by Devin Hanson
Travis winced. He half expected the Drake to explode on the spot, but she lifted into the air without incident.
“You okay, sir?”
Travis took his eyes off the airship and nodded to the sergeant. “I’m fine.” He swallowed and took a deep breath. Did he add enough dragongas to the canister? Did he choose the wrong canister to add it to? He had never sabotaged anything before, and the rush of adrenaline mingled with his regret for destroying an airship. “You one of Captain Craul’s men?”
“Yes, sir. Second division.”
“Good. You have your orders?”
“Keep our forces to the rear of the formation, aye.” The sergeant looked dubiously at the walls of Andronath. “Are we really going to take that city?”
From the ground, the walls looked a lot larger. Andronath itself was on a mountain, and loomed overhead, but the land around the city sloped slowly up toward the mountain, making the wall look twice as tall from where they were standing.
Travis straightened his mail and cinched his sword belt tighter so his hips could take some of the weight of his mail off his shoulders. “I have the same orders you do,” Travis said. Ground battle wasn’t his strong suit. He had participated in strategy sessions in his training, but never had developed an aptitude for it. He certainly had never participated in a ground assault on a fortified position.
A horn call sounded and the sergeant squared his shoulders. “That’s the call to form up. Good luck, sir.”
“To us both, Sergeant.”
A mounted soldier in the king’s livery rode by, bawling orders to form squares and prepare for the assault. Travis jogged to the rear of the formation, glad his position put him above the necessity to actually fight.
For the first time, he thought about what he was going to do in the coming battle. Assuming he survived the assault on the wall, and a stray cannon ball or arrow didn’t strike him down, he figured he’d make his way to the front somehow and surrender himself to the first warden he encountered. If he was lucky, the warden would bring him to Iria.
That plan required an awful lot of luck with nothing going wrong. But what other choice did he have? The horns blared again, the repeated double-note signaling the advance.
Whatever happened next, he was committed.
Meria waited nervously behind the gate. Her hands were sweaty and her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She regretted drinking the seaweed concoction earlier in the day. The buzz of energy from the drink still hadn’t worn off and she felt jittery. The solid calm of Alain next to her was the only thing keeping her from a full-blown panic attack.
She had seen the airships dipping down to disgorge their troops, and the seemingly endless waiting that followed had frayed her nerves. Horn calls were coming faintly from over the walls now, but Alain remained impassive, his tanned face showing no emotion other than patience.
Jessa started pacing, but jammed to a halt when Alain looked at her and raised an eyebrow. Meria wanted to scream, throw something, run in circles, anything other than just stand there.
Something moved in her peripheral vision and Meria glanced up just in time to see the first salvo from the cannon towers boom out. Smoke erupted in long streamers from the cannon, and the whistle of the shot screamed out over the walls.
The ground vibrated faintly as the shot struck the ground, out of sight over the walls. Meria felt a surge of nausea. She had never seen cannon directed at people before, but her imagination provided all the grisly detail for her. The horns repeated their call, a measured two-toned burst, over and over again.
“They show good discipline,” Alain commented. He had an appreciative smile on his face.
Meria opened her mouth to ask what he meant and the cannon fired another salvo, drowning out her words. Once the ringing in her ears had subsided, she repeated her question. “What do you mean, good discipline?”
“They are far from the wall yet,” Alain explained. “They march steadily rather than breaking into a run. That way, when they do finally reach the walls, they will not be exhausted from sprinting over uneven ground in armor. It takes much strength of will to march steadily into enemy fire.”
Meria could only nod. Her mind was filled with images of men marching steadily, ignoring the grape shot of the cannon ripping swaths through their formations. How many men had died already? Fifty? A hundred? How many more would die before they reached the walls?
The cannon fired again and Meria squeezed her eyes shut, taking deep breaths to try and calm her roiling stomach.
The horns outside changed their tune, and she heard a drumbeat, thump-thumping along at the same speed as the horn calls.
“Double time,” Alain said calmly, at the same time Meria realized it wasn’t a drum, but the footsteps of the approaching soldiers falling in time.
Sand and dirt danced between the cobblestones and a faint dust rose into the air. Again the cannon fired, their muzzles tilting down further now, aiming at the ground closer to the walls. Meria’s heart was in her throat.
A jingle of mail behind her made Meria’s head turn and she saw a formation of wardens jog through the center of the courtyard. At Alain’s command, she stepped back to the walls with her group, watching wide eyed as the wardens formed up before the gates.
“They will sally out when the enemy draws close,” Alain explained. “We will go out after them and provide support and cover for their retreat.”
The enemy, Meria thought. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t have enemies. Not really. There were people she disliked to a greater or lesser extent, but she didn’t really hate anyone. And now there were people just on the other side of the gate who would be trying to kill her in a few minutes. If she didn’t kill them first.
Nausea returned in a wave and she stumbled to the wall and threw up. Distantly, she was aware of Jessa holding her hair back for her as she braced herself against the wall. Her stomach cramped again and again even after she had nothing left in her stomach. Finally, it subsided and she pushed off the wall. Her face was damp with sweat and red from embarrassment.
Alain gave her a reassuring smile when she turned around, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “It hits everyone like that the first time, Meria. Deep breaths.”
Cursing herself, Meria complied and she felt some semblance of control return. Jessa patted her back and Meria saw the older woman’s face was pale as well. It was something of a relief that she wasn’t the only one having a hard time.
The horns changed again, the call a strident three-tone shriek that Meria didn’t need translating for her.
Charge!
Iria felt the solid presence of the wardens on both sides of her and sensed the singing tension in the play of their muscles mirroring her own. A fierce battlejoy gripped her, a tight pressure in her chest and the thrum of energy in her legs. The knobbed leather grip of her scimitar felt good in her hand.
The horns called the charge and she felt the shift in the wardens. She ached to do some damage. The long wait for the army outside the walls to form and finally make its advance had grated on her nerves. It wasn’t her first battle, not by any means, but she felt the same itchy impatience as she had her first time. That never changed: only the placid façade of patience separated the old hands from the greenhorns.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. In a way, it was irresponsible of her to join the first sortie against the Salians. The first contact with the enemy was always the most dangerous. You didn’t know what they had in store for you, if they expected the sortie and had archers waiting. Or worse, if the enemy alchemists were there, ready with fire and lightning to rip them to pieces.
And yet, rank did have its privileges. There was nobody except the Speaker himself who could tell her not to participate, and he was busy with his own tasks. Iria grinned, bouncing on her toes. She wasn’t a complete idiot, of course. She wasn’t in the front rank, as much as she wanted to be. That was reserved for the largest wardens, carrying heavy shields. There was no sense in suff
ering needless casualties to satisfy their blood thirst.
She heard the call from a warden on the wall, the traditional Maari warbling battle cry, and the gates slammed open. With a shout of her own, Iria joined the charge out to meet the incoming Salians. She knew immediately that the Salians had not expected the sortie. Between the shields of their front line, Iria saw the pale Salian faces twisted in fear and shock.
Twenty feet they charged. Then thirty, and the shield line impacted the front ranks of the Salian army with a crash and Iria slipped through a gap. A spear thrust at her and she twisted to the side to let it pass, grabbed the haft and yanked herself close. The shock of impact traveled up her scimitar into her arm, then twist and jerk, and she was gone. She parried a sword thrust, shoved for room, and the Salian went down, blood blooming on his chest as a warden drove a sword through him.
For the space of thirty seconds, everything was chaos. The wardens ripped through the front lines of the Salians like a tsunami crushing reed huts before its unstoppable power. For twenty yards they drove the Salians back before the impetus of their initial charge finally slowed down. Iria felt the change as the soldiers she fought against formed up their line again and prepared to push back.
Iria stopped her advance and held her ground for a moment, turning aside blows as they came. Then the shield-bearing wardens caught up to them and closed tight. Swords and axes rained down on the shields and Iria fell back. She was breathing hard and was damp with sweat. The fight had lasted barely two minutes, but her sword arm was heavy with fatigue.
Behind her, she heard the cries of the alchemists and turned her head just in time to see the first of the alchemical strikes blast into the ranks of the Salian forces. Fire struck in blazing ribbons and curling blasts. Shards of iron-hard ice slammed through shields and shattered bones. Lightning arced and danced along iron and steel. Blasts of force and gusts of hurricane-force winds dashed soldiers to the ground and threw them into the air.
The alchemists poured all the fury of their craft into the Salians, and Iria saw the wave of fear go through the army. Their morale shattered before her eyes and the organized body of soldiers turned into a mob.
They could march through cannon-fire; they could ignore the bloody hash of their comrades and keep pushing forward. They could face the whirlwind of death of the warden charge and reform their lines to strike back. But they could not hold fast against the elemental destruction the alchemists rained down upon them.
They were just men, and there were few that knew anything at all of the alchemical arts. Cannon they knew and understood. Swords and spears and axes they had fought against and trained for. But how can anyone prepare mentally and physically to confront the pure blazing fury of dragon’s breath? How could they stand against lightning that eagerly leapt to their weapons and armor, chewing through their nervous systems as it sought the path of least resistance? How can any soldier stand and fight when their formations are torn apart and flung through the air like leaves?
They broke, as men do when there is no hope for survival. They broke and the wardens retreated back inside the walls under the cover of alchemical shields.
Iria was one of the last to reach the safety of the gates and helped throw her weight into swinging them closed again. Overhead, the cannons boomed as they rained shot down upon the retreating army. The gates slammed shut on the shrill horn calls desperately trying to goad the Salian soldiers into finding their courage again.
The defenders had dealt a vicious strike to the Salians. Numerically, it might not have been significant. They had killed a hundred men, maybe a few more, but that was only a fraction of the might that stood against Andronath. More important than the number of men slain, the defenders had shown the true strength of the alchemists.
They had sown a seed of fear in the hearts of the Salians. The attackers would reform in time and march upon the gates once more. They would break through, eventually, but they would do so knowing they were pitting themselves against the wrath of the alchemists. Fear would weaken them, make them uncertain. They could not but expect to be struck down by searing flame or impaled by shards of ice at any moment.
Less than the alchemists, perhaps, but of more concern to their leaders and strategists, the wardens had shown they were a force that was unprecedented in Salian warfare. Fifty wardens had sallied forth and slaughtered twice their number in minutes. And the ground bore no bodies bundled in dun robes. The wardens had struck and retreated without taking a single casualty.
Among the Salian leadership, those who knew warfare best quailed under the undeniable facts. They could take the walls of Andronath, but they would pay a price in blood that had not been seen in written history.
Yet, beyond the fear of death, the attacking soldiers believed they were fighting for the survival of their loved ones, for the safety of their cities and homes. They saw the horror that awaited them and they hardened themselves to push the attack once more. Many of them would die, but the power of the alchemists could not keep Andronath safe indefinitely.
Chapter 25
Storming the Gates
Travis Bellwether’s first experience with open warfare was horrifying. After the first salvo from the cannon towers had ripped through their ranks, taking the next step forward had been the most difficult effort of his life. But he had taken that step, and the next one, and the next. He understood the necessity of the steady march. The cannon had a range out to half a mile and nobody could run that distance carrying armor and weapons and still fight at the end of it. The only way to approach the gate was at a steady walk.
It was terrifying. The cannon didn’t care if you were in the front rank, in the middle of the formation, or straggling behind. Every part of their formation was hit, over and over again. If there was a saving grace about it, each cannon shot didn’t kill that many men. Still, it was demoralizing not knowing where the next shot would land. Marching past the bloody ruin of someone flattened by a direct hit, or hearing the wailing screams of a man with a leg torn clean off was, in a way, worse than direct combat.
And yet they had marched through the rain of cannon shot. Every time the cannon boomed, another ten or fifteen men died, but they had to keep pressing on. Then they were close enough to the city walls that the cannon couldn’t depress far enough to target them. Travis was elated. He couldn’t believe he had marched through that ordeal and come out the other side unscathed. They were almost to the gate. It would only be a matter of time now before his role in this battle was over.
Then the gates had slammed open and the howling wave of wardens had crashed into their front ranks. From his position in the back, there wasn’t much Travis could see. The soldiers in front of him waited patiently for the tide of the battle to turn one way or the other. There was nothing they could do from the back. Travis considered ordering his men to flank the wardens, then remembered that the baron’s forces had orders to avoid combat if possible, and that he didn’t actually want to win this battle. It was irrelevant at any rate; there was no room in the formation for flanking maneuvers.
The first sign that things had taken a turn for the worse had been a ripple that seemed to run through the soldiers. Suddenly there was slackness in the ranks as soldiers in front moved forward, as the front rank either died or gained ground. Then, just as quickly, soldiers were stumbling back. Travis saw alchemical fire surge through the formation, setting men aflame.
For the space of a held breath the Salian forces held their ground. Then they broke. Travis was almost run down by a soldier, his face twisted in panic. From his position in the back, Travis still couldn’t tell what was happening up front. There was a moment of confusion as the rear ranks pushed forward and the front ranks pushed back. Then fear traveled swiftly through the formation and the last forward momentum died.
For Travis, the panic grabbed his chest in icy claws and stripped away his reason. These men had just walked through the horror of the cannon fire without hesitation, and now they were sc
reaming and running. What terror awaited him? If he stood his ground, soon there would be nothing between himself and the source of the fear all about him.
The fear was infectious. In a blind panic, Travis turned and ran, slamming headlong into the solid bulk of a soldier. Strong hands caught him before he could fall, and Travis looked up to find the Priah sergeant staring at him with a mixture of disgust and resignation.
The look brought a measure of calmness back to Travis. Panic still clawed at him, but he had regained a measure of distance from the emotion. He glanced back toward the front and found the whole of the Priah formation had fallen apart and was streaming past him.
The sergeant saw the same thing and came to the same conclusion. There was no point in staying put any longer. Sometime in the last minute the Salian force had ceased being an army and had become a mob. There was no point in trying to control them with words. A few dozen men with barbed whips might be able to halt the rout by making it more painful to run than to stay and die, but short of that sort of extreme coercion, there was nothing anyone could do to hold the army together.
Part of Travis knew that every step they fled would have to be reclaimed against the barrage of cannon fire again. The other part was babbling in thankful relief that he could be safely away from whatever had happened in those front lines. He’d happily accept the known horror of the cannon over the unknown forces of destruction that had ripped into the Salian ranks.
Eventually they reached the point of safety beyond the range of the cannon and Travis found he was exhausted. He could barely stand. It wasn’t the physical labor; he had barely walked a mile and his kit wasn’t that heavy, but the surging emotion and the terror had drained the strength from his limbs and left him shaking and sweating.