Defend Karuk

by Nicholas Everritt

  Chapter Six: Day One

  The hammer fell. There was a sickening crack, and the deserter’s blood and brains were dashed across the sand. The man, already on his knees, slumped to the floor, twitching in his death throes.

  “Grisly business. Who were they?” asked Commander Hashur as he arrived from the Arcite camp.

  “Deserters.” replied Nephys, of the dozen or so bodies which lay around her and her men, pierced by spears and split open by scimitars.

  Commander Nephys was remarkably tall and powerful. It was said to be testament to her impure barbarian blood, and though she had been taunted for it as a youngster, few would dare to use it against her now. She was bedecked in red-painted bronze armour which added to her already imposing frame. Her pauldrons made her shoulders broads, and an emerald half-cape fell from one of them. Her helmet, tall-spired and plumed with a green horsetail, also had a facial guard which covered the left half of her face. In her hand was her weapon of choice – a brutal poleaxe with an axe head backed by a hammer head, now wet with gore, and a piercing spike at the top.

  Her men stood over the bodies of the dead, cataphracts laden from head to toe in silver metal scales which even covered their faces. The one human part of them was their eyes, which peered out from beneath the rims of their conical helmets. They held their bloodied scimitars and gore-red spears in their hands.

  “Do you suppose they were loyalists, faithful to Hatra? Or were they merely cowards?” wondered Hashur. He was a veteran in his fifties, clean shaven and with only scraggly black hairs left on his scalp. His features were a bit brutish, made craggy by countless marches under an unrelenting sun. He wore a bronze breastplate and greaves and a brown tunic. He carried his bronze helmet beneath one arm, and his hand rested on the hilt of the kopis at his side.

  “What difference does it make?” said Nephys, plainly, as she removed her helmet. Her hair fell down past her shoulders, long, black and thick. Her features were equine, and her skin was somewhat paler than is typical for Arcites. This, and her hazel eyes, was testament to her savage blood.

  “None to you, evidently.” smirked Hashur. There was no antagonism in his words. In their gruff exchanges there was an element of warmth and familiarity, or at least as much as you would expect from battle-hardened comrades. Hashur sighed before continuing. “King Khalim invites you to bear witness to his divine presence.” he said, wearily, barely able to force the flowery words out of his mouth.

  “We’d better not keep the good King waiting.” said Nephys, turning to her men. “These men are to be impaled on spikes in full view of the camp. Let that be a warning to others.” With that Nephys and Hashur left her cataphracts to their grisly business as she and Hashur set off back to the camp.

  “If a man is loyal to Hatra, can you really blame him for deserting an army which marches under the protection of Venhotek?” reasoned Hashur. “Just between you and I, many of my men are having difficulty coming to terms with our present circumstances.”

  “You are understating things, I sense. There is no need to around me.” said Nephys.

  “Indeed, Commander. They think this whole operation is a crock of shite. They think the King is a madman, that Venhotek is an evil demon who eats stillborn babies, and that by fighting Khalim’s ludicrous war against Hatra and our Calclaskan allies, we not only bring dishonour to our families, but we also damn our souls.”

  “An interesting thesis.” grunted Nephys.

  Hashur chuckled mirthlessly. He knew she agreed with all of it, but her loyalty to King and country would not allow her to say so, not even spoken in hushed tones to her closest ally.

  The camp stretched out before them, a vast mass of tents and campfires spreading out as far as the eye could see. The morning sun had not yet reached its peak. Ahead of them were the distant hills stretching across the horizon. To their right was tiny Karuk, with its bronze-armoured garrison and hastily-built wall. And right in the middle of the camp was Khalim’s tent, far larger than others, made of crimson linen with golden inlay and surrounded by his Azurian Guard.

  “Tell your men to remember their loyalty to Arcon, regardless of the gods our people serve.” Nephys advised.

  “You think a man can be more loyal to his people than to his gods?” said Hashur, sceptically.

  “A man can change his religion. He can make offerings to one god or another. But he cannot change his homeland, where he’s from.”

  “It doesn’t trouble you, then?”

  “There is much that troubles me. Not least that we are wasting valuable time demolishing tombs when we should be decimating Praxos’ shattered army. But the King’s word is law. And in law, the King is Arcon. So he gives the orders, and I follow them.”

  Hashur raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “And you? Where do your loyalties lie?” Nephys asked.

  “To Arcon. To my men. To you. That about covers it.”

  “And Hatra?”

  “Hatra has her place amongst the gods. But so too does Venhotek. All are powerful beings which can help a man or hinder him – but I find that in battle the gods are too fickle to be of tactical use.”

  “Agreed, Hashur. Do be careful though, won’t you?”

  “In what regard, Commander?”

  “Hold your tongue.” Nephys cautioned.

  “Hmm. I will try.” chuckled Hashur.

  The troupe of Azurian Guard parted ways to allow the two Commanders through. They were armoured in bronze, with long braided beards and hair adorned with bronze rings. They carried oval red-painted shields and spears. They glared at the Commanders as they passed, and Nephys and Hashur regarded them with suspicious glares of their own. There was no love lost between the Azurian Guard and everyone else, frankly, apart from those who lined their purses.

  They entered Khalim’s tent to find a maddening scene. The air was stiflingly hot, thick with smoke rising from coals which glowed in bronze braziers. The morning light pierced the tent’s crimson linen, making everything glow a demonic red. Some Azurian Guards stood guard in the tent, weapons in hand, but more still reclined on cushions with concubines on their laps and swigging wine.

  The concubines, poor, wretched girls, were blackened by bruises, half-starved and dead-eyed. They were the daughters of noblemen slaughtered in Khalim’s purges, stolen away to fill his Harem. Or priestesses, defiled countless times by the wicked Azurian Guard and the King’s zealots and cronies. A gaggle of naked concubines also lay about Khalim’s golden feet and perched themselves on the arms of his throne.

  There he sat, upon a huge golden throne, built to look like a pride of lions, with lionesses for arms and a mighty lion’s head to back the thing. He was a smallish man, dressed from head to toe in golden armour with an impassive golden face mask. Even his long braided hair and beard were completely covered in gold rings. His long glittering fingers rapped against the arms of his throne, and his head was cocked to the side slightly as his skeleton-empty eyes, made black by the mask, watched the Commanders enter.

  Beside the King were the serpents who whispered poison into his ear. To his right was Byzar, Captain of the Azurian Guard, sat on a stool. He was armoured like his men, but he was getting fat and old. His heavy braided beard and hair, which started a fair distance back on his head, seemed to tug down his block-like head until he hunched over. His eyes sat beneath a protruding brow. His nose was flat and broken and he had two puffy ears, testament to a rough upbringing in the slums of Azur. There was a gladius at his side.

  To the King’s left stood Zamon, Grand Serpent of Venhotek and chief priest of that foul death-god. He was tall and thin, dressed in sleek black robes, making his form serpent-like in itself. He wore a bronze headdress in the shape of a fanged serpent’s head adorned with crow’s feathers. His beard was long and black, and he lined his eyes with black soot, giving him a corpse-like demeanour. The eyes themselves were wild, with more white in them than seemed normal. He had a look of violent disdain upon his face and sport
ed a near-permanent frown.

  The Commanders knew the drill. They found themselves a spot which was clear of drunken Guardsmen or drugged concubines and they kneeled, bowing their heads, until Khalim at last twitched a finger, indicating that they should rise. Khalim’s movements were usually minimal, like a basking lizard, as if even to move was beneath a man of his divine standing, although he was known to fly into explosive rages during his less contemplative moments.

  “You summoned us, my King?” spoke Nephys, her stern bluntness somewhat at odds with the debauched scene.

  The King didn’t say anything for a few moments. He just remained completely still, and they could hear his quietly wheezing breaths as his exhalations rushed through the facial slit of his golden mask.

  “The heathens have captured Karuk.” he spoke at last, his voice whispered and oddly effeminate as his gave his demented order. “Calclaskan barbarians. We will take it from them, and rid the world of Hatra’s foul corruption once and for all. I want them taken alive so that I may sacrifice them to Venhotek, Kalaratra and Hut. You will lead my Golden Host into battle, Commanders. But leave the veterans behind. My new recruits are eager to prove their love for their King, and so I will give them the honour of leading the assault.”

  Hashur glanced at Nephys, but her only reaction was to bow her head. Hashur knew it was a ludicrous plan. “Forgive me, my King.” he said, against his better judgement. “Those Calclaskans – they are Reclaimers, and are the greatest soldiers the world has ever seen. To attempt to overwhelm them with levy troops would be a mistake, and to even attempt to take them alive would be…”

  “You question the King’s divine wisdom?” howled Zamon, his wild gaze fixed upon Hashur, who bit his tongue and bowed his head.

  “No, Grand Serpent. I will fulfil your orders to the letter, my King.”

  King Khalim did not move at all for a few moments. Then at last he beckoned to one of the concubines, who sheepishly perched herself on his golden lap and began to caress his armoured hair and chest. “No, Hashur. I am eager to hear what you have to say. You are free to question my judgement of course, and I value your wise counsel. Tell me, Commander Hashur, if you were King, what would you do?”

  “Well…” began Hashur, hesitantly. He glanced at Nephys again, but she remained impassive. “If it were up to me, I’d besiege the place with a skeleton force, and then take the rest of the army to hunt down Praxos in Calclaska. If we waste time here, we give him time to rebuild…”

  “Waste time! Waste…Time!” howled Zamon, as Byzar chuckled at the man’s indignation. “To destroy the tomb of a false-prophet, to wipe out the last bastion of a false-god, that is a waste of time, is it, Commander Hashur?”

  “Forgive my…Phrasing, my King. I am but a soldier, and have little experience of the lofty debates which concern a King such as yourself.” Khalim nodded his approval, and so he continued. “But if we are to defeat the Reclaimers then I fear we will need our best troops. Inexperienced troops will be shattered by them in an instant – better to send my veterans in first, alongside Commander Nephys’ cataphracts, dismounted and fighting with pikes. Then, when we have the Reclaimers pinned down on all sides, we can send in the levies as reinforcements to add weight to our assault.”

  Hashur stopped speaking and awaited Khalim’s response. He didn’t speak or move an inch for several moments. A bead of sweat rolled down Hashur’s brow.

  “An interesting plan, Commander Hashur.” the King said at last. “But as you note you are but a soldier, and your intellect falls far short of my own. My plan is more genius than yours, which I find boorish and ill-thought-through. You will follow my original plan as I have explained it, which I have settled upon after much wise rumination and consultation with the gods. Is this understood, Commander Hashur?”

  Hashur bowed his head. “Understood, my King.”

  Khalim flinched a finger, indicating that they were to leave, and so Nephys and Hashur bowed and made their leave from that maddening place.

  No sooner had they left, Byzar snorted just loudly enough that Khalim could hear him. His head turned, fractionally, so that the black pits that he had for eyes were trained on the Captain.

  “Something amuses you, Captain?” said Khalim, his voice chillingly hollow.

  “He’s brave, I’ll give him that.” said Byzar, with a fake chuckle.

  “Brave? A man does not need to be brave to fight for his beloved King.”

  “No, my King…I mean he was brave to question your judgement so openly.”

  Zamon grinned, cruelly, cottoning on. “And foolish also, my King. Commander Hashur lacks faith in your judgement…Judgment handed down to you from the gods themselves.”

  The two serpents said nothing for a while, allowing their words time to sink in. Eventually, Khalim spoke. “You believe he seeks to undermine me?”

  Byzar scoffed. “Maybe…Maybe he just wants to lead the charge, so he can take all the glory for himself. Yes, I’ll wager that’s the cause.”

  Khalim turned away, and his golden fist slowly clenched. “The glory belongs to me…It is my genius and mine alone which shall bring us victory.”

  “Indeed, my King.” nodded Byzar, leaning in closer, staring deep into those abyssal pools. “Might it not be wise to allow his plan to fail? To let him lead the charge, and when he falls short, as surely he will, he will have been taken down a peg or two?”

  “That would simply give him the glory he desires.” dismissed Khalim, with a wave of his hand. “Hashur’s veterans will defeat the Reclaimers easily. Those Hatran zealots are Calclaskan by blood, and so are much inferior to our pure Arcite stock. And they swear fealty to the false-god Hatra, who is weak and dilapidated.”

  “A son of Arcon with love for his King in his heart and a prayer to Venhotek on his lips is more than a match for any Reclaimer, my King…” counselled Zamon. “But Hashur’s phrygists lack faith. They will falter upon the Reclaimers’ shields, for though they may be heathens they are nonetheless potent warriors. We must not underestimate the strength of the enemies of the Old Gods.”

  “They are loyal only to their Commander and to the royal purse, which guarantees them land and farms when they retire.” added Byzar. “If you ask me, my King…Their over-confidence, and Hashur’s insubordination, must not go unpunished. An army needs discipline.”

  Khalim was silent and still for a while longer, until at last he gave his new orders. “Discipline. An army needs discipline. I have changed my mind, Captain Byzar, for a wise general is adaptable and will change his strategies as circumstances develop. Hashur and his men will assault the infidels’ position.”

  Byzar and Zamon shared cruel grins. “Very well, my King. I will take the order to him personally.” spoke Byzar, barely able to contain his glee.

  “I told you to hold your tongue.” chastised Nephys as she and Hashur set off towards the phrygist camp to plan out the assault. “I have known his madness longer than you. I was there during his reign of terror in Azur. I saw the purges, witnessed the sack of the Sepulchre. You must never question him.”

  “His plan’s a load of shite. The levies will die in droves against the Reclaimers. And when they do, we’ll get the blame.” protested Hashur.

  “The truth is irrelevant. All that matters is the orders we’ve been given.”

  “It’s disgusting.” spat Hashur. “That crooked old priest he keeps with him makes my skin crawl. Byzar, the corrupt, fat old bastard, profiting even while our people suffer. And those poor girls, stripped, raped, abused…It doesn’t bother you, Commander?” Nephys merely grunted, and so Hashur pressed her. “You don’t fear you will share their fate, and become his plaything?”

  “No. He is flattered by my loyalty to him. Besides, I know what he fears.”

  “Oh? Do tell.” smirked Hashur.

  “Fire. Hatra. And woman.” she said, with the hint of a smile. “But none of those things will protect you if you earn his ire. He doesn’t have the wit to see how vi
tal you and your veterans are to his so-called ‘Golden Host’.”

  “Commander Hashur.” a man called from behind them. The Commander turned to see Byzar approaching surrounded by a dozen of his men, all with mocking grins plastered on their faces.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Captain?” sneered Hashur.

  “You have new orders.”

  “You don’t have the rank to give orders to me, Captain.”

  “These orders come from the King himself.” said Byzar, gleefully. “You and your phrygists are to lead the assault.”

  “Then the King has seen sense after all.” nodded Hashur.

  “You are to defeat the Reclaimers and sack Karuk. And you will do so…alone.” he said, savouring the cruel words, and his cronies laughed mockingly.

  Hashur at once seemed to go a shade paler. “Alone?” he said, disbelieving. He glanced at Nephys, then back at Byzar. “This is madness.”

  “Those are your orders nonetheless. Don’t shoot the messenger, Commander.” said Byzar, with a theatrical shrug.

  “The scouts count five hundred Reclaimers!” said Hashur, raising his voice and pointing aggressively towards Karuk. “I have scarcely a thousand men! It will be a massacre!”

  “Then I suggest your men make an offering to Venhotek, who will gladly lead their brave souls into the underworld.” taunted Byzar, and his men laughed again. “And don’t worry about those farms you were promised in retirement. They won’t go to waste. I’m sure my brave Azurian Guard can find a good use for them. Now I’ll leave you to your strategizing, Commander Hashur. Farewell, Commander Nephys.”

  She grunted curtly in reply, following him with her cutting glare as he left with his men. Nephys was left with the shell-shocked Hashur. He stared, distantly, towards Karuk, mouth agape as realisation sunk in that this would be his last day on earth. Nephys didn’t know what to say to him. She turned away.

  “It has been an honour serving with you, Commander Nephys.” said Hashur at last, shaking himself out of his daze.

  They clasped hands. “Likewise. You are a good soldier, Commander Hashur, and a good friend.” said Nephys. She found the last word difficult to say – somehow it felt unfamiliar to her.

  Hashur’s eyes turned once again to the walls of Karuk, which suddenly looked all the mightier. “I’d better go tell the men the good news.”

  Nephys watched as Hashur set off for the phrygist camp. She doubted she would ever speak to the man again.

  The phrygists were veterans of many campaigns. They were professional soldiers, paid by the day while on campaign. They were known for their bronze tower shields, which covered a man from neck to toe, and their deadly spears. They were currently loitering around campfires within their camp of crisp white tents, eating their breakfast in good spirits. They rose to their feet and saluted as Hashur approached, and he gathered them around himself.

  Hashur swelled with pride as he looked upon his expectant men, and prepared to impart the grave news. He took a deep breath, and began.

  “You are all good men.” he said, not completely able to keep the sorrow from his voice. “Good, brave men. You have done your duty well and without complaint. It has been an honour fighting beside each and every one of you.”

  The men looked at each other in confusion. Hashur explained. “We’ve been ordered to seize Karuk from the Reclaimers. We will be on our own.”

  Immediately they all knew what this meant. They muttered prayers beneath their breaths. Some shook their heads in disbelief. They clutched pendants, kissed mementos given to them by their wives, sons and daughters.

  “We are men of war.” Hashur continued. “We spend our lives on campaign. Perhaps it was foolish of us to hope for long lives and peaceful deaths. Perhaps this is the most fitting end for our esteemed legion. We have lived by the spear – now to die by it!” he said, unsheathing his kopis and trusting it into the air.

  “We fight for you, Commander Hashur!” cried one man, raising his frying pan aloft.

  “For the Commander!” cried another, holding up his helmet.

  “For the Commander!” cried the whole legion, holding up whatever was to hand – plates, utensils, their helmets, their sheathed swords. Their loyalty brought a tear to Hashur’s eye. He turned to one of his oldest veterans and put a warm hand on his shoulder.

  “Perhaps it is for the best, Hakamat!” he grinned. “You’d be a shit farmer!”

  The men howled with laughter, and so Hashur set them to it. “Eat well, men. Arm yourselves. We march to war! We march to hell!”

  “For the Commander!” they cried out once more as they set to gathering their arms and armour.

  It was not long before the whole legion was marching out of the camp in an orderly column, their hobnail sandals slamming to the ground in unison as they marched through the disparate camps of the Golden Host. Their tower shields were tall and their spears were long. Each man had a breastplate, a bronze helmet and greaves, worn over a brown tunic. Hashur marched at the head of the column with his standard bearers behind him. Their standards bore the shields of a dozen defeated barbarian tribes. Horn-blowers heralded their arrival and drummers kept their march in step.

  The Arcites emerged from their tents to see the phrygists march out towards the expanse of arid plain that sat between their camp and Karuk. They marched past the charred remains of the pyres, and the blackened corpses of the heathens which lay on them. The Arcites watched them sally out with curiosity or indifference. Nephys watched on as those brave men marched out to meet their doom.

  With a howl of their trumpets, Khalim’s Azurian Guard held aloft his palanquin-throne and hauled him out of his tent. They marched on until they were just ahead of the still-smoking pyres, where Khalim would sit and watch events unfold. He, his attendants and his Azurian Guard watched on as the column of soldiers marched out towards oblivion. Byzar and Zamon shared a cruel, contented grin. For them it meant one less rival to contend with.

  The Reclaimers, mustered at the northern wall, watched perplexed as the column of spearmen began their march out from the camp and into no-man’s-land. They could hear the tramping of their feet, the howl of their trumpets, Commander Hashur’s bellowed orders.

  “Why do they send only these men, of all Arcon’s multitudes?” pondered Meridon, his brow furrowed. “Surely they know they cannot win? They scarcely outnumber us two to one!”

  Optimus’ expression was a sombre one as he watched them march towards Karuk. “Commander Hashur is an honourable man. These men are good soldiers. We will give them the honour of a battle on fair terms, in the open field.”

  Batu was taken aback. “Where is the sense in that, Optimus? The phrygists are the best soldiers Arcon has to offer. Does it not make sense to make use of the defences we’ve built?”

  “Honour comes before sense. Always.” was Optimus’ brusque reply. “We march out to meet them.”

  “March out! Form battle formation!” roared Meridon, and the Reclaimers thrust their spears in the air with a mighty “Arooo!”.

  As the Reclaimers marched out over the wall, only two looked back. Imperios, briefly, to Aysha. She found herself suddenly nervous. She felt an urge to run over to him and kiss him on the cheek before he marched into battle, but she found herself paralysed. Drumnos looked back, too, more lingeringly, at Jamila. His longing gaze became a thin glare as he set eyes on Osuna, who stood beside her. Drumnos turned back to his battle-brothers, to the battle ahead. Jamila watched the Reclaimers march out, and she prayed for them.

  “Let me fight.” Osuna appealed to Optimus, stood atop the wall as he oversaw the formation of the Reclaimer batteline. “I’m not a pup. I’ve fought before. I can help you.”

  “No.” said Optimus, his eyes fixed on the plain ahead of him, dry and thirsty for the blood of battle. He coldly regarded distant Khalim, come to watch the bloodshed his madness had brought.

  Osuna was in no position to quibble. “If the phrygists break through, I will protect the o
thers.”

  “They will not.” was all Optimus had to say on the matter as he went to join the front rank of the gathered Reclaimers, who had formed a dense block. The shield-bearers who made up the bulk of the formation carried their shields with them, and held a spear in each hand, falchions at their sides.

  Once he was at Meridon’s side, he made the first step on their march into battle, and Meridon led the war-chants as they marched out to meet the phrygist column.

  “Bring the light!”

  “Hatra’s light!”

  “Reclaim the land!”

  “Hatra’s land!”

  “Heathens!”

  “Convert them!”

  “Infidels!”

  “Destroy them!”

  The priests, Aysha and Jamila watched on helplessly from behind the wall. Osuna cursed in frustration as he watched them march out, infuriated by his helplessness.

  As they marched deeper into that dusty expanse Optimus gave his orders. “Leave your spears for the lancers – they will do no good against those tall shields while the phrygists are in formation. Shield-breakers – use hammer and kopesh to punch through. Swordsmen – await my command.” And so the Reclaimers handed their spears to the lancers in bundles, and the lancers marched at the rear of the column.

  The two blocks of men at last came together, and both bodies of troops stopped their march as one a few paces apart. The phrygists gave prayer to their gods as Hashur walked out from the front rank, his helmet beneath his arm. They looked nervous. Sweat dripped from their brows. The Reclaimers prayed to Hatra. They betrayed no emotion, not even Drumnos as he prayed for Hatra to bring him strength in his first battle. Optimus marched out to meet Hashur. The Arcite block of troops was several ranks deeper than the Reclaimers were, and was significantly wider. No matter. Reclaimers are used to fighting outnumbered.

  Optimus and Hashur clasped hands. “It is good to see you again, Optimus. A shame it is under these grave circumstances.”

  Optimus smiled as best he could, and tried to reason with him. “It need not be this way, Hashur. Turn against the tyrant you call King. Cast off the false gods he has burdened you with, and pledge your allegiance to Hatra once more. Together we can hold them off. For each life we lose, we will take ten of theirs.”

  Hashur smiled in a melancholy way. “You know I can’t do that, Optimus. I have no love for my King, nor for the Old Gods and their zealots. But this is my land. These are my people. And I will not betray them.”

  “Then our parley is concluded. I wish you safe passage to the afterlife – and Hatra’s forgiveness once there.” said Optimus, putting a hand on Hashur’s shoulder.

  “You and me both, old friend.” said Hashur, returning the gesture.

  With the parley concluded, brief though it was, the two commanders returned to their front lines.

  “Lock shields!” howled Hashur as he put his helmet back on. The bronze shields of the phrygists slammed together, protecting them from foot to eye, and they presented their spears, becoming a war machine of bronze and pikes.

  Optimus nodded to Meridon, who then gave the order. “We advance!”

  The shield-bearers locked their shields, too, and each man unsheathed his falchion. The two blocks then marched in steady footsteps towards one another, neither side breaking into a run. In an orderly fashion they marched until the shields of the front ranks pressed against each other. But none struck yet. All waited with bated breath.

  “Ready, old friend?” asked Optimus, his shield pressed against Hashur’s.

  “Ready.” said Hashur, with a bloody grin. “Unleash hell!” he roared.

  “No mercy!” cried Optimus.

  “Push!” ordered Meridon.

  A mighty clamour went up as the two forces began to heave against each other. Men huffed and heaved and bronze clanged against bronze as the mighty scrum throbbed with effort, each side trying to haul the other over.

  Spears thrust out from the Arcite block. The Reclaimers ducked back behind their shields as the spears lashed out. The Reclaimers responded in kind, driving their falchions down over the tops of the phrygist shields, ramming into the unprotected necks and shoulders of their enemies. The first casualties fell, punctured by spears or swords, but their corpses were propped up in the heaving scrum.

  Drumnos pushed against the shield-brother in front of him, lending strength to his effort to haul over the phrygist he was up against. He saw a flash of movement as a spear thrust out. The man in front of him ducked, and Drumnos lifted his shield, and the spear slammed into it, making the bronze rattle. His heart thundered as the battle grinded around him.

  Meanwhile, Imperios and the other lancers thrust their spears into the ground at the back of the Reclaimer formation, ready to hurl when the order was given. On the flanks, the swordsmen pushed against the backs of the shield-bearers in front of them. Mamatu grinned, savouring the slaughter to come. He would have to be patient for now.

  The battle continued, a heaving grind as each side tried to wear the other out. Meridon ducked back as a spear thrust past his head. Optimus felt the impact of Hashur’s kopis smashing against his shield.

  “Push, men! Don’t let them break through!” cried the Commander.

  Optimus heaved with all his might, and Hashur was pushed back a little, and he gained an inch of ground. In these first stages of battle, at such close quarters, each inch of parched, worthless scrub was fought over fiercely. Seeing an opening in the shield wall, Optimus thrust out with his falchion, and it rammed into the armpit of a phrygist opposite, who howled as his lung was punctured.

  As he pulled his falchion free, Optimus gave his next order. “Shield-breakers, come through!” he called.

  “Stand firm!” cried Hashur.

  On his order, the shield-bearers heaved against their shields, pushing their counterparts back as best they could, and they allowed the shield-breakers to push through to the front lines. They were the tallest and mightiest of the Reclaimers. Some came with sledgehammers, which they slammed into the Arcite shields, buckling them, sending the warriors carrying them sprawling. Some came with giant kopeshes, which could equally wreck a shield, and which had a hook at the top which could latch onto a man’s shield and haul him over. As the shield-breakers caused mayhem and broke open the shield wall, shield-bearers strode into the breach, striking at exposed enemies with their falchions, punching through the holes made by the shield-breakers and raising their shield to protect them from incoming blows, for while they wielded their huge hammers and kopeshes they couldn’t protect themselves with shields.

  Parthax was the mightiest of all the shield-breakers. He swung his kopesh, hooking it around the top of a man’s shield, and with a mighty yank he hauled him over, where he was cut apart by half a dozen falchions. Parthax strode into the breach and hefted his kopesh around. It carved a man in two at the waist, sending his tumbling in two gory halves. He waded deeper still into the Arcite phalanx, punching a hole into it which his comrades flooded into. As the phrygists struck at Parthax with their spears his comrades formed a wall of shields around him blocking their blows.

  “Move!” cried Parthax, and his comrades parted ways to allow him to bring down his kopesh once more. One of the Reclaimers grabbed the top of his target’s shield so he couldn’t move it to block the blow, and he was cut in two the long way down, a storm of blood, entrails and sheared bronze.

  “Lancers!” cried Optimus, over the tumult.

  “Get down!” cried Meridon, even as he rammed his falchion into his opponent’s gut.

  The shield-breakers and the men around them ducked down, and the lancers hurled spears over their heads into the Arcite ranks. With their formation disrupted and their shields sundered, men fell with spears in their guts. Imperios marked his man and launched his spear. It flew true and slammed into his face, emerging from the other side gore-red, shearing the back of his helmet.

  No sooner had this chaos died down than the shield-breakers were back on
their feet once more, carving swathes through the enemy lines. As the phrygist formation became more disrupted the Reclaimer shield-bearers were able to push them back. They stepped over the bodies of the dead, and rammed their falchions into those who still squirmed or who cried in agony from wounds.

  As the battle loosened up Drumnos saw his opening. There was space ahead of him, and he ran into it, slamming his shield against an enemy Arcite’s, smashing it aside and leaving him vulnerable. Drumnos rammed his falchion into the man’s flank. His head jerked back and he cried out in agony, and Drumnos brought his blade across his neck, slitting it open and killing the man. Drumnos buzzed from his first kill as the man’s blood sprayed over the bronze of his shield. It would not be his last. His lifted his shield to block a spear and continued the fight as his comrades rallied around the hole he had made in the enemy’s formation.

  Hashur cried out as he swung his kopis at Optimus, and it clanged at it smashed against his shield. Optimus sheathed his falchion and waited until Hashur struck again, this time catching his wrist, and the blade shuddered inches from his face. Heaving, baring his teeth, Optimus pushed Hashur’s arm back, and then he clutched his hand over Hashur’s fist, and he rammed Hashur’s kopis through his own neck. Hashur’s eyes shot open, and, coughing blood, he fell there fighting side by side with his men.

  Unsheathing his falchion and lifting it overhead, Optimus gave his next order as the battle raged on around him. “Swordsmen!”

  Hearing the call, troupes of swordsmen skirted around the flanks of the Reclaimer formation until they were behind the phrygist line. Some of the phrygists spotted them coming, these Reclaimers who wore lighter armour than their comrades and who fought with two straight bronze swords, perfect for cutting at unarmoured limbs or ramming into exposed armpits. These phrygists called out, and some of them broke off to engage the swordsmen. The swordsmen charged at them, and began to melee with them in loose formation, weaving aside of their spears and ramming their swords up and under their breastplates.

  Mamatu beamed as he turned a spear aside with one sword, and rolled around his assailant’s shield, bringing his other sword into the small of his back. The man’s head jerked back as he screamed in agony, and he collapsed as the gore-red sword was whipped back out of him. More men charged at him, several at once, but he was equal to it, turning a spear aside with one blade, parrying a kopis with the other, kicking another man’s shield to push him back. He swept one sword above a man’s shield and through his neck, sending his head falling back, now attached only by a thin slab of flesh. As the headless body flomped to the floor Mamatu brought both swords down into the shoulders of another assailant, who cried in pain as he was forced down onto his knees. He wrenched the swords free and span, the blades lashing out, one cutting through a man’s leg at the knee, the other slicing through a man’s neck. Both fell to the floor in heaps. Only one cried out in pain, and so Mamatu finished him off with a sword through the throat. He was in his element, savouring the chaos and bloodshed, searching with lusty eyes for the next kill.

  The swordsmen had caused havoc, and now they were coming up around the back of phrygists, ramming their swords into their backs. Shield-bearers pushed against the flanks, making the Arcite block buckle and pushing them back until the whole unit was surrounded.

  As casualties took their toll on the phrygists they were penned back into a weary, broken schiltron. A deadly sequence began.

  “Down!” cried Meridon, and the Reclaimers ducked down, allowing the lancers to launch a flurry of spears over their heads, felling men in droves.

  “Advance!” cried Optimus, and they rose against, slamming their shields against the shields of their enemies, looking for openings to drive their swords into their bodies. The shield-breakers wrought havoc, wrecking shields and hewing men.

  “Down!” cried Meridon, and more spears flew.

  The phrygists were being butchered in such numbers that when Optimus cried “Advance!” the Reclaimers had to clamber over the bodies of the dead to reach the living. Corpses were propped against each other in the Arcite scrum, and men were crushed and suffocated in the middle of it. Drumnos advanced into this slaughter, blocking a spear before slamming his shield into his opponent’s. The man fell over, tripping over a fallen ally, and so Drumnos stamped on his chest to keep his in place before sweeping his falchion across his neck.

  “Down!” cried Meridon. Imperios marked his man and launched his spear. It whistled over Parthax’s head and slammed into the breastplate of the man ahead of him, flooring him.

  “Advance!” cried Optimus, and Parthax stepped over the body of the felled man and brought down his kopesh. The hook planted itself in the sternum of an enemy spearman, and as the weapon was wrenched out again his body was hurled aside, screaming.

  “For Hatra!” cried Parthax as the kopesh came around again, hewing a man’s legs from beneath his body and sending the rest of him flying like a flayed rag-doll.

  “Down!” cried Meridon, and Imperios readied another spear, but then his heart jolted. From over the heads of his comrades he could see that Parthax had waded too deep. He was in the thick of the fast-dwindling phrygists, separated from his comrades.

  “Parthax!” he cried as he threw the spear. It planted itself in the face of a spearman before he could trust at Parthax, whose kopesh fell to carve open the head of the man beside him.

  But then a spear came from behind him, and it thrust just behind the breastplate and into Parthax’s flank. His head jerked back and he howled in pain.

  “Parthax!” Imperious cried again.

  “Advance!” cried Optimus again, and the Reclaimers pushed on. Drumnos rammed his sword into a man’s stomach. Mamatu cut through a man’s neck with his two swords, sending the head falling and the body following soon after, neck stump spitting blood all over him.

  “Get to him!” ordered Meridon, seeing Parthax surrounded by the enemy, and the shield-bearers pushed through the enemy ranks to reach him.

  Parthax, for his part, swung his kopesh with all his might, and it met the spearman’s skull, turning it into a mangled ball of bone, brain and bronze. As he snapped off the haft of the spear which impaled him, another spear came from behind, punching through his calf. He cried out, and Imperios pushed his way through the Reclaimer ranks, trying desperately to reach his friend.

  It was no use. Parthax knew he was done for. He became battle-drunk, desperate to take a heavy toll upon the enemies of Hatra. As blood and frothing phlegm dripped from his mouth he swung his mighty kopesh again and against, wildly, in all directions, and his enemies were sent flying. Imperios launched a spear, hurling one of his assailants from his feet, and he and others cut their way through the phrygist lines to reach Parthax. But before they could another spear rammed through his waist, and a kopis came down into his shoulder.

  His shield-brothers rallied around him, and the phrygist who stabbed him was floored as Imperios rammed his falchion in his gut. But Parthax’s his strength at last gave way and he fell to his knees, three spears and a sword still protruding from his body. He slumped to the floor just as Imperios reached him.

  “Parthax…Parthax VII! Speak to me, Parthax!” cried Imperios as he looked into his friend’s eyes. But they were glazed over and they soon rolled back. He had no life left in him. He was gone. Imperios seethed, cursing the Arcites and baring his teeth.

  The battle would not stop to mourn. It raged on as Optimus conducted his troops like a blood-gorged orchestra. They slaughtered the ever-dwindling phrygists mercilessly, who fought back-to-back, to the bitter end, until the last of their number fell at last. Their dead had piled up in a heap where they stood and fought. They did not surrender. They were good soldiers.

  The Reclaimers, panting and exhausted, did not cheer or rejoice in victory. They simply turned to Optimus and awaited orders. Optimus scanned the bodies of the dead. Corpses were strewn all over the parched earth, now gorging on their blood, with heaps and mounds of phrygists he
re and there where they had been surrounded and butchered. There were Reclaimer dead too. The time had come to count them.

  “These were brave men, all, who died this day.” declared Optimus. “Men who fought for their country and their people. Men of Hatra. All will be buried with dignity.”

  Khalim, watching on, had seen enough. “Pathetic.” was his scathing verdict. “They did indeed lack faith, Zamon, otherwise they would have put up more of a fight against those dim-witted savages. Tomorrow I shall consult the oracles, and then my faithful troops shall attack. You will lead the assault personally, Zamon. Bring me the heads of these ‘Reclaimers’. I will stuff them with serpents and leave them to rot in the sun.”

  “As you wish, my King.” beamed Zamon, darkly.

  As Khalim and his cronies returned to his tent, Nephys stayed out there a while longer contemplating the needless deaths of so many brave men.

  Over the coming hours the Reclaimers dug graves out there in no man’s land, for enemies and allies both. The phrygists would fill the lion’s share of the graves.

  Before the Reclaimers were buried they were laid out in ranks, and their names were taken, and their comrades walked amongst them and bowed their heads in reverence, saying prayers for them. There were thirty two in all. A far cry from the thousand phrygists who had died that day, but still, it was a heavy toll for such a small garrison. Optimus thanked each of them in person, kneeling beside their bodies, holding his hand over their eyes and praying to Hatra, extolling their virtues and imploring her to honour them in the afterlife.

  Imperios stood before Parthax’s body, his head bowed. Drumnos came up beside him, helmet under his arm.

  “I heard what happened to Parthax. I am truly sorry, Imperios.”

  Imperios allowed himself a weak smile. “Today is a good day, Drumnos. Parthax died in Hatra’s name, hewing her enemies. There can be no more honourable thing than that.”

  “Indeed, Imperios.” said Drumnos, sadly.

  Imperios turned to Drumnos and tried to put on a more chipper tone. “So…You survived your first battle. Congratulations. How was it?”

  Drumnos couldn’t help but smile, but then he regained his resolve and put on a more stern expression. “It was an honour to fight for Hatra.”

  “Good answer.” said Imperios with a grin. “I hear a Drumnos died today. I did not know him personally, but his friends tell me he was a good soldier. So you are Drumnos XVII now. Who knows…Perhaps one day soon you will be Drumnos I.”

  “Not too soon, I hope.” he joked.

  The two chuckled, and they were about to head back to Karuk for water and rest when a voice made Drumnos stop in his tracks.

  “Drumnos…” came the voice, soft and sweet.

  “Jamila.” he gasped, turning to her. He saw her smiling in her awkward, shy way.

  Imperios patted his friend on the shoulder and made his leave. The two shy youngsters stood opposite each other, smiling, looking each other in the eye one moment, then both down at their feet the next. “You made it through? You are unharmed?” she said.

  “Yes. It was…Tough. But I am unharmed.”

  “I am pleased. I was worried for you. I didn’t catch you this morning for our prayer.”

  “My fault. I must have forgotten.” he lied.

  “I suppose you won’t need one now, since the fighting is over?”

  “I’d…Still like one, if…?”

  Jamila smiled, then closed her eyes and put her hands on Drumnos’ shield. Her hands looked so small against the vastness of the spear-buckled bronze. “Bless this shield, Hatra. Let it catch the arrows of the enemy. Keep its bearer safe, for he is a brave soldier of the faith.”

  It almost brought a tear to his eye. “That was beautiful, Jamila. Thank you.”

  “That’s ok. It’s the least I can do. I cannot fight, so…”

  “It was perfect. Thank you.”

  Jamila’s duties were not over that day. Once the Reclaimer dead were counted and recorded by Meset and Batu on scrolls, they too were buried alongside the brave Arcites, and stones were placed on the mass grave which otherwise went unmarked, making the shape of the winged goddess Hatra. Jamila led the prayers for them. Hatra takes the souls of the dead to the heavens at sunset each day, and as the sun crept beneath the horizon they prayed for her to welcome these men, enemies and allies both, into her immortal realm.

  Only two souls stirred in Karuk. Osuna sat on the wall and watched on from a distance. He was an outsider. Not welcome. Not needed.

  And Mamatu. The battle was over, but his battle-lust had not been sated. He paced around Karuk spinning his swords, weaving this way and that, cutting apart phantom foes even as he wore the blood of his enemies on his blades and armour. Osuna found his grunts and howls distracting as he beheaded one ethereal Arcite after another.

  “You won’t join your battle-brothers in prayer?” Osuna called to him.

  “I do not pray for the dead. They are in a better place than we living.” Mamatu scowled, his grim eyes setting on Osuna’s only briefly. “I do not parley with cowards either.”

  Osuna scoffed. That was that then.

  Even as darkness fell, and the Reclaimers ate around their campfires in quiet contemplation, Osuna sat on the wall apart from everyone else. He looked out over the vast Arcite camp, their innumerable campfires lighting up the horizon, and wondered if this is how he was to spend his last night on earth – sulking, without a friend in the world.

  Jamila came and joined him eventually. She offered him some stew, but he shook his head. “Save that for the soldiers who fought today. I was sat here on my arse the whole time. Didn’t even break a sweat.”

  “We all have our part to play.” she said, trying to lift his spirits.

  “But when? I am a soldier, too, I should fight!” Osuna snapped. Jamila bowed her head, and was about to make her leave. “I’m sorry, Jamila. I’m sorry for being rude. I’m just frustrated.”

  “You are eager to fight? To die, if you must?” asked Jamila, sitting down beside him.

  “Hmm. I don’t know. I’m not eager for battle. It is a hellish thing. I still hear the screams of my comrades when I sleep. I still see them, the drowned corpses, bobbing around in the red water. But this waiting is even more unbearable. And what am I to do when the legions of Venhotek finally come? Carry water to the parched warriors? Hand out spears? There’s not much honour in that.”

  “Perhaps. But we do what we can, don’t we? Prove that you are willing to serve Hatra, in whatever way you can, and do it without complaint. Who knows…Perhaps Optimus will think differently of you.”

  Osuna nodded with a melancholy smile. “Thank you, Jamila. You have made me feel a great deal better.”

  “That is my role in all this.” she said, getting up to leave. “To make you big, strong men feel better about yourselves, so that you are more eager to kill other men. There is not much glory in that, either, but I do so without qualm or complaint. It’s Hatra’s work. And since I cannot kill the enemies of Hatra with my own hands, I should at least inspire others to do so.”

  Osuna watched her as she left. She had taken on a strangely grim tone. He thought about calling out to her, about discussing it some more, but she was already on her way to join the troops. She brought them their food, said prayers for them. Inspired them. She played her part well.

  Optimus, Meridon and the two priests sat around a fire of their own and deliberated.

  “Why did Khalim only send his phrygists to attack? Why not an all-out assault?” wondered Batu.

  “None can comprehend the motives of a madman.” dismissed Meridon.

  Meset looked into Optimus’ distant eyes, which stared deep into the fire. “They’re coming tomorrow, aren’t they? All of them? The whole army?”

  “Yes. I think so.” said Optimus.

  “It will be the end, then…” said Meset.

  “If Hatra wills it.” said Optimus, casting a protective eye over his feasting men, who a
te their stew and drank their water in silence as they contemplated what might be their last night on earth.

  Aysha went around the campfires, bringing food and water to the soldiers. When she came to Imperios she saw that he was looking distantly into the fire, and when their eyes met she turned at once to the Mausoleum and she started walking in that direction. She turned back to see that Imperios was still watching her, and so she kept walking.

  She stopped at the chapel, completely deserted, and waited for him. He made his excuses, got up from the campfire, and went to join her. When he reached her, Aysha put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. Imperios didn’t move, and so she backed off.

  “I was worried about you.” she said. Imperios nodded and looked away. “You seem sad.”

  “My friend died today. Parthax…Did you ever meet him?”

  “No…”

  “He’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He’s with Hatra now.”

  Aysha turned to the Arcite camp. “They’re saying they’ll attack again tomorrow. More of them this time.”

  “Yes. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until we are all dead, and Karuk is in ruins.”

  “Don’t say that! We might…”

  “No!” snapped Imperios. “We might nothing! We cannot win. Everyone who stays here will die. Do me a favour, Aysha – ride out at first light. Hide in the hills which you claim to know so well. Live out your life in obscurity – let it be a long life, at least.”

  “Why are you saying these things?” asked Aysha, her brow furrowed. She tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away.

  “If you are staying because of me…”

  “No.” she said firmly. “I want to help.”

  “You’re willing to die for this?”

  “It might not come to that.”

  Imperios turned away and huffed. He spoke pained words. “I cannot love you, Aysha. And you cannot love me. You know this.”

  Aysha scoffed. “You think that’s what this is?”

  “I don’t know. I am no expert in love…But I feel a strange attachment for you, which I would rather be rid of.”

  “Well that’s flattering.”

  “These things are forbidden in my Order. We must devote ourselves entirely to Hatra. We must scorn all pleasures of the flesh, all notions of ‘love’…”

  “It’s a stupid rule.” snapped Aysha. “Love isn’t evil. It’s not a distraction. It’s amazing. It fells amazing. And passion isn’t sinful. It’s wonderful. Is it not possible to love someone, and also to love your god?”

  “I…I don’t know. But I cannot risk finding out.”

  “Not even for one night, a night which you seem convinced is your last?”

  “I have told you already, Aysha, I cannot sex you!” Imperios blurted, before looking away, embarrassed.

  “Wow, thanks for letting me down gently, Imperios.” she laughed. Imperios turned away and huffed, his hands on his hips, still flushed with embarrassment. Aysha took a step closer, put her hand on his arm and spoke soft words in his ear. “Will you at least hold me for a while?”

  Imperios said nothing, simply staring out towards the giant enemy camp on the horizon. Aysha took his hand, and he didn’t pull it away this time. He couldn’t. She put his hand on her waist and put her arms around him. Imperios closed his eyes as he held her, felt her warmth, and then they both looked out towards the blazing campfires that spanned the horizon, the harbingers of their doom.