The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2

by Christian Warren Freed

  “A traitorous serpent of humanity,” Andolus cautioned. “That man is none other than General Gulnick Baach, former commander of the armies of Valadon and hero of Meisthelm.”

  “There seems no limits to treachery,” Dlorn muttered.

  “Your orders, sir?” Calri asked. He had never heard of Baach, thus leaving the respect the others showed flat.

  “Bring up the catapults. Have the archers on standby. All reserve and reinforcement units need to maximize downtime. Ensure they get enough rest to keep them going for at least three days. This is not going to be an easy fight. Secondary units need to gear up and be prepared to plug any holes,” Dlorn said.

  As much as he wanted to direct his army in battle, micromanaging his commanders served no purpose. He trusted each of them and would allow them to react as necessary, while he still retained overall operational control. The battle promised to be fluid and he needed to stay far enough back to observe the entire battlefield. History was littered with tales of lesser armies failing to do so.

  With a monstrous sound, great teams of work oxen lurched forward, pulling forward the catapults supplied by Lord Felbar. They had fifty of the machines with plenty of ammunition dug out from the far river. Soldiers in the trenches cast fleeting glances at the war machines and took hope. The promise of smashed darklings helped take away the sting of what was sure to come.

  Metal clashed against metal in deadly song. Jou Amn fended off yet another blow and dropped back. Out of breath and feeling his age, he plunged the tip of his sword into the snow and drank deeply from his canteen. He looked disdainfully at his opponent, even while knowing the old man was scarcely breathing hard.

  Amean Repage, on the other hand, was quite pleased. It had been too long since he’d last carried on single combat like that. The reassurance in his psyche was immediately noticeable, yet there still lurked the nagging vision of his death. Only through great strength of will was he able to force that thought aside and carry on. Sometimes he was successful, others not.

  “I didn’t think a man as old as yourself could run with the youth,” Jou taunted.

  Amean scowled. “You can’t be talking about yourself. If I recall correctly, you’re only a few years younger than me.”

  “Age is only what you fe…”

  The rhythmic beating of drums across the plains cut him off. Time for training was ended.

  When the entire command structure under Dlorn was at last assembled, they began hashing out final plans. Long Shadow sat in the corner nearest the exit of the massive tent. While watching and listening to the various lords and commanders proved insightful on how mainland armies fought, he felt awkward. They were so different from his own people. At best, deep down, he was a barbarian, though coated with political savvy. The silent killer’s blood surged with the aspirations of battle that had yet to unfold. Instead, he simmered and listened.

  “I want catapults firing as soon as they get within range. No arrows,” Dlorn said, his eyes sharp as a wolf. “We’ll have need of every last shaft once the darklings get under the catapult cover. What is the status of the forward units?”

  “Our infantry is well entrenched. Some of the battalions managed to provide overhead cover on their main positions. Rows of spikes are implanted for twenty meters on the approach to the first line. They will slow the darklings to an extent but not long,” Calri said.

  Dlorn nodded approvingly. Young Calri was proving himself a worthy successor to the fallen Irrius.

  “Our only question now is how long the Black is going to take to attack. Will he commit now and risk the lives of thousands of his vile army or wait, taking us apart piecemeal?”

  Aron cleared his throat. “He will not commit. Though his army is vast as the sunrise, there is a limit to their number. We are but a stepping stone on his dark path. He will have need of their strength once he gets past this army. Baach will use the vanguard to probe us, searching out weaknesses in the defenses. Crossing the river is not a primary concern, but we do have a contingency in place for the inevitable airborne assault.”

  “Thus far,” Andolus broke in, “We have managed to score several minor victories against smaller components of his army. The bridge Captain Calri burned may well have been rebuilt by now. We also have no idea how many of those beasts are already across the river. Troops could be ferrying down from leagues upstream. Remember, a man leads them.”

  “The elements have hampered us considerably but our engineers still have a few surprises emplaced along the way to slow the darklings.” Pride rang in Calri’s voice. Youthful ignorance left him filled with confidence. That and the unfaltering faith in the capabilities of his men.

  A runner burst into the tent, out of breath and three shades of pale. “They’re here! Trying to ford the river!”

  The glorious sounds of the first catapult firing accented the situation. The battle they long awaited and feared was begun. Dlorn looked at his friends and compatriots one final time. “Well then. Our day has come at last. All I ask from any of you is to do your best. With the grace of the old gods, we may make a bid for our lives and return to the arms of our loved ones. Luck in battle, my friends.”

  The commanders of the Galdean army saluted and took to their posts.

  Catapults fired continuously. Each boulder and flame covered round tore massive holes in the darkling lines. Screams from the dead and dying sang out in hideous, inhuman wails. Gulnick Baach’s horse reared back on hind legs. He had expected a fierce battle, and thus far was not disappointed. Hundreds of darklings were already dead, twice that wounded, and they still hadn’t closed with the Galdeans. The stench of burning hair and flesh choked his lungs. His advance was rapidly devolving into an unorganized quagmire of bodies. In all, he expected nothing less from Dlorn.

  Darklings, already too close for the catapults to be effective, began to crawl from the icy waters of the Simca, only to be run through by sharpened pikes. Gulnick was most impressed with the vibrant young commander on the far side as he ran up and down the lines in great efforts to inspire morale. The men of Galdea were indeed valiant, if foolish.

  The defenses had been chosen well, for here the river was at its narrowest. A slight rise on the opposite bank gave the Galdeans the upper hand. Bermed up with hardened snow and frozen earth, Gulnick realized the enemy could feasibly hold out for days, while he tried to marshal his army in a different direction.

  Half of that army was already gone, moving down south to their rendezvous with Denes Dron. The rest were still leagues away and in no hurry to get here. Gulnick had no qualms about sacrificing the almost hundred thousand darklings he had under him. The world was far better off without them, in his estimation. But losing sat ill on his mind. Combined with what the Black would do to him in the aftermath, Gulnick needed to find an advantage and end this. All he needed was a beachhead.

  The first wave of darklings died in vain. While they were being skewered on pikes and spears, a second wave swan across the river, towing makeshift bridges. Preoccupied with the devils already before them, the Galdeans failed to notice the foundations of their demise being laid. The death toll of the catapults continued to rise behind them.

  Gulnick reached out to the nearest soldier, a cutthroat mercenary picked up in Prossin, and barked, “I want the army moving as soon as that first bridge is emplaced. Keep shuffling more bridges. We need numbers to break that trench!”

  It was difficult working with beasts that had only rudimentary control of the common tongue. Worse, Gulnick knew the darklings had a hidden agenda, whether the Black controlled them or not. What they lacked in trust of each other, they made up for with tenacity. And they continued to die in the hundreds because of it.

  Calri Alsimmons ran up and down the lines, rallying his men. This was his first important combat action and he was determined to give a good showing. Bitter satisfaction etched upon his face as he watched his men fight. The first squat darkling bodies emerged from the frozen waters of the Simca River. M
ats of hair clung to their grotesque bodies, lending an even more devilish appearance. The murderous intent in their eyes almost made Calri blanch, despite having confronted them before. Being on the offensive was one thing, waiting for an entire army to crash upon the trenches, another altogether.

  “Pikemen!” Calri barked, forced to shout above the roar of the catapults. “At the ready!”

  Galdeans rose from the trenches and formed ranks. They roared almost as loud as the darklings, as pikes were lowered in a blanket of polished iron. Snow drifted from the tips. They caught the tidal wave of darklings and surprisingly, held without buckling. Darklings were impaled. Sometimes two or more to a pike. Calri expected such. It was the subsequent drive that concerned him more. Engaged, the pikemen were unable to clear before other darklings swarmed between them.

  Calri brandished his sword and bellowed at the top of his lungs. Hundreds of armored swordsmen plugged the holes and slaughtered the darklings. Trapped in confined space, the enemy made easy targets. Primitive, they failed to suspect the counter move, and were cut down by the score for their ignorance. Men fell as well, though in greatly reduced numbers.

  With the immediate threat all but taken care of, Calri pulled back to survey the battlefield. What he saw sickened him. Darklings were starting to cross the river, and in numbers. He squinted but made out the amount of rickety bridges that were laid down. Darklings could cross by the hundreds. A blood-spattered helmet rolled past his feet. If he didn’t act fast, there would be many more. Too many.

  He grabbed the man nearest him and spat out, “Go to Dlorn. Get the second battery of catapults to direct their fire on those bridges!”

  The freshly appointed courier ran as fast as his armor allowed, leaving Calri to seek out his lieutenants. Five minutes later, his plan was ready to be executed. Several hundred swordsmen, a full battalion worth, surged over the berm, with Calri at their head, and down the embankment into the darkling mass. Even Gulnick Baach was caught off guard.

  Battle was fast, furious. Bodies from both sides fell in a bloody mess. Calri crushed in the head of one darkling and swung hard enough to pierce the lung and heart of a second in a back swing. Gradually the tide shifted and the defenders outnumbered the living darklings. Any victory of numbers was short lived. Increased pockets of darklings broke free of the icy waters, while even more streamed across the ramshackle bridges.

  Young Calri, already exhausted and fighting the urge to take a knee, was at the end of hope. Then the first catapult round smashed into a near bridge. Flesh and flames exploded. Darklings snapped their heads in surprise.

  Field Marshal Dlorn stood with clenched jaw as the initial assault crested his outer defenses. The fighting was fearsome, with many falling on each side, but the enemy was gradually beaten back. Smoke from a hundred fires choked the air and obscured a good portion of the field. Damned luck. I need to see into the enemy camp, if I’m going to stop them. He scratched a finger, absently, at the corner of his mouth.

  Dlorn had originally questioned the decision to send his soldiers down into the river bed. He didn’t see how any would survive, being so close to the darkling power base. Such thoughts weighing heavily on his mind, Dlorn failed to notice the message runner, a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen summers, run up to him. Message delivered, Dlorn immediately took action.

  “Master gunner!” he shouted, while striding toward the catapults. A weathered, beaten face looked up. “Adjust your fire into the river. We need to give the line more support or the whole damned army will be forced to fallback.”

  “Sir!”

  The master gunner resumed his control of the Galdean artillery. “Number Two battery, sight in on the river and fire at will! Give them everything you’ve got!”

  Crew chiefs adjusted their weapons to compensate for the shorter range while the front battery continued spewing death into the darklings across the river. Heart beats passed before the first round thundered out and over the battle. Geysers of frigid water fountained. The gunners were too far back to see the devastation they caused.

  Frozen water soaked him. An arm struck his chest, nearly knocking him down. Round after round struck the river, destroying the bridge network and ending life. Calri watched the wholesale destruction with the wide eyes of enlightenment. He knew, or rather thought he did, the price of battle before wading into it, but this was so much worse than any construct him mind was capable of imagining.

  A fierce cry arose from his men, suddenly buoyed by the ravaging suppressing fire of their catapults. Darklings on the other side stopped trying to swim across. The suicide of the slaughter was more than they were willing to risk, despite orders from Gulnick Baach to continue the assault. Calri sidestepped a rushing foe, slashing a crippling cut across the back of the darkling’s neck. His follow-on swing ripped out the guts of another. Blood stained his armor breastplate. A foul stench covered him. The smell of slaughter. He ignored it as best he could, but ultimately couldn’t keep from voiding his already empty belly.

  The intensity of the struggle subsided, if only just. No darkling reinforcements came across the river and the numbers of those already across dwindled rapidly. Calri knew he had to press the attack. Never having been confronted with retreat before, the darklings died to the last. Pikemen, now finished with their defense, cried out and swept down the slope, pushing the enemy back to the water. Catapults ceased firing into the river, readjusting their aim to the main darkling camp less than a kilometer away.

  Only when the cheer went up announcing the last of the enemy had been purged from the trenches did Calri realize he’d won his first victory. Exhausted beyond measure, the young captain struggled to crest the rise of the embankment. Weary survivors, far fewer than he would have liked, limped and hobbled back to their lines and kept going to the surgeons tents as fresh reserves took their place on the line. As much as he wanted to turn away from the grizzly scene, Calri refused to look away as the dead were carried past.

  The instant the first catapult round struck the river was the instant Gulnick Baach realized it was going to get far worse. He signaled to the bugler to sound retreat when a burst of rock, dirt, and snow threw him from his mount. Brushing the grime from his eyes, Gulnick saw his horse fall dead with a sharp piece of granite in his throat. Blood splashed the front of his Hierarchy uniform, a reminder of his past that he couldn’t bring himself to abandon.

  Gulnick rose and marched back to escape the range of those dreaded catapults. He looked into his camp and saw utter disarray. The old general was disgusted. Painful memories of the men he once led drifted back from the nothing of the past. A piece of him wished to be on the opposite side of the river, celebrating victory and buckling down for the next iteration. He longed for the feeling of brotherhood strengthening among the Galdeans. Brotherhood that was decidedly lacking among his forces. He knew those same enemies would be stronger in the morning. Fortified.

  Those thoughts soon fled and a bitter anger lingered in his soul. Defeat was not an easy thing to accept, yet he did so with a grain of salt. All the while, new plans developed. Gulnick stiffened. Ignoring the screams and shock of explosions coming from his camp, he marched with shoulders thrown back. Tomorrow was a new day. He would not be defeated. Not like this.

  Alone and forgotten by the throngs of men surrounding her, Elsyn sat in her tent listening to the furious sounds coming from the river. Shouts and screams mingled with the crash of armor and the distinct sounds of catapult fire. With each new scream she knew another life ended. Each life had become precious to her.

  She wrapped her arms around her drawn up legs and cried before realizing the foolishness of her actions. She was a princess of Galdea, the heir to the throne. This was no way for her to behave. Rising, she straightened her travel clothes and strapped the short sword Andolus had given her to her waist. Elsyn left the sanctuary of her tent and strode out into the army. The men deserved no less.

  Those not involved in the struggle on the river
stopped what they were doing to stare at her. Some longingly, others with admiration. She gave them hope, where none was to be found. Already outnumbered, the Galdean army knew this was but the beginning. An entire army swarmed against them. Elsyn stopped when she reached a rise high enough to survey the entire battlefield.

  Her throat trembled. Never had she been witness to such acts of brutal violence. Her stomach churned, palms clenched reflexively. Elsyn’s mind begged her to turn away, to not look a moment longer, but her body refused to budge. It was, after all, oddly fascinating.

  Her limited exposure to violence back in Galdarath wasn’t enough to provide an accurate description. She had no idea war was so… graphic. Warriors often spoke to her of elegant tales spun around half-truths and blatant lies. They whispered of glories she knew she’d never see. Now, finally exposed to it all, she knew it was all a lie. There was no glory in war. Only pain and suffering. When at last she couldn’t stand to watch any more, she headed back to the sanctity of her tent. She’d seen enough.

  Alone, forgotten by the throngs of soldiers surrounding her, Elsyn sat on her cot trying to ignore the estranged sounds assailing her as night rolled in. Mercifully, a messenger arrived with summons to the army council. She happily followed and was surprised to hear laughter and a generally spirited mood coming from the soldiers. Elsyn wondered how anyone could laugh in the face of such adversity.

  “Ah, princess,” Dlorn said. “I am glad you are well.”

  “Thank you, General, but these men are certainly more important than I.” How true her words were.

  Aron looked up from the map table containing unit positions. “I would beg to differ. Soldiers fight and die, that is why we are here, but you are the life blood of Galdea. The last living heir to the house of Elian. Your safety is paramount.”

  She blushed, feeling warmth spread through her. Embarrassed by her thoughts, she took her seat amongst the various battle lords.