by RW Krpoun
“Interesting; perhaps you would care to dine with me tonight and tell me what you know about these nomads?”
The advocate smiled. “Thank you, but I’m afraid my husband would object to my accepting your invitation.”
“I’m sure he would,” the officer grinned and shook his head ruefully. “I’ll take your leave then, good lady, and wish you luck; I must see about what my scouts can learn before the sun sets.”
The four Legions of the Imperial Eastern Field Force arrived along with their compact supply train (which consisted almost entirely of carts similar to those the Badgers used) before the sun had begun to set; Lord General von der Strieb set his four squadrons of cavalry (each Legion had one squadron for scouting) to skirmishing and probing around the outskirts of Mancin, but it was quickly apparent that the Hand had moved too great of a force into the area for the Legions to gain a passage through to the north without a full-scale battle. It was likewise impossible for the Hand troops to seize the low hills south of the village so the two forces settled into night camps, confident that battle would be joined on the morrow.
The nine Badgers, their duties fulfilled, sat on the low hill and watched the situation unfold. The four Legions, each with over seven thousand fighting men supported by artillery and archers, represented the backbone of the Heartland Army, a well-led, well-equipped fighting force made up of men and women who were veterans of border-fighting in the Northern Wastes. The Eisenalder Empire had little use for cavalry, using mounted troops only for scouting and exploitation, preferring to rely instead upon the shock power of heavy infantry supported by artillery and massed missile troops. The Imperial Legionnaire, Legion commanders often boasted, could march any cavalry into the ground in the space of a week and could break the mounted charge of anything with hooves.
The four Legions settled into neat, well-organized night camps with the speed and precision that they were known for; by sundown the Ilthanian forces had arrived, and the rest of the Heartland Army was making camp barely five miles away.
Once full darkness had descended Starr slipped past the Imperial sentries for an extended scout of the enemy dispositions, more to demonstrate her own skill and courage than for any other reason. After blackening her face, hands, and weapon-blades with an inky paste the scouts carried for just occasions, the little Threll doffed her armor and shield and slipped out into the night. Bridget knew of the slim possibility that the effort would be worth the risk, but did not forbid the action; very few in the Hand army could out-scout the Lanthrell, and anyone who stumbled across the little Badger would find themselves with more fight on their hands than they wanted.
The scouts and sentries covering the Hand’s camp were Eyade nomads, without a doubt the most vicious Humans in Alhenland, and perhaps the most warlike people to be found anywhere, their ferocity such that even Orcs and Hobrec reavers respected them. The nomads comprised twenty-eight moorugh, or herd-based clans that drove vast herds of yalla (long haired, long-horned cattle) across the plains; the members of a moorugh fell into two categories: birlike, which meant an Eyade with personal rights, usually a warrior or skilled artisan, and domuz, or Eyade without personal rights, which were virtually everyone else within the clan. The warriors were further divided into noka, or warrior societies, there being twenty-six different noka, each with its own traditions, fighting styles, and membership restrictions.
Starr was familiar with the Eyade, having seen and fought them once before on a foray onto the Blasted Plains, a squat, bow-legged people with flat features and wispy facial hair who shaved their scalps into a single horse-plume on the top of their skulls. Although she never got very close to any individuals on this foray, she knew that every warrior’s face, scalp, and arms would be heavily tattooed, and each would be wearing tight breeches, tall riding boots, sleeveless leather jacks with horn plates added for protection, and pointed helms of boiled leather with flaps of leather or mail to protect the neck. Each would be armed with a long lance, a horse bow, a light shield, a saber or an Orcish renac, and several knives, daggers, or dirks.
Dodging the nomads was easy enough; although they were undoubtedly the finest light cavalry in the world, they made poor sentries as their incredibly poor hygiene made smelling them easy enough, and their habit of hanging bits of junk on their helms and armor as trophies and marking their personal valor with bracelets caused them to jingle and rattle with each step of their mounts. Starr slipped through sentry line after sentry line as she worked her way along the front of the Hand camp. She would have like to probe deeper into the Hand holdings, but further in there would be Goblin scouts and other creatures who were more attuned to their surroundings than the over-bold nomads, and the risk was not balanced by any possible gain. Having spent three hours slipping about in the dark without being detected, the little Badger finally returned to camp. As expected, Starr’s foray produced no real intelligence, but when she returned two hours after midnight she could tell of hair-raising escapades and near-detections, which in her estimate was reason enough to go.
The morning of the twenty-ninth was foggy, the grayness burning off as the last of the Heartland Army and Bohca Tatbik marched up and joined their main forces. By mid-morning both armies were in full battle array, and the pre-battle tension was high. Grand Marshal Pecheux deployed his army in a conventional form; he had not been able to gain the field he had intended to fight on, but the current position was not too bad and in any case would have to do. Operating on the safe assumption that the Hand force would come to him, he deployed his forces across the road to Apartia and waited. The four Imperial Legions were deployed to the west of the hill just south of Mancin; the three cohorts of Sagenhoftian infantry held the hill itself, with the foot contingents of Ilthan, Kordia, and Lashar on line to the west. The Arturia foot held the extreme right of the line, which was anchored by a flooded quarry; on the left the Legion’s flank was covered by a deep-banked stream. The Arturian horse, three division’s worth (roughly three hundred sixty medium or heavy cavalrymen per division), stood ready in reserve behind the left flank, while the Ilthanian and Lasharian cavalry (two divisions in the Arturia style) were in reserve at the center; the Sagenhoftian and Kordian cavalry (two divisions of the Arturian style) were in reserve behind the left flank. The four Imperial squadrons secured the huge supply train about two miles to the rear.
The Phantom Badgers were on the low hill, not far from where Grand Marshal Pecheux had set up his command post, guarding the Lord Chancellor. Although their duties called for them to also secure the Chancellor’s transport, Durek had refused to split up his Company, and the Lord Chancellor had not been inclined to question his decision, visibly shaken by the vast wall of enemy that was the Bohca Tatbik standing silent and menacing nine hundred yards to the north on the outskirts of Mancin.
Janna was stripping leaves from a branch she had torn from a low bush and flipping the leaves at a handy rock when footsteps caused her to look up. The Badgers were formed into a line on the crest of the hill, just behind the right wing of the Sagenhoftian foot, sitting or lying as suited each individual; Durek was more concerned that his people be fresh and rested than with military appearances, an attitude shared by the Legions, who were likewise resting in place while the rest of the Heartland Army stood in ranks and sweated.
Looking up, she saw Lady Eithne approaching, trailed by four Lifeguards in half plate; the slender young woman wore riding breeches and a loose, long-tailed tunic that reached her knees, split up the sides for riding. The girl smiled as she caught the Silver Eagle’s eye. “Hello, I am the Lady Eithne; you must be Serjeant Janna Maidenwalk.”
“That’s right,” Janna stood as the girl stepped to her side, the four bodyguards ranging themselves protectively around their charge. “Aren't you supposed to be with your father?”
“When the Hand starts to move I’m to return, but I kept asking him questions until he agreed to let me wander around the hill with four guards. Isn’t it a pretty day?”
>
“Yes, it is.” It was nice, a balmy spring day with powder-puffs of white cloud in the sky. “How is it that you know my name?”
“I know your Corporal Starr Brightgift, and she pointed out or described every female in your Company. I wear breeches all the time now that Father sent the carriages back home; at first he said I would have to ride on a supply wagon, but I kept falling off so he had to let me ride my horse.” She plucked at her tunic. “The only problem is that I have to wear this awful tunic, the ladies of the court say it isn’t proper for a woman to wear breeches tight enough for riding without a cover like this, as the tight pants shows your rear off too much. I pointed out that I’m very skinny and thus do not have much of a rear, and they nearly died from the shock. They keep telling my father to send me back to Sagenhoft before being around all these rough soldiers makes me into a course and vulgar person, but he keeps saying we have to set an example for the common people.”
“That’s a noble idea,” Janna nodded.
“My father says we are going to see a great victory today, that the Hand will be driven back across the Wall in disorder, but your Corporal Kroh Blackhand said ‘in a pig’s arse we will’; he thinks the Hand won’t be a pushover, and that there’s too many to drive back across the Wall in one battle. I met Corporal Blackhand when I met Starr, and I spoke with him not long ago after he brought a message to my father from the Lord Chancellor. Corporal Blackhand told me he's killed Direbreed by the dozen, and plans to do the same today. Is that true?”
“He has killed a large number of Direbreed,” Janna nodded carefully, eyeing the dozing Waybrother. “He is the best single combatant in the Company, although I’m not sure if the Badgers will see action today; we’re not really part of the Heartland Army, merely bodyguards for the Lord Chancellor.”
“Corporal Blackhand said he would kill Direbreed by ‘the Fist’, but he carries an axe, all the time; does he really fight Direbreed unarmed?”
“No, he means...a Fist of the Dark One is a unit of between ten and fifteen Direbreed, while an Arm of the Dark One is a group of several Fists, and a Darkhost is a unit of several Arms plus supporting troops. Kroh meant that he would kill them in groups, a metaphor.”
“Ah, I see. Someone told me that Direbreed are not natural creatures, but they did not explain in what fashion; I mean, you can see that they are very strange, no two look a lot alike, but how does that make them unnatural, and how are they related to centaurs? No one tells me anything, ladies of the court are supposed to talk about society and marry well, not ask questions.”
“Well, Direbreed and Centaurs are much the same creatures. A sect of Void-worshipers known as Harbingers conduct a very evil ceremony called a Harvesting where they draw life-forces into our world from the Void; these life-forces are stored in crystal shards the size of an arrowhead and called Breedstones. In a second ceremony called a Seeding a Breedstone is inserted into a creature’s body, such as a dog, wolf, goat, and the like, and the creature is torn apart as a Direbreed is grown, using the host-creature’s flesh as...like a seed uses the dirt, I suppose. The Breedstone grows in size as a Direbreed lives and experiences, and if the body is killed, the Harbingers simply recover the Breedstone and bring the Direbreed back to life in another Seeding, its skills and experiences intact. Of course, Breedstones can be destroyed in special ceremonies performed in a temple dedicated to the Eight. Centaurs are handled the same way, except the Seeding is more expensive and requires horses as the host creature.”
“Ah, I see, most unnatural. And that explains why everyone on the Lord Marshal’s staff (he’s my uncle, you know) is so upset that the Hand has sixty Darkhosts in their army; unless you capture the Breedstones, the Direbreed just keep coming back.”
“Precisely.”
“I asked my uncle (he’s the Lord Marshal, you know) about the Direbreed and other questions about the Hand, but he just gave a good swat on my rear and told me to look to my sewing. He’s a dear, really, but he’s very worried about today. I think he believes what Kroh told me about the Hand, that it won’t be easy to beat them. There are an awful lot of them, aren't there?” The girl surveyed the long line that was the Bohca Tatbik. “Lots more than we have. What is a Horc?”
“A Horc is a unit of Orcs; there are Talas, which have around a dozen or more Orcs, Urtala which have between three to six Tala, and Ularg, which have between three to six Urtala; a Horc would have several Ularg and supporting troops. I would guess that the Horcs out there have around two thousand Orcs in each.”
“And there are eight of them, sixteen thousand Orcs,” Lady Eithne marveled. “My uncle says Orcs are the worst of the lot.”
“That could be,” Janna shrugged. “Although Direbreed are fierce, and the Eyade are no cowards, either.”
“The ladies of the court say that if I’m not careful the Eyade will carry me off and make terrible sport of me,” the girl observed soberly. “They don’t explain what sport, although I can guess.”
“They would if they could get their hands on you,” the ex-Silver Eagle nodded. “You or any other woman, or boy for that matter.”
“I’ve a dagger hidden under this awful tunic, and I’d make the first one to grab me sing,” Lady Eithne said fiercely. “But they don’t usually travel by themselves, do they?”
“Not usually,” Janna hid a smile, which was easy to do given the nerve damage that came with her scar. “So it would be best to avoid them altogether.”
“I hope to. I told my father it would be a good thing for me to learn to use a sword so I could defend myself, and he gave me a swat for suggesting such a thing. You know, I am very close to the time when I am to be betrothed, and I hardly think that it is seemly for my father and uncle to be paddling me as if I were a child,” she observed primly. “Especially when I’m wearing breeches which do not offer the protection that a dress and several slips will.”
“I think it is time you returned to your father’s camp,” Janna said, peering out from beneath a shading palm. “I believe the Hand is beginning its attack.”
Chapter Eight
The Legions were called into battle-lines as the Hand forces stirred and began to move. Grand Marshal Pecheux issued the last of his orders and then waited; with his forces deployed on the defensive, his participation in the battle would be restricted to committing the reserves of cavalry waiting behind the lines to shore up a flagging unit or exploit an enemy’s weakness.
Pecheux’s tactics were simple and conventional, but the Hand’s were no better: the entire force surged forward on line, advancing at a walk across the fields and pastures separating them from the Heartland Army while the spellweavers on both sides went into action, lashing out with enchantments and counter-spells, aiming primarily to disable or kill their opposite numbers, although eruptions of fire, cold, lighting, and other elements burst within the ranks of both armies, slaying dozens without affecting the balance. As was usual in most large battles, the wizards on each side ended up neutralizing each other, leaving the battle to be decided with cold steel.
When the Hand troops were halfway across the distance between the armies the Imperial Legions’ field artillery opened fire, light onagers nicknamed ‘mules’ for their habit of bucking their rear wheels up off the ground with the shock of the release, and carefully carved stone balls weighing five pounds each began to plow into the enemy ranks, followed by hollow clay pots filled with thickened resin and fiery coals. As the Hand forces closed still further, the Heartland Army’s archers opened fire with bows, crossbows, and slings, followed by throwing weapons as the range narrowed still further.
Neither artillery, missile weapons, nor what spells got through the complicated counter-weaving could break the Hand’s force, although no veteran had expected the fight to be that simple; what the ranged weapons did accomplish was to weaken, disorganize, and dismay the enemy, hopefully tilting the odds in the defender’s favor when the two forces came to blows.
The two armies met with a
crescendo of howls, war cries bellowed in a dozen languages, and screamed invectives, followed closely by the tinny crash and rattle of melee as weapons clashed against shields, armor, and flesh. The Heartland’s lines swayed under the impact, and then steadied as the defenders found their feet. On the right flank the Kordians gave some ground until Grand Marshal Pecheux sent a division of Arturian horse forward in a counter-charge that stabilized the line and gave the Barony troops some breathing space to reform, steadying the right wing. All along the battle-line the shouts and war cries had died down as the combatants conserved their breath, while the screams of the wounded kept up the volume and dust clouds gradually encompassed both forces in a gritty fog.
In ranks but unengaged, the Phantom Badgers watched the fighting, the better archers amongst them sniping at the Hand forces whenever an opportunity showed itself.
“They’re not doing too well,” Kroh shouted over the din to Janna, who was standing with a yard-long arrow nocked in her long bow, looking for another opening to fire through.
“No,” the ex-Silver Eagle agreed. “Our lines are holding, and as long as Grand Marshal Pecheux can throw in the reserves as they’re needed, the Hand can’t break through, nor can they flank us with the Eyade, as the nomads can’t face medium or heavy cavalry’s charges.”
“It’s too easy,” the Waybrother scowled, hefting his axe. “The Hand should be trying something clever, rather than just coming head-on and hoping for luck; that’s not how you win battles.”
“It’ll be how we win unless they’ve something up their sleeve,” Janna shrugged. “Blast, I can’t get a shot in anywhere.”
“Best hope the Hand doesn't, either,” Kroh muttered, wishing he had time for a cigar. “Things aren’t right.”
Lance-Captain Bachelu, commanding the Third Demi-Squadron, Second Squadron, Ilthanian Royal Horse Guards Division, was not surprised to see a dusty messenger gallop to the division commander and hand him a dispatch; nor was he surprised when the division commander waved the messenger on to the commander of the Second Squadron, who read the message and then signaled for Bachelu to join him. After all, he had dictated the message himself, and the ‘messenger’, who was supposed to have just come from Grand Marshal Pecheux’s command camp, was one of his own followers.
