by Tom Lloyd
‘Here they come,’ he yelled triumphantly, ‘now hold the line, all o’ you!’ He beckoned over one of Osh’s aides. ‘Archers ready, fire on my word.’
The man saluted and gestured to a major commanding the archers on the right.
Daken watched the Menin follow the tree-line, aiming to slant across the line of pikemen holding the open ground at the end of the ditch. ‘Rear legion,’ he called, turning to face the officer waiting for his order, ‘five volleys, fifty yards in from the trees — furthest range: Fore legions, fire at will!’
Osh resisted the urge to duck as he heard the dull thrum of bowstrings ring out and a cloud of black arrows flashed over their heads, arching down towards the attacking cavalry, and before the second volley was loosed, the first of the enemy were tumbling from their horses.
The cavalry pressed on, unable to do anything but close the ground and throw their javelins at the infantry; attacking an ordered line head-on would be suicide, and even their efforts to ride down the line cost them dearly as archers were positioned there specifically to pick them off.
‘Hold the line!’ an officer shouted from within the press of infantry, and his call was quickly taken up by the rest as the cavalry swept past and turned away.
Once they moved away Osh could see the heavy infantry behind: armoured Menin troops with fat, oval shields and long spears, advancing steadily in two wide blocks. They appeared oblivious to the streams of arrows raining in on their flank from archers behind the ditch.
‘Rear legions, another five volleys, furthest range,’ Osh called to the officer behind him, ‘then keep firing just beyond our line.’
‘What’re we missin’ here?’ Daken muttered as the officer spread the order. ‘Those heavy infantry ain’t goin’ to push their way through eight ranks o’ pikes, not unless they got another few legions behind.’
‘Scryer said eight of them, but they don’t look like they’re all engaging yet,’ said the mystic, scratching his cheek. He looked up suddenly. ‘’Ware incoming arrows!’ Osh called loudly. They watched the missiles fall with a strange detachment, knowing they could do nothing - most fell short, but a few found their mark and the screaming started.
As the Menin closed they heard shouts from their left, at the tree-line. A fierce grin appeared on Daken’s face as a youth ran out from the trees, one of the division of volunteer infantry stationed there.
‘Chetse!’ the youth shouted again and again in a high, panicked voice, ‘Chetse in the trees!’
It took Osh a moment to place his uniform, then the mystic realised he’d last seen it on the streets of Narkang: this division was comprised of City Watchmen, who’d arrived unannounced a few days before, inspired by the sacrifice of Commander Brandt, in Narkang the previous year. They’d been assigned to the forest, as their weapons were barely suited to an open battlefield.
Daken moved with surprising speed. The youth running towards them, still shouting, barely had time to look surprised before Daken clouted him around the head hard enough to knock him down.
Osh looked at the rear rank of the pikemen; the white-eye had been right to do so; they were looking panicked at the thought of Chetse axemen appearing behind them.
‘I heard ya the first time,’ Daken growled, standing over the young watchman, ‘now: get up!’
The youth was still sprawled on his back, dazed by the blow. He was wearing a peaked iron helm and a leather coat and carried a wooden shield; not much protection against the Menin, but good for anyone trying to negotiate the dense forest. At the white-eye’s words he pulled himself to his feet and saluted clumsily.
Daken unsheathed his axe and brandished it above his head. ‘First reserve division to me,’ he shouted, heading towards the tree-line and dragging the youth with him.
Five hundred men broke to run after him as their officers bellowed the order, awkwardly forming a shield wall in five uneven ranks no more than thirty yards from the first tree of the forest. Ahead of them walked the white-eye general, into the gloom of the forest. Seeing nothing, he shoved the young watchman forward.
‘Go keep a watch out for ’em,’ he roared.
The youth, still shaking, headed back into the forest to find the enemy, while Daken started barking orders.
He’s enjoying himself, the mystic realised. He’s looking forward to facing axemen as mad as he is. Reckon he’s the only one.
‘Damn you, Cetarn,’ King Emin hissed, ‘what in the name of the Dark Place are you waiting for?’
The Menin were marching ever closer, hunkered down behind their shields under a barrage of arrows and ballistae bolts. Their own archers were massed in loose order ahead of the infantry, doing their best to limit the effectiveness of the Narkang bowmen. The main front line was made up of alternating Menin heavy infantry and troops from the Chetse élite Ten Thousand.
Doranei looked back at the central tower where Endine was standing with Fei Ebarn and the scowling mercenary, Wentersorn, the two battle-mages who’d been part of the assault on the Ruby Tower. Camba Firnin, the illusionist, was down by one of the catapults, filling the bowl with something horrific. Doranei waved madly until Endine noticed him, but the scrawny mage just gestured for them to wait.
The main line of Menin was a hundred yards away now. Doranei drew his sword and felt a rush of power tingle up his arm as Aracnan’s weapon seemed to drink in the summer sunlight. It was most likely even more ancient than Doranei’s vampire lover, and there was something about it he disliked, but it was worth its weight in battle: it was frighteningly swift, and could cleave both an enemy’s weapon and his helm in one stroke.
Under Hambalay Osh’s tuition Doranei had been learning a new style of fighting, one more akin to the ritualistic combat used by warrior-monks. Mystics of Karkarn and the like eschewed armour, concentrating instead on technique and clean, controlled strikes rather than the fury required on a battlefield, where blows had to batter through a man’s defences.
‘Now we’ll see something,’ Veil commented as Ebarn stepped back from the catapult. The crew wasted no time in firing the weapon and half a dozen clay balls the size of baby’s heads were hurled over the wall. Doranei kept one eye on Ebarn, having seen her magic work before; the mage was standing perfectly still, her eyes closed. The balls spread unevenly in the air and had barely started to drop by the time they reached the front rank.
When they were still at least twenty yards off the ground Ebarn clapped her hands together once, then made as she were flinging the contents before her, and Doranei heard the crump of igniting flames. A sheet of fire tore through the air above the Menin and flopped down on top of them, sloping down off their raised shields onto the men below. Screams echoed across the moor, followed by cheers from the fort, but the Menin faltered only a moment, and a roar of defiance was their response when a ballista bolt tore deeper into the blackened ranks. They were ten legions of élite troops; it would take more than one mage to turn them back.
When the Menin were eighty yards away Doranei felt a tremor run through the earth rampart of the fort. Behind them he could just make out the oversized shape of Cetarn on the circular earthen platform they had built. The air above him was shuddering as though it were being assailed and the iron chains running from the mound into the ground lifted, taking the slack as cracking loops of energy ran through them.
‘Piss and daemons,’ Doranei breathed, watching the tortured air crackling. With a final flourish Cetarn dropped to one knee and slammed both hands to the ground and a great crash reverberated as a burst of energy surged towards the enemy lines and into a Chetse legion.
Half of the first rank were thrown from their feet, but they were the lucky ones. A boom like distant thunder rumbled out, and the rear ranks on one side of the legion disappeared in a great cloud of dust. Doranei gaped as he realised the ground had opened up underneath them, swallowing several hundred men.
‘Karkarn’s horn,’ Veil breathed, ‘I didn’t know the old bugger had it in him!’
‘He didn’t,’ the king said grimly. He was now wearing a steel helm detailed in gold - for the first time. His flamboyant feathered hat he’d tossed over the rampart, declaring to the amusement of all that he’d fetch it later.
‘What — ?’ Doranei hesitated. ‘He has a Skull? You’ve ordered him to sacrifice himself?’
‘I’ve done what I must,’ the king said sharply, ‘Endine and Cetarn as are much of the Brotherhood as you or Sebe and they know their duty just as well. Cetarn may be the only mage here capable of this, he knows it, and he volunteered for the task.’
Doranei ducked his head in acknowledgement. He’d blurted it out without thinking; not out of a desire to question the king’s decision. ‘Of course - I just realised why Cetarn made a point of toasting the Brotherhood two nights past. Wish I’d known.’
‘Aye,’ said the king, ‘normal men aren’t built for channelling so much power. He knows he’ll either burn himself out with the Skull, or he’ll become Styrax’s principal target.’
‘Is that why — ?’ Doranei looked back at Cetarn and the troops guarding him. ‘Never mind - it’ll just make my head hurt.’
The king smiled briefly at him, a flash of teeth showing behind the steel grille visor. ‘There’s a lot doing that right now - let’s just try to survive the day.’
‘Here they come,’ Coran growled from behind the king, his huge mace in one hand, a spear in the other. He circled his shoulders, stretched his arms, and got ready to drive his spear all the way through the first man to reach him.
The Menin were fifty yards off.
Doranei heard the order to charge, followed by a roar of hatred from the thousands massing and almost immediately the Chetse moved ahead of the more-disciplined Menin infantry. The King’s Man raised his sword and looked down at the rampart. A spiked ditch at the base of an earth wall, propped by wood. Their climb would be difficult, but far from impossible.
The first Chetse berserker raced up to them and threw himself across the ditch, stabbing a dagger into the earth wall to brace himself as he swung his axe.
The blow was never finished. Coran leaned forward, teeth bared in fury, and drove his spear into the man before the closest defender could move. In his ferocity the white-eye spitted the wild-haired Chetse in the side, ramming the spear deep into his ribs. The Chetse was thrown back into the ditch below as Coran wrenched the weapon back out, his snarl of bloodlust drowned out by the shouts of the men around him. Then the rest arrived like a breaking wave and Doranei saw only the shrieking horde. He lunged and felt his blade bite the first.
*****
Daken hammered the butt of his axe into the Chetse’s face and felt bone shatter. The impact left blood spurting over his face as the soldier fell, but another was immediately in his place, aiming a hefty overhead swing at Daken’s skull. He reached up with his axe and caught the descending shaft before it had built up speed, then kicked his attacker square in the midriff. The Chetse was bowled over by the force of the kick and Daken stepped into the gap, growling like an animal and hacking left and right into the unprotected flanks of those on either side.
‘Daken, back in line!’ Osh roared from somewhere behind. It was the second time he’d needed reminding and with a hiss of frustration the Mad Axe stepped back between the spear-points of his comrades.
The Chetse were charging raggedly from the trees, any semblance of order gone as they pushed their way through the thick forest. One group had barrelled straight into the side of the pikemen, but a company of Kingsguard had rushed to cut them down. Osh had sent a division to bolster the tree-end of the main defensive line, and lend their shoulders to the press.
The Menin heavy infantry had reached their line now and were battering away at the longer pikes, desperate to make a hole they could exploit. Thus far only a few men had got through, and they had been dispatched relatively easily, but the closer they got the more were able to evade the twelve-foot weapons.
‘More of ’em!’ Daken shouted joyfully as another hundred Chetse raced from the trees, screaming murderously.
The first few slammed bodily into Daken’s defensive line. One rebounded and was thrown off his feet, others were impaled on the lowered spears, but two managed to slip through the line and hack down into the blue-painted wooden shields. Daken saw one chopped in half, and the man holding it fell screaming as the axe bit into his arm. Suddenly there was a terrific roar from the forest and the sound of something crashing against the trees. The roar was joined by a second: deep animal calls that, given the enemy, could mean only one thing.
Daken felt a shudder of fear run through his troops and sneered in disgust. A pair of Chetse saw him and came directly for him, one, bearing a massive circular shield, charged straight on to smash the spears out of the way, but the white-eye jumped forward and swung his axe like a club, catching the flat steel boss on the edge with such force he heard the man’s arm snap. The blow knocked the shield aside, into the other soldier, and caused them both to stumble. Daken felled one with a blow to the neck and was about to run the other through when he was beaten to it by one of his men.
The trees ahead shook and in the darkness Daken saw a massive shape looming. Behind it came a second, an enormous club in its grip. The minotaurs caught sight of him and scrambled forward, ducking under branches and bellowing furiously.
‘Shift yourself, bitch!’ Daken shouted, thumping a fist against his own chest.
A dozen bluish wisps, faint in the daylight, flashed out from his body like misty tentacles. They raced forward and merged into a figure gliding at head-height through the air: a slender female figure with long hair that danced like snakes.
Litania, the Trickster was on the loose.
The first minotaur swiped at the Aspect of Larat, but its crudely shaped axe parted only air. The beast turned to follow the movement, confused by the ghostly shape, and Daken, following Litania’s path, reached the minotaur in a few paces.
The beast was still tracking Litania and didn’t notice Daken until the white-eye braced himself and threw his whole weight behind his axe. The weapon bit deep into the minotaur’s knee, crunching into bone and causing it to howl with agony. It swiped one enormous fist towards Daken, but he’d already thrown himself clear and as it took a step forward the injured leg buckled.
Daken rolled to his feet and charged on, trusting the infantry to deal with the fallen one. He could hear Litania’s high, girlish laugh as she danced in the air before the face of the second minotaur. The beast tried to grab at her, its clumsy fingers grasping wildly, and failed. Litania laughed and darted back, rising high above the minotaur’s head, and it lurched forward, trying to follow —
— until it was suddenly jerked back by the head, almost losing its footing entirely. The minotaur had somehow managed to hook one of its curling horns on a low branch, and while Litania giggled in malicious delight, Daken stabbed the beast through the armpit. The spike went all the way in, driving towards the creature’s lung, but he didn’t hang around to see if the blow was mortal; he tugged out the weapon and chopped at its ribs, gashing through the minotaur’s thick flank.
The monster reeled from the impact, wrenching its head violently enough to splinter the thick branch, but still unable to disentangle itself. Blood poured from its wounds; Daken realised they were both grave, but the beast was not yet dead. One spearman got too close, and it smashed him in the back so hard his spine crumpled.
Daken moved further around the minotaur, glancing over his shoulder to check there were no Chetse waiting to do the same to him, then raised his axe high above his head and stabbed the spike into the beast’s neck. It grunted and squealed in pain, ripping the branch from the tree trunk, but as it turned on him it got three spears almost simultaneously in the back.
Daken hoisted his axe again and hacked furiously at the minotaur’s face, cleaving it open. The beast arched its back and as it began to fall, Daken threw himself bodily at the toppling beast and delivered another enormou
s blow to its face before its shoulders hit the ground.
He looked up to discover he was standing on the minotaur’s shuddering stomach, now slick with blood, while the beast heaved its last breath and his soldiers watched in horror.
‘What’s wrong with you lot?’ he rasped, throat tight as the bloodlust coursed through his body. ‘Not enjoying yerselves yet?’
Doranei punched forward with his shield, not even seeing what he caught, and swung his black broadsword blindly. He felt it part armour and continue through flesh, followed by a cry of pain as he yanked the sword back and felt the attacker fall away. He paused to gulp air, while the Land seemed to recede from around him. Cocooned by screams and the clash of metal, Doranei found his eyes drawn to the neat arcs of spattered blood on the inside of his shield, each one curving around his closed fist but leaving his glove unstained.
The King’s Man was still staring at his fist when something smashed into the side of his head and black stars burst before his eyes. Doranei crashed sideways and collided with someone’s legs, bringing them down too. He flailed drunkenly at the figure lying across him, unable to see through the blur in his eyes. He dropped his sword, got one arm underneath the man and pushed up. His vision cleared as the weight was lifted from his chest and he recognised, Daratin, a young Brother, who’d fallen on him.
