by Lloyd, Tom
‘It’d be a bloody good start though,’ Doranei hissed, prompting a bellow of unexpected laughter from King Emin.
‘Hah, you could be right there! So let’s give them something more pressing to think about, eh?’
King Emin clapped him on the shoulder and turned back to the Menin Army. Their progress was difficult to discern, but they were still well outside the range markers the Narkang troops had installed on the moor.
The ground dead ahead was clear and open, but on both left and right were sets of ditches, staggered so six divisions of archers could hurt the enemy before they came anywhere near the Narkang Army. Working in concert with each other and with squadrons of cavalry supporting them, the archers would engage in a fighting retreat, with little fear of being caught in the open.
‘Signal the cavalry to advance,’ he called aloud, and a sergeant below him took up the order and it started repeating at a roar. On the tower, a red flag was run up the pole.
‘That’s not going to be enough, however much we outnumber ’em.’
‘I know,’ King Emin said distantly, ‘but they may yet make a mistake in the heat of the moment. If nothing else, it will give them pause for thought while they attempt to charge through us.’ He started towards a ballistae station on their right, where the rampart walkway bulged to allow easy movement, but before he reached it, the voices within the fort were dropping and faces began to turn his way.
The king faced his men, then swept off his flamboyant hat so his face was visible to all. He gave them a moment to remember the stories, the legend of a king to rival any the Land had yet seen. He had as commanding a presence as any white-eye, and his quiet assurance and cold eyes gave no reason to doubt the reputed genius of his intellect, nor the ruthless ambition that had driven his own conquest two decades previously.
‘Brothers,’ King Emin called in a loud, clear voice, ‘our time of reckoning has come.’
Doranei watched the effect of the king’s piercing ice-blue gaze sweeping over his troops, as the men stood a shade more upright under that imperious stare.
‘The so-called “first tribes” have marched on our lands,’ King Emin announced, raising his arms as though to embrace the army, ‘intent on destroying all we have built and all we hold dear.’
He looked around, catching people’s eyes, so every man thought he spoke directly to him. ‘In their envy,’ he cried, ‘they come to kill us, to murder this dream we share. They see the twilight of their own kind and for that they fear us.’
He raised his voice, little by little, as he went on, ‘They fear our great kingdom, because it stands for an end to the ways of the past - an end to the ties of tradition and ancient prejudice. An end to the dream that they are better than we.
‘Twenty years ago I realised the truth, one I see realised in the faces all around me: I believed that we were equal of any of the seven tribes - but now I see we are greater still!’
He paused, waiting and watching, until the watching soldiers were breathless with anticipation.
‘When the White Circle attacked Narkang, many of you fought alongside me, fought as equals alongside Lord Isak himself, and when the breach came it was his actions that saved the day, and yet - and yet he did not claim the title of hero that day, though he was more than entitled.’
Doranei could feel the expectation building like a tidal wave inside them all.
‘Young as he was, Isak knew his God would protect him as he called the storm down, and secure in that knowledge, he sought to close the breach alone.’
King Emin paused again. The faces were rapt, every man holding his breath until the king slowly raised a finger. Doranei felt the murmurs building from the crowd.
‘But . . . but in that breach he was not alone — ’
He got no further as a roar of approval crashed out around the fort, drowning out all other sounds. The king waited for the tumult to die down again, knowing their pride would eclipse any thing else he might now say. Many of those present had fought on the walls of the White Palace; many friends had died beside them, and they had all known their lives were hanging in the balance when Lord Isak of the Farlan had stayed alone to defend the wall.
‘ — yes, brothers, there was another - one who was neither white-eye, nor favoured of the Gods. Commander Brandt was a man, no different to you or me, and yet he was a hero! He was not even a soldier - the City Watch was his mistress, and he served it faithfully, man and boy.
‘When the time came, this simple watchman sacrificed himself for the city he loved, for his wife and children, and to protect this dream we share! And he did so gladly.
‘He stood, back to back with a figure from myth - back to back and unafraid!’
King Emin turned to the advancing Menin Army, then back to his men, a mocking smile on his lips as he made a dismissive gesture.
‘Equal to the Seven Tribes? No - not that day, nor for ever more! They come to kill us; they come to conquer us, because they fear us! Without the patronage of Gods here we stand, as strong as any of them, and solely through our own endeavour. Even now they dare not face us alone, but with reluctant, fearful allies.’
The king gestured at the faces arrayed below him. ‘The blessed of the War God march on us, yet I see no fear on your faces. They have hurt us, they have razed our towns and murdered our countrymen, yet still I do not see fear. Instead I see a people of one mind, a people of one unstoppable resolve!
‘Together, brothers, we will show them the quality they fear, the true strength of the nation that eclipses them! This day I leave the field as King of Narkang, or not at all, and as a watchman once laid his life down for his wife and children, so shall I, if the Gods demand it!
‘We are steel, tempered in the flames of their disdain. On steel, their ancient bronze will break. Tomorrow we will pity them, for their time is done, but today we will show them only our rage!
‘Rage for the innocents they have slain. Rage for the threat to those we hold dear. Face them, my brothers - face them and show them the strength of free men!’
CHAPTER 36
‘Where is that novice-fucking cripple?’ bellowed a voice from somewhere behind. ‘Osh! Where are you, you cockless relic?’
Hambalay Osh stifled a smile and turned stiffly. He had positioned himself on a small rise, the better to view the troops under his command, and from there he could see a figure forcing its way through the crowd of soldiers. The Mystic of Karkarn was today dressed in a long red robe with bronze-coloured braiding, and a bronze helm covered the grey stubble on his head and cheeks. A long shield rested against his left side, partially hiding the metal brace that encased his leg.
‘Daken!’ he called as the white-eye barged through the assembled soldiers, knocking one infantryman to the ground in the process.
‘That’s fucking General Daken to you,’ the man roared cheerfully, grinning in anticipation of the battle to come. He grabbed the ageing mystic in a bearhug, chuckling madly. ‘Still upright, then?’
Osh gestured to his ruined knee - after escaping the Ruby Tower in Byora, with a little help from the Brotherhood, the mage, Tomal Endine, had healed the injury as best he could, but Osh still need the brace to stop the knee collapsing underneath him. ‘Until you give me a good shove anyway.’
Daken did just that, thumping Osh hard on the chest and doubling over with laughter as he fell backwards onto his rump. The mystic gave a wheezing cough, trying to recover his breath while Osh’s aides helped him up.
‘I suppose,’ Osh puffed, ‘I asked for that.’
‘Sounded like’n invitation to me,’ Daken agreed, beaming. The white-eye general wore a battered breastplate and a plundered Menin helm, but the cloak around his neck was pristine: white, with a red border. Osh tilted his head to get a better look at the design on it: a massive curved axe.
‘Fate’s eyes,’ Osh breathed, ‘he really has ennobled you?’
‘Aye, but he made me a marshal too!’ Daken said, grinning. ‘Likes a man wh
o carries out orders well, does King Emin.’
Osh turned and looked towards the defensive lines ten yards away. ‘So you’re here commanding this flank?’ They were near the tree-line, and the smaller of the two Menin forces was closing in, now only four hundred yards away.
Daken nodded. ‘He wants my axe here, help hold the line. I command this flank, General Lopir’s got the cavalry, and Suzerain Tenber has the right, for all the good he can do there.’
‘The reserve?’
‘Yours to call when you want ’em, half o’ Tenber’s infantry are moving this way already.’ Daken’s face twisted in scorn. ‘Fer some reason he’s given command of the reserve to a bunch o’ Raylin there — some local crone and that blind bitch who smells like a Demi-God and is pretty enough to be the next thing I ask the king fer!’
A tall soldier in Canar Fell colours interrupted them. ‘Sir, the first line of skirmishers are withdrawing.’
The pair looked over the heads of the blue-liveried infantry and watched the furthest division of archers scramble back towards the Narkang lines. They were pursued by two regiments of light cavalry, but without enthusiasm as a second division of bowmen positioned behind the next staggered ditch had already started firing.
‘Hurry up, ya bastards!’ Daken called out to the enemy army, ‘we’re gettin’ bored back here!’
Osh smiled, watching the effect one white-eye’s belligerence could have on a unit of men. This was why Daken had been removed from the cavalry: to stiffen the resolve of nervous troops in the face of an undefeated enemy.
More enemy cavalry were out ahead of the advancing legions. Those not engaged in trying to clear the skirmishers lingered on the edge of bowshot, but Osh knew they wouldn’t stay there long: Before the heavy infantry caught them up they’d start to strafe the Narkang line, see if they could draw out a pursuit. If anyone followed they’d quickly be surrounded and wiped out, so every single officer had had the same order drummed into them: if they allowed anyone to leave the line without a clear order from the king or a general, they would be executed.
Not long after, the beat of drums drifted over the moor and the sound prompted a sudden jerk from the cavalry and a grin from Daken.
‘Here they come,’ he yelled triumphantly, ‘now hold the line, all o’ you!’ He beckoned over one of Osh’s aides. ‘Archers ready, fire on my word.’
The man saluted and gestured to a major commanding the archers on the right.
Daken watched the Menin follow the tree-line, aiming to slant across the line of pikemen holding the open ground at the end of the ditch. ‘Rear legion,’ he called, turning to face the officer waiting for his order, ‘five volleys, fifty yards in from the trees — furthest range: Fore legions, fire at will!’
Osh resisted the urge to duck as he heard the dull thrum of bowstrings ring out and a cloud of black arrows flashed over their heads, arching down towards the attacking cavalry, and before the second volley was loosed, the first of the enemy were tumbling from their horses.
The cavalry pressed on, unable to do anything but close the ground and throw their javelins at the infantry; attacking an ordered line head-on would be suicide, and even their efforts to ride down the line cost them dearly as archers were positioned there specifically to pick them off.
‘Hold the line!’ an officer shouted from within the press of infantry, and his call was quickly taken up by the rest as the cavalry swept past and turned away.
Once they moved away Osh could see the heavy infantry behind: armoured Menin troops with fat, oval shields and long spears, advancing steadily in two wide blocks. They appeared oblivious to the streams of arrows raining in on their flank from archers behind the ditch.
‘Rear legions, another five volleys, furthest range,’ Osh called to the officer behind him, ‘then keep firing just beyond our line.’
‘What’re we missin’ here?’ Daken muttered as the officer spread the order. ‘Those heavy infantry ain’t goin’ to push their way through eight ranks o’ pikes, not unless they got another few legions behind.’
‘Scryer said eight of them, but they don’t look like they’re all engaging yet,’ said the mystic, scratching his cheek. He looked up suddenly. ‘’Ware incoming arrows!’ Osh called loudly. They watched the missiles fall with a strange detachment, knowing they could do nothing - most fell short, but a few found their mark and the screaming started.
As the Menin closed they heard shouts from their left, at the tree-line. A fierce grin appeared on Daken’s face as a youth ran out from the trees, one of the division of volunteer infantry stationed there.
‘Chetse!’ the youth shouted again and again in a high, panicked voice, ‘Chetse in the trees!’
It took Osh a moment to place his uniform, then the mystic realised he’d last seen it on the streets of Narkang: this division was comprised of City Watchmen, who’d arrived unannounced a few days before, inspired by the sacrifice of Commander Brandt, in Narkang the previous year. They’d been assigned to the forest, as their weapons were barely suited to an open battlefield.
Daken moved with surprising speed. The youth running towards them, still shouting, barely had time to look surprised before Daken clouted him around the head hard enough to knock him down.
Osh looked at the rear rank of the pikemen; the white-eye had been right to do so; they were looking panicked at the thought of Chetse axemen appearing behind them.
‘I heard ya the first time,’ Daken growled, standing over the young watchman, ‘now: get up!’
The youth was still sprawled on his back, dazed by the blow. He was wearing a peaked iron helm and a leather coat and carried a wooden shield; not much protection against the Menin, but good for anyone trying to negotiate the dense forest. At the white-eye’s words he pulled himself to his feet and saluted clumsily.
Daken unsheathed his axe and brandished it above his head. ‘First reserve division to me,’ he shouted, heading towards the tree-line and dragging the youth with him.
Five hundred men broke to run after him as their officers bellowed the order, awkwardly forming a shield wall in five uneven ranks no more than thirty yards from the first tree of the forest. Ahead of them walked the white-eye general, into the gloom of the forest. Seeing nothing, he shoved the young watchman forward.
‘Go keep a watch out for ’em,’ he roared.
The youth, still shaking, headed back into the forest to find the enemy, while Daken started barking orders.
He’s enjoying himself, the mystic realised. He’s looking forward to facing axemen as mad as he is. Reckon he’s the only one.
‘Damn you, Cetarn,’ King Emin hissed, ‘what in the name of the Dark Place are you waiting for?’
The Menin were marching ever closer, hunkered down behind their shields under a barrage of arrows and ballistae bolts. Their own archers were massed in loose order ahead of the infantry, doing their best to limit the effectiveness of the Narkang bowmen. The main front line was made up of alternating Menin heavy infantry and troops from the Chetse élite Ten Thousand.
Doranei looked back at the central tower where Endine was standing with Fei Ebarn and the scowling mercenary, Wentersorn, the two battle-mages who’d been part of the assault on the Ruby Tower. Camba Firnin, the illusionist, was down by one of the catapults, filling the bowl with something horrific. Doranei waved madly until Endine noticed him, but the scrawny mage just gestured for them to wait.
The main line of Menin was a hundred yards away now. Doranei drew his sword and felt a rush of power tingle up his arm as Aracnan’s weapon seemed to drink in the summer sunlight. It was most likely even more ancient than Doranei’s vampire lover, and there was something about it he disliked, but it was worth its weight in battle: it was frighteningly swift, and could cleave both an enemy’s weapon and his helm in one stroke.
Under Hambalay Osh’s tuition Doranei had been learning a new style of fighting, one more akin to the ritualistic combat used by warrior-monks. Mystics of Karkarn and the
like eschewed armour, concentrating instead on technique and clean, controlled strikes rather than the fury required on a battlefield, where blows had to batter through a man’s defences.
‘Now we’ll see something,’ Veil commented as Ebarn stepped back from the catapult. The crew wasted no time in firing the weapon and half a dozen clay balls the size of baby’s heads were hurled over the wall. Doranei kept one eye on Ebarn, having seen her magic work before; the mage was standing perfectly still, her eyes closed. The balls spread unevenly in the air and had barely started to drop by the time they reached the front rank.
When they were still at least twenty yards off the ground Ebarn clapped her hands together once, then made as she were flinging the contents before her, and Doranei heard the crump of igniting flames. A sheet of fire tore through the air above the Menin and flopped down on top of them, sloping down off their raised shields onto the men below. Screams echoed across the moor, followed by cheers from the fort, but the Menin faltered only a moment, and a roar of defiance was their response when a ballista bolt tore deeper into the blackened ranks. They were ten legions of élite troops; it would take more than one mage to turn them back.