by Duncan Lay
They had plenty of time to talk, for it took the best part of a turn of the hourglass before the swirling mass of men outside the city resolved itself into an attack.
She had spoken with Havell, tried to reassure the Elfaran they would be able to break into the city—and that she would be able to control Martil. And she had tried to avoid Sendric, who only wanted to talk about the danger Martil posed.
‘There’s so many!’ Merren gasped, as they came on, trampling down crops in a wide swathe.
‘This is the one. As long as we kill off their trained men, we’ll send the rest running, like we did with the others,’ Martil declared. ‘Then we won’t stop until we’re in the city!’
Merren did not like the sound of that but, equally, did not want to begin an argument just before a battle.
‘We’re ready,’ Kay said into the silence. ‘We’ll drive them back.’
‘Then Aroaril go with you.’ Merren nodded. ‘You know what to do.’
While Martil rejoined the line, Kay led his bowmen out to the left of the shield wall, arranging them in two ranks.
‘First line aim at their front, second line drop them down from above. Let them get close!’ he told them, not particularly raising his voice. ‘Pick your targets and don’t waste a shaft!’
On and on the horde came, bunching behind a tight line of trained men in armour—the Berellians and renegade Norstalines. But many of these did not have shields and their armour would not save them against Kay’s bowmen with their bodkin arrows. The traditional broad heads would be saved for the shieldless ranks behind.
Kay watched the advance dispassionately. The Tenochs were shouting something, while drums and horns were sounding a ragged beat. It sounded and looked frightening, but looks were deceiving. Each of his bowmen had a full sheaf of arrows pushed into the soft earth at their feet, ready to be snatched up and used in an instant, while another sheaf was at their belt. A company of Hutter’s men stood ready as well, spare sheaves slung over their shoulders, ready to bring them wherever they were needed.
Martil watched Kay almost as much as he watched the Tenoch advance. He wanted to see those armoured men falling and he was almost ready to issue an order himself when Kay finally moved.
‘Nock and draw!’ he yelled.
The noise of more than fifteen hundred longbow strings being drawn back to the ears was like the first warning rumble of thunder.
‘Loose!’
The thrum of the bows’ release, followed by the hiss of the arrows in flight seemed to silence the Tenoch advance.
‘Draw and loose! Fast as you can!’ Kay shouted, in the instant before the arrows struck home with devastating effect.
Men fell screaming, or cowered under the arrow storm. Behind them, the rest of the Tenoch advance continued onwards, pushing the Berellians and renegade Norstalines forwards, into the arrows. With hundreds of shafts falling every moment, either coming down steeply from the sky, or snapping in fast and straight, it was impossible to defend against. There were just not enough shields. But there was no escape. All the time they were being pushed forwards by the solid block of men behind. And the wounded were being trampled by the following ranks.
And as more and more of the Berellians and Norstalines fell, those ranks, men without armour or shields or proper weapons, were exposed to the merciless arrows. Many of the Berellians and Norstalines were trying to push their way back to safety. Those on the right side of the advance, away from the river, ran into the open fields rather than go to their deaths.
‘Pick your targets!’ Kay bellowed, and the two lines of bowmen merged into one.
Most had already used up their first sheaf, and the men with the spare sheaves were kept busy, racing up and down the line.
Merren gazed in awe at the mass of men pushing forwards. But the pace of the advance had slowed dramatically. Nobody wanted to be in the front line. The bowmen aimed and sighted coolly, sending shaft after shaft whipping into that mass. Each one punched a man from his feet; some even pierced a second man behind. At barely seventy paces, it was almost too easy for the bowmen to hit. And the Tenochs were packed so tight, that even if they missed one target, they almost certainly hit another. The sheer number of bodies, of moaning, bleeding, screaming wounded, was making an advance impossible. The Tenochs tried to push around to their right, away from the river, towards the open fields—but not to outflank the Queen’s army. Instead, men who found themselves no longer a target of the bowmen began edging back towards the city.
Some Tenochs, obviously the city’s warriors, were screaming at men, pushing them forwards. But such actions instantly made them a prime target. Riddled with arrows, they inevitably fell. As for the remainder of the Berellians and renegade Norstalines—they were either dead, wounded or pretending to be dead.
It was slaughter, but Martil knew it could not last. Already the pile of spare arrow sheaves was almost gone. He pushed forwards to where Kay was sending shaft after shaft into the Tenochs.
‘Switch your aim to those behind! The ones behind cannot see what is happening!’ he pointed.
Kay loosed one more shaft, then lowered his bow.
‘And the ones close to us?’
‘We shall deal with them,’ Martil promised.
‘Yes, sir!’ He began to pace along the line. ‘Raise your aim! Target the ones at the back!’
Again arrows began to darken the sky, falling on the mass of Tenochs still blindly marching forwards. Martil could see most of the archers were now down to their last few arrows and many were grimacing with the effort of drawing the huge bows now.
The Tenochs at the front of the advance had been hunched over like men avoiding a fierce storm, which it was, with steel-tipped rain. Now the ones further back ducked and tried to cover their head with their arms—which was futile, for the arrows fell with enough force to drive the arrowheads through flesh and bone and into the heads beneath.
‘Shield wall forwards!’ Martil roared. ‘Let them hear you coming!’
With a bellow, they charged into the mass of men milling around aimlessly. The Tenochs tried to attack the solid line of metal and wood advancing towards them and were brushed aside. Martil cut and slashed furiously, dealing death and wounds with every sweep of the Dragon Sword. Beside him Rallorans and Norstalines pushed forwards, shields punching men off their feet, where the rear ranks could finish off the fallen. Anger raced through Martil. These men were stopping him from getting to Karia—and they paid the penalty for it.
Assaulted from above, unable to face the implacable advance of the shield wall, the Tenochs wavered. Many looked at the crude weapons they had—picks and spades—threw them down and turned to run, pushing through the men behind.
‘Back! Back! Flee! Run for your lives!’
Martil could hear the cries of terror, even over the shouts of his men and the screams of the wounded Tenochs. But he could not feel pity. Instead he pushed onwards, leading his men over the piles of sobbing, screaming wounded and the silent dead.
The Tenochs closest to the Ralloran-led line were now near to panic, actually fighting their fellows in an attempt to get away. For those behind, already afraid because of the arrows that still fell from the sky, hearing and seeing the men around them going down dead and wounded, it was too much.
One moment there was a solid mass of men, a seemingly unstoppable force that would roll right over the small allied army. Next instant, it dissolved. Men threw away what weapons they had and ran for the gate, trampling each other in the rush, pushing, shoving and fighting to get past their fellows and be the first to safety. The few remaining Tenoch warriors who tried to stop the panic were trampled down—most simply joined the rush to the gates, along with the handful of Berellians and Norstalines who had survived the massacre.
‘Keep going!’ Martil bellowed. The first inclination for the men was to stop, for the battle was won. But beyond the mob, the open gates of the city beckoned. This was the full strength of the Tenochs. If he
could drive his armoured wedges through that panicked mass, he would be inside the city and surely Karia and the Egg would not be far away.
‘Push through them!’ Martil waved his men on.
In front of them, thousands of men lay dead or dying, weeping, screaming and pleading, with arrows deep in their flesh. They lay in piles, atop each other, in a thick carpet that stretched back towards the city. The struggling, pulsating mass of Tenochs, fighting to get into the safety of the city, was adding more to the pile every moment, as men were trampled or crushed.
‘Hold!’
Martil turned, to see Merren galloping forwards.
‘Hold your positions!’ she ordered.
Instantly the men stopped.
Martil raced over to where Tomon was picking his way past the dead.
‘What are you doing?’ he cried. ‘The city is at our mercy! Karia and the Egg will be just inside…’
She looked down at him sternly. ‘Bellic,’ she said simply.
‘This is different! This is Karia,’ he snarled at her.
‘You go in there and it will be Bellic all over again. We slaughtered shopkeepers, labourers and slaves just then. We had no choice, because they sent them against us. But to pursue them will be murder. And while they run now, if you break into that city, they will try to protect their families. What if there are hundreds of women and children in a crowd of men between you and Karia? Will you kill them to get to her?’
Martil, covered in blood and gore, just stared at her. ‘These are the men who took Karia, who took the Egg and brought us here. These are the men who rampaged through your country, killing men, women and children! How can you care what happens to them?’
‘Because I am not like my cousin! And because I also care about what it will do to you and the other men I led here!’
‘I will do whatever it takes to get Karia back,’ he vowed. ‘And if you try and stop me, I will order my Rallorans to follow me. You will have to fight us to keep me from saving Karia.’
‘Listen to me!’ Merren jumped down, so she could face him. Up close he looked even worse, wild eyes glaring out of a mask of other men’s blood.
‘This is it,’ she told him. ‘The decision that will forever define you. You can take men into that city and you might even be able to carve your way to Karia. But you will be as good as dead and she will hate you for it.’
‘What?’
‘If the Dragon Sword does not kill you, your conscience will. You will wake up one day and realise what you have done is far worse than Bellic. For most of the people in that city hate the Fearpriests as much as we do and will welcome us as liberators if only we let them. At least the Berellians of Bellic were fighting back. These poor people only fight because the Fearpriests will kill their families if they don’t! Do this and you doom yourself. Do you think Karia will thank you when you leave her alone? When the Sword takes your life because you wanted to slaughter innocent people?’
‘She will be alive, that is enough!’
‘No it is not!’ Merren blazed. ‘This is your choice. Life or death. Life with Karia, the baby and me or a lonely, bitter death, drowned in blood and nightmares.’
He stared coldly at her. ‘I have to get Karia. I promised her,’ he stated.
‘We can still get her out! Just not like this.’
He shook his head, prepared to push past her.
She reached out once more, putting everything she felt about him into her words.
‘You can have everything you want—a wife and family who love you—or every death you want. But you can’t have both. Martil, I love you! I had to turn you away to realise how much. I made the worst mistake of my life letting you go. I know that and I’m trying to make up for it. I don’t want to live without you! Take my hand, stay with me!’
Martil’s rage, that had served him so well in the past, told him to carve his way into Tenoch. The gates were open, the city was at his mercy. But her words touched something within him. They were an echo of what she had said in his dream, when he had escaped from the nightmare of Bellic. The dream that hovered round him still, since he had vowed to get back Karia, no matter what. In that instant, he saw the two paths his life could go down. The two futures were crystal clear. There was the Martil-he-had-been, the angry man who killed without remorse, for no good reason and the Martil-as-he-could-be, who had learned from Karia and Merren that there was more to life. The screams and howls of the fleeing Tenochs bit into his brain and he knew instinctively they would never leave him if he gave in to his anger and put Tenoch to the Sword. Karia would not want him to do that. He had to rescue her and would happily sacrifice himself to do that but he did not want to save her only to leave her orphaned again. And then there was Merren. Despite his earlier words to her, he wanted Merren, he wanted their child, he wanted peace. He did not move but he turned his back on the old Martil. He dropped his swords, one covered in blood, one spotlessly clean and fell into her arms.
‘Promise me. Promise me we’ll get her back!’
She kissed him then, heedless of the blood that smeared over her face.
‘We will get her back,’ she told him.
Then he was crying, for the first time since Karia had gone, the anger and fear draining out of him with his tears.
She held him close until he opened his eyes and she could see the Martil that she loved was back again.
‘What now?’ he asked, finally.
‘We help the wounded. We bring them back up to the gates and invite the city to surrender.’
‘And if they do not?’
‘Then we shall find another way in. But first we need to collect the wounded and show the city that we are not the monsters their evil masters claim we are.’
Gello gazed open-mouthed with horror as his grand army dissolved and raced back to the city, men fighting each other to reach safety first.
‘How can this be possible?’ Onzalez howled.
Gello could not answer. He had no idea. He looked across the field, to where Merren’s soldiers had stopped their advance. His men had been massacred—he could see only a handful of men in armour joining the rush for the gate. Feld, Livett, Heath—they must all be dead as well. It had happened yet again and this time his mind was numb with the horror of it. There was nowhere to run to.
‘You’re the warrior King! Think of something! Aroaril’s minions will be here soon and we cannot stop them!’ Onzalez grabbed Gello’s tunic and screamed into his face.
It snapped Gello out of his trance and he freed himself with a snarl, feeling his mind come back into focus. Everyone who could help him was dead, or useless. It was down to him. Time to see if he really could stand alone, without Mother.
‘Seal the gates. We will have a few warriors still. With the gates shut, they will not be able to get inside. They have too few men, and no siege equipment,’ he declared. ‘And I thought you Fearpriests were strong enough to defeat any enemy by yourself?’
‘I cannot risk it! Not after what happened outside the Norstaline capital! If the people of Tenoch were to see me defeated by one of Aroaril’s foul priests…’
Gello nodded as he saw where Onzalez was going. ‘Your slaves would begin to think you are not so fearsome after all! You rule through fear—without fear, the people might turn on you.’
‘And you also,’ Onzalez pointed out.
‘Fair enough. But we can keep them out of the city. These walls will prove impossible to assault.’
Onzalez, breathing heavily, stepped back a pace. With a visible effort, he regained control of himself.
‘Yes! And we can easily sweep away attempts to climb the walls. But what then? They will just wait us out. We have water aplenty but our city needs massive amounts of food to keep going. And all the farm workers are within the walls—the ones not dead in the field, that is. Our enemies came upon us so swiftly, we did not have time to stock up on food. If the people are starving, they will not be able to defend the walls.’
Gello glanced below, to where the panicked mass was streaming through the gates and vanishing into the streets beyond. Outside, broken and bleeding men, crushed and trampled in the rush for safety, lay thickly on the ground, hundreds of them.
‘The Dragon Egg! It is our last hope!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ezok must unlock the secret of its power. I saw what it did to our men back on Dragonara—it could crush every soldier out there!’
Onzalez clapped his hands together. ‘The Egg! Of course! It is as Zorva intended. It was given to us by His plan, and I have been a fool to ignore it. Today’s disaster was a result of me not following His wishes!’
Gello nodded doubtfully. He did not want to rely on magic but it seemed there was no choice. Still, no matter what happened, these walls were impressive. No army was going to get over them without months of careful siege work.
‘You hold these gates, I shall return to the Temple. The Radiant Child shall show us how to use the Dragon Egg or she shall die on the altar. If nothing else, the sacrifice of such a powerful being will result in Zorva giving me so much power that not even the foul priests of Aroaril will be able to stop me!’
Gello let him go. He had no wish to be anywhere near the Temple after this disaster. He needed to show not just Onzalez but the other Fearpriests that he was the only man capable of defending their city.
Merren ordered the bowmen to collect what arrows they could from the battlefield and for the rest of the men to begin collecting the thousands of wounded. The way the terrified Tenochs had run from the battlefield, leaving behind thousands of dead and wounded had raised her hopes. Surely Gello and his Fearpriests would surrender Karia and the Egg now their warriors were dead and the people panicked.
But she was shocked to see the gates swing shut behind the last, desperate fugitives.
‘What now?’ Martil asked, his voice calm.
She looked at him carefully but it was a reasonable question.
‘First I want to thank the men—and Elfarans and Derthals. The scale of this victory is almost beyond belief. Then we proceed as I planned. Let the people on the walls see Kesbury and Milly help as many of the Tenoch wounded as possible…’
