“I had expected that to be more difficult,” Lorcus said, disapprovingly, as he yanked the sword free of the fallen corpse. He had more difficulty doing that than he had slaying it. “I do hope the worms are more challenging!”
“Let’s find out!” Onranion said, suddenly, springing into action with that ridiculously long greatsword. He impaled a gurvan, stepped aside and cut two more in twain at the waist, and kicked a fourth in the face before impaling it through the chest. He did it all with the grace and fluidity of a swordmaster. “I had no idea that warfare was this much fun!” he laughed as he came to a rest with perfect form.
The area around the head of the left-hand beast was clearing out, save for the dead and dying. The worm itself was still moaning and trying to dislodge something from its head. Less than fifty yards away, I could smell its strong, foul odor.
“That one first,” I breathed. “Sire Cei, if you will?”
My castellan nodded and pulled his visor down. He sheathed his sword and pulled his warhammer from his belt. Then he brought the great dragonhide warshield into guard, took a deep breath, and began marching resolutely toward the beast.
“Fall in behind!” I ordered, summoning my halberd and taking a position behind Cei’s left shoulder. Lorcus fell in on his right. We marched in a rough wedge, dispatching individual goblins we came across as we crossed the field.
Sire Cei waited until the mewling beast’s head waved slowly and painfully into his direction. The great creature stared at him with tiny, confused eyes, its massive lips curled back in irritation. If it sensed Cei was a threat, it didn’t show it.
The Dragonslayer took another deep breath and wound up his hammer. I could feel the surge of magical energy as he summoned the emotion needed to trigger his special ability. Just like in training, the moment the head of his meteoric iron hammer impacted on the side of the worm’s head, a concussive wave of force exploded from it.
You could see the shockwave ripple through the massive head. The great, heavily-muscled neck flopped instantly to the side at an unnatural angle, and the rigid bones of the skull were shattered. With a final mournful moan, the great head fell to the ground, the legs lifelessly following suit a moment later.
There was stunned silence on the battlefield for a split second. Then the chaos resumed accompanied by a chorus of despair from the gurvani.
Before we could turn our attention to the second beast, it, too, faced defeat. Onranion had crossed the field again and had tried to attack its head, as Sire Cei had done. Lacking the Dragonslayer’s weapon or ability, his greatsword deflected harmlessly off of the beast’s nosehorn, and a flick of its head sent the Alka Alon lord flying.
But then Terleman and his guards waded into the fray. The commander looked dour as he prepared a spell, borrowing power and support from his fellows in the magical corps until he had a good position . . . then he activated it. The siege worm was suddenly engulfed in a blue-hot flame from nosehorn to tail. Dragons may be highly resistant to fire, but drakes are less-so. This magical fire burned it to a hulking corpse in seconds, sending a column of dark, evil-looking smoke into the sky.
“Well cast!” Lorcus called out, excitedly. “Huin’s hairy hams, that’s a warmage!”
I couldn’t disagree. Onranion was less pleased. He’d been hoping to kill the worm himself, and had to console himself with slaughtering the trolls who tried to interfere with the blazing drake. I couldn’t fault his skill or his enthusiasm, but when he wasn’t being as delightfully charming as a Gilmoran dandy, Onranion was irritating as hell to fight next to.
“Two worms down,” Lorcus pointed out. “What now, my liege?”
“Sir Festaran!” I called. “Goblin count?”
“Six thousand one hundred and nine!”
I looked around. The shamans were still muttering their spells on the north side of their formation. That was the next biggest threat. The infantry had spread out and contained the bulk of the hobgoblins and gurvani light infantry, but the priests could turn that around if we allowed them to work uninterrupted.
“The priests,” I called out. “Magical corps! Rally on me! Focus on the priests! Stop the spells!” The word was taken up and passed around enthusiastically. Tyndal and Rondal limped back to our position. Sire Cei finished off his water bottle and most of Rondal’s while we waited. It didn’t take long. Before he handed the empty bottle back, we had more than a score of men, Terleman and Onranion included.
“What about the Alkan archers, Magelord?” asked Terl, when he arrived. “They’re sitting back doing nothing, right now.”
“Flank them,” suggested Lorcus. “The infantry has them pinned on the south side. If we destroy their priests, they’ll be defeated. Have the archers move around to the east and come up the rise from there. Get close and volley them to death.” A moment’s mind-to-mind link with Dranus and they were on the way.
“That means we need to hit them first and drive them into a nice easy-to-shoot density. They’re guarded by hobs,” I noted, confirming it with magesight, “but if we’re determined, we can get to them before they unleash whatever naughtiness they’re planning. Everyone prepared for a charge?” I asked.
There were nods and grins and several warmagi who hurriedly did what they needed to prepare. There were a few walking wounded I excused from the battle. I sent them to join the Alka Alon as reserves, if we got into trouble. I didn’t want to get into trouble.
The priests were in a kind of make-shift redoubt comprised of the disassembled pieces of siege engines, baggage, stores, rations, supplies, and whatever else goblins like taking to a siege. The encampment was at the top of a low ridge on the north side of the field, toward the river. There were a few thousand goblins between us and them, including the largest of the hobgoblins, a pack of fell hound riders, and the last of their trolls.
It was hard to see them at that distance, through gloom and smoke, but they were chanting, and they were raising power. The bastards had picked up enough Imperial techniques to start working together, as I’d learned in the Penumbra. I didn’t know a lot about gurvani magic, but some things are universal. Like not having your spell casting interrupted before it’s completed. All sorts of bad things could happen that way.
Dara? I called, mind-to-mind. Arm yourself with those glass globes we brought. It’s time you and your wing made a proper appearance in battle. I want you to attack the center and target the trolls, especially.
Yes, Master! She replied, excitedly. She was back at the castle, but one advantage of having air cavalry is their speed. Just as we were preparing our advance I saw a shadow fly over the goblins, blocking them momentarily from the noon-day sun.
Then a flight of four giant falcons streaked downward toward the encampment in a surprisingly straight line. One by one the diminutive riders hurled their missiles at the big hulking monsters standing around the center of the camp. Out of four tries, three hit. The third broke against the head of a particularly large and stupid-looking hobgoblin guard. The tiny glass spheres shattered harmlessly against the rough hides of the trolls.
Then the two trolls – and the hobgoblin – went berserk, attacking everything in sight with no regard to their own safety.
That put a damper on their spellwork. In moments the three combatants mindlessly hewed at their comrades, the trolls picking up gurvani like toys and tossing them around. Several shaman were abused that way by one troll in particular, while the other thundered against the guards. For good measure the great birds wheeled around and made a second approach, adding more insanity to the fray with more berserker balls.
Taren had had those made from an old spell dating from the Magocracy he’d discovered among the prescribed records the Censorate kept in Wenshar. They were insidious little things; they allowed one to turn an enemy’s strength against him in battle. They also weighed very little, which made them excellent aerial missiles for the skyriders. Their deployment hampered the goblins spell and made organizing a defense from a sudde
nly aggressive band of warmagi a challenge.
I glanced at the sun again. It shouldn’t be long now.
“Let’s go start the clean-up. Terleman, would you have the honor of leading us in a charge?”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, taking a stand between Sire Cei and Bendonal the Outlaw. “Form up on me. We go straight in. We’ve no allies in the area, so you don’t have to worry about friendly casualties. Don’t restrain yourselves on account of being in cultured Gilmora, gentlemen,” he barked, eliciting a laugh from the crowd as we made ready again. Rondal, surprisingly, stood behind him and raised his warstaff. With a whisper the pole extended by a third and produced the Sevendor snowflake banner, white on green. There was a ragged cheer from Tyndal, Cei, and others from my little land.
“Charge!” Terleman said, drawing his sword and leading the way.
An infantry charge is a lot different than a cavalry charge. The principal was the same: move in formation and accelerate to the point where your combined mass added to the damage and devastation of your impact. With a cavalry charge you have to pay particular attention to the mounts on either side and behind you, as well as be mindful of your own mount’s health and disposition. It’s nerve-wracking, and one sullen nag in the line can ruin the effectiveness of the charge.
But an infantry charge, though smaller in mass, allows a man to concentrate on the matter-of-fact business of fighting for his life. Honestly, a horse in battle is a great advantage, but it has some powerful disadvantages too. It can attract an attack meant for you, but it can also fall on your leg and leave you helpless on the field. As we rushed toward the ragged edge of light infantry that was becoming aware of our attack, I tried to appreciate the intimate nature of the infantry charge while I avoided the pitfalls.
This time most of us focused on magical attacks, rather than hand-to-hand combat. Without having to worry about allies we could use the really nasty spells. Explosions and implosions, lightning and fire lanced out ahead of us and thinned the gurvani line before we arrived. Bodies blew high in the air or fell on their faces stricken by ailments and injuries. A great swath of eunuchs suddenly began crying in alarm as their eyesight failed. A wall of flame erupted on our far right as some mage – Lorcus, I think – cut lose with a variety of incendiary spells.
Our actual charge against the ragged line of shields that stood in defense of the camp was more like crumpling a piece of parchment than slamming a book shut. With Sire Cei at the point of our van, swinging his hammer and sending dozens of gurvani into the afterlife with every swing, picking through the survivors was easy. A single blow would destroy even a bronze shield and demolish whatever arm chanced to hold it. Mageblades and other weapons flashed faster than the eye could see while concussive blasts and magical lightning brightened the afternoon.
It was remarkable how quickly we cleared a path. Those too close to us had suffered direly, and those near to them were right to be fearful. We dodged plenty of arrows, at that range, but there were few who were willing to rush through the tangled crowd of disabled survivors to see what we had in store for them next. I didn’t know about the other magi, but I had plenty of warspells left to try in my arsenal.
We were within forty feet of the barricades that protected the camp, still pushing forward behind Cei, when Dara and her wing made another appearance. This time we were close enough to see them in action. The priests were aware of them, too, and dozens of arrows were launched ineffectively at the birds.
This time the wing did not lob magic balls at them. A series of javelins was hurled from the avian saddles instead. These were the “skybolts” she had been so excited about: short fletched javelins designed for throwing from hawkback against ground targets. Her wing had been practicing with them on the slopes of Matten’s Helm all winter long.
They had gotten good. Two of the four spikes from the sky found their mark amongst the black-robed priests of Shereul. To add insult to injury, each hawk extended its mighty talons to grasp whatever gurvani it could find purchase on before headed skyward again. A few seconds (and a hundred feet in the air) later, they would plummet helplessly to earth.
Tyndal and Rondal were cheering their fellow apprentice’s bold strike. Terleman looked skyward, squinting as he summoned magesight.
“I had not met your skyriders, Min, and I know your apprentice is their leader, but . . . are those Tal Alon riding them?” he asked in disbelief.
“Yes,” I nodded. “Two of them. Dara had a hard time finding enough human riders light enough and brave enough to learn how to ride,” I explained. “Surprisingly, a few of the Tal of Hollyburrow were game. She’s been practicing with them constantly since the Magic Fair.”
“Amazing,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re usually so timid, such useless creatures in a fight. But that was admirably done,” he said, nodding to the graceful shapes climbing again. I puffed a little bit about that. I had had little to do with the program, but Dara and Ithalia had put together a powerful little unit that had gained notice. This experiment certainly merited expanding.
I was about to continue the charge, now that we’d caught our breath, when Terleman held up his hand. “Hold!” he called out, making the hand signal.
“Why?” I asked, confused. We were so close. One more push and we’d be at the barricade.
I got my answer before Terleman could speak. Hundreds of white-shafted, white-fletched arrows sang overhead and broke on the camp like an ocean wave. Another was in the sky a moment later, and before my heart could beat ten more times a third rained down on the gurvani center.
“Now we can attack,” Terleman assured. Sir Festaran blew the call while Rondal re-established the banner. He’d had to turn it into a spear for a few minutes.
The final push to the barricade, and then storming the makeshift redoubt was professionally satisfying. After the triple volley from the Alka Alon, the defenders of the camp were dazed and wounded and unorganized. One of the berserk trolls was still thundering around, slaying everything it could while its former comrades tried their best to subdue it. While individual gurvani and hobgoblins were desperately putting up a fight many we slew were already wounded or so confused by the attacks from the sky that we merely dispatched them.
The priests fought. They were the representatives of the Old God, He who did not tolerate failure. They fought with magic and blade, club and knife, and with bare claws when cornered. But they were over-matched. Individually, they were rarely better fighters than infantry, and even their combat spells were sluggish, compared to ours. It took some effort, but fifteen minutes after twenty of us came over the barricade, not a priest was left alive within.
The battle was not over, of course. “Fes, how many goblins, now?”
A moment later he answered. “Four thousand eighteen, Magelord.” He sounded weary.
We’re in position and ready, Magelord, Forandal of Robinwing, the magelord who commanded the cavalry, reported to me mind-to-mind.
“Watch this, gentlemen,” I suggested, as I mounted the barricade. Yes, it was a bit dangerous, but honestly the goblins weren’t paying us much attention anymore. Once it was clear their camp had been overrun, they began to break and join the troops engaged with the infantry, or just ran away.
Through the trees at the bottom of the rise, off to the west, came a rumbling . . . and a thousand knights and men-at-arms from Castle Gavard galloped onto the field, lances couched, in a blunt wedge formation. They walked their horses out of the tree line, formed up, and charged across the field against the exposed right flank of the foe in mere minutes. They had spent the last two hours coming around by a circuitous route to descend from the other direction . . . and happened to be well-placed to affect the outcome of the battle.
The charge was powerful. Three ranks of heavy cavalry plowed into the gurvani like moist turf, their lances flashing in the afternoon sun. The infantry hesitated while their comrades did their work, and then redoubled their attack on the force that r
emained standing.
“How many now, Fes?” I asked, tiredly.
“Two thousand . . . two thousand four hundred and twenty six, Magelord,” he reported. “Give or take.”
“Gentlemen, I’m going to declare victory,” I decided. “Let’s mop up this mess and get back to the castle to see where else we’re needed.”
* * *
Of course it wasn’t that simple. Many of the surviving gurvani broke and fled, leaving their swords and shields behind them. A few intact units peeled away before we could catch them, and the damned fell hounds proved elusive.
Still, at the end of the day there were at least eight thousand fewer goblins in the world than at the dawn. Our own casualties were less than a thousand, mostly infantry. We established an aid station at the castle and a field hospital for the most severely injured. Those who could be moved we piled into wains and had them escorted south to Pentandra’s command, where they could be properly tended.
All in all the Battle of the Noonday Sun was remarkable mostly because of the large number of High Warmagi who were involved, the most in any engagement of the war to date. After the battle, I was able to make eleven more High Magi from the stones we recovered from the dead at the camp. And four more from the warmagi who had fallen in battle. None of them were friends of mine, which was a relief, but it was a blow nonetheless.
The urge to feast and celebrate our victory was strong, but we confined it to a single toast at an assembly after dark. We had plenty of Kasari scouts and warmagi patrolling our periphery, and while the long stream of goblins continued to pour in from the north, few of them seemed willing to attack us for some reason.
I could not let the event stand unrecognized, however. I had three barrels of wine brought up from stores, and we toasted the puissance of the Dragonslayer, the adept flying of the Hawkmaiden and her squadron, the accuracy of the Alka Alon archers, the bravery of the infantry, and the gallantry of the cavalry. I also praised Terleman’s command. We had struck a good blow against Shereul today.
High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series Page 46
