression disturbed by the destruction of battle. “Gentlemen. Both points are valid. Counting back in time, it would be hard to tell who threw the first punch thousands of years ago.” He shrugged. “However, it did happen. I have seen the writings that point to orcs even having once been paladins in the Elder Days. I was in Saria, in the nation of Kalness. I had—”

  Earl Boris smacked his sword against his armor. “There happens to be a battle going on! It might require some focus! Your philosophy can wait for a campfire, if we survive the day.”

  Jaerd immediately snapped forward, heat rising in his cheeks. Rearguard or no, this is the great battle of our time. I should pay attention.

  The pattern of slaughter continued. Ranks of orcs charged forward to bounce back off the pikemen and cavalry charges. Both sides took losses, though the enemy appeared to be on the worst end of it. The cavalry charges had slowed, but they remained just as devastating every time they crashed into the enemy flank. Orc spearmen shifted to try and impede the attacks. Battalions of them moved to the flanks and set their spears into a thicket not as tall, but just as sharp, as those of Arathan’s pikemen.

  Screams from horses rose above those of dying men and orcs. Jaerd’s own mount stamped his hoof and jerked his head. The stench of burning flesh rose on the wind as even more magic poured into the orc warriors. Their shamans responded, casting stone and fire down on the ranks of Gannonite soldiers. The chaos of fully engaged battle covered the field, and a haze dust obscured much of Jaerd’s view. The sharp tang of blood and spilled bile pierced the omnipresent stench of greasy smoke. Jaerd tasted metal in his mouth, brought up from deep in his nervous stomach. He spat on the ground.

  “Merl hovers
high over the battlefield.” Dorias sat with one hand to his temple. “He cannot see much more clearly than we, other than to know that we are probably outnumbered, if not out-armed.”

  Boris had barely lowered his spyglass in hours. “Our vanguard loose on their rear will change that.”

  Coughing to clear the greasy stench from his lungs, Jaerd looked to his commander. “How far north were they going, sir? When can we expect General Darax’s charge?”

  Snapping his glass closed, Boris remained focused on the battle. The shouts and clanging of metal still rang over his words. “The ford we used to cross on our way to Highspur is about a day’s ride north along the river. It will take close to a day for them to come back.”

  “Two days can be a long time in battle.” Tomas scrubbed his ruddy beard. “Though, I think we can hold until then.”

  Earl Boris gripped his saddle horn as if he might rip it free. “His Majesty intends to have the enemy on the run before then.” He seemed to notice his stranglehold on the saddle and pried his hand loose. “We have not even committed our main infantry as yet.”

  A porter handed out a midday meal of hot porridge with pieces of jerky in it. Jaerd was forcing his way through the bottom half when the orcs’ left flank collapsed under a full charge of the entire left wing of cavalry. A quick triplet sounded from the enemy’s horns, repeated from one end of their line to the other. They began to surrender ground, taking the battle out of the river and retreating behind the lines of their trenches and planted stakes. Hundreds of reserve archers appeared along the far bank and poured their arrows down on the Gannonite front lines.

  Jaerd heard Boris’ teeth grinding against one another.

  “Slowly, dammit,” the earl whispered.

  A brazen horn lifted above the clamor, emanating from the king’s command. With a slow, heaving surge, fifty thousand swordsmen from the Eastern and Western Realms of Gannon rushed forward. They splashed through the river, flowing around the battered pike units. They slammed into the retreating orcs, cutting them down and at first meeting little resistance.

  Once they reached the trenches, however, that changed. Dozens of hidden battalions jumped up to greet them, fresh and screaming for blood. A brutal melee ensued as the lines crossed and mixed. Clumps of humans and orcs fought both for their own lives, and for the lives of the friends standing next to them. The smog of battle rose from the fracas.

  Jaerd twisted his head to look at Dorias, who still sat with eyes closed.

  “What does Merl see?”

  “Slaughter,” the wizard replied. “The pikes have advanced to aid the infantry. Archers from both sides loose in desperation. The mages and shamans appear to have singled one another out, directing their attacks at each other.”

  Dorias held up his hand for a moment. “Yes. I do sense Tallen. He is at the heart of the command mage battalion, and they defend the king.”

  Nodding in agreement, Tomas Harte also watched the battle with his greater powers. “I sense much the same. And the battle is about to spin out of control. We should withdraw and reset our lines.”

  Boris said nothing, but from the granite expression on his face, Jaerd knew his commander agreed.

  A four-note trill echoed over the field from the king’s van. The cavalry on both wings, having licked its wounds during the infantry charge, formed up into long, serrated formations. Upon another brassy note, they swooped forward, dropping lances and crashing into the edges of the orc lines. They did not curve away this time. Instead, they drove toward one another while the infantry fell back.

  Caught by surprise, the orc forces crumbled into their trenches, relatively safe where a horse could not charge. Once the cavalry lines met in the center they turned back toward Jaerd, covering the infantry as they retreated across the river. A great morass of men and horses milled about on the near side, most reforming into lines of defense, while healers began the gruesome task of triage.

  “Looks like we are done for the day,” Boris grumbled, his face pinched and his lips tight.

  The orcs appeared to agree. They remained in their trenches, only a brave few slipping out to drag back a wounded comrade or end the screaming of an enemy. The Gannonite lines looked much better, their reformed battalions only slightly smaller than they had begun the day.

  Out in the river, however, the horrid flotsam of the day’s butchery clustered in ghastly mounds of orc and troll, human and horse. For miles, bodies either split the water in a pinkish wake, or floated along, bobbing with the swift current. Snapped spears poked up like desperate trees clinging to islands of bloated flesh.

  Remembering the slaughter at Highspur, Jaerd shook his head. “So much death.”

  Dorias hopped down from his dark mare. “Come on, Tomas. We’ll be needed among the wounded. The Bluecloak healers set up their field hospital near the supply wagons. I don’t think Arathan will execute us for going there.”

  The paladin nodded, his gaze searching the flow of stretchers and stumbling casualties back toward the rearguard. “I should already be down there.”

  Jaerd moved to follow, but Earl Boris put one hand on his arm. “I’ll need you with me, Captain. I’ve no doubt we’ll be getting another missive soon, and I will want your thoughts.” His eyes flicked down the line toward the hillock where Mandibor gathered his Range Riders. “And I suppose we will need to consult the good general as well.”

  The sun had begun to set. The scent of boiling beans mixed with the fouler odor of violent death wrestled inside Jaerd’s nose when Tomas and Dorias returned, exhaustion and blood on their faces. Jaerd offered them a bucket to wash, when the Bluecloak messenger arrived, his silver trim showing some of the wear of road and battle. The man handed a rolled and sealed paper to Earl Boris, offered a sharp salute, and then galloped back the way he had come. Boris broke the wax seal and scanned the note in fading light before handing it to Jaerd.

  Casualty rate estimated at four enemies to our one. Will renew assault at first light. Awaiting news of vanguard. Rear guard to remain in position to protect the wounded and the wagon train. Empty wagons are to begin transport of wounded back to friendly territory.

  “Well, thanks, but we already did that,” Jaerd whispered to himself before passing the note to Dorias.

  Boris looked to the wizard. “Can your raven shadow General Darax?”

  “I sent him winging north a few hours ago,” Dorias answered with a nervous glance in that direction. “He watched them cross onto the western bank of the Gallond just before sunset. They are presently camped a few miles south of that ford, ready to charge southward at dawn.” The wizard closed his eyes. “Merl is resting north of their position in the foothills of the Dragonscales. It was the closest shelter he could find.”

  The earl’s face pinched. “They will need to swing westward and come upon the enemy’s rear. Their flanks are too solid for General Darax’s numbers.”

  Tomas stared into the fire. “We should have made them come at us across the river instead of charging into their defenses.”

  Striding up out of the evening gloom, the newly-minted General Mandibor of the Free City Guard lifted his hands to warm them at the fire. “Another day or two, and we are going to have plenty of wagons for wounded. Our food stores are beginning to dwindle.” The former rogue unbuckled his sword belt and wrapped it around his rapier. “We’d be lucky to feed this lot all the way back to Novon if we left tonight.”

  Earl Boris folded his arms. “We have a clear supply line all the way back to the Free Cities. That is part of the reason we left so many to guard the pontoon bridge over the Lond. A wagon train should arrive tomorrow.” He turned to Jaerd. “We will need to be ready to receive and distribute everything, even if there is a pitched battle down on the river.”

  Keeping his concerns to himself, Jaerd saluted Boris. “Yes, sir.”

  Mandibor spat into the fire, the spittle si
zzling on the burning plank of a broken barrel. “We’ll be ready. There’s nothing that gets a soldier moving faster than a chance for fresh grub.”

  Distaste plain in the curl of his upper lip, Earl Boris shifted his stance. “Thank you, General. Your men have proven quite able for novice soldiers.”

  The Kirathi looked up at Boris and the shadow cast by the firelight sharpened the near-point of his ear. A similar sneer crossed Mandibor’s lips. “And your eastern nobs seem to fight well enough, though I imagine it’s the workaday men down there doing the real fightin’.”

  “I heard the Baron of Forksmeet lost his son today with the cavalry.” Boris removed his gauntlets and tucked them behind his belt. “And the Duchess of Allanor lost two grandsons. Baron Conton Vault had his shield arm broken and lies in a wagon headed for Novon right now, with six enlisted men lying right next to him.”

  Mandibor frowned, turned, and stalked back into the approaching night, his rapier clacking against his armor.

  Boris leaned close to Jaerd with a rare hint of a smile. “I didn’t have to tell him that Baron Vault fell from his horse while it stood still, and his own weight crushed his arm, did I?”

  The brightest star was Wild Tiger,

  His eyes the color of his namesake.

  And when he met the Southron Hordes,

  They feared his horn at daybreak. – Shared Clan traditional

  Slar crouched next to his son under the globe of dim light created by Brother Ortax. They hugged the edge of the trench, keeping their heads low to avoid giving the humans a target in the night. Sharrog led them through a doorway into a hill, squared off by large support beams. Down into the bare earth they descended, through a tunnel wide enough for six orcs and tall enough for one to stand on another’s shoulders. They entered a smaller side passage, avoiding the foul, dusty scent that rose from farther down the larger course.