Wulfric suddenly gripped the older man’s shoulder, hurling him roughly to the ground. With preternatural speed, the ranger unsheathed and loosed another of his slender blades. A heartbeat later, an arrow with black feather flights punched into the gnarled bole of an oak tree mere inches from Eirik’s head. Forty paces distant, a black-clad archer sprawled dead to the forest floor, still clutching his recurve bow, Wulfric’s knife jutting from his throat.
Eirik scrambled to his feet. “Gods! Your eyes are sharper than a hawk’s! That’s another one I owe you!”
Oakenbrand swiftly surveyed the surrounding trees, then turned to Eirik and grinned. “I thought you’d given up counting by now, old man.”
Eirik fixed the ranger with a grim gaze. “Why do you stay, outlander? This isn’t your fight. Why do you not return to the forest kingdoms?”
Wulfric’s grin widened. “You think I’d slink off in the dead of night, on the eve of battle? Gods forbid! Besides, there’s still a hefty bounty on my head back home. A death-mark valid from the southern coast all the way to the borders of the Enga-Lands. So, I think I’ll take my chances here, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Ah, of course,” said Eirik with a wry smile. “I sometimes forget the perils of being branded an outlaw. Your exploits are becoming quite notorious throughout the clans. You know, if this legendary price on your head gets any bigger, I may just turn you in myself!”
“That I can believe, old man,” said Wulfric as he strode into the dense verdure. “Come, we must report to Caylen-Tor!”
Chapter VIII
Moon-mist and War-fog
Atop a jagged promontory, Caylen and Wulfric stood gazing at the dark expanse of Blackhelm Vale far below them. The torches and campfires of the imperial army stretched into the distance, illumining the dusk and bathing the valley in an undulating golden glow.
“Behold, ranger,” growled Caylen. “The dread host of Mytos K’unn. A battle-hardened infantry, bolstered by the infamous Iron Jackal Legion. A cavalry of lancers, charioteers and horse-archers, as well as five cohorts of auxiliaries and conscripts. That is what the Witch-Queen has sent against us.”
“I was rather hoping they wouldn’t come,” sighed Wulfric mordantly.
“Then you’d have nothing to tell your grandchildren about,” replied Caylen, a gleam in his eye.
The Wolf-King wore a golden scale-mail cuirass fashioned by the grim forge-masters of the wind-whipped Snow Jarldoms. His wolfskin cloak was draped about his shoulders and stiffened leather vambraces carved with knotwork dragons adorned his forearms. A wide leather belt encircled his waist, secured by a large bronze buckle crafted in the form of a wolf’s head. He wore leather breeches, toughened buckskin boots and bronze greaves. Lines of woad and ochre covered his face. He sported no helmet so that he would remain an instantly recognizable figure to his warriors in the thick of the fray, bolstering their confidence and providing a rallying point in the midst of the battle’s throng. At his left side hung the mighty Caled-draca, and at his right was scabbarded the well-worn blade Wolf’s Tooth. The king’s trusty broadsword had been in his possession for many years, its notched edge unceasingly keen and its wedge-shaped pommel and stout crossguard etched with intricate knotwork patterns.
Wulfric Oakenbrand carried an ornate yew longbow, horn-tipped and carved with knotwork and battle-runes. A number of arrows with eagle-feather flights were secured in a quiver slung over his shoulder, some of them bearing broadhead tips, others sporting slender bodkin points crafted to punch through armour and shields. His twin shortswords hung from his belt and his throwing-daggers rested in their baldric sheaths.
Oughtred Bearsark moved to stand with the two men atop the crags. The general wore a gleaming chainmail cuirass and a cloak of dark brown bearskin. An ornate bronze helmet etched with the motif of a charging boar covered his head, and his great, double-headed axe glimmered in the half-light. “They won’t risk the valley at night,” he rumbled. “They’ll move out at dawn.”
“Then let us strive to thwart their aspirations,” said Caylen. “We attack as planned.”
The war council had held their final meeting the night before, refining the battle plans and deciding upon stratagems until the light of dawn had streaked the sky.
“Some of the men are uneasy,” said Oughtred. “None have seen a battle of this scale, not even the veterans.”
“I will speak to them,” Caylen said, turning and striding back to the clansmen’s camp.
“The skalds had best get my name right when they sing the tale of this battle,” muttered Wulfric, his gaze remaining fixed on the vast host below.
* * *
The small tribal army had set up a fireless camp atop the great rise which flanked the valley’s western side. Beyond the encampment, sparse woodland ultimately gave way to the rocky foothills of the vast mountain range which separated Caylen-Tor’s kingdom from that of Delania and Turanan. And beyond that, lost in impenetrable shadow, the distant snow-capped peaks at the frontiers of the Jarldoms loomed.
Caylen moved to where Drogha Tul sat beneath a young ash tree, studying his runestones intently. The shaman did not look at the king as he crouched beside him.
“What do the runes say, wizard?” asked Caylen.
“The outcome is wreathed in shadow,” the aged man whispered. “The Nornir withhold their warp and weft. This night, a man shapes his own destiny.”
“So be it,” Caylen said. “Do the Fen-Witches know their role in this? Will they summon the fog at the appointed time?”
“The sisterhood will do their part,” Drogha Tul replied. “Yet there is a great dark power hovering about the foe. Its origin is elusive, its source far away. It will seek to devour thee before this battle is done.”
“Can you counter this threat?” hissed Caylen, gripping the hilt of Caled-draca. “Or must I rely solely on steel?”
The sorcerer closed his eyes and sighed. “Spells of protection are woven, Wolf-King. But there are some things against which even the finest steel will not avail thee.”
Caylen smiled mirthlessly and rose. “Then your magics had best work, hadn’t they, old man?”
The waxing moon slipped from behind a lambent veil of cloud, casting a ghostly light upon the camp. Shamans and clan-witches moved amongst the warriors, chanting battle-spells and invoking the tribal war-gods. Caylen made his way through the ranks, surveying the army as it prepared for battle. The banners of the tribal war-hirds were arrayed amidst the clansmen, the colourful sigils depicting totemic beasts and ancestral gods.
One of Oughtred Bearsark’s towering ber-serkr reavers suddenly loomed before Caylen, his great warhammer glinting in the moonlight.
“Hail, Wolfclan,” the man growled, holding out his hand. Within his huge palm were several bright blue mushrooms. “Will you chew the Shaman’s Cap with me?”
“Not this night, Beorn,” said Caylen. “I dare not succumb fully to the hamrammr rage. I must keep my wits about me in the fray.”
The man nodded, a cruel grin creasing his scarred face. “So be it, then. I’ll wager the power of your Ulfhednar battle-magicks will still protect you. But my tally of slaughter will be greater than yours!”
Caylen laughed and clasped the warrior’s huge shoulder. “I’m sure it will be, brother!”
A goatskin war-drum briefly sounded three muffled beats and the clansmen ceased their preparations and watched Caylen-Tor as he moved to the centre of the camp and vaulted to the top of a flat, moss-encrusted boulder. The Wolf-King stood tall, a malefic shadow surveying his grim army. There were young and old in the ranks, men and women, veterans and raw recruits together; warriors clad in the skins of bears and wolves, some crudely armoured in leather or bronze, a few sporting mail-shirts of chain or scale. They carried hand-axes and spears with hafts of ash, some bearing langesaxes and swords of iron or steel. Many were armed with yew longbows, their quivers packed full of slender shafts. A great number of warriors carried circular rawhide-rimmed s
hields crafted of elder and lindenwood with iron bosses at the centre, and knotwork patterns, bind-runes and stylized animal totems were emblazoned upon their butted and chamfered boards. Many clansmen sported iron helmets, some with gilt bronze faceguards and mail aventails. Most of those assembled wore blue woad or red ochre upon their faces and bodies; sigils of power and esoteric potency.
“My brothers, my sisters,” Caylen said, his voice clear and resonant. “My people! The time has come. In yonder valley, the hordes of the east have massed. They seek to despoil our land, to defile our sacred places. They will come dealing slaughter, pillage and rape. They will burn and loot our steadings. They will seek to drive their outlander banners into our soil and claim our realm for their odious empire.”
Murmurs arose within the ranks, and oaths were spat.
“This land was given to us by the gods,” continued Caylen. “It is the land of our ancestors, the honoured tribal forefathers who fought and died for it. I ask you now, can we do any less?”
A great cheer erupted from the assembled warriors. Swords, spears and axes were lifted to the night sky. Caylen’s voice rose over the clamour. “The imperial dogs think we will let them pass through without a fight! I say they are wrong. What say you?”
The cheers escalated to a tumultuous roar, and weapons were beaten against shields and armour in a rhythmic tattoo.
Caylen dragged Caled-draca free of its scabbard and held the sword aloft. Moonlight glinted balefully from its oiled and polished blade. “This night, a legend shall be written! A legend which our kinfolk shall remember for a thousand years! And those who are not with us shall curse the Fates evermore for their ill judgement! I am the Wolf of the North, and by all the gods, I am proud to stand with thee!”
The cacophony was deafening and Caylen gazed skyward, the blade of Caled-draca pointing directly at the moon. “O grim gods of battle, empower us this night. Anoint us with the crimson rain. Feed our steel with slaughter. Let every blow be a killing blow. Grant us victory... or a warrior’s death!”
The assembled clansmen began to repeat Caylen’s name exultantly in a primal chant. The martial paean echoed throughout the night; an empowering clarion, a tribal invocation of war and savage pride. In the deepening gloom, the Wolf-King turned his ferine gaze upon the army, his name a word of power on their lips.
The bloodying was at hand!
* * *
General Tolodes stood before the entrance to Talus Ebonfyre’s great black pavilion, staring intently into the night. Around him, the army of Mytos K’unn stretched like a fulgent sea. Thousands of tents were arrayed before the entrance to the tenebrous valley. Countless cook fires were burning, their rutilant flames dancing amidst the blackness. Many of the officers’ mounts were tethered near the tents, while hundreds more horses were picketed near the camp perimeter. The army’s supply wagons were drawn up near the centre of the formation, and everywhere the sable banners of Mytos K’unn had been driven deep into the earth.
A black-cloaked officer strode up to Tolodes and saluted briskly. “Sir, all sentries are in position and the watch has been doubled, as you commanded. Scouts have been deployed beyond the valley and into the surrounding crags. The field officers have assembled in your tent for the briefing regarding tomorrow’s deployment.”
Tolodes abruptly waved the man to silence. “Do you hear that, Captain Jungsai?” he whispered.
The captain’s brow furrowed. “Sir?”
Tolodes stalked to the perimeter of the camp, motioning for Jungsai to follow. Moving past the sentries, the two men studied the mouth of the benighted valley before them. Tolodes was silent for some moments, then shook his head wearily. “Nothing. Mayhap just the wind in the vale.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Very well, captain. We will adopt the standard Jamukha strategy for moving through this valley at dawn. The possibility of an ambush is remote, but nevertheless…” Tolodes suddenly fell silent as he descried a glowing tendril of mist begin to writhe from the deep shadows of the vale, clinging to the darkling earth like a tenebrous serpent. The undulating, incorporeal ribbon of fog was swiftly joined by another, then a third, until at length they fused and became one, transforming into a vast unbroken tide of lambent mist which advanced inexorably across the valley floor toward the mouth of the pass.
“I’ve never before seen such a miasma,” whispered Jungsai fearfully. “Truly, this is a land of infidels and unclean spirits!” Grasping the hilt of his sabre, he took several steps backwards as the ghostly wall of mist breached the mouth of the vale and continued toward the camp.
“Wretch!” spat Tolodes. “Do you fear a fog? Can you show no mettle save that which the queen’s battle-spells give you? Inform the officers that I shall…”
An arrow with eagle-feather fletching abruptly hammered into the general’s throat and dark blood bubbled noisily from his lips. Instantly, he collapsed to the earth, his fingers scrabbling desperately at the slender shaft. A heartbeat later, he was silent and deathly still. Jungsai turned briskly on his heel and began running back to the camp, bellowing the alarm. Behind him, the supine mist had already enveloped the body of General Tolodes.
* * *
Talus Ebonfyre strode from his pavilion to find the imperial encampment in the grip of ravening chaos. A thick glowing mist enshrouded the entirety of the tent-city and the discordant sounds of battle resounded from all sides. Donning his great horned helm and drawing his curved blade, he surged furiously into the lucent maelstrom, immediately discerning scores of fallen legionaries underfoot whose bodies were riddled with feather-fletched arrows. Many imperial horses had also fallen, evidently cut down in their corrals by a hail of shafts. Countless tents were aflame and the rutilant glow of fire-arrows could be seen arcing from the darkness in repeated volleys. A terrible rage suddenly swelled within Ebonfyre and the malefic spirit to which he was host began to roil and seethe in darksome fury.
“Soon, black dog of the Z’xulth... soon.”
Talus gripped the shoulder of a blood-spattered legionary who was stumbling desperately through the mist. “What the hell happened, soldier? Speak!”
“This cursed fog descended upon us, my lord,” the man stuttered. “And with it came arrows and spears from the left and right flanks! The enemy assails us from the hills! We know not how many!”
Ebonfyre released the legionary and stalked balefully to the centre of the embattled camp. “Cohorts assemble!” he roared, his voice cutting through the cacophonous screams of men and beasts. “Defensive pattern Khaguran!”
For many harrowing minutes the attack continued, until the ceaseless howl of the fire-arrows was replaced by the intermittent clash of steel on steel. The mist had slowly begun to disperse, and everywhere the ground was littered with fallen imperial troops. Many of the tents continued to blaze, while others had already been reduced to embers and ash. Ebonfyre moved to a group of legionaries who had adopted a defensive foulkon formation. “Follow those sounds of battle!” he thundered. “Find the savages! Kill them all!”
* * *
At length, the wall of mist diminished to little more than wisps of pale vapour and the clangour of combat ceased. Innumerable corpses littered the earth, all of them legionaries. Many of the fallen imperial troops were transfixed by arrows, while others bore wounds evidently dealt by swords, axes or spears. Grimly surveying the extent of the carnage which had been wrought, Talus Ebonfyre scabbarded his unbloodied blade and located the surviving officers and quartermasters of the imperial army. His ireful gaze slowly swept the assembly of fraught and harrowed soldiers. “Situation!”
“After the volleys cut into our flanks, we were attacked by an unknown number of primitives from all sides,” a breathless captain reported. “The engagement was brief. They pressed the assault only until the mist began to disperse, then retreated.”
“General Tolodes is dead, sir, and the Sixth Viper Legion has suffered ruinous casualties,” rasped another officer. “I can also co
nfirm that the Fourth Cobra Legion has been reduced to half strength. Auxiliaries are reporting moderate losses. Body counts indicate that the majority of the conscripts have been killed or wounded, and the remainder are believed to have fled into the night. Three-quarters of our supply wagons are still burning.”
Ebonfyre cursed, then addressed a tall officer who sported a forked black beard. “Quartermaster Kuchar! What is the status of the cavalry?”
“The horse archers are all but lost, and the captains report that two thirds of the cavalry’s mounts have either been slain or driven off. It will be impossible to send out scouting parties to recover the beasts until first light.”
“Did the Shadow Cultists survive?”
Kuchar’s body tensed. “No, my lord. I fear every Night Priest has been slain.”
Ebonfyre’s lip curled, his eyes ablaze with an unfathomed rage. “And what of the Jackal?” he seethed.
“The Iron Jackal is intact, my lord,” replied Kuchar. “No losses reported.”
“They could attack again at any time,” an ashen-faced lieutenant exclaimed. “We must move the army away from this cursed valley!”
“No!” roared Ebonfyre. “We will not retreat! This is his doing! Caylen-Tor! He taunts me! We shall attack!”
“But my lord,” the officer stammered, “advancing by night into that valley could risk the entire…”
Ebonfyre’s gauntlet lashed out to strike the officer with such force that the man spun a half circle before collapsing unconscious to the ground. The surrounding troops stared uneasily at their commander, saying nothing.
“We will advance!” Ebonfyre snarled. “Marshall the troops. Give the order! I want these accursed clansmen hunted down and destroyed! Spare not one! They all shall suffer!”
Swiftly and silently, the officers moved off to prepare the army for deployment.
Ebonfyre stumbled to the shadows at the perimeter of the ravaged camp, his breathing ragged, a sheen of cold sweat upon his pallid brow. The sibilant whispers of the malefic spirit within him grew ever louder and more insistent, akin to a pitiless black tide encroaching upon a darkling shore. Vivid images streaked through his mind with disorienting speed; hideous scenes exhumed from some abyssal charnel pit of suppressed memory. Coalescing before his mind’s eye, he beheld the image of a noisome antechamber, illumined only by the guttering glow of countless black candles. A myriad writhing, undraped bodies were swaying obscenely to the opiate beat of some great, unseen drum. At the centre of the chamber, Ebonfyre saw a shrouded form shackled to an aphotic bloodstained altar, struggling madly against its unyielding bonds. Looming before the captive, hypnotically beautiful in the flickering candlelight, was a lissome woman, naked but for a cloak of sable, a gnarled dagger glinting in her slender ivory hands.
The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor Page 10
