by Tom Lloyd
Even sheathed, Eolis felt alive and hungry for action. Isak strode out with a cold grin on his face. His blue mask was slipped over the padded hood of his under-suit. His armour shimmered in the grim grey light while the dragon symbol on his long cloak danced and raged in the breeze. Though the Ghosts had seen him in Siulents before, the effect on the men he passed was electrifying. He stopped and met their amazed faces, then snapped an order to get back to work and smiled as they jumped like startled rabbits.
He looked around. Neat lines of mounted men waited on all sides while more readied their horses and checked weapons. Pages and servants ran in and out of the forest of tents that covered the ground. Most of the mounted men were Ghosts. Many of the things Lahk had drilled them in were basics, but details like that could mean the difference between victory and defeat, and a general who didn’t get bored was ideal to drill men until they were perfect.
Count Vesna, fully accoutred, hurried over to Isak as he watched the troops moving with purpose and grim efficiency. Here and there a voice was raised in laughter, but most men were lost in cold deliberation. The fleeing commoners and the assault on Lomin had provoked a deep anger within the troops.
‘My Lord, your charger is ready.’ Vesna moved with the uncomfortable swing of a man in plate armour, but quickly enough for it to be obvious that the black-painted metal was enchanted. His hair, plaited, was wrapped around his neck, covering up the tattoos.
Isak’s view of his horse was obscured by a knight draped in yellow and white who was gesticulating wildly at his page. Isak glanced at him as he stalked past and the man froze in mid-sentence.
White drapes hung down over the horse’s armour, with Isak’s dragon emblazoned on its flanks. A steel spike rose out through the cloth on its forehead. As Isak approached, the horse twitched a step towards him, pulling taut the reins held by the figure beside it. The horse tossed its head nervously.
A sudden sense of danger screamed in Isak’s head, and a memory flashed up: his page was smaller. The figure holding the reins threw back its cloak and leapt forward, unfolding long limbs from a slender body. Isak blinked - and the figure had covered the ground between them, stabbing forwards as it moved. Unbidden, Eolis darted up to meet it as the figure hit Isak full in the chest and threw him off his feet. As his shoulders slammed into the ground, he kicked off, desperately feeling for solid ground underfoot. Distantly he felt blows slam into his stomach as his left hand grabbed a thin arm that squirmed with amazing strength.
Then the attacker broke away. Isak rolled on to his knees and threw himself left, sheer instinct, as two thin white spears stabbed into the ground where he’d been a heartbeat before. He hacked through one before hurling himself away again. An inhuman screech tore through the air and Isak felt a weight slam on to his back. Scarcely thinking, he flung his left arm up to protect his face and felt something score his vambrace instead of his throat.
He stabbed Eolis up over his shoulder and felt it grate on bone, then the weight was gone. He jumped to his feet and spun around, cutting up as he did so, but now his assailant kept just out of reach. For a moment he locked eyes with the creature. Mandible jaws on either side of its mouth twitched as it peered back at its intended prey. It stood on three legs; the fourth was shorn off and dripping black blood. More blood ran down from its right shoulder, but the arm ending in a bony blade was still ready to strike.
Before any of the watching knights could move to attack it, the creature leaped again, every limb swept back and ready. Isak slid away to his right, leaving Eolis in his wake to slash up as his attacker passed. He felt chitin split and the sword cut deep before his movement brought it out. He gave the creature no time to recover from the second cut, dropping down to kick away its legs. The savagery of the blow snapped something and brought Isak right around, Eolis already hacking at the figure on the floor before he had even focused on it. A second blow sheared through one of the bladed arms and a third stabbed straight down to impale the creature on the ground.
Isak staggered backwards, crashing into Vesna as he did so. He turned, raising his empty sword-arm for a moment before his senses returned. Behind him the figure thrashed and spasmed, but they were the movements of a dead thing.
‘My Lord, are you hurt?’ Vesna dropped his sword and grabbed at the huge white-eye as Isak lurched again. Finding his feet, Isak gripped his bondsman’s shoulder and steadied himself. The surge of adrenalin blurred his sight for a moment, then his vision snapped back into focus. Isak found himself staring at the tattoo on the count’s neck. Taut muscles distorted it into a bizarre shape.
Isak sucked in a huge gulp of air and felt his hand tremble as he replied, ‘I—I think so.’ Looking down at where the creature had been hitting him in the stomach, Isak could see only one tiny break in the armour, and that sealed up as he watched. ‘Am I bleeding?’
‘You—’ Vesna stopped and looked Isak over. The attack had been so fast Vesna had hardly seen the blows, but apart from a deep groove on Isak’s arm-guard where the creature had tried to cut his throat, there were no signs of damage. ‘No, it doesn’t seem to have pierced the armour anywhere.’
‘What was it?’
Both men turned to look at the corpse. As they did so, a Ghost ran his lance down into its throat to make sure it was dead. When there was no further movement, the soldier pulled Eolis from the body and offered it over his arm to Isak. The Krann stared at it for a moment, surprised at the formality, but judging by the faces of every man there, they had been impressed with the fight.
‘That, my Lord,’ supplied General Lahk from behind Isak, ‘is an Estashanti warrior. It’s one of the hybrid races bred by the Gods for the Great War, then discarded when their talents were surplus to requirements.’ In the shock of the aftermath, Isak thought he detected an air of bitterness about the general’s voice.
‘It explains how the enemy managed to kill Duke Lomin. Buggers use them as assassins,’ muttered Suzerain Fordan. As he gave the corpse a kick, a golden gorget fell away. The chain had been neatly severed. Isak felt a surge of magic leave the ruined object: that was how it had managed to get past all the guards.
‘Gods, if it had got here yesterday ... Without Siulents I’d have been gutted in that first attack. If we were not riding to battle this morning—’
‘You’d be dead, my Lord. But before you offer thanks to the Gods, we do have another battle to fight. It can only harm our cause to let this delay us further.’ General Lahk didn’t wait for a reply as he turned to a herald at his side. The herald was several summers younger than Isak and the only one there in light armour. He had a large round shield on his back and a hunting horn in his hands. His job was to stay alive to sound orders for the troops. Isak could see puke on his clothes already - perhaps he’d been thinking about meeting a troll.
‘Sound the order to move out,’ Isak said, and mounted his horse, which was calm now the Estashanti was dead. Vesna handed him the cold, blank helm that Isak had dropped in the attack. A smear of mud marked the crest.
‘My Lord?’
Isak turned to see the general raise his helm slightly. Looking around, he realised they were all watching him. He was leading this army, so tradition dictated the order come from him. Every boy of the tribe shouted the words out as they played; even those without friends felt the words in their heart.
Isak wheeled his horse around, held up his helm for all to see and called out as loud as he could, ‘My Lords, we go to war - your helms!’
Amid a great cheer Isak slid his own helm over his head and felt the lip of the collar meet his cuirass. At his side Vesna rammed home the golden wolf’s head and slid the faceplate up to look at his liege lord. The count muttered a few words of shock that were lost in the cheers from all about. Isak didn’t wait to hear any more. He spurred his charger ahead, through the rows of mounted guardsmen, with war cries ringing all about.
CHAPTER 14
As the knights followed the path of the shallow river and reached the
ridge, Isak noticed a scent on the wind he couldn’t place. Winter had muted every flavour that reached him, and it came only when the breeze momentarily cleared the heavy musk of horse. Whether it was just too faint to recognise, or something new to him, Isak couldn’t be sure. These parts were too remote to have been of any interest to a wagon-train. This area looked unspectacular, but still Isak wondered what he would miss as he passed through, how much he would never see of lands that would one day belong to him. Anvee itself was nothing more than a name at the moment, and that was just one suzerainty - what about when he became Lord of the Farlan?
Off to the left fluttered the archer legion’s colours; the men around the pennant stood with shoulders hunched against the wind at their backs. As the cavalry approached, one man raised his longbow in a salute and disappeared down the slope to report their arrival to the legion’s commander.
‘My Lord?’
Isak realised he’d been turning in the saddle, into the wind coming from behind them. It carried elusive snatches of that scent he was suddenly determined to identify. Vesna had followed his gaze and found only soldiers, grave eyes encased in steel and black-iron. Isak sensed his confusion and turned his thoughts away; there was nothing in the air except the scent of men wanting to avoid what was to come.
Isak reached out and gripped Vesna’s shoulder-plate. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘just thinking about this place.’
‘Don’t - it distracts you from the battle. Every man does that the first time. I know what you’re thinking and you mustn’t. Imagine the enemy, and nothing more. Think of the path your horse will take, the way you’ll make your first strike. Picture that rank of enemy crumpling and freeing your path to ride away while Certinse’s wing hits the other side. Picture wheeling and forming the line again.’
Isak grinned. ‘Yes. I understand.’
In the distance they heard hunting horns - the command calls of the light cavalry - echoed by the drums of the foot legions. Behind Isak, men shifted in their saddles, impatient to be off.
‘It begins,’ commented General Lahk, from the front. The heavy cavalry was in three groups, to better negotiate the ford, with Isak’s Ghosts at the fore. Behind him were another five hundred knights, under Duke Certinse’s command, and the final group, led by Suzerain Ked, followed closely behind, a mix of black-and-white-clad guardsmen and brightly coloured nobles. Once the first two parties were caught up in the fighting, Ked would lead these men hard and straight into the trolls, a final shock movement intended to drive the beasts away.
Seeing the heavy cavalry together in one place brought home to Isak the beauty of the Farlan system. Though the general had grumbled that the turnout should have been significantly higher, it was unlikely any other nation or tribe in the Land could field more than half the number of heavy cavalry that the Farlan could muster. The tribe’s entire social structure worked to keep this war machine operating at peak performance.
A knight of battle age who didn’t maintain a full suit of armour would be stripped of his title and lands. However impoverished his family might be, the knight’s hunter would be well-fed, and ready to carry him into battle at any moment. Any tenant who could shoot an arrow from horseback and hit four out of five times was entitled to a small wage from his landlord, whether he were a landlocked serf or a local poacher. Drilling was of paramount importance for every healthy Farlan male; as children, they play-acted the battles they would fight as men. It was in their blood.
The horns sounded again, over a rising clamour in the distance. High in the patched blanket of cloud, Isak could see birds soaring - scavengers of some sort, kites and buzzards, no doubt. A handful of crows were cawing in the trees to his right, disturbed by the movements below but refusing to be driven off.
‘What’s that call?’
‘Strike left, strike right,’ replied Vesna automatically. ‘The light cavalry has found a target.’
‘They’re not supposed to engage, though.’
‘But it is to be expected. The captains know they can engage if they can still break and continue with the plan. They’ll fall back quickly and move south to open a path for us, but there’s always the chance they can rout an enemy division before they do.’
‘Where’s the herald with the flags?’ A white flag would mean the attack could go ahead as planned, red that the enemy was advancing en masse. If that happened, the plan was to ride out and attack whatever troops presented themselves. Red meant salvage whatever they could, and buy the rest of the army time to regroup.
‘There.’
Isak fell silent. His fingers skittered over the surface of his armour as he waited for their signal. He was burning to be off and into action himself: he needed it to start. More horns came, fainter this time, and the heavy beat of a battery of drums. Isak’s head twitched up as he felt magic burst from the ridge ahead: the battle-mages were joining the attack.
Even from the other side of the ridge, Isak could feel their elation at the release. The mages had kept their distance from him for the whole journey, no doubt Afger Wetlen’s death strong in their minds.
Isak’s impatience grew as the prickle of magic went down his spine. He could feel the blood pumping through his body, the memory of his muscles in movement; he could imagine the power and animal heat of the huge horse charging. He blinked and felt his hand tighten about the reins. The edge of his shield pushed on his thigh and he forced it down harder, glad of the pressure as a distraction. It kept his mind from wandering, kept his eyes focused on the figure ahead.
Then - finally - the flag was raised and frantically swept from side to side. The horses surged forward as one, even Isak’s, as he paused for a moment to check the colour of the flag. Against the grey sky it was hard to make out - then he realised that red would have been clearly visible. Things were going to plan.
As they clattered over the stones of the riverbed and urged their horses up the small bank, Isak saw nothing but disorganised crowds. Farlan horsemen were outstripping their pursuers, a tidal wave of elves following them south. Between the horsemen were the ranks of infantry, running back in disorder, but Isak could see the gaps between the lines, the spaces that would allow them to reform, even if it looked like they were fleeing in terror from the enemy.
A minute later a horn rang out. The leading rank of Ghosts apparently running away stopped dead and turned to face the enemy. The second rank, behind them, did the same, and the third, until the men were in line, forming a shield wall and ready to take on the elves again.
Isak tore himself away - they knew what they were doing; they didn’t need him - and concentrated on the hulking grey shapes two hundred yards away. His charger picked up speed. All he could make out were wide, heavy bodies and long thick arms, and deep, bestial growls that turned to bellowing as they heard the horsemen.
Isak’s horse thundered to the head of the group without any encouragement from its rider. On either side lances edged down as they began to close the distance. The trolls loomed large and a few took hesitant steps forward, but most, confused by the sudden appearance of the cavalry, stood still, apparently unaware of what was happening - until the horses were almost upon them.
Isak stood up in the saddle. He was the only man there without a lance; he’d refused one without really knowing why. Buoyed by the energy of the knights behind him and the streams of magic bursting around the trolls, Isak felt a euphoric power run down in his arm. Only now did he draw Eolis, holding the sword up high as though drawing strength from the heavens. The Ghosts behind roared their approval as he towered over them all, a divine figure ready to strike down the cursed.
Then he threw it. Eolis flashed through the air like an arrow and slammed into the nearest troll. One of the light cavalry had already hit it - a red-feathered shaft struck straight up from its shoulder. Isak couldn’t tell whether the troll had even noticed the first wound, but when Eolis buried itself into its chest, the creature shuddered and gave a guttural groan. It looked down in surpri
se, one hand sluggishly reaching up to touch the hilt. With a thought, Isak called the weapon back to him. Eolis slid back out with a gush of black blood and the troll collapsed.
There was no time to cheer the first kill. Eolis returned to Isak’s hand just as they reached the first line of trolls, those that had advanced early. Leaning out in his saddle, Isak slashed one as he passed, not even noticing the spurt of blood that spattered his thigh. Before he was clear another stepped out, swinging its arm up to swat him off his horse. Barely in time Isak wheeled away and chopped downwards to cut through the thick limb. The massive hand slammed into his shield and threw him back in his saddle, then the arm fell away and he was clear.
Behind Isak came the meaty thump of lances piercing flesh and breaking bone. A horse screamed, but when Isak turned to look, he could see nothing more than a whirl of men frantically urging their horses away.
From the bodies on the floor it was clear that many had failed to drive their lances deep enough. One troll bounded forward with frightening speed, seeming not to notice the three lances in its body. A Ghost saw the movement and moved in behind the creature, but it had anticipated him and, turning, crashed a huge fist down on to the horse’s neck. Its forelegs crumpled into the ground and the Ghost was catapulted forward, rolling over and over until a second troll hopped forward and stamped down on his head. His armour provided no defence against so foul a death; Isak heard the man’s scream cut off and winced, then looked to the living again.
As a group of trolls started towards where the Ghosts were stopping to turn, Duke Certinse came hurtling on to the field, howling madly, at the head of a long column of knights. His lance thudded smartly into the skull of his chosen target, then he tore Lomin’s Torch, his family’s ancestral sword, from its scabbard and claimed another before riding away.
The plan had been to ride past on the first run, then cut deep into the trolls’ ranks on the second pass, but the trolls ran forward so quickly that there was nowhere else to go. General Lahk saw the charging knights absorbed. He wasted no time finding his herald but grabbed his own horn from its sheath on his saddle and blew a shrill volley of notes.