Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  He considered the naked stars. They seemed to mock him. Fool, they called him, just as his woman had done. Stubborn fool.

  He stared across the ivory-tipped peaks, spoke a few words in the tongue of his youth. He visualized Mist. In moments her face seemed to be floating before him. He laid arrow across bow, let fly at the snickering stars. The shaft vanished into the night, pursued by a deep-voiced moan.

  Radeachar drifted down out of the darkness, hovered above the wizard, sensing his inner conflict, sensing that Varthlokkur needed something, not knowing what to do. The wizard touched the Unborn’s protective globe. “My one true, unquestioning friend. Let’s go inside. My bones are old. I’ll take my death of chill out here.”

  “P’u Hsiu says they’ve finished encircling his legion, Mistress,” an Aspirator reported.

  Mist slid back from the table and map she’d been studying, gestured. The Aspirator placed another map before her, smoothed it out. He used a marking crayon to draw a kidney-shaped enclosure, then some fragmentary lines indicating the approximate positions of neighboring legions.

  Mist nodded. “What do we have in reserve down there?”

  “One cohort without Tervola or Aspirators, commanded by Leading Centurion Ki Mo-Jo. They were taken out yesterday for rest. Little more than half normal strength.”

  “Have Mo-Jo attack to the left and plug that gap.”

  “The right is a narrower break, Mistress.”

  “That’s where they’ll expect the counter. Tell Mo-Jo he can have shaft support if he needs it, but not to waste them. Budget him a dozen.”

  “As you command, Mistress.” The Aspirator removed the map and went about his business.

  Mist stared at the smaller scale map revealed once more. It portrayed a sad situation. The counteroffensive had bogged down in the sheer mass of the Matayangan foe. She was consuming her reserves in a struggle to maintain the integrity of her front. Still, fracture lines appeared faster than they could be patched. She leaned back, sighed in exhaustion and disappointment.

  Never before had the empire been faced with the possibility of having to negotiate from a position of weakness. If the Matayangans didn’t crack soon, her own armies would. Their resources were almost exhausted. Soon she would have to start stripping Western Army and the training legions.

  Something touched her lightly, like a spiderweb encountered on a lonely woodland path. It enfolded her, seemed to pull at her.

  She sat bolt upright. Somewhere some master of the Power was concentrating on her. She’d better ready her defenses.

  A window burst inward. A low moan filled the room. There was a whump as something smashed into her table. Maps flew. Dust motes danced in the candlelight. A small arrow stood quivering in the tabletop. A piece of paper encircled its shaft.

  She studied the arrow, sensed only the spells that had propelled it. She licked a finger, touched it to the paper. It let go of the arrow. She picked it up gingerly, read it. “Humph! Lord Lun-yu. Do we have a portal connecting us with Commander Western Army?”

  “We did this morning, Mistress. I’ll check.”

  She read the note again. So. Varthlokkur knew what was happening in the Throyen theater. Knew more than she, evidently. Lord Shih-ka’i had Bragi surrounded.

  What damnfool notion had brought Bragi out of the mountains? Why hadn’t he stayed there? The idiot!

  Lord Lun-yu reappeared. “We do have an open portal, Mistress.”

  “Good. You know Lord Shih-ka’i. Go tell him to complete his present operation without resorting to the Power.”

  “Mistress?”

  “He’s encircled Ragnarson.”

  Lord Lun-yu very nearly danced. Mist nodded gently. “Yes. But I’ve just had a message from Varthlokkur. If Lord Shih-ka’i uses the Power, he’ll intercede. With all the might at his beck.”

  “So?”

  “I’m aware of the emotion involved in this, Lord Lun-yu. I’m also aware that it would be easier to take Ragnarson using the Power. But risking the wrath of Varthlokkur and the Unborn is far more dangerous than risking meeting Ragnarson in normal combat. Do you see?”

  Reluctantly, Lord Lun-yu admitted, “I did see the Unborn in action during the wars, Mistress. I suppose we’d better give the wizard his way.”

  “Tell Lord Shih-ka’i to free up as many men as he can, too. Our reserve situation is desperate.”

  “Yes, Mistress. Mistress, can we trust the wizard to stay out of it now?”

  “I think so. His word is usually good. Get going. The night is nearly gone. Lord Shih-ka’i will need time to adjust his plans.”

  “As you command, Mistress.”

  Mist gathered her maps. She began studying one which showed the debacle growing around the Argonese incursion along the Matayangan seacoast. “It was a good idea, Lord Kuo,” she whispered to the ghost of her predecessor, “but you grossly overestimated the Argonese army.”

  “Officers and noncoms will take the last watch,” Bragi said. “Let the men rest.” He looked down at the encircling enemy camp. It was past midnight. His positions were as strong as they could be made.

  Baron Hardle suggested, “You’d better get some sleep yourself. You look a bit hollow-eyed.”

  “Uhm. Maybe.” He rubbed his eyes, knew there would be little sleep for him. He would be wrestling his conscience all night.

  It was he the Tervola wanted.

  He scanned the enemy again. One legion, he guessed. One legion that had been cut up some already. He had to get them to attack him. His bowmen could carve them up. Then a counterattack down the long flank, there, to open enough room for Gjerdrum to mount a charge. They couldn’t keep Gjerdrum from breaking through if he got a run at them. Then the knights could hit them from the rear.

  He snorted in self-derision. It sounded good, but it wouldn’t work. The Tervola were going to use their power, and there was no way he could stop them. Unless…. He stared northward, toward the far Dragon’s Teeth.

  He was worried. Could the wizard really let him go down? “Don’t be negative,” he told himself. “The situation is never impossible.”

  “Sire?”

  “Nothing.” He sketched his thoughts about pulling the enemy under his bows.

  “Did Lord Hsung serve in the west during the wars?” Hardle asked.

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Toward the end they pretty well learned how to handle massed arrow fire.”

  “What do you think of negotiating, then?”

  “Sire?”

  “Hsung wants me. Suppose we could get him to let the army go if I turned myself over?”

  “No,” Gjerdrum said.

  Hardle shook his head. “Not even in extremity. We rose together, we’ll go down together.”

  “I want to do what’s best for Kavelin. What happens if Kavelin loses two-thirds of its best soldiers?”

  “What happens if Kavelin loses a King who cares?” Sir Gjerdrum demanded. “You know who takes over. The Estates. Inger will be like a peasant girl trying to ride a wild stallion. They suckered her on that succession business.”

  Bragi smiled a thin, hard smile. “Don’t be so sure. The Estates might find they were suckered. That’s one tough lady when she makes up her mind. And she has some nasty friends.”

  “Norath,” Gjerdrum said. “I nearly forgot.”

  “Norath. Among others. I want you to get some rest. Win or lose, it’ll be a hard tomorrow.”

  Ragnarson slept, but just for a few hours. He was up watching the enemy encampment long before the stars began to fade. He wakened the cooks early, had food distributed to the men. He had the company commanders double-check weapons and equipment. He had his forces in position long before the morning breeze brought the sun ballooning up over the eastern horizon.

  His enemy was as ready as he. The growing light revealed black armored soldiers drawn up in order of battle, behind a trench which entirely encircled the base of the hill. “So much for sending Gjerdrum in,” h
e growled. “At least till we’re able to counter-fill those ditches. Messenger. Tell Sir Gjerdrum I want the animals brought to the top of the hill. Everyone will fight on foot.”

  He peered down at the tent where the standard of Western Army stood. The standards of two legions flanked it. He scowled. Two legions? There weren’t that many men out there…. Maybe it was elements of two legions, survivors of the fighting in the south.

  He began pacing round the hilltop, studying the enemy lines. They were extended temptingly thin. A captain less familiar with the legions would not have been able to resist.

  He put temptation aside. “They have to come to me. Pray they don’t try to do it the easy way by starving us out.” Idly, he wondered if there were some way he could get a message to Yasmid asking her to step up her activities. Put Hsung under pressure to finish here, and…. Had Hsung beaten her already? But the way that prisoner had talked, Hsung’s people had gotten the worst of it down there.

  He shuddered. The legion drums had been pounding constantly since their arrival. The ceaseless rumble was getting on his nerves.

  What was going on? Hsung being here had to have some meaning he couldn’t fathom. Had to have. Something had happened. He looked north. “How much longer are you going to let me roast, wizard?”

  The tenor of the eastern drums changed as the sun’s lower limb cleared the horizon. Enemy troops began crossing their ditches and assembling facing the hill.

  “Five cohorts,” Bragi muttered. “Sending in almost half his men, like the five rays of a star. Just to test our stubbornness.” But he wondered. Hsung hadn’t even made a pretense of negotiation. That suggested both an intent to destroy Kavelin’s army, and a supreme confidence in his ability to do so.

  Why? Ragnarson wondered. He doesn’t have the manpower to be that confident…. The sorcery. Of course. They have it and I don’t.

  Any minute the first smashing blow would fall. The air would scream with the torment of deadly spells.

  The beat of the drums changed again. Five cohorts surged forward.

  Ragnarson pointed at a trumpeter. The man blew till his eyes bugged, a screaming sound new to Kavelin’s signal repertoire.

  The army’s drums began pounding out a beat which partially drowned that of the eastern drums. Somewhere on the flanks of the hill the attackers would reach a point where they could no longer be sure of their own signals. Hopefully, they would become confused.

  The first arrows arced into the sky, rained down on the enemy. A few men went down, but, as Hardle had feared, they had adjusted their shieldwork to cope. “Come on, Talison,” Bragi muttered. “Get those arbalests down low. Let them get their shields up, then cut them off at the knees.”

  He paced, circled the hill, watched each enemy force for a moment before moving on to watch another. On the lee of the hill he cussed a regimental commander who was a little slow. Almost immediately smoke rose from the dry grass. Flames leapt to life, began running before the breeze.

  “Good. That ought to slow that bunch.” He moved on.

  The combination of confusing drums, flames, plunging arrow fire, and crossbow fire low had its effect. The attacking forces were growing ragged. But they came on. They approached the first ditch.

  The real test would take place there.

  Bragi paused to stare at the enemy headquarters. “When are you going to come with the witchery?” he wondered aloud. “You’re overdue.” Unconsciously, he hunched his shoulders against his neck.

  The blow didn’t come. Instead, more troops crossed the ditches below, advanced up the aisles unused by forces already climbing the hill.

  “So. You’re going to go for it all first try.”

  The first wave reached his first ditch. The clangor drowned the sound of the drums.

  After a while, Bragi muttered, “Yes, going for it all first time.” Hsung had kept just two cohorts in reserve. Ragnarson guessed that six thousand men were trying to fight their way up the hill. The defenders of the first ditch began to waver. Only on the grassfire side had the assault broken down.

  He selected an average-looking section of slope and tried counting bodies. “Not bad,” he grumbled. “But it could have been better. A whole hell of a lot better.” His bowmen weren’t doing nearly well enough. He had no way to estimate his own losses.

  The long, bloody day dragged on. Eventually the first ditch had to be abandoned. Casualties nearly filled it. His men had given a good account of themselves. The tentativeness of the advance on the second ditch proved that.

  Bragi glanced at the sun. A quarter of the day gone. Already. While time seemed to drag so slowly. He wished he had a taller hill and more trenches. Three had seemed enough when he had thought the bowmen would massacre whole formations.

  Where was the sorcery? Why was Hsung wasting all those lives? Did he have something especially nasty waiting for just the right moment?

  Noon. The second trench had fallen. The enemy seemed to have left half his number lying on the hillside. But now the arrows and crossbow bolts were spent. Now it would be strictly sword and spear, hammer and dagger and maul. Does it come now? Bragi thought. The great nasty blow?

  No. The legionnaires just stood there, this side of the second ditch, resting behind their shields, daring him to mount a counterattack. He did not. He would not. Not till they compressed his forces a good deal more. Not till they had taken more casualties and were even more tired.

  The casualty ratio favored Kavelin. The battle was a bloodbath, but Shinsan was doing more of the bleeding.

  Sir Gjerdrum took advantage of the lull. “We’re doing good over my way,” he reported. “Considering who we’re up against. I’d swear we’re taking three of them down for every one we lose.”

  “That good? Maybe we’ll go your way when we try the breakout.”

  “Think the third line will hold?”

  “Can’t say. They’ll have to come against mostly fresh men. They’ll show just how good they are if they do break it.”

  “Something stirring down there. I’d better get back.”

  Hsung’s reserves crossed the trenches. A thousand men, Bragi estimated. Would they lead the next assault?

  Where was the damned witchery?

  Shinsan’s drums altered their beat. The battle resumed.

  The third line proved less stout than Ragnarson had hoped. Soon he was rushing reserves here and there to shore up weak spots. “Messenger!” he finally howled. “Get me Sir Gjerdrum.” He scowled in the direction of the Dragon’s Teeth. “Wizard, you’d better hope I don’t get out of this. Because if I do, I’ll get you.” Then he laughed at himself. “Fool. Blaming it on somebody else. All your own fault, you know.”

  Sir Gjerdrum found him readying himself for battle. His bodyguard had formed the drummers, trumpeters, cooks, and least badly injured into a final reserve pool. “Sire? You wanted me?”

  “Damned right. Start extricating your horsemen. It’s time to try a breakout.”

  Gjerdrum scanned the action. “That would weaken the lines too much, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe. I’m taking this crowd down to stiffen them.”

  “Is that wise? If you’re injured the men will lose heart.”

  “They’d collapse right now if they could. Half of them would run if there was anywhere to go. Gjerdrum, we’re going to go down unless we do something. I know there’s no room to launch a decent charge, but give it a try.”

  “What about the ditches?”

  “What about them?”

  Gjerdrum held his tongue. The ditches would kill men and animals. “Nothing, Sire. I understand.” The situation was worse than he had thought. The hour of desperation had come.

  “Varthlokkur may still show, Gjerdrum. Hang onto that.” Ragnarson glared at the enemy headquarters. A handful of Tervola stood watching the hill. “Why haven’t they used the Power?”

  “I don’t know, Sire. I almost wish they would.”

  “Do it when you’re ready, Gjerdrum.
I’ll be too busy to give orders.”

  “As you command, Sire.” Gjerdrum strode away.

  Bragi ducked into his tent, collected his personal bow and arrows, signalled his bodyguard to follow him. He marched down the hill, selected a good vantage, loosed shafts carefully. Each found a mark. The damage stalled the enemy in that sector. During the disorganization he forced his way into the battle line. A ragged cheer arose. It rolled round the line and came back, and began rolling again. “Remember Baxendala! Remember Palmisano!” The enemy troops wouldn’t know what the shout of defiance meant, but the Tervola below would hear it and be piqued.

  Shield smashed against shield. Swords clanged. Bragi used every vile trick he knew. He sent an eastern soldier to his knees. Another took his place. The tides pushed them apart. Bragi faced a third opponent. The man on his right fell with a cry. Another bodyguard took his place.

  The shout went up again. “Remember Palmisano!”

  Bragi hardly noticed. His mind had gone on pure automatic. Stroke. Heave shield. Kick. Parry. Stab. Howl. Curse. Sweat. Especially sweat. Curse again as a vicious blow hit his shield so hard his arm went numb.

  He had been here a thousand times. All the battles of his life melded into this one. He no longer knew or cared whom he fought. Time stood still.

  But time hadn’t stood still for his flesh. He was a man in his forties. He didn’t have the stamina of decades past. His legs were pillars of stone, his arms limp bars of lead. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging. And still he fought, lost in the dust and stink and bang and clang.

  He did not hear the trumpets sound Sir Gjerdrum’s charge. He did not witness it, either. Sir Gjerdrum led his charge down the nether face of the hill. He did respond when neighboring companies began backpedaling, drifting toward the opening Gjerdrum rent.

  The shouting and cursing redoubled. Horses without riders screamed and reared and tried to flee through the press. Wounded men and animals carpeted the earth.

  Bragi’s bodyguards shouted at him to back off, to let them surround him. He flung a wild stroke at an enemy soldier, ducked back.

  Something like a god’s hammer hit his ribs on his left side. The breath exploded out of him. He couldn’t groan. He felt his broken ribs grating. His bodyguards seized him, kept him upright. Red swirled around him, became blackness.