by RW Krpoun
With this in mind he planned to deploy both Blue and Red Companies on the west wall, with Rolf at the south end and Kroh at the north. Gold Company would be in the towers; Starr and half of Green would hold the north wall, Elonia and half of Green on the south. Johann and Maximilian would be on the east wall. It left him without any reserves, but at least it put fifty-one men on the main point of attack, all but four of them trained soldiers.
A sentry's warning cry was followed by the wail of a high-toned Arturian hunting horn looted from the wagons, summoning the defenders to their positions. Dmitri trotted to the west wall, limbering up with a few practice swings and yelling encouragement to his men. He had made his preparations and used his time well, and now all that remained was the fight itself.
Henri settled his helm on his head and tapped the pommel of his rapier to make sure it was wedged firmly into the rail. He had left the scabbard on the ground; with six other men on his tower quarters would be too confined to draw should fighting reach that close of quarters. Various Void-spawned creatures were lured to a Seeding, attaching themselves to the army that was formed, and some would be winged, such as harpies, manticores or even a wyvern. The Host-Lord would likely use any such creatures to attack the towers, so it was all too possible that they could see hand-to-hand fighting before it was over.
Before him to the west the Direbreed were approaching the edge of the brush, heralded by a dry rattling drum, an untidy force moving with much noise and considerable disregard for the brush they were moving through: if this attack failed the next attack would have to cover more cleared ground, so badly were they trampling down the greenery. Other than the big wedge that was the Centaur Talon, the Direbreed were organized into bands called Fists of the Dark One, consisting of a dozen or so twisted humanoids led by a veteran and possessing its own banner or totem, quite a few of which were topped with severed heads of the Arturian nobles. Henri lost count at twenty-two Fists, but was thankful that the larger banners of Arms of the Dark One (companies of two to seven Fists under an Arm-lord) were absent. The lack of higher organization showed that they had caught the Darkhost while it was still forming, and ensured that the foe's organization would be loose and slow to respond.
"Remember the plan," he called, keeping his voice just loud enough to reach the other towers. "The first volley on my command, then fire on your own. Break the Centaurs first, then aim for the standard bearers and Direbreed who look like they're giving orders, but don't waste a lot of time looking for a target. Stay calm and make every..."
The moan of a horn from the enemy lines cut him off. Cursing, he ripped the cover from the brass jar as the wedge of horse-men burst through the brush into the cleared ground. He plucked a thick twist of silk from inside and popped the wax seal holding it together with a thumb nail, biting off words in a clear, concise voice. With a brisk snapping gesture, he threw the roll at the charging Centaurs. Instantly, a searing dust storm exploded in the midst of the wedge, engulfing the entire Talon.
It lasted only a handful of seconds, but the Centaurs came out of it choking and gasping, half-blinded. A volley of quarrels tore into them like a plague, and all formation was lost. A piercing beam of light leapt from one of the towers and dropped the wounded Centaur who had snatched the standard from a dying comrade, and then a second storm engulfed them even as they reached the belt of stakes. Blinded, ripping open fetlocks on the stakes, their standard down, the Talon faltered, momentum lost. As they hesitated the beam of light flickered out again and wounded one, and then the fastest crossbowman finished reloading and dropped an already-wounded Centaur. Despite Thraxx's screamed imprecations, the survivors turned and raced back to their own lines.
The sudden burst of cheering from the west did nothing for the ball of greasy ice that had taken up residence in Maximilian's stomach. This wasn't how he imagined battles to be, all this uncertainty and confusion. It occurred to him that as a historian he was accustomed to reading about battles with the outcome already known, at least generally, while only the Eight knew how this battle would end, and whether he would see its end himself. He gripped his sword tighter and wished he could stop thinking about death and maiming, especially his own.
He flinched as a howling crash erupted behind him, and with a shock he realized that the smith's clattering he heard was the ring of steel on steel that he had read of so many times. For a moment panic swelled within him, but he fought it down. He was the first von Sheer in three generations to see battle, and for the first time he had an inkling of what the price of the 'von' had been.
He shifted the shield's straps more comfortably and worked his sword-arm a bit, sweat escaping the padded lining of his helm and trickling down his face. His orders were to watch the east; he and Johann had to hold a hundred-yard section of wall alone, or at least until help could be sent, and he intended to carry the orders out as if he were the first Maximilian, the one who had bought the ‘von’ with this same sword. Behind him he could hear that the north and south walls were engaged in melee.
Suddenly he frowned, squinting: movement had caught his eye. Not in the brush line downslope, but in the air to the east. Whatever they were, they were flying across the valley towards him, but being below the crest were hard to see against the greenery of the far slopes. Suddenly he cursed. "Johann: Harpies to the east! HARPIES!"
A ragged line of nine of the foul beasts swept towards the fort, twisted creatures born out of the disruptions of the ancient War of the Gods. Maximilian crouched and stared, gasping from fear as he watched them approach; dimly he heard Johann sound the Arturian horn in warning, three sharp notes to warn of attack from the air. The harpies each had ten foot wingspans, with a twisted, warped upper torso of a miniature human growing from a massive bird’s body, semi-intelligent beasts who were drawn to the carrion of battle much as their vulture ancestors’ had been. Few roamed free these days, nearly all having been enslaved by one dark power or another and bred in captivity.
The harpies, he saw, wore a simple harness festooned with small darts and other missile weapons which they would hurl upon their foes from a safe height, and bore flails for melee attacks.
"They're coming from the east," he muttered. " 'Guard the east', Dmitri said. Got to do it. Badminton-used to be pretty good. It's a five by ten-foot birdie: can't miss." He crabbed sideways along the wall, trying to keep low in the hopes that the harpies wouldn't see him. As the black shapes swept over the rampart, he leapt into the air with all the force his body held, his great-grandfather's sword whistling in a vicious overhand arc. The shock of impact threw him off-balance and he crashed into the grass with an oath, the dusty grass slapping at his face. Rolling to his feet, he was amazed to see blood on his blade; a harpy, wing nearly severed, thrashed madly just inside the compound.
Gasping for breath, the scholar hurtled down the embankment and fell upon the creature, hacking wildly, ignoring the splattering blood and shrill, piecing screams, continuing to swing long after the beast stopped thrashing.
On the north wall Starr and her five men had been holding off two Fists without much problem; by the time the Direbreed had crossed the open ground, worked their way through the stakes, and fought their way through the brush-filled ditch, all under a steady barrage of arrows (fired with the deadly Threllian accuracy), they would be facing one or two defenders waiting for them. After a couple attempts to fight their way up the rampart failed for lack of organization, the beast-men contented themselves with hurling rocks and insults while trying to stay out of range of Starr's arrows.
The diminutive Lanthrell heard the warning horn and turned to see the harpies sweeping in. Cursing, she plucked an oddly engraved arrow from a separate pocket of her quiver. Drawing carefully, she barked a single sharp command; six feet from her bow the arrow flashed into a half dozen shafts. Two harpies crashed to earth, and a third swung away from the main group, wounded. Drawing an ordinary arrow, Starr finished off the straggler before turning back to the task at hand.
/> Henri kept one eye on the ragged line of harpies sweeping towards his towers as he wrenched his rapier free. Leaping to the rail, he released the last of his inner strength in a blinding beam of light that sliced a harpy from the sky. As the four survivors split, one on each tower, he set himself, launching into an all-out thrust as the harpy closed. The hideous body slid down the length of his sword blade and smashed him backwards into his men, turning the tower into a kicking, heaving mass of bodies.
Rolf was too busy to pay any attention as to why the fire from the towers slackened. As each crossbowman reloaded and fired at will, the volleys had gotten more and more ragged until there always were a few bolts whipping in from overhead, easing the pressure on the ramparts. The Centaurs may have been turned back short of contact, but when the Fists charged in a solid seething mass there was no spells or storms to delay them, just Gold Company’s fire and whatever rocks and throwing weapons Red and Blue Companies had to hand. The Direbreed had swept across the open ground, taking losses from the bolts, hurled stones, and the stake belt, piled into the ditch, hacking and ripping through the entangling brush, and clawed their way up the slope.
At first it had been easy to cut down the lead elements as they struggled through the brush, and then to knock them off the slope of the embankment, but the press was constant, and the Direbreed following close behind the lead beast-men were able to get in a few blows before they fell. Worse, the defender's success worked against them: the ditch was filling with bodies, making the footing easier for the attackers.
Rolf's arms ached and his breath was growing short as he wielded his great axe again and again, and under his felt-muffled breast-and-back he was sweating gallons. Feinting, he slammed his battle axe into the chest of a ram-headed Direbreed and wrenched it free, dodging the creature's feeble counterattack. Booting the dying beast-man into the ditch, he split another's skull, fighting with the mindless detachment he had learned in his brief indenture in the death-games. He was dimly aware that the irregular on his left had been too slow in withdrawing his spear from a victim in the ditch, and far too slow in letting the weapon go when an alert Direbreed caught it; the hapless former groom was skillfully levered off the embankment and into the milling press below, his shriek ending abruptly.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Rolf leapt into the ditch, his axe smashing a gap in the dark forms. Moving fast, pressing the momentary advantage of surprise, the big half Orc cut down another Direbreed and sprang into the breach its demise created. His quarry, a Fist standard bearer, lashed out with a wickedly spiked mace that Rolf was only partially able to dodge; the blow to his side failed to penetrate the armor but bruised him badly. Ignoring the pain, the Badger riposted, smashing in the wolf-headed Direbreed's face with a short, hard chop of his axe. Ripping the standard from its dying bearer with his left hand, which also held his axe, Rolf cross-drew one of his dirks and scrambled awkwardly back up the embankment, parrying desperately with the dirk, his retreat covered by two alert halberdiers.
Once back on top he tossed the standard and the dirk into the compound and returned to the business at hand, which was holding the rampart. At least the crossbow fire from overhead was picking back up again.
Carlex gripped the haft of his axe and snarled as if in pain: the attack was failing. The defender's wizard had turned his Centaurs, and the barricades had failed to protect the lead Fists as well as they should have; in fact, most fell apart before the charge got very far underway. Unweakened, the west wall had stopped the assault, and the fighting had degenerated into an endurance match between the will of his Direbreed to continue to attack against the physical exhaustion of the defenders. The key was the tower-borne missile troops, for as long as they could rain death down on the Fists without pause the attack would fail. When the harpies died without causing more than a brief disruption the attack's fate was sealed. Even as he watched, individual Direbreed were running back to the trampled brush line, signifying that the Fists were falling apart.
The Host-lord nodded to himself. "Sound the retreat," he snapped to the drummer. "We'll try again later."
Gasping for breath, Dmitri watched the Direbreed race back to the brush line, pursued by the bolts of Gold Company; the Serjeant was battered, bruised, and bone-weary, but very glad to be alive and largely unwounded after such a vicious engagement. As he dragged his helm off he tried to remember a harder fight and found that he couldn't. At any one of a half-dozen points during the fight the west wall had been on the brink of giving way, and with no reserves to plug such a gap the fort would have fallen if more than two or three Direbreed crossed the ramparts and got inside. The breeze was clearing the dust of battle from the air, and with mild amusement, he realized the entire fight had lasted barely ten minutes.
He took a long drag at his waterskin before swinging his axe overhead in both hands. "We did it!" he bellowed. "We broke them!" He waited a moment for the cheering to die down. "All rest in place! Commanders, count heads and get the wounded to the east wall for treatment. We won the first fight, but there's more to come."
Starr kicked a harpy, dagger ready in hand. All around her the fort bustled with activity and shouted orders; after receiving the reports Dmitri had changed a few men between Red and Blue Companies to even their strength, and issued new orders. All quivers and water-skins were replenished, weapons and armor were taken from the dead and wounded to replace those lost or broken, and to reequip those who had only the forage scythes and bills. Green Company, less the cooks who had been ordered to start a hot meal, was charged with clearing up the interior of the compound and posting sentries on the north, south, and east walls. Red and Blue Companies had moved out to the west, checking to ensure that all the fallen Direbreed were in fact dead, and gathering their Breedstones and weapons before clearing the bodies from the ditch and stake belt, stacking the corpses a dozen paces out to form a crude barrier that would hopefully slow a charge. When they finished she would lead Green Company out to clear the other three sides.
Satisfied that the beast was dead, she set about recovering her arrow. The dividing arrow would only work once, and was the last one she had, but the arrows it created were enchanted for greater penetration, and this would make three she had managed to recover. One had broken on impact, and two more had missed and were lost, but recovering half the shafts was about all she had expected. She wished she had more of the dividing arrows, but they were rare and hard to come by; she had had one when she joined the Company, using it on a raid into a ruined Dwarven city, and had only acquired the one she just used a week before they set out on this mission.
Straightening, she surveyed the fort with considerable pride. They had stood off the Direbreed’s best efforts and she was confident that they would do so again. The Fists had taken a beating, and even now the evening twilight was marred by the screams and shouts of Direbreed leadership duels as Fists without leaders determined who would command. The new leaders would be inferior to the old as the original Fist-lords were veterans while the new leaders had only a few day's experience, nowhere near enough to hold a subunit together in the swirling madness that was melee.
They had paid for the victory, though: Red and Blue Companies had lost seven killed and three too badly wounded to fight between them, her own Green had one too badly wounded to fight, and Gold had lost one killed and three wounded, one of the latter caused by a comrade's crossbow in the confusion of the harpies' attack. Additionally, Johann had been wounded as he and Maximilian had repulsed three Direbreed who had slipped around from the north.
Most importantly to the short Badger, however, was that her wall and detachment had performed well; this had been her first large-scale battle as well as her first combat command, and she felt she had done well both as a warrior and as a leader.
She found Rolf and Kroh sprawled on the foundation of a longhouse, armor off, gnawing on beef ribs while they watched a couple of Gold Company men nailing dead harpies to the cross-supports of their tower. Kroh,
exhausted from the combat-frenzy his blood-rage thrust upon him, only waved lazily from where he lay, but Rolf jumped up and dusted off a place for her.
"Want some ribs? Did you see the standards over by the west wall? I captured one and Dmitri got another; we found two more when we cleared the ditch. Whole Fists must have been wiped out."
"Not too surprising, I killed dozens, myself," Kroh mumbled around a mouthful of beef. Neither of his companions argued, for while his tally would not actually be dozens they knew from experience that it would be higher than anyone else's. The Waybrother was a dedicated killing machine in melee.
"Did you throw your axe, Kroh?" Kroh's enruned Named Axe could be thrown up to twenty feet and return on command, but the runes involved would not be able to empower it again for twenty hours or so after such a use.
The Dwarf shook his head. "Too packed in the ditch, and I was too far to the right for the Centaurs. Besides, I'll probably need it tonight." He belched loudly. "How's Johann?"
"Not too bad," Starr shrugged. "He can't fight, though, as there were too many who needed the Healer’s powers to remain alive to Heal him. They had to use ordinary medical treatment." She wrinkled her nose at the stench of the Direbreed dead. The magically grown flesh decomposed as if it had died when the host creature had been Harvested, and since most of the beast-men were at least a week old their bodies were damnably ripe. "Too bad they're not older, the Direbreed. They wouldn't stink much, then. Or at least the smell would pass a lot quicker."
The trio gnawed on their beef ribs, each lost in his or her own exhaustion and private thoughts. All three ignored the Healers as they worked; the Brothers treated the ordinary wounded with drugs and bandages, while the critically injured received the application of the Healing Arts to stop bleeding, safely extract foreign objects and contaminants from the wound, and to cause the flesh to heal itself scarlessly. Unfortunately the art of Healing could not replace the blood which had been lost, nor alleviate the shock to the victim’s system inflicted by the act of being wounded.
