“It’s not,” said Calliande. “The undead will come first. Do you not see? The orcish warriors will hang back and let the undead attack in the first wave. Why risk getting killed when the undead can do all the work for you?”
“And Lady Calliande and I are uniquely suited to deal with undead,” said Ridmark. “The undead are also uniquely vulnerable to fire magic, I recall.”
“It burns away the necromantic magic upon them,” said Calliande. “And many undead creatures are desiccated anyway and vulnerable to fire.”
Ridmark nodded. “We’ll pin the undead in place. Eventually, the orcs will move to attack. When they do, Sir Tamlin and Decurion Rallios will attack from the left and the right. We’ll hit them from three sides at once, and either destroy them or force them to flee back to Castra Chaeldon.”
Rallios grunted in approval. “Well, the more we kill out here, they fewer we’ll have to kill upon the walls of Castra Chaeldon.”
“Exactly,” said Ridmark. “We don’t have much time. Go!”
###
Calliande followed Ridmark as they strode into the valley, fifty hoplites walking behind them. Ridmark had left his staff on the hilltop and instead carried Oathshield, the blade starting to flicker with white fire as the undead drew nearer. Kalussa walked next to Calliande, and the Sight revealed the harsh aura of elemental fire as the younger woman prepared her magic. Two Arcanius Knights walked with Kalussa, both young men about Tamlin’s age, though they lacked Tamlin’s easy confidence. Nevertheless, both Knights glowed with the harsh power of elemental flame to her Sight as they held their magic ready.
She thought about what Ridmark had told her, how Kalussa had approached him. Despite that, Calliande found that she could not dislike Kalussa, though she was nonetheless furious with the girl’s temerity. Bravery counted for a great deal, and Kalussa was marching to face a mob of undead without flinching.
Later. Once her sons were safe, she could worry about such things.
The valley was narrower and steeper than the place where they had fought the Confessor’s orcs, though the ground was still sandy. Ridmark glanced up to the left and to the right. Nothing was visible there, but if Calliande reached for the Sight, she saw the arcane auras around the Arcanius Knights waiting with the concealed hoplites.
She also saw the corrupted necromantic aura around the approaching undead and the distant shimmer of dark power around Castra Chaeldon.
A moment later, she saw the undead with her eyes of flesh.
The undead came first, hundreds of them. Most of them looked ancient and desiccated, withered corpses draped in crumbling flesh, greening bronze swords in their bony hands and corroding bronze cuirasses on their torsos. Some were far fresher, either men who had been killed in the ambush on the road, or orcish warriors or muridachs who had fallen in the fighting. All the undead had an eerie blue glow in their unblinking eyes, and pale blue fires danced around their heads and shoulders.
It reminded Calliande of watching the revenants of the Frostborn host advance out of the darkness, and she shivered with the memory. The revenants had been able to kill with a touch, turning their opponents’ blood to ice, but these undead lacked that power.
Still, Archaelon must have been a strong necromancer indeed if he had been able to raise so many undead in such a short time.
“You were right, Lady Calliande,” said Kalussa, peering at the advancing undead. “All the orcish warriors are behind the undead.”
Ridmark nodded. “No sense getting yourself killed when you have undead slaves to do your killing for you.” He looked at Calliande. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she said, the staff of the Keeper crackling with white fires. Again, she felt a peculiar sort of calm fall over her. No, calm wasn’t right the quite word. Nor was it contentment.
In a way, it was like a relief. This was a battle she knew how to fight.
“Good.” Ridmark turned to Kalussa and the other Arcanii. “Stay with Lady Calliande. When she attacks, you’ll know that it is time to strike.”
One of the Knights opened his mouth, but Kalussa, of course, made sure she had the last word. “We shall be ready.”
Ridmark nodded and stepped past them to join the hoplites, who had formed themselves into a line to face the approaching undead, each man standing with shield raised and sword ready. “Stand fast until I give the word to attack. We’ll let the Keeper and the Arcanii strike first.”
The men waited. The undead creatures continued their steady advance. They did not rush, but neither would they ever tire. That was the danger of fighting undead, even minor undead creatures like these. They would never grow weary as living men would, and while they were not immune to normal weapons, the only way to destroy them was to take off their heads or to smash them into immobility.
Yet as she looked them, Calliande saw the bonds of necromantic magic upon them, necromantic magic vulnerable to the power of the Well of Tarlion.
She wondered if an arsonist felt this way at the moment he threw a torch into a barn.
Calliande was ready. She drew herself up, pulling all the power of the Well that she could hold and feeding it through the magic of the Keeper’s mantle.
Then she shouted, struck the end of her staff against the ground, and thrust out her hand.
White fire exploded from her palm, swelling into a wall of white flame fifty feet across and ten feet high. Kalussa shouted in alarm as it rushed forward, but the white fire passed through her and the hoplites and Ridmark without harming them. The power of the Well of Tarlion would not harm living mortals.
The same could not be said of the undead.
The wall of white fire crashed into them like a wave smashing into the shore. At once a score of undead collapsed, the white fire drowning about the blue. A dozen more staggered, the magic of the Well fighting against the necromantic power animating them.
Kalussa snarled and cast a spell, and the other two Arcanii followed suit. Three bolts of whirling flame sped over the helmets of the hoplites and landed amid the advancing undead. The walking corpses went up in flames, the elemental magic devouring them.
“Now!” Ridmark’s voice rang over the valley. “At them!”
He lifted Oathshield and charged, the soulblade blazing with white fire, and Calliande started another spell as the hoplites charged after him.
###
Oathshield thrummed in Ridmark’s hands, the soulblade’s power rising in fury as he drew near the undead. It had been forged to destroy creatures of dark magic, and the blade burned with white fire as the undead approached, the sword’s anger manifesting as power.
Ridmark charged at the undead, and the hoplites followed suit.
He reached the enemy first, thanks to the enhanced speed granted by the soulblade, and attacked. Oathshield blazed as he whipped it around in a sideways swing, and the strength granted by the soulblade let him take the head from an undead creature. It staggered and collapsed, the blue fire in its eyes and on its shoulders vanishing, and before it had touched the ground, Ridmark struck again.
He had destroyed five of the undead before the rest of the hoplites caught up to him. Oathshield was the perfect weapon for this kind of fight, and the undead fell before Ridmark like wheat before the harvester’s scythe. He did not even need to land heavy blows upon the undead, just strike them long enough for Oathshield’s power to shatter the dark magic.
As the hoplites crashed into the undead, Calliande cast another spell, throwing another broad wall of white fire into the enemy. The fury of her magic destroyed another score of the undead. Kalussa and the Arcanii continued their attack, throwing darts of fire into the undead creatures. Their magic wasn’t anywhere near as powerful as Calliande’s, but the three Arcanii kept up a contest barrage of elemental fire. Ridmark had feared they might lack Calliande’s fine control, but none of the fiery bolts struck the hoplites, instead landing with unerring accuracy on the undead.
Ridmark ducked under the grasping fingers
of an undead hoplite, drove Oathshield home, and ripped the sword free to face another. Part of his mind noted that the hoplites were fighting with vigor, even with elation. The men of Owyllain must have faced undead countless times during their war with the Sovereign. Undead soldiers had been one of the favored weapons of dark elven lords and princes.
But this was the first time the men of Owyllain had faced undead creatures with the aid of a Swordbearer and the Keeper of Andomhaim. Perhaps the men of Andomhaim had shown something of the same elation the first time the new-made Swordbearers had lifted their soulblades against the urdmordar besieging Tarlion.
Another wave of white fire tore into the undead. Ridmark cut down another, and another, and still another, and looked around for fresh foes.
But he saw none. The onslaught of bronze and magic and soulblade had destroyed all the undead creatures.
The orcish warriors, though, might prove more challenging foes.
As Sir Parmenio and his scouts had predicted, a hundred of the Confessor’s orcs advanced behind the undead. Like the other orcish warriors that Ridmark had seen, the orcs all bore a tattoo of a downward-facing blue sword upon the left side of their faces, which he now knew represented the Sword of Water that the Confessor had claimed. Perhaps the orcs received the tattoo when they entered the Confessor’s service. The orcish warriors wore leather armor for the most part, with a scaly look that made Ridmark wonder if the leather had come from the hide of a scutian lizard, though some of the larger orcs had bronze cuirasses and helmets. They carried a mixture of bronze swords, axes, and stone-headed maces.
With a roar, the orcish warriors charged, their weapons raised, their black eyes glimmering with the crimson haze of orcish battle rage.
“Hold!” shouted Ridmark as the hoplites rushed to meet the orcs. “Hold, damn you! A line! Now, now!” The hoplites fell back, reforming their line. Kalussa and the other two Arcanii started to throw bolts of fire into the orcs. Ridmark shot a look back over his shoulder and saw Calliande standing with the three Arcanii. “Calliande!”
She nodded and began a spell of her own, white fire braiding with purple flames around her hands and staff.
Ridmark whirled to face the charging orcs and raised Oathshield in both hands. Behind him the hoplites shifted, uneasy in the face of the orcish charge. Any moment now…
Then the ground heaved and flowed, rippling like water. As she had during the previous battle, Calliande sent a spell of earth magic hurtling towards the orcs. The ripples flowed around the hoplites but merged together in a single massive wave as they rushed towards the orcish warriors. The ground beneath their orcs’ boots heaved and snapped like a banner in a gale, and most of the warriors were knocked from their feet.
“Now!” shouted Ridmark. “Attack!”
He raced forward, drawing on Oathshield for speed and strength, and struck. He killed three orcs before they could recover, their bodies falling back to the ground. A fourth lunged at him, stabbing with a bronze sword, and Ridmark made no effort to dodge, trusting in his dark elven armor to absorb the blow. The sword’s point scraped off his armor without leaving a scratch, and Ridmark used that time to line up a fatal blow, sending the orc’s body collapsing to the ground.
By then the charge of hoplites smashed into the reeling orcs, and fighting raged around Ridmark. Calliande’s magic had stunned the orcs, but they recovered swiftly, fighting with wild ferocity. Ridmark parried the chop of an axe, sidestepped, and drove Oathshield forward. The orc’s leather armor proved no match for Oathshield’s point, and the soulblade found the orc’s heart.
Ridmark ripped his blade free and wheeled to face another foe.
###
“That’s it,” said Tamlin. “It’s time.”
Once again, he had been astonished by the magic that the Keeper had unleashed. It would have taken a team of Arcanii working in concert to destroy that many undead at once, but Calliande had done so by herself with seeming ease.
But watching Ridmark Arban with that sword in his hand was like watching a storm. The Shield Knight had torn through the undead with ease, moving far faster than a man his age should have been able to move. For that matter, he had been moving faster than any man should have been able to move.
The orcs put up more of a fight than the undead. Yet Calliande’s magic knocked them from their feet, and Ridmark ripped through them, the soulblade still burning with white fire.
Still, they needed help. And matters had gone as Ridmark had predicted. The orcish warriors were pinned in place fighting against him and the hoplites.
Which meant this was the perfect moment to attack from the flanks.
“About time!” said Aegeus, grinning at he raised his sword. “I never liked to sit out a fight!”
“Charge!” shouted Tamlin at the top of his lungs, and he ran forward down the slope of the hill. Behind him a hundred hoplites rose from concealment and charged, shouting battle cries in the name of God and King Hektor. Tamlin sprinted down the slope as fast as he could manage while keeping his footing, calling magical power for a spell as he did so. On the far side of the valley, he saw old Rallios leading his hoplites in a charge as well.
The orcs were about to be attacked on three sides at once, and they knew it. One of the orcish warriors screamed a command, and they started to turn, trying to array themselves to face the newcomers.
But by then, Tamlin had his spell ready.
He lifted his left hand as he ran, and a bolt of lightning arced from his palm and slammed into the orcs, coiling around two of them. The orcish warriors were thrown to the ground, fires erupting from their clothes and armor from the intense heat of the lightning bolt.
“For God and King Hektor!” roared Tamlin, and he leaped into the gap left by the two slain orcs, attacking with his sword of dark elven steel. It was a magnificent weapon, sharper and stronger than any blade of bronze. The dvargir gamemaster had seemed quite fond of it, though the sword hadn’t saved him from Tamlin and the others as they escaped the gladiatorial pits of Urd Maelwyn.
But Tamlin would put it to good use.
He cut down an orcish warrior, the fine sword biting into his neck. Tamlin ripped the blade free and parried the attack of another warrior, bronze clanging against dark elven steel. He started to prepare another attack, and then a shard of ice the size of a ballista bolt slammed into the orc, pinning his corpse to the ground. Sir Aegeus charged into the battle, bellowing at the top of his lungs, and an instant later the rest of the hoplites attacked, swords rising and falling.
Tamlin glimpsed Rallios’s men pouring down the slope and into the orcs, and then he had no more time for anything but fighting. An orcish warrior came at him, roaring in fury, and Tamlin parried once, twice, three times. On the third attack, the warrior overextended himself. The gamemasters of the Ring of Blood would have beaten the orc for such an error. Tamlin was not nearly so cruel.
Instead, he simply killed the orc, driving his sword through the hole in the warrior’s defenses. Another orc came at him, and by then Tamlin had recovered some of his magical strength. He flung out his left hand, and arcs of blue-white lightning leaped from his fingers and struck the warrior. The orc stumbled with a roar, and Tamlin’s sword found his throat.
He fought on, carving a path through the enemy.
###
Ridmark struck down another orcish warrior, green blood flying from the wound. He wrenched Oathshield free and looked for another foe, wishing that he had a spare moment to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
But the battle was over.
Most of the orcs had been killed, crushed by the attackers coming from three directions at once. The rest had turned and fled, streaming towards the direction of the road leading to Castra Chaeldon.
“Rallios!” shouted Ridmark, looking around for Calliande. For a moment, he could not find her, and then he saw her kneeling next to a wounded hoplite, white light glimmering around her hands as she cast a healing spell. Of course, she would be tend
ing the wounded. That was what she always did after a battle. “Rallios!”
“Here, Lord Ridmark,” said the decurion, jogging over. Green blood dripped from his sword, and there was more spattered across his cuirass and shield. “It seems we are victorious.”
“For now,” said Ridmark. “Get the men together. Once Calliande has helped those who can be helped, we are going to march at once.”
Rallios nodded. “Immediately?”
“As soon as it is possible,” said Ridmark. “You know as well as I do that whoever takes the initiative in battle is likely to win. We have been reacting to Archaelon so far. It is time to make him react to us. I want to be outside the gates of Castra Chaeldon before sundown.”
“It shall be done,” said Rallios, and he turned and started bawling orders.
The men ceased their pursuit of the orcs and started to form up.
###
Calliande straightened up with a sigh, her back aching. When she healed people in Tarlion, she usually brought a stool with her, but there were no such luxuries here.
“On your feet, hoplite of Aenesium,” said Calliande. “I fear your soldiering days are not yet done.”
The hoplite, a young man of not more than twenty-five, got to his feet, rolling his left arm in wonder. His shield had splintered beneath an orcish axe, and the blow had opened his arm from shoulder to wrist. It was nothing short of a miracle that he hadn’t bled to death.
“Thank you, my lady,” said the young soldier. “I…I was certain I would lose the arm.”
“Not today,” said Calliande.
“Truly, God sent you to us in our hour of need,” said the soldier.
Rallios’s voice boomed out, calling for the men to assemble for the march. The hoplite gave an awkward bow and turned to join his comrades.
Calliande turned and saw Kalussa staring at her with an uncertain expression.
“What is it?” said Calliande.
Sevenfold Sword: Champion Page 20