by Duncan Lay
And she worried about Martil, who would have to complete the ceremony but seemed to be slipping further away from her every day.
Karia knew something was going on—but nobody was telling her anything and nobody had been to see her, either. Which was fine by her—she did not want to meet any of the Fearpriests. She had been placed in a comfortable room, given food and drink—and then forgotten about.
She was a little frightened but she was mainly bored. She just hoped all the rushing around in the Temple and the trumpets and gongs meant that Martil was coming to get her.
‘Say that again,’ Gello demanded.
The remaining eagle and leopard warriors stood resignedly, knowing their fate.
‘Every ambush we tried has failed,’ one reported. ‘Each time we prepared a trap, the demons of Aroaril who defeated us before the Norstaline capital struck and killed our brothers. We could not see them, or hear them. But they fell on us and we could not stop them, nor the warrior with the sword-that-cuts-through-everything.’
Gello saw their eyes darting towards where a fuming Onzalez waited.
‘You did all you could. Now rejoin the rest of the city’s warriors. We shall need every man we have,’ he told them.
Astonished, the warriors just stood there.
‘Now!’ Gello barked. ‘Our enemies shall be upon us soon!’
They almost ran away.
‘Why?’ Onzalez asked.
‘Every man in this army saw the city’s best warriors running away in fear of their lives,’ Gello replied. ‘They need to think it was all part of our plan, that we are merely luring our enemies out, so they can be destroyed. Having confident men is worth far more than the satisfaction in killing two score of fools who could not even spring an ambush!’
Onzalez sighed. ‘You are right. But we cannot fail again!’ The thought of what Brother Horna was saying and planning was always in the back of his mind.
‘I know. But we still have all the advantages. They will march upon us and be destroyed, as simple as that.’
The march from the docks to the city had left the men tired and sweaty. That could have been a problem, for the river water was not safe to drink. Tainted by the sewage and detritus of a major city, it was more deadly than the failed ambushes. But the Magicians’ Guild was purifying the water as fast as it could be brought up from the river, so men drank greedily as the waterskins were passed around.
First had come the ambushes from the trees, although those had been dealt with easily by the Derthals. Then they had seen the camp of the woodcutters, with the huge trees lying where they had fallen, leaves and sawdust thick on the ground. That had made them curious, as had the stone quarry. Merren had worked out they were using fire to heat the rock, then water to cool it, forcing the rocks to crack, where they could be cut out with the Tenochs’ tools. The sight of several dead workers, dragged off to one side, showed it was not without risk.
But that was nothing compared to the huge pit that Sacrax had found, almost filled with bodies, all with the tell-tale slash below the ribs that showed they had had their hearts cut out. The Derthals scared off the animals who had been feasting on the dead, while a flock of birds took off to reveal the ghastly discovery. Men, women and children all lay in that pit—Merren did not want to think about how deep it went. It seemed to heave and move as they watched, as ants and other insects, who did not care about the presence of armed men, went about their meal. The smell, in the heat, was indescribable, and even men who had walked across entrail-strewn battlefields with a smile had to hurry past, trying not to vomit.
There was nothing they could do for those poor people, beyond what they were trying to do now, although it affected them all. There were more bodies in that pit than there were in Merren’s little army and it was hard not to contrast that with the size of Tenoch, which was getting closer with every pace.
Without Argurium, Barrett had sent forwards several birds—not the ones they had found tearing at the corpses of the sacrifices, but brightly coloured ones with strange beaks.
‘Once the jungle finishes, we shall walk into fields before we reach the city. If we reach the city. They have a massive army waiting for us,’ he had reported. ‘They do not wait on the walls but outside. They must think they can crush us.’
Merren decided to let the men wait and rest, eat and drink in the shade of the trees before going further. The march had already left many of the men nervous and what they had seen had left them feeling small and insignificant. So she did not want to march out until she had talked to them and boosted their confidence—starting with the officers and sergeants.
‘As soon as we go out there, they will attack us,’ she stated. ‘We must be ready for that. I am worried that seeing such a large force, outside that massive city, will affect the men…’
‘They will not be able to stop us. Trust me, we shall slice through them,’ Martil said immediately. ‘They have barely two thousand warriors. The rest are like sheep—easily scattered and put to fright. We shall slaughter them!’
The answering roar from the men around him was both heartening and frightening to Merren, and she stepped forwards to gain control once more.
‘The river shall protect our right flank, so they shall have to come at us from the front and left. Most likely they will send a few thousand men out to be slaughtered, thinking that we will use up our arrows on them, then they will send in their warriors to lead the rest. But we shall keep our bowmen in reserve. Our shield wall shall deal with the first attack, then we shall have arrows to destroy the trained men and put the rest to flight. As long as we keep our ranks and our discipline, we shall be in little danger,’ she finished, with a confidence she did not entirely feel.
‘Aye. A mob does not stand a chance against trained men, as I have said many a time. Now you shall see what I mean,’ Martil added grimly.
Merren looked around the circle of officers and sergeants.
‘We shall be facing the largest army any of us has seen. But we shall defeat it. Trust in me, trust in each other and we shall win!’
‘We’ll kill them all!’ Martil shouted.
To Merren’s delight and concern, they answered him with a bloodthirsty roar.
She, Martil and her officers went around to the various companies, spreading the message of hope and defiance. Finally, Merren felt they were as ready as they could be. Any longer and they would lose their edge.
She took a deep breath. Sendric, Pilleth, the capital and now this. The build-up to each had been very different but all had been gut-wrenching. She prayed this would be the last battle—for all the right reasons.
The small army poured out of the shade of the jungle and into the bright sun. Still several miles away, the huge city of Tenoch dominated the farmland around but they marched across the fields, ignoring the fallen farming tools and crops that the Tenochs had left when they had fled for the city. Merren did not like pushing on like this, charging at a massive force—but they had little choice. Time was against them—and besides, she did not think she would be able to hold Martil back any longer, not when Karia was so close. She suspected that many of the men facing them did not want to be there and might even be on their side, if they only had the chance. But she would have to defeat them before that would become a possibility.
As for Martil, his only thought was to smash through the men facing them and get to Karia. If the other men were picking up his mood, then that was fine by him. He did not care about the dreams, about what they might mean for him. He couldn’t. Nothing could stop him now. Nothing.
Gello watched the advance from the safety of one of the gate towers. Onzalez stood with him, as did a score of trumpeters and men with huge coloured flags, ready to relay instructions to Feld, Livett and Heath. These three would direct the battle for Gello and had been drilled as to what each trumpet call and flag colour meant. They all knew what must be done anyway—the flags and trumpets would just tell them when. The one drawback with having
so many men was that the army was unwieldy. Orders took an age to reach the different parts of the army and half of the Tenoch warriors had been forced to act as sergeants to the mass of conscripts, for otherwise Gello could not trust them to follow his orders. Fear would make them obey him, as well as the pack mentality. When others advanced, most would follow.
It had been a nervous wait, wondering what trickery Merren and Martil might be cooking up in the tree line. Would there be thousands of goblins pouring out, as the ambushed warriors had fearfully warned? Onzalez could feel the pressure acutely. Win this battle and his position was secure. Lose, and he was dead.
As for Gello, his imagination had too much time to work. Time and again, at his moment of triumph, he had been thwarted. Once again he had a chance to utterly destroy his cousin—surely he could not fail again?
At least the mystery of the demon from Dragonara Isle had been revealed: from the description of the warrior with the sword that cuts through anything, he had deduced it was Martil. Still, it was not much comfort.
He chewed his nails as he paced up and down the battlement, refusing food and wine, drinking only water.
‘Sire! High One! Here they are!’
The cry went up immediately and Gello rushed to the wall, peering across the wide fields, to the small army that advanced boldly out of the trees.
‘They have the Rallorans up front, followed by Norstalines, with the bowmen behind and then the goblins and elves,’ Gello declared, after looking at the flags they held high.
‘Is that all there are?’ Onzalez asked.
Gello looked again, then glanced at Onzalez and grinned. The grin became a laugh, one echoed by the Fearpriest. Her army was so small it was laughable! Looking from her pitiable ranks to the mass of men waiting for them was ridiculous. Both men could feel their fear and doubt melt away, like ice under the warm Tenoch sun.
‘Send out the sacrifices! Let them waste their arrows!’ Gello ordered.
Onzalez and his Fearpriests had found several thousand men, sons of the city’s ruling families, who embraced the chance to serve Zorva. Once told of the joys that awaited them in Zorva’s realm, they had been eager to throw themselves at the foreign demons. With them, too, went a company of Tenoch warriors, to lead the way. Most of these would die, slaughtered by the Norstaline bowmen. But their deaths would open the way for the Berellian and Norstaline shield wall, led by Feld, that waited behind them. Still, they outnumbered Merren’s little army all by themselves—and Onzalez had even suggested they alone could win the battle.
The trumpets sounded and red flags were lifted by a score of men, the bright colours easily visible from down below.
It took a while, and it was a frustrating wait, but the advance of the first wave showed Gello his orders had been received.
‘Now feel terror, my dear cousin,’ Gello muttered.
Merren watched her men form the battleline and thought her heart might break with pride. They were massively outnumbered—but none hesitated or turned away. There was fear—there had to be when faced with such odds. But beyond a few men breaking ranks to relieve themselves, and too many laughing too hard at bad jokes, she could see little sign of it.
The flags and calls from the city walls warned them there was going to be an attack, but it seemed to take an age to form up.
‘They have learned nothing from their mistakes,’ Martil laughed. ‘That is not an army—it is a rabble!’ He prowled up and down the front of the lines, encouraging the men, while Merren rode behind the line, doing the same thing, and Milly and Kesbury offered blessings and prayers to any who wanted them.
‘Hold hard! You know why we fight, what we seek to save!’ she told them, time and again.
‘Here they come!’ Nerrin’s shout made her turn, to see Gello’s massive army finally stir itself into motion, thousands of men running towards them. She could not restrain a swallow of fear as she saw it, as well as what waited behind, but she forced herself to look not just impassive, but uncaring. They had to take heart from her, she decided.
‘Make ready!’ Martil roared, pushing into the lines as the wave of attackers raced at them. ‘Brace! Hold hard!’
Merren had been concerned about such a number of men striking her small force and had suggested Kay and his bowmen loose two volleys of arrows, to break up and slow down the attack. Although every arrow was precious, Martil had agreed.
So now Merren signalled to Kay, who led his bowmen in releasing just two arrows apiece. But that was still thousands of arrows, which now arched down out of the sky.
Martil watched the first ranks of the charge just disappear as men fell, snatched down in mid-stride by the strike of the arrows. None of these men wore armour, and had no protection against the steel-tipped shafts.
Disorganised now, as faster runners and survivors drew ahead of the others, the charge crashed into the shield wall—and was thrown back like a wave striking a stone wall. Nerrin and the Rallorans in the front two ranks used their shields as weapons, smashing men off their feet, while Hutter and Kettering marshalled the Norstalines in the third rank, using their spears to great effect in the gaps between shields, the heavy iron heads punching into men. In an instant a pile of bodies obstructed the rest of the attackers, slowed their charge and made it much easier to deal with.
Martil, in the third rank, saw there was little he had to do. Their attackers were using clubs, knives and other crude weapons. Hitting men armoured with mail and shields with these was pointless—the few that managed to land blows watched them bounce off Ralloran shields and armour. It was all too easy. His men had been hardened by years of warfare, while their attackers had never fought before. They would have been a waste of arrows—which was why they had been sent out. Merren had said many of these men had been tricked or forced by the Fearpriests into fighting but they were still the men behind Karia’s abduction. It was time to make them pay.
He pushed himself into the front rank, as usual without a shield, and dared the Tenochs to come close. Any that did were cut down mercilessly. The slaughter went on, until the pressure on the front line slackened—Martil could see the remnants were hanging back, reluctant to cross the barrier of dead and wounded in front of them. He did not want to let them off so easily.
‘Forwards!’ he ordered instantly. ‘Wedge formation!’
The Ralloran line slipped into its distinctive wedges, led by its best warriors, and pushed forwards, men using their shields as weapons to smash through the Tenochs once more. The Norstalines in the ranks behind added their weight to the advance, finishing off any wounded they stepped across. The Tenochs were helpless against such an attack, which sent them reeling backwards. Fanatic Tenochs tried to attack the armoured lines but it was like a small child beating at a wall with a stick. Martil could see them beginning to glance over their shoulders and pushed back until he could signal to his standard bearer, Sergeant Redder.
Merren saw the standard dip thrice and waved to where Sacrax and Havell waited.
The Derthal High Chief waved in return and then led his warriors around the open flank.
Howling and screaming, the Derthals and Elfarans smashed into the wavering Tenochs.
It was the final straw. The Tenochs turned tail and ran, throwing away their crude weapons, anything that would slow them down.
Martil wanted to chase them down but knew there would be far more to come. He was looking forward to it.
‘Let them go! Back to our positions!’ Martil ordered. ‘Get some water up here!’
Men were already sweating from the warmth of the sun and the weight of the mail. Again the Magician’s Guild had to refill the waterskins.
‘Good work, lads! We’ll let Kay and his bowmen deal with the next one!’ Martil encouraged them. Only four men were dead, a dozen wounded, while the rest grinned back as they sharpened swords and spears and waited for the next attack.
‘Cowards! They deserve to die!’ Gello spat as he saw the men running back towards the ci
ty. He had not expected that first attack to win but it had still been a blow to see it beaten off so easily. The confidence that had filled him drained away, just a little.
‘They were always going to die,’ Onzalez said calmly. ‘Ignore them. We have many more men. It is early yet. Our only concern is they defeated them without using up their arrows.’
‘Agreed. We need to change the plan!’ Gello growled.
‘We cannot change the plan!’ Onzalez exclaimed. ‘Look down there! How long will it take to reorganise them all?’
Gello did not have to look at the seething mass below to know the Fearpriest was right. It was beyond organisation. All they could do was point it at their enemies and set them loose.
‘Then we attack with everything we have!’ he snarled, waving to the flag bearers.
Merren had the men sit, sheathe swords and lay down spears and shields. There was no point in wasting energy they would need later. Some men tried the strange cylindrical vegetable being grown in the next field, trying to chew the golden segments—and pronouncing them too hard to stomach. Others tried the green leaves of the plant underfoot—the ones not stained by blood and gore—and spat them out again, declaring they were revolting.
‘How do they eat this stuff?’ Dunner held up one of the plants, complete with swollen brown tubers underneath, for the men to laugh at, picked off a leaf, chewed it then made a face.
Merren let them enjoy themselves, while secretly asking Barrett about them.
‘The golden cylinder needs to be boiled, or ground into a powder, like wheat into flour,’ he announced, after studying them both. ‘As to the other plant, you don’t eat the leaves, you wash the tubers and cook them.’
