by Wilf Jones
Solan stumbled as a headless corpse piled into him, arms spread and clutching. He had cut into one of those arms and flinched as it curled around his neck, expecting to be covered in blood and nothing worse. And then he was gasping as the cold fingers pressed into his throat, the black nails ripping his flesh. Solan tore at the hand, desperate to shift it. He was on the verge of passing out when the grip slackened and he was free, free to breath again. He pulled the hand away, and just a hand was all it was, chopped off at the wrist by a swing that must nearly have shaved-off his nose. His saviour, rolling about under the rest of the thing, was screaming.
Solan hardly hesitated. He hacked at the remaining arm as best he could and then kicked and kicked and kicked until his comrade could roll away. The thought of having to touch the creature with his hands made his stomach heave. He swung his sword in a protective arc as his comrade got to his feet, but the fight had left them a few safe yards.
‘I owe you, Deller.’
‘And I you, Captain, so the debt’s even. Look out!’
Solan lurched aside as Deller swung and hacked at another of the walking dead. This one was unmarked so far, and quicker with its sword, parrying and attacking in turn. Deller alone would have been in trouble but Solan cut at the legs from behind and as it toppled they both waded in to dismember the thing. Deller was quick to strike, taking off the sword arm at the shoulder, but young Captain Solan stopped in midswing and could only watch, frozen-faced, as Deller completed the job.
Deller looked up when he had done. Forty years old he was, a seasoned campaigner, his Captain his junior. ‘You’ll get used to it, Captain. Think how much harder it would have been if it had been a real live woman.’
‘She looked so much like my wife. I couldn’t do it.’ Solan had seen her face and, though now hideous because of the death that gripped her, he realized she had once been beautiful.
‘With respect, Captain Solan, you’re going to have to do it again and again. Or we won’t survive.’
Solan shook himself mentally and physically. There was no time for this. To prove himself he thrust his sword hard into the eyes that still watched them, still watched even though the head and body were almost severed. With that stroke he destroyed all memory of her beauty. He felt the better for it. Lying before him now was just another rotten corpse.
The retreat came soon after and Solan lost sight of Deller in the chaos. The cavalry were amongst them and the horses heaving about threw up a rain of mud that covered hair, eyes and noses and clogged the wits of those on foot. It was hard to say whether the retreat was being punished by the enemy or not but after ten minutes the order to regroup was blown. To Solan’s surprise, he saw that the enemy lines had not moved a yard. Neither to pursue nor to gain ground. They had refused the advantage.
‘Warfare exceeding strange, Captain.’
Burstan sat on the ground not ten yards away, the reins of his horse curled loosely around his gauntlet.
‘Never more so, Senior Captain. A strange enemy and stranger tactics. Why don’t they take ground? They could have it for nothing. Is it fear that holds them?’
Burstan snorted in contempt.
‘The Dead fear the Living? The priests are always telling us that evil must fear the good, but I don’t see that either’
‘You think them evil then? Is it so clear, Burstan?’
‘I do; it is. The wizard’s story spoke of a kingdom of evil and we laughed at that, but is this not far worse than anything he could have imagined? There stands the proof. Their lives are long past. They don’t bleed, they don’t breathe. Have you heard one of them speak? Or shout, or scream? I doubt it. And their clothes and weapons: so many different styles. Who are they? What sort of place do they come from? A kingdom of evil, surely, and a land of the dead. You have to wonder how long they’ve been there, and where they were before?’
Solan shivered, perhaps from the cold. His eyes beheld the carnage beyond their line but more present to his mind was the image of the once beautiful woman he had killed for a second time, and he was full of his own questions. Was she once some man’s wife, some baby girl’s mother? Had she sung as she worked; had she a house near a river, with sweet peas in her garden?
‘What are you thinking, Solan? It’s not a good day for thinking.’
‘I was remembering my wife and my home.’
‘Don’t do it. Today all is duty: a hard thing when you have something to lose. Today it is everything.’ Burstan’s voice was matter-of-fact but there was a far-off look of loss in his eyes. Solan remembered that the captain’s wife had died several years ago in some sort of accident. Burstan caught his glance.
‘That was too hard. I’m sorry. For me the House is all I have left.’ He looked away, then suddenly, furiously, he demanded: ‘What are you doing here? You have a wife, children, a home. How can you desert them? Life is short enough without seeking death like this.’
Solan was surprised and had no ready reply. Why was he here? It was simple: ‘It’s my job,’ he said.
‘A hard job for a young husband.’
Solan shrugged. Looking forward and trying not to think about anything difficult, he saw movement in the enemy ranks. ‘Look: the line’s thicker. They’ve advanced more of their centuries.’
Fifteen minutes later they had new orders and made to follow them. Burstan began to lead his mounted troop away to the right of Solan’s foot brigade, but he had moved only a few yards when his mount stumbled in a foxhole and fell. The attack sounded as Burstan was struggling to his feet.
‘Ride on, Marrin,’ he shouted to his second, ‘There’s no time to wait. Ride on. Take the command, I’m for the foot now.’
His horse was lame and with tender regret he patted and stroked the poor beast before leaving it to its fate. ‘Well, young Captain,’ he said as he fell in beside Solan, ‘it seems I’m to fight by you awhile.’
‘That pleases me.’
‘We fight in pairs, I take it?’
‘That’s the order. We won’t go as fast but we’ll make less mistakes.’
‘I wonder, Solan, whether they’ll let us take our time. So far they’ve done nothing but hold their ground, but I’m hesitant to think it shows lack of imagination. They’ll do something.’
‘Yes, but should it affect us? It’s no use trying to contemplate tactics so close to the action. Lomal is looking for their answer. We can only cut and thrust; use our experience to stay alive. Win our own personal battles.’
Burstan turned a mocking eye toward the younger man. ‘Your pragmatism does you credit,’ he said, and not wholly ironically, ‘I hope that at his remove, Lomal doesn’t miss the answer, that he’ll know what to do about it, and that he won’t abandon us to our experience: an uncertain ally at the best of times. Look around you. A hundred experienced men lie dead already.’
‘Does age always make men cynical, Burstan?’
‘Not age, but war certainly. I’ve seen more of it than you. Quite honestly, I’m surprised I’ve lived this long.’
Solan, forging ahead, wouldn’t believe it. Burstan was a soldier, a Captain, a swordsman many aspired to emulate. Raising his eyes to the black line they advanced upon he said: ‘You must admit that getting through so many battles is a fair proof of skill.’
Just behind him Burstan chuckled, perhaps at the thought of his apparent fame. ‘Proof?’ he asked. It was his last word. Solan heard rather than saw the javelin. He heard the sickening thump as it sank into metal flesh and bone; heard Burstan gasp his final breath as it smote him full in the chest.
There was no time for grieving: the two armies charged at each other. It was the third file of centuries that brought the javelins, a weapon unfamiliar to the Partians, and their deadly shafts filled the air and hurt Anparas severely before swords could answer. Captain Solan, in his anger, danced thro
ugh the hail uncaring and was first to meet the enemy once more. His sword raked back and forth, biting and hacking. With a two-handed backward sweep he almost bisected the first creature before him. Pulling back to finish the job he yelled like a savage, voicing his anger in one long, unintelligible cry. It was a cry for Burstan, and a cry for himself, and for his wife and child. A sword had pierced his side and his life so soon was gushing out of him. He sank to the miry ground and though the air was full of the sound of trumpets he heard only the weeping of children, and saw only loving faces that quickly grew dim.
Xandra was in a frenzy of excitement; there was no holding her. Oh, it was certainly Jaspar who ordered the sortie, but what choice did he have in deciding who would lead it? None. He’d tried to remind her of the earlier disaster but somehow she managed to see that incident as some sort of personal success. He’d tried to suggest caution and she had told him to hang his caution. ‘So be it,’ he’d said, ‘If you choose to forget that you’re Mador’s heir, and your responsibility is to the whole of Pars, then go on. Take your own way as usual, but make sure, make very sure that you lead my people either to victory or safety. This is no time for heroic sacrifice.’ And she’d gone, a scornful glance his only answer.
Jaspar raised a hand. The trumpets blew a more wholesome note than had foredoomed the previous sortie and the gate opened. He stood on the wall above the gate and watched as she emerged at the head of the four hundred, her red hair blazing as it fanned out from beneath her helm. In some ways he envied her. He’d always envied her though there was no jealousy over her position – the title ‘Heir’ was not at all attractive. What he admired and coveted was the heedless resolve, the unthinking bravery, the ungovernable recklessness: in short, all of those things in her he most criticised.
Battle suited Xandra. It made him sad to realize that it would eventually destroy her. It needed no soothsayer to foretell that.
Below him the cavalry thundered onto the high field that lay before the gates and, predictably enough, was led to attack the largest part of the enemy that remained, despite his order that they should deal first with the smaller contingent on the right. ‘Damn woman!’ he muttered, well aware that those nearby could hear him. Needing something else to think about he called for reports from the cwm-side of the castle.
The fog had lifted at or about the tenth hour or rather, it had disappeared as though it was no longer required. Below the Francon Gate they were ranked, grey on green, a huge army of at least three thousand. But three thousand what? They were people of sorts but so pale. They had with them ladders and rams, they carried swords and some sort of spear. Not one of them brandished a bow; there were no siege engines or catapults. Jaspar thanked his gods for that mercy but found himself uneasy about it: why were they lacking? Because they weren’t needed?
Seconds before the first assault from the valley, runners from the rear walls had brought news of another army massing in the cwm. From that moment until the arrival of Anparas in the valley, all that the defenders of Greteth knew was frantic, desperate action.
It was only the numbers in opposition that daunted him. The front of the castle was not wide, nor the rear. Only a fraction of the enemy could attack at any one time and the defenders found it surprisingly easy to dislodge ladders and climbers. The ram carriers were halted time and again by hails of boulders. But the Partians grew weary as the hours passed and their store of boulders ran low. It was true that the constantly renewed front rank of the enemy could gain little momentum as they stumbled over the boulders that had already fallen, but neither their numbers nor their enthusiasm for the attack diminished.
It had been quite some time before the defenders realized the implication of that fact. Their opponents were not dying. Save for those few with massively broken limbs, each of them simply got up and walked away from sure fatality. Eventually a few managed to mount the walls and the truth was discovered.
The situation was beginning to seem impossible but then Lomal and his army arrived. The attack on the castle front was halted as the enemy commanders began to reorganize. Shortly ten centuries turned away from Greteth to make their way down the valley. Anparas would not be made welcome.
Jaspar, Xandra and the Commanders of the House of Sands all ran to the highest tower to view the battle and to discuss their next move. It was then that they saw the failure of Anparas’ first-attack, then that they watched the enemy reinforcements swelling the ranks of Lomal’s opposition. It was Jaspar, anticipating what Xandra might say, who decided upon a major sortie. Anparas was disengaged but would soon advance once more against heavier odds. The Lord of Sands hoped that by initiating an attack of his own he might draw off some of the weight of bodies that Lomal faced. If they timed it right, retreating as soon as the reinforcements returned to the castle, he might keep the enemy commanders vacillating between the two fronts.
And so it was that, as Solan Cole lay dying in the valley, Jaspar let blow the trumpets and his cavalry burst forth to smite a blow at the heart of the enemy. If such an enemy could be said to have a heart.
Jaspar listened to the reports from the cwm. They were not good: the supplies of arrows and stones were running out; the wall had been topped several times, the creatures that attacked them barely repulsed. Jaspar looked out at the cavalry. Xandra was in her element, losses seemed few.
‘Stimson,’ he said, ‘keep me in touch. I’m for the east wall. If the battle turns don’t wait for me, sound a retreat – and don’t hesitate or we’ll suffer for it.’
The fight for the east wall was hectic. Selby was commanding. Jaspar was happy to give the man full responsibility. Arguments in council didn’t alter the fact that Selby was a fine leader. By sending the commander to control the rear defences, Jaspar was not simply keeping him out of the way. The dispute and the bad feeling between them had not been settled, however, and Jaspar was apprehensive about the commander’s mood.
‘Come to check up on me, have you?’ Selby sneered as soon as his Lord approached. ‘Making sure I play it your way?’
‘You’re in command here, Selby.’ Jaspar refused to be drawn, but there was no warmth in his voice. ‘What’s your report?’
‘They attack, as you see, and we defend. They’ll win unless something miraculous happens. I heard Anparas had arrived.’
‘Two thousand, at a guess.’
‘Not enough.’
‘I’d say not, Commander.’
‘We agree on something then.’ Selby didn’t smile but pulled a face as though he’d just bitten on something unpleasant. ‘Do you think Anparas a fool, Lord Jaspar?’ he asked.
‘I have not left the valley front to check up on you. Anparas is no fool and it’s worth remembering that Temor’s army has yet to be accounted for.’
‘That was my thought. Let’s hope we’re right and that they come sooner rather than later.’
‘It’s obviously a day for agreement, Commander Selby. A shame it needs impending doom to force it.’
Jaspar and Selby had a hard hour to wait before their guess proved good, and in that time Xandra’s glorious attack had turned to predictable retreat and out in the valley Lomal’s soldiers weakened and died, the green Francon turned red and the living slipped and stumbled and struggled on.
THE CONQUEROR
Francon valley 3057.8.8
Tregar entered the nightmare. Lord Temor’s initial and seemingly successful dash had been clawed to a halt. Now each of his men was engaged in a dance of death, hacking and writhing and screaming, desperate to get away from throttling hands or a crushing embrace. The first walking cadaver Tregar encountered wore gleefully its badge of arrogance: a Partian knife that skewered its heart and emerged bloodless between spine and shoulder blade. Despite the horror of what he saw, Tregar didn’t delay and hefted his sword with all his considerable might at the creature’s neck. The leering face was smash
ed away and the head rattled round, dangling from a strip of yellowed flesh and skin. The body came on and only tumbled to the ground when Tregar chopped at its legs. That was the first of many as the wizard threw himself body and soul into the conflict.
Through the clatter and screams he heard Lord Temor’s voice booming out: ‘Arms and legs, lads! Top and tail ‘em!’ Tregar glimpsed him through the press and he was cutting up rough around him. ‘Arms and legs,’ he yelled again, ‘Can’t do anything without ‘em!’ He was an inspiring performer and the men who heard and saw him shook themselves, shook off the terror, and got down to work. There was one soldier, however, who needed no encouragement. There was one young man who was like a bull in the pottery, a stampede through corn, a tornado through a village of straw: he demolished, destroyed, razed all before him. Seth Cookson was unstoppable. The long, black sword swung and whirled faster than the eye could follow. The lad was possessed of a battle lust, and a power to indulge it, that Tregar had never seen in his life. It was breathtaking to behold, and also very frightening. Tregar was relieved the enemy had nothing like him.
Following this example, Temor’s men flung themselves into the carnage with renewed vigour. As Seth sang and yelled, they sang and yelled, and perhaps it was only Tregar who thought the singing somewhat hysterical.
But there was one who was silent. One who stood a little out of it and watched as the black sword rose and fell. The ruby eye seemed to wink at him. Cal’s face wore tragedy for a mask as he witnessed a more horrifying sight than all the walking dead could ever be: as he saw his gentle brother turned into a bloodthirsty monster. Tears fought for release on that face and won and Cal Cookson turned away from the battle.
Tregar MacNabaer had no time to study or wonder and hardly noticed as Cal walked back into the cwm. He had more pressing problems.
