by Leo Carew
“Serve! Serve! Serve! Serve!”
It was evident madness. Disordered foot soldiers versus a shocking charge of heavily armoured knights could have only one winner. But there was something dog-like about the legionaries. Unshakeable unity and commitment to a cause had been drilled into them from their earliest years, so that now they were prepared to die for the sheer sake of it. Because they were not used to defeat and could not countenance retreat. Because they trusted Gray implicitly. Because the will to resist had passed all logic or reason. Because.
“Serve! Serve! Serve! Serve!”
The knights were roaring too as they charged at this hastily assembled line, sensing victory. They were forty, thirty, twenty yards away. Roper saw Helmec reach the back of the line and plunge into it, pushing for the front rank. The knights lowered their lances and struck home.
It was like a gate being splintered by a ram. The front two ranks of legionaries were hurled backwards: bowled off their feet by the momentum of the cavalry charge. Gray had vanished beneath a press of falling bodies and the knights plunged onwards, fragmenting the Greyhazel. The line of knights was rearing up, as a wave rolls onto a beach, as they climbed the barricade of bodies thrown down before them. But still the legionaries pressed forward, laying down their flesh just to slow the momentum of the charge. Roper saw Helmec go down, smashed off his feet by a careening horse, only to rise again and continue pushing forward, obviously casting around for Gray. The sheer mass of bodies hitting the ground was horrifying, with warrior after warrior being buried in a pile of his fellows.
The knights were slowing. They had to keep moving or they would be dragged down and hacked apart but this disordered legion was resisting beyond any expectation; resisting like mud, clinging onto the horses and sucking at the riders’ boots. Some of the knights were falling now; as the momentum from their charge began to fade so they turned, riding back the way they had come. They rode clear, leaving behind a flattened, writhing mass of the living and the dead. Legionaries still pressed forward after them, still infected by that bloody-minded will to resist, but the ranks were thinner now. Many had fallen, dead or injured by the Suthern cavalry, and those bodies impeded their peers who stumbled and slipped as they pursued.
It was a horrifying achievement: the most impressive example of what it meant to be a warrior that Roper had yet seen. With little hope, order or expectation, the Greyhazel had resisted and somehow managed to rebuff a fully armoured charge. But they would not beat a second. The knights were regrouping beyond the battle line and preparing another charge. Gray was down: he had been in the overwhelmed front rank and was now nowhere to be seen. Helmec had vanished again. The Greyhazel were scattered and stumbling and the knights were beginning to surge forward once more. A Suthern trumpet blew out, inviting the knights on to finish the Greyhazel.
“Skallagrim, advance!” shouted Roper. “We must stop this charge!” Skallagrim signalled for his legionaries to advance but it was all too late: they were too far away and the dazed Greyhazel would be obliterated. That Suthern trumpet called again and some of the pikemen were cheering as they sensed their side’s victory. The knights were thundering forward; fifty, forty, thirty yards away.
The heavens burst.
There was a crack so loud that Roper did not hear it apart from the ringing noise that reverberated in his ears afterwards. A flash like ten million stars burst into life before Roper’s eyes. Some fissure in the matter of which the world was made was blown open and a bolt of pure energy escaped. It scarred his vision, so that all he could see was the stain of that unbelievable burst of power. Besides it, the rain-drenched world was dim and diluted. A violent tingling surged through Roper’s torso and out to his fingers, as though a thousand-thousand strings running through his body had been plucked simultaneously.
Roper could not think. He could see, but what he could see was of no consequence. Something stirred in his vacant brain. But the cavalry, said his mind. The cavalry, the Greyhazel: what’s happening? He looked for the horses that had been bearing down on the Greyhazel but the formation had atomised. It took Roper stunned heartbeats that felt like minutes to work out what had happened.
A bolt of lightning.
The lightning that had been flashing upon the battlefield for hours had finally struck something and had blown out the heart of the Suthern cavalry charge. A few dozen had been blasted away from the point of impact and now lay smoking and stirring feebly on the ground. The horses that still stood had bolted in all directions, away from the lightning. Some of the knights were reeling drunkenly away from the scene, their momentum suddenly disturbed. Perhaps forty knights who had been in front of the lightning did not seem to realise what had happened to their comrades and had hit the Greyhazel, but they were drastically outnumbered. Behind them, the charge had faltered. Silence seemed to have fallen. Most of the surrounding infantry had simply stopped to look on in awe.
There was only one thing to do.
Roper spurred forward and tore his helmet backwards so that his face was exposed. “Well?” he roared with all the force of his lungs. “What are you waiting for? Do you want more proof that god is on our side? Charge! Charge!”
The trumpet sounded again and, with a roar, Skallagrim’s men streamed forward, heading for the gap through which the Greyhazel were already pouring. They rushed the disorientated Suthern knights and began to butcher them, dragging them from their saddles, cutting their reins and bringing down their horses. Roper knew that now was the time to gamble and was driving Zephyr forward into the press of legionaries who were pulling apart this gap in the Suthern battle line. “Gray!” he called. “Helmec! Where are you?” If they were still on the ground, they would surely be crushed by this swarm of legionaries that now assaulted the knights. “Gray! Helmec!” Roper swore to himself again and again. Then one last time: he could not worry about two of his soldiers at the expense of so many others. He spurred Zephyr forward, screaming like a madman so that the legionaries made room for him. Zephyr took no more than a few moments to clear the press and burst into the open ground on which the knights were reeling.
Bellamus had indeed deliberately created the gap in the Suthern line, seeking to draw the Anakim through where they would then be swept away by his heavy cavalry. But his ace had been destroyed, first by the unanticipated fervour of the legionaries, then by that extraordinary burst of lightning. It had only killed a score of the thousands who were charging against the Greyhazel, but the horses had been terrified and the knights shocked by their extraordinary ill-fortune. On any other day, on any other battlefield, Roper would have put that down to sheer chance. But on the Altar, this could only be divine intervention.
The Black Lord was the only Anakim horseman behind the Suthern line and he charged straight for the static knights. Faced with the swarming Greyhazel legionaries, many of these were pulling away and retreating. Roper spotted one who had not seen him, horse sideways-on to him and his charging mount. He raked back his spurs and held the mighty beast’s head straight, forcing him to smash into the knight’s horse. Zephyr’s bulk was irresistible and the knight was knocked flat, horse and all. Zephyr staggered slightly but simply rode over the prone knight and horse, Roper casting around for his next target. Another knight came riding at him, lance held skilfully level to pierce Roper’s heart. Killing this one was not difficult; Roper beat aside the lance and, once he was past its lethal tip, there was nothing the knight could do. Roper slashed Cold-Edge at the gap between the knight’s chestplate and helmet hard enough to cut halfway through his neck. The knight toppled backwards off his horse and tumbled out of sight.
Almost every other Suthern warrior was in headlong retreat before Roper so he turned Zephyr round to look at the back of the Suthern line. A steady trickle of pikemen, assaulted from the flank and the rear, had dropped their weapons and fled while they could, and as Roper watched this became a flood. The Hermit Crabs had stayed in their ranks but were edging backwards under the pressure of t
he legionaries who assaulted them with renewed savagery. Like a collapsing dam, a massive block of the pikemen suddenly disintegrated, chased by a swift steel wave.
More horns were sounding: Pursue Enemy. Someone appeared to have taken command in Roper’s absence and, under skilful manipulation, the Suthern line was being ripped apart. Those Sutherners who watched their fleeing comrades and the legionaries chasing them down knew the game was up and began to edge backwards. The hail still fell, the visibility was low and that meant the Suthern line collapsed more slowly than it might have done otherwise. But steadily, from the gap that had been of Bellamus’s own engineering, the line was peeling backwards. Pikes were abandoned, plate armour and chain mail were torn off as Sutherners scattered across Harstathur, trying to outrun their dreadfully quick opponents.
The giants.
Monsters. Freaks, demons, destroyers. God could not be on the side of such unholy creatures: they had used some sort of evil magic to gain victory this day. The subjects of the Black Kingdom were as brutal and uncompromising as they had always been taught. They did not back down, they did not give up, and they had somehow snatched victory on this lightning-struck field. And rampant at the head of them all was this monstrous Black Lord on his armoured destrier.
23
Uvoren the Mighty
Helmec. Gray.
When the battle was won: when the Sutherners had swarmed back, some in good order, most panicked and weaponless, and the Black Legions had cut them down, Roper had returned to the site of the cavalry charge to search for his two friends. He found Pryce, who had outstripped the rest of the Sacred Guard, on the way back. “Help me! Gray has fallen!” Pryce stumbled awkwardly over the bodies to join Roper, the two of them scanning the killing floor. Pryce, apparently still energetic after the day’s exertions, began ripping bodies aside to reveal those lying beneath. Together, he and Roper located where they thought the knights had first struck the Greyhazel and searched the bodies there.
Dead faces stared up at them. Some with their helmets partially ripped off. Some carrying so many wounds that it was unbelievable that they had still been standing to sustain the last of them. Some with no obvious injuries at all. Many were alive, eyes shut and armoured chests still working. Roper passed all of these, his gaze so frantic that he was not sure his eyes would settle on one of his friends long enough to recognise them. Partly, he did not want to recognise them. How could either have survived that terrible press of flesh? Pryce was still tearing around like a dog looking for a wounded deer, roughly upturning the dead and injured. And somehow the hands were the hardest things to look at. Clawed about weapons; loose and empty; frozen while reaching for something: all were more evocative of intention than even the slack faces.
Roper had an idea he might be sick. It might ease his nausea and make the search swifter. He looked up for a moment, panting and poking a filthy finger into his visor to clear the tears that had begun to gather there.
There was a figure moving beyond him. One of the bodies was stirring. It dragged itself clear of a corpse on top of it and then staggered to its feet, stumbling over again to collapse on top of a dead horse. Roper took a hesitant pace forward, straining his eyes. The figure was slumped, panting, against the body of the horse. Roper lurched forward, the movement triggering something familiar. “Gray?”
The figure tilted its head drunkenly at Roper and then slipped feebly down on the horse, lying there. Roper was sprinting over but was overtaken by a dark blur as Pryce surged past him. Roper arrived just after the sprinter and the two knelt by Gray, Roper tugging off his own helmet. Gray had lost his some time during the charge and his eyes were only half-open. A huge bruise had already spread across his forehead but Roper could see no other sign of injury. Pryce laid a hand against Gray’s chest, ignoring his attempts to stand up and pressing him back against the horse. “Lie now, Gray. I’m with you.”
“Pryce?” Gray’s voice was slurred.
“Yes,” said he. Gray’s hand rose jerkily and clutched onto Pryce’s wrist, groping to find his hand. Pryce clasped it with both his own. “I’m here. Calm now.”
“Roper,” slurred Gray.
“He’s here too,” said Pryce. Gently, Roper reached a hand forward and placed it on Gray’s shoulder, gripping it a little.
Gray abandoned the attempt to open his eyes and rested his head back on the horse. “Did we … did we win?”
Roper sat back on his haunches. His eyes travelled over the scene behind Gray, past the dead horse that he lay on, to the ocean of bodies beyond. There was random movement, with one of the bodies stirring every now and then, to little effect. “Yes,” he said softly. “We won.”
Gray exhaled slightly, apparently able to say no more.
“Will you take care of him, Pryce?” asked Roper. “I must find Helmec.”
“I have him,” said Pryce.
Roper stood, turning away from Gray to continue searching for his friend. “Helmec!” he called. Perhaps he would be conscious too. “Helmec!” He was further back than Gray, thought Roper, scouting away from the Lieutenant of the Guard and his kneeling protégé. But in the end, he was not much further back. Helmec lay twisted beneath two dead legionaries, his neck unnaturally distorted.
He was dead.
With a clang, Roper brought his fist up to his helmeted forehead. He stared at the broken form of the guardsman for a moment. Then he dropped to his knees. “Oh, my friend!” Helmec’s stillness did not look restful, or at peace. It was disturbing. His armour now protected a cold relic. All expression had faded from his face, all recognition from his eyes and the familiarity that his form once evoked was now tainted by an alien lumpenness. Whatever it was that had animated his limbs and gazed out from behind his face had left, or died, or simply vanished.
Roper laid a hand on the chest. He stared at the face for a moment and felt his mouth begin to warp uncontrollably. His vision blurred. He hiccoughed, a spasm wracking through his shoulders. And then, he gave way and sobbed. Tears spilled down his cheeks and he covered his face with his hands and bowed his head. His shoulders heaved silently for a long moment, the only sound he uttered a brief strain as he drew another breath. He spoke into his cupped hands, mouth so twisted in grief he could barely talk. “My love, rest easy … It’s over.” He drew another laboured breath. “My friend, goodbye.”
It was a long time before Roper had wept his fill. It was not just for Helmec. It was for Kynortas. For the warriors who, obedient to his wishes, lay silently around him. For his country, which had survived. For the relief of the heavy and lasting pressure of responsibility that had been lifted from him. For the closest thing to security that he had known for a year. For his two brothers, whose safety he had ignored for so long, wrapped up in his own affairs. He wept.
His tears were dry by the time Pryce came to fetch him. He was just sitting quietly by Helmec, holding the guardsman’s hand. Pryce stood over the pair of them for a moment, looking down in silence. Roper had no desire to meet his eye, but Pryce held out a hand and, at last, Roper released Helmec and took it. Pryce hauled him to his feet and the two embraced over Helmec’s body. Roper felt the tears almost restart, but controlled himself, breaking away from Pryce. “Is Gray going to be all right?”
“He should be,” said Pryce. “He’s speaking more clearly now.”
Roper stared at Pryce for a moment, his lips twisting slightly. Then he placed his hand on Pryce’s shoulder. “You know why he’s dead? Who ordered the Greyhazel through that gap?”
“Uvoren the Mighty,” said Pryce.
Roper shook his head, but not in disagreement. “Get him for me, Pryce,” he said. He gestured at the banner of the Jormunrekur, the snarling wolf some way in the distance. “I’ll be there. Bring that snake to me. Tell him to come without helmet, without armour and without his war hammer. It’s time he answered for his actions.”
“That would be my pleasure, lord,” said Pryce, savagely. Roper nodded and turned away. He brought Z
ephyr over to where Gray sat propped on the dead horse and helped the guardsman up onto Zephyr’s back. Roper sat behind so that he could hold him steady as he rode for his banner, where he knew the legates would have begun to cluster.
Pryce watched the two of them go, and then turned in the direction of the Almighty Eye, held aloft on a huge strip of silk. Beneath it, he knew he would find Uvoren. He had been walking no more than a few minutes when he found a caparisoned horse pulling at some tufts of grass between two bodies, flicking its ears calmly as he approached. He took its reins and mounted, turning the Suthern beast towards where the Sacred Guard had assembled, half a league across the plateau.
The Guard, already two-score understrength before the start of the battle, had lost another fifty warriors in their duel with the Hermit Crabs. Pryce arrived to find that the greatest fighting unit in the Known World was composed of barely two hundred souls. Though battered and bloody, they still stood in ranks. In front of them was Uvoren the Mighty, staring dead-eyed at the retreating Sutherners. Pryce thought he could hear the captain say something about “giving them time to retreat” but Uvoren had fallen silent by the time he curbed the horse in front of him.
Pryce regarded Uvoren haughtily. “Captain Uvoren. The Black Lord has summoned you to answer for your disobedience on the battlefield today. You are to come with me now without helmet, arms or armour and present yourself before him for discipline.”
