by Ben Cassidy
And there were figures below, about two hundred yards away. It was a line of horsemen, stretched out across the road and on either side of it.
Lockhart squinted, trying to see by the first light of the rising sun.
A banner snapped and crackled above the heads of the rider in the wind. The riders themselves wore steel cuirasses and open-face helmets, as well as the tough leather buff coats that Lockhart’s dragoons wore. The rising sun glinted and shone off their armor. There looked to be at least a hundred of them. A full troop.
The rider at the head of the formation raised a sword in the air. The bugle sounded again.
The horsemen began to move forward at a trot.
Reinforcements. At last. Lockhart felt the first glimmer of hope again.
Then he remembered the werewolf.
The dragoons had halted, staring through sleep-starved eyes at the advancing line of cavalry.
Lockhart looked back behind him.
The barbarians had halted, too. They were staring at the oncoming troopers.
The werewolf-chieftain gave a bone-rattling roar.
The barbarian warriors began to organize themselves, forming into a ragged line. Wicker shields were raised, and spears were readied.
The cavalry continued to trot forward. The pace of the horses quickened slightly. The slanting rays of the rising sun gleamed off drawn sabers and rapiers.
“Hold up!” Captain Lockhart shouted. His head was clearing, and the terror he had felt just moments before was evaporating. He raised his sword. “Dragoons, reform!”
His dragoons turned and looked around at him. They had stopped running, even though most of them had no weapons.
The cavalry merged into a gallop. The thunder of their hooves pounding on the grassy turf of the hill reverberated through Lockhart’s body.
The bugle sounded again.
The werewolf-chieftain bellowed in anger. He raised both axes over his head, as if daring the riders to attack.
Lockhart’s dragoons cowered in the grass. They were caught between the pounding approach of the cavalry troopers and the Jombards.
Captain Lockhart lifted his sword. He raised his voice to be heard over the tumult. “When the riders pass, assault the enemy with whatever weapon you have at hand. Sergeant Dyke, take the right. I’ll take the left.”
“Yes, sir,” Dyke said as he reloaded his pistol. His face was still pale with fear.
Lockhart looked up again.
The approaching riders were nearly on top of them. The horses were going at full gallop. Their approach was fearsome, and even though Lockhart knew he was not their intended target, he felt his heart drop as the line of cavalry drew closer by the second.
The werewolf roared. It beat the blades of the axes together above its head.
The other Jombards did not look so confident. The line of barbarians seemed to waver. Some of the woad-covered warriors cast anxious glances back and forth amongst themselves. Some began to shift ever so slightly back in the direction of the milefort.
With a sound like a roaring river, the line of cavalry swept past Lockhart and his men. Dirt and grass were kicked up into the air by the horses’ hooves. The riders passed so close that Lockhart could see their faces and the wheelock pistols that were tucked into the holsters at their belts. The banner snapped and furled in the wind. It bore the device of a black raven on a white field.
The lead rider galloped right past Lockhart. His armor shone bright like a mirror, and several flintlock pistols were tucked within easy reach around his belt. But it was his rapier that caught Lockhart’s eye. The weapon’s hilt flashed golden in the morning sun, and blue and green jewels sparkled and blazed where they were set around the hilt. The blade itself was tapered and long, gleaming like a shaft of moonlight.
And then the line of cavalry was gone, charging directly towards the line of barbarians.
Lockhart lifted his sword. “At them, boys!” He charged forward in the wake of the horses, not looking to see whether Dyke and the others were following him or not. But the ragged cheer that he heard behind him gave him some hope that they were.
The werewolf threw back its bestial head and howled angrily. Then it threw aside its axes and leapt forward, bounding along on all fours as it bared its fangs.
The lead rider maneuvered his horse. He headed straight for the oncoming monster.
Lockhart felt his heart jump with a sudden, inexplicable thrill. It was like watching a vaunted knight of legend jousting with a dragon. The lead rider was bearing right at the abomination, the same werewolf that had struck unreasoning fear in both Lockhart and his men.
It was then, in that moment, that Lockhart knew who the horseman was.
The barbarians began to chant, but their voices were lost in the pounding of the horses’ hooves.
A roaring cheer sounded from the line of the oncoming cavalry. They slammed at full gallop into the uneven line of barbarian warriors.
The scene quickly became one of blood, chaos, and screaming. Rapiers flashed in the sunlight and whistled through the air as they chopped and stabbed. Horses screamed and kicked with hooves. Pistol shots went off one after the other, spitting smoke and death at point blank range into the barbarians. The grass was quickly filled with blood and the mutilated bodies of the Jombard warriors.
But Lockhart’s attention was only briefly distracted by the sheer ferocity of the slaughter that the cavalrymen were inflicting on the Jombards. In front of him, the lead rider and the werewolf met in an open space of grass in front of the gates of the milefort.
The rider did not slow his mount. He galloped forward as straight as an arrow, his rapier lowered and pointed to strike.
The werewolf barreled forward with an unearthly howl. It looked even more now like a demon from the Void itself, its fur dark against the green grass, its eyes burning like torches.
At the last moment possible, the rider whipped out a pistol in his free hand.
The werewolf launched himself forward into the air, claws and fangs poised to strike.
The rider’s pistol cracked out in the morning air.
The shot struck the werewolf square in the chest. The force of the hit knocked the beast back into the ground. It rolled twice in the grass, and gave a fearsome bellow of rage.
The rider reined in his horse. He tossed the spent pistol to the ground and reached for another.
The werewolf was on its feet again in a flash. It pounced with an earth-shaking roar.
Lockhart could only watch, stunned into inaction.
A second pistol appeared in the rider’s hand.
The werewolf crashed into the panicked horse.
The pistol sounded off just as the horse and rider slammed to the ground in an eruption of dirt, grass, and hooves.
The werewolf brought both its clawed paws down on the struggling, kicking mass of horse and rider.
The horse gave a hideous scream. Steaming blood spurted upwards into the air.
Lockhart felt his heart hammer into his chest. Without thinking he raised his own sword, ready to charge forward and avenge the fallen rider.
But then, impossibly, the rider was standing beside the werewolf, seemingly unharmed.
Lockhart blinked, not believing his own eyes. For anyone to move that fast, especially laden down with armor—
The werewolf was fast, too. It spun to meet the new threat.
The rider’s blade flashed forward in a humming arc of steel.
Lockhart watched, spellbound.
The rapier sliced through the werewolf’s arm at the elbow, cutting through it as if it had been made of soft butter.
The beast lurched back. It gave another howl, this time filled with as much pain as anger. The stump of its arm fountained blood.
Lockhart stared in amazement. He had never seen a sword cut so effortlessly. The blade had to be forged of the finest Balneth steel, a metal so honed and valued that it was considered almost magical.
The rider swun
g again, whipping the sword at the beast in a dazzling sweep of shining steel.
The edge slashed the werewolf across its chest.
The beast roared, then struck out a claw in a lightning-quick move.
The blow impacted hard against the rider’s chest, causing a ringing sound that echoed across the open hill. He flew backwards and crashed on top of the dead horse.
Lockhart started forward again, already knowing he was too far away to help.
The werewolf lifted both hands over its head, determined to bring both down in a crushing blow on the man who dared to oppose him.
The rider gave a shout and slashed forward with his rapier. The blade drove deep into the werewolf’s chest, the blood-stained tip protruding out the creature’s back.
The werewolf halted, its arms still over it head. Its eyes seemed to widen. Pink foam frothed from its mouth.
In one deft motion the rider withdrew his sword from the werewolf’s body, then swiped it through the beast’s neck in a two-handed swing.
The werewolf tumbled to the ground, its head disconnected from its body.
The barbarians, what few of them there were left after the shattering cavalry attack, gave a great cry of dismay. They turned and began to flee back towards the milefort and the burning wall.
“Cut them down!” the rider called. He wiped the blood off his rapier with a cloth rag, then motioned with his hand towards the fleeing Jombards. “Don’t leave any alive.”
Lockhart came running up to the rider, breathless.
Instinctively the man raised his rapier, the glistening point aimed at Lockhart’s throat.
Lockhart stopped cold, and raised both hands to show he meant no harm. “Captain Lockhart,” he said. “Northhampton’s Dragoon Regiment.”
The man lowered his sword. “Of course. My apologies, Captain.”
“Think nothing of it,” Lockhart said. This close he could see that the sword’s hilt was twisted into the shape of a peacock, and set with beautiful green and blue gems. “I owe you a debt of gratitude. If it hadn’t been for you and your men—” he let the sentence hang unfinished.
The rider gave a weary nod. He unlatched his helmet and pulled it off, revealing a mass of dark and sweaty hair. Half of his face was covered with twisted red burns. The cuirass he wore was dented and rent from the werewolf’s clawed strike. “We need to secure the Wall,” he said. “Get that fire put out and rebuild the palisade. The barbarians will come again.”
Lockhart glanced down at the carcass of the werewolf. He was surprised to see that the bestial form was gone, replaced by the headless body of the barbarian chieftain he had seen earlier in the battle. “That...was impressive,” he said stiltedly.
The man gave a wry half-smile. “Not the first one I’ve killed.”
Lockhart didn’t doubt of it. For he already knew that this was the general of the Redemption militia, the Hammer of the Jombards, the Demonbane who had slain the goddess Indigoru at Vorten and single-handedly closed the gate to the Void.
It was Kendril, Lord Ravenbrook.
The palisade was in ruins, a smoking heap of burnt and charred woods. Embers still danced and floated over the remains. Smoke drifted upwards from the ruin, a dark smudge against the cloudy sky.
A light rain had started to fall, which had helped to put out the fire. The falling drops sizzled as they struck the red-hot remains of the wooden wall. Bodies still covered the ground in the grass outside the milefort. More dead Jombard warriors, some burnt beyond recognition, filled the trench beyond the destroyed palisade.
The bodies of the fallen Jombards were being piled in a large heap beyond the gates of the milefort. The ravens were already settling on the corpses, flapping away in a great squawking flock whenever another body was thrown on the pile.
Kendril strode up the steps of the turf embankment towards the destroyed palisade. He cast a critical eye over the damage. “The Jombards could come again,” he said over his shoulder. “Captain Beckett, post fifty men here to guard the gap until the palisade is rebuilt.”
“Yes, sir.” A huge man with a bushy red beard and wearing the insignia of a captain in the militia strode up behind Kendril. He was dressed in the buff coat and cuirass of the cavalry, but instead of a helmet he wore a coonskin hat on his head. “With your permission, I’d like to take charge here myself.”
Kendril gave a satisfied nod. “I was hoping you would.” He gave a charred piece of wood a kick. Ashes puffed up into the air. “We need to get some kind of basic defense up again here.” He pointed across the line of the turf embankment. “Start with wooden stakes. If you can get some platforms up where the watchtowers were, post snipers. I’ll get a cannon out to you as soon as I can round one up.”
Captain Beckett rolled his shoulders. It was clear he was itching to get the heavy cuirass off as soon as possible. “What about that old pop-gun the last group of Calbraithans brought in? It’s just sitting back at Stockade.”
Kendril gave a short shake of his head. “That old thing’s so rusted I’m afraid it’ll burst at the first shot.” He turned back to Beckett. “I’ll get you a proper cannon, even if I have to steal one from the Arbelans.”
Beckett gave a snort as he looked over the destroyed palisade. “Some regulars they turned out to be. If we hadn’t come when we did—”
“That’s enough, Captain,” said Kendril shortly. “They were outnumbered and taken by surprise. They held out longer than most would have against such odds.”
Beckett straightened at the rebuke. “Yes, sir. Of course.”
Kendril kept one hand on the hilt of his sheathed rapier. He peered out towards the dark woods past the burnt remnants of the Wall. “They’ll come again.”
Beckett spat on the ground. “Sure as rain they will, sir.”
“When they do,” Kendril continued in a quiet voice, “you hold the line here as long as you can. I’ll get reinforcements to you.”
“I feel I should remind you, Lord Ravenbrook,” came a voice from behind them, “that the Wall and its defense are the charge of the Arbelan government.”
Kendril and Beckett turned to see Captain Lockhart climbing the steps up to the turf wall.
“Yeah,” Beckett mumbled through his beard, “and look where that got us, you stuck-up—”
“Beckett,” said Kendril under his breath.
The giant militiaman held his tongue.
Lockhart reached the top of the embankment. “My dragoons can hold this section, General.”
Beckett let out a guffaw.
Kendril gave his subordinate a cutting glance before turning his attention back to Lockhart. “I’m sure you’ll agree, Captain, that given the circumstances it is in both of our interests to work together here.”
“That’s not what I heard,” said Lockhart, his head held high. “Hangman’s Hill still falls under the protection of the Arbelan Protectorate, and Northampton’s Dragoon Regiment has been assigned to man it.” He gave the fuming Beckett a sidelong glance. “With respect, that means that I still have command here at Hangman’s Hill, not Captain Beckett.”
Beckett flexed the fingers on his calloused hands, as if he were going to reach out and strangle the dragoon captain. “Why you insufferable piece of—”
“And I should remind you, Captain,” said Kendril icily, “that Arbela is a long ways from here.”
Lockhart stood his ground. “I hardly see how that matters.”
Kendril mused for a moment in silence. His eyes gazed steadily at Captain Lockhart. “Fair enough,” he said finally. “Captain Beckett, you and your men will answer to Captain Lockhart while you’re at Hangman’s Hill.”
“You’re twisting my beard,” Beckett rumbled. “If you think that I’ll—”
“I think,” said Kendril quickly, “that you’ll follow my orders, Captain.”
Beckett straightened. He gave a reluctant salute. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, Captain Lockhart,” said Kendril in the same quiet tone, “do yo
u have any issue with my posting Beckett and these cavalry troopers here at Hangman’s Hill for the time being?”
Lockhart gave a slow shake of his head. “No.”
“I think you forgot something, Captain,” Kendril said again. His body hadn’t moved, nor had his voice changed, but there was a flash in his dark eyes.
Lockhart remembered the way he had seen Lord Ravenbrook dispatch the werewolf. He took a deep breath. “No, sir.”
Kendril nodded. “I’ll contact Yearling and inform him that militia cavalry have been posted here for the time being. And Captain Beckett here will be sending me updates on your progress in rebuilding the Wall.”
Beckett gave Lockhart a big, toothy grin.
“Yes, sir.” Lockhart bit back the response he wanted to give.
“Very well.” Kendril turned his head and glanced out at the dark forest again. His face wore a grim look.
Captain Beckett lowered his voice. “Are you hurt, sir?”
Kendril glanced down and noticed that he had been unconsciously rubbing the dented cuirass he wore. He gave a quick shake of his head. “Just some bruises.” He returned his gaze to the east.
Lockhart followed Kendril’s stare. “They threw everything they had at us, sir, and we stopped them cold.”
Kendril didn’t answer for a long moment. At last he spoke, in the same quiet tone as before. “The Jombards haven’t even begun to throw everything they have at us, Captain.”
Chapter 5
A fight had broken out among the barbarians.
Two men, each with weapons drawn, paced around each other warily, looking for an opening in the other’s guard. One, a Jombard from the northern tribes, was already bleeding from his nose. The other, a Jombard chieftain from one of the eastern tribes, was grinning in anticipation of more blood. Each man was huge, covered with scar tissue and bulging muscles.
A crowd of screaming, cheering Jombards had already surrounded the two, forming a ring of spectators. Dogs ran around between the shouting barbarians, barking and yelping as they searched for stray bones and bits of meat abandoned from the nearby tables. The barbarian women were just as violent and active as the men, shrieking curses and throwing stones. Some had already drawn daggers.
