by Leo Carew
He looked up at Roper for the first time and smiled. “I believe that. Do you two remember my dream? My quest? Reynar the Tall taught me that self-disregard can make you face death willingly, Kolbeinn that you can accept the ordeal itself. On my last day, I should like to show Reynar’s willingness and Kolbeinn’s acceptance. Do that, and I believe I will have succeeded in my life’s work.
“Come, my lord,” he said, rather suddenly. “We must follow Uvoren’s example.” He and Roper dispersed into the dusk like the grey smoke of their hearth, drifting through the ranks and offering reassurance to the legionaries. It got easier for Roper as the men came to know him better. Those who had campaigned with him before now fell still the instant he was by their fire, hoping he would come and share some words with them. Even those who were new under his command were eager to hear what he had to say; they had heard a lot about this Black Lord.
Roper came to one hearth of Blackstones. “May I join you?”
“Of course, lord.”
Roper shrugged his pack off his shoulders and sat on it. “Tomorrow’s going to be something special,” he ventured into the expectant silence. “This storm,” he gestured above at the oppressive clouds that had trapped a sticky warmth close to the ground, “will break some time during our fight. It’s going to be a deluge and one hell of a brawl on top of the Altar. It’s a narrow battlefield; our lines will clash many times and we’re going to batter them into submission each time, till they crawl away from the fight begging for quarter. We’ll stand toe to toe in the sand of the arena and trade shuddering blows and, by the end, we’ll be bloody but straight-backed. They’ll lie broken in the dust.
“I expect the Sutherners to find the Blackstones’ company the least bearable.” The men around the fire chuckled darkly. Roper smiled with them. “Every man here waited through that storm of arrows in the flooding. Many of you still limp from where the caltrops pierced your feet. You watched those treacherous bastards kill your brothers without ever daring to fight you hand to hand.” Roper smiled in grim anticipation. “The Sutherners are going to see the very best of you tomorrow. And when finally they dare to step inside the reach of your sword, they’re going to know about it.”
This was met with an appreciative murmur. “What is the battle plan, my lord?” asked one on the other side of the fire.
“Why would I need a plan? I have you. There aren’t as many Blackstones as there were, but there are enough for this fight.”
Roper could not stay long; the more hearths he could visit, the better. He told them about the last time they had fought, about Leon Kaldison’s courage in slaying Lord Northwic and how that had been facilitated by a demented Pryce, whose latest performance had seen him christened Pryce the Wild. Roper had bade them goodnight and turned away before his attention flickered back to the circle. “There is one Sutherner whose death I very much desire tomorrow. His name is Garrett Eoten-Draefend. Garrett the Giant Hunter. He’s a big man, with a lot of blond hair and a cloven nose. Anyone who can kill him and return his spear to me shall have my very great gratitude.”
“You shall have the spear if he comes my way, lord,” promised one.
“I don’t doubt that,” said Roper, fading into the darkness.
Some of the veterans at other fires probed Roper suspiciously. To them, he was a callow youth; still green and with little knowledge of battle. Roper did not mind: his legionaries were brave and his aim, as much as anything else, was to reassure them that they were well led.
“Are you scared, my lord?” asked one scarred Greyhazel legionary.
“Of course I’m scared. I may die tomorrow.” Roper shrugged. “That is a frightening thought. But it has to happen some day, and to die for my loved ones and my peers in the battle line is the best way it could possibly happen. The thought of that doesn’t scare me nearly as much as the idea of my nerve failing. Or of defeat, at the hands of these Sutherners. So yes, I am scared. I’m scared I won’t do my duty. But I do not think that will be a problem.
“We don’t know much about what we’re facing, but we know that Bellamus’s household warriors will be there. Do you know what they have done? They’ve carved out the bone-plates of our dead peers and wear them as their own armour.” The shocked murmur that greeted this news satisfied Roper. “I am scared. But I have no doubt that if I come face to face with one of those hermit crabs, my duty will coincide with my greatest pleasure.” Roper stood and had to conceal his surprise when the Greyhazel legionaries stood around him. “We’re going to march in at dawn tomorrow, lads. See you on the Altar.”
22
The Lightning Bolt
Dawn was a barely perceptible shift in the light on Harstathur. Roper could not have said where east was, so deep was the layer of cloud overhead. It seemed to magnify the sound of the drums that thundered oppressively as the legions formed up on the plateau. Trumpets blasted out across the line, dressing it to the narrow width of the field. Opposite them, perhaps a mile and a half distant, the Suthern army was assembling. Roper could not judge their numbers on the field but he could see pikemen: thousands of them.
He was riding Zephyr. To walk would have set an example to his men. To use a courser would have been more practical. But nothing gave him more of a presence on the battlefield than the monstrous destrier. Before Roper had mounted, Zephyr had been dressed in barding: a thick sark of armour plate and chain mail that covered the immense beast from ear to knee. The champron, the thick steel plate that covered Zephyr’s head, gave the horse a ghostly appearance, with barely any flesh visible beneath his steel skin. On another horse, the barding might have slowed it significantly. Zephyr barely noticed the weight.
No other general would so prepare their steed for close combat, but this was how Roper’s men had come to know him. This was the Black Lord, wiser than his years and with an unexpected flair for command. He had killed an elite legionary in single combat when the man had tried to assassinate him. He had marauded alone into a mist-smothered enemy encampment with little more than a horse and an iron nerve. He had devastated the Suthern forces by the sea. This was their leader, Roper Kynortasson.
At his back was a full legion of heroes. Pryce the Wild. Hartvig Uxison. Gray Konrathson. Uvoren the Mighty. Leon Kaldison. Vigtyr the Quick. Legionaries who, in any other age, would have stood peerless in the recognition of their skill-at-arms and their courage. And, as Gray had said, the hardest, most cussed army that had ever been at the Black Kingdom’s disposal. Most were veterans of dozens of battles: the distilled few who had outlived their brothers through skill and serendipity. Those who were new to the battle line were products of a system of duty and education that commanded their allegiance from birth.
The drummers pounded relentlessly as they marshalled on the Altar. They seemed to draw a response from the clouds overhead as the first peal of thunder rolled across the field. Roper was at the centre of the line beneath a fluttering Wolf. The legates, winged and brooding, were gathered around him on horseback along with Uvoren, Gray and several aides. Helmec, having been banished from the Guard and therefore unattached to any fighting unit, stayed with Roper as well. The Black Lord squinted at the Suthern ranks, suspicious that his eyes were not as good as some of the others’ there.
“It looks as though they’re almost entirely pikemen,” he said. “With a core of dismounted knights in the centre.”
“Skirmishers in front. Longbowmen behind,” observed Tekoa.
“That’s why Bellamus wanted us here,” said Gray. “We’ll have to take on these pikemen head on: we can’t possibly out-flank them.” Gray paused. “So what’s he done with that cavalry?” he murmured, almost to himself.
Roper shook his head and gestured to an aide. “Have all our arrows brought up from the baggage train, as fast as you are able. Ensure an equal number is distributed to each legion.” The aide tore off. “We’re going to stand off for as long as possible,” Roper told the assembled legates. “Bombard them with arrows to thin out the p
ikes. We do not want to engage pikemen head on unless we’ve softened them up first.”
Something tinkled off Roper’s armour. Looking down, he saw a hailstone the size of a pea cradled in the gap between his greave and his arm. “We’re about to lose visibility, lord,” advised Tekoa.
Roper nodded. “Peers, if you cannot hear the trumpeter, then command of your legion is purely yours until you hear from me. Hold the line; on this battlefield, much will depend on maintaining a disciplined formation. Skallagrim? Your lads to stay in reserve until they’re required.”
“Yes, lord,” said Skallagrim, a touch irritable at being held back.
“Tekoa? The Skiritai are to make a bloody nuisance of themselves out front as best you see fit. Make sure their skirmishers don’t bother us, enrage their pikemen and then withdraw between Ramnea’s Own and the Saltcoats in the centre before the battle line joins.”
“I will, my lord,” Tekoa promised.
“I will be in the centre, with the Guard and Ramnea’s Own. After the bombardment, we’re going to take it to the knights and will need your support on the flanks.” Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Hail was beginning to bounce off Roper’s helmet. “Peers; to your legions. Godspeed.”
“Godspeed, my Lord Roper!” boomed Tekoa. He dragged his horse around and raised a clenched fist in salute to the other legates. They cheered and turned for their own legions. A peal rang out from the trumpets; each made from a human femur and calculated to appal their Suthern opponents. The call aggravated the drumming and a shocking flash of light illuminated the battlefield, followed a second later by a crack so mighty that Roper could feel it as a physical change in air pressure. The hail intensified and a grey haze began to obscure the Suthern forces.
“This is like fighting in heaven,” murmured Roper. As he spoke, a forked bolt struck the ground between the two armies. “Uvoren,” he said, staring hard at the captain. He would be staying nearby as the Guard were in the centre with Roper. “I’m looking forward very much to seeing Marrow- Hunter in action.”
Uvoren rode close to Roper and held out his hand. Roper, a little surprised, grasped it. “Today, Lord Roper, you’ll see how much it hurt to stay in the Hindrunn. Those knights are mine.”
“Let’s get started,” said Gray. Roper gestured behind him to the trumpeter who blew out three long notes: Advance!
The drumming changed, unifying into a single beat that rippled along the line. The legionaries, usually so silent and professional, cheered as they began to advance. The visibility decreased drastically as the freezing hail intensified, so that now they could barely see twenty yards. Roper was grateful for his armour; the deluge felt like a physical weight pressing down on his head and shoulders, and he had to work hard to keep Zephyr under control as the destrier snorted and bucked irritably. He beckoned to one of the aides behind him. “Go after Tekoa,” he shouted over the roar of the hail and another rumble of thunder. “Tell him that I’ll need the Skiritai to tell us how far away the enemy are.”
The aide nodded and spurred away, using the battle line as a handrail to navigate through the downpour.
“Is this really your idea of heaven, lord?” called Gray through the din.
Roper laughed. “Strangely enough,” he called back. To Roper, heaven should be dynamic and awe-inspiring. His idea of being close to god was not to feel peace, but fear. The lightning was splintering the clouds and wave after wave of thunder was crashing over them. So ever-present were the bolts from the clouds that it looked as though they were the pillars supporting the sky. The legions appeared to freeze as the white light splashed over them, jerking forward again as it dissipated.
They continued their advance and it was not long before an aide returned to Roper, though not the one he had sent out. “Lord! Legate Tekoa says your portion of the battle line is five hundred yards from the knights in the Suthern centre. They are advancing as well.”
“How long ago did he tell you this?”
“Three minutes, lord?” hazarded the legionary. “The Skiritai have cleared away the Suthern skirmishers and they’re now withdrawing.”
“Sound the halt!” Roper bawled at the trumpeter who sent three notes soaring out. How far they made it through the hail, Roper could not tell, but the drums around him changed beat as the line ground to a standstill. A faint, mournful blast sounded from his right, then his left, echoing his orders down the line. “Bows!” A staccato burst from the trumpet, and Ramnea’s Own in front of Roper unslung their enormous yew bows. The drumming was not supposed to respond to orders like that and Roper could not hear any other horns echoing the order. But he trusted the legates: they knew the plan, even if they had not heard the order.
Without a word, Uvoren spurred away into the hail in the direction of the Sacred Guard. Gray glanced at Roper. “I’m going with him, lord.”
“Carry on, Lieutenant.” He left, leaving Roper with Helmec; Sturla, the legate of Ramnea’s Own, and a gaggle of aides. He considered giving the order to open fire into the haze, but in the downpour the arrows would quickly lose their force. “We hold until they are in view,” he said to Sturla. The legate, a man of singular calm, said nothing. He was bareheaded, with the hail collecting in his hair. It must have hurt, but he was expressionless.
“You!” Roper gestured at six of the aides. “Three go left, three go right. I want to know what is happening to the rest of the line. Are we firing on the pikemen? Can we even see them? Have some of the legions engaged? Bring that information to me as fast as you are able.” They scattered. Roper sent another two forward to wait before the front rank of Ramnea’s Own, with instructions to inform him as soon as they could see the enemy. He did not have to wait long; barely a minute later, one of them came tearing back.
“Men-at-arms, my lord! Advancing fast!”
“Volley!” roared Roper, for he could now see their hazy outline solidifying in the hail. Another staccato burst from the trumpet and the legionaries fitted arrows to their bows. In one immense movement, the entire block of men drew and loosed, spitting a volley at the knights who were now clearly visible, charging through the hail. It had no obvious effect and they were closing fast.
“Bows down, charge! Charge!” Three more notes from the horn and Ramnea’s Own Legion had thrown their bows aside and drawn swords. The horn insisted and the legionaries flooded forward.
Men-at-arms: the only soldiers the Sutherners had who could meet the legionaries on equal terms. They were armoured from head to foot in a suit of steel plate, and came from the wealthiest Suthern families. Their lives, while not as harsh or as disciplined, had been spent training for war as surely as the Anakim’s and they were truly skilled warriors. Their weapons were of their own choosing: the mace, the war hammer, the halberd or the great two-handed sword. The Anakim were more mobile in their lighter armour but, thanks to their bone-plates, just as well defended. An Unthank-silver blade was equal to puncturing the steel plate worn by the knights, but it would still take a thrust of considerable accuracy and power to break through.
They were well matched, the Suthern elites and the legionaries of the Black Kingdom and they charged now across Harstathur, through the pounding hail and the flashes of lightning. The two sides met in a great clang of steel on steel, and in the moment of impact it was the superior Anakim muscle that told, hammering the knights back.
Roper heard a second wave of thunder and knew that, to his right, the Sacred Guard had engaged with the enemy. “Drive them back, Legate!” he called to Sturla, turning Zephyr away and towards where he knew the Guard were fighting.
As he rode, an aide galloped alongside him. “I went as far as the Greyhazel, my lord,” he reported. “They have engaged the pikemen in volley fire but will soon have to fight hand to hand.”
“Thank you, Reifnir.”
The Sacred Guard were not far along the line and Roper arrived to find that they had carved out an alcove in the formation of knights, which was bowing in the centre to try and alleviate the pressur
e that the Guard was exerting. Roper could see Uvoren, who had dismounted and joined the fray in the front rank, duelling with a knight who wielded a bloody-edged great-sword. They twisted this way and that until finally Uvoren took Marrow-Hunter in his right hand, used it to deflect a blow aimed at his neck and then seized his opponent’s sword-arm, holding it still as he brought his hammer crashing down on top of the man’s head. His helmet crumpled, busted open, and the man dropped like a stone.
Right next to Uvoren was Gray. He was on the defensive, blocking thrust after thrust of a halberd that was being aimed for his chest. One lunge almost made it through, but Gray twisted aside just in time and the tip of the halberd caught the shoulder-plates of his armour, ripping them backwards and making Gray slide in the mud beneath him. He reacted by spinning round, allowing the halberd to dislodge from his plate and bringing Ramnea down in a great two-handed slash onto the man’s elbow, still extended from his lunge. There was no steel plate on the inside of the elbow and the sword took his forearm clean off, allowing his halberd to drop to the ground. The knight backed away from Gray, knees bent and intact left arm raised in quarter. Gray pushed the man away with a firm hand on his chest-plate and engaged another.
Roper wanted to see Pryce fight but he was nowhere to be seen. He briefly spotted Leon trying to tug his sword free from the helmet of a knight at the same time as ducking beneath a war hammer being aimed at his head, but then he lost sight of him in a crush of bodies. The entire line was writhing with violence, the battering hail seeming to make the warriors more aggressive than ever. Sparks and sometimes chips of steel flew off the weapons as they clashed. Everything was grey on the Altar, and the din of battle assaulted Roper’s ears. He saw one guardsman break through the guard of a knight and thrust his sword through the gleaming breastplate and into the stomach behind. His blade got stuck and the knight, pierced through by the guardsman’s sword, raised his own and swung it heavily at his enemy’s head. The guardsman was knocked flat, his helmet splitting open like an eggshell and blood blossoming from the fissure. The knight collapsed to his knees, helmeted head turned down to the sword in his belly. A guardsman decapitated him, pushed over his kneeling corpse and stepped forward to engage another knight.
