by Remi Michaud
Something was wrong. Jurel could feel it. He was overlooking something. He ran over the plan in his head again: his cavalry would charge into the infantry, hopefully shattering them at one go; his own infantry would follow closely to support the flanks; archers would pepper the enemy ranks while the priests would eliminate any arcane threat. This spot had been carefully chosen for their ambush. Once the trees ended, there was a hundred paces of field until they reached the road. It would give his cavalry enough time as they charged to form up into tight wedges after breaking clear the trees but not so much that the enemy would be able to form up properly. If all went well, there would be an out-and-out rout within the hour. But something was wrong and he had no idea what it was.
Because of the lack of scouts, Jurel and Mikal had decided to move the force forward until they were only a few dozen feet inside the treeline. The less forest his men had to wade through, the quicker the attack.
Jurel chewed his lower lip as he watched the enemy continue to walk into his trap.
After an eternity of waiting, after the sun had risen another degree, and the enemy was directly ahead, Mikal touched his shoulder.
Now.
Kurin Sent the signal as Jurel and Mikal ran to their horses and mounted, each drawing their swords. Behind, the first sounds of his army's motion could be heard: branches snapped, underbrush rustled. Within moments, his men became visible as blurs of motion through the trees.
Heart racing, Jurel watched his first line break from the trees, thundering hooves almost drowned out by the sudden howling of hundreds of voices. As he and Mikal left their concealment, a profound exhilaration took him; even though the coolness of the previous night lingered, sweat slicked his back and forehead.
The constant drilling had its intended effect. His men formed wedges that were so tight, their knees almost brushed. Lances still raised high, they thundered forward, as more and more filtered from the trees and added their weight to the charge. Arrows had begun to rain down already from the trees, archers firing on the run. It was long range, but they did not need accuracy; there were plenty of easy targets. The charge bore down, and as though given command, every lance point dipped until the wedges of cavalry became large, barbed arrow points.
His cadre of brothers and sisters joined the fray. Bolts of lightning struck liberally along the inner perimeter of the enemy force, balls of fire whistled overhead to disappear into the marching Soldiers of God.
Jurel watched, suddenly frozen. He would have expected the enemy force to be pulling up short. He would have expected to see startled expressions as soldiers turned to see the sudden charge flying at them. He would have expected cries of alarm, shouts of surprise and screams of agony, weapons being hastily drawn. But they continued to march as though they were not threatened by a thousand and more men, as though fire and lightning were not ripping them to shreds.
With only a dozen paces left for the cavalry to cover, Jurel finally noticed something truly terrifying. The shrieking fireballs did not strike anything. They did not explode, they did not cause soldiers to erupt into screaming infernos. They simply disappeared into the mass arrayed along the road. Where a fireball touched a soldier, there seemed to be a ripple like water disturbed by a stone.
Mikal had just enough time to mutter, “What the...” when the first platoon met the flank of infantry. It was like a strong wind in fog. The enemy infantry simply...blew away as his cavalry continued at full momentum. There should have been a deafening crash of metal on metal. The air should have been, right at that moment, filling with the howls of the injured, the dying. Instead, as more of his cavalry blew into the enemy ranks, soldiers began shouting confused questions.
Jurel turned his eyes to Mikal who stared back and for the first time, Jurel saw a hint of fear in the man's ashen features.
It all snapped into place. The sense of wrongness that had plagued him all morning suddenly made stark sense. A heartbeat before Kurin came galloping up frantically calling for retreat, Jurel understood.
“Illusion!” cried Kurin. “They knew we were here. Illusion!”
“Retreat,” Jurel shouted. “Mikal, get the men moving south. Out of here now!”
Mikal did not need to be told; he was already on the move, voice raised to prodigious levels, sounding the retreat.
Slowly, the sluggish blanket of confusion began to part as the constant battering of training took over. With no more need for silence, horns began to sound, urgent bleatings that shivered in the air. Squads quickly merged with platoons, bannermen waving standards in the air, as the army began to move south. Slow at first, they picked up speed until the ranks of infantry trotted then broke into a jog to keep up. If the fleeing ranks seemed a little ragged, well, why not? After all, Jurel's army was being routed without a single sword stroke.
“What happened?” Jurel demanded, rounding on Kurin.
“I don't know,” was the bitter reply. “I knew something felt wrong about all this. I knew it! We were all looking for this. We kept a close enough eye that I was positive they couldn't do this. Then, when the scouts reported visual contact, I thought we were all right.”
And it had been his, Jurel's, decision to continue with the attack as planned, even though his own instincts had screamed against it. He had rushed in before getting all the information, and now his army was exposed and in imminent danger of attack. He punched his leg in frustration, cursing.
“Don't blame yourself, Jurel. We were all fooled. Even Mikal thought continuing the attack was acceptable.”
Jurel nodded but he was not entirely convinced. “Go see to the priests, Kurin. Get them moving south too.”
With a nod, Kurin wheeled his horse and galloped into the trees.
What was the enemy commander planning? What was the next move? It seemed that this ruse was bait of some kind, but for what? To simply lure them into the open? To expose him and his army, a game of hide-and-seek? Jurel was still taut as a bow, his instincts clamoring. No. Not just that. They would not have revealed their knowledge simply to laugh at Jurel. So, what then?
Jurel had never been in a situation like this before, but if he had, if he had had the experience to draw on, he would have known a very important fact: a question like that is answered either now or later. If the answer arrives later, it often arrives when it makes very little difference. But if the answer arrives now, well, it most often arrives in the most disastrous manner possible.
He did not even see the wave of fireballs that incinerated the front line of his cavalry. All he saw was a strobe of brilliant blue-white flashes. These flashes were followed by an explosion that threw men and horses through the air like smoking rag dolls. The concussion sent a shock wave ripping through the ranks, felling almost everyone for fifteen paces. Indeed, it was so powerful that Jurel, still a hundred paces away, felt the impact like a fist in the gut.
In response, lightning struck the ground some distance ahead of the ragged remains of his front lines; his own priests were counter-attacking. He searched, straining his eyes; counter-attacking who? Where? Jurel spurred his horse with a savage kick—some dim part of his mind winced at the brutal treatment of such a fine beast—and he raced for all he was worth to the front.
Approximately halfway there, he heard a new sound from his right. He glanced to the trees, blurred by his speed, and saw movement. A lot of it. It was by sheer luck that the sun caught the shaft of the arrow at just the right angle; it threw off a glint that caused him to jerk backward in his saddle, almost unseating himself. The arrow whistled by his nose, so close he felt its breath as it blurred passed.
He righted himself, his horse stumbling, missing a step as Jurel's weight shifted, and found himself the target of a charge. Dozens of white cloaks flapped, dozens of lances pointed at him, dozens of eyes bored into him from behind glinting steel.
Gritting his teeth, he drew his sword, the metal rasping against leather, sounding angry, was a striking counterpoint to the high pitched screams of
agony and death that pierced their way through his ears and into the very core of him, intent on withering his soul. He turned to face the onslaught, knowing he was already lost, knowing that his screams would join in the chorus soon.
Assuming he survived long enough to scream.
The acridly sweet stench of burnt flesh drifted to him, following more of those terrible concussions, nearly made him gag. He suppressed the urge; he had other, more pressing things to think about than the condition of his army. If he had one left.
The lances lowered in the same way as they had when his men had charged, each point aimed at his heart, each point seeming to strive, to reach, for his blood.
To his left, a resounding crash sounded as cavalry rammed cavalry. The charge that was about to end his life faltered. It gave Jurel the time he needed to surge forward and begin the grim work of hack and slash. No thinking. Just action. Thrust. Parry. Slash. Don't see the blood, don't taste it. Just spill it.
He struck with his sword, and though it did no more damage than a regular sword might, he was now skilled enough to find the chinks in the Soldiers's armor. He blocked a wicked slash, letting the blade slide harmlessly from his, and he struck, the edge of his sword slicing under the helm. It came away red, dripping, and the Soldier, dropping his weapon, clutched at his throat as he slumped, slid off his horse. A whistle of air, a frantic parry, his blade flashed. A sword tumbled to the ground, still clutched in a fist with twitching fingers. A shriek. There was a jolt, a horse bumped against his. A hand grabbed for him, he whirled, a lance of pain shooting up his arm as his elbow connected with a helm. He spun, searching frantically for the next attack, his left hand clenching and unclenching as he tried to work the pins and needles from his arm.
Hissing in pain, he swung his head, searching. Where was his power, that hurricane of destruction that had decimated countless trained soldiers a year before? Where was the God of War?
For the moment, no one threatened so he spared a moment's glance to his saviors. Two more Soldiers went down, as he watched, leaving three—no four—and Captain Flain broke away from the last of the struggle, trotting to Jurel.
“Milord,” he barked.
Infantry, without the benefit of horse to carry the extra weight, were lightly armored. It showed, for Flain was spattered head to toe in gore already turning rusty red and his sword dripped blood onto the churned earth. A quick glance at the rest of Flain's men showed the same. It appeared they had been busy.
“What's happened?” Jurel demanded.
“Difficult to say, Milord,” Flain said, his flinty eyes raking Jurel. “But I think it goes badly for us.”
The last of the Jurel's attackers fell and Flain's men formed up in two small columns surrounding Jurel, half facing the forest and half facing the battle that raged.
The air crackled; angry, ruddy explosions shook the ground while flashes of incandescence, seared the eyes. Bodies writhed in close combat, swords cut the air and flesh. As he watched, a platoon of his cavalry ground itself into a bristling wall of lances and pikes. Sparks flickered above the battle like fireflies: burning arrows, death from above. From his vantage, a hundred paces away, it looked like a churning, forest fire.
But no forest had ever screamed like this. An overarching roar covered the ground like a thick blanket. Shrieks of agony, the clash of sword, the thunder of hoof, and the blast of arcane energy penetrated the blanket in a thousand places at once, sharp as daggers.
As he watched, he saw several platoons of prelacy cavalry disengage and charge the east flank. It was not much of a charge; the Soldiers had not given themselves much room to build momentum, but it was effective. The east flank crumpled under the mighty pressure of the war horses and lances. Jurel's army bowed in on itself like an animal who had suffered a belly wound by a larger predator.
“What are we waiting for? Let's go,” Jurel said, and spurred his horse.
He was forestalled by Flain who rode in front of him.
“Milord, please forgive my impertinence,” the man said with a stiff bow. “But this battle is lost. You must flee. We will cover your escape.”
Jurel goggled, astounded that this man would suggest such a thing. Flee? Now? While his men, the men he had sent to this battle, died? His astonishment gave way to a surge of anger.
“I hope you're joking, Flain. The men are dying. They need us.”
Flain's horse surged forward until their knees brushed. He faced Jurel with a violent glare, his hand gripping Jurel's arm with vise-like strength. For all his obvious anger, Flain spoke low and urgent, leaning close enough that Jurel could smell the sweat, blood and fear.
“The men are already dead. They just don't know it yet. This battle is lost. Our back is broken here. One platoon more or less, even one with you leading, will make no difference. But you still live and you must stay that way so you can continue the war.”
“I can't let them just die, Flain. I can't.”
“Then you will die with them!” He shook Jurel. “Milord, every one of these men and women that came to your banner came so willingly. Each and every one of them would have slit their own throat if you had commanded it. You may be young and untried but each and every one of us sees what you are, even if some of those robe-wearing buffoons back at the Abbey can't. But you cannot survive here so you must flee and rebuild.”
As though to prove his point, a muffled thump shook the ground. Jurel broke eye contact with Flain in time to see twisted bodies flying through the air in the center of what remained of his army.
“But-”
“You are our leader. Sometimes leading means accepting defeat and cutting your losses. Go, damn you!”
With that, Flain pushed him away. Wheeling his horse, Flain barked orders to his men and they marched toward the battle.
Jurel stayed, frozen to the spot. How could he leave? How could he abandon these men and women who were giving their lives for him? How could he leave his friends? Kurin, Mikal, Gaven, and Metana, they were all out there somewhere. Hopefully, still alive.
He should have been able to help. He should have been able to turn the tide of this battle by himself. Memories, images of what he had done in Threimes the year before assaulted him with a force that left him winded. Blood and bodies. Vastly outnumbered, he had still destroyed everything in his path and had saved his friends in the process.
Not Daved though. No, not him. It had been Daved who had saved him. It had taken Daved's death to open him to his power.
Surely, enough of his friends were in mortal danger to provoke the same response now. Surely, he should have been able to stride into that melee and destroy his enemy. Yet here he sat, frozen on his horse.
Ahead, on the killing grounds, the butchery continued. His force was greatly reduced now. Scatterings of his men battled in clumps, hemmed in by prelacy forces. Pillars of black smoke rose like gravestones into the morning air.
Perhaps Flain was right. Or at least partially right. He needed to flee. But not to gather more armies. No, he had tried that and look what it got him, look what it got them. His first battle ending in resounding, astonishing, brutal defeat. He was not fit to lead. He was not prepared for this. Hundreds dead because he had decided, against his instincts, to go through with his pathetic plan.
God of War. God of Murder.
Some part of him, some warm part, already battered and abused, turned icy cold, and withered leaving an empty blankness in its place. Perhaps he should race in against Flain's council. He could at least die with some honor. He could at least die.
But suddenly, the thought of holding a sword sickened him. He glanced down at the weapon in his hand, the weapon given to him by Daved on his sixteenth birthday. A man's gift for a new man, Daved had said. Blood was drying in an uneven crust along the length of it, stark evidence of what he was becoming. His lip curled in revulsion as he stared at it. He did not doubt that Daved's intent had been a good one when he had given this gift. No, Daved had been a man of honor. It
was Jurel who had twisted the gift, who had turned this from a weapon of self-defense to a thing of evil. Hundreds of men and women were dying—had already died—because of him.
He did not deserve something so simple, so clean, as death in battle. He deserved to suffer. Convulsively, he opened his fingers, letting the sword drop. It stuck point first in the ground, wobbling for a moment; an appropriate shrine for a fallen god.
With one last heart-wrenching look at the death and destruction he had caused, he wheeled his horse and fled the screams, the death and his own arrogant stupidity, into the trees.
Part 3:
Repentance:
“Kneelest thou, and pray unto thy god.
Thou shalt be forgiven if in thy heart,
thou repentest thy sins.”
-Gaorlan injunction
Chapter 20
Chased by the cries of the dying, he burst into the trees without slowing. He plowed his way through the underbrush, ignoring the stinging swipe of nettle and branch that tore his pants and left angry red lines on his legs and thighs. Someone called his name. He did not hear it. His world whirled dizzyingly, sickeningly, the airy birdsong overhead seemed angry, grating, like the rusty hinges of a closing door. The smell of the forest, musty, musky, and sweet turned stale, dirty, oppressive.
He found himself in a clearing similar to the one he and Metana had used, the one that had led to the discovery that they had been meant for each other. He crumpled, fell to his knees and wrapped his hands around his head. Did he hear ringing in his head? Far off? Faint? Maybe. Who cared? He put his forehead to the ground and shut his eyes. He heard a sound somewhere behind him, a voice calling his name, wished whoever it was would just shut up. He heard underbrush crack, leaves rustle.
He heard a thrumming in his head, a thrumming of almost understood words, snips and pieces of phrases that broke through, that threatened to gore him with their sharpness: So this is what I am. This is what I have to look forward to. This is...
