The Rise of Kings (The Flameweaver's Prophecy Book 1)

by Emery, Ben

  ‘Forward!’ Galarus barked, and the sea of steel clad soldiers rippled into a slow advance. The gap between them and the Tribes continued to shrink, the warriors blocking the exit to the canyon remained unmoving, showing no desire to attack.

  ‘Halt!’ Galarus’ orders rang out again.

  They were close enough now to make out the individuals among the enemy forces. There were far more of them than had been estimated. The General took a dozen steps forward, ahead of the front line, and his lieutenants jogged across from either side to speak with him, their pale blue capes billowing out behind them as they ran.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Galarus asked quietly, so as not to be overheard by the men behind. ‘Five thousand of them? Maybe six?’

  ‘Closer to five I’d have thought,’ Placatas replied, scanning the enemy ranks. ‘Who knew they had that many men to throw at us?’

  ‘They’re not much to look at though,’ Jaxon observed. ‘Except for those flowery bastards on the right.’

  He pointed across to the men opposing the Caldoan right flank and Galarus let out a grunt of amusement. They definitely were a colourful bunch, sporting elaborate headdresses and fine silk garments over their armour. They would not have looked out of place at a respectable banquet. They were also the only section of the enemy line to bear a standard, it too lavishly and brightly decorated, which, nonetheless, from the blue-green serpent emblazoned upon it, revealed them to be the Wornsea Tribe.

  ‘Alright,’ Galarus said sternly, face serious once more. ‘With these banks on either side, flanking them isn’t an option, even for the macemen, so we’ll have to fight them toe to toe. Advance on my order. Wait for their charge and hold your ground until their momentum fades, then start pushing them back. You both know the drill.’

  He turned to face the fidgeting ranks of the legionaries behind him, and, in a practiced, booming training ground voice, he addressed his men.

  ‘Proud soldiers of Alloria! You know why you are here! The men that stand across from you have brought war upon us. They sought to weaken our beloved city with cowardly assassinations in the night, rather than face us in open battle like warriors. Now they have little choice!’ Murmurs of approval spilled through the lines. ‘We are not only here to avenge the tragic death of Villanus, but to protect our homes, our lands and our families,’ Galarus continued. ‘Stand strong, protect the man next to you and he will protect you. As brothers in arms, we will achieve victory. For Caldoa!’

  Cheers erupted throughout the assembled Legions; weapons were brandished at the sky or clattered against shields. The men of the Tenth starting chanting rhythmically: “Galarus! Galarus!” a battle cry that was soon taken up by the Ninth as well, until two thousand men battering weapon upon shield, were honouring their General. Galarus drew his sword in a salute to his legionaries, and the chanting broke down into more cheers and exultations of men now eager for the joining of battle.

  The noise suddenly died, and the officers turned to face the enemy. Three figures had emerged from the ranks of the tribesmen, most noticeably, a tall, slender man, pale skinned and white haired. The legionaries began muttering amongst themselves at the appearance of the Wandeer, as the three enemies continued to move forward alone, and stop, in the middle of the battlefield, halfway between either side.

  ‘Looks like they want to talk,’ Placatas said, leaning in toward the General.

  ‘You two, with me,’ Galarus instructed. ‘Let’s go see what they have to say.’

  As the officers neared, the Wandeer, positioned in between the other two apparent Tribal leaders, offered a sincere bow.

  ‘It is a pleasure to finally meet you, General,’ he said, ignoring the two lieutenants.

  Galarus had never actually met a Wandeer before, having no need to join the traders when they ventured to meet the sea-farers once a year. The descriptions of them had not been exaggerated; the Wandeer’s skin was deathly pale, and his neat, shoulder-length hair was as white as snow. He was surprisingly tall too, easily the same height as the General, though much older. How old exactly could not be said; the Wandeer were supposed to possess exceptional longevity. Galarus remained silent, waiting for the enemy to speak again.

  ‘My name is Terran,’ the Wandeer introduced himself after a brief pause. ‘I am the leader of the Torncloud Tribe. To my left is Saen, leader of the southern Wornsea Tribe.’ He indicated a comically short and rotund individual, who did his best to bow toward the General without his gut getting in the way. Like his soldiers, he was dressed in excessive finery and draped in golden jewellery. ‘And to my right,’ Terran continued, ‘is Rohken, leader of the northern Ironhand Tribe.’ He was an enormous man, built like an ox and covered in scars, he stood several inches taller, and a considerable amount wider, than any of the officers.

  ‘Enough of the introductions,’ Rohken grumbled. He carried a huge cleaver, no more than a flattened piece of sharpened rectangular metal with a handle, which he impatiently began to tap against his shoulder.

  ‘Very well,’ Terran conceded, ‘straight to the matter at hand, then.’ He returned his attention to Galarus. ‘General, we understand why you and your soldiers are here, but please; let me assure you that none of the Tribes played a part in the assassination of your leader. Nor do we have any desires on your lands or your city. We simply wish to be left in peace and return to our own homes.’

  ‘And yet the confessions of one of your men would suggest the contrary,’ Galarus replied calmly.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Terran said, downcast. ‘A merchant, who, under immense pain and suffering, told your king exactly what he wanted to hear in the hope that his life would be spared: a man who has since died of his wounds, after returning to tell us of what had transpired in those dungeons.’

  ‘I didn’t hear of any escape,’ Placatas whispered to the General, who had had no idea either.

  ‘And yet here you are, the three Tribes standing together against us?’ Galarus continued, more curious this time.

  ‘The Legions boast ten thousand men, General,’ Terran replied. ‘Individually the Tribes would face swift annihilation. Self-preservation has forced us to fight side by side, the unfortunate result of which is the evidence of your king’s claims that we intend to bring war upon you.’

  Galarus thought for a moment. ‘What you say makes sense, Wandeer, but there’s no proof to back up these words.’

  ‘Alas, I am afraid not,’ Terran said with a sigh. ‘It is a shame. If you knew what I believed to be true, many lives would be spared.’

  ‘Then tell me, and let us see if I believe,’ Galarus countered.

  ‘No, you will not. Not yet, at least,’ Terran said decidedly. ‘You will fight then, General? I cannot persuade you otherwise?’

  ‘We will fight,’ Galarus agreed.

  ‘Very well,’ Terran lowered his head. ‘I very much hope to see you again soon, General. If you are the man I believe you to be, I have no doubt that I will.’

  With that, the three leaders of the Tribes turned away and walked back to their soldiers.

  ‘Well that was certainly odd,’ Placatas broke the silence between the officers.

  ‘Return to the men,’ Galarus ordered, ignoring his lieutenant. ‘Prepare to attack on my order.’

  Chapter Five

  The call to advance was given, and the Legions tramped in unison toward the enemy. The tribesmen remained stationary, waiting, as the gap between the armies narrowed. Galarus blinked the sweat out of his eyes as he watched the Tribes closely, the glare of the sun almost blinding. A sudden ripple amongst the opposing ranks pre-empted the charge.

  ‘Halt!’ Galarus bellowed. ‘Hold this position! Spearmen ready!’

  The lines came to an immediate stop, and the shields of the heavily armoured spearmen locked into place, forming a gleaming steel wall. The men at the very front held their spears low, the points protruding from beneath their shields, while the men behind them held theirs aloft, ready to strike over the shoulders of t
heir comrades.

  The tribesmen thundered across the stretch of dusty ground toward the Legions, and, several ranks back, the nerves Attais had been trying to squash for so long overcame him. He vomited onto his own boots, the sting of bile filling his throat and mouth, his eyes watering. He prayed he was not the only one to feel such nauseating fear.

  From the very centre of the front line, Galarus watched the enemy sprinting toward his men. The tribesmen opposite him, the Torncloud he had guessed, since those had been the men Terran had returned to, charged as a solid formation of row after row of howling warriors. The Wornsea, opposing the Caldoan right, did the same, hoping sheer force and weight of numbers would be enough to drive the invaders back.

  On the Caldoan left, however, the Ironhand charge seemed far more organised. The lines were uniform, but with several paces between each. They were led by Rohken, and, at his side, a monster of a man; a behemoth like Galarus had never seen. He looked to be at least a head taller than even the Ironhand leader, a pillar of muscle that carried a huge, two handed weapon; enormous axe head on one side, and a hammer the size of an anvil on the other. How one man could lift such a weapon, let alone wield it effectively, was astonishing.

  Closer and closer they grew, as the legionaries braced themselves for the clash. For a single moment there was silence, as though the world held its breath, until it was dashed again in an explosion of metal upon metal. Screams and curses filled the air, mixed with battle cries that seemed to shake the very walls of the canyon. The few of the enemy that possessed shields had been at the fore, slamming into the wall of Caldoan steel. Axes, swords and spears were thrust overhead, clattering off of Legion helmets and armour, desperately attempting to bring down the spearmen, yet to little avail.

  On the Caldoan left, Placatas held his men firm as the Ironhand Tribe stormed toward them; the titan of a warrior at the very front. Not two metres from the point of contact, and out of reach of the Caldoan spears, the first rank of tribesmen came to an abrupt halt, dropping to one knee as though bowing to the legionaries. The lieutenant looked on, bewildered, as the successive lines of tribesmen increased their pace. Placatas watched as, using the backs of the crouched men in front, his enemy launched themselves into the air, weapons drawn back, ready to strike as they fell atop the Legions.

  ‘Shields up! Shields up!’ Placatas shouted frantically as the legionaries looked on in awe.

  Those that were quick enough were able to block the aerial assault, as scores of warriors came crashing down upon them. Many more, however, were skewered where they stood, as the full weight of the tribesmen behind their spears punched through the armour of the Caldoans. Now amid the Allorian soldiers, the Ironhands drew smaller weapons; hammers, axes, and knives, and began a frenzied attack on the invaders. Then came the main charge.

  Rohken and the behemoth thundered into the fractured shield wall, the remainder of their forces at their backs. Men with shields still raised at the sky were cut down with ease as the giant entered the fray; two or three soldiers at a time were sent flying through the air by huge swings of his demonic weapon. Within minutes of the joining of battle, the majority of the two foremost ranks of the Caldoan left had been decimated. The third and final rank of spearmen surged forward in an attempt to repel the tribesmen, as the swordsmen and macemen did their best to reinforce them. What had been an expected conflict of drawn up battle lines had quickly descended into a bloody and messy skirmish.

  Elsewhere on the field, the fighting was almost unanimously going in the Legions’ favour. In the centre and on the right of the Caldoan lines, the enemy had failed to deal any real damage to the shield wall. Several men had fallen from spears that had found their way through armour, but the gaps in the ranks were quickly filled by the men behind.

  ‘Push them back!’ Jaxon ordered on the right as the Wornsea attack stalled.

  As a unit, and with a practiced hand, the frontline spearmen thrust their weapons ferociously under their shields, stabbing at the feet of their opponents. What little protection the tribesmen had by way of footwear proved useless against the Legion’s counterattack, many of them screaming as they fell, clutching at their wounds. The legionaries in the second rank pushed their comrades forward with their shields, stabbing overhand with their spears into howling faces and unprotected necks, as those unable to stand fell on to spearheads, or else were butchered upon the ground as the front line continued its advance.

  Tribal casualties on the Caldoan right were numerous, and the extravagantly decorated warriors began to lose formation as the steel wall of shields and spears gained momentum. Jaxon urged his men onward, eager to rout the enemy and fold upon their centre. The swordsmen and macemen behind him were growing restless, sensing victory in the progress they were making, though not yet having seen battle. Having lodged his spear firmly in a Wornsea ribcage, Jaxon quickly abandoned it, instead drawing his sword, and, sensing the enemy falter, broke rank and charged.

  The young lieutenant began cleaving a path through the tribesmen, cutting men down left and right before they had a chance to respond. Such a display of speed and lethality with a blade was enough to cow the majority of them, and few were eager to engage the ferocious, blood-drenched Caldoan. As the spearmen followed their lieutenant’s example, the Wornsea began to fall back, allowing the right arm of the Legions to flank the Tribal centre, and provide room for the skirmishers to be unleashed. The swordsmen and macemen began pouring onto their wavering enemies with a maniacal delight, the overwhelming sense of victory flooding through them as they whooped and cursed their foes with insults and obscenities.

  In the Caldoan centre, Galarus could just make out the enemy’s left flank buckle, and Jaxon’s men begin to engage the ranks of the Torncloud Tribe. Neither side had gained much ground in the middle of the battlefield and, though both had suffered casualties, the number of dead legionaries was surpassed by those of the Tribes. The shield wall remained intact, and the fighting had not yet broken down into smaller skirmishes as it had done on both the right and left flanks. The traditional Caldoan tactic of spears sweeping under shields to fell their opponents from below had become less and less effective against the Torncloud; clearly more capable fighters than their Wornsea allies. Several of them in particular were outstanding spearmen, able to find the smallest gaps between shields and armour and bring down the men within.

  The General braced himself behind his shield, keeping his head down as a sword blade clattered off the top of his helmet. It was not a strong blow, and Galarus’ vision swam only momentarily before he was able to reply with a spear thrust that felt like it sank into flesh. He took a step forward and the men either side of him struggled to follow suit, heaving their enemies backward with the help of the second rank. Galarus felt a body crash into his shield in an attempt to knock him backward. His heels dug into the dusty, blood-stained ground, and the enemy’s momentum faltered. Another spear over the top felled the next Torncloud warrior, and the General risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The ranks behind him were thinning, and he knew why: numerous soldiers from the centre had been forced to engage the Ironhand Tribe as they cut swathes through the Caldoan left. There was little he could do to remedy the situation. Overwhelming the numerically superior Tribes from this position seemed unlikely at the very best, and all Placatas could do with his dwindling numbers was hold back the enemy onslaught; there was no chance of a counter attack alone. Victory, it seemed, was entirely dependent on Jaxon’s men being able to outflank the enemy; surround them, if possible. Even then the fight would not be easily won.

  Attais had never been so terrified in his life. The air around him was full of the screams of the wounded and dying and the roars of the defiant living as they fought on. From his position he had watched in horror as the Ironhand warriors had soared through the air, beggaring belief, falling on the almost helpless legionaries below. The situation had only worsened once the bulk of the attack had hit their ranks, as a mountain of a man had swept
scores of opponents aside as though they were stalks of wheat. The tribesmen had pressed forward, almost unhindered, penetrating the Caldoan ranks, and Attais noticed that more and more men along the line to his left were being sucked in to plug the gaps left by the Ironhands. Still the behemoth wasn’t slowed, and men died ceaselessly before him. Reinforcements continued to surge toward the giant, but these too were swatted aside. Caldoan blood rained down around him as the enormous axe head cleaved legionaries in two, else severed limb from body.

  Attais felt a shield press into his back, almost making him trip forward.

  Move!’ shouted a rough voice in his ear, as he was forced into the fight with another band of reinforcements. The behemoth swung the axe again and Attais was sure he saw three men lose their heads at once. He fought back the bile rising in his throat once more.

  A group of tribesmen broke off from the main force to engage the newcomers, and the behemoth turned his attention to the legionaries that remained around him. Attais felt the most peculiar wave of relief wash over him at the fact that more, yet considerably smaller men were about to try and kill him.

  He froze as an Ironhand singled him out and leapt at him with a spear. The attacker was almost upon him, as Attais raised his sword, falteringly, to defend himself. The snarling face suddenly disappeared behind a spray of blood that spattered against Attais’ shield. Stunned, he looked to see Draiden, blooded, bloodied and grinning at him, mace dripping with gore. The macemen said nothing, but finished off the downed and twitching Ironhand warrior with another heavy swing to the face. More blood sprayed into the air, covering Draiden’s arms afresh. He nodded at Attais, and moved on to find his next opponent, cursing the enemy for their opposition.

  The young legionary forced himself into the fight proper, finding Coran engaged in a duel with a Tribal swordsman. Attais lunged forward, his sword splitting the ribs of the warrior, whose throat gurgled with blood as he sank to the floor. Coran quickly nodded his friend a thank you, and started hacking wildly at the nearest enemy, caught off guard by the legionary’s ferocity.