Reign of Phyre

by Nicholas Cooper

  “I’ll run ten Khasari through for Mina.”

  “Once we take the capital, those dogs will run back across the Desaris.”

  “What if there is an entire legion still in there? We’ll be slaughtered…”

  “What if the gate doesn’t open?”

  Finally, they reached the edge of the forest. He dismounted from his horse, and his Lepcian knights followed suit. He turned to the Sons of the Phoenix.

  “Before this starts, allow us to recite the oath.

  Through the sacrifice of the Sons of the Phoenix, we live in peace, away from the eyes of Karzark. We do so on the promise that one day we will free the homeland and repay our debt tenfold.”

  The final Euphyre Invicta was said more as a promise than a cry. The Sons placed their fists on their hearts, glad to see their sacrifice was not sidelined by the islanders.

  “Whatever’s behind those walls, we stand with you, Arys.” He and the knights returned to their horses, ready. His plan was simple. As soon as the gate opened, they would have limited time to enter before the Khasari overwhelmed the Rulven Sons. He would charge in with his cavalry, and buy enough time for the Sons, the infantry, to swarm in.

  The full force of the western Sons of the Phoenix stood in the dark at the tree line, just out of sight of the watch towers whose fires burned brightly in the night sky. The Sons from the southern regions were preoccupied with the the defence of Lera, but the Desari, Salence, Mayswood, Ulane,Vinrael, Arden and Verni Sons all stood behind him, waiting with eerie quiet. None of these soldiers had known the time when Rulven was the beating heart of the western reaches of Euphyria, including himself. But now, only one more battle stood in their way to reclaim what was. His hair stood on end. Tonight would decide everything.

  Their inside contact, Farrel Reiyar, who Arys had come to learn was the man responsible for warning them about the attack on Mayswood, had given his best estimate of the strength of the garrison. They still heavily outnumbered the Sons and had the obvious advantage of defending a Citadel. It would be suicide to assault the walls and therefore no battle would take place if the gate remained closed. Even if they entered the Citadel, the odds were stacked up against him. Yet he knew this day was his to be won.

  After making sure his armour was perfectly straight, he put on his helmet and mounted his horse with some help. Euphyrian armour had many advantages, but mobility was not one. His companions followed suit. Fifty of these men came from Lepcis and wore the best steel armour their homeland could offer. They had painted the Euphyrian eagle on their shields to let their enemy know Euphyria had returned.

  They lined their horses at the edge of the forest and waited for the signal. The other four hundred and fifty Sons stood behind, hungry for Rulven’s liberation, thirsty for glory.

  Glory smelt a lot like piss. He noticed his own trousers were damp, and suddenly questioned the glorification of war.

  Vaelynna, despite Arys’ protest, was both present and wearing painfully conspicuous regal clothing over the black leather armour she wore at Mayswood. He had cautioned her it would make her the sole target on the battlefield, to which she responded, ‘let them come.’

  She carried a fine steel blade and a shield emblazoned with not the phoenix of the Sons, but the eagle of Euphyria. She also carried her sceptre, slung over her shoulder. The only consolation that Arys could find was that she was to lead the infantry and not partake in the initial cavalry charge. He hoped both the Sons inside Rulven and his knights could rout the enemy before she arrived, before she would throw herself into danger’s jaws. He had little hope of such a quick victory, however.

  Time passed slowly, waiting on his horse. There was more than the stench of piss in the air. He heard a soldier vomit, but there was little he could do to allay their nerves.

  Still the tower fires burned brightly. The gate remained closed. That did not bode well. His men knew it too. His horse’s ear twitched as something landed on it. The first snow. He wondered if it was auspicious or ominous. He ignored the thought.

  He was a nervous wreck, and he jumped when Vaelynna’s voice broke the silence. “They are taking their time. Do they intend on taking Rulven without our help?”

  “I highly doubt that, Your Highness. If there is fighting going on, their attack on the gate has probably been thwarted,” he said, worry creeping into his words.

  “I know, Arys. I was trying to keep up our spirits.”

  “Ah.”

  “If they don’t open the gate, are we to call off the attack? Can Reiyar remain undetected after tonight?” The Sons of Rulven would have sacrificed themselves for nothing…

  And then the southern tower went out. Thank Yelia.

  “Now, now, now! Forward!” he yelled, spurring his horse forward, relieved that he no longer needed to consider Vaelynna’s question. His horse reared up on its hind legs as it charged forward, with Arys nearly falling off. His cavalry would reach the gate well before the infantry, but he couldn’t wait. The battle was already raging and there were few trained soldiers amongst their number inside the walls. They could not keep the gate open long.

  The horses charged towards the gate, getting closer and closer, and the shouts of battle and death were soon within the reach of their ears. The gate needed to open soon, or they would be stuck outside the walls.

  And it did. Slowly the heavy doors peeled open and revealed a chaotic scene of bodies climbing over bodies. When the Euphyrians saw the gate had opened and the charge of Arys’ cavalry, they knew they did not need to hold the line any longer against the onslaught. They cleared out from the gateway, and Arys would encourage them to retreat outside the walls once his cavalry were in. They had done their part, and they had done it well.

  Arys gripped his spear tightly and levelled it to chest height. The cavalry changed formation to funnel themselves through the gate. As he approached, he could see the Khasari baulk as they noticed the charge. They tried to make a wall with their shields and spears, but they did not have time to effectively repel. Arys crashed into the Khasari line, sending several flying. His spear impaled one through the chest, the sudden additional weight forcing him to let go.

  He heard his companions crash into the defensive line one after the other through the screams of battle, driving wedges through their ranks. He drew his sword and started cutting the remainder down through screams and wailing.

  His horse suddenly reared and sent him crashing down, a spear through the chest. The horse lashed out violently, and Arys only scarcely avoided being kicked in the head. He clambered to his feet and immediately was set upon by two Khasari. The first thrust came too quickly for him to raise his shield, so he turned to the side and let the point glance off his armour. Then he swung his shield and hit the soldier in the face. The next thrust he had time to react to and parried it with his sword, knocking it to the left. He then slashed from left to right across the Khasari’s chest. A third Khasari appeared to his right, but one of his knights crashed into him, sending him hurtling to the ground. He looked up and nodded in thanks, and saw their horse rear up from the spears frantically waving about, crashing down on top of the man. The Khasari quickly seized on the opportunity, and his saviour’s life was forfeit.

  He heard the infantry arriving at the gate as they flooded in behind him. “Get some archers into the towers!” he shouted as he parried another thrust by a charging Khasari.

  Soldiers poured in from both sides. This was bad. Too many Khasari were already alerted and making for the gate. The Sons hadn’t been able to open the gate without raising an alarm. If it became a pitched battle, the Khasari would hold and rout the Sons. That was their strength and his weakness.

  The Khasari spears were wreacking havoc on his knight’s horses. Several had already died. The momentum of the charge had run its course. “Dismount! Form up!” The knights relayed the order to each other and upon dismounting made a solid line.

  “Shields up!”, he screamed, as the heavy Lepcis infantry locke
d shields and dug in, “hold this line. They do not advance!”

  “Get the archers up on the walls and towers now,” he shouted again to another officer, who ran back towards the gate to pass on the order. They were useless if they could not find some height.

  He ordered the Sons to reinforce the Lepcis line three ranks deep to help hold. Their tattoos showed they were Desari Sons. No wonder they were the first to arrive through the gates.

  He could see more and more Khasari massing along the street. They were pouring in, filling their ranks with an uncountable mass. A spear hit him in his right side. Most of the blow was deflected off his armour, but he felt the spear tip reach flesh. A downward swing of his sword provided swift retribution. He winced from the pain but was denied any respite as another Khasari filled the gap his fallen comrade had made. He was grabbed from behind and pulled back. His instincts insisted he swing his sword, but the woman’s voice was quicker.

  “Vaelynna said she needs you commanding and killing thousands, not fighting a handful.” Her voice was exasperated, having run with the Sons from the tree line.

  “Understood.”

  “Keep them in the road. Don’t let them fan out around the gate. Once the Sons are ready to flank, retreat closer to the gate. Encourage them to press forward. We will use their momentum against them. We will attack them from their flanks. Keep them engaged and give the archers on the walls easy targets. But you must hold them at the road. We need time to get enough soldiers in through the gates and to the sides.” She left before he could answer her, running back to Vaelynna her soldiers.

  Arys looked up and saw about thirty men who had reached the towers and walls. The Khasari were still pouring in down the main road through the city. He hoped he could hold them here. He did not have enough experienced Lepcian soldiers to hold the line wider than the bottleneck the road afforded them. But there were a lot of Khasari. A legion of five thousand was hard to conceptualise until it was staring back at you. He hoped there were no more coming. His men had already started losing ground against the onslaught. Some Khasari managed to push forward and fan out to flank them, but the archers on the wall were quick to make them pay.

  One reality of battle that was different to what he had expected was the despair of the fallen. Death was certain, but he had expected death to be swift for the vanquished. Instead, he was surrounded by a sea of wriggling maimed bodies, some fatally wounded, hoping for the sweet mercy to come quickly, while others screamed for help, clutching gaping wounds, holding parts of their body that should otherwise be attached or inside. The smell alone would be cause enough to throw up, let alone the screaming and sight. He nearly did, if he was afforded the time.

  But he needed to control the retreat and buy time. The road was wide, but it still worked as a bottleneck in their favour. They had to hold until the flanks were ready. He ordered some more infantry coming from the gate to reinforce the line. That was the last of them too, he noticed. With all the men Vaelynna could spare to give him, this was it. He had no new orders to give except to say when to retreat.

  “Hold! Hold a little longer! Push forward! Push!”

  The archers were picking off their targets, but well within the Khasari ranks to avoid risking friendly fire. His Lepcian infantry’s discipline and prowess were unmatched, as he watched them cut down their enemy one after another. But they were woefully outnumbered, and they could not hold much longer. They were going to be overrun. He couldn’t delay the order anymore.

  “Retreat! Keep your formation! Hold your line and retreat!” He hoped that Vaelynna was ready.

  His men were pushed back faster and faster as the Khasari’s momentum thrust them forward. Some of his men were pushed over, disappearing under the Khasari advance. Eventually, they had to turn and run. As they did, Vaelynna’s soldiers entered the fray from the sides. An almighty roar filled the air as they leapt into the enemy’s ranks, swords, axes and spears frantically whirring about.

  Arys was not the only one who boasted a well-disciplined army, however. The Khasari saw the attack on their flanks and turned in unison to meet them with shield and spear. Though the manoeuvring halved their depth as they turned to face their flanks, they fought with all their might, spears bristling on all sides, refusing to give an inch.

  The attack on their flank failed to break them, but it evened up the battle. His knights turned back around and re-entered the melee. He climbed up onto the platform by the gate to get a better look at the situation and saw that the momentum was indeed working against the Khasari. Though they were evenly matched fighting in their flanks, the momentum from the mass of bodies pressing forward was unstoppable, and it made it hard for the Khasari to engage Vaelynna’s infantry as they were being pushed forward all the while trying to not lose their footing. With their bodies turned to the sides, it also maximised the damage rained down by the archers, who had a clearer shot now that their shields were facing to the side.

  And yet, the Sons’ ranks grew thin. They grew tired. They were not trained for pitched battles, and their formation was ill-disciplined. They had had to run all the way inside the walls, too. Gaps appeared, opening opportunities of attack to the man on either side. Even if the Khasari front collapsed, those who had yet to join the battle would be fresh and would flatten the Sons when they arrived at the front.

  They wouldn’t last much longer. The thought of ordering a retreat crossed his mind momentarily, but he firmly pushed it to the darkest corner of his mind. If I run, I could live another day, but for what purpose? Everything they had fought for until now would be lost. Attacking Rulven was a gamble, and he had known that from the beginning. But he could see the Sons faltering, chancing glances behind them, contemplating breaking and running. They were supposed to be well inside the walls before the garrison knew what was happening. No. They must not rout here.

  “Stand and fight! For Rulven! For Euphyria! For the Heartland!” he roared, smashing his shield with his sword.

  And then just as he was about to jump down from the platform to join his knights, from far down the road appeared fifty men. They were not Khasari, but from what he could tell, were not Sons either. They were uniformed, but he had never seen it before. They dragged out several small braziers and in unison lined up and lit their arrows. Too little, too late. They would fire one volley before the rear of the Khasari turned around and put up their shields.

  But then, on the rooftops that lined the street, he saw the true planning that had gone into this attack. The Sons of Rulven appeared on nearly every rooftop and begun hurling amphorae, cups, vases, anything that held liquid down onto the Khasari. Arys knew what was inside before it happened. He looked back down the road and watch the expected volley. The fire arrows flew unseen by the Khasari front who were looking straight ahead, eagerly breaking the exhausted Sons, and the Khasari rear who were looking up to the rooftops where oil was raining down on them. As soon as the arrows made contact with their intended target, a wall of fire engulfed the road, accompanied by the horrific wails and screams of hundreds being burnt alive. Panic broke out in the Khasari ranks as they desperately tried to extinguish the fire that was burning their flesh, but it only helped spread the flames. The Khasari at the front turned around to see the chaos that had enveloped their rear and lost their nerve. Their line began to break as the Sons found a renewed sense of vigour, feeling the tide turn.

  Those fighting the Sons near the gate had nowhere to run. Behind them was fire, chaos and death, and in front was not much better. Arys knew, however, that a cornered enemy would fight with all they had. He needed to give them an exit.

  “Open the front! Move to the sides!” he barked, jumping off the platform to tell them up close in case they didn’t hear over the melee and screaming.

  A controlled opening gave the besieged Khasari a choice between certain death and escape, and as Arys expected, they took it. They poured through the gap, making a dash for freedom. The archers on the walls rained havoc from above, infl
icting severe casualties on the fleeing soldiers. Arys re-entered the fray, cutting down countless Khasari as they carelessly ran straight for the gate, oblivious to the dangers surrounding them. The nauseating, pungent smell of burning flesh allied with the painful screams of battle filled the air. Arys realised it was not experience in combat that made a veteran, but an iron stomach that could navigate through the stench of death.

  Just as the first of the Khasari reached the gate, the Sons had managed to bolt it shut. He wished they hadn’t, for those Khasari that made it would now fight with their backs to the wall if the Sons pressed them. But the battle was won.

  “Surrender and you can live! Drop your weapons!” he yelled.

  Having been so close to escape, the fleeing Khasari could not steel themselves to fight to the death once more, now that there was an option of surrender. Some dropped their weapons and fell to the ground, others tried to flee in all directions. Some refused to give in, fighting till the last. He knew he had won (though not from his own doing), but he also knew the fighting would continue all throughout the night. Pockets of resistance would carry on and fighting street to street, and the remainder of the garrison who hadn’t arrived yet would yet claim many lives.

  Fatigue caught up with him and he was reminded he was wounded on his side. He hobbled over to the base of the gate and collapsed against the heavy wood. There were three Sons of Rulven who lay still with several arrows in their back. Their hands were scratched and bloodied. One had a gash in his leg. They probably were the brave souls who opened the gate. He inched his way over to them and closed their eyes. You freed our people. Rest peacefully, brothers. One of them startled Arys with a blood-riddled cough. Arys quickly knelt by his side and hoisted him upright to lean against the wall.