by Vox Day
“I can kill them!”
“Who?”
“The trolls. The big ones! With these!”
She withdrew one of the dragon arrows and passed it forward to him.
“Where did you get this?”
“I’ve got three! If you can get me close enough, I can take them out.”
He ran his hand over the shaft thoughtfully, taking in the runes inscribed into the ancient wood. “It will be risky.”
“You said we had to stop them, at any cost!”
Lord Oakenheart looked down at the mounted horde beneath them, now moving rapidly again in the direction of the fortress. The High Guard could withdraw safely and the Prince-General would not blame them; protecting the mages was their foremost priority and they had already lost one. And it was not impossible that the infantry would be able to fight its way through to safety, although it would certainly take heavy losses in doing so.
He handed the arrow back to her over his shoulder. Then he patted her thigh. “Don’t miss, mer Eulenarias,” he told her.
She nodded grimly as he began a complicated series of gestures that indicated to the other skyriders in their oversized squadron how they were going to attack. Two of the hawks bearing the two most powerful mages would distract the gwrachod with fire and lightning. Oakenheart would circle behind one of the remaining hawks, at which point the mage on the fifth hawk would cast a cloaking spell over them. The fourth and fifth hawks would remain on high, as the other squadrons aggressively faked attack runs until the trolls were dead.
From this, Bereth gleaned that his intention was to dive as low as possible, as fast as possible, then soar a second time across the front line of the cavalry, giving her the best possible shots at the chests of the big brutes. She winced, not looking forward to the steep plunge towards the earth, nor flying so close to the crossbows carried by many of the orcs below. At least she’d be too busy with her bow to spare any thought for the risks they were taking; it was small consolation, but just enough to keep her from wetting herself in fearful anticipation.
“Ready?”
She checked her straps, took a firm grip on her bow and quiver, and slid her arms around the lord commander’s armored waist, gripping him tight with her forearms. She squeezed twice, to confirm.
She felt him shift as he gestured to the others, and the two warhawks furled their wings and fell. Their own bird arced to the right, and as it made a tight circle, her trained senses tingled as the cloaking spell was cast upon them. Then, without further warning, they were dropping, and she shut her eyes tightly against the brutal force of the wind, seeking to prevent her eyes from watering. She did not want blurry vision once the great warhawk leveled out and they began their dangerous pass.
Her stomach dropped and the wind roared in her ears like a waterfall. They were falling, falling, falling for what seemed like an eternity, but just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, she felt a sensation of heat on her face, heard bestial squeals and screams, and the roar of thunder ripping through the sky. She could somehow sense the great moving mass below them, and scent the horrid stink of thousands of monstrous beasts as they fell towards it.
That was all the warning she received before she was hurled back against the saddle as the warhawk spread its wings to end its dive. They arced gracefully to the south. She opened her eyes and saw a hellish scene of smoke, fire, and confusion; at least two or three of the fireballs thrown to cover their dive had penetrated the orcs’ magical defenses. They were speeding right over the helms and horns of the boar riders, seemingly so close that one would have been able to leap from the back of its mount and pluck a speckled brown feather from the belly of the giant hawk, and almost unthinkingly, she slipped the arrow onto the string and pulled it back to her ear. She didn’t know if the concealment spell had held, she didn’t know if they’d been seen, and she didn’t hear the snap-crack of the crossbow bolts being fired up at them. She was too busy seeking her targets.
Where were they? But her eyes were keen, even for an elf, and she quickly spotted the first troll, who had just removed another huge javelin from the wagon behind him and was turning back towards them. But he did not see them; he was staring up at the sky. Even though they were so close she could hardly miss, she waited until his chest was fully exposed, then loosed. She didn’t wait to see if the shaft struck home, but nocked the next one, aimed, and loosed again. Before the first troll even hit the ground, dying, two more were mortally wounded, one in the heart, one in the throat, and a third was dead before it struck the ground, a yellow-feathered shaft sticking out of its left eye. As she’d hoped, the dragon-banes proved to be more than a match for mountain troll hide; the fourth troll was a fortunate bonus.
But she didn’t stop there. The gwrachod were fully occupied with their sky-riding assailants and their green skin was not too tough for her conventional arrows. By the time Lord Oakenheart pulled up on the reins and directed the giant bird to ascend the sky to the safety of the heights, she had killed four of the cursed magic-users as well.
“We did it!” she exulted, as the great bird beat its wings and climbed higher. But Lord Oakenheart didn’t respond except to grunt and send up a magical light that flared green, telling the waiting squadrons it was now safe to begin their attacks. The circling birds brought in their wings, one by one, and dove towards the increasingly defenseless foe.
It wasn’t until they reached their usual altitude and leveled out, and she was stowing her bow, that she saw blood on the saddle in front of her.
“Lord Commander?” she asked, puzzled. “Are you hurt?”
Even as she spoke, he slumped back on her breast with a wordless groan. She reached forward, and felt a thick wooden bolt, slick with blood, under her hand; it had pierced his armor just under his ribs on his right side. She couldn’t help crying out in alarm, but she still had the presence of mind to remember that she had the materials for a simple healing spell in her saddle pack. Heedless of the blood on her hands, she frantically dug through it until she found the sachet of dried herbs used as a trigger.
Tearing it open with her teeth, she poured half of it over his wound, then put it back in her mouth so she could grip the bolt with both hands. They were slippery from the blood, and it took her three tries, but the bolt finally came out with a terrible wet sucking sound. She couldn’t have removed an arrow driven equally deep, but fortunately, the crossbow bolts favored by the orcs were headless and barely tapered; not unlike the orcs who used them, they were dependent upon brute force to inflect damage. Blood gushed out a hole that would have fit four of her fingers, but there was no foul stink forthcoming, which gave her hope that the damage wasn’t too great. She poured the rest of the herbs directly into the wound, then placed both her hands over it and spoke the words of the spell known to every sky rider with even a modicum of magic.
Gods of earth and sky and stone.
Heal this flesh, restore this bone!
Rhwymo a benditho a gwau,
Gwella a selo a chryfhau!
She could feel the heat under her hands as the bespelled herbs flared, searing and mending the torn and bleeding flesh. Lord Oakenheart cried out; the spell was not a merciful one. Bereth had never experienced it herself, but she was told it felt like being kissed by fire. But it seemed to work, for the blood was no longer pouring out of the tear in the armor, and when she probed lightly with her fingers, there was nothing more than a deep divot where the wound had been. The lord commander stirred and tried to push himself away from her, but she held him fast.
“Must stop them,” he gasped.
“We will. But we have to get you back to Tir Diffaith, my Lord. That bolt went deep and the skin will rupture if you move very much. It’s just a cantrip, it stopped the bleeding but it won’t have healed anything inside.”
“Lord Commander!” Dantelys, one of the sky riders from their squadron, had noticed their erratic flight and caught up to them. He was flying just above them, to their right,
and could no doubt see the blood. “You’re wounded! Is it grave?”
Lord Oakenheart waved a dismissive hand and tried to respond, but he was too weak to shout and his answer went unheard in the rush of the wind.
“I’m taking him back to the castle!” Bereth cried, pointing towards the west. “He says you have to stop them!”
“We will!” the elf promised. “Don’t let him fall!”
Bereth waved as the other hawk abruptly turned and descended towards the other three birds waiting below. She reached around her wounded commander, her arms on either side of him, and took up the slack reins. Fortunately, the big hawk responded at once to her tentative touch and began speeding homeward as if he knew his master was in peril.
She looked back to see if the great green-brown mass below was still in motion. It was, but its front was uneven now and its movements were uncertain. Great gouts of black smoke were rising from its center, where the wagons of the gwrachod burned, and a tentative pillar of flame was answered at once by a pair of lightning bolts, followed by a massive thunderclap. The orc magic was failing, overpowered at last by the more formidable arts of the High Guard, and soon their cavalry would be all but defenseless. She turned her back on the battle and set her sights on the distant mountains.
“Stay alive, my lord,” she urged her commander. “You must stay alive! We are going to need you in the days ahead.”
Lord Oakenheart’s risky gamble had paid off. The safe retreat of the catrodau brenhinol was now assured. The pressure from the pursuing orcs notwithstanding, Lord Malchderas and the royal cavalry would be able see them to the protection of Tir Diffaith now. But even if the Lord Commander survived his wound, the price paid by the High Guard had already been a steep one.
The time for retreating and bleeding the Great Orc had finally come to its inevitable end. Their ability to hit and run, to choose the time and place of their next engagement, was no more. Now Prince Hoelion would have to trust to the walls of the ancient fortress of the elves against an enemy that had already proved itself to be more clever and resourceful than expected.
The battle for the Kurs-Magog was over. Soon, in a matter of mere hours, the siege of Tir Diffaith would begin. And unlike the previous battle, it was not one the elves would be able to afford to lose.
Marcus
The familiar sight of the castra was a welcome one after the morning’s hard riding. Marcus was grateful that today, at least, he would not have to spend from dawn until dusk in the saddle. He wondered how the message riders managed to survive as he shifted his weight gingerly in the saddle. While he had ridden all his life, even an experienced rider’s thighs could only endure so much abuse before they began to chafe and grow tender. He could see that the legion had finished their fortification of the walls, giving him hope that by now someone would have taken the time to build some sort of bath, even if it was little more than a rudimentary wooden sweat lodge.
The riders patrolling the perimeter recognized his banner as they approached, and the decurion leading them saluted smartly before falling in with the rest of his escort. He had left the prince and Trebonius behind him in Lutèce, having departed the city within a bell of hearing of the arrival of the orc’s second army. But the Savondese had insisted on providing him with a squadron of twenty knights, led by an elderly count whose garrulousness might have irritated Marcus were it not for how desperately he sought any useful information about the ground, about the enemy, and about his allies.
It was entirely possible, Marcus thought, that no Amorran legate had ever faced the prospect of battle in a more complete state of ignorance than he did right now. He didn’t know how large the enemy forces were, he didn’t know the terrain, he had no idea how accurate the maps they’d been provided were, and he had little more than a rough estimate of how many men the prince would have at his disposal. While the Savondese system of vassalage appeared to have its merits, timeliness and precision were not two of them. Each nobleman might owe a certain number of footmen or mounted men-at-arms to the king, but he only owed them for a limited period of time, and in any event, most of them made a regular habit of showing up with fewer men than they were supposed to have. Not only that, but their equipment was entirely irregular, so one knight might show up with ten pikemen, while another was accompanied by twenty men carrying swords and round wooden shields. His allies, such as they were, nearly made the damned orcs look organized!
“We’re fortunate the orc is making his move now,” the comte explained. “A month ago, we’re in the spring planting season and the petty lords are reluctant to give up their manpower, as you can surely understand. Of course, it’s even worse in the fall when the harvest comes in. One counts his blessings if even half one’s vassals show up in their allotted numbers.”
“Don’t the malingerers suffer some sort of penalty for their disobedience?” Marcus was incredulous.
“Well, there was a time when the Red Prince, not the current one, his elder brother, may le bon Dieu rest his soul, took offense to one of his lords failing to appear when summoned. Sieur Bernard of Le Cluhey, if I recall correctly. Legitimized bastard of the baron, actually, got a bit carried away with himself once his father recognized him, if you ask me. It often happens, you know, when a bastard finally wins his place. He’d only held Le Cluhey four years when he thumbed his nose at the prince, and the prince turned about as red as his name when his man came back with the news.”
“What happened?”
“You can probably imagine. After he took care of the affair in the south—I don’t rightly remember what it was, those southern lords are always fractious about land disputes or other petty matters—he brought his army to Le Cluhey and put it to siege. After his pet battlemage knocked the crown off the keep with a lightning strike or two, Sieur Bernard agreed to come out and submit to the prince’s justice.” The baron laughed, a dry, hoarse chuckle. “The prince told him, ‘a bastard you were born and a bastard you will die!’ The poor fool begged for a beheading, but in vain; the prince wouldn’t even grant him that. Put a rope around his neck and had him thrown off his own ruddy battlements!”
Marcus nodded appreciatively as the old man chuckled again. It seemed the Savondese didn’t entirely lack discipline, which was some relief. But one thing puzzled him.
“Why did he wish to be beheaded? I should think most men would prefer to be hanged.”
The baron stared at him and tugged at a white mustache in surprise. “Hanged? Like a common criminal? I don’t know what it’s like down there in your Empire, but any man of noble blood would prefer a clean death by the blade.”
Marcus nodded. Being a Valerius, vanity even in the face of death was something he could appreciate. How it must have grated the rebel’s soul, to have his hard-earned legitimacy denied even in death! The late Red Prince had apparently been a ruthless man. Was his brother the same? There were suggestions, to be sure. There were hints of steel beneath the silk. But the younger de Mirid was clearly neither the warrior nor the general that his brother had been. That was to be regretted, as Marcus had concluded he would not be able to rely upon Étienne-Henri once battle was joined. He still remembered, very clearly, how confused and afraid and completely unable to think he had felt during his first battle, and that had been a minor one in which he had been the most junior officer in the legion, not a complicated affair in which he was the senior commander.
He could not imagine what it would be like to try to command one’s first proper battle when one was as badly outnumbered as they were almost certain to be, and he was forced to reach the unsettling conclusion that Étienne-Henri was almost certain to run once the dire reality of war, and its deadly risks, abruptly penetrated his supercilious self-regard. Moreover, in the event that anyone survived the ensuing battle, the heir to the throne would be eager, if not desperate, to ensure that word of his cowardice never got back to the capital. Nor, in light of the Chancelier’s warning, could Marcus overlook the possibility that Étienne-Henr
i was deliberately planning to sacrifice the legion, and in doing so, kill two birds with a single treacherous stone.
His thoughts returned to the enemy they would be facing. They’re only orcs, he tried to tell himself, but the ravaged bodies he’d seen in the forest were mute witness to the strength and savagery of the green-skinned monsters. And the warriors of their main army would be better armed, better armored, and better disciplined than the scavengers and skirmishers Cassabus and his five centuries had butchered in the night. What would Magnus do, he wondered? Aim for a double-envelopment? Produce an unexpected stratagem that would somehow catch them off-guard? He shook his head. Brilliance and maneuver simply would not suffice to make up for the tremendous gap in numbers. Even a decisive strike, executed flawlessly, would bounce off the quantities they anticipated like a child’s wooden sword off an iron breastplate.
He closed his eyes and contemplated the geometries of which Saturnius had spoken so many times. He could almost hear the fat little legate’s voice in his head now, and remembered him talking about a campaign in the north, when Saturnius led two centuries against a newly declared king who’d raised half a legion’s worth of men against Amorr. “We had to make them bleed,” he’d said with satisfaction. “We atritted them like a butcher slicing meat, and slowed them down until your father arrived with his cohort and three decuria of auxiliaries.”
“We’ll make them bleed,” he said, startling the comte, who had been marveling at the earthworks dug out by the legionaries. “But who will come to help us?”
“That’s one hell of a ditch your men are digging. What good will it do? And who are you bleeding, the orcs?”
