Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  “I don't-”

  The wall near the gate crumpled, crumbled. The men standing in that area disappeared into smoking, gaping chasms. As tons of rock imploded in on itself, the gate exploded with a sound like ten thousand whip-cracks, showering the front ranks of his cavalry with lethal barbs.

  Slowly, the roar of explosions abated, and the terrible juddering, shuddering of the walls creaked to a halt. Heris scanned the base and what he saw horrified him. Through the haze of dust and smoke, the gate was a mass of splinters, the massive stone walls were riddled with gaping holes and cave-ins. Men stood, or sat, or leaned along the rampart and all of them, every one, wore a look that suggested the day was not going quite as planned. Medics ran to see to the injured, of which there were many, and reserve infantry were called on to cart off the dead, of which there were too many.

  Into the sudden silence, Heris roared commands, “Infantry, get the walls shored up! Barricade the gate! Fifth and Seventh support and cover! Archers prepare! Cavalry, form up and keep them from getting through!”

  Sluggishly, his troops started to respond. Jarun strode away bellowing, relaying orders, belting those that were too stunned to move. He spun his gaze back to the army across the square. The army that, in perfect unison stepped forward, and stepped forward again. Their roars turned to howls, weapons were raised over their heads. A harsh, guttural voice shouted something in their filthy language.

  In perfect unison, they broke into a run.

  “God help us all,” Heris muttered. He was trying very hard not to throw up.

  * * *

  They were lost and Heris knew it. Perhaps they had lost the moment that first blast had struck the wall. Perhaps they had lost months before when the reports of Dakariin activity were not taken seriously enough. But certainly, since the beginning of the battle hours before—and he was shocked to note the position of the sun. How had it become mid afternoon so quickly? It did not matter, he supposed. The dead do not care what time it is.

  In a strange twist, it reminded Heris of the last attack by the Dakariin some decade and more before, the one that had resulted in Colonel Ferril losing his command before losing his head. He himself had been barely more than a cadet during that battle, a junior lieutenant only three months out of training, and still so full of piss and vinegar. He'd been more frightened of Colonel Ferril than of the Dakariin. There were differences: this time, the Dakariin had been prepared. This time they managed to breach the wall, and they were not going to be thrown back. This time, he did not fear a senior officer more than the enemy that was marching toward his position.

  Heris had already called his men to fall back, to regroup them along the walls of the inner keep, but the waves of screaming rampaging Dakariin came on. Entire platoons were overrun as though they were no more than stones on a sea shore swallowed by the tide and though the Dakariin suffered substantial losses, they did not slow. Even so, he hoped that he would somehow manage to survive the day for no other reason than to award each man and woman under his command a citation of merit—though most would have been posthumous.

  Now here he was, on this last wall of defense, Jarun at his side while platoons each of archers and infantry spread in defensive formation. The sounds of the ongoing battle drifted to them, riding on currents of ash and smoke from the outer keep. His cavalry was doing what they could, harassing and striking at the rampaging hordes but they were so far outnumbered that, frankly, Heris was surprised there were any left. Behind him, pots filled with pitch boiled merrily over blazing fires.

  The first Dakariin to step from the shelter of the buildings immediately found themselves sprouting arrows from their chests and they fell twitching to the flagstones that surrounded the walls. A weak cheer went up along the wall. It did not last long.

  Soon, masses started to appear. For every arrow his men sent their way, two came back. A steady tick-ticking arose, became a solid sibilation, as many of the missiles battered themselves against the walls but some few found their way over the crenelations. A scream, then another, and more flew into the sky as more of his men died.

  “Sir!”

  Blinking, Heris wondered why he was on his back. Above him, on top of him like a lover, Jarun gazed down at him. He gave Heris a strange, tight look before rolling off with a grunt. Heris sat up and glared down at his second in command.

  “What was that-?”

  Jarun rasped out a breath and a red bubble grew at the corner of his mouth. He coughed and blood spewed, stringy, oily down his chin and his cheek.

  Oh. Oh shit.

  “Jarun. Jarun where is it?” He raised his head and called, “Medic! I need a medic here.” He was fairly certain no one heard him. He was absolutely certain it did not matter.

  Weakly, his major lifted his right arm and grimaced. Two inches. That was all that was visible of the two foot shaft that jutted from just beneath his armpit. But it was enough to see that the arrow was not Dakariin. It had come from the gear of one of his own dead archers.

  “It was meant for you sir,” Jarun rasped weakly, coughed and more blood bubbled out. It was dark blood this time, almost black. “I saw it coming. I-” More rasping coughs. Jarun dragged in a deep ragged breath. When he exhaled, his eyes dimmed.

  He did not breath again.

  Heris laid his major's head on the stone and peeked over the edge of the wall. The Dakariin were moving slowly toward them under a steady hail of cover fire.

  When the first scaling ladder poked over the top of the walls, his infantry moved with efficiency borne of desperation. Bubbling pots were brought forth and dumped over the edge. A gratifying symphony of screams spiraled from below split by a spitting, sputtering torch thrown over the wall that flared with a whump as the pitch caught fire. Smoke oozed upward in a black churning curtain obscuring his view and soon even the sun was barely more than a hazy yellow eye that glared sullenly through the oil thick shroud.

  For a time, all was still. Except for the angry crackle of oil fueled fire, and the low moans of the injured, all was quiet. With that curtain of smoke, he might almost have been able to convince himself that it was over, nothing to worry about, the Dakariin were turning around and going home. Until he caught sight of Jarun splayed in a spreading pool of his own life. He rested his back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  A deep thunderous boom shook the air, caused the keep to tremble and he staggered to his feet. Another boom and he searched wildly for the origin. A third boom, and he bolted for the stairs that led to the main courtyard, calling for a platoon to follow him, not entirely certain there was a whole platoon left to heed his command.

  Slipping on debris, he stumbled to a halt in the center of the courtyard, relieved that men were starting to trickle in and form up ranks, but aghast at how few there were. The front lines were already stretched across the yard, their pikes jutting from between their interlocked shields and toward the gate that shook again under another powerful blow. More of his men arrived and he hastily formed them up: archers to the back, infantry in three rows so that they created a bowl into which the Dakariin would run as soon as the gate fell. He left captain Bernkel in command. There was not much left to command: of all the forces that occupied the Killhern garrison, there were perhaps three or four hundred left.

  He trotted toward the duke's palace. As he went, he pulled together his last few ragtag men, some thirty or so that would join with the duke's own personal guard as his grace's last line of defense. One last thundering boom was followed by an ear-splitting crack. Heris spun to the great double doors that led into the heart of the keep and looked to the main gate where he had left the remainder of the Killhern garrison. The great gate that had never before been breached hung at a crazy angle and toppled with a groan from its protesting metal hinges and crashed to the ground with a resounding thud: a toppling giant.

  Dakariin poured in and his remaining men, each one deserving a medal for valor, stood their ground.

  As the first clashes ran
g, Heris stepped into the shadow of the duke's home with the bulk of the duke's last line of defense.

  * * *

  “This is your fault, you incompetent fool,” Darvel, the duke's chief adviser shrieked. “Never before has Killhern been so badly defended. Never before has Killhern fallen to the Dakariin. I knew it was a mistake to appoint you to command.”

  Rage bubbled deep in his chest as the prim, prissy little fop of a man ranted at him. Heris, bedraggled, bloody, filthy, sweaty, glared at him, noting that the man's beard was still oiled to a perfect point, noting that the waterfall of lacy frills that spilled from the sleeves and neck of his rich velvet coat were still white as snow and his shoes still shone black and unblemished.

  “Darvel,” the duke warned. “This is not the time.”

  “Your grace, this man has allowed those savages to waltz in here and pillage Killhern. No one, not even that fool Ferril, has ever allowed it. We are all dead men because of this idiot.”

  “You fool!” thundered Heris and his voice echoed dully from the coffered ceilings. “Had you been out there, you would have seen their numbers. Had you been out there, you would have witnessed the discipline of their attack. You would have seen how they acted not as the savages we think they are but more like our own troops. But you weren't out there were you? No, you were too busy cowering in here behind your duke while good men and women died, and you-”

  “Colonel Heris!” The duke rose to his feet and his eyes flashed. Normally, from his seat, the sun shone through the tall windows and bathed him in light so that he seemed to sparkle and shine. On this day, the smoke was so thick that the light lent a sickly pallor to him, made his salt-and-pepper hair seem thin and wispy—though it may not have just been the lack of sun that made him seem so old and weary. Nonetheless, sun or no, there was an aura about him, a presence, a certain something that told onlookers that here was a man of power, here was a man to be reckoned with. “You will watch your tongue. And you, Darvel, will keep silent.”

  He passed his glare from one to the next as the other courtiers of Duke Gervis III shuffled their feet. One cleared his throat quietly.

  “Now, I have heard something about a new weapon. Can you shed any light on this, Colonel?”

  He swallowed his rage and pulled together his frayed thoughts, recalling the hellish scene on the outer wall, recalling the shrieks, the fire, the concussions that had rocked the keep to its foundations.

  “I don't know, Your Grace. I've never seen anything like it. Each carried a tube some two feet or so long. While out of bow range, they struck some sort of spark, and shortly after, the wall began to shake itself to pieces.”

  “I've heard of something like that,” said Baron Henter. “They use something similar in the east. It's supposedly much like pointing fireworks ahead instead of up.”

  “And they were able to shake down my walls with fireworks?” the duke asked, astonished.

  “Your Grace, even the prettiest of fireworks is more powerful than it appears.”

  “And they had thousands of those bloody things,” Heris said wearily.

  “Apparently. What now?”

  “My men are making their last stand at the inner gate but though their efforts have been heroic, they are still vastly outnumbered.” Here Heris paused, hesitant to continue, though he knew he must. No one had ever lost Killhern and oh how it galled. The duke had never been forced to flee for his life. “If Your Grace has a means of leaving the palace unnoticed, I suggest you do so now. These men and I will do what we can to safeguard your departure.” He gestured to the four score soldiers, a mixture of his and Gervis's personal guard.

  Gervis hesitated before making his decision. “You have done the best you can, Heris. In light of this new weapon they carry, I do not entirely blame you for what has befallen here today, no matter what my advisors may suggest. I leave you in command of these men. Hold the savages off as long as you can.”

  He spun on his heel and signaled the remaining members of his court to follow. They disappeared behind the duke's ornate chair, into the door that was normally reserved for his entrance and departure from regular audiences. Even as that door snicked quietly closed, a clash rose from outside the audience hall. Shouts reached them through the double doors.

  “Right then,” Heris barked. “Form up. The duke will need time to make good his escape. I expect each of you to be dead and bloody cold before letting a single savage past.”

  Weapons were drawn, hasty prayers were muttered. A battle cry erupted somewhere beyond and the doors were flung open. A veritable wave of Dakariin rolled in behind a billow of smoke, their faces contorted, distorted, their eyes demon wide.

  Heris met the first sword, shoved it aside, and thrust, felt a gratifying wet resistance. Spinning, he slashed and someone shrieked as hot blood spattered his face. He tasted it and somewhere deep, somewhere lost in the battle-rage that held his reins firmly in its grip, he realized that his mouth was open, that he was bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  On they came, attacker after attacker, and he felt a glimmer of hope. Bodies littered the floor, surrounded him and though he had no time to inspect them, it did not take a careful inspection to know that most of them were Dakariin. What if they could do it? What if the few remaining managed to stave off this siege? His arm rose and fell, rose and fell, and every time it did, more blood flowed, more bodies crumpled to the floor.

  But the odds were astronomical, impossible. His hopeful thought was nothing more than an adrenaline fueled flight of fancy. He may as well have wished for the sun to rise in the west for a change. At midnight. Painted green. He had known that the moment the idea had struck him, but there must always be room for hope. Hope is ever the last bastion.

  Even as he lopped off an arm, there was a searing pain in the pit of his belly, a white hot flash that spread fast as light through his core. He swung his sword, battering yet another away, and suddenly his arm went limp. Distantly, he heard a clatter at his feet as his legs turned to jelly. His eyes turned of their own accord as the flame in his guts intensified and he found himself staring into the triumphant eyes of a savage. The savage jerked. Agony ripped through him, threatened to tear him apart. He gasped.

  He fell. He fell for a long time and that was strange. He was not that tall. His sight went blurry yet oddly, light seemed to limn everything in a sharp, contrasting glare. Blackness crept in at the edges. Suddenly breathing seemed difficult, but he did, he managed. Breath in, breath out. Just keep doing that. In and out. His cheek was blessedly cool against the marble floor, though a hot stickiness was beginning to dull the chill.

  As his sight failed him, as he began to fall again into something he knew he would not come back from, his last thought was not what he might have expected while the depth of eternity was staring at him full in the face. He had hoped for some action, earlier that day. And now the thought tumbled through his fading thought: be careful what you wish for.

  * * *

  Killhern burned for a full month. Marauders roved the streets laughing raucously and slaughtering any they found. They set fire to anything that would hold a flame. The luckiest victims were those who were murdered out of hand. The unlucky ones, usually women but sometimes men, and children too for the Dakariin were more than depraved, were raped and tortured, often repeatedly before they were allowed the mercy of death. And every once in a while, even after one hapless victim or other had exhaled for the last time, even then, some of the Dakariin took what they wanted.

  Bodies littered the streets like detritus, blood and other things that were meant to remain imprisoned within flesh flowed freely in the gutters, puddling and pooling anywhere there was a depression in the ground. Fires raced through summer-dried buildings leaving ashes and shadows behind. Screams were heard everywhere.

  Some refugees escaped, perhaps a few thousand or a few more, taking to the south road when it became known that Killhern was dying. They walked as quickly as they could to flee the devastation b
ehind them but in their exhaustion, it was best to call their pace a trudge, and they hoped that they would be far enough ahead when the Dakariin began to move again.

  When the fires and the screams tapered away, when only the bones of the city remained jutting into the sky like carrion picked clean by vultures, when there was no more carousing to be found, the Dakariin formed up, still some fifteen thousand strong, and marched south perhaps a dozen miles before settling in and raising their rancid camp. They seemed to be waiting for something, but no one dared get close enough to find out what.

  Behind them, Killhern City, the jewel of the north, the primary defense, the armor between the hostile savages from the wastes and the civilized sophistication at the soft core of the Kingdom of Threimes, was well and truly dead.

  Chapter 30

  Threimes stood at his office window, hands clasped behind his back, staring distractedly at the garden below. It was his wife's garden. Before she had left, she used to plant many of the flowers and shrubs herself. Each one had its own place; taken as a whole, the garden formed intricate patterns that dazzled the eye and stole the breath. It was why he had had his office relocated here some years before. It never failed to calm him.

  Almost never.

  As his senior advisors bickered behind him, he strove at length to find that place where emotion was a footnote, where logic prevailed above all else. Highly disciplined as he was, he usually had no difficulty reaching that place. Today, with the news, brought by an exhausted and thoroughly terrified messenger, of Killhern's fall still ringing like death's bells in his ears, he had no success.

  Officially in a state of war, his commanders were making preparations to march within days. War. He still had difficulty assimilating the depth of it. Why had the Dakariin done it? What was their agenda?

  “I will be going with them,” Threimes said, interrupting several heated debates.

  Of course, his declaration was met with gasps and protests from his advisors, with raised voices that filled his office with a clamor that exacerbated his headache. He turned to face them.