by Swanson, Jay
They reached the end of the train and swung around wide, allowing the long line of horse behind them to complete their own sweep. Rendin called for his bodyguard to come to a halt, and pressed forward through them to take in the sight. The train was ruined. Carts lay upturned or broken with fires breaking out among them and broken bodies everywhere he looked. The Woads had not been great in number, the terror of their arrival only stirring the mutiny to madness.
Everything was lost. What little they could retrieve would be immobile, and without carts and work animals, their supply line was as good as cut. They had been undone.
“Sire.” Sir Beldin rode up as his cavalry turned in place and headed back for another pass. “Sire, what would you have us do?”
“Gather your men, Sir Beldin. What time we thought we had has now been lost to us.” Rendin motioned for his bodyguard to move forward. “Today we enter the Desert Mountains and finish what we came here to do.”
This was the last place that Rendin would have wished to have been forced: his options removed and nothing standing behind him for support. His sister was out ranging, his own scouts entering unknown territory, and his troops marched into confined space towards an undetermined destination. This campaign had begun with little chance of success, and now it would be carried out with little hope of even a meaningful failure.
He couldn't let his men remain stagnant, not after what he had seen at the baggage train. Their fears and idleness were being exploited, used to turn the focus of their aggression inwards. Keeping idle soldiers in line was difficult enough, but now that word had spread that their supply line was cut, he needed to hand them a definitive victory before he even thought about pulling them out.
Leaving now was tantamount to suicide, as an unmolested army was certain to remain with the Relequim and would certainly harry them from the rear should they be left undefeated. Retreating with few supplies over hostile terrain with an enemy close behind would leave him lucky to successfully recall a quarter of his present army. He couldn't withdraw now if he wanted to.
The cost of leaving the Relequim's mysterious weapon unhindered also ate at him. He had hoped the Brethren from the far east would have shown up by now, would have made their presence and their plans known to him and his men. It would help morale, if not provide the king himself with a sense that perhaps failure was not a guarantee.
He had no choice in the matter, regardless of how uncertain or grim their fate appeared on the horizon. If death in these mountains would serve to unseat the Relequim, then let it come, for even fleeing for their lives from this point would only bring shame in the face of the coming chaos the Demon was set to unleash.
The troops would head north, and he would lead them from the front. There was no way of being entirely certain of where they were to go, but in his heart he knew that it didn't matter. It was the Brethren on whom he was truly relying on to make their appearance and silence the Relequim. But he knew how reliable they were from his father's encounters and the history that followed. They isolated themselves far too much from the struggles of men for his liking. He had hoped that Ardin would return, that the boy his sister had spoken of with such conviction to him in private would make a very public and very powerful appearance.
But the boy never came, and the winged warriors kept their distance. All Rendin could hope for was that they would arrive to tip the scales before the war was entirely lost.
The army lined up into long columns as they entered the Desert Mountains, the sun burning away overhead in the height of its daily tour of the sky. His sister had left them only a day before, but it felt as though she had been gone an age. How could he let her leave his sight again so soon after having her returned to him? He couldn't stomach the idea of losing her, but he couldn't afford to protect her either.
They were all in this together. None of them was safe so long as the Relequim was free.
The tall, bare walls of the canyons that opened before them were magnificent. The path north was broad and relatively clear, save for patches of broken stone that occasionally reached out into the road, narrowing it to half its full breadth. He could bring up more of his army at once than he had initially planned, which was the first good news he had been given all day. If he were to be ambushed at any point in this canyon, should it be the very worst case scenario, it would mean fire from above and a ground assault from all directions.
His force would stretch out enough to be vulnerable at multiple crossings. With the road-like canyons that ran between these oddly-shaped flat mountains, he was almost guaranteed a fight on every front. If the Relequim was smart, he would focus his attack at the front and one or both flanks, but would leave the rear unhindered. What Rendin feared most now was having his army routed and slaughtered in the desert plains below the mountains. There wouldn't be the need for much in the way of pursuit, for exposure and thirst alone would kill the majority of his men should they scatter.
He sent word to his tribunes and commanders to watch their flanks when crossing the various canyons that branched to the sides, and gave his archers the tricky task of watching the ridges above them for movement and attack. They had passed a few of the mountains before he called for Sir Beldin.
“Can your men get to the top of one of those mountains ahead? I don't want Parnithons raining down on us unexpectedly if we can help it.”
“Of course, your highness.”
“Any word from our van or your outriders?”
Sir Beldin shook his head. “We have yet to meet the enemy in any form, nor have we caught sight of any ally.”
Rendin took his meaning with a nod, surprised in a way that the young man shared his hope. He supposed it wasn't so strange. There was only one way out of this for them, and even then it wasn't looking like that great of an option. At least they could neutralize the Relequim's forces here.
Beldin's men raced ahead and began scrambling up the face of the rock. Their years cutting sail at sea in the south showed as they worked their way higher and higher. They didn't even use ropes to guard against falling, nor did they appear to handle tools beyond the short knives they rammed into cracks to create hand holds.
Rendin had never asked Beldin much about himself, he realized. The man's father had ruled the Shale with such cunning that it had long been one of the wealthiest territories in the kingdom. When Sir Beldin's father, Sir Bolden died... I don't even know his familiar name. Rendin was suddenly ashamed of how little he had come to know a tribune who was willing to give so much for him. Beldin certainly hadn't seemed to miss his life in the south while out patrolling and marching; it made Rendin wonder how great of a grip the sea truly held on the man. In fact, it left him with more questions about the tribune than answers.
“Sire.” Bland old Blassen shifted in the saddle beside him, pointing. “I'm afraid your answers are coming.”
Rendin wanted to ask what he meant, but then he saw it too. The first man to the top had turned away from them and now stood in a shock of fright. It only lasted an instant before a black blur struck him in the chest and carried him the hundreds of yards to the canyon below.
“Move the archers forward.” Rendin already moved forward subconsciously. “Call the rest of Beldin's cavalry forward to support them.”
More of the seamen-turned-scouts were reaching the top, uncertain whether they should continue up or try to make their way back down. The decision for the top two men was made for them, as three more Parnithons appeared above them. They reached down with their long, spindly arms, gripping the men by the arm or neck with wretched claws and hurling them from the side of the cliffs like ripping ticks from a dog.
The men below them began to scramble down as quickly as they could, but the way was treacherous and the footing less certain in the descent. Suddenly dozens of Parnithons poured over the edge after them, scurrying down the face of the cliff as if they were running on flat ground. Each let go of its grip on the wall as it approached a victim, grabbing the men as they pa
ssed and wrangling them as they fell to the ground below in a vice of putrid death.
Blassen held out his hand to stop the king from riding any farther forward.
“They're mad,” Rendin said under his breath as he allowed the cavalry behind to pass.
“They are bent on destruction, my King.” Blassen lowered his hand. “And we must pray that their madness does not spread.”
A drop in the path ahead gave Rendin the ability to see over the cavalry that raced forward, not waiting for the archers as the Parnithons were on the ground already. Beldin had come back to intercept them and now lead from the front, his ornate helm fashioned to look like swirling water with a ship cresting over the visor. Blue-green sashes trailed behind like the ocean mist, whipping and cracking lightly in the wind as he called his men onward.
Rendin approved silently of Beldin's decision to move ahead. The archers would be torn apart by those things if they drew too near, and the Parnithons would be quick to close. The cavalry came back up the other side of the dip and careened left into the pack of Parnithons, hammering them like a battering ram, catching them distracted as they tore the downed scouts to shreds.
“They're so strong as to survive that fall?” Rendin moved his horse forward to the edge of the slope downwards. “How is it possible?”
“It was said once that their bones are cast from iron and their skin of steel plate.” Blassen joined him, tense and ready to defend his king as ever. “Whatever they are made from, they are a hell of their own to kill.”
“Move the infantry up into this gap.” Rendin suddenly had a sinking feeling that he had opened a hole. He turned and shouted at the nearest courier, “Move! I want a battalion in behind that cavalry now!”
“Sire.” Blassen pointed forward again. “You're too late.”
Rendin looked back down the canyon, and to his horror saw Granhal rounding the corner from the right just beyond Sir Beldin.
THIRTY-TWO
“MOVE YOUR ARCHERS IN BEHIND US,” RENDIN SHOUTED DOWN TO THEIR COMMANDER AS HE LOWERED HIS VISOR. “And tell that infantry to support you immediately or we're all dead.”
“Sire.” Blassen held out his hand to steady his king. “Look!”
The Granhal numbered in the low hundreds, though in the confines of the canyon they looked significantly more numerous. But behind them something white was stirring, something massive.
“The Chaplaincy.” Rendin said with as much awe as gratitude.
The Granhal had yet to realize it as they blew their horn and howled their cry, but they were surrounded. They galloped forward, bounding and jumping until they reached Beldin's cavalry and began tearing into men and horses alike. But the Trench was right behind them, leading the white knights of the Chaplaincy on a headlong charge back the way they had come.
Their crimson banners flew high overhead as the heavy cavalry unit collided with the rear of the Granhal and plowed straight through them. War hammers rose and fell in sprays of black blood as the Chaplains began to sing their hymns in time with their killing strokes. Rendin had never been so grateful to see the holy warriors appear on any scene before this.
“Keep the archers moving, but tell them to let Beldin's infantry pass. I want them moving in front from now on.” He turned to another courier. “Get to the rear, give my compliments to Sir Theddalt, and tell him to warn his commanders of attacks from the flanks. We may not be moving much farther forward today.”
In a way he was relieved, grateful for the fight and the ability to focus his men on an outward opponent. Let us lay them waste then, and remove at least one of the Relequim's weapons this day.
He turned in time to see the Trench haul the horn of his massive war hammer down and through the chest of a Granhal as it tried to hop past. He motioned for another courier to come forward. “Give my compliments to the Trench; thank him for his intervention, then ask him what he's seen and request that he protect the retreat of the wounded.”
He turned in place, looking for a good location to evacuate the wounded, but they would be hard pressed to do much with them here. He pointed to his right. “The draw here is as good as any; at least it isn't open to any other canyons.”
“Sire, if more Parnithons come, there will be no stopping them from attacking from the walls.” Blassen raised the snubbed snout of his visor, but his face remained as nonplussed as ever.
He was right, Rendin knew. There was no protecting the wounded until the battle was over entirely, at least not truly. “Put them in that draw right there, and place a small detachment of soldiers along the walls. It's the best we can do.”
“As you wish, Sire.” Blassen kicked forward to help bring in the wounded.
“Starl,” Rendin shouted over his shoulder.
“My King!”
“I want this to be the center of our battle line.” He turned his horse and pointed back the way they had come. “There are two branching canyons behind us and two ahead; I want them guarded with infantry supported by archers. Any heavy units carrying spears are to be put at the front. Leave one cavalry detachment beyond them to scout and skirmish as necessary, but tell them I want them ready to withdraw at a moment's notice.”
“Theddalt has some spears, Majesty, but the majority of his cavalry are moving forward to support Beldin's engagement.”
“Grab a courier to turn them around, but I want you to speak with Theddalt directly. He'll be prickly enough for those boys to deal with; I'm hoping you'll have an easier time of it.”
“Yes, my King.” Starl turned and kicked his horse towards the rear of the army, shouting at one of the couriers to join him as he went.
“Who's positioned in front of Theddalt?” Rendin asked the whole group at once.
“Berrywine, Majesty.”
“And who else?” Rendin looked at the courier who had spoken. “Yoren?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“Tell them both they need to turn and support Theddalt's flanks. Then report back on how things look.”
“Your Majesty!” The courier from the front came to a stop in front of him. “The Trench refused your request to cover the retreat of the wounded.”
Confounded old man... “How many wounded were there in all?” He looked up towards the front to see the Chaplains wheeling back out to continue to act as a van for an army that was no longer on the move.
“Beldin's scouts are all dead, Sire, at least those as climbed the mountain. His cavalry took losses as high as two in five between the Parnithons and Granhal, though he credits the Chaplains with that number being as low as it is. The Chaplains themselves lost no men, and had only one wounded who rode back out with them.”
Rendin wanted them to come back, to be ready to fight with his army, but he knew there was no hope of recalling them. “Give Sir Beldin my congratulations and tell him to withdraw his cavalry to the center to rest. I want his infantry facing the north, and I'll fill in the northwest with my own troops.”
“Yes, Sire.”
What they had now were six possible points of contact, five if Beldin stayed well back of the northeastern branch, not accounting for the Parnithons and anything else that was thrown at them from the heights of these mountains. He wondered if he could get more eyes on top of one of them before he saw Beldin sending more scouts up the nearest one. He smiled. He'd have to give the man an honor of some sort for today.
The scouts had hardly made it over the edge before they began dropping ropes that they had secured to rocks on the top. Archers began to climb the ropes as quickly as they could, making Rendin smile anew. “Someone send Beldin my compliments and ask him who taught him how to fight.”
But no sooner had he said it did the scouts begin to signal the troops below. “They've made visual contact,” Tasten said from behind. “Two columns from two directions, the north and northwest. Make that four... four from each.”
“Sire!” A courier came to a skittering halt in the midst of the Renault bodyguard. “Theddalt sends his prai
ses and requests more troops sent south. They've made contact and by now have surely engaged with two columns from the east and two from the west.”
Rendin looked from man to man before he nodded his head. It made sense to pressure him the hardest from the north, rout his forces first there and drive him south. The worst news of the day was dawning on him; he wouldn't be able to survey the entire battle, and thus could not be certain his decisions were benefiting his men as they should. “Divide the reserves and send them to bolster both the northern and southern fronts with the majority to the north. Tell Beldin he commands the north. He has the Chaplains to come to his aid and the superior cavalry force. I'll take direct command of the south.”
He turned to look at everyone present one last time. “Let us not hesitate, lest death think us cowards,” he said before kicking his heels and riding south to join the battle.
“My lord.” Another courier appeared just as Sir Beldin had finished organizing his wounded. “The king sends his compliments and congratulations.”
“Tell him I am honored.”
“He requests that you place your cavalry in reserve to rest them, and to place your infantry facing north. Your archers should support them, and he will send up his own troops to guard your left flank to the northwest.”
“That is very generous of the king.” Beldin looked south to where he could see the Renault bodyguard shimmering in the canyon. “I will do as he commands.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Thorn!” He shouted over to his infantry commander, the bright colored blue and green patchwork of his surcoat a comfort to see. “Plug the northern canyon with your men and draw up the archers behind you. My horse need a moment's respite.”
“Yes, m'lord!”
Beldin turned to find the remaining scouts he had hired from the merchants in the south. He had hoped to use them in mountaineering, but this was far more extreme. “Can you get more of your boys to the top of the mountain behind us?”
