Sons of the Gods

by James Von Ohlen

  But what?

  He mulled potential answers for a moment before storing them in his mind for later consideration. The fact that the mill still burned said that the scouts were close to their prey. He called his men together and gave his orders. Weapons were drawn and the scouts spread out, once more advancing in a loose wedge.

  They crested a low hill that was followed by a steep decline. Below them in the high grass and brush stood the men they hunted. No less than 100 Mountain Men were assembled beneath the command of a lone mounted warrior. They were too distant to make out their individual features other than the fact they were armed and their faces bore warpaint.

  The man who commanded them stood out in stark contrast to the others. He was clad in some type of black robe that was open at the chest and wore a helmet that at this range resembled the skull of a bull. He carried some type of club in his right hand and held the reins of his mount with the other. The look of a sorcerer from the mountains, Torsten thought. Though he expected no real magic on this day.

  When the presence of Torsten’s crew was noted by the raiders, shouts of alarm and wild gesturing began running through the group. Their commander shouted orders to his men and they responded quickly. He said something that the scouts couldn’t hear and a cheer ran through the Mountain Men as he raised his weapon above his head and gestured towards the scouts, now descending the hill slowly towards them.

  In a showy fight between men with noble ranks, they would take their time approaching one another. Allowing their banners to flutter in the wind and show off their pretty colors. The scouts advanced slowly to get a better count of their enemies and look for weaknesses. To give the footmen a chance to turn and run. Men running from a fight didn’t need to be killed. At least not right away.

  Torsten scanned the crowd of raiders and decided on the best approach to this. It was by no means an unwinnable fight, but it would require caution on his part. If his crew had been composed entirely of heavy cavalry, they could have simply charged the group repeatedly, passing through them and regrouping for another charge from the other side until they had all been run down. But they lacked the weapons and heavy armor of the elite knights of The Kingdom, as well as the heavy horses to carry such.

  He called out his command to his crew and a few men muttered disagreement, but were quickly cowed by a stern look from Torsten. Either they followed his orders or they answered to him. If they survived. In the opinion of more than a few, death in battle would be a better thing.

  The horsemen adjusted their formation according to his instructions. They formed into two groups, with bows evenly spread out among them. Torsten took the lead of one and Ed took the lead of the other. Confirmations were shouted back and forth in coded language to disguise their intent. It was standard procedure among the soldiers of The Kingdom, but only the densest of battle seasoned men would fail to see their intent. And by the looks of the Mountain Men they were descending upon, they were anything but unseasoned.

  As Torsten’s crew drew closer the raiders altered their formation and their commander continued to issue orders. They set themselves to receive a charge, but lacked in polearms and shields to adequately defend themselves. If they were to survive this battle they would have to rely on sheer numbers and more than a little luck.

  The scouts increased their pace and the two groups they had divided into began to move apart, each heading towards a point outside the opposite ends of the raiders’ line. The raiders correctly anticipated the move and split themselves to face the new threat, two groups facing outwards with their backs to one another. But they were still unequipped for it.

  Torsten’s crew increased their speed to a gallop and passed by the raiders’ position out of range of retaliation. As they moved past, the bowmen in the group loosed their arrows, each taking his target with flawless aim. The leathers and roughspun wool that the raiders wore offered no protection against such and each man struck fell where he stood.

  After the initial pass, The Kingdom’s men wheeled about in a wide arc and reformed their lines before making another attack. The Mountain Men tried to move to block their paths, but the scouts adjusted quickly and repeated their attack, sending more of the raiders to the grave.

  Two more such passes and Torsten ordered his men to a halt some hundred yards or so from the remaining raiders. Their numbers had not been significantly reduced, but they had spread out their lines and the effect on their morale was evident. They yelled angry curses at Torsten’s men, demanding in their language and in that of The Kingdom that the scouts face them as men, with a blade in hand.

  A few of Torsten’s men echoed that same sentiment before Ed silenced them with a harsh command. They took his order to heart and held their tongues. If they disobeyed Torsten, they would have to face him after the battle. If they disobeyed Ed, he would strike them down where they stood without a second thought. Such rough discipline seemed wasteful to Torsten, but Ed’s ability as a second was unmatched by any other man the scouts’ commander had served with.

  Grumbling aside, the scouts did as they were told and formed the same groups once more. Again they rode past the edge of the Mountain Men and shot down a few of them. They reacted in the same way, spreading themselves out more, making their lines thinner. Torsten grinned like a wolf as he saw his opposite among them, the sorcerer, screaming for them to reform their lines. He knew what was about to happen.

  If he could regain control of his soldiers in time, he could likely wait out the supply of arrows the scouts had and maybe even the endurance of their mounts. At that point, the scouts would no longer be a threat and if Torsten’s command faltered, the Mountain Men would be able to slaughter them.

  But no such thing happened.

  The Mountain Men prided themselves on their honor as warriors and only grew angrier with each pass of the scouts and their volleys of arrows. Such cowardice was intolerable in their eyes and demanded blood from their enemies to pay for such an insult. With the final pass of the scouts, the raiders’ line grew thin and stretched out beyond the point of being effective.

  At this point Torsten shouted his new command as the scouts regrouped. Many eagerly shouted back to him, embracing the joy of the battle to come. Blades were hefted and shields secured as they moved and wheeled about to face their enemies once more. As the scouts rounded they formed a wedge with their mounts, Torsten as always at the center, in the lead.

  They broke into a charge aimed at one end of the overstretched raiders and before the others could react to correct their mistake, the scouts slammed into their line. The assault lacked the shock of heavy knights trampling down all in their path, but here on the plains against lightly armored men spread so thinly, the result was almost the same.

  Torsten was the first to make contact and took a huge raider in the neck with the tip of his sword. Arterial spray erupted from the wound as the sword passed through and the man disappeared behind Torsten as his mount continued to charge. Another man avoided his second strike by throwing himself to the ground. Torsten looked back in time to see the raider take a horse’s hoof to the head and crumple into a motionless heap.

  The scouts passed through the raiders’ line unharmed and several jeered at their enemies. The languages spoken by the two groups were dialects of one another, and the sharper men among the two groups could understand each other well enough. Several answered with their own shouts, swearing vengeance in blood and the destruction of each man’s line. The Mountain Men grew unruly and began to ignore the orders of their sorcerer, striding towards the scouts in piecemeal groups that were no real threat, issuing challenges and insults as they went.

  Torsten wheeled about and retook his position in the wedge. He prepared his men for another charge and saw the man he had taken in the neck kneeling and clasping the wound in his neck. Beyond belief the man still lived despite suffering what should have been a life ending blow. The flow of blood emerging from between his fingers as he held the wound in his neck visibly
slowed. Either his wound was healing or he was simply running out of blood.

  The huge raider forced himself to his feet, wobbling like a drunk as he did so. After a few uncertain steps he retreated back into the mass of the Mountain Men, threatening to collapse as he moved and leaving his weapon behind in the dust.

  As the scouts drew up to charge once more, the sorcerer came forward and shouted his challenge to Torsten’s crew. Much different than simply saying he would easily kill any man he faced, the sorcerer issued a challenge of combat between champions. The man who won such a duel, de facto won the battle. The winner’s side kept the field and the loser’s side retreated. At least that was the general idea of it. Often such duels only spawned more duels and if two large armies faced each other, several days could be spent on such until an actual battle was fought.

  In this instance, if Torsten could cause the Mountain Men to quit the field and leave The Western Fringe with no men lost on his part, he considered that a bonus. He had great confidence in the skills of the men under his command. Though the raiders could be fearsome warriors, he knew his boys could best them one on one any day of the week. And the men they faced here were not without honor. If they asked for the duel, they would likely abide its outcome.

  Though such was uncommon when men of The Kingdom faced the Mountain Men in combat, it was not unheard of. Accepting the challenge was a matter of honor and any man who refused would be thought of as a coward by all on both sides.

  Torsten shouted his acceptance and several men quickly volunteered, eager to be the man who strode forward to face the raiders’ champion in single combat. The men who spoke hashed it out among themselves who would face the challenge, but the final decision was Torsten’s to make. In his younger days he would have stepped forward himself to face his enemy and even now he had half a mind to do so. But the laws of serving in the armies of The Kingdom prevented commanding officers from dueling with enemy champions, lest they fall in combat and leave their men without proper leadership.

  A lean, wiry man named Sean emerged from the ranks of the scouts to claim his right to the duel. Torsten looked him over, and nodded. Tall and thin, the man’s frame seemed to contradict the strength that he possessed. Many men had lost more than a few days’ wages gambling with Sean over feats of strength. His skill as a scout was only rivaled by his skill with the monstrous two handed axe he insisted on carrying with him wherever he went in the field. It rarely left its sheath, but now was one such occasion.

  Sean dismounted after receiving Torsten’s ascent, and withdrew the large weapon from its place in his field baggage. Several men cheered as Sean lifted the axe over his head with one hand and then remounted his horse. The scout prodded the horse’s flanks and began trotting forward to a chorus of shouts from both sides.

  Held high, like a talisman against evil, the axe bobbed up and down with the movements of the man and horse beneath. As Sean neared his opponent the man shouted to him and raised his own weapon once more. The strangely shaped club rose again.

  Torsten and his crew closed behind Sean’s advance, keeping the distance demanded by the etiquette of the duel until Torsten decided he didn’t want his men any closer to the mass of raiders. Treachery was unlikely, but caution always had its place.

  The sorcerer who led the raiders and represented them in the duel gave voice in a surprisingly loud manner, his words carrying to all assembled and leaving no doubt as to what he said. With a stentorian proclamation, his words reached the ears of every man among the scouts as well.

  “I give this man’s life to Mordechai, bringer of destruction to our enemies.”

  The invocation of the Mountain Men’s God of Slaughter seemed to rouse them to a near frenzy and their savage cries sounded across the hills. For a moment Torsten thought they were about to rush the scouts and prepared to order his men, including the warrior about to fight the duel, back out of their range. Before he gave his command the raiders settled in their places and began a low chant.

  Some form of primitive magic or prayer intended to give strength to their champion, Torsten thought. That was something new in his dealings with the Mountain Men. Though they might embrace primitive superstition, when it came to fighting they trusted in their own skill and strength of arms. A point of view that Torsten commended and that he held as well.

  Horses whinnied nervously as the chant began and Sean exchanged insults with the sorcerer as they circled one another atop their mounts in the relatively large space between the two sides. The sorcerer’s voice rose again and he held his free hand over the club he held as though he blessed it or cast some magic there. Torsten held no belief in such things, but he remained attentive, searching for treachery.

  This could have all just been an excuse to get the two groups of warriors together at closer range. In the sorcerer’s position, it’s what Torsten would have done.

  Sean hefted his huge axe with one hand and chose his moment to attack, driving forward directly towards the skull-coifed priest. The sorcerer stood his ground and the grin beneath his mask of bone was visible as the corners of his mouth spread past its edge with his smile. He leveled the club directly at the charging warrior as he rapidly closed, and spoke a single word. The axe rose high in Sean’s hand and he spoke in return, a breath away from striking down his enemy.

  No one heard what was said, as the club flared to life with a nightmarish scream that sounded like the cries of pain of a thousand torn throats bearing witness to the birth of some demon from hells below. Intense light, nearly blinding, stabbed from the sorcerer’s weapon and met the charging warrior with the hiss of a legendary serpent.

  Torsten watched in shock, seemingly taking in the scene in slow motion as the air wavered between Sean and the sorcerer for the briefest moment, like waves of heat rising from a road during midsummer at noon.

  The head of the horse that the scout rode burst apart in a cloud of steaming blood and bone fragments. An instant later the breath of the weapon tore into Sean, entering his chest. His mail flowed like liquid beneath the infernal assault. The same process that destroyed the horse’s head cut him in half and sent pieces of his body flying in all directions. His head rolled away, losing the helmet it bore as it went.

  The horse collapsed at the feet of the sorcerer’s mount and the dead scout’s axe fell to the earth with a thud. The lower half of the man’s legs remained in the stirrups, cauterized by the heat of the wizard’s attack like the remains of the tortured farmers seen in the days before.

  On both sides men and mounts alike jumped at the sound of the attack. The scout’s horses started, but didn’t bolt. They were well trained and would do only what they were commanded to. At least that was what Torsten hoped.

  Silence descended as the demonic roar of the weapon faded. A faint ringing took its place in Torsten’s ears. One man spoke among Torsten’s crew, giving voice to what many were no doubt thinking.

  “Demon’s Maw.” The man uttered in disbelief, speaking the name as though it were a curse.

  It was another thing that Torsten gave little thought to until that moment. The name of a legendary weapon possessing of great magic power, said to have been forged by the Ancients. He doubted such things existed, but there before his very eyes stood the proof that not only did they exist, but men still bore them.

  The Mountain Men roared their approval as their leader gestured to them and held the enchanted weapon high once more.

  “Kill them.” He spoke loudly and clearly, his voice without emotion. “Kill them all.” The sorcerer said.

  The raiders surged forward as Torsten shouted his command to his crew. They turned their mounts where they stood and began putting distance between themselves and the raiders. Poorly thrown stones and a few spears rained down among them, having no ill effect on the warriors.

  This man will die for this insult, Torsten thought. He was supposed to have named his terms after winning the duel, not to have immediately turned on them, intent on slaughter.
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  “Once more, as before. Draw them out, spread them thin. And then run them down.” Torsten shouted. His men split into two groups again and prepared to renew their attack. In the distance beyond the mass of raiders, something moved on the horizon. The scouts halted as they realized what it was.

  A mass of horsemen were closing on their position. Scores of them, bearing spears and the banners of the tribes of the Mountain Men. The scouts drew to a halt at Torsten’s signal as the Mountain Men closed on them from multiple directions.

  Fleeing a fight that could possibly be won was a damned cowardly thing in Torsten’s mind. But he also realized there was a difference between fleeing and a strategic withdrawal. The scouts quickly turned at his command and began putting distance between themselves and the encroaching horsemen, leaving the angry raider infantry behind them. A chorus of jeers followed them as they seemed to leave the field.

  A single archer from among Torsten’s crew turned and fired a single arrow. It seemed to move lazily through the air, taking its time before suddenly striking a shouting Mountain Man in the chest and dropping him on his face. A fair parting shot, Torsten thought.

  The scouts kept their mounts at a leisurely pace, giving them a moment’s rest and letting the approaching Mountain Men’s cavalry run through whatever excess energy stores they might have. Torsten would intentionally let them draw closer.

  In a race, the Mountain Men’s horses couldn’t compete with the beasts bred in The Kingdom. Distance didn’t matter. The noble steeds produced for use by The Kingdom’s armies were taller, faster, and could run near top speed for much longer than the horses used by the raiders. The Mountain Men’s horses were short, strong, and brutish. They could haul far more than even a knight’s mount, and were well adapted to life among the mountains and hard labor, but their advantage ended there.

  Torsten would play this to his advantage. Let the raiders close, exhaust their mounts, and then ride circles around the raiders killing all they could before breaking off the engagement. Just a tactical withdrawal, he told himself with a wry smile. Buy enough time to regroup and then begin the red work once more.