by Swanson, Jay
“Yes m'lord, but the wolves...” The wrinkled old man was wiry, and deceptively strong, Beldin knew.
“Parnithons,” Beldin corrected. “There won't be any more, not for a while yet, and they'll be coming up the mountains in front of us in any case. But I want you to take ropes and get as many archers up there with you as you can. Take a unit of swordsmen up as well if they can manage the climb in their gear, and they can protect you from the Parnithons.”
“Aye aye, m'lord. S'long as we get paid.”
“If any of you make it through the day I'll pay him double. Now go.”
And with a little yip of glee, the old deckhand rushed off to find his remaining men. The king's soldiers were already filing north to fill in his left flank, where the Parnithons had attacked his scouts not even an hour before. Their tall, spiked helms glittered in the desert sun and trailed the Renault green in simple ribbons as they went. He was surprised the Parnithons hadn't been quickly followed by the main force, though he supposed the Granhal were meant to do more damage than the Chaplains had allowed.
He set himself to checking on his lines when the shout went up that the scouts above had spotted something. No sooner did he hear that than did he see his outriders racing back towards him, ragged and so few in number it made his heart break.
“Form the line!” He shouted at his spearmen along the front row. “Two holes for our friends, then close up immediately! Archers, strings on your bows!”
They had at least another half mile to go, but were being steadily overcome by another unit of Granhal. They weren't going to make it. “Heavy cavalry, to me!”
He quickly selected a unit of a hundred men out of the First Cavalry and turned to make his way out through the lines.
“My lord!” The shout of one of the king's couriers came to him over the noise of the armored horses trotting forward, but he didn't have time. He dug his heels into his own horse and sped out through the ranks.
There were possibly ten of his outriders left, racing their horses as hard as they could. The Granhal were hot on their heels, howling and galloping and swinging their axes. His blood froze to come into contact with these monsters twice in one day, but he forced the fear down and rode as hard as he could towards them. They're as mortal as you, you fool. With sword in hand he shifted his trajectory, aiming to pass just by the lead horse. Come on, come on! He couldn't bear to see his men run down like this. Only a few more yards!
And then suddenly they were past. He shouted at them to ride home before swinging his blade up to catch the first Granhal in the eye. It had been so focused on its prey that it hadn't seen him coming, but the rest were not so distracted. He brought his sword back around in time to parry a blow from an incoming ax, which almost threw him from his saddle before his line of cavalry were through the Granhal and on the other side.
Sir Beldin wheeled his horse around, the only mount among them not wearing full armor, and raised his voice as loud as he could. “For the Shale!”
His men echoed the chant as the Granhal turned and came to face them. He lowered his sword and the knights charged forward, splintering the rest of their lances on the hopping Granhal as nearly a third of the knights were dropped from their horses. Whether the animals themselves had been attacked or the men had been carried off the horses made little difference; the impact with the ground in full plate was severely disorienting in all cases.
Beldin wove through the center of the Granhal, who numbered half of his knights in total, but Beldin suddenly found his men were severely outmatched. He hacked down at a Granhal whose misstep had cost it its momentum, then dodged another who had aimed to tackle him off his horse but instead cleared its hindquarters.
He rushed through their line, then turned his horse to find that only five of his knights had made it through with him. The rest had either been brought up short or were on the ground fighting the Granhal man to man. Beldin kicked forward, angling towards a Granhal that was raising its ax to strike a man on the ground. He came through just in time, catching the back of the monster's neck with his blade and separating its spine so that the ax flew wide. He pulled right, dodging an ax, then swung down to knock away yet another dual-headed blade.
Another Granhal stood over a fallen knight, and realizing he wouldn't be able to bring his sword around in time, Beldin did the next best thing. His horse might not have been fully armored, but it was a warhorse, bred and trained for the heat of battle with the Relequim's armies. They had fought together in a number of skirmishes in the last few years, and now that training shone as the horse rammed the Granhal from behind with its chest, sending it flying over the downed knight.
Their momentum lost, Beldin leaped from the horse's back, slapping it on the haunches as he shouted for it to run. He spun, dodging the ax that was meant to behead him and quarter his horse in the same motion. Both targets evaded their fate with dexterity, and Beldin launched himself back up to counter, bringing his sword up and through the chin of the assaulting Granhal. Its frozen mask of a face erupted tar-like blood before he hauled down on the blade and kicked it over dead.
“Get up!” He shouted at the knight on the ground. “Get up or we're both dead!”
There were still knights in the fight, but now they barely matched the Granhal in number. They were losing the fight.
A long howl echoed through the canyon, causing Beldin to swallow involuntarily. He turned to find the largest Granhal among them standing behind him, its curved horns reaching to the sky and bringing its full height to well over ten feet. The monster had a rune blazing on its chest, the deep blood-red glow of the Relequim, which flared to life before it sprang forward.
The Granhal came in bounds of fifteen feet, closing the gap to Beldin in seconds. He dove to the side as the ax came down, twirling in the air with his sword out to catch the blow and deflect it from its aim. The impact was massive, dropping him instantly to the ground, and left his arms numb as he slid to a stop on the dusty clay. He shook his head and rolled to his feet. The Granhal stood there staring at him, its brow dropped deep in hatred, its long, jagged teeth frozen in a perpetual grin.
Beldin's gut dropped to be faced with the Demon's elite, but there was no escaping this fight. There was no fleeing now. He gripped his longsword with both hands and shouted for his fathers as he ran forward to meet the beast. The Granhal spun, its long-handled ax flying so fast that Beldin could barely see it. He dropped to his knees more out of instinct than perception, the notched iron blade whistling overhead and clipping the mast from his helm as the Granhal howled and continued to spin. Beldin dove forward to his left as the ax came hurtling down, crashing into the ground with enough force to lodge itself in the earth.
Beldin was close enough to strike, and he swung his blade for the back of the Granhal's legs. But the Granhal was faster and kicked out to the side, connecting with Beldin's skull and saving itself from anything worse than a gash on its lower back. It screamed in rage against the pain, but Beldin barely heard it as his world erupted into lights and bells as he slid on his back to a stop.
He got up as quickly as he could, the world swirling around him as the dust compounded his inability to see. A giant black blur approached at a steady saunter, until suddenly it launched towards the sky. Beldin wobbled on his feet in place before he realized what was happening. He fell forward, doing his best to roll out of the way as the massive skin-clad boots of the Granhal shattered the ground behind him.
The monster twisted instantly, catching Beldin on his knees with the flat of its ax and launching him ten feet back the way he had come. He slid to a stop and stayed there for a second as he pieced the world together on his back. He sat up, pushing with his elbows to get on his side and stand. Around him stood thirty Granhal, each walking forward to watch as their champion finished the skirmish.
There had been a hundred heavily armored knights with him. How had they only killed twenty of these things?
And then a new shout was heard on the wind.
The Granhal turned their attention north in an instant as the Chaplains came streaming in from the branch to the northeast just ahead of the inbound column of monsters. The Trench howled with a furious joy as he swung his bloody war hammer over his head and dove straight into the Granhal.
The monsters responded in kind, leaping into action to gather momentum and connect with the knights head-on. The clash was so violent that Beldin covered his face in the crook of his arm, the world still grinding off its axis slightly as he fought to clear his head. The huge destriers in their white armor didn't balk at the Granhal, taking the collisions head-on and winning every single connection. The war hammers followed close behind the horses, shattering horns and splintering skulls in sickening crushes and cracks.
The Granhal howled, hammering into the armored chests and flanks of the Chaplains' mounts, but the axes were turned, the horses barely flustered by the attacks. Beldin watched in awe as the horses circled and paused as if one with their masters. The dents in their armor barely registered against their determination as the Chaplains clove one skull and then another. Before he knew it, the Granhal were dead.
“Come, little lord.” The Trench was reaching down for him before he was fully aware it was over. “Let's get you to safety before the real trouble arrives.”
Sir Beldin took his hand and in a blur found himself riding back towards his own lines on the back of the oversized warhorse. “How did you kill them so easily?”
“The creatures of the enemy cannot stand against the righteous,” the Trench laughed. “You should repent of your sins, boy. There is no armor like the wrath of God.”
The Chaplains walked their horses through the lines of spearmen, swordsmen, and archers before dropping Beldin off with his troops. “Where is the prince king? I must speak with him before the battle begins in earnest.”
“He was just there,” Beldin's mind was recovering well now but an overpowering headache contested it again. “I don't know where he's gone.”
“Sir Beldin!” The courier from before rode over, exasperated to say the least. “His Majesty the King has given you command of the northern forces. We are beset on all sides.” He turned his horse to leave, already impatient to be back with his master. “I would suggest that you find a vantage point from where you can direct the battle, my lord.”
The young man was gone before Beldin could even think to ask any questions.
“We'll be following that one, then.” The Trench pointed after the courier with his white hammer, black blood still dripping from one corner as he did so. “Don't you worry yourself, little lord. This will be where the best fighting will be done, so you can be assured we will return. Just watch for us at the breaking point.”
He didn't even make a motion that Beldin could discern, but his horse lunged forward as if it knew its master's mind. The entire troop of two hundred white-clad, black-spattered killers took off after him, soon dwindling into the dusty masses of the southern forces.
THIRTY-THREE
“I NEED A HORSE!” Beldin's skull was actively trying to crush his brain; he could feel a touch of nausea coming on as well. “Get me a horse!”
“Sire, take mine.” One of the cavalrymen nearby jumped down and helped him up.
“Thank you,” he said as he straightened his back and fought the increase of pressure in his head as his heart rate picked up. “What did those outriders report?”
“The approaching front of two columns outnumbers us at least two to one.” Thorn held up his shield to him until he took it.
“Good odds, all things considered, though I'd hoped more had gone to Veria.” He looked up for his scouts above who were signaling that more enemies were approaching. “From the north and the northwest?”
“Correct, m'lord.” The captain of his cavalry nodded from his left.
“What's in the front row? I can't see that far...”
“Knobacks, predominantly.” The man stood in his saddle as if to see better. “The outriders said they came under fire from darts, but I see no archers yet. Just Knobacks and a few Dunmar driving them.”
“Well at least they won't be terribly diverse. How long until they're in range of our archers?”
“A few minutes at most.” He sat back in the saddle.
“Knobacks are rumored to be scared of fire,” he said as he turned to Thorn. “I want your second and third volleys to be alight. Otherwise keep the heads clean and sharp.”
“M'lord.”
“I'll be back.” He turned his horse and made his way around the mountain that was now the natural barrier to their left flank. The king's troops were engaging on their own, the oncoming Knobacks already in range of the archers. The Renault troops were much more brilliantly arrayed than his own troops, the archers in trim green uniforms and gray leggings with the foot soldiers in high-browed helms and green chain mail secured with bits of plate over their arms and chests.
Bows thrummed in a disconnected rhythm, their long arrows whistling into the air in flocks that gathered in the heights only to separate upon their descent. He found their commander and asked what was happening, half-staring at his horse's neck just to focus on the man's voice.
“Knobacks are within range, m'lord. The scouts above have warned us that they're interspersed with pockets of Brenlucks, the little spindly gray archers. I'm expecting them to break loose at any point.”
“Your men have shields?”
“The front five lines do, m'lord. They're all spear; the rest of our foot are light infantry; all they're carrying is bucklers.”
“That will have to do. Make sure they cover themselves when the darts begin to fall. Have you sent any fire in with your arrows?”
The commander shook his silvery head, tossing the green ribbon about behind it. “We aren't equipped to use fire arrows, m'lord. We're just killin' em today.”
“Well if you can't scare them, you'd better kill them.” Beldin looked back up to see the massive shoulders of the Knobacks swaying to and fro, now much like porcupines with all of the arrows sticking out of them. “But it looks like the killing will be done in close quarter. Don't let them have the initiative. Swing your line forward from the left, and let your cavalry through there on their right flank. If you pull your right back they'll lose their speed. They can't run far on those little legs.”
“Yes, m'lord, though that rotation will be difficult to accomplish.”
“The timing is more the issue.” Beldin took his horse's reins and began to turn away. “But the king's troops can accomplish anything, I'm sure.”
“Thank you for your faith, m'lord. We won't let you down.”
“I'm counting on it!” Beldin shouted as he made his way back towards his own troops. He turned as a new sound joined the battle: the whoosh of a thousand darts released into the air at once. The Brenlucks had released their short poisoned arrows from their small bows and were joining the fight at last. Sir Beldin watched as the first volley landed among the men, who thankfully responded to loud orders with haste, covering their heads with their shields.
He made for his own archers, dressed in their checkered yellows, oranges and browns, and wondered briefly who would prove the better force. He smiled against the headache at the thought of his own men proving their worth beyond that of the king's, but forced it away as he knew the thought to be pointless. They needed each other desperately now, and any of them would be lucky to make it out of this alive.
The realization resonated with him as his own archers released what must have been their third volley already, the tongues of fire running half the length of the arrow shafts as they tore through the wind. They had walked into a death trap, the whole purpose of which was to draw out the Relequim and somehow give the Brethren the window they required. For all they knew they had simply marched to their own slaughter willingly like so many lambs, but he could wrest this army from the Relequim. That much he could manage.
The fire arrows were having an effect as the Knobacks r
oared in unison. The Dunmar raged and whipped harder to get the slowing Knobacks to press onward. That was good; at least their morale could be affected as well. The Dunmar stood over a head taller than their broad-shouldered comrades and were more versatile in a fight. The only advantage the Knobacks would have against his spears was the momentum of their initial charge. If he could rob them of that, he could hold his line.
They were closing now, probably less than a minute from making their charge. The call went out for the spears to be lowered into place.
“Archers!” He turned his horse in place to shout to his men, forcing the words past the resonance in his skull. “Archers! Ignite!”
They hadn't been ready for this, having switched to arrowheads after following his orders, and it took a moment for them to reload with the sap-tipped shafts. The thin line of oil that burned before them was already threatening to go out, but they would have just enough time.
“Hold your fire!” He held up his open palm as he watched for the Knobacks to make their move. They would take the last fifteen or twenty yards, and it was in that space that he needed his archers to show their skill. “Aim low!” There it was; the whips rose and fell in time and the Knobacks bellowed their monstrous groan of a cry. His sergeants had caught on and were shouting for the infantry to freeze in place. Good men.
The lumbering began, but before the small legs of the Knobacks could gain any real speed, Beldin lowered his hand into a fist and called fire. The blunt arrows roared like a firestorm between the helmets and spears of the infantry, arcing just enough to come down in the face of the oncoming foe. The fire was brilliant, and sudden, and the Knobacks were caught completely off guard.
They stumbled and stopped in fear of the flame as the Dunmar roared for them to press on. This was their moment to take the initiative.
“Forward for the Shale!” Beldin shouted, gritting his teeth as he finished the phrase. “Don't let up until every last one of them is dead!”
