by M J Webb
“This is my vow, I swear it on the bones of my ancestors and for all I hold sacred and true; none shall see me yield! To my enemies and my brother I say break me if you can! See my banner fall, snuff out my beating heart, and you may yet win this day. But, know that I am resolved to take as many of your finest with me to their final resting place as I can! I will make you and that Thargw assassin pay for every…”
“My King!”
Artrex was being watched by all of the horsesoldiers in the line. His words were inspiring them, filling their hearts with much needed confidence, but he was suddenly interrupted by a shout from a galloping horseman who was approaching him swiftly.
“We are ready sire! Give us the order my liege and we can march!”
The King looked over immediately at Queen Bressial and Lord Castrad. “Well? Shall we?” he asked calmly, his mood having changed in an instant. The relief was palpable. He raised his arm swiftly and waved the Rebel Army forwards.
Fortified by King Artrex’ speech and determined to push on as hard and as fast as they could to reach Dassilliak, thousands and thousands of soldiers, freed slaves and citizens began to move, marching and riding straight towards their enemies in King Vantrax’ awaiting Southern Army, hoping for some kind of a miracle and praying for deliverance.
***
In the main command post of the Southern Army, Lord Obreth, former Nadjan knight and overall commander of King Vantrax’ legions in the south, stood amongst several of his captains surveying the fields below. They were in a small woodsman’s hut, ideally positioned on a natural rise above the potential battlefield. It afforded him an excellent view of the surrounding countryside in both directions. To the north, where both King Artrex and his evil brother were marching, he could as yet see only trees and fields. He knew however, from the numerous reports he had received throughout the previous day and night, that the Rebel Army was approaching his position at speed and would be upon him very soon. Unfortunately for Obreth, those same reports had reached him far too late to prevent the young Princess Zephany from slipping through his lines. King Vantrax would be unlikely to forgive him for failing to stop her and he was determined now to make amends in his master’s eyes by halting the fleeing rebels in their tracks, thereby delivering to the King the victory he craved.
Obreth had concentrated all of his available soldiers on the plains outside the city of Dassilliak, facing north. The siege equipment, carts, towers, catapults and horses they possessed were all facing the city they had surrounded and laid siege to for months. A small window at the rear of the hut enabled the seasoned warrior to gaze out to the south, upon a small valley surrounded by trees on three sides. The western edge of this valley contained a well travelled dirt road which led up to the city and its huge gates. Obreth knew that a sizeable army of Estian knights and archers was camped inside the city walls, but the Gerada had no reason to suppose that they would stray from the safety of their defensive position. They had not done so before and, despite the representations and pleas of a desperate Princess, he knew that the Alliance would not dare come out to meet the might of the Southern Army, which was a far better equipped and superior force.
‘Kah! They are beaten already, they should have the good grace to realise it,’ he thought, as he considered their limited options.
Nevertheless, he still posted a lookout at the window with strict orders not to move unless something happened in or around the city, just in case. He turned to talk again with his captains. But suddenly, the noise of thousands of marching feet and hooves filled the morning air. Obreth’s pulse rate doubled and he smiled confidently at his commanders.
“Raar! At last! This is it. This is the final battle of the Ruddite wars!”
In the army at Dassilliak, Obreth had with him almost ten thousand warriors. All were battle hardened, seasoned soldiers who were proven in many conflicts, over many years. They were ruthless and they were uncompromising. Most were fearsome mercenaries from the continent of Mynae, whose proven pedigree in battle struck fear into the hearts and minds of any who opposed them. He had with him only around eight hundred Thargws, as the majority of the ferocious warrior race from Eratur had chosen to serve with their illustrious leader, Sawdon, in the Northern Army, decisions which were to the profound disappointment of Obreth, who would have dearly loved to have more of the first class combatants under his command.
However, the Nadjan Gerada did have a force of around two thousand Pralon, compatriots of the Thargws who possessed many fine qualities which were appreciated by their commanders. The Pralon were fast and slender creatures whose facial features vaguely resembled a sabre-toothed tiger, without the giant teeth. They carried a serrated sword into battle known as a karait which was highly effective in close quarter combat. They were renowned for their cunning, as well as their excellent eyesight and hearing. Both Pralon and Thargw were well known to the seasoned veterans of the Ruddite Rebellion, they had fought against these hired mercenaries for many years, with varying degrees of success.
The Southern Army of King Vantrax also contained warriors from races that the rebels had not met before in battle, creatures who were despatched by the evil King deliberately to the south to keep them apart from some of his more volatile mercenaries in the north, such as the ill tempered Dzorag, Falorians and Taskans.
Chief amongst these warring factions were the two thousand five hundred Hybraddan who took to the battlefield on this day. The Hybraddan were a hostile tribe from the plains of Eratur, a vicious and deadly race who managed to rival even the mighty Thargws for fury and prowess on the field of battle. They were tall, muscular, olive green skinned creatures who generally wore a brown leather armoured suit, laced up at the chest and neck and accompanied by short leather trousers which were ripped off at the knees. They carried a variety of weapons, battleswords, spears, knives and axes. Their huge feet were generally covered with a rough, leather strapped sandal for protection, the Eratian leather being far more resilient and hard wearing than any of its counterparts. Hybraddan males had no hair on their body, they were in fact completely bald. Their faces were dominated by a large and ugly, squashed nose, and an even larger, fang-filled mouth, which gave them a terrifying appearance to match their fiery demeanour. They were tough, resilient creatures who enjoyed combat and were disciplined to a degree, but the slightest comment or look could easily upset them and a swift fight to the death would usually ensue. This was much to the annoyance of their commanders, who rapidly grew tired at losing many of their soldiers in this way. In the Southern Army, the Hybraddan had learned to tolerate the Thargws, who they valued highly for their skill in battle. But it was an uneasy peace which was on the verge of erupting into spectacular violence at any moment.
Just shy of two thousand Sevitrians stood in the lines next to the Hybraddan as they all stared eagerly at the horizon for their first sight of the enemy. The Sevitrians were one of the few indigenous races of Mynae whose appearance closely resembled the human-like races of Rhuaddan, the Dzorag being another. They were a nomadic tribe who hailed from everywhere and nowhere on the continent. They were equally at home fighting on horseback or on foot. Sevitrian men were slender in build but their appearance belied their incredible strength. They moved in packs and were never seen to be alone, having become accustomed to the need to protect themselves from attack at all times, surrounded as they were on their homeland by enemies in all directions. Their battledress consisted of a short sleeved, dark blue tunic which ran down to their waists and was worn underneath a chest plate of jintan armour. This was accompanied by a jintan laced, brown kilt which protected their thighs. They wore a full jintan helmet which covered all but their face right down to their necks, giving them a unique and distinctive appearance. They were experts in the use of most weapons and a considerable asset to any Gerada. But, they would often launch pre-emptive attacks upon any race, friend or foe, if they determined that the situation warranted a violent solution. Such attacks would always be mounted b
y superior numbers and with extreme force, usually leaving no survivors, for the Sevitrian philosophy was always to, ‘leave no enemy alive.’
Obreth also had a force of around one thousand Retian warriors from Eesk, the homeland of the Taskans and Melissa’s tribe, the Sebantah, the former being their natural enemy. Retians were small but tough creatures. Their skulls were thick and dense and they appeared to most human races to be horribly deformed, giving the Retians a grotesque appearance as if their heads had been melted somehow, and then frozen at the point where they were at their most distorted. They were not human in appearance, though in truth they were not far from it. Their skin was dark brown and very tough, their eyes were bright orange in colour and their ears were perched higher on their heads. Apart from that, they had two ears and two eyes, a nose and a mouth just the same. Their arms were thick and muscle-bound, as were their legs, the feet at the end of which contained only two large toes. Due to their incredibly thick skin, Retians rarely wore any armour. Their muscular torso would therefore more often than not be exposed from the waist upwards. They had very little discipline and wore whatever they wanted to cover the lower half of their bodies. They carried any weapon they chose, with most preferring a curved sword similar to a cutlass. All Retians hated Taskans with a passion. It was bred into them from birth and throughout their adolescence. They would attack Taskans on sight and without warning of any kind, though the lure of easy money had persuaded them to fight alongside them on Estia, and it remained to be seen what would actually happen when the two species eventually met.
The remainder of the Southern Army was comprised of volunteers from all races and areas across the two continents of Estia and Mynae. There were some Perosyan volunteers who were now marching as traitors in their own homeland, Nadjan archers, Ruddites and small contingents of warriors from many of the smaller Mynaen tribes. These creatures varied in stature, fighting ability and appearance.
For the time being all was quiet to the south. The great city of Dassilliak appeared to be asleep and the Southern Army was able to turn all of its attention to the north. Obreth and his commanders were therefore able to concentrate solely on the battle ahead of them and the fast approaching army of rebels.
“Prepare yourselves!” the Gerada began, in a kind of smugly satisfied tone. “Our enemy is here at last, they march straight for us and they march to their doom. This time, we end it!”
***
King Vantrax was suddenly awoken by Sawdon. It was still dark outside but the impressive Thargw warrior was already dressed in his finest armour and he was smiling from ear to ear, his fangs and razor sharp teeth almost seeming to devour the rest of his face. The entire Northern Army, its numbers now swelled enormously by the legions of resurrected Thargws and Falorians, had been paraded on Sawdon’s orders and now stood formed up on the ground outside the King’s tent, ready and eager to begin their march to battle.
“Sire, my apologies for waking you my liege, but we await your presence. We are ready for you to lead us to victory. Sunlight is almost upon us, we may steal a march on your brother’s forces if we leave now. Every moment we delay is…”
“Ra! Yes, yes, Sawdon. Alright! You have made your point,” snapped the King. “Nytig! You odious rachtis! Where are you? Fetch me my armour, and bring me something to eat, something I can take with me. Be quick about it or I will roast your hide!” he barked at his unfortunate servant.
Ntyig raced around for the next few minutes at his master’s whim, fetching, carrying and preparing food, and trying to get him dressed. In no time at all, the King was ready. His horse had been saddled for him and brought to the ground just outside his tent. It was still dark but the sun was just about to appear in the distant sky, much to the frustration of the Thargws, who were growing increasingly restless and spoiling for a fight.
“Good. You will remain here, Nytig. Pack up our things and follow us as quickly as you can, understand?” said Vantrax, as he mounted his horse.
The manservant nodded gladly, he was inwardly overjoyed to receive the instructions which would mean that he would be far behind the soldiers marching into battle and out of harm’s way, though he tried his best to conceal his delight.
“Let us go, Sawdon,” the King stated, as he waved the army forward. “Such a beautiful morning,” he added, now in unusually high spirits. The ground beneath them shook as almost thirty thousand warriors and horses moved in unison. Sawdon’s eyes beamed with pride, he puffed out his chest and his nostrils flared. He was as happy as he had ever been and thoroughly looking forward to the fight. Then, Melissa came riding up on her magnificent, black stallion.
“Where have you been?” demanded Vantrax.
“Srr… I have been checking on my Sebantah,” answered the young warrior, as she fell into line.
“Krah! There should be no need to check on anything at this stage,” said a clearly unimpressed Sawdon. “A warrior this close to battle takes care of himself and his own needs. All other thoughts besides those of your enemy and the task before you are cast aside, laid to rest. My Thargws do not concern themselves now with petty details. Not when the scent of their prey is in the air. To think of anything else now is to invite confusion. You Sebantans would do well to follow our example. Distractions of any kind on a battlefield, and in the planning of war, can kill just as easily as any sword. You have to focus, remove all doubt, all unnecessary baggage from your mind. Expel anything that could lead to hesitation when the time comes. Then you will be victorious. We have done all that, we are prepared, we do not need to check on anything! There is a job to do and we have an enemy to kill.”
Chapter 19
24th August – The Battle of Dassilliak – Part One
A Perosyan battlehorn sounded loudly from within the Southern Army ranks. King Atrex’ sizeable army of rebels and freed slaves had at last been sighted.
“My Lord Obreth!” roared a rather excited Thargw captain. He was standing at the foot of the rise which led up to the Nadjan knight’s command post. Obreth stuck his head out of the window and nodded to the Thargw, giving him permission to complete his report. “The enemy approach. At last, they are here. Look, over there!” He pointed firmly to the north, at an assortment of dots which had appeared on the landscape and continued to grow in size and number.
Obreth smiled confidently. “Good. Make ready. Prepare for battle, I will join you now.” He disbanded his meeting and grabbed his helmet. Then he raced down to the lines with the rest of his captains to ensure everything was ready to receive the inevitable charge of his enemy.
By the time he had reached the soldiers in the front line, the Rebel Army had swelled to a considerable size. The noise it made as the thousands within its ranks marched and rode steadily towards their awaiting foe grew louder and louder, until they were almost on top of the Southern army’s position and the sound was deafening. Then, it stopped.
The whole battlefield suddenly fell completely silent. Not a thing could be heard but the faint hiss of the gentle wind. It was an eerie, uneasy silence. A silence the exhausted rebels knew would not last, a fraud, an imposter. It did not belong on those fields. It was the calm before a terrible, almighty storm which they knew for certain was coming their way. The silence, the brief respite they had before the carnage of battle, was suddenly interrupted by the faint rumblings of another vast army marching steadily towards the battlefield, an army which would come to be more feared than any in the entire history of Estia.
Obreth and the Southern Army had constructed no defensive positions to speak of. They had had very little time to prepare for this attack. All of their heavy siege equipment and camps were pointing in the opposite direction, south towards the great city. However, the trees on either side of the small valley gave them some protection against a possible outflanking manoeuvre, effectively funnelling King Artrex’ warriors and horses right onto their awaiting hoards. It was a naturally strong position for a defensive, static action and Obreth was very confident of v
ictory.
***
The rebel King, sitting majestically astride his magnificent stallion, his unfurled banner blowing in the breeze just behind him, crested the top of a small rise. The entire valley below seemed to open up on him, revealing a large swathe of open ground sandwiched between two thick, heavy treelines. At the far end of the valley, King Artrex could just make out another line of trees and, rising above them like a phoenix, the awe inspiring sight of the city of Dassilliak. A bolt of adrenalin shot through his body at the sight of his final destination.
‘We are almost there!’ he thought. ‘We are within touching distance now of safety. Ay raas, it is a miracle we have travelled this far and lived to tell of it. Our journey is almost at an end. Here we can rebuild, here we can hold out long enough for…’
His elation quickly turned to frustration and concern as his eyes caught sight of the massed ranks of enemy that were positioned at the far end of the valley, in front of the trees. It was a formidable force to face and it was clearly blocking their route through to the city. They had to be engaged in battle if the rebels were to have any hope of breaking through and Artrex realised that fact immediately.
The King looked around him at his warriors. He watched in pain as each of their hopes was dashed when they saw what awaited them. Their hearts sank. Heads lowered all along the line. They had been expecting to meet an enemy of sorts at the end of their long march, but somehow each and every one of them had kept alive the faintest hope that it would not be. They had prayed to whatever Gods they worshipped that their path would be clear, and they would be able to enter the city without having to fight an action that none of them felt ready for at this point in time. They were worn out, weak through hunger, and had enjoyed very little rest on their forced march. They were in no condition to fight a battle. The arduous journey and pursuit had taken its toll on horses and soldiers alike. But now, they had to fight, they had no other option. Any delay in engaging the enemy was unthinkable. That would only serve to give King Vantrax’ pursuing Northern Army, whose dust clouds could now be seen in the sky behind them, time to join the battle and encircle the beleaguered rebels, ensuring their demise.
