by Sam Bowring
‘Keep at it!’ he managed.
A blade took his place, but the headless thing was folding over on itself. Its long legs twisted around each other and the body lengthened. Suddenly a thing like a huge brown snake was wriggling towards them! It barrelled through, knocking soldiers from their feet, slithering out the door and around the corner.
‘After it!’ shouted Corlas. He flagged down two of the soldiers as they passed. ‘You two wait,’ he said, then kneeled by Ateppa. ‘Gerent?’
Blood oozed from Ateppa’s side, but Corlas couldn’t tell how deeply the tendrils had penetrated. Ateppa raised his face. ‘Just need to get my breath back,’ he wheezed.
‘Blades,’ said Corlas to the soldiers, ‘one of you fetch a healer, the other stay with the gerent.’
‘I don’t want that creature leaving the fort!’ yelled Ateppa, flecks of blood hitting his lips from within. ‘Go! Kill it!’
As Corlas ran from the mages’ quarters, he heard shouts at the fort gate. Ahead were several soldiers blocking the path of the snake thing, which was trying to circle around them. Those chasing it from behind were about to catch up. Just twenty paces past them was the raised portcullis.
‘Lower the grate!’ bellowed Corlas as he ran.
The Mireform twisted its snake head towards him, then turned back to the soldiers who barred its way and made a feint towards them. At the last moment it changed direction, knocking down one with a swipe of its tail. With its way clear, it slithered on towards the gate.
‘Lower the portcullis!’ Corlas bellowed again.
One of the guards at the gate finally heeded the order and yanked a lever. The portcullis creaked and fell, and the Mireform put on a final burst of speed. The pointed tips of the portcullis clanked into a row of slots in the ground, barely clipping the tail end of the fleeing Mireform. As it escaped the fort, a rain of arrows followed it harmlessly.
A shout of panic from the walls above curtailed Corlas’s attention. The soldiers at the gate were also staring at something out on the plains. Further shouting rang from the walls. From behind him came the sound of a powerful impact, and he spun to see one of the town’s houses with its roof smashed in, fire blazing through the windows.
What had happened?
His question was answered as a flaming ball plummeted from the sky and exploded on a street, sending out burning tar.
They were under attack.
•
At the gate, Corlas’s spirits almost failed. On the grey plains before the fort stood an army of the shadow.
‘How are they so close?’ he demanded of a gate soldier.
‘They just appeared, sir!’ the blade said. ‘There was a shimmer in the air and suddenly an army where none existed before! It must be magic, but why didn’t our mages detect them?’
‘The mages are dead, soldier.’
Fear blossomed on the blade’s face. ‘Dead, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘S-sir,’ the soldier stuttered, ‘they shouldn’t be here now!’
‘What?’
‘It’s day, sir. The beginning of day, even. Ateppa always said a Fenvarrow army wouldn’t attack in the day!’
‘No,’ said Corlas. ‘Their magic is stronger at night. Sound the alarms.’
For Corlas, the enemy’s entire tactic clicked into place. The Shadowdreamer had sent a deadly assassin during the night, an assassin that could take whatever shape it wanted. It could have posed as a soldier and come in the front gate, or climbed the walls as a spider thing, or …Whatever it had done, it had avoided detection by the mages. Then it had killed them, starting with those patrolling the walls, then the rest in their quarters. It had come at night so as not to be seen, and so that it had a better chance of finding all the mages in one place. Without the mages to warn the light of approaching magic, the Shadowdreamer had managed to cloak his troops from sight until they were within attack range. Battu needed to attack as quickly as possible after the assassinations, to press his advantage – hence here they were during the day.
As the shadow army’s metal catapults launched another volley of fireballs, Corlas spied a group of Graka beating their bat wings and lifting something into the air. Then another group took off, and another …
The fort echoed with alarm bells. Archers swarmed up the stairs to line the walls and fill the south-facing turrets. Troops of blades assembled in the centre of town, and riders ran to the stables to ready their steeds. Corlas strode around shouting orders to all.
A wave of attackers, Arabodedas and Vorthargs, broke from the army to charge towards the walls. As arrows rained upon them, three Arabodedas mages stepped aside from the group. One summoned crackling power to his fingertips, while the other two protected him against flying arrows with magical deflection. The first mage’s hands shot forth, sending a great bolt of blue energy roaring up the hill. It hit the wall at ground level, blowing out chunks of blackened rock. The mages swapped roles – the first added his efforts to defence, while the second began to charge up another attack. Moments later a second bolt of energy sizzled up the hill to explode in the same place, deepening the wound in the wall. The mages rotated again and a third bolt followed, this time bursting through the stone and creating a breach in the fort’s defences some ten paces wide. With their powers depleted, the mages fled a safe distance from the archers. The Arabodedas and Vorthargs charged towards the opening.
As Corlas sent soldiers to defend the area, he heard ‘Commander!’ behind him. It was the gerent, white as a ghost and clutching a bloody bandage to his side. A worried healer stood next to him and six of his personal guards, who looked ready to support him should he stumble. Corlas reported quickly to Ateppa as another volley of fireballs plummeted around them, cracking buildings and spitting fire.
‘All right, Corlas,’ the gerent said. ‘You take the walls. I’ll see to the breach.’
Corlas jogged towards a stairway as, behind him, the gerent began to yell instructions. The situation was dire – without mages they were almost defenceless against any magic thrown at them. He glanced across the town as he bounded up the stairs and received a small boost of hope. The fireballs, while they damaged buildings, had not resulted in as many casualties as the enemy no doubt hoped. The fires did not spread well in the dry, stony town, so apart from those caught directly in a fireball’s path, or who had been standing nearby as the tar flew out, all remained unharmed.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he saw a bow gesturing upwards. High in the sky, out of arrow range, clusters of Graka were flying. Corlas squinted to see what they carried – it looked like large cauldrons between groups of four. As the first group moved above the fort, they tipped their cauldron and liquid spilled downwards, glinting crystal in the sun’s rays. It hit the ground and soldiers screamed. Corlas saw smoke rising from thrashing bodies as bones showed through ruined flesh.
‘Acid,’ he muttered to himself.
Below, the gerent was ordering soldiers to stay under whatever cover they could find. Corlas saw a group run into a house, narrowly avoiding an acid downpour. A moment later a flaming ball smashed through the roof. A foetid stench rose into the air to accompany the screams.
Fighting broke out as Arabodedas and Vorthargs reached the breach. Kainordan soldiers held them back easily, as the opening was only wide enough for seven or eight to get through at a time. Only a few Vorthargs managed to leap past the defence on their powerful hind legs. Like their smaller frog cousins, the mottled Vorthargs were able to jump long distances and cling to the sides of buildings. Their mouths were wide like those of frogs, though they had pudgy noses, ears like dried apricots and piggy eyes. More troublesome were their burning spit and large upward-curving tusks. Corlas saw a Vortharg spring onto a soldier, hang on with the slimy pads of its feet, and bite down on his head. Being so outnumbered, however, any Vorthargs past the line were quickly felled.
Above, the Graka were leaving with their empty cauldrons, no doubt to get another load. ‘What I
wouldn’t give for a swarm of Zyvanix,’ Corlas growled.
A second group of Arabodedas and Vorthargs detached from the army. Another volley of fireballs shot up into the air. The floor beneath Corlas shook as some smashed against the upper walls, one landing directly on a group of bows. As the Arabodedas and Vorthargs drew close, Corlas saw another three mages disengage from the group.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said, and shouted, ‘All bows, target the mages!’
Shouts came from taskmasters passing the order along the line, and the barrage of arrows pouring down shifted to concentrate on the three mages. As one began to summon energy, the other two found themselves facing an impossible number of arrows. Frantically they cast their deflection spells, but as the First Mage raised his hands to unleash a bolt, he fell screaming with an arrow in his heart. The bolt flew off randomly, hitting a place high up the walls without punching through. The other mages retreated.
Arabodedas and Vorthargs were again nearing the breach. ‘Target the Vorthargs first!’ Corlas shouted, for the Arabodedas were more easily held back. He frowned at these ground attacks, which were hardly effective. With a breach so small, and so many archers on the walls, each wave met death quickly. It didn’t make sense.
In the distance he saw Graka taking off again. He squinted more closely at the Fenvarrow army. Minions of the dark lord ran here and there, attending to the catapults and large vats, which, Corlas guessed, contained the deadly acid. A good proportion of the army seemed to be focused on keeping the aerial attacks going, while the waves of ground attackers seemed almost a distraction. Suddenly Corlas knew what needed to be done. As long as they stayed within the fort, the Shadowdreamer could pelt down death from the skies. The fort had become a trap and they needed to get out.
He ran back down the stairs, at the bottom carefully avoiding ground where acid still smoked. At the breach he found a phalanx commander organising the defence.
‘Where is the gerent?’ he demanded.
‘In the main square.’
Corlas covered the distance as quickly as he could. In the main square he found Ateppa on a stretcher, face drained of colour and set in a grimace of pain, blood trickling from his lips. Ignoring the healer’s pleas, he was sitting up to shout orders. Troops had scattered so as not to provide large targets for the aerial attacks, and everyone looked edgy. There were more than enough soldiers at the breach to take care of the small waves of attackers, so a large portion of the fort’s force was standing idle and useless.
‘What are you doing here?’ shouted Ateppa as he caught sight of Corlas. ‘Get back to the walls!’
‘Gerent Ateppa!’ puffed Corlas. ‘We must leave the fort!’
Soldiers nearby were paying attention.
‘What?’ said Ateppa. ‘Are you mad?’
‘If we stay,’ replied Corlas, ‘we will surely be defeated. Without mages to protect us, we cannot withstand these aerial attacks!’
‘You talk of suicide!’ said Ateppa. ‘They cannot pelt us forever. We must hold, and wait for their main attack. They will not take us by ground!’
‘This is their main attack, gerent!’ said Corlas, flinching as a fireball slammed into a nearby building. ‘We must leave the fort!’
‘Get back to the walls!’ screamed Ateppa, his ghostly pallor flushing red for a moment. ‘Do as I command!’ He slumped back onto the stretcher, moaning with pain.
Corlas stared hard at his superior. He needed to act, else the gerent was going to sentence them all to doom. Though it pained him greatly, he reached a decision quickly and turned to the gerent’s personal guards.
‘You blades take the gerent to his quarters and see to his safety. I am taking full command.’
‘ What ?’ screamed Ateppa. ‘You dare to …’
‘You are wounded, sir,’ said Corlas loudly. ‘You have lost too much blood and are not thinking clearly. If we are to win this battle,’ he turned to the soldiers surrounding, ‘we must fight. Soldiers – do you wish to be cooked here like crabs in a pot? Or shall we take this battle into our own hands? Shall we give the Shadowdreamer more than he bargains for?’
A chorus of assent went up. Already the soldiers had seen too much carnage as they stood powerless to stop it.
‘You’re relieved of duty, commander!’ shouted the enraged Ateppa. ‘Return to your quarters!’
Corlas stood, hands on hips, staring hard at the gerent’s guards. ‘We are dead if we stay,’ he said.
One of the guards, an older man with a weathered face, looked from Corlas to Ateppa. Ateppa was writhing angrily on his stretcher, trying to stand up. The guard nodded slowly. ‘Come, blades,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the gerent to safety.’
Two men picked up the stretcher as the gerent shouted curses and protests and carried him from the main square. Corlas immediately sought out the officers in the crowd.
‘Phalanx commanders, cerepans – I want all troops assembled at the portcullis before the next Graka strike.’ He glanced around at the tense faces. ‘We’re abandoning the fort.’
•
Phalanx commanders and cerepans rode up and down the lines trying to organise troops of bows, blades and riders. The fort had only one phalanx of riders – that was, six troops – and besides this there were only horses for the officers. Corlas secured his own broad-backed war horse to cover ground more quickly. Armourers towed carts to distribute shields, armour and weapons, while soldiers at the gate stood ready to raise the portcullis. Corlas didn’t want to give the enemy any early warning that they intended to leave the fort, so the portcullis would be left shut until the last moment possible. Behind them, fireballs thundered down on the nearly deserted town. Corlas glanced anxiously at the sky, knowing the Graka would be above them any minute. If soldiers were caught grouped together in the same place, the casualties would be devastating.
He reached a decision. The time was now.
‘Raise the portcullis!’ he commanded. ‘Move out the troops!’
Taskmasters around him took up the call.
‘Commander!’ came a voice behind him, and he turned to see a burly man with a rough beard and dirty clothes. He rested a pickaxe over his shoulder, and behind him stood a hundred similar-looking men. Corlas recognised him as Brindle, the head miner.
‘What is it, Brindle?’
‘We will not continue in the mine while the very fort falls around us. Today we hew flesh, not rock.’
Corlas nodded. ‘Very well. Find an armourer, or use your pickaxes if you will. Move it out, Brindle.’
‘Right y’are, sir!’ said Brindle fiercely.
At the gate, troops were streaming out and down the hill. Corlas glanced at the sky. The Graka should have been above them by now, but for some reason they seemed to be holding back. Then he saw why – the clear blue sky was no longer clear. High above, small pinpricks had appeared above the fort. As Corlas watched he saw them expanding outwards and his dread of magic grew strong. They were dark blue vortexes and, though small and distant, were as ominous as a knife glinting in the dark.
‘Move it out!’ he bellowed. ‘Move it out!’ The horse beneath him whinnied as he gave it a kick in the ribs, driving it along the lines of waiting soldiers. ‘Move it out, soldiers! Magic they may have, but even a mage can learn the pain of steel! Target their mages! Make them pay for this! Make them learn what Kainordan soldiers are made of! Move it out!’
He raised his sword to the air, hollering war cries and driving soldiers before him. They spilled out through both the gate and the breach, heartened by the righteous rage of their commander.
Above, Corlas heard the warning crackle of magic approaching. Looking up, he saw lines of blue energy streaming down from the vortexes, straight and fast. As they slammed into the fort’s centre, the ground shook. Where they hit, they obliterated, leaving deep craters in the ground and sending out shock waves that knocked flying anything in their path.
In the sky above, the vortexes faded. Corlas breathed out thank
s to Arkus. The mages had obviously targeted the area where the Graka would have last reported the majority of soldiers to be gathered. As it turned out, the energy streams had destroyed a now mostly unpopulated section of the town. Corlas shuddered at how devastating the attack would have been had they not moved. He didn’t know much about magic, but he knew that what he’d just seen would require a large amount of power, possibly many mages working together to create just one of those vortex things; and cloaking their army as they’d approached would have taken its toll as well. If Battu was tiring his mages, perhaps they had a chance.
As he rode from the fort, he saw the Graka flapping slowly towards his army, which was assembling again at the bottom of the hill. Corlas urged his mare down the slope and found more order than he had hoped for. In the distance he could see the Fenvarrow army milling about, preparing for a ground attack they hadn’t expected. He came to a halt in front of the officers, many of whom met his gaze with fearful eyes. Glancing at the sky, he guessed they had about a minute until the Graka could bomb their present position.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I want to drive pronged attacks into their lines. If we are all mixed in together, their air attacks will be useless and their mages won’t be able to target groups of us as easily. If you see a chance to take out a mage, take it, but not at too high a cost. We have to maintain our numbers.’
‘The bows, commander?’
‘They cannot attack from afar, they will only be killed from the air. They will be the heart of every prong we drive into their territory. Get them in and defend them.’ He met each of his officers in the eye. ‘There is no time for anything further. May the light be with us all. Do not despair …’ He seemed to fumble for words, but then his eyes shone with strength. ‘Do not despair,’ he said.
