Our line reformed with commendable speed, forging an unbroken arc of shields to oppose both the wretches to the west and the legionaries to the north. The northern face had locked their shields only a moment before the fallen shield-wall crashed home. Axemen hooked their blades over our shields, dragging down the rims so other legionaries could thrust their blades forward. Screams overlapped with the guttural fallen battle cries.
Our losses mounted, but we fought on, screaming defiance as the shieldwalls ground together. Over slow and bloody minutes we forced the fallen back, trampling their dead and ours as we went.
Shield aside, I had no armour, but I never consider falling back so another could take my place. It wasn't pride. If I ducked back, others would be tempted to follow. But more, it was the terrible, killing joy of battle, of battering at a foe until he could endure no longer, of the desperate thrust that saved a comrade's life. Afterwards, I recalled few of those moments. There was only red haze, and the mingle of fear and exultation that came with every blow.
The Swiftfangs' captain died, an axe-blade buried in his skull. With his loss, the company's will to fight ebbed.
"Hold!" I bellowed, straining to be heard above the din. "Send them back to Otherworld!"
Our shield-wall didn't collapse, but it did inch backwards beneath the grinding, inexorable advance. We lost the ground we'd recaptured. No longer were we fighting for victory. We were fighting for survival.
The fallen ranks shivered as shots thudded home. The Stormcrows had scattered their wretches. They'd lost near half their number, but hadn't yielded an inch of ground. Now they came to our aid.
The legionaries' ranks shivered as another volley poured into their flank. The weight on my shield vanished. I hacked down a snarling fallen and threw myself into the gap.
The Swiftfangs came with me. They'd endured much, lost comrades and now, in the disordered ranks of the foe, they sensed opportunity. They went forward like madmen, battering their foes aside or cutting them down with hungry blades.
Faced with a renewed onslaught from men they'd thought beaten, the fallen ranks disintegrated like rotten wood. We pressed amongst them, slaking our blades, uncaring of the casualties so long as the enemy was vanquished.
In moments, we went from an embattled and bloodied warband to one scattered through pursuit. The shifting mists thickened, and I could see little more than the corpses around me and a handful of Swiftfangs who, like me, had been unable to keep pace with their fellows.
An angry bellow sounded to my front, and an enormous fallen slammed into the remaining Swiftfangs. He stood a full head and a half taller than I, and his impact barrelled three swordsmen to the ground. Scarcely had the bodies come to rest when the brute was moving, a two-headed axe alive in his hands. Ignoring the fallen streaming past him in retreat, the newcomer laid about his foes, a spray of blood accompanying each strike.
I jumped back. An axe blade split the air where I'd stood a moment before. I lunged at the brute's chest, but he reversed his swing quicker than I could have believed possible. The flat of the axe-blade slammed into my shoulder. My sword went flying from a numbed hand and I was knocked sprawling.
My arm blazed with agony. I had no feeling in my fingers. The axe came down with enough force to disembowel an ox. I leapt aside, scooped up my sword with my good hand and cut at him again. This time the strike sliced deep into his arm. I might as well have poked him with a stick, for all the effect it had.
Uncaring of the black blood flowing from his wound, the giant came on. A Swiftfang threw himself at the brute, a desperate challenge on his lips. He didn't even get close. The axe cut him in half. Three more Swiftfangs charged, hoping to win with numbers what they could not defeat with raw strength, but that axe stole their lives as carelessly as it had their comrade's.
The giant turned on me once again, and favoured me with a contemptuous glare.
"Weakling." He spat on the ground.
I couldn't win. My sword arm was still numb. He'd finish me with a single blow. But what other choice did I have?
An arrow whistled past my cheek and buried itself in the giant's shoulder. He staggered and clutched at the shaft. More arrows sped out of the mist. the third arrow smacked home, the brute finally keeled over. A grey horse thundered past me. How the rider controlled his mount I couldn't tell, for his left hand held a bow and his right hauled me onto the horse.
"Are you injured?" Morecet yelled.
He circled around and drove hard for the rear of our lines. Or at least, where I thought the rear of our lines were. Though the mists concealed much, it was clear we teetered on the brink of disaster.
Men and women, Tressian and Hadari, flooded past us, their weapons discarded in a mad attempt to escape. The fallen were a savage enemy, and the added confusion of the mist made matters even worse. A man would take on impossible odds in the presence of comrades, or if he felt his warleader's gaze upon him. The mists stripped all that away, made us feel isolated and alone.
"Are you injured?" Morecet shouted again.
"No," I called back. "Bruised and battered only." Feeling was returning to my right hand, otherwise I'd have lost my grip on Morecet and tumbled from the horse. "Thanks for the rescue."
"Hah! You can thank Lady Trelan. She's promised me a tidy sum to keep you alive."
"I beg your pardon?" I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly.
A knot of fallen knights veered out of the mists to our left. Morecet pressed back his spurs and we sped away before they even realised we were there. "I've been looking for other employment for a while, and Miss Trelan's offered a handsome fee if you survive."
The mists parted to reveal a regiment of Tressian crossbowmen. Morecet swerved around their flank. The mists shifted, revealing a pack of wretches. The Tressian sergeant barked a word of command. Crossbows clacked. With a chorus of wails, the surviving wretches scattered in search of easier prey. Morecet brought the horse to a halt beside their rear rank.
"That's not likely to prove an easy payment to collect."
"I've had worse," he said mildly. "Where next?"
"I don't know." I thought for a moment. "Have you seen the royal guard?"
Morecet shook his head. "I think they're off to the north."
"Calda?"
"No."
I sighed with frustration. "Well, who have you seen?"
"I saw the Sartorov Paladins south of here."
That wasn't ideal, but at least I knew they'd be in the thick of the fight – where I should have been. "Take me there."
"Not much point. They're dead."
That shook me. "What? All of them?"
"Near enough. They challenged Droshna head on. Oh, he'd others with him, but his blade did most of the work. Trust me, there's nothing left of them save carrion and horseflesh."
For all I knew the entire army was dead or in retreat. The strangely muted sounds of battle still rang through the mists, but they were just as likely to be the sound of a bloody pursuit. When the mists did part, the only things they revealed were mounds of bloody dead, or fleeing allies.
Was Malgyne manipulating the shroud to paint a picture of the battle that he wanted me to see? It didn't much matter. The sensible thing to do, I knew, was to retreat, regroup whatever forces we had, and try again. Perhaps under other circumstances I would have done that, but I had friends and family in the mists. Calda, Eirac and Arianwyn would go on fighting until they were overwhelmed, and the thought of abandoning them was more than I could bear. That left me with precisely one choice.
I slid off Morecet's horse and looked back up at its rider.
"The royal guard are to the north you say?"
Morecet nodded.
"Find me some men. I don't care how you do it or which army they're from. I'm going to reinforce the Emperor and I'll not do much good alone."
"I'm supposed make sure you don't get yourself killed!"
I sheathed my sword. "Then find me more men."
"I suppose
that makes sense." He nodded at the crossbowmen. "What say we start with these?"
The sergeant in command stared at me with suspicision as I approached.
"Sergeant? I'm Edric Saran, a Hadari warleader..." That was mostly true. "...I need you and your men."
The sergeant spat. "Raven take you."
My patience, never my greatest attribute, snapped. I'd have done something very unwise at that point, with no thought to the consequences, if Morecet hadn't leaned down from his saddle and handed something to the sergeant.
"Do you recognise that seal?" he asked smoothly.
The sergeant looked. The colour drained from his face.
"I'll take that as a yes," Morecet said with a thin smile. "Do you know what that makes me, sergeant? That makes me someone you really, really, don't want to disobey. And do you know what it makes my friend here?" The sergeant shook his head mutely. "It makes him your new commander. Unless, of course, you want me to tell Lord Solomon you were... uncooperative?"
The sergeant swallowed hard. "No sir, that won't be necessary." He faced his men. "Listen up lads, we've got a new job. We're part of the Hadari army now."
Nervous laughter rippled through the ranks. Morecet offered a sly grin, and I knew why. I hated Solomon's web of intimidation. Now I was as much a part of it as anyone else.
We headed north, always following the sounds of battle. The sergeant marched beside the rightmost file of his company, and I walked alongside him. Morecet rode off, hopefully to find the men I'd asked for.
Despite the bearer of the dreaded seal having gone, the Tressian sergeant gave no trouble. Better yet, he proved that whatever he lacked in civility, he made up for with efficiency. We were twice charged by packs of wretches, and each time the sergeant calmly brought his men to a halt and fired a volley that sent the foe packing long before they reached our lines.
Shortly after the second wretch attack we encountered our first allies: a spear-band of Hadari, their banners torn and ragged, their green robes bloody. They fought many times their own number – some legionaries, but mostly wretches – from behind a barricade of their own dead, and were on the verge of being overrun.
At my order, the sergeant gave the fallen a volley, then we drew swords and charged. We lost a dozen Tressians in the ensuing fight, but with the rescued Hadari added to my ranks, my force had nearly doubled. Pausing only to allow the Tressians time to reload, we pressed on into the mists.
I don't know how many times I repeated similar recruitments, for they soon all blurred into one. My arm ached from the axe-blow it had suffered, and every swing was an effort to overcome the pain. Some regiments we found fighting in good order and they stiffened our ranks considerably. Others had all but routed, and I split the men of these companies up so that they wouldn't feed off each others' despair. Some were just lost, having marched around in circles, having never once come closer to the foe though they'd wandered for miles.
As our numbers grew I expected some challenge to my slim authority, but both Tressians and Hadari seemed thankful that someone had taken charge. Many of the Hadari knew who I was – apparently news of my return had spread through the army as it marched. The Tressians did not, of course, and probably wouldn't have cared if they had, but the sight of others taking my orders kept trouble at bay.
Commander Torev was with one rescued group. His armour was battered and bloodstained, and he walked with a pronounced limp, but he refused to be left behind. I asked him about the fate of the Sartorov Paladins, and he confirmed Morecet's story down to the letter. Only Torev had survived, so far as he knew, and that only because he'd been shielded by the corpses of his comrades.
I must confess I didn't think Torev fit to go on fighting, but my fears were soon laid to rest. Our next battle was against a host of fallen knights. We lost many good men in that confrontation, but Torev was not one of them, even though he planted himself in the path of their charge.
It was a strange thing to see. Though he fought with longsword and shield, I had the distinct impression that he'd have been just as effective with only his gauntleted fists. He fought a brawler's battle, all ferocious energy and arcing, bombastic blows that struck foes from their feet, or hurled them back into their fellows. Every swipe, every cut, every bash of the wolf's-head shield flowed smoothly into the next. It was like watching a battering ram go to work on a fortress gate, sped up a thousandfold.
Afterwards, Torev told me that the strength and will of his entire order was now his to command, and that he meant to see it put to good use. I didn't really understand what he meant, but I appreciated a skill at arms that surpassed any I'd ever seen.
We became lost in the mists on more occasions than I could count. Many times we'd advance towards a fallen warband, only to find our path veering into another part of the battlefield. Were the enemy as thwarted as we? Certainly we never took a group of fallen unawares, though many times we were forced to make a desperate play of defending our own flanks against a foe we hadn't so much glimpsed.
By and by, Morecet made good on his promise to send more men in my direction. Hydrion and his surviving rangers were the first, but others came after. Finding us was easy – we left a trail of destruction a blind man could have followed us. By the time Morecet joined me again I had a veritable horde at my back.
There was no other word to describe that motley assemblage. We numbered in the hundreds, a mix of Tressian and Hadari uniforms and all manner of weaponry. All in all, we looked less like an army than an angry mob storming an unjust ruler's castle, which I suppose, in a way, we were.
"Where did all these come from?" I asked Hydrion.
He grinned. "What can I say, my prince? Victory is addictive. Each one makes them hungry for another."
Many wouldn't know another victory. Some perished as they marched at my side, others died before I even reached them. Warleader Aidon was one of these. We found his household guard as they bore his body from the field. Some were in tears – despite his mercurial nature, Aidon had never asked his men to do anything that he wouldn't, and they repaid that fairness with the adoration peculiar to warriors.
At no point did I find a trace of Calda, Eirac or Arianwyn. Nor was there any sign of General Marlon. No one I spoke to had seen any of them since the battle had begun. Then, finally, we reached the roadway in front of the east gate, and my prayers were answered.
We had reached the battle's crux. The royal guard had planted their banners a short distance from the gate, and about them formed a fortress of shields and spears to repel an attack from any direction. They were not alone. I saw longbowmen, dismounted cataphracts and even Tressian halberdiers amidst that bulwark of flesh and steel.
Fallen were everywhere. Most tore at the outer face of the living fortress, trying to breach its bounds and run amok inside. A few had already done so, and roaming Hadari fought to bring them down before the formation collapsed. The fickle mists grew lighter for a moment, and I saw that Eirac was down, his body lying still beneath the banners.
Arianwyn was at Eirac's side, but Calda was not. She fought on the formation's northern face, as did Marlon. The fighting was at its heaviest there, and a second look told me why.
The capricious mist parted further to reveal that Droshna was on that portion of the field, cleaving a bloody path through a Tressian regiment. A charnel of mangled flesh and bone lay behind him – the remains of who knew how many brave soldiers. Every step the damned warlord took brought him closer to the royal guard, and every sweep of his great black sword struck men and horses aside as if they were straw-stuffed dolls.
I was charging before I even realised, and my horde came with me, howling like madmen. The Hadari in my ranks had seen that their emperor was wounded, perhaps slain, and that gave them all the courage and strength they needed. The Tressians matched this ardour measure for measure – not a man or woman amongst them would be found wanting beside ancient enemies.
Fallen were hacked down, trampled or bludgeoned by warr
iors who knew that bravery in that wild, desperate moment would expunge all memory of earlier cowardice. We swept the royal guard's southern facing clear, then flowed around to the north, killing as we went.
I led the attack along the western facing. There the going was especially bloody, for more fallen poured from the gate to reinforce our foes. Hydrion died there, his skull laid open, and he was not alone. Every scrap of ground we took cost us many lives, and our numbers rapidly diminished.
I don't know how many times I nearly perished in that fight, how many parries came within a hair's-breadth of failure, or how many enemy blows were cheated only through ill-luck on their part. I do know that Morecet earned his pay. He didn't join us in the thick of the battle, but circled around on horseback, his eyes ever peeled for an enemy about to bring me low. Thrice I turned to see a fallen topple backwards, his arms locked in a frozen deathblow and one of Morecet's arrows buried in his throat. I'm certain there were other such rescues I did not notice.
At last we reached the northern face of the living fortress. My men were tiring now, but I dared not slow the pace, so I drove on, heedless of my own danger.
The mists shifted again. Calda and Marlon were only a few paces away. The ground on which they fought was choked with the dead of both sides. They battled on amidst a company seeming composed of royal guard and Marlon's steel-clad knights, their horses long lost to the battle's butchery.
My sword cut down a fallen legionary, the flames bright against his dark armour. I kicked the body aside and stepped into the gap. Beside me, a Hadari spearman gurgled and died as a wretch tore out his throat. A bearded Tressian hacked the fallen down and shoved me onward. A large, plate-armoured legionary pushed his way through the enemy. Then he dropped, his weapon falling from lifeless hands as an arrow slammed into his eye. Morecet was still earning his pay.
Finally I burst through the fallen lines, but before any of my companions could follow me, a fresh wave charged from the gate. Cut off from those behind me, I ploughed forward to Calda's side.
Shadow of the Raven (The Reckoning Book 1) Page 46
