Wolven Kindred

by James Tallett

  Ær chuckled. Not at all. Well, yes to the mewling pups bit, but not to the staying in camps and hiding. I’ve been having a bit of a rethink on that one. There’s no reason a female wolven can’t fight until she’s too heavy to move agilely, is there?

  No, there is not. And do not invent one, or you will wake up one morning with my teeth about your throat.

  I would hardly dream of it. Now, would it be possible to interest in you something other than revenging yourself upon me?

  A twinkle came into the female’s eye. Perhaps. Follow me.

  As the female led the way from camp, a single last thought floated towards Nietan.

  I told you so.

  ***

  “Given the Traitor Legion is moving to block us, where will they do it? We’re only a few days from the Coastal Kingdoms. Two, in all likelihood.”

  The Slaughter Priest had the commanders gathered around a map table in his quarters. After the first meeting in the Corpsewalker’s tent, they had switched locations for the second, and all subsequent ones.

  Hanse pointed at a narrowing of the map, a place where rivers ran toward the sea. “They’ll wait here. It stops me from flanking with my cavalrymen, at least on one wing. And they can dig in, giving themselves a breastworks. It’ll be a right pain to get through that.”

  The Priest looked up, at the others. “More suggestions?”

  Nietan pointed out one or two other places that were less likely, being further off the main line of march. “Have we considered they might try and flank us on the one open side with the rabble? They won’t be that skilled, but even being hemmed in for a time could swing the battle.”

  “They will not.” The Corpsewalker chuckled from his hood. Despite the week the mercenary companies had been together, no one had yet seen his face, or indeed any hint of whether he had flesh on his bones. All they heard was that deep voice from within the cowl. “The noble who raised the rebellion, and the rabble, will want to enter the capital at the head of his troops. Having them far away from the siege while it nears its closing stages would be anathema to him. A vainglorious man all around.”

  “You are sure on this?”

  “Absolutely. I know.”

  “But not the location of the Traitor Legion?”

  “Some dead do not wish to talk to us.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” The Slaughter Priest muttered under his breath. “We are but half a day’s march from the point of contact. Nietan, double patrols, but keep them close. Hanse, see if you can swing your cavalry to the open flank. That’ll give them more room to manoeuvre if the need arises. And much as it pains me to say it, the Nameless and the Corpsewalkers should close ranks. We’ll discuss final tactics when we see the enemy.”

  With that, the commanders left to instruct their various troops, and to prepare as best they could for the upcoming encounter.

  ***

  Nietan lay with Ær on a low mound, overlooking the fortifications the Traitor Legion had constructed. There were a series of earthen berms, each with a trench of indeterminate depth before it. Wooden stakes festooned the front faces of the berms, giving them a rather angry appearance. Likely the trenches had stakes in them as well. In addition to the trenches that rested in front of the berms, there appeared to be others that ran vertically between each layer. Presumably those were for withdrawing troops to avoid arrow fire.

  The berms and trenches ran almost to the riverbank on that side, while on the other they curved somewhat, seeking to protect themselves from enfilading fire. Manning the defences were a great number of heavy infantry, with pikes or similar pole arms. Hanging from their belts were maces and other clubbing weapons, for when the fighting became close in. Most impressive of all was the armour they wore, each one decorated with a horrific face out of legend, tortured visions of the depths of hell. They were designed to inspire fear, and in conjunction with the obvious skill at siege works, they were doing just that in Nietan’s breast.

  Being frightened won’t help us.

  “Easy enough for you to say, you’ve spent the last two days cavorting with your new mate.”

  Shouldn’t that mean I have more to lose?

  “Only if you can get your head clear enough to understand that. Which I’m not sure you have.”

  Projecting your own fear onto me isn’t going to help matters. Although sending the Kindred in against that… Ær trailed off. Any assault except for a mop-up in which the Wolven Kindred took part would almost certainly cripple the unit. Their only hope was they would be held out of the main body of the fighting as the more numerous units took the field.

  “We’d better report this to the others.”

  And hope they see a solution.

  ***

  “We cannot, and will not, storm those walls! We are not sheep to be slaughtered!” Hanse was in full throated objection to the first plan the Slaughter Priest had laid out.

  “Then how do we breach those breastworks? We cannot turn their flanks, thanks to the river and their irritatingly well placed defensive works. Even their rear is covered with trenches.”

  “Perhaps we do try and turn their rear. At least it’s the weakest point in their formations.” Nietan gestured at the crude markers on the map. “Either that or a night assault across the river.”

  “And how muddy and steep are the banks?”

  “Quite a bit, sadly.”

  “And we do not have the timber to build the rafts we require. It appears the Traitor Legion denuded every copse within sight.”

  A low cough sounded from the other side of the tent. “There is a way to assault from the river. And at night.”

  The Slaughter Priest quirked his eyebrow. “Your servants, I presume?”

  “The very same. Light and air are concerns of the living.”

  “How many… men could you commit to the attack?”

  “A thousand, roughly. It will not be enough against ten thousand, but if it breaks their lines, we can probably take good advantage of it.”

  “We’ll need light to take advantage of it. At least some.” Hanse waved her hand. “Horses do not like fighting at night.”

  “Then we shall fight at dawn. Or an hour before it.”

  “If I may add another proposal to the list…”

  Each of the commanders added their ideas to the debate, and when it had all been rendered down to a final plan, they set out to prepare their troops.

  ***

  The Corpsewalkers were the first to engage the enemy. An hour before dawn, the first of the undead servitors crept from the banks of the river, their rotted flesh and barren skeletons blackened with silt and mud from the long crawl down the riverbed. They were all of various shapes and sizes, made from the corpses of men, beasts, and a great jumble in between. Some had three limbs, others four, all the way up to those few possessing eight or more. Amongst these legions of the night moved a very few of the living. They had swum across or been carried by their cadaverous servants, and now made the final preparations for the assault.

  A low moan crackled through the night air, the whispered pain of souls bound into carcasses against their will. Cursed with an unending life, the only brief respite these creatures had was when they drunk down the nectar of the living, a few moments of pleasure and bliss in a barren waste of unending dark.

  With the signal they made their way up the banks, those with better traction pinning themselves in place to allow the merely bipedal to crawl up the steep and slippery sides. Within but a few feet they were in amongst the edge of the trenches, and the first of the living was within their grasp. No care for stealth was taken now they could feed, and shouts and the sounds of battle began to ring up and down the river bank as the undead spread out amongst their foe.

  Some, those based upon beasts built for speed, raced down the berms, assaulting the sentries with all manner of devices. Some had arms grown from their backs and clutching swords. Others had fearsome bone spurs projecting in forests from their shoulders and he
ads, while still others possessed the dangerous claws and teeth that had served them well as predators in life. Whatever their means of attack, they plied them with brute force and speed, cutting a hard wedge through the camp, on the hunt for the leadership of the Traitor Legion.

  Within moments of the assault, the men of the Legion had rousted themselves from their beds and begun the process of buckling on their armour, grasping maces and billhooks and all manner of weapon as they charged forth to meet the threat. The dark of night impeded them, but brighter soldiers lit torches from the embers of their camp fires, and soon the whole of the encampment was beginning to blaze with light.

  What had once been an overwhelming surge of powerful undead and fleeing humans now began to slow and turn, as the weight of numbers and veteran skill told upon the unliving horde. The servitors lacked tactics, and instead fought singly, ganging up on any wounded, each hoping to drink the life from them. These flaws gave the Traitor Legion soldiers the time they needed to recover, and they had just begun to push back their undead foes when the second stage of the plan was triggered, and Hanse’s Roughriders came howling out of the night on the rear flank of the fort, bursting over the first berm like a wave upon a cliff.

  The soldiers there, disciplined though they were, had turned their backs on what they were supposed to watch, and instead had focused into the camp and the gnashing and wailing noises that emanated from there. So despite their presence at their posts, they were caught unawares when the massed cavalry of the Roughriders leapt the berm and slashed downwards with their weapons, eviscerating most of the men on the first rank.

  The second faired far better, having had a greater amount of time to prepare, and their polearms were out and over the barricades when the cavalry charged. This time, however, the horsemen did not seek to smash the line. Rather the columns split left and right mere yards outside the reach of the defenders’ weapons and raced down the line, firing arrows over the fortifications and into the warriors stationed there from almost point blank.

  Rather than dismount and strike inwards, the cavalry wheeled again and galloped back along the defences, firing arrows into every moving infantryman they could see. Despite the heavy armour and shields that turned aside a great deal of the arrows, there was little the more plodding infantry units could do without abandoning their fortifications, so they held tight and weathered the storm of projectiles that came their way.

  The third assault arrived moments later, as the Nameless swarmed over the barricades blocking the way forward, striking into the very heart of the defence. They met the strongest opposition, heavy infantry already keyed for combat, but many men had been pulled from the line to deal with the undead threat, and those gaps allowed the Nameless to break the first trench works and spill into the second.

  The Traitor Legionnaires whom they fought were disciplined troops, fighting shield to shield and using the long reach of their weapons to protect the berms they had made. It was a skilled arrangement, and one that stood in great contrast to the screaming hordes that poured against the stakes and trenches.

  Wordless howls that were the greatest prayers Heremæcg ever heard rose up from the Nameless, most of whom carried great swords or battle axes, wielded two-handed and with a fervour that frightened even the veterans of the Traitor Legion. Never before had they had to withstand the full assault of a company of berserkers, most of whom wore little armour, but instead painted themselves in ochre and sapphire and had hideous tattoos inscribed all across their bodies. Perhaps they were mystic in nature, for blows that would have wounded or felled a normal mortal seemed to have far lesser effects against members of the screaming hordes.

  The deadliest of all was the Slaughter Priest, a battleaxe clasped in each hand, as he leapt from place to place, the twinned blades spraying blood with every stroke. After each kill, the Priest ran his tongue along the edge of the blade, coating his face with blood and a multitude of small cuts. That served only to enrage him further, and he led the Nameless deeper into the enemy camp, all the while howling like a beast in rut.

  Through all of this, Nietan and Ær lay tucked in the grass, waiting on the coastal side of the Traitor Legion’s encampment. There, they would surprise those troops who tried to flee the battle or withdraw in good order, harrying them, nipping at their heels, forcing them to fight all the way back to their allies in the Heretics. So far, there had been but a few fleeing the fighting, and they had let them go rather than give away their position.

  Despite all the weight of numbers the allies had brought to bear on the Traitor Legion, its high level of discipline held firm. Withdrawing from its outer lines into a giant hedgehog position, the greater mass of the Traitor soldiers began their slow withdrawal from the engagement. There were pockets that were surrounded and cut off, mostly by Hanse’s Roughriders, and they were left to live or die on their own. Most, upon seeing this, surrendered, a gesture quickly acknowledged by those whom they were fighting. Mercenaries never slaughtered other mercenaries without cause. They knew the next battle they could well be on the losing side.

  The horse archers of the Roughriders continued to harass the giant porcupine, picking off stragglers here and there, and launching flights of arrows into the midst, but despite assistance from the Nameless and the Corpsewalkers, there was little they could do to stop the slow retreat of the heavy infantry. That said, they had managed to drive the enemy from its camp, and to capture a good deal of its supplies.

  As the mass of infantry bore down on them, Nietan had Ær send out a general retreat. There was nothing they could do to stop that force their allies had not attempted, and discretion was clearly the better part of valour this day. Thus agreed, the Wolven Kindred rose from their concealment and sprinted to the south, away from the river and the oncoming troops. They would circle around until they arrived in the captured fort, and there join their allies, although by that time most of the loot would have been picked over.

  ***

  “How much damage did we sustain?” The Slaughter Priest, once more his calm, acerbic self, looked over the plain towards the several miles distant capital of their employer. It had almost fallen during the battle with the Traitor Legion, but a desperate action had thrown the Heretics back and sealed the gap. Unfortunately, it had bought precious little time and the allies would almost certainly have to go into combat again the next dawn.

  “Perhaps a third of my servitors were disabled. We are still counting the number missing.”

  “Very few. They did not step from behind their barricades to assault us.” Hanse gestured in the direction of her cavalry.

  “None.” Nietan sighed as he spoke. There was no honour in avoiding the fighting altogether, much as he did not want to lose a single companion under his command.

  “Perhaps a hundred of the Nameless, maybe a few more, so it seems we are in relatively strong condition for the engagement tomorrow.” He turned to the Corpsewalker. “How soon can you repair your servitors?”

  “We will have enough. Not so many as at the beginning of today, but enough.”

  “And as to a plan?”

  “Pin the Heretics and the Traitors against the citadel walls and crush them in the narrow space.”

  “You say that, but how do you propose we do it? They are both heavy infantry companies. Indeed, the Heretics wear heavier armour than the Traitor Legion and that stopped a great deal of our projectiles. And even despite our victory today, we are perhaps on a match for them in sheer numbers, not including whatever few guardsmen might charge from our employer’s home.”

  “Each day we fight that they do not take the citadel, our numbers will grow stronger and theirs weaker.”

  “And how many of your servitors can you command? No more than you had when you first arrived, and only if you lose none of your living assistants. Am I not right?”

  For once, the cowl sighed. “You are.”

  “And cavalry against heavy infantry in a tightly packed space has never been a winning prop
osition, not unless they were lancers armed and armoured for the charge. And for all their skill with sabre and spear, your men are not. The Kindred are too few to turn a battle, and my Nameless, strong against heavy infantry though they may be, do not have the numbers to stand toe to toe. So despite our victory, we still stand in grave danger of losing this campaign.”

  “Nibbling at their flanks will not reduce their numbers fast enough, will it?” Nietan eyed the distant forces.

  “Almost certainly not.”

  I have a plan.

  Nietan translated for his companion as Ær spoke to him. At the end of the discourse, the Slaughter Priest looked about, taking comments. There were none that greatly improved on the matter, and so the meeting concluded in Ær’s favour.

  As the two companions walked back towards their small encampment, Nietan ran his hand down Ær’s back.

  “You’re going to get us all killed. Yourself included.”

  Fortune favours the bold, does it not?

  “And where is the line between bold and foolhardy?”

  Under our feet, as we dance along it.

  “That’s rather what I was worried about.”

  Worry not. How hard can it be?

  Nietan glanced down at this companion to see if Ær was really serious. The twinkle in the wolven’s eye said he was not.

  “I’m still going to worry you know. It’s part of my job these days.”

  It might be, but that doesn’t mean you should indulge in it. Anyway, I need to see the Beastmaster. He’s going to have a lot of work ahead of him sorting everything for this evening. As will you.

  As they started to go their separate ways, Ær glanced back over his shoulder at Nietan.

  And no getting yourself killed tonight. There’s going to be enough casualties on our side, and we’re going to need a leader afterwards.

  “Likewise, Ær. Don’t forget you control all the wolven now.”

  Wish I could. Bunch of bitches.

  “I thought you liked your women.”