They’d make contact in ten seconds, maybe less. Adding in the change in location, the Second and Sixth were probably several minutes farther away than he’d hoped, and there was still no sign of them in the distance. Meanwhile, the Darrowans were about two minutes away from chewing into their flanks.
He’d planned on sending the skirmishers back to make a quick feint at the Darrowans, forcing them to slow temporarily, but that wouldn’t be nearly enough of a delay now. They could still handle the chaotic Shimeran heavy infantry, but only if they didn’t have to fight on two sides.
“Shields up, enemy to the front! Brace for it! Skirmishers, stay close; sorcerers, force-walls to the rear!” The orders tumbled out of his mouth in quick succession. They weren’t orders Will was meant to give. They were orders for sergeants and junior officers to relay after receiving the proper signals, but there was no time for that. Turyn shifted and shimmered as far as the eye of a mage could see, and Will’s commands reached every ear, friend or foe.
And the men of Terabinia took heed. They pushed forward while their sorcerers cast a long line of force-walls behind them to block the advance of the Darrowan army.
But the Shimeran priest also heard his orders. Seeing, and hearing, that the Terabinians were devoting their magical assets and defenses to the rear, they took it as a lucky sign. Will felt his skin tingle as power gathered, and a split second later, black flames exploded from multiple points along the Shimeran line, racing to engulf the front line of the Terabinian army.
The two forces were still ten yards apart, and Will knew all too well how devastating void-fire could be. Not only did it burn, like its opposite, elemental fire, but it was poisonous to living creatures. The smallest of burns guaranteed a slow, painful death.
Arrogan had spoken to him before, about shifting turyn and altering currents, causing enemy casters to miss their targets, but this was too close, too immediate. He could also absorb the flames closest to him, saving ten or twenty, but the rest would be devastated.
“—the limiting factor is the amount of available turyn.” Those had been Arrogan’s words, though Will didn’t consciously remember them. There was no time. He simply reacted. His will stretched out like lightning, encompassing the entire field, and the enemy’s void-fire became his. There was no time to control it, divert it, or use it for a spell—Will could only do what came naturally.
What happened next was difficult to describe, and those present argued for years over what they’d witnessed—those that survived it, anyway. The black flames vanished and a sound so great that it seemed to indicate the breaking of the world rang out, and that sound was merely the echo of a far greater noise that was directed purely toward the Shimerans.
The mercenaries who were several feet back from the front line survived, though most of them fell to the ground screaming and clawing at eyes and ears that now streamed blood. The heavily armored infantry that made up the front line died instantly, not from the sound, but from a flash freeze as the air, their armor, and their flesh went from ordinary temperatures to inconceivably cold. The sound that struck them a fraction of an instant after the freeze merely served to shatter their frozen—already dead—bodies.
The Shimerans were thrown into utter confusion, and the mildly stunned warriors from Terabinia stared in dumb silence as their minds struggled to make sense of what their eyes and ears had just reported. Even the Darrowans behind them, safely distant and still held at bay by a line of force-walls, stopped and stood still in shock.
As any who had served would have expected, it was one of the Terabinian sergeants, a veteran of war and chaos, who reacted first. “For blood and glory!” the old veteran shouted, and other sergeants and some of the soldiers up and down the line repeated his call. The Terabinian soldiers snapped out of their stupor and resumed their advance.
Unfortunately for the Shimeran mercenaries, they needed a bit more time—a month might have been enough. The shield wall slammed into the few who were on their feet, and spears tore into their stunned and deafened ranks. What ensued over the next minute was the most one-sided and brutal slaughter that Will had ever seen. The Terabinians ripped through the remaining infantry and began killing the enemy crossbowmen faster than the Shimerans could regain their senses and run.
And for those few who did manage to run, they met the Second and Sixth, who had just begun to emerge from the lowland area behind them. If any of them survived, they could only have hidden so well that no one spotted them. From what Will could see, they were exterminated down to the last man.
A few of the priests’ demon familiars had survived Will’s attack, but they turned out to be just as helpless ordinary men when faced by an army of angry soldiers with sharp weapons. One or two fought and died, unable to regenerate fast enough, and the others vanished, retreating from the human plane.
The First and Third continued forward without pausing, and as they came face-to-face with their brothers-in-arms, the Second and Sixth made space for them to pass through. Will’s sorcerers had already released the force-walls protecting their rear, and as the Darrowan army moved up to catch them from behind, they found instead the determined ranks of Commander Lambel and Commander Hargast’s Second and Sixth Divisions.
It was a fairly even match in numbers for the two divisions, but the First and Third were still on the field. After they had passed through the lines, Will began the last part of his plan. Motioning to the signal man beside him, he listened as the horns sounded and the sergeants began shouting the predetermined orders.
The First executed a wheel maneuver to the left, while the Third wheeled to the right. Then they marched out and around, swinging around in two massive wings to wrap the Darrowan lines. All told, the four divisions only outnumbered the enemy by a factor of perhaps three to two, because of their prior losses, but the Darrowans were wholly unprepared for the maneuver.
It wasn’t as bad as the massacre of the Shimerans, but it was clear which side would claim victory—eventually. The Terabinians were rolling up the ends of the Darrowan line. They were sure to win, but if the Darrowans didn’t surrender, or rout, the cost of finishing them could still be extreme. It might even be enough to force an end to the war, if Lognion’s army no longer had enough men to attempt the capital.
Fifteen minutes into the battle and Will had seen enough, and he hoped that the enemy felt the same. His voice shattered the air, cutting through even the cacophony of the pitched battle. “Hold and stand down! This fight is done!” A cold wind blew across the battlefield as his words faded away.
Most paused, surprised again by the clarity of his voice. Some continued to fight, but Will repeated his command, and seconds later, the battle grew still. A strangely loud silence grew in place of the violence of a moment before. “The battle is won. Surrender and you may return to your homes and families in peace. Our war isn’t against the people of Darrow, but rather against its ruler. The Patriarch will be thrown down and his demon-loving mercenaries cast out.”
A few of the enemy officers shouted for their men to resume fighting, but no one obeyed, and one suffered dramatically as one of his closest sergeants clubbed him to the ground. Some of the other officers dropped their weapons, calling for a surrender, and one by one, the Darrowans threw down their swords and spears. Seconds later, they began sitting and kneeling, both as a sign of surrender, and simply because the fighting had been exhausting.
One man remained on his feet near the center, a tall officer in polished steel and a plumed helm. Slowly, he picked his way through the surrendering soldiers and stopped in front of them. Will did likewise, though he was flanked by an escort of armed soldiers. They stopped when there was ten feet left between them.
The Darrowan commander was a handsome man by any reckoning, with dark hair and a short beard groomed into aggressive lines. He held a sheathed sword in front of him, and as he met Will’s eyes, he tossed it at his feet. “I am Marshal Aaron Gravholt, leader of the Prophet’s Army and commande
r of these men. Do as you must with me, but I ask for mercy on behalf of my men.”
Will felt a sense of kinship immediately. Would I look as dignified if our roles were reversed? He doubted it, but he hoped he would at least act in the same manner. Keeping his face blank, he asked, “And if I tell you that King Lognion demands the heads of all the Patriarch’s officers, would you still ask for mercy only for your soldiers?”
Marshal Gravholt never flinched. “I would gladly give my life in exchange for theirs.”
“And what of the Patriarch? Your surrender puts him in jeopardy.”
The Darrowan’s face showed obvious disgust. “I’ve done my duty and fulfilled the oaths of service I gave. Sacrificing these men after the battle is lost serves no one, and now that I have been forced to submit, I will readily admit that my only regret is that I cannot live to see you remove the Patriarch’s head from his shoulders and toss his stinking priests into the gutters.”
Will turned to Sub-Marshal Nicht, who was closest to him. “We’ll return to the crossroad to make camp. Take this man prisoner but treat him gently and with honor. Gather their weapons and take the enemy soldiers into custody. Tomorrow we will begin allowing them to disperse.” Then he turned his gaze to the defeated commander. “Rest easy, Marshal Gravholt. I have nothing but respect for those who put the needs of those they lead above their own. The world cannot afford to lose people like you, and I would not ask for a pointless sacrifice.”
The Darrowan leader seemed faintly surprised, but he kept his reaction calm. “Thank you for your mercy.”
Will allowed a faint smile to show. “I forgot to introduce myself. William Cartwright, Royal Marshal and leader of the Terabinian army. We’ll talk more later.”
The Darrowan leader nodded. “I already knew who you were. Your reputation precedes you, else I wouldn’t have risked surrendering my soldiers’ lives into your hands.”
Chapter 47
He would have loved to rest after that, but the life of a leader didn’t allow for such luxuries. Physically, Will was fine, and he’d gotten some rest the night before, but he was inordinately tired. Decisions needed to be made, however, and his was the final say on a vast selection of topics.
First, he had a happy reunion with his assistant, Lieutenant Renly, who commemorated the moment by promptly allowing any and all who had a question in to see him, one by one. Where should the prisoners be kept? Should they be separated into small groups or kept together? Would it be a full camp or a cold camp? When would the next officers’ meeting be? How long would they remain in their current location?
Renly saw to it that every officer reached him and then arranged the small meetings that were required to handle more complicated issues—and he dragged Will into every one of them—the bastard. Will dreamt of revenge, but deep down he knew he had learned his lesson. Don’t take your anger out on those who serve you, especially not a militant bureaucrat.
Messengers were sent to Klendon and Maldon to update them on the current state of affairs and to make sure the supplies they needed would keep flowing to the right places. The wounded were treated when possible, and those who were too bad to continue were sent back to Klendon.
Recovering and reorganizing after the losses they had incurred would take days, but many of the important decisions regarding those days had to be made immediately. It was long past midnight before Will was finally allowed to lie down and close his eyes, and he had still not had time to see either Janice or Tiny.
And he hadn’t yet dared to ask about his cousin, Eric. That question sat shuttered away in a dark corner of his heart, a place he dared not look.
The next morning, he met with the Darrowan marshal and offered him a job leading Darrowan recruits, assuming they had any. The man seemed surprised by the subject. “Excuse me?”
“You told me you hated the Patriarch and the Church of the Prophet,” said Will.
Gravholt closed his mouth, then made a diplomatic reply a moment later, “I was overwrought yesterday.”
“You were truthful,” argued Will. “I’ve already interviewed some of your men—”
“You said they would be unharmed,” interrupted the defeated commander, his cheeks flushing with anger.
Will held up his hands in a gesture for peace. “I thought you said my reputation had preceded me. We didn’t torture them, or even compel them to answer.”
Gravholt visibly relaxed. “Oh.”
“From what I could tell, it appears that the Patriarch’s decision to accept help from the Shimerans is extremely unpopular.”
The Darrowan nodded. “It’s worse than that.”
“How much worse?”
“There are rumors of blood rituals and sacrifices to pay for the help of their demons,” answered Gravholt.
Will leaned forward. “Have you seen such things?”
The other man shook his head. “Not personally, but there are a variety of stories passing around among my people.”
Will continued asking questions, quizzing the man on everything from vampires to the mood of the populace. In general, his answers fit with what he’d already learned. The vampires that had been working with the Darrowans were probably few and far between, and even Aaron Gravholt had no knowledge of their involvement. The general populace had heard a lot regarding the Shimerans and their presence in the country, and most weren’t happy about it.
While the Church of the Prophet didn’t seem to enjoy much popularity, it had originally been formed in a time when Darrow had just recovered from a dangerous time that revolved largely around Shimera and its demon cult. Historically, neither the Terabinians or the Darrowans were fond of Shimera, much less the Church of the Iron Fist, which revered the demon-lord Madrok.
Once he was satisfied, Will repeated his offer. “Join us. Lead your men in defense of Darrow.”
Gravholt laughed. “Isn’t that what I was just doing yesterday?”
Will’s face remained serious. “You know it wasn’t, but I’m offering you the chance.”
“What makes you think your King Lognion is any better than the Patriarch?”
Will shrugged in response. “He isn’t, not in a moral sense. From what I’ve learned he’s evil, uncaring, and possibly mad.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of this?”
Will continued, “But he knows that his power rests on the people and their prosperity. Privately, he’s sadistic and cruel, but he operates his government on the principle that happy people create a strong, wealthy nation.”
The Darrowan’s eyes grew wide. “And he allows you to speak this way about him and live?”
He nodded. “I’ve refused to even swear fealty to him.”
Gravholt shook his head in disbelief. “Yet he let you marry his daughter and command his army.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s planning to kill me at the first opportunity.”
The Darrowan leader sat quietly for a bit, then asked, “Do I have to swear fealty to your king?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned, though you might later, if you meet him.”
“I’ll swear to you instead,” said Gravholt, and before Will could protest, the man proceeded to do so.
It took him a minute to remember the appropriate responses, even though he’d been through it just a few months prior, but he managed somehow. He’d rarely felt so awkward.
After that, the Darrowan marshal, now a subcommander, left to present the offer to his countrymen. Two-thirds declined and opted to return to their homes, but the rest accepted, enough to fill out two slim regiments, or a little more than half a division.
Naturally, the other senior officers thought he’d lost his mind, but Will reminded them of his driving principle during every argument. “We’re not here to conquer, but to unite. To do that, we depose the Patriarch, eliminate the Church of the Prophet, and win over the support of the people. In case you were wondering, the last piece of that is the most important part. Subcommander Gravholt and the new Fir
st Darrowan Division are steps in that direction.”
They didn’t like it, but Will refused to change his mind, and without Lustral to complain unceasingly about it, they eventually quit arguing. Or perhaps because of Lustral’s sudden death they were more motivated to agree. Will couldn’t be sure either way, nor did he want to know. The thought that he might be inadvertently intimidating his officers was uncomfortable for him to consider.
Once the meeting was over, he called for Burke Leighton. By the time the lieutenant sorcerer arrived, he had finished writing out a set of orders. He handed them to Bug. “I have a task for you.”
Bug looked at the papers, then his eyes widened. “Are you sure, sir?”
Will nodded. “Afterward, report directly to me, no one else. Don’t show your orders to anyone unless you need to prove that I’ve authorized your actions. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Bug left shortly after that.
That evening, when things finally seemed to slow down for Will, such that he might get some time to rest or perhaps meet Janice and Tiny, Renly stepped in to announce yet another officer had arrived. “Captain Veness would like a word with you, sir.”
Will was sorely tempted to refuse, but he knew he had a duty to those he commanded, and it was probably important to someone. He waited impatiently as Captain Veness entered, then asked, “Which division are you with, Captain? I’m extremely tired.”
The captain turned out to be relatively young, and he quickly saluted before answering, “Please forgive my interruption, Marshal Cartwright. I’m with the First—Third Regiment, First Brigade, Company D. I wouldn’t bother you, but you need to be informed, though the news is unpleasant.”
First, Third, First, D, thought Will, turning the designators over in his mind. Why does that sound so familiar? Then he remembered and his stomach sank. Holy Mother, please no! Unable to respond, he simply stared at Captain Veness.
Disciple of War (Art of the Adept Book 4) Page 42
