by David Hair
How can they have so many magi?
As Ramon stared in horror, he saw individual mage-duels breaking out all over the place, distracting the Rondian magi from protecting the rankers. The overwhelming Keshi numbers began to hammer against Echor’s lines, and the Rondian line buckled inwards as masses of the enemy hurled themselves bodily at the interlocked shields of the thin front line.
‘We’ll hold ’em, sir, you’ll see,’ Storn muttered, but when Ramon looked at him, the tribune was gripping his reins as if his life depended upon them.
Beneath their vantagepoint, the attack on the Thirteenth was coming apart. These attackers didn’t appear to have any magi support, which meant the Keshi were simply target practice for Rufus Marle and Renn Bondeau. But they were holding the legion in place, preventing them from going to the aid of the centre.
Ramon could no longer see the left wing of Echor’s army, for it had vanished into yellow-brown sand cloud. He’d been told what these desert storms were like: hundred-mile-an-hour winds blasting sand so hard it stripped flesh from bone. The Rondian windships were already being thrown across the sky; it was obvious they were faring far worse than the enemy craft in the alien conditions.
If you knew the storm was coming, could you prepare yourself to fight in it?
It was certainly true that the enemy appeared to be somehow immune to the power of the sand-filled winds. Ramon could see and sense gnosis being expended all over the battlefield as the enemy windships reached the duke’s lines, and started targeting individual mage-pilots. Every time he saw one of the tiny figures emitting gouts of light, he felt the rippling power prickling his skin. Echor and his staff were high-bloods, raised in Argundy and trained to war – but there was no mistaking the overwhelming and unexpected power being deployed against them. And an unwarded legionary could die in a fireball as easily as a Keshi.
He watched, appalled, as all along the Rondian lines, gaps appeared and hordes of Keshi punched through.
‘The duke’ll plug the holes,’ Storn repeated feverishly. ‘You’ll see.’
As if to vindicate his words, one of the Keshi windships suddenly burst into flames and plummeted to earth – but it ploughed into the lines of an Argundian legion, killing dozens of men before it shattered into splinters. And that was only one ship; more and more came on, mage-fire flickering among the sheets of arrows that poured down from above.
Ramon turned his attention back to the ground immediately below him as another assault smashed against the front ranks of the Thirteenth. Bondeau strode to the fore and on his own managed to throw the attack back with a massive burst of Fire-gnosis. All around him arrows crackled to nothing and the Keshi nearest to him went up like torches, filling the air with the stench of cooking flesh. The men cheered as those Keshi still living fled.
Maybe it was worth having you along after all, Bondeau you prick …
Then another surge of energy took his breath away: it was distant, but incredibly powerful. It took him a moment to work out what had caused it – and then he realised that the dust-storm had struck the centre of the Yurosian line. The Rondian magi must have been trying to hold it back, but to no avail, for the magic that had set the storm in motion worked the same way as rolling boulders down a mountain: once it was in motion and had picked up momentum, it was almost unstoppable.
Even as he reached out with his gnostic senses, trying to find out what was happening, the Rondian magi’s efforts failed – and then he didn’t need to focus his senses to feel the shrieking of thousands of men as the sand-storm ripped through the lines, tossing men aloft like ants before completely engulfing them. His gnostic senses gave him a fuller picture as he sought to scry what was happening: he saw and felt men panicking, burying their faces as the unnatural dust-storm filled nostrils and throats with sand, blinding eyes, and scouring skin and flesh. The thousands of soldiers in its path were literally being flayed alive …
That’s going to keep coming up this valley until it rolls over the top of all of us and eats us alive …
There were Keshi attackers in those dust-clouds, he would swear to it, and other things too. He could see the enemy windships were manipulating their strange triangular sails now to lift themselves clear of the storm, and those Rondian craft that had managed to get into the air were dropping straight to the ground again before they were wrecked. But still there were large shapes looming out of the dust-storm itself: giant beasts with wicker structures on their backs, filled with archers and magi, all protected from the elements in ways the Yurosian rankers weren’t. As they came they wielded their weapons with ferocious intent, pouring arrows and mage-bolts down onto those rankers blinded by the sand and reeling from the almost-living dust-storm. Ramon had to fight back the nausea as he worked out the full extent of this hidden slaughter, feeling first one legion go under, and then another. All along the line the Keshi magi were engaging their Argundian and Estellayne counterparts. Though most were outmatched in skill and blood-rank, still they kept the Rondians occupied, allowing the Keshi infantry who outnumbered the Yuros-born rankers three or four or five to one to keep pushing and pushing until their greater numbers told.
The Thirteenth and its near neighbours were still managing to hold the line. The legions had other advantages – better armour, better discipline, more training; their heavy equipment suited a close press better than the looser formations and more individualistic fighting style of the Keshi. But that could take them only so far: they had no strong places to defend, no fortifications to narrow the front against the sheer numbers they confronted. The reserve maniples were now engaged, individual units swallowed up as a vast and savage brawl developed. This was far from the pristine classroom conditions where most of the magi had learned their craft; this was hack and stab or die. The rankers were being overwhelmed by men who appeared not to care if they lived. They had the prayers of the Kalistham on their lips even as they threw themselves at their enemies and died in their hundreds, their thousands.
Ramon looked at Storn. ‘Tell Duprey he’s got to pull out.’
Storn looked at him. His eyes were wide, disconnected. ‘The Thirteenth is holding,’ he maintained stubbornly. His armpits were soaked in sweat and his lower lip trembling. ‘We’re holding.’
‘We are. The rest of the rukking army isn’t. Send a rider.’
‘Echor’s got reserves,’ Storn argued.
‘That’s an order, Tribune.’
‘You don’t know war, sir,’ Storn replied, babbling. ‘Sometimes it can look bad – worse than it is. The thing is not to panic.’
‘The thing is not to rukking die,’ Ramon countered. He closed his eyes and sent a call arrowing out.
He longed to just magic her away. She was made for parlours and parties and pretty dresses, not for this nightmare.
It was as if she hadn’t heard him.
He hissed in frustration. ‘I’ll go myself,’ he told Storn. ‘Duprey won’t shift.’
The thought of his only mage leaving him galvanised the tribune and he grabbed Ramon’s arm. ‘Sir, I’ll send someone, right away.’ He shouted orders to a messenger while Ramon turned his attention back to the battle below.
Fifty yards below them, down the treacherous slope, visibility faded as the dust turned the day to a grey-brown twilight. He began to lose any sense of what was happening further down the line. There was only enemy all round them. He saw Bondeau hurling fire, breaking up another attack, and Duprey, shouting for calm. He could just make out Severine, still with the legate, relaying his commands.
He tried to call to her again but she was sending, to someone
further north.
Duprey whirled and looked up at him.
Duprey’s temper exploded.
Severine burst in.
Duprey whirled and both shouted and sent,
Ramon sensed Severine’s mind reel from what was virtually a mental assault, but Duprey barely noticed; he was casting about for some way to save his men. More arrows sheeted from the gloom and the eerie cry of the Keshi sounded again, the battle-prayer of Ahm carried triumphantly on the winds. The ground began to rumble, the pounding of many, many hooves.
Ramon cursed.
she wailed, then shut him out again, bending all her thoughts to trying to contact Echor’s aides.
Ramon held his head in anguish and for a wild moment contemplated swooping down and snatching her away. Around him, the rankers of the Tenth Maniple watched him, their faces shaky. I’ve got to stop worrying the men, he thought, but it wasn’t easy to look calm when you knew things were falling to pieces. They can see what I see, and they’re not stupid.
It occurred to him that he should fix that.
‘Storn! Move the Tenth Maniple twenty paces backwards!’
‘What?’ The tribune looked mystified.
‘Just do it!’ He was beginning to think that Storn wasn’t the man to deal with this sort of situation either. He doubted anyone in the army was. Has anyone here ever been on the losing side in a battle?
Below him the disaster continued to play out, though only the gods knew what was truly happening now, for the sand-storm had enveloped the centre, cutting off almost all visibility. Behind him Storn was shouting orders, and slowly the Tenth Maniple began to shuffle back, even as they craned their necks, trying to keep watching as the disaster unfolded below them.
‘Move them back another ten!’ he shouted at Storn, conscious of all the ears and eyes on him. Now they couldn’t see the battlefield, they were taking their cues from him.
Right, look calm, damn it. Keep it simple. Do the obvious.
‘Ready the supply wagons for moving,’ he told Storn loudly, trying to sound like he knew what he was doing, though really, he was making it all up as he went along.
‘Hitch up the oxen and horses again. Let’s get the stores clear of the storm. We’re going to shift them to that old fort to the south of us. Move!’
Following orders seemed to relieve the rankers: someone was in charge, and action made them feel like they were doing something positive, that they had some control. Ramon clung to that feeling too, despite the evidence of everything he could see below. Someone will do something! Papa Sol, let it be so!
‘Get someone out to Seth Korion’s riders,’ he told Storn. ‘Tell him to come west and guard our flank.’ If any Keshi cavalry get among us, we’ll be in all kinds of shit. ‘Move it!’
As the Tenth Maniple went to work behind him he went back to the rim of the ridge, wondering what he could do. We’re a legion of hard-arsed mutineers, he reminded himself, but all I’ve got are the sappers and supply men. Rukking wonderful.
But so far they were doing just as they ought: beasts were being led to wagons, newly erected tents were being pulled down and packed up …
And all the while, the dust-storm rolled closer.
Ramon could make out groups of enemy magi now, as they began to move into support of the Keshi on this flank, seeking to engage individual Rondian gnosis-wielders in duels. Rufus Marle had come under attack; as he started trading mage-bolts with several Keshi magi, his protection of his maniple faltered, just as Ramon had seen happening all the way down the line. The surging wall of howling Keshi hit the front rank, which buckled, wavered and reformed as desperation lent the legionaries newfound strength. They hurled the enemy back in desperation, but all the time, they were being pushed steadily against the base of the slope behind them. The battle was now boiling at the foot of the small cliffs at his feet.
This is it.
he shouted back.
He saw her tugging on Duprey’s sleeve, pointing upwards, and at first the legate seemed to berate her, then at last it looked to Ramon like he was coming to his senses. He began pointing about him, directing centuries to his left and right, ordering them to pull back to either side of the low cliffs and seek places to climb. He looked upwards, towards Ramon, cursing inaudibly, then he grabbed Severine’s shoulder and shouted something into her face. The girl looked stricken, then she rallied.
She kissed Duprey’s hand, which Ramon thought strange at first, and then he understood. Someone’s got to give the rest time to get out of there.
He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to Mater-Luna, because only the Queen of Madness was going to get them out of this.
Severine soared upwards on Air-gnosis, mage-bolts and arrows deflecting from her shields as she landed at his side. She was in tears, and he had to force himself to resist the urge to throw his arms around her.
Instead, he made himself focus on the practical. ‘Get to the baggage train, secure your things,’ he shouted. ‘We’re pulling back to that fort. And tell Seth Korion – I’ve sent a messenger, but who knows if he’s found him in this Helish mess.’
She nodded mutely, then fled towards her tent. When he watched her go, it was with a feeling that if he closed his eyes, he’d never see her again. Then the first tendrils of the sand-storm struck, whipping a swirling, stinging blast of dust over him, and he lost her in the haze.
Papa-Sol, he prayed with all his heart, look after her.
He spurred back to the defile, where men of the Fourth and Fifth Maniples were streaming up, marching at double-time even as they hunched over, seeking some protection against the searing winds. More men were coming from the north, broken units of other legions, still disciplined, but on the edge of flight. He waved them southwards.
The entire valley was obscured now, shrouded in shadows, but the Keshi seemed immune to the conditions, emerging like ghosts from the swirling dust, wailing their unearthly prayers and selling their lives dearly. He saw them hit Duprey’s front line again, and felt the gnostic concussions as the legate tried to do the work of a legion. Others tried to aid him: Marle was there, swearing and cursing as he blasted away, and now he could see Coulder and Fenn, the two magi from Brevin, and one of the Andressan magi, though he couldn’t tell whether it was Hale, Gerant or Lewen, and that bothered him, for he felt he ought to know who was likely to be selling his life so dearly, allowing as many of the Thirteenth as possible to escape.
But they were almost out of time.
‘Sir? We have to go.’ Storn plucked at his sleeve. ‘I’ll put our wagons in the van. We’ll get the stash out, sir.’
‘Food and water, Storn,’ he replied automatically. ‘If we get out of this, the last thing we need is that damned poppy.’
Storn’s face fell. ‘But we’ve got hundreds of thousands of gilders’ worth,’ he whined.
‘Abandon them—’ He stopped, and then said quickly, ‘No, wait, I’ve got an idea.’
‘We can save it?’ Storn’s eyes filled with hope.
‘Absolutely! Bring the wagons to the ridgeline, quickly as you can, man!’
‘Here?’ Storn looked left and right. ‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’ Ramon felt energy coursing through him. The Thirteenth was completely nose-deep in shit, but he’d had an idea – something that might buy them a little time – and that was something to cling to.
It took several minutes to get the wagons hitched up and wheeled over to the cliff. He gestured to where he wanted them, then turned and checked on the rest of the Thirteenth, streaming away south, running as fast as armour and burdens permitted.
Below him, Duprey and Marle’s maniples still held the riverbed defile, but yard by yard they were giving ground, and some of the Keshi were beginning to look up at him.
‘What do you want us to do sir?’ Storn asked as his men gathered about the carefully positioned wagons.
Ramon dragged his eyes from the chaos below and looked at the tribune. He worked out the correct spot first, then he showed it to the men. Then he told them what to do.
The men looked at him, completely bewildered, and Storn’s mouth gaped open. ‘But, sir – it’s worth thousands …’
Ramon laughed grimly. ‘Just do as I say, Tribune, and exactly when I say so.’
*
It became a matter of time and timing. There weren’t that many enemy magi here yet, but the number of white-robed Keshi soldiers was rising all the time.
Ramon watched as Bondeau extricated his maniple, wheeling it to the left and up the long slope to the north of their position, right into the shadow of the oncoming storm.
Meanwhile Kip’s maniple, the Ninth, were already there, parting to let Bondeau’s exhausted men through, then closing behind them. The Schlessen battle-mage was singing, his guttural bass ringing down the valley. With his helmet gone and his blond hair flowing free he looked every inch the barbarian as he faced the pursuing Keshi. He’d discarded his shield somewhere along the way and had just his giant Schlessen zweihandle, the famous two-handed sword of the northern tribes. Even from where he watched, Ramon could see gnostic energy crackling along its long blade.
