He called out his intentions to his men and many greeted his proclamation with enthusiastic words, a few raised their swords in the air and another clanged his weapon against his shield. These men would do as he commanded, but Torsten took some small comfort in knowing that they felt the same way.
The approaching horsemen slowed and drew near to the raiders on foot as the scouts watched. The skull-faced sorcerer rode forth to meet his reinforcements and spoke to them before pointing to Torsten’s crew. The words spoken were lost in the distance, but the intent in his gestures was clear. He still sought their lives for his god.
Gesturing about him with his Demon’s Maw, the sorcerer of the Mountain Men ordered his troops to advance. The horse and footmen moved into formation and began the initial stage of their attack. The group of horsemen split in two, each with forty or more riders in them, and began moving to flank Torsten’s crew. The infantry remained in a single mass marching towards them. Intentions were clear to the scouts. The Mountain Men sought to entangle them with their superior cavalry numbers and then grind them into the earth with the mass of their infantry.
Torsten saw no real threat from them, other than their numbers. He remained confident that his men could ride circles around their approaching enemies, killing them as they saw fit and making them pay dearly for daring to take the field. After taking their toll in blood, they would pull back and seek reinforcement for dealing with the remaining raiders.
Men muttered and a few shouted insults and curses as hands nervously gripped axe and sword. A few of the men armed with bows let fly a few rounds, with the odd lucky shot actually striking a target. Torsten breathed deeply and hefted Head Splitter. No matter how many times in his life he had faced battle, he always felt nervous before hand. His hands shook slightly and butterflies danced in his stomach.
In his experience the men who claimed they never felt some measure of fear before a battle were mostly liars. Those few that weren’t liars were crazy.
After too many fights a man gained a cold look. His eyes seemed to stare through people and into the distance. At that point it became difficult to tell the difference between the men who boasted for fear of seeming weak and those men who genuinely felt no fear. Most men never saw enough battle to reach that point, as they were unlucky enough to survive that long. Those men who truly felt no fear, their visage never changed no matter how long they served.
Even at this distance, Torsten recognized a few such faces among the encroaching raiders. This would be no easy fight, but he trusted in his own skill and strength as well as those of the men in his crew to see them through. He had no desire to see any of his boys go down under a blade, but some part of his mind saw it as a necessary culling of the weak. He wondered if they would have felt the same way if he were to fall in battle before his men.
The Mountain Men’s sorcerer had joined one of the groups of raider cavalry and had taken the point. A man who led by example, Torsten nodded his approval before he shouted his orders. The group led by the sorcerer was moving fast. Almost unnaturally so, it seemed. They would have to be dealt with first.
Scouts shifted their mounts to meet their new orders and began to move at a trot. Raiders changed course as well to meet them, moving further away from the second group of raider cavalry and the trailing infantry. Torsten smiled and led his men, taking the point as was befitting a leader on the battlefield.
The scouts and the raiders maneuvered several times, each group attempting to give themselves the advantage in the coming clash. Distance was covered rapidly and the two vanguards met amidst the clash of steel and iron and the screams of man and horse.
Head Splitter struck and removed a rival mounted warrior’s arm just above the elbow. Torsten moved out of the way of a blow from a massive two handed axe, much like the one that Sean had held only moments before. There was no time to see if it actually belonged to the fallen warrior, but he made mental note to kill the man who bore it and retake it just in case.
A horse reared up in the storm of confusion and struck a rider from his mount with its hooves. Another man stabbed the beast through the neck, sending it to the ground along with its rider. Torsten saw with grim satisfaction that the Mountain Men were striking each other down in the confusion of the fight.
Head Splitter sang again, taking another foe in the neck and sending the man’s lifeblood spilling down the front of his tribal tunic before he collapsed from the saddle and the now riderless horse bolted from the fray. A sword strike glanced from Torsten’s mail as he turned aside another blow and his riposte dropped another raider from the saddle. A surge in the clash of man and beast opened the space before him and revealed the enemy sorcerer drawing near.
The sorcerer raised his Demon’s Maw and spoke his vile spell once more. Another of Torsten’s crew met the same fate as Sean had, man and mount alike dying in a burst of boiling blood and seared flesh turned to ash. The weapon’s strike carried through the scout and into the raiders behind him, slaying two of them as well and knocking the mount from beneath a third. Bits and pieces of the slain cut through the air, making a sickening noise. The roar of the attack left Torsten momentarily deafened and disoriented. This man would have to be dealt with, and quickly.
Torsten raised his blade and roared his challenge to the skull-faced man. Magic or no, this man was as good as dead. He spurred his mount into a direct charge at the sorcerer and within seconds their blades met. The man did not use the Demon’s Maw that he had slain Sean with, though he kept it close to his chest as he wielded a crudely forged blade with one hand.
The sorcerer attempted to break away from Torsten and pulled out of his striking range just in time as Head Splitter parted the air just below the raider’s chin and scant inches from his throat. The man touched his belt and spoke some spell. Witchlight danced there for a second before he charged back at Torsten.
The sorcerer suddenly moved with ferocious speed that Torsten would not have thought the man possessed after their initial clash. His blade blurred as it moved through the air. A more skilled swordsman might well have slain Torsten in the precious few seconds the sudden attack had bought him.
Torsten slapped away the enemy warrior’s blade with his own and launched a counter strike aimed at the main’s unarmored chest that would end the fight in the blink of an eye. With the same supernatural speed the sorcerer let go of the Demon’s Maw and raised his bare hand to intercept Head Splitter.
Torsten saw it all in what seemed to be slow motion. He had witnessed such dozens of times before. In a moment of desperation a man sees his death approaching and attempts to defend himself with whatever is available. Even his own flesh if need be. Such attempts had never ended well for the men on the other end of Torsten’s sword. Hands, arms, feet, any part of a man for that matter, were no match for sharpened steel.
He almost had time to grin before the sorcerer closed his naked hand on the steel of Head Splitter’s cutting edge and brought it to a complete stop, sending a jolt up Torsten’s arm that numbed his shoulder. Torsten looked on in disbelief as the skull-helmed warrior held the blade and the seemingly empty eye sockets of the skull that he wore began to glow a deep red color. Like arterial blood that had been set on fire and burned from within.
All was silence around them as the two warriors locked gazes. Torsten realized that the fighting had come to a stop so that both sides could witness the battle between their champions. As he looked into the glowing red orbs, Torsten was overcome with irrational fear.
Cold sweat flared across his brow, neck, and upper back and he began to shiver uncontrollably. A need to flee from this man welled so deeply within him that he did not recognize it at first. True fear, the fear of complete annihilation and eternal damnation, spread through him and he was paralyzed by it, unable to look away from the sorcerer.
Pain flared across his body. Waves of muscle spasms shook him and something writhed deep within his guts. His vision blurred with the evil sensation and his balance i
n the saddle threatened to fail.
Torsten dry-heaved once, threatening to vomit on himself. His eyes darted back and forth and he saw that everyone around him, raider and scout alike, was in the thrall of the same crushing horror. Most dared not move and the bravest among them urged their mounts to back away from the sorcerer, but even the beasts were gripped by the terror of the moment, unable to budge.
The sorcerer laughed, and in that instant Torsten broke free from the worst of it. He shifted all of his weight forward violently, pushing Head Splitter against the man’s palm. The sorcerer was taken by surprise and lost his balance, falling from the saddle of his mount and plummeting to the ground.
Men stirred as the next group of raider cavalry drew into striking range. Torsten saw the threat with barely a second to spare and shouted the only command he could.
“RUN!” his voice tore into the still air and seemed to echo over the hills. No man among them needed to be told twice.
ESCAPE seemed impossible. Beyond belief, the horses carrying the raiders managed to keep up with Torsten’s crew. Just outside of striking range, but an ever present threat that hounded them wherever they trod. Mutters of some dark magic rose from his men. He denied such out loud to his scouts, but now after what he had seen the Mountain Men’s sorcerer do, he had his doubts.
How had the man moved so fast and with such strength? What showed of the man through his robes had seemed frail and weak, especially when compared to the men he commanded. And the witchlight that danced at his command. The burning red eyes.
Perhaps they were charlatans tricks, fit for entertaining men in a parlor. But catching Torsten’s blade with his bare hand? That was no trick. The man definitely had some special talent or power at his disposal. And the fear and pain he had felt when he locked gazes with the sorcerer. No one had spoken of it, but he knew all of them had experienced the same thing. Like looking into the eyes of some dark god or demon from hells below.
And now the same skull-faced man chased them. The occasional glance back showed the sorcerer riding in the thick of what looked to be about eighty horsemen. The same horsemen that were not only not being left behind by the scouts, but seemed to be gaining on them as well.
Torsten reckoned that each of his men was worth at least two to three of the Mountain Men’s cavalry in a fight, but on mounts that seemed to be growing more tired by the second and against greater odds, their chances seemed grim.
Hills flowed before them and around them as they passed, descending towards a plain in the distance. With the sun rapidly descending towards the western horizon the situation seemed to be growing worse. A single star rose rapidly in the northeast, moving towards the southwest. The Lost Star, some claimed. Known for moving erratically about the heavens. A poor omen, some shouted as it was sighted.
Torsten was not about to give up the fight, no matter how grim things appeared to be. There was a name for men who rolled over and died in the face of adversity. No one knew it though, because those men didn’t matter.
Torsten thought frantically, looking for a spot where they could move temporarily out of the sight of the trailing raiders. There they would double back and ambush them with spears and arrows. Swords and axes as well, if need be. As the scouts rushed past the edge of a low hill, Torsten spotted something. Salvation or damnation, it remained to be seen.
A lone tower stood, as it no doubt had for centuries stretching to possible millennia. Badly weathered, it remained intact where it stood watch over a once large road that now seemed a withered dirt track in the short grass that grew around and even over it in some places.
“There.” Torsten shouted to his men as he pointed with Head Splitter. “There”, he repeated for good measure. As one, the group of scouts steered their mounts straight for the tower.
He chanced a look back and saw the Mountain Men drawing ever closer. Soon they would be in range of a well thrown spear. Something caught his attention among them in the growing darkness of the early evening. Two orbs of red glowed as they bounced above the back of a short muscular horse. Their sorcerer still led them, eager for battle, it would seem.
The tower grew larger and larger as the chasing horde grew closer and closer. They would make it just in time to get inside if such a thing were possible. If the door was barred, or if it had rotted away with time then it would be back to the open plain with not a second to spare.
An open door of heavy timbers banded with rusted iron loomed over them and the men of Torsten’s crew flew through, pulling their mounts to a stop just in time to avoid hitting the far interior wall of the tower. Five men leapt from their steeds at Torsten’s command and began straining against the door to close it.
Hinges groaned in rusted complaint as the timber construct slowly worked its way closed. Men grunted with exertion as the hoof beats of the approaching horsemen sounded. The approaching raider cavalry saw that they would not be able to make it in time before the door was shut. Torsten allowed himself a small grin as the gate reached home and it was barred with ancient boards as thick as a man’s waist.
Only then did he really look at their sanctuary. The men and horses filled what little room there was at the base. It was a wonder that they had all fit inside. A spiral staircase winding around the interior wall led upward. The gate was recessed in the wall and no doubt murder holes could be found above it, allowing all sorts of vile things to be dropped on men below. Somewhere above, the sky showed the final light of the day passing through the space where the roof used to be. A single star or planet, unusually bright, seemed to be slowly creeping across what was visible of the sky.
Torsten couldn’t say why, but he felt compelled to stare at the heavenly body for a moment as it moved. The Lost Star, men called it. It seemed to move around the heavens with a mind of its own. A strange buzzing sensation passed over him briefly and then was gone as quickly as he had felt it. Several other men muttered their discomfort, as though they had felt the same. Outside, the jeers and taunts of the Mountain Men drew his attention back to the situation at hand.
A single solid blow was dealt to the barred gate from the other side, as if to test it. Someone cursed and began speaking loudly. The familiar sound of a bowstring coming to rest after an arrow had been loosed sounded and the man’s words turned to screams. Torsten looked up to see one of his men crouched above the murder holes, already nocking another arrow and picking out a target below him.
Another missile found its target and another man screamed outside before they seemed to pull back. A good thing too, Torsten thought, as his man only had a few arrows left. A cursory glance of his riders showed that they had no more than two score left between them. And unless he was mistaken, that was too few by several hundred.
He turned back to the horses. Huddled together in the cramped space available away from the inside of the gate and out of the way of men with murder in mind, they still seemed frightened. All bore a thick lather of sweat and one shuddered for several moments before collapsing and trying futilely to return to its feet. That the beasts that carried the Mountain Men could give such a chase to no seeming ill effect was incredible. Sorcerous even, some might say.
A few hurled stones bounced off of the gate and the outer wall of the tower, doing nothing more than serving to bring Torsten’s mind into focus. He was in a shitty situation and needed to try to find a way out. Without hesitation he began issuing orders to his men, and they acted.
Men moved through the interior of the ancient tower and searched for whatever they could find that might be of use. A few stout timbers, the remains of age-rusted arrow heads that were once attached to shafts now gone missing, and a few loose stones were all they found.
A large iron pot, now pitted and crumbling with age and rust, stood near the murder holes above the gate. Ages ago it would have been ready to rain boiling oil on any man foolish enough to attack the gate. Great sections of its surface fell away at the touch. If they’d had anything to boil in it, it was unlikely it wou
ld stay in one piece for long. It would likely be as dangerous to the men inside as to the men outside.
The timbers were set near the gate to buttress it against attack by a battering ram if need be. One man tried to carve arrow shafts from the body of the wood, but could produce nothing of use. The stones were lifted up the crumbling stairs to the second and third floors where they could be thrown down on the raiders if the opportunity presented itself.
Torsten continued as high as he could in the tower, reaching the third floor before the stairwell was no longer usable. At some point in the past a section of it had collapsed and could not be passed. Whatever stood above them in the crumbling tower that might be of use was beyond their reach. From his vantage point in a narrow window designed for an archer to fire out of, he took in his enemy in the pale light of the moon.
They stood close enough to the tower that he could make out men’s individual faces. He noticed something now that had evaded him in the chaos and confusion of the earlier fight and flight. Each of the clans of the Mountain Men wore distinctively colored and patterned face paint. It was a simple way for warriors to identify friend and foe in the heat of battle.
Most of the clans were at war with one another for various reasons. Slights, imagined or real, caused blood feuds among them that lasted for generations. It was rare indeed for two clans to be allied in any significant endeavor for any significant amount of time. As Torsten looked down upon them he counted the war paint of at least five different clans.
Red, blue, green, and black painted faces looked towards the tower. The shapes of birds in flight, snarling wolves, and open-mouthed serpents, the cosmic cross. He saw all of them on various banners and the occasional shield clutched by the odd raider. Such an alliance was unheard of.
Sons of the Gods Page 4