“Kill him now and get it over with,” Hurst growled.
The Black’s head snapped around. “Bite your tongue, mercenary scum. I could crush you with the blink of an eye. You are here only at my leisure. Do not tempt me on such a whim.”
Hurst balked and stiffened, determined not to let the other get the better of him.
“You mentioned the word charade. Funny a man like you can throw about such so carelessly. It has come to my attention that much has been transpiring in my absence. Much I should not have found out about. Would you care to elaborate on the subject, Baach?”
Dejected, Gulnick stood firm.
“No? It was but a matter of time before I found out. Treachery has a way of staining things of this nature. How do you explain the careless tenacity with which our enemy fights? I think they have been given certain elements of information, potentially dangerous toward my forces, and goals.”
He leaned forward menacingly and whispered, “I want to know everything you told the Galdeans and why.”
Hurst snorted laughter.
Waves of soldiers, wounded and healthy alike, shuttled across the straining bridges away from the horrors of battle and into unknown lands. Rally points had been established. Once all units were accounted for at each, they would continue migrating south toward the final rendezvous and then south to Meisthelm. Less than ten thousand men would remain behind to fight off the next darkling assault. It was a number Dlorn could live with. He stood atop his small knoll in the center of camp and watched the bulk of his army flee east across the river. He wondered if his valiant few were going to be enough to hold out long enough. An eerie chill blew through his tired form. He’d already lost twenty pounds from the combination of stress and torment.
The train of soldiers marched away, winding deep into the night, until only the faintest of sounds could be heard on the wind. It was then Dlorn returned to his tent. He paused every few steps to search the skies for signs of the darklings’ aerial threat.
The Black Imelin stepped over the slain corpse of Gulnick Baach and confronted Hurst. Killing Gulnick provided little in the way of stimulation, though he did find some advantages. One less snake to deal with, only to have another take its place. The dark wizard eyed Hurst with varying degrees of mistrust. A man who could so easily sell out one of his own once, would have no problems doing so again. Once the battle is finished, I shall deal with him as well.
“I want the army ready to attack in three hours. We are going to divide again. Split the remaining troops in half, put the rest on scrathes. Drop them behind Galdean lines just before dawn. Once we have their attention with a battle from behind, you send in the rest of the army. This should be enough to successfully extinguish the Galdean threat confronting us.”
“And if they flee?”
Imelin snarled. “Take your part of the army and hunt them down.”
“Is it safe to assume you will not be there with us on the morrow?” Hurst asked, plans already developing in his diabolical mind.
“I go south with the other half of the army. Our enemy takes the Staff to Meisthelm. I must stop them, else this war is for naught. Now go.”
The mercenary slid out into the night, using natural stealth and predatory skills the Black admired. Once it was empty, Imelin faced the darkest corner of his tent. A soft hiss escaped the shadows, followed closely by a remarkably slender darkling.
“I don’t trust that one. Less than the general,” the darkling slurred, with rudimentary control of the common speech.
“I trust no one. Watch him, Slorix. Do not let that man out of your sight. Kill him as soon as the enemy is routed. One look in his eyes tells me the levels of treachery he can reach.”
The darkling slinked back into the shadows.
“Do not fail me,” Imelin said to empty air.
A hearty gust of wind blew in from the west. Guards wrapped their cloaks tighter and looked to the skies. Many had been in Galdarath during the initial darkling assault and knew full well the level of treachery yet to be unleashed here. Something wicked approached. It gnawed into their psyche, sparking untold levels of fear. Eager to be done with their shifts, the guards paced in nervous expectance of things to come.
A fresh wave of blackened storm clouds followed the wind. Daril Perryman stepped groggily into the chill night, intent on relieving his aching bladder. He finished quickly and wrapped back up in his fur cloak. Still half asleep, he was aware enough to check the sky from horizon to horizon. Grey and black clouds clashed violently into each other, losing shape and reforming effortlessly. Hidden amongst the war in the sky came a host of menacing figures.
Dragons, he thought initially. By the time they got closer, horror stained his face. Not clouds or dragons but scrathes! At last the final act of this battle had come. He watched in mute dismay as hundreds of the foul creatures swooped down through the clouds. It was as if the bowels of Suroc Tol had emptied and were come to blanket the land.
“Stand to! Stand to!” Perryman shouted, rousing those soldiers within hearing. Cloak dropping to the mud and snow, he ran to the nearest guards. “Go! Rouse the army. The enemy is upon us. If we act quickly, we might still salvage this. Go!”
Alone again, Perryman darted back into his tent to arm and then went back down the line. There was no time to don armor, or even all their weapons. The scrathes would soon be upon them. Perryman looked again to the sky. The enemy was decidedly closer and using the wind. Droves of half-asleep soldiers clustered together, their numbers growing with each passing moment. He began to think they might win out after all.
Then the first wave of scrathes were overhead and a host of airborne monsters began to fall from the sky.
Asleep for what seemed mere moments, Dlorn angrily swung his feet from the meager comforts of his cot and strapped his broadsword to his back. He had anticipated a night attack, all the while wishing it didn’t come. The soldiers were already far beyond the limits of mortal endurance. Death being the only alternative, they carried on and continued the fight. No one wanted to die, especially in the frozen wastes of the Crimson Fields.
The wind immediately struck through his clothes to bite his flesh. Men and beast were already engaged in bitter acts of desperation. Elven archers were striking darklings out of the sky. Arrow riddled bodies dropped around them. Fighting on the ground was furious. The dead and wounded mounted at a frightening pace.
The sole comfort Dlorn found was in that most of his army was already across the river in Almarin and getting further away. His reflections were disturbed by a thundering crash and the harsh snap of jaws. Three darklings dropped through the worn fabric of his tent. Using what little advantage he had, Dlorn drew his sword and charged. Two of the darklings died before they were able to recover from the drop. A third and fourth slashed free of the tent fabric and charged him.
The first tackled him around the knees, driving him to the ground and knocking his sword away. The second landed on his chest. He felt ribs crack as the air was forced from his lungs. Dlorn saw his death bearing down on him and was powerless to prevent it. Hot spittle burned his cheeks. His stomach turned.
The darkling pinned his arms and laughed. His comrade sidled around with dagger exposed. Scant feet from completing his mission, the darkling hissed. Neither had heard the shrill whistle of twin arrows rocket through the frozen sky until it was too late. The first struck the darkling in the center of the chest. The force of impact drove it off Dlorn. The second arrow ripped open the vocal chords of the second with uncanny precision.
Dlorn looked up through a daze to find a lone elf salute him before moving off to find a new target. Dlorn shrugged the lifeless body aside and struggled to his feet. That brief contest took much of his energy, leaving him wondering how he was going to make it through the rest of the fight.
“Runner!” he called and waited agonizing moments for a pair of youths to appear.
“Find Captain Alsimmons and have him bring his men to the center. We make our stand here.”<
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The younger runner took off and Dlorn turned his attentions to the second. “Get me Lestrin and his cavalry. I want this entire army ready to move. If the Black is going this far, he’ll probably send another ground attack as well. Hurry, son, our lives depend on it.”
Without waiting to see if he was obeyed, Dlorn ran through the confusion of battle, picking a fight when necessary and running from it at discretion. More darklings dropped in, renewing the mayhem to feverish levels. By the time he reached the heart of the defense, a third wave was incoming. Hundreds of men and darklings struggled in vain attempts at survival. Field Marshal Dlorn knew despair at last.
Reeler Monchere managed to drag himself out of his cot and dress before the screams got too close. It took more time than usual to adjust to his surroundings, which he did with a frown. Being an officer in the Galdean artillery left him unaccustomed to the ferociousness of hand to hand combat. Tonight, however, he had no choice.
Several of his catapults were already on fire, their flames somber beacons to the monsters across the river. A host of cheers erupted from the darkling camp, sparking fear in Reeler’s heart. His sword felt awkward in his hands. Doubling that effect were the thousands of enemy forces ready to cross the frozen waters. He had no idea as to the status of the rest of his command. So far as he was concerned, they were cut off and doomed.
“Master gunner!”
Reeler looked frantically for his right hand advisor. He repeated the name several more times before Bernt, battered and bloody, stole through the battle to reach his side. The artillery commander breathed a sigh of relief at the sight. Dark red blood trickled down his master gunner’s right arm.
“Half of the number two battery burns. Our men are holding out but if push comes to shove, we’ll be overrun in a matter of minutes,” Bernt announced.
Reeler nodded. “I fear things are about to get much worse. Another battle rages in the center of camp and the enemy lines the rivers. This may well be our last stand.”
“I have no intention of dying this night, Commander. Everything necessary that needs to be done shall be.”
Reeler wished he had his senior advisor’s confidence. “Get the crews to their remaining weapons, as many as possible. Keep our defense tight and ready. Another ground attack will come before this is finished. If we die, the army dies with us.”
Bernt nodded again and was gone. Lacking the desire to rush headfirst into the fight, Reeler tightened his sword grip and cautiously stalked across the land. He wasn’t a hero, nor particularly brave. He was just an average soldier who’d had little else going for him before enlisting. Lost in obscure thought, he failed to see the dozen darklings drop from the sky and encircle him. Warm urine trickled down his leg.
He raised his sword to make a last stand. A dozen tiny blades slipped under his sword to tear him to shreds. The death screams of Reeler Monchere echoed like nightmares across the blood slick ground.
Daril Perryman kicked the slain darkling off his blade and sought out his next victim. Pickings were getting slim, but the damage had already been done. The darkling feint was enough to draw attention away from the catapults that had been so closely guarded. Their mass destruction reminded him of massive funeral pyres. Perryman cursed his lack of foresight.
Side by side, man and elf struggled for their lives. Perryman darted through the battle until he found a kneeling Dlorn. Tired beyond measure, Dlorn watched as his defenders managed to repulse the enemy. He delighted at seeing Perryman but it was still much too early to crack a smile. The entirety of his command was still in grave peril.
“General,” Perryman called and helped Dlorn to his feet.
“I know. The catapults burn. Send Lestrin and his cavalry to reinforce.”
“Yes, sir, but that’s not what I’m worried about. The units on the line stand the most danger. We need to get as many troops as possible back into defensive positions. I think the Black seeks to storm us tonight.”
Dlorn spied the genuine concern in Perryman’s face and was instantly reenergized. Men like that are going to save this army, and our kingdom. He nodded. “Send as many men as you think necessary. Stop and find Monchere on the way. As soon as the remaining catapults are clear, have them open fire. I want Calri Alsimmons here. We begin a full retreat tonight.”
Fear dominated the hearts of the host of defenders atop the battlements. Hordes of darklings massed threateningly, scant meters away, without worry of being struck down by catapult fire. The darkling line surged ahead, intent on ending the battle in one foul swipe, yet they paused on the river bank and broke out in wild cheers and howls upon seeing the fires blazing behind Galdean lines.
Panic stricken by the sight, the depleted ranks of pikemen and swordsmen buckled down, expecting the worst. The sickening smell of the dead no longer bothered them like it should. Instead, they used the bodies like natural barriers. Every little bit helped, even if it was former comrades. The one solace was that their departed friends felt no pain. The cold helped decay and disease from spreading. A small boon.
The thunder of darkling drums started again. Fresh waves of fear washed into the hearts of the defenders. The drums beat out their war song for close to an hour before stopping abruptly. Shortly after, the first darkling lines marched down onto the ice and across the river.
The Black Imelin climbed atop his scrathe and comfortably strapped in. A host of concerns kept him from focusing on the battle. Most of all, was the now concealed location of the Staff. The destination was simplistic, though it might well be deep into spring before reaching Meisthelm. What route was the young lordling Aron Kryte taking? The Free Lands were a massive, sprawling expanse of kingdoms with a myriad of roads and open routes. Worse, he failed to understand how Kryte and his Golden Warriors had managed to avoid detection since entering Dreamhaven.
Burning fires from the catapults were as beacons, guiding the Black closer to his enemy. The deep cold of being airborne, forced him to use magic to keep himself warm. He was over the river when a new vision struck. Kryte wasn’t going south. Not yet at any rate. Chances were he was already across the second river and marching through Almarin. The middle-northern kingdom only had one major city, so it was logical that Kryte take the Staff there first. Wicked smile adorning his face, Imelin turned his scrathe northeast and headed for the mountain city of Hyrast.
Calri Alsimmons slipped and fell on a patch of blood slickened gore. His left thigh was slashed open to the bone and he knew he’d be dead if it wasn’t for the freezing temperature and the quick reaction of the man nearest him. The tourniquet was so tight, each new breath he drew threatened to render him unconscious.
The battle was nearly over, at least from his vantage point. Most of men dead were his, for his unit had stood at the center. Few darklings remained, though men stabbed each body just to be sure. Fighting had been furious. The darklings had nearly taken them all by surprise. He wished the nightmare was over.
“Captain Alsimmons?” asked a timid runner from behind.
Calri frowned upon seeing how young he was. Children didn’t belong in war. “What is it, boy?”
“Sir, the Field Marshal wants to see you. He says we’re to begin the retreat.”
Retreat? The Galdean army had never retreated from the field of battle in the last two hundred years. Yet now, here, they were expected to abandon all the sacrifices of those brave men. It must be a mistake. The exodus had been planned, but there wasn’t any mention of retreating. Surely Monchere’s men had beaten back the darklings. Cut off from reinforcements, those remaining enemies couldn’t hope to last much longer.
“Sir?”
The boy’s voice tore him out of thought. “Tell Dlorn I’m on my way.”
Taking off like a rabbit, the boy disappeared. Calri turned back to the river and inspected the gaping holes torn through the ice by the catapults. Disabled, there was no way the darklings would be able to use the river again. He began barking orders. Moments later, a fresh wave of s
crathes glided close.
The battle for the river had only begun but was already in full swing. Pikemen struck and moved as best they could, for the enemy was much better prepared this time. The first trench was lost, and the second getting precariously close to falling. If not for the elves, it would have already done so.
Bernt had never heard a sweeter sound than the rumble of two thousand heavy horse. Doubts of survival erased as the first rows of riders emerged from the curtain of darkness, wild-eyed and howling for revenge. He wondered which seemed madder, the darklings or Lestrin’s men. Armored horses crashed into the darklings, stealing the advantage and sending the smaller creatures scurrying for safety.
Old and beyond ready to retire, Bernt sensed this was the final act of a violent experience. “Ready the guns! Chief of batteries, I want as much fire put down on that river bank as we’ve got. Expend all ammunition and fall back. Fire at will!”
Tired, knocking on death’s door, the catapult crews hurried to their jobs. The first rounds erupted into the sky. It was at that time Bernt discovered Reeler’s mangled corpse. The old man almost wept.
Perryman paused atop the rise to catch his breath before charging down into the battle. Surely the gods of darkness were pleased with what they saw. Pockets of the underworld rushed up to swallow the ground where proud warriors once stood. The battle was getting close to the finish and he finally saw his battered army couldn’t win.
He had no choice but to retreat the troops, even with the reinforcements and lessening hail of arrows and artillery rounds. Perryman summoned his two captains and discussed his plan. They were to form a line and hold, allowing the weakened units to fall back sufficiently and do the same. This would keep going until either no darklings remained or they ran out of room to run, whichever came first.
Perryman watched events unfold. Darklings were closing in on the second trench. Pockets of defenders too slow to retreat fought valiantly, but were cut off and swarmed. If any managed to survive they wouldn’t be of any use in the continued campaign. When his last elements were in place, he signaled the trumpeter to sound retreat.
The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2 Page 17
