Strength of Swords (First Cohort Book 2)

by M. R. Anthony

  I felt another blast strike him, throwing up clods of dirt at his feet and making a wide crater around him. Still he stood, though his cloth hood had been torn away. I’d never seen what lay beneath and it was now clear why he kept it hidden. Whatever he’d once been, there was now nothing left but a skull, yellowed and without skin. It was human in appearance, with sockets that were nothing more than empty holes which seemed to absorb the grey light of morning. The feathered shaft of a black arrow appeared in his chest and I assumed that Shooter had tried his luck. The Hangman ignored it and another one appeared in his shoulder. The skull turned towards us, the movement slow and full of menace.

  Our own line was unbroken, but we were being gradually pushed back by the weight of their numbers. We were tireless, seeking to destroy the enemy’s will by making them fight for every inch they gained over this nameless field. A black tendril flicked into our front line close to me, pulling a man away and dropping him in the distance. There was another to follow it, this one catching Lieutenant Sinnar around the throat. He shouted, a sound of animal fury. His skin flared a bright, dark blue and the thread snapped, defeated by whatever strength Sinnar had found within himself.

  Two more of my men were taken from our midst and I sensed the early signs that our measured steps back were becoming less controlled.

  “Grids, if you take another step I’m going to cut your fucking legs off!”

  The enemy soldiers pressed onwards. They had many times our number, but this was only an advantage if they could bring them to bear. If they could encircle us, our destruction would likely be assured.

  I looked at their eyes, trying to gauge their state. They had the glazed look of men who knew nothing of the world, apart from that which was in front of them. There were young men and older men alike, each feeling the same fellowship as we of the First Cohort did with our own. They drew upon each other and strained against our swords and shields as we cut them down in vast numbers, caring not at all for their lives or their loves. This was no time for compassion and they had none to give us either.

  “Vinta get up and into that space!”

  “Flurry, don’t piss about with him! Stab the bastard! Do it now!”

  Step by step we were pushed back and my anger built, trying its best to destroy my reason. I had long ago gained control of it and I harnessed the strength it gave me. I joined them on the front rank, pushing my way through to take my space. When you’re on a knife edge, sometimes it only takes a single man to make the difference between a rout and holding fast for another minute. The black rope of the Hangman visited us once or twice. I think it may have reached about my neck at some point, but if it did I hardly noticed it, or maybe one of the men cut it free.

  Concussive strikes boomed nearby and dirt, sharp with fragmented stone rattled off my helmet, cutting my arm and leg as it shot by. I crashed a blow against the helmet of the closest man, sundering the metal and his head beneath it. The blade of my sword slid free easily, or perhaps it was just that I had the power to wrench it out without a struggle. Someone stabbed at my guts, with an axe of all things. Cricks cut off the man’s hand and I returned the favour by smashing my shield into the helmeted face of a man with a mace.

  “Don’t you dare die yet!” I heard Craddock shout. “Get up and kill them!”

  There was something tangled around my foot – intestines, glistening and tough. I kicked them away, catching a man in the shin with the hard cap of my boot. My sword took the man adjacent through the chest, puncturing the thin metal of his ancient breastplate with ease. Another sword stabbed the same man under the arm and the only thought I had was that one of us had wasted a blow.

  I took a step back as we were forced further away from where we’d started. I embraced my battle madness and saw the world in what seemed like a series of static pictures, each representing its own frozen moment of the battle. There was Lieutenant Sinnar, his sword held two-handed and his own look of insanity on his face. I saw the faces of two of the enemy as they looked at the sky, falling and with their throats cut by a single slash of my sword. I caught the moment that Flute took a dagger in the guts, his mouth open, but his resolve unbowed. I saw Ploster on the ground at my feet, his eyes were closed and the man behind us was pulling at him, trying to drag him away from the melee.

  Then it was back to the killing. My shield was gone, replaced by my dagger. I blocked with it or stabbed, using my sword almost like a bludgeon. The incoming strikes seemed so slow that I almost laughed at the enemy’s pathetic attempts to kill me. I saw the first signs of fear creep into the expressions of those in front of me. I cut them down without mercy. Something caught me on the helmet – a mace I think, but it didn’t addle my senses and I slew the man and those around him. Beamer’s shield deflected another blow aimed at my ribs and my word of thanks felt like it took an eternity to reach my lips. By the time it came and was spoken, another two men had died, their agony mattering to me not at all. My runed sword and dagger glowed so brightly that I swear they’d have lit up the main room of our barracks and they sang in a language only I could understand. Metal shrieked and tore, falling molten to the grass as I shattered armour and flesh alike.

  With each death, I felt our enemy’s certainty ebb, and in a way I could not understand I found that I could impose myself upon them – not just with my weapons and not just with my battle shouts, but something more, as if I drove the fear directly into their hearts and washed away their bravery. Our slow retreat ended and we stood toe-to-toe. Lieutenant Sinnar had found his way closer to me and our eyes locked for the briefest seconds. He was lost, deep inside himself in the same manner I had once seen him in Gold. I don’t know if he recognized me – it didn’t really matter. He killed our opponents with unending strikes, but even his movements seemed painfully slow to me and I danced my dance, leaving human detritus in my wake as I strode forward, pulling our line with me. Behind it all was Craddock, taking what we gave him and moulding it into a sharpened point that he directed and kept moving.

  They broke. They had tried to beat us and failed. Their front rows realised that they did not want to die today. They tried to squeeze through the ranks behind them, but those men didn’t want to face us either. It only took moments until their front four lines were pushing at the men coming forwards. The panic spread and they scrambled to get away from us, injuring each other as they fought to escape.

  We gave them no respite and allowed them to gain no distance. A few of our men picked up fallen spears and charged into the enemy, cutting without shame through unprotected spines as we did our best to rout them.

  The footing was treacherous and the bodies were piled three and four high in places. I scrambled over them, aiming a cut at a man nearby. I missed and he ran even faster. Today was his lucky day and I did not single him out for pursuit, though two of his fellows did not escape.

  I paused to see how Faye and Trovis fared and the news was not so good. Faye’s company was the largest by number, but it had also faced the greatest number of the Hangman’s soldiers. Her men had been pushed many paces away from their starting position and they were bowed in several places. I thought it almost a miracle that they still held together. I couldn’t make out the details of Lieutenant Trovis’ forces, but I could see that the Hangman was now directing his attacks almost solely on where they’d been standing.

  I heard another of the thumping percussive booms as sorcery was unleashed and I watched as more of Trovis’ men were flung into the air. Less than a second later, something flashed across my retinas, blue and incredibly bright. There was a crack, sharp and abrupt like a hundred trees snapping at once. I didn’t see the impact, but when my turning head caught up, there was char and ash amongst the few of Lord Trent’s horsemen that remained. Before they could change their positions, it happened again, but this time I caught sight of the jagged lightning that came down from nowhere, striking amongst them and reducing men and horse alike to blackened bone. The cracking sound followed again, but
I had already ceased following the trading of sorcery between our lady and the enemy.

  The men we’d routed fled directly away from us, and the farthest of them crossed the road in a blind panic. I could have taken us crashing into the flanks of the enemy centre, but I did not. Craddock caught on immediately and it took only two shouted commands before we changed course and charged full-pelt down the hill. We passed the enemy centre, locked in their own struggle and too far within themselves to even notice us. The Hangman noticed us, but made no effort to flee. My legs carried me effortlessly over the tufts of grass and I was first to reach him. This close he loomed above me, almost a foot and a half taller than I was.

  I covered the last few strides in an enormous leap, my sword high above my head. The men would laugh at me for my acrobatics, but they were welcome to do so if we lived long enough to enjoy the humour. The Hangman didn’t even bother to try and avoid the attack and my sword clashed off the rotten, yellow skull. I’d hit enough of these bastards recently to know what to expect and was prepared for the violent jarring impact, which shuddered along the blade and into my arms. The Hangman hardly even flinched, but I was not dissuaded and attempted to cut away one of his arms.

  Sinnar joined me, his own sword landing across the Hangman’s back. Our enemy staggered only slightly and the cloth of his tunic flapped open to reveal more bone underneath. Weevil got there and used the momentum of his charge to push the end of his sword through the Hangman’s chest. The blade sank in and came out smoothly. It’s nothing but a skeleton, I thought.

  Other men of the First Cohort arrived and surrounded the Death Sorcerer. For a moment, I thought that he was going to wait patiently as we whittled away chunks of his stone-hard bone until we eventually wore him down. He was not so passive and he raised one fist, still within the cloth of a glove. The clenching motion was clear and I felt a constriction take my throat, far stronger than the black threads had been. It lifted me from my feet and left me dangling three feet from the ground. I could still move my head and saw that at least another dozen of my men had been grasped by the magic.

  More of us arrived, and they rained blows upon the creature, but there was only so many of us who were able to attack at once. Another black arrow appeared from out of nowhere, embedding itself in one of the empty eye sockets. The force of its flight knocked the skull to one side, but I knew that you could have filled the bastard with arrows and he wouldn’t have cared at all. The hand raised again, clenching, and another few men were lifted upwards.

  I felt strangely calm. The glowing of my sigils warmed my body as they did their best to stave off the magic. I could tell that it wasn’t going to be enough and my vision began to dim. Even so, my brain continued its evaluation of the battlefield, or at least the part it that I could see. I noticed with some pride that Lieutenant Craddock had marshalled the remainder of the First Cohort and had set them in a defensive square against any counterattack from the fleeing men, or from the back ranks of the enemy centre. I watched him dispatch another group of ten to surround the Hangman and continue with their hacking at the unyielding bone.

  I don’t know where I have heard it said, but I have been told that in the final moments of strangulation, the brain feels a sense of euphoria. As I hung there, helpless against the Death Sorcerer’s magic, I realised that the chemicals in my brain were lulling me into accepting my fate. The knowing made me fight it and though the calmness remained, it was joined by a desire to fight, rather than to die.

  Whenever I got a feeling for the threads of the warp and weft, it was as though I sank through the ground until I was so low that I could see the tapestry. In the grasp of the Hangman’s sorcery, I had no connection with the ground, but I made a conscious effort to push myself into that place where I could see the intertwining of events and actions. It happened in the blinking of an eye and suddenly I saw the pattern, beautiful and strange. On this day, it was also deadly and I saw hundreds of unbound threads. They drifted away from the others, shrinking and withering as the lives they had been tied to were ended by steel and magic.

  There was something else: all around there were other tendrils, ephemeral, dark and strong. They had no business being there and they joined into the tapestry through the monumental force of the Hangman’s will. I couldn’t say how I did it, but it seemed easy to trace these impositions to their source. My ignorance of sorcery did not prevent me from using the power of my thought to sever the Hangman’s ties.

  I fell to the ground with a thump, landing with straight legs and jolting my spine. I reeled for a moment with my vision swimming. When my sight cleared, I saw that the Hangman had been staggered by my unexpected disruption of his sorcery and had dropped to his knees. Trusty was there, raining blows upon the exposed bones of the Death Sorcerer’s neck, whilst Sense and Cricks used their swords as levers and tried to pry apart the creature’s rib cage.

  I shook my head clear, aware of the men writhing around me as they struggled to recover from the Hangman’s spell. Something in my face must have told Trusty that it was time for him to step aside and he did so, just as I thundered in a giant slash. A chip flew up from the place I’d struck and the Hangman stayed low, as if it were now his turn on the executioner’s block. I hit him once more, as hard as I could remember hitting anything. As the men watched, I hit the Hangman time and again, my sword rising and falling in a blur, each blow as hard as the last. I didn’t know if he was trying to resist. It could have been that the relentless punishment against his bones took all of his sorcery to defend against. I doubt that he’d have just crouched there as I destroyed him. He was far older than any of the First Cohort and I knew that the evillest of creatures would do anything they could to cling onto their lives.

  With one last crashing blow, I separated his head from his neck. It fell to the grass and rolled unevenly for a couple of feet before it stopped, the eye sockets staring emptily at the ground. The Hangman’s body remained where it was, almost seeming to defy gravity. Slowly it keeled to one side, but I helped it on its way by planting my foot on one shoulder and giving it a push.

  “Is he dead?” asked Sinnar.

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. I stooped and picked up the skull from where it lay. It was heavy and felt like it was made of iron rather than bone. I wheeled around once and extended my arm, sending the skull flying over a wall into the long grass of an adjacent field. “We certainly don’t have the time to chop his remains into shards.”

  I looked at the other bodies on the grass around us. I’d not been quick enough to save three of my men – Vinta, Pog and Flute wouldn’t be continuing the fight.

  “I think I’m going to miss his music,” said Sinnar. In truth, Flute couldn’t play for shit, but we’d definitely miss the man.

  The Hangman’s death had gone unnoticed by his own side and as I surveyed the ongoing battle I could tell that they sensed victory. I reckoned they’d break through Faye’s lines sometime in the next minute or two. I didn’t spend any time thinking about it.

  “Come!” I shouted, waving an arm to bring the others with me. Craddock was a little way off, warily watching a few of the Duke’s army who had stopped out of range to taunt us. It was the bravado of beaten men and I doubted they’d be a threat. Still, it didn’t pay to take risks.

  We ran up the hill, meaning to detour around the bloody scrum at our centre. When I’d severed the Hangman’s magic, I’d felt the sudden realisation that his presence alone had been enough to keep his men in check. They knew that the Duke was gone and that they were risking their own lives not only for a man they despised but a dead man whom they despised. Even so, their hope was gone and they wished only to win this day and then return to their families and see what the future brought. Something told me that now was the time for the Saviour to make herself felt – not with her destructive magic, but with her radiance.

  I discovered that I had underestimated her again – a habit I was letting myself get into. As we sprinted up the hill, I felt
her presence seeping into me, as strong as it had ever been. I could see her banner further away between Trovis and Faye’s men. I didn’t know when or why she’d moved from her position dead centre, but she wasn’t moving now and sat regally in her saddle as the waves of calm washed out from her, encompassing the fighting men.

  I was still over a hundred yards away when I saw a figure appear amongst the twelve men I’d left as bodyguards. Shining steel caught the wan sunlight, rising and falling at such speed that it left traces across my vision.

  “Leerfar!” I said.

  Ninety yards.

  Sprinter was close by. He’d been keeping to my side, but didn’t need to hear orders to know what he had to do. He streaked away, leaving me and Sinnar bewildered at our lack of pace.

  There was confusion around the Saviour and I thought that two of my men had already gone down. Our lady turned to face the tumult, but it all looked to be too slow, as if Leerfar were the only one acting at normal speed. It will not happen again, I thought, feeling a surge of power as my legs pulled me ahead of Lieutenant Sinnar.

  Seventy yards.

  Still too far away for me to do anything, I watched as the spindly shape of Leerfar leaped six feet vertically upwards. I thought my eyes were deceiving me, for it looked like she had a blade in each hand again, though I’d utterly smashed the one she’d lost. Warmont’s specials seemed to be able to grow their lost body parts back almost at will.

  Fifty yards.

  As Leerfar leaped, one of her blades lashed out towards the Saviour. Our lady fell from the saddle, as if she’d been knocked from it by a giant club. Leerfar dropped from the height of her jump and I saw Heavy catch her across the chest with the thick pole of our banner. Heavy was a big fucker and it looked as if the force of his blow had swatted Leerfar away like a fly. The banner pole snapped and he followed in with his sword. Sprinter arrived, with his sword drawn.