by Tom Lloyd
'What're all these, symbols of the Gods?' Veil asked Cetarn, pointing at the wooden posts as the blind mage made himself comfortable on a rug at the centre of the mound. He peered at the nearest. 'Yes, the whole Upper Circle, it looks.'
'One aspect of our preparations,' Cetarn declared, 'harnessing the energies of the Land – but if you think I'm going to waste my valuable time giving you two dullards an explanation you could never fully fathom, you're more fools than I thought!'
'Shile,' Holtai said, arranging his robe around him, 'if you don't mind?'
'Of course, Master Holtai, my apologies.' Cetarn grinned at the King's Men, grabbed his mallet and retreated off the mound with Endine. When Doranei started to follow, the big mage motioned for them to stay where they were, a little behind Mage Holtai, looking down at the old man's thinning pate while he settled himself again and began to mumble arcane words.
Mage Holtai sat rigid and upright, facing west, with his eyes closed, chanting in an unintelligible monotone for ten minutes or more. Twice the mage's tone altered abruptly, moving up the scale as he craned his scrawny neck high, before dropping back down the register again.
The two other mages were watching intently as the old man gave a sudden exhalation and ended his chant. Doranei and Veil both advanced and knelt at his side, ready to listen.
'I see a cavalry force, several legions strong,' the mage said in a strained whisper, 'engaging the enemy.'
'Green scarves?' Doranei asked, and received a nod in reply. General Daken's troops were obviously still harrying the enemy.
'Smoke in the distance,' he went on, 'another town burns. I see standards, the Fanged Skull, and more: many states. Ismess, Fortinn, two Ruby Towers. The mosaic flag of Tor Salan, even Chetse – some of the Ten Thousand.'
'No Devoted?' Veil asked.
It took him a long time to answer, but when he did it was just to croak 'no'.
'How many Chetse?' Doranei tried.
'Many flags, many legions.'
He scowled. The rumours were true then, the core of the Chetse Army had voluntarily joined Lord Styrax – what was left of it after the slaughter outside the gates of Thotel, anyway. Styrax wouldn't have allowed the Menin troops to be outnumbered if he didn't trust the loyalty of the Chetse.
'What about cavalry?' Veil asked.
'Three legions, not Menin.'
Doranei thought for a moment. 'Can you tell which town it is?'
'A stone bridge crosses the river; upstream is a small fort on an outcrop.'
'Terochay,' the King's Men said together before Doranei continued, 'At the edge of the moor; sixty miles or so. Doubt any of the poor bastards even left the town after we'd stripped it of supplies.'
'Gives us a week?' Veil hazarded.
'Thereabouts.'
'Find the other armies,' he urged the old man.
As the mage recommenced his chant, Doranei rose and continued to survey the moor. It would be a desperate fight, though he still didn't see how Isak could hope to turn the tide. They had picked as good a place to fight as any army could hope for, providing Lord Styrax with the choice of a long route round the forest with dwindling supplies and a hostile force behind, or battle on ground of their choosing. If they were going to win, it wouldn't be because of some broken-down white-eye.
Attacking defended ground was far from ideal, but Styrax wouldn't shrink from the challenge. His shock troops were the finest in the Land, and they'd been getting a lot of practice this past year. Once he pierced the defensive line, chaos would ensue.
It didn't take Mage Holtai long to find the other two army groups advancing on Tairen Moor. They were keeping within a day's march of each other. Soon the mage was recounting details in his rasping voice for the King's Men to commit to memory and report back, and all the time he was speaking, Doranei watched the clouds massing on the northern horizon, preparing to roll over the moor and unleash yet another ferocious storm.
His throat was becoming tight with anticipation. Time had almost run out for them, and for Doranei it couldn't come too soon. The reports of destruction had been horrific: dozens of towns and Gods-knew how many villages razed to the ground. Few had escaped the wholesale slaughter in Aroth, and that city's brutal destruction had set the pattern for the weeks that followed.
The dead numbered not their hundreds, but in tens of thousands. The eastern half of the country had been largely devastated, and though Doranei understood the need for a fighting retreat, he hated it as much as the rest of the army did.
But now King Emin had drawn a line. Win or lose, here they would make their stand in a week's time. Here they would stand or fall, and the Kingdom of Narkang and the Three Cities would stand with them, or fall with them.
CHAPTER 34
Daken slipped off the plundered Menin half-helm and wiped the sweat from his bald head. The morning was well advanced and they had been working hard. He could feel his horse's lungs beneath him, working like steady bellows. He ran a hand down its neck and patted the beast's scarred shoulder. It bore a sheen of sweat, both from the exercise and the warm summer sun. By contrast the wind felt cool on his back and neck.
'Your orders, General?' asked the young nobleman beside him. Marshal Dassai, like his men, was filthy and tired, but they were also proud. They had fought bravely for weeks, following General Daken into the teeth of the enemy with a determination as savage as that of their white-eye commander.
'Hold here,' Daken said, 'and send a company to scout each flank, watch fer surprises. An hour's rest for the others.'
Dassai relayed the order with a smile on his blue-scarred face. Litania, Larat's Trickster Aspect, had been having her fun with Daken's officers. While they slept she had entered their dreams and marked each one differently, with long, elegant sweeps of blue, like stylised flower stems that ended in curious, drooping hooks of flowers.
Strangely, the days of violence had left the men inured to such trifles, and instead of undermining Daken, Litania had succeeded in binding the men to him with an unwavering loyalty.
Daken himself stayed in the saddle, peering out over the moor. There was little to interrupt the view from where they were: he could see the disturbance of the Menin Army in the distance: three distinct columns of marching men with supporting divisions of cavalry interspersed between them. On the right, two or three miles away, was the long granite tor the locals called the Moor Dragon. It was featureless, and largely useless, as it was near-impossible to scale.
'They're keeping tight,' he commented at last.
Marshal Dassai nodded and passed him up a waterskin. 'Their scryers tell the same story as ours, no doubt: half a day's march to Moorview, and they could attack this evening if they wished.' He rubbed his cropped hair, still finding it strange.
Dassai had inherited his title at nine winters, but he'd grown up the image of his father, a noted soldier. It had near broken his heart that he'd been powerless to help his people, even to flee. As they'd retreated through his own lands, he'd had to leave his twin sister the task of packing their valuables and escaping before the Menin arrived to raze their home. Now, his home almost certainly destroyed, the tenants who farmed his lands slaughtered or driven off, his sister missing, presumed dead, he had nothing. He was only a soldier, with no time for anything except the defeat of the Menin bastards.
'The scryers are the only ones who'll want to go now,' Daken said darkly, watching the nearest enemy divisions with a malevolent eye. 'Rest of 'em will want to rest.'
Dassai turned towards Moorview Castle, which nestled in an indentation in the forest, too distant for him to make out. The hill it stood on was as unimpressive as this nameless mound, and there was almost nothing in between except enough open flat ground that the two armies would get a good look at each other long before they clashed.
'Let them come,' Dassai replied fiercely. 'I've no problem with the enemy being tired by the time they reach our defences.'
'Makes my skin itch, is what it does,' Daken muttere
d. 'Don't expect most o' the king's infantry'll be much use, but I still don't like jus' sittin' here waiting for 'em.'
'What? We shouldn't allow an undefeated general a choice in how he attacks?' Dassai said with a wry smile. 'You may have a point, but we don't have much option there.'
'That we don't.'
Daken looked at the other two legions under his command. They had taken up position on the southwest flank of the hill, ready to continue back towards Moorview when the command came.
'Might manage one last strike before we give up, though. Ain't killed misself a Litse yet, and I reckon they're still with that advance guard.'
'How?'
'We send the other legions in a long line to skirt the enemy, makin' it look like we're all there. They follow them 'round that damned dragon lump there, they'll be slow to react to us.'
'And we keep one legion here, concealed?' Dassai frowned. 'But then what? There are more than four legions in that advance guard. They just need to advance into us and we have to turn. If they do follow, there's no one to hit them as we retreat.'
'Exactly,' Daken said with a sudden gleam in his eye, 'no one in their right mind would try it!'
Dassai laughed, realising what Daken had in mind, and ran to give the orders.
There was barely a grumble from the soldiers as they changed positions, despite the hardships Daken had already put them through. They knew the end was in sight, and one final victory under the gaze of King Emin and his troops, that'd be a good note to go out on.
An hour later and the smile was gone from Dassai's face. Even Daken looked tense as the two men and a scout lay on their bellies on the hill's southern side. Each had a green scarf tied around his neck, the nearest to uniform they possessed.
'How close do you want them?' Dassai asked through the steel grille of his visor.
'Close,' Daken growled, refusing to be any more specific. Less than a mile away three legions were heading straight for them, following the easiest path as they led the way for the rest of the army. They hadn't sent scouts any further ahead – Daken had weaned them off that particular habit several weeks back by leaving a dozen of his best archers in his wake at every obstacle. Now the Menin only marched en masse now, despite the slower pace.
'That looks close to me, General,' the scout said cautiously. He knew Daken wasn't a stickler for protocol, but his bouts of good humour and informality never fully masked the fact that he was a white-eye and dangerous to predict.
'Me too,' Daken declared, his voice husky at the prospect of the violence to come. 'Far enough to think, close enough not to think so hard.'
They wriggled back until they were out of sight, then leapt to their feet and joined the remaining legion. There were more than a thousand men, and Daken could see they were ready: unafraid, and as keen to shed Menin blood as he. The white-eye stood in his stirrups, raised his axe, and gave the signal, leading them down to the lower edges of the hill, where the slope was shallow enough to keep their formation, but still gave them some protection.
When they caught sight of the enemy, the troops gave an unprompted roar of defiance – one that was repeated as Daken raised his blood-streaked axe above his head and added his own voice.
The troops stared at each other, no more than three hundred yards apart, and close enough that Daken could make out the colours on their flags. One was white, the other two black: a Litse and two Menin light cavalry legions. The main bulk of the army was further back, almost a mile behind the advance guard.
'Looks like you were right, General,' Dassai commented, 'the main body has slowed down: our decoy legions have won us some space to work with.'
'Aye, fucking genius I am,' Daken muttered, watching the nearer legions intently.
The enemy clattered to a ragged halt while their commander decided what to do. Their lines were tight; no doubt to keep them ordered and under control, but it wouldn't help them with what Daken had planned.
'Get us close enough, then give 'em a volley, let's see if we can help 'em make up their minds,' he told the marshal, who yelled the command.
The legion advanced slowly, arrows notched, bolts loaded and ready to fire. To the enemy it must have appeared they were still trying to induce a pursuit, moving cautiously enough to flee at a moment's notice. They stood their ground and watched the Narkang cavalry approach, content to wait for them to get too close.
Dassai looked askance at Daken; the white-eye was sitting hunched in his saddle, fingers tight around the stained leather grip of his axe. As he gave the order to fire he saw Daken taking deep breaths, and his face slowly broke out into a manic grin. The arrows struck and he saw several men fall from their horses, and a few of the beasts themselves reared and kicked out in pain.
'One more volley,' Daken growled through bared teeth. He slipped the half-helm onto his head and watched as the horses continued walking forward all the while, closing the ground slowly and steadily.
Dassai gave the order, wondering idly whether his general would remember to give the order, or if he would just charge out all alone – that was perfectly possible, after all. The second volley killed more, and the reply from the Litse horsemen fell short, the angle of the slope and the wind against them.
'Move, you lazy fuckers,' someone commented from Dassai's left, 'maybe you'll get close enough to hit something smaller than a hill.' As Daken laughed out loud the marshal turned to see the speaker was a squadron captain, probably the most experienced man in the entire legion.
As bidden, the Litse began to edge closer, one block of cavalry on the left flank moving forward to a better position. Dassai felt a surge of anticipation as he saw the Litse advance, the slope taking them away from their allies.
'Fuckers just dog-legged themselves!' Daken announced loudly. 'That's enough fer me; charge, you mad bastards!' The white-eye spurred his horse hard and the beast leaped forward as Daken raised his axe.
Marshal Dassai's own mount followed out of instinct, as did those around him, and even before he'd had a chance to repeat the order hundreds were already charging.
Following the general's lead, the young marshal urged his horse faster, a javelin held ready. With the slope on their side the distance dwindled with shocking speed and as Dassai hurled his javelin, closely followed by those around him, he saw the shock their charge had already caused. The Litse left flank was still trying to advance, while the right flank was trying to turn and withdraw to the safety of the main body of men, but as he pulled his sabre free, Dassai could see it was too late, there would be no avoiding their charge.
Daken barrelled directly into the exposed right wing of the Litse, screaming unintelligible curses. An arrow caught him in the upper arm, but he barely had time to notice before his horse had ploughed straight into the pale ranks of the enemy. An extended crash followed moments later as the rest of the troops arrived, but Daken was lost to his blood-rage. His horse battered a path through the first rank, and as its padded chest smashed against the first, throwing the rider from his saddle, Daken's axe missed the man by a whisker. The white-eye whirled around and hacked down at the next, his axe shattering the soldier's small shield and continuing through his chest.
Daken wrenched the weapon back and struck right as his horse pushed deeper into the Litse ranks. The next was felled as easily as the first, then he felt a horse smash against his own beast and before he could turn, an arm grabbed at his, nearly pulling him from the saddle. The white-eye, screaming curses, hauled back and the moment he felt the man's grip give he jabbed over-arm with the butt of his axe and shattered the man's cheekbone.
He raised the weapon again and saw a moment of pure terror on the face of the Litse before the curved blade chopped down into the side of his head and blood exploded everywhere, soaking Daken's face. The white-eye swore and shook his head, trusting his men to protect him as he blinked the gore away.
Dassai, seeing his commander in need, moved in to cover him, but as his sabre glanced off a Litse's shield, he reali
sed it wasn't even necessary – the Litse were barely even trying to fight back. He looked around and realised it was the same everywhere; they were struggling against their own in a frantic bid to escape. Half of the Narkang men had already pushed through the gap as the wing collapsed under their assault and were wheeling around to hit the centre Menin legion in their flank.
He stood tall in his stirrups, but still couldn't see much more than a chaotic swirl of figures as the black livery and flashes of green tore deeper into the enemy ranks.
'Watch your back!' roared a voice beside him, and as Dassai turned the head of an enemy soldier was snapped backwards as Daken lunged and caught him in the throat with the spike of his axe.
He didn't wait to thank the white-eye but went for the next Litse himself, slashing the man's shoulder and tipping him from the saddle. He felt a spear bite the wooden shield held close to his body and slammed it against his ribs, but he managed to deflect the weapon and dislodge it from its owner's grip by battering the shaft with his sabre. Before the man could grab his own sword, Dassai had made up the ground and cut across his exposed face, throwing him back in a spray of blood.
As the injured man reeled away it seemed to Dassai that was the breaking point. Like a herd of cattle, the Litse suddenly turned and bolted, abandoning their weapons and fleeing from the savage assault. A great cheer went up as the Litse broke, but the Narkang fighters wasted no time in exploiting the gap and turned to support those who'd already pushed through and hit the exposed centre legion. Seeing the first legion run, the Menin cavalry wilted under the assault and tried to scatter in all directions.
