by John Marco
‘I’m sure I don’t know, my lord,’ said Aric. ‘Just let me fight—’
But Raxor was already ignoring him, berating Craiglen for still being there. He ordered his old friend away, and with a reluctant nod Colonel Craiglen galloped off, toward the northern bridge. Raxor shot orders to the other officers, sending most of them scurrying. Around them the catapults screamed like twisting metal as the crews began getting them into position.
‘There wasn’t time,’ Raxor growled. His eyes grew distant. Aric could tell he was thinking of his son. ‘They come like wolves.’
‘My lord?’ Aric probed. ‘Prince Roland?’
Raxor shook his head. ‘They just started coming, Aric.’ The old man looked lost. ‘There was nothing. No word, no warning.’
The words were horrible, made more so from a father’s lips. Aric stood frozen even as a squire hurried up to him with a horse.
‘My lord, I’m sorry,’ he offered. ‘But maybe—’
‘He’s dead,’ said Raxor, cutting him off. ‘Get on your horse, boy.’
The horse that had appeared was not Aric’s own but a larger, brown gelding already outfitted for battle, with iron plating along its flanks and hammered metal covering its snout. It chewed anxiously on its bit as Aric mounted then wheeled it about, wondering where they were headed.
‘What now?’ he asked the king.
Raxor was already on the move. Flanked by lieutenants, the old man was quickly giving orders, pointing out different regions of the battleground as he rode. They were woefully unprepared for the attack, that much was plain. Aric could see the trepidation on Raxor’s face.
‘The dogs,’ the king called back to him. ‘They’ll be first.’
Up ahead, the dog handlers waited, each of them holding a leash of ten snarling mastiffs. At least two-hundred of the beasts barked at the horizon, eager to race toward the bridge. The handlers looked at Raxor anxiously. Cavalry men still gathered near the line. Aric imagined Raxor’s strategy. The dogs, he knew, would buy them time.
‘Let them go,’ Raxor ordered.
The handlers released the beasts. One by one they twisted the chains from their stout collars, sending the mastiffs snarling into the night. The air filled with their angry barks. Soon the field was flooded with them, their powerful bodies bounding toward the bridge.
Aric watched them go, sure that on the other side of the river, his father awaited them.
Baron Glass charged for the bridge, his body encased in his magical armour. Through the eyeslits of his helmet, night had become day, and he did not need the feeble moon to light his way. Like his enchanted, missing arm, his entire frame became one with the armour, animated by Kahldris and his powerful magic, and Baron Glass did not feel the weight of its metal or the constriction of its binds. As light as a robe, the Devil’s Armour danced on him, forming to him like a second skin. His fingers articulated perfectly in his spiked gauntlets, and the Akari sword he carried into battle felt like a twig, feather light as it whistled through the wind. Behind him, an army followed, straining to keep up with the baron as he hurried toward the river. Among them were the only Liirians in the battle, a company of loyalists to Thorin led by a man named Siagan. Siagan had answered Thorin’s call to arms, gathering Kothans to his banner with the promise of gold. Unlike Liiria’s Royal Chargers, they were outlaws and farmers, mostly, but they were Liirians still and so rode with their new king into battle.
Beside Thorin, the mercenary Rase fought to keep up with the baron. Like Siagan, he too had soldiers with him, nearly a thousand Norvan mercenaries. Rase, a friend of Rodrik Varl, had replaced Varl as Thorin’s top mercenary. Rase kept low in the saddle as he rode, his eyes fixed on the coming river and the men beyond. They had surprised their enemies, clearly. Across the Kryss the Reecian soldiers hurried to arrange their defenses. Thorin watched as the catapults screeched into place and the horsemen circled in confusion. In the centre of the Reecian army, the banner of King Raxor wavered in the breeze, lit by smoky torchlight. His army of ten-thousand moved like a wave on the horizon, undulating into action. They were more numerous than Thorin’s forces and better equipped, and yet Thorin had no fear at all.
No fear, Kahldris whispered in his ear.
And Thorin knew the truth of Kahldris’ words, and did not fear the giant army on the river’s other side. He could not be nicked by a Reecian sword or felled by a Reecian arrow or overwhelmed by their great numbers. And when he saw the Reecian dogs, he simply nodded.
‘Look at that!’ cried Rase.
Swarming over the bridge came the mastiffs, spreading out like a screaming tide. Racing across the field, their necks encircled with steel collars, their bodies mailed and thickly muscled, the war dogs darted through the darkness, their open jaws snapping toward Thorin’s army. Siagan called back to his men, ordering them to ready themselves. Rase and his mercenaries tucked down on their mounts. Mastiffs choked the bridge as they fought to reach the field. Those already on the field made ready to pounce.
Baron Glass saw the dark eyes of the dogs and braced himself. At the point of his army, he raised his sword and commanded his men into the fray.
‘To the bridge!’ he cried.
Then like a hammer the first mastiff struck him. Leaping through the air, the great dog launched himself up and over Thorin’s horse, catching the baron square in the chest. Thorin’s ears rang with the scraping of nails and the slobbering snarl of a snapping jaw. Surprised, he caught the beast by the throat and hurled it aside, only to have two more swarm him. His armoured legs easily parried their insistent jaws as the beasts tried vainly to take hold. Thorin yelled out in anger, used his sword to dislodge the first, then wheeled his horse to face the second. Instantly other mastiffs joined the meˆle´e. Thorin found himself surrounded. Already Rase and Siagan were in battles of their own. The field filled with cries.
‘Come!’ Thorin taunted, waving his sword.
The mastiffs stalked closer, then leapt. Thorin felt their blows as the armour deflected them all. He had but to turn to and they were off him, sliding like water off his black metal skin. Around him, Rase and his mercenaries fought off the worst of them, their advance cut down by the wall of dog flesh. The monstrous dogs easily pulled the mercenaries down from their horses, dragging them screaming through the night. Siagan and his Liirians hurried to aid them, slashing a path through the mastiffs.
Thorin turned, then felt another of the dogs tearing at his boot. The fangs should have easily pierced the leather, but the magic of the Devil’s Armour surrounded every bit of Thorin, and as the dog hopelessly tried getting hold of him Thorin reached down and took hold of the mastiff’s metal collar. The dog growled and thrashed its huge body, fighting like a fish as Thorin lifted it from the ground. It snapped its jaws in Thorin’s face, trying to reach him. Bringing down his helmeted head, Thorin crushed its skull. As the mastiff went limp, Thorin tossed it aside, determined to make for the bridge.
There, he saw a hundred more mastiffs waiting to fight him. Undaunted, he slogged his way across the bloodied field.
*
Colonel Craiglen arrived at the north bridge just as the mercenaries reached the river. His own forces, led by a young officer named Darltin, had arrived only minutes earlier, and were gathering to meet the mercenaries in battle. Craiglen found Darltin in the chaos and quickly took command, ordering his own company to the bridge. He could see the wave of Norvans cresting on the other side, disappointed that they had not reached their destination sooner. Amazingly, Baron Glass had sent a larger part of his army to the north bridge than he had the main one, where Raxor was battling. Counting up their numbers in the darkness made Craiglen blanche. Along with the companies of Darltin and Tom, he had perhaps a thousand men under his command, but it seemed to Craiglen that the Norvans had at least that many, a ragtag army of enraged mercenaries without any cause to fight for save their own enrichment.
Craiglen had no dogs or war machines to stem the tide. The catapults, which
weren’t ready anyway, had all been stationed further south to hold the central bridge. It would be man to man here, Craiglen knew.
‘The way things ought to be,’ he muttered.
Colonel Craiglen could remember his every battle. He had been charmed since birth at the art of fighting, gifted with a sword and touched by heaven so that he’d never once been wounded. And yet, seeing the mercenary army made him afraid. At the bridge, he watched as the first of Darltin’s men forded the river, the Norvan mercenaries quick to meet them. On the other side of the Kryss waited the rest of the motley force, some trying to come across on horseback and being swept away by the fast-moving tide. The Reecians picked at them with arrows. Others sent volleys skyward, reaching across the Kryss to strike the enemy. Craiglen thought for a moment, wondering how best to direct his forces. It was simply a fight for the bridge, he determined quickly. On the bridge, the battle would be won. Or lost.
Craiglen took out his sword and thundered forward. At the top of his voice he called his men to follow, rallying them to war. With his company in tow, he raced for the bridge, and when he reached it fought his way to the front of the meˆle´e, slashing past the Norvan blades, face to face with his foes. Yards away he saw the dark-skinned man. Craiglen recognized him at once. He had come with the Norvan colonel that day to talk peace at the bridge. Enraged, Craiglen brandished his blade high.
‘You, desert man!’ he cried. ‘Scum!’
They were fine fighters, all of them, these men who the dark man commanded. Like their leader, many of them had the same sun-baked skin and wild, colourful garb. With their curved swords and leather-wrapped spears, they clashed against Craiglen’s armoured cavalry, smashing together with a thunderous din. Craiglen muscled his horse across the bridge, step by agonizing step toward the dark-skinned leader. One by one he fought through the mercenaries, bringing up his sword against the attacks. His soldiers bolstered him, surrounding him as men and horses tumbled from the bridge. Craiglen fought for every inch, screaming at his quarry, who at last caught a glimpse of him through the battle. Craiglen spat in his direction.
The desert man spun off from his fellows and headed for Craiglen. The old Reecian colonel obliged, using his shield like a battering ram to pass the throng of fighters. With his sword at the ready, Craiglen brought it windmilling overhead just as his foe came in range. Instantly the dark man had up his defense. The two circled, exchanging blows, Craiglen blocking with his shield while the other used only his expert sword arm. Ignoring everything around them the men were like dancers locked in a deadly waltz. Craiglen renewed his attack, driving the mercenary to the edge of the bridge.
‘Is this how you talk peace?’ he raged. ‘By murdering the prince?’
The desert man grunted, fighting off the big man’s blows. Nearby, his men saw his predicament and cried out to him.
‘Kaj! The edge!’
Too late, the desert man saw the stone rail. Forced into it by Craiglen’s horse, he leaned back too far to avoid the Reecian sword. Craiglen pressed his attack, but the other mercenaries had charged forward now, pushing and unbalancing him. Now both close to tumbling, the two men grabbed for each other. The desert man was going over. Craiglen could see it in his eyes. Too close for swords, they grappled with each other until the pressure from the battle drove them over the edge.
Only blackness filled Craiglen’s eyes. He felt the sensation of the world whipping by, then the stunning cold of the river.
King Raxor ordered his cavalry to the bridge.
It had taken almost an hour for Baron Glass’ forces to deal with the mastiffs, more than enough time for his men to make ready. Lines of archers had filled the air with arrows, softening up the mercenaries and the complicit Liirians while the dogs slowed their advance. Behind Raxor, the catapults were finally ready to launch. Each one had a brazier filled with hot coals, burning wood and flammable liquid, ready to send the potent mixture skyward. Along the river, handfuls of Norvans had fought their way onto Reecian soil, making human chains and using ropes to pull themselves though the Kryss. Skirmishes had broken out all along the bank, but on the bridge, barely visible to Raxor, a small number of mastiffs still held back the bulk of Glass’ forces. Reports were coming in from the north and south. Raxor listened to them all keenly. Craiglen’s men had so far held the bridge, but in the south the mercenaries had already broken through.
‘How the hell can that be?’ Raxor shouted, glaring at his young lieutenant.
‘They have more men, my lord, and they reached the bridge before us.’
‘Darltin?’
‘Still alive,’ the officer reported. ‘He requests more troops.’
Raxor quickly dispatched another company, this one a reserve unit he’d hoped to use himself against the baron. The young lieutenant thanked his king and galloped off, guiding the new troops south. But Raxor knew that the south was already lost. Once the bridge was breached, stemming the tide would be impossible.
‘My lord, let me go with them,’ pleaded Aric Glass. So far, he stayed true to the king’s order, never wandering far. Together they had watched the battle unfolding in the moonlight.
‘Stay,’ the king commanded.
‘My lord, I’m useless to you here. Let me fight, please!’
‘Useless? You are useless?’ King Raxor at last took the time to look at Aric. Despite the battle raging around them, he spoke in a soft, kindly voice. ‘When this over, you might be the most important person in the world to my kingdom.’
Aric shook his head. ‘I have to see my father. At least let me do this.’
‘Rubbish. You’ll stay here, boy. Stay safe. You have a mission to accomplish.’
Aric smouldered as Raxor turned aside. At the bridge the Reecian cavalry met the first of Glass’ men.
Overhead, Thorin heard the roar of fire. Streaking skyward came the hot missiles from the Reecian catapults, firing one by one in rapid succession, lowering their deadly payload among his troops. Behind him he saw the impact as the first load of coals and liquid exploded, splaying out like a fiery hand amidst the unprepared Liirians. Siagan had fallen back, his men pushed to the rear by the onslaught of the mastiffs. Among his men he still fought the last of the dogs, but when the payload crashed around him his horse reared up with a cry. For a moment the night turned to daylight as the flames engulfed the soldiers, dazzling Thorin with its terrible light. He wheeled on the bridge to see the result as another missile crashed, this time closer than the first. By the time the third one hit Thorin could not see Siagan at all.
The baron spun around to face the coming cavalry. A rain of arrows continued to fall, heralding their arrival. Rase and a few dozen of his men had reached the bridge, ducking the deadly shafts. Thorin raised his sword to rally his mercenaries.
‘No retreat!’ he cried. ‘The bridge is ours! Don’t give it up!’
But as the Reecian horsemen thundered closer, the baron’s boast seemed hollow. Thorin braced himself as the lead riders lowered their lances. More of his men were fast approaching, but the Reecians made a tidal wave as they approached, shaking the bridge with their attack. The first of the horsemen galloped across, aiming straight for Baron Glass. Without a shield to parry the lances, Thorin let his armour take the blow. The horseman aimed his weapon. Thorin steeled himself, then felt the lance smash against his breastplate. Splinters flew as the weapon buckled. Stunned, the rider kept on going, straight ahead toward Thorin’s blade. The sword whistled and the head tumbled, and the Devil’s Armour drank the blood that fell like rain.
Now the Reecians swarmed the bridge. Thorin felt the madness descend. His blade was everywhere, finding every mark, shattering his enemies as his magic armour glowed with life. It writhed on him, its metal hot with blood, its black spikes moving like snakes. Against the hurricane of Reecian lances Baron Glass withstood the storm, not giving back an inch as the Reecians came to challenge him. His sword arm swung without tiring, cutting down the cavalry and littering the bridge with corpses.
Amazed, Race and his mercenaries pressed onward, shielded by the miraculous killing machine.
‘Let them come all night!’ bellowed Baron Glass, sure that somewhere across the bridge Raxor watched with dread. He ignored the arrows pelting his hide, and paid no heed to the sky filled with fire. He forged on, meeting every lance and sword, easily besting the Reecian barrage.
You see! Kahldris laughed. How beautiful you are! How indestructible!
‘Yes!’ Thorin cried, loving the sweet madness. ‘I’m alive again!’
Undaunted, the Reecians came across the bridge, and one by one Baron Glass slaughtered them. And while he fought his Devil’s Armour fused to him, taking every blow like a gentle kiss.
Colonel Craiglen exploded up out of the water. Around him he heard the roar of the river and the screams of men. He gulped for breath, groping for anything that would get him to shore. Next to him, the mercenary who’d tumbled with him over the bridge was swimming for shore. The dark-skinned man had survived.
Exhausted, Craiglen went after him. His aching arms stroked quickly through the river, fighting the current to reach the rocky bank. The mercenary glanced over his shoulder.
‘Don’t follow me!’ he cried.
Determined to catch him, Craiglen kicked and pinwheeled his arms, forcing himself to breathe. His body ached from the concussion of the fall. His head pounded with agony. Still he swam, and just as the mercenary clawed his way ashore he caught hold of the man’s boot.
‘No way you live!’ he growled, pulling him back into the river. The man kicked out, catching Craiglen’s jaw and sending teeth and blood flying. But the old colonel kept hold, and with his other hand freed the dagger from his belt.
‘Dog!’ he spat. ‘Dog for hire! That’s what you are!’
Colonel Craiglen raised his dagger, and in that moment saw the stranger on the bank, lowering a crossbow. With an awful, split-second calculation he realized he was dead. He cried out, leaping from the river like a shark, plunging his dagger into the dark man’s back. The man called Kaj cried out, his head falling hard against the rocks. Then came the twang of the crossbow.
