Magic, Sorcery and Witchcraft: Book One of Marcus Grimm saga

by Stas Borodin

  “I understand,” I cut him off. “I will be a burden to you.”

  Korn shook his head. Looking down at me, he pulled the reins sharply and abruptly turned his horse and followed the advancing army.

  What was I thinking, rushing into battle like that? I had a great horse, but my gear was not suitable for the job. There was no doubt that Father’s guards would be fighting the strongest enemy of all, and in that battle I had no chance.

  Without wasting any time, I jumped into the saddle and spurred Selphir. The horse snorted angrily and went sideways; I reined in with all my strength, bending the capricious beast to my will. Thanks to the drugs, my strength had increased many times, and I was able to cope with my steed. He obediently circled on the spot, backed away and, encouraged by my spurs, flew at the nearest hill like a bird.

  “That’s it, my boy,” I kept saying, clutching Selphir’s sides with my knees. “Listen to your master!”

  The field of battle was perfectly visible from my hill and, holding my breath, I stood up in the stirrups to see everything even better.

  The Sidian, Mithrian and Vaal cavalry finally overtook the nomads. I could see their colourful clothes in the maelstrom of brown Alims’ robes. The nomads were too many, and it was hard to tell who was winning. However, our infantry was already on the move, and only moments later it clashed with enemy. Long spears bit into the wild riders, throwing them to the ground. The nomads hacked frantically at the spearmen’s helms with light curved sabres but caused them no harm. Our infantrymen were true giants. Tall, powerful, hardy. They could fight from sunrise to sunset, and the miraculous drugs had turned them into real demigods.

  The small furry horses fell to the ground struck by heavy broad shields, and steel-clad feet trampled fallen enemies ruthlessly. Spears were moving like a wave, up – down, back – forward. The nomads fell under deadly blows, one after the other.

  I clenched my fists in delight. I finally had a chance to see the famous spearmen of Lieh in action, the spearmen who were justly feared in all of the fifteen kingdoms.

  Archers and crossbowmen followed the spearmen; they went with drawn swords and efficiently finished off the wounded nomads. The Firgan cavalry gathered on the right flank, the sun shining on the crescent blades of their axes. On the left flank, the halberdiers formed into a wedge. The decisive attack would start now. Indeed, trumpets howled and signal flags soared over a detachment of Royal Guards.

  Suddenly, something flashed in the tight ranks of the spearmen. For a few moments, they were completely covered with smoke, but a gust of wind scattered the black veil and a terrible picture flashed right before my eyes.

  A huge gaping wound had appeared in the ranks. Dead and mutilated soldiers were piled everywhere; here and there the wounded moved. It looked as if a giant monster had taken a bite out of our army, leaving a terrible bleeding wound.

  Everyone froze for a moment, but just for a moment. Without losing composure, the spearmen rushed forward, sealing the gap. A fierce battle cry rolled over the formations.

  “Elllaaaa – eeeeeeh! Lieeeeh!” the infantrymen shouted, pressing upon the enemy. The unexpected blow had only angered them.

  Suddenly a new blow shook the ground, then another and another. Acrid smoke covered the battlefield, and my eyes watered. The stench was unbearable, sharp, suffocating, as in an alchemist’s workshop. My ears rang from the deafening boom. Even before the smoke cleared, I realized that the consequences of these explosions were terrible. Through the stinking curtains of whirling dust I could hear the harrowing screams of the wounded and the desperate moans of the dying.

  The infantry had suffered heavy casualties, the first losses in this terrible battle. The spearmen’s formation had been breached in three places. The dead and wounded were lying side by side. Their ripped armour smoked, and boiling blood bubbled and hissed on the ground.

  The warriors once again surged into the holes, restoring order. This time there was no battle cry. The spearmen remained silent, waiting for new attacks.

  I was all eyes, looking at the enemy positions, trying to guess who was causing us such a heavy toll, but to no avail.

  The hill with the khan’s tent was clearly visible, but it was empty and too far away from our spearmen. Perhaps the enemy mage was hiding somewhere in the midst of battle? It seemed unlikely. Then where was he?

  I caught a glimpse of a small bundle flying out of the screaming crowd of nomads, and in an instant, a new blow fell on our infantrymen. That was it! Without hesitation, I spurred Selphir and rushed forward headlong. I flew like a whirlwind through the ranks of archers, who still could not figure out what was going on. Through the palace guards huddled around commanders. Nobody even tried to stop me.

  Selphir reared, snorting and hissing loudly. He clearly hated the repulsive odours of blood and alchemical smoke. Like soulless machines, the spearmen filled in the gaps in the ranks, their faces black as night. Their teeth were clenched and blood dripped from under their nails so tightly did they squeeze their spears. In some places, their ranks had become very thin, only five men deep. I realized that the next attack would break our formations and the nomads would flood as the sea into the holes, scattering our army to pieces.

  I lifted my light crossbow and began to study the enemy lines, hoping not to miss the moment when the thrower revealed itself. However, I was too late. Several bundles soared into the air at the same time.

  I watched the flying targets closely, breathed out quietly, and squeezed the trigger. A crossbow bolt flashed in the air like lightning, knocking one of the bundles and throwing it deep into the nomads’ ranks. Several explosions merged into one deafening, blinding blow. Selphir reared, frightened, and I lost the reins, slid off the saddle and fell to the ground.

  The air was filled with pieces of bodies, cries and moans. Bloody rain fell from the sky; it was so strong that in a moment I was soaked to the bone. Clinging to the grass with my trembling fingers, I knelt down and tried to straighten up, but my legs would not obey me.

  Suddenly there was another explosion, even stronger than the previous one, and once again human remains and fragments of armour hailed down from the sky. A whitish acrid smoke hid all around. My throat ached unbearably, burnt out by alchemical miasmas.

  Spitting out the bitter vomit, I tried to get up again. Surprisingly, in spite of all that had happened, I remained calm. Obviously, the miracle drug was still working. I quickly reloaded the crossbow and only now noticed that all my clothes had turned into bloody rags. I had lost my sword, and Selphir had rushed off somewhere, frightened by the explosion.

  Leaning on a broken spear, I stood up. In front of me lay a horse’s head in a rich harness. A little further on, the charred body of a nomad.

  The wind rolled smoke like an old blanket and threw it away. Our soldiers were lying in rows like cut wheat. Here and there, lonely mutilated figures, covered with blood and soot, stood up, leaning on the shoulders of their comrades. They stubbornly raised their shields, forming a phalanx.

  There were few survivors. Only a few dozen. Many of them were so maimed that they no longer resembled human beings. However, their will was not broken. I looked at the place where the enemy stood and shivered.

  The Alims had disappeared. There was only fuming earth and black ash carried back and forth by small whirlwinds.

  I groaned. Brave Sidians, fierce Vaals, and noble Mithrians – they had all disappeared along with the nomads. Had I really been the cause of their deaths? Perhaps, that parcel, thrown off by my arrow, had gone straight into a pile of the same projectiles and blown it all up together? The conjecture seemed plausible. If it was true, I might have saved many, though many had died.

  There was no time to ponder. The earth trembled once again and I saw in front of me a new wave of steel, crowned as if by white foam with flying flags and coloured bunchuks. This time it was the Alims’ heavy cavalry.

  Quickly looking back, I estimated the distance to our soldiers. Too far away!
The nomads would catch me with ease. I had only one choice. I picked up a crossbow, grabbed a bunch of arrows that had fallen from my saddle quiver, and sprinted toward our spearmen.

  Meanwhile, the infantrymen had realized that they were standing in the way of the attacking cavalry. Without undue haste, they formed a circle, shield to shield, back to back, spears sticking out. Seeing me, they burst into shouts of encouragement, and the shield wall split, letting me in.

  “Hurry, boy! Faster! The sons of whores are getting close!”

  The wave of attacking nomads was rapidly approaching; I raced like the wind. Making one giant leap, I flew into the open passage. Shields closed behind me immediately. Someone grabbed me by the elbow, keeping me on my feet.

  “Well done!” Someone slapped me on the back. “I must admit, you run faster than my mother-in-law! Even I could not catch up with you!”

  The spearmen laughed. I could not see the face of the warrior as it was hidden under a blackened helmet, but his eyes sparkled merrily through the eyeholes.

  Ironclad giants stood around me, shoulder to shoulder. Blood trickled down their armour; the air reeked of smoke, sweat and death. I was pushed into the centre of the formation. There was a bit of free space, and here on the cold ground were lying seriously wounded soldiers. A field medic was bandaging a soldier with a torn hand. The soldier was lying on a tattered cloak and teased the doctor with a weak smile. “Say, Doc, a new hand will grow soon?”

  “Soon enough,” the physician comforted him. “Just say ‘amenzetrakstondarsharks’!”

  “Say what?” the soldier stared.

  The spearmen laughed. I was amazed. Their fighting spirit was not broken even after such a devastating defeat, and I suspected that magic potions had nothing to do with it.

  “Easy, girls!” An imperious tone revealed the officer. “Get ready. Now they will try to fuck us.”

  At this point, the roar of the approaching cavalry became like thunder, and the ground vibrated constantly under our feet.

  “Keep the ranks, lads, and everything will be fine!” the officer shouted.

  The blow was terrible. Shields clanged, colliding with each other and with the enemy steel. Spears bent, soldiers’ feet slid on the ground, ploughing deep furrows. Our circle tightened and the centre became overcrowded.

  “Careful! Mind my balls!” the wounded man cried in a thin little voice, when someone accidentally stepped on him. There was thunderous laughter.

  “Push, lads! Push!” the officer shouted. “Do not retreat!”

  The warriors growled, bracing against their shields. Spear shafts moved around me. Forward – backward, forward – backward, delivering one blow after another.

  “Finally, the fun has begun!” shouted one of the soldiers. “I already got six of them!”

  “How? With your stench?” the commander chuckled. The warriors laughed, and pushed with their spears with renewed vigour.

  The noise was deafening. People were shouting, horses whinnied. All mixed up, the clang of metal, the crack of breaking wood, cries of pain and moans of the dying. I could see nothing except for backs and shields, but my imagination made up for it all.

  Kneeling down, I could at least see something in a small gap between the ground and the edge of the square oak shield. A forest of horses’ legs danced in an endless dance, and broken bodies of nomads were falling to the ground in heaps. A few minutes later, corpses were piled high, completely obscuring my view. Once again, I stood up, holding the crossbow at the ready.

  Suddenly, everything stopped. The avalanche had passed us and rolled on. It was hard to believe, but we were still alive.

  “It was a pleasure to dance with you, girls.” The officer coughed hoarsely.

  “The pleasure is ours!” one of the soldiers chuckled.

  “Good. Three minutes to rest!” The officer nodded. “Stay alert!”

  The spearmen sat on the ground and removed their water flasks from their belts. Only I remained standing. The pile of dead bodies and dead horses reached the height of my chest. Grinning bloodied faces were staring at me from all sides; rich chain mail glistened, bright expensive fabrics trampled in brown filth. The best nomads’ troops were trampled into the dirt by the boots of simple spearmen. The nut had proved too hard to crack without magic. Now I could see the backs of the enemy horsemen and the swaying forest of lances and halberds.

  “Everyone on your feet!” the officer ordered. “Ready to hit them from behind?”

  “So tempting!” someone said. “Bring it on!”

  The soldiers laughed. I smiled too. Our little party climbed over the mountain of corpses and began to form a small wedge.

  Suddenly it hit me! “Commander, please, listen to me!” I cried.

  “I’m listening.” The officer turned to me, raising his visor. “And who do we have here?”

  At this point, I recognized him. It was Anders, the son of a wealthy merchant, the commander of the spearmen. I remembered how my father had once given him a silver bracelet for excellence on manoeuvres.

  Anders recognized me too. “An unexpected encounter!” He was surprised. “I had not expected to see you here, sir. This is—”

  I put a finger to my lips, interrupting his tirade.

  “This is my old friend,” he finished awkwardly. I nodded silently in the direction whence the nomads came.

  Anders followed my gaze and stiffened. “Hey, guys! Do you see what I see?”

  The soldiers turned in unison, raising the visors of their helmets.

  “I’ll be damned!” exclaimed someone.

  Not far away from us, a steep white hill towered. The khan’s luxurious tent stood at the top of the hill. Around the tent bodyguards crowded, clad in their expensive colourful robes and glittering golden helms.

  “Wedge formation!” Anders cried out.

  The warriors quickly took their places in the ranks.

  “Doc, you look for the wounded,” the officer ordered. “The battle will end soon.”

  “Let’s put the khan’s head on a pike!” the wounded soldier cried. “I’m relying on you.”

  “Iffli!” Anders ordered.

  We had opened the boxes and pushed out the last dispensers. This time the pills were black. They had a very unpleasant smell, but I was ready to swallow even dog shit if it could give me back my strength.

  It seemed to me that the soldiers immediately became taller. Their tired backs, bent under the weight of armour, immediately straightened. I also felt an unprecedented burst of energy. It looked like that last pill was the strongest.

  “Follow me!” the officer ordered.

  We ran in silence, easily jumping over the bodies of men and horses. It seemed that my feet were barely touching the ground.

  Looking back, I saw only a huge cloud of dust covering the battlefield, like the immense wings of a dragon. My heart was pounding and my head spinning. I felt like a demigod, capable of anything, like a wild animal, ready to drink the prey’s blood.

  A few minutes later, we reached the hill and, without stopping, surged on to its top. The nomads were not expecting us, and our appearance threw them into a panic. However, the panic did not last long. The Alims quickly regrouped and prepared to defend the hill.

  Without stopping, our spearmen crashed into a squad of bodyguards, cutting it like a knife through butter, knocking enemies down and slowly moving forward. Most of the Alims were very young. Perhaps they were the offspring of wealthy families who had gone to war for fame and glory. Their armour was elegant and stylish. I could not imagine a dirty wild nomad in such attire. It looked like each garment was worth a fortune. The entire top of the hill was covered with rich carpets, everywhere were pitchers filled with drinks and tables laden with delicacies. Funny monkeys were tied to massive chests, and delicate golden cages with colourful songbirds swayed gently in the wind. There was no doubt that this was the khan’s tent.

  The bodyguards fought with desperate courage. Their swords flashed in the
air too fast for the eye to follow. However, they did not have time to show the noble art of sabre combat. Thick broad shields knocked them to the ground, and rough long spears pierced them through. The advancing spearmen crushed the wounded with their armoured feet, turning the precious carpets to bloody mud.

  I stood at some distance from the fight, releasing bolt after bolt. I was working like clockwork, and shot without a miss. A second to pull the bowstring, a moment to load a bolt and a heartbeat to choose the target.

  A huge warrior, in thick black plate armed with a two-handed sword of fantastic proportions, jumped out of the tent. My bowstring rattled and my bolt hit him right in the eye. Breaking through the steel helmet, it stuck out of his neck. Immediately, I reloaded the crossbow, and took out the last bolt.

  Meanwhile, our spearmen were finishing off the last defenders of the tent. I saw Anders spearing the elegant dark-complexioned young man; he easily lifted him on a spear over his head and tossed him away like a puppy.

  Together, we broke into the tent. From the inside it seemed much more spacious than it looked from the outside. Shields made of pure gold and precious animal hides hung on the carved red pillars supporting the high roof. Our feet sank to the ankles into the soft carpets and our nostrils were teased by the exotic fragrance of incense rising from numerous silver censers.

  I chuckled. Our soldiers, in their dirty rough armour, looked like clumsy beetles in a luxurious velvet box.

  The spearmen carelessly felled the delicate carved screens, ripped the veils made of bright precious fabrics, and threw the silk cushions out of the way. In the first room we did not find anyone. In the second room we found a throne of carved bone with a canopy of coloured feathers standing on a high dais. At the foot of the throne were sitting a few half-naked female slaves, whose clothes were only a web of gold chains.

  There were two young men in gold brocade leaning on the throne.

  “Which one of you is the khan?” Anders shouted, shaking his spear.

  The young men turned their arrogant faces to us, but said nothing. They were like statues made by a master craftsman, so similar to the ones that I had seen in the royal palace in Lieh. Beautiful and soulless. But no, those statues had more soul than these creatures.