Battlemage

by Stephen Aryan

  “Will the Splinters attack first?” someone asked. Balfruss turned to address the warrior and saw a vaguely familiar man dressed in the blue and grey uniform of a quartermaster. The man was busy passing out quivers full of arrows. It took Balfruss a while to place him, even though their first meeting had only been a few days ago.

  “Sam, isn’t it?” asked Balfruss. The former charlatan Battlemage bobbed his head but didn’t make eye contact. “The Splinters won’t attack for a while.”

  “Why not?” asked Sam.

  Balfruss had spent time thinking about the most ruthless and bloodthirsty tactic the enemy could use in the siege. When the answer came he knew it was the right one because it was exactly what the Warlock would do. He would wait until the Seve defenders were tired and worn down after a long day of fighting. At that moment the Splinters would attack, try to break down the gates, or perhaps breach the walls and flood the city with soldiers.

  In a few hours many of those stood around him would be dead or dying, and the rest would be tired and slow to respond. Hitting them when they were at their weakest would result in the highest number of casualties. It was utterly brutal and efficient.

  Balfruss’s stomach clenched as he thought about those who would die, but he forced himself to stare at the opposing army in its entirety for the first time, and to appreciate its scale. He forced a smile and slowly felt the fear pass through him.

  “They won’t attack because they’re afraid,” said Balfruss, clapping the nearest warrior on the shoulder. It wasn’t the truth, but they needed to hear it. “We’ll win this day together. With steel and magic.”

  The enemy were steadily drawing near. It wouldn’t be long before they were in range.

  A sword whistled through the air with enough force to cleave Vargus’s skull in two. With no room to manoeuvre he had to block with a two-handed grip. The jarring impact up his arms nearly made him drop his weapon. Gritting his teeth against the pain he twisted his enemy’s blade to one side, exposing the ribs. Orran obliged, stabbing the Zecorran warrior twice in the side before they pitched the dying man over the wall together. The falling warrior struck several others on the ladder coming up and they all tumbled to their death with bone-crunching impacts.

  There was another loud crack from nearby but they’d grown so used to the sound that no one even flinched. Huge stones sailed overhead before plummeting down beyond the walls, crushing men into sticky red paste.

  Bows still hummed all around Vargus, and occasionally the twang of a crossbow, but already the fighting had degenerated into a vicious melee. The muscles in his arms were throbbing and his shoulders burned, but a part of Vargus knew the fight was only just getting started. Perhaps two hours had passed since the first arrow had killed one of the enemy, but no more than that. Hundreds were already dead, three breaches had been stopped with horrific losses on both sides, and still they came in their thousands.

  On his left Hargo continued to chop away at the enemy like a butcher dicing up cuts of meat. His blade came down on a Zecorran’s shoulder, splitting his collar bone and sinking deep into the meat below. Blood spurted out, splashing across Hargo’s face. He already wore a brown mask of the stuff and didn’t bother to wipe off his latest victim’s. The Zecorran screamed in agony and started to topple backwards, taking the cleaver with him, but Hargo kicked him in the face, knocking him off the blade. He fell out of sight to his death without a sound.

  “Tower!” someone screamed above the din. Another siege tower had slowly rolled up to the walls. Several flaming arrows swept towards it but they bounced off canvasses that had been doused in a greasy material making them fire-proof. One or two archers managed to embed their arrows in the wood itself, but the flames spluttered and died. Inside the tower they heard screaming and thrashing, as if some monstrous creature were being strangled to death.

  “Oh shit. Morrin berserkers,” muttered Orran. Black Tom spat but Hargo just grunted and loosened his neck in anticipation.

  “Crossbows!”

  “To me! To me!” shouted several officers, shoving and pulling men away from their posts, propelling them towards the tower.

  “Help me,” someone shouted. Nearby a rangy southerner with black hair was struggling against two Zecorrans. With a hoarse cry Vargus charged, feinting high before switching and sweeping his blade in an upwards arc. The Zecorran swayed backwards but the point of Vargus’s blade sliced a deep channel in his sternum and jaw, spraying teeth into the air like hailstones. Kicking and spitting, stabbing and slashing, Vargus and the ranger overpowered the other Zecorran. The bodies slid off the wall, landing in the street below with wet smacking sounds.

  “Hargo, Orran, give me a hand,” snarled Vargus as he picked up one of the pronged spears and pressed it against the ladder. The top of another Zecorran’s head showed above the battlements. Vargus punched him in the face and the man sailed backwards off the ladder. Hargo stepped up beside Vargus and together with the ranger the three of them pressed their combined weight against the spear. Vargus felt his feet skid on the bloody battlements before he finally dug in and the ladder started to wobble.

  “Fucking push!” screamed the ranger. An arrow flew towards them and Orran leaned over the wall and quickly loosed an arrow in return. Someone screamed, the ladder shuddered again and then felt a little lighter. Orran swore and ducked back a second too late with a crossbow bolt buried in the meat of his forearm. His short bow fell over the wall and he stumbled back, pale faced, trying to stem the bleeding.

  Vargus’s hands were slick with sweat and blood. The others were having the same difficulty maintaining their grip, but somehow they managed to hold on. It felt as if his fingers were on fire, but he held on and continued to push with everything he had.

  If they didn’t finish this quickly they were all dead. With both hands on the spear they were defenceless if someone reached the top of the ladder before it toppled. A ranger, called Eviss, and Black Tom came up beside him, lending their weight to the ladder.

  Finally, it started to move. It rattled against the stones and began to slide sideways but they all gave the spear one final shove. For a moment the ladder remained perfectly upright, balanced like a spear on its point. Men were poised all along its length, with three very close to the top. A few more seconds and the defenders would have been killed.

  The soldiers started screaming before the ladder toppled backwards. Ten or eleven men fell to their death, landing on top of their comrades far below, impaling themselves on weapons, spears and armour. The falling men crushed those too close to the wall and it all became a tangled mass of torn flesh and gushing red innards.

  Further down the wall the door to the siege tower burst open and naked Morrin berserkers spilled out, screaming and foaming at the mouth. The first few died instantly, impaled with arrows and crossbow bolts. Behind them several more rushed forward, lashing out wildly, injuring some of their own men in the hurry to kill the enemy. The two sides slammed together with a deafening screech of metal, sprays of blood and keening yowls of pain.

  Several berserkers impaled themselves on weapons and kept fighting, unaware that they were already dead. A tight knot of five Morrin attacked the Seves with such fury that they managed to breach the defenders’ line. Men staggered back with gushing stumps, chunks missing from their faces and limbs, heads split, bellies torn open by sword, axe and even bare hands.

  To Vargus’s surprise a black-clad figure stepped forward to meet them. Graegor’s axe split one Morrin right between the horns, cracking open his skull like an egg, revealing a dark purple brain. His shield caught another in the face, severing his jaw as Graegor kicked out at a third, roaring like a wounded lion. Beside him fought eight grey veterans, their bodies criss-crossed with faded scars and their skin tough as old leather. With methodical precision they gutted and sliced the Morrin soldiers, giving them no openings, turning aside wild and vicious blows with almost casual ease. Against the veterans the berserkers died quickly, but loudly, and
the breach was closed.

  The old General was breathing hard from the exertion, but he didn’t seem to care. The blood fury was upon him. Graegor spat on the corpse of the nearest Morrin and started to move forward when one of the veterans put a hand on his arm. With obvious reluctance Graegor stepped away from the front line to wait in reserve in case he was needed again.

  With a high-pitched ululating scream, a group of green-skinned Vorga made it to the top of the wall. The Vorga shook with rage, wide ears flapping, spiky teeth clicking and bulbous eyes swivelling in all directions as they took in the enemy around them. One of the Vorga barked an order in their native tongue and the group split in two. With those around him caught in other struggles Vargus suddenly found himself facing two Vorga armed with curved swords and axes.

  “All right, you fish-head fucks. Come on,” he said, rolling his shoulders.

  The gangly form of Eviss stepped up beside him on his left as Hargo came up on his right. With no signs of fear at the odds the two Vorga charged.

  Vargus managed to block the curved sword but the force of the blow drove him back and he stumbled to one knee. The Vorga whooped but didn’t press its advantage. It dodged around Hargo, moving far more quickly than Vargus had expected, then came at him again. A group of men busy fighting their own battle slammed into both of them and Vargus was crushed almost face to face with the Vorga. It bit and snapped at him, trying to rip out his throat as he struggled to keep away from its teeth. When it leaned forward to bite him Vargus surged forward, slamming his forehead into its wide face. He felt his skin split from the impact, but the Vorga hissed in pain as well. Locked together they both resorted to kicking and biting, clawing and kneeing each other until the group of warriors thinned.

  A little space opened up around them and Vargus took the offensive, dropping his sword and using a dagger in each hand. The Vorga charged and he managed to score a long gash down one of its legs before it backhanded him. His heel caught something and he fell backwards, smacking his head against the stone. Black dots danced in front of his eyes and when they cleared he saw the Vorga stood over him, sword raised above its head.

  Just before the steel came down an axe severed one of the Vorga’s arms and a sword erupted from its stomach, spraying Vargus with white and green intestinal juices. The Vorga shrieked in pain, but even as it died it managed to tear out one man’s throat who ventured too close.

  Eviss offered him a hand and Vargus was pulled to his feet. He wiped the slime from his face and spat, trying to clear the taste of sour fish and bile.

  “Thank you,” he wheezed.

  “You’re welcome, brother,” said Eviss with a feral grin. The enemy came again and they fought back to back, desperately trying to ignore the pain and fire in their joints. The day wasn’t done yet.

  CHAPTER 33

  They pushed the western army back one more time before they finally retreated. In their wake they left a wave of broken, bloody and dead bodies. All around Balfruss, men were screaming, pleading, begging and dying. Broken weapons and shattered men lay everywhere. There was more blood splashed and pooled on the walls than he’d ever seen before in one place. Red blood from men, deep green from the Vorga and white from the Morrin was all mixing together, creating pools of muddy brown.

  The moment the enemy withdrew a murder of black-capped crows moved onto the battlements, followed closely by stretcher bearers, a group of priests from different denominations and Sisters of Mercy.

  Not far away a stocky surgeon knelt down beside a screaming man who was clutching his bloody stomach with both hands. The surgeon pulled the warrior’s hands away, revealing a bulging mass of torn purple and pink intestines. Blood that was almost black pumped from the jagged wound and it showed no signs of slowing. With a quick shake of his head the surgeon moved on to the next injured man. A priest of the Maker knelt down beside the dying man to give him the last rites.

  Several times the enemy had withdrawn in a similar fashion, but all too quickly they regrouped and attacked again. The surgeons moved as fast as they could, taking seconds to decide the fate of men, gauging with a glance if they thought a warrior would live or die. At any moment the western army would come again and the surgeons would have to wait for the next lull before they could tend to the injured.

  Those with a chance of surviving were quickly bandaged or sewn up, just enough to hold the pieces together until they reached the nearby hospitals. One by one, stretcher bearers took them off the wall and slowly the din from screaming men began to recede.

  Warriors still able to fight finished off the dying enemy soldiers, showing no mercy to the injured, tossing the dead over the wall. Nurses clad in dark grey moved among them, tending to minor wounds, sewing and sealing wounds with glowing metal brands. It was fast and painful battlefield medicine, but they needed every able-bodied man to fight. The only way to leave the wall was on a stretcher or as cold meat.

  When horns began to sound a warning along the wall it took Balfruss a few seconds to realise the signal was different. Three short blasts. It was what he and the other Battlemages had been waiting for and dreading all day. The Splinters were coming.

  Warriors started moving away from the wall, streaming past Balfruss on both sides as he grimly walked towards it. By the time he reached the front, most of those able to walk had pulled back and the rest were on their way, leaving only the dead behind to keep him company. On either side of him he felt the other Battlemages take up their positions. They were a thin line spaced out along the western wall, five souls to protect thousands, but the next part of the battle would not be won with blades and armour.

  To Balfruss’s left a siege tower still rested against the battlements. Morrin bodies were strewn around the entry ramp and the battlements directly in front were awash with gore. It was partially blocking Thule and Darius’s view of the battlefield.

  “We should destroy it,” suggested Thule. “They can rebuild, but it will take time and help our warriors.”

  “Agreed,” said Balfruss. He reached for the Source and felt its power flow into him, easing the aches from his body with its touch. The retreating figures of enemy soldiers swung into focus as all of his senses became more acute. The westerners were running as well, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the five robed figures walking towards the city. It would only be a few minutes before the Splinters were in range, which didn’t give the Battlemages much time to destroy the siege tower.

  He considered burning it to ash, then realised that would expend too much energy. Every drop would be needed to face the Splinters and he had no idea how long the fight with them would last. A simpler solution was required.

  With a grinding of wood and a loud sucking noise, the wheels came free of the gore-soaked mud as the siege tower rose into the air. It felt so light Balfruss briefly considered throwing it at the Splinters on the off chance he could kill one or two of them. They might not be aware of the danger and their surroundings, but the Warlock was out there somewhere, and there was nothing wrong with his reflexes. Instead Balfruss lifted the tower higher and higher until its shadow fell over him, the wheels rising above the top of the city battlements. With a small push he moved it away from the wall and then let go. For a few seconds there was an eerie silence as the tower fell, then it hit the ground with a massive crash. Balfruss heard the timbers snap and shatter, then a huge cloud of dust rose into the air.

  The Splinters paid no attention to its destruction, continuing to march towards them in silence. Because of their mind link Balfruss felt Thule’s stare from along the wall.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Balfruss but the golden-skinned man didn’t reply.

  “We need to form a Link,” said Darius, and the others agreed. “You should lead us, Balfruss.”

  Balfruss was surprised his Blood Brother didn’t want to control it himself, or that Finn didn’t disagree. Their expressions were a mix of anxiety and wariness, but all of them were willing to place
their power and trust in his abilities. In some ways this fight would be a battle between him and the Warlock, with each channelling power from other people. What if he became addicted to the power? What if this was what happened to the Warlock at the beginning? Was this the first step to madness and destruction?

  “You should have more faith in yourself,” said Thule. “We freely lend you our strength and we trust you. He controls mindless slaves with no free will, not people. Trust in yourself.”

  Power from Thule flowed into him and this time Balfruss was ready for it, mentally bracing himself against the rush. It was a lot easier than the last time and after a few seconds he waved towards Darius, who added his strength to the Link. When all of them were joined Balfruss stepped forward and rested his stomach against the battlements, leaning slightly against the wall for support.

  This time he didn’t need to concentrate to see the black wires of energy connecting the Splinters to the Warlock. Several floated in the air behind each robed figure like threads from a spider’s web. In the distance he could just make out the seated figure of the Warlock. Even this far away Balfruss could tell that for all of his boasting, the Warlock had still not completely healed. His brush with death had been a lot closer than he claimed. A few more seconds and Ecko would have ripped out his heart and changed the course of the war. If the opportunity arose today Balfruss swore he would not hesitate. Far too many lives had already been wasted because of the Warlock.

  The first attack came from the cloudless sky, a rain of green fist-sized stones that sizzled and popped. Balfruss covered all of them in a shield, wrapping it around the top of the wall, encompassing the battlements for a hundred paces in either direction. The poisoned hailstones crackled when they struck the shield and evaporated, but where they fell on the battlements, each left behind deep pockmarks as it ate into the stone. A few hailstones bounced and hit nearby rooftops inside the city, melting stone and metal alike. One struck an unfortunate warrior who was resting against a wall. He didn’t have time to scream. It melted half of his skull and continued down towards the ground, dissolving portions of his torso as it went. A few warriors moved even further away from the wall on the off chance that another hailstone bounced and caught them unawares.