He held the wound on his forearm tight throughout it all, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He blinked away the debris in his eyes, the tears caused by it streaming down the sides of his face and leaving trails of mud in the dry dust.
Ed lay there for a few moments until voices called out to him from back towards the tower. Friends at least, calling to see if he still lived.
“Fuck me.” He croaked, and then began choking on a mouthful of dirt. It was all he could manage as a response.
THERE would be no escape through the drainage tunnel. Somehow the Mountain Men had found it. Even if the passageway hadn’t collapsed, there would be men watching it, and then a protracted battle on foot. Against hundreds of men that would be a death sentence for the remainder of Torsten’s crew. As much of a death sentence as staying in the tower appeared to be.
Another search of the interior of the crumbling fortification showed no more surprises, but no further possibilities of escape either. Torsten returned to his vantage point on the third floor and gazed out at the assembled raiders. Sporadic campfires lit the host of warriors. Men huddled around them, eating and talking. Some drinking, some singing or laughing at jokes. If they’d been wearing different uniforms and had better hygiene, they would have been indistinguishable from men of the armies of The Kingdom.
Their crude rams appeared to be finished and waiting for the signal to advance, though none attended them. Roughly a third of the footmen had moved to the opposite side of the tower, likely to prevent anyone from trying to leave out the back door in the night. The sorcerer and his gray men were nowhere to be seen.
The raider cavalry had dismounted as well and moved to a third position roughly between the other two groups. They’d been there for several hours. A sound tactical decision against a besieged enemy, but one Torsten’s crew planned to exploit. They had no intention of trying to outlast a siege with the few days’ worth of rations they had for men and horses alike.
Somewhere above The Lost Star he noted earlier in the night continued its wrong way path across the sky. It seemed to have slowed, but if he concentrated on it hard enough, he could still tell that it was moving.
As he watched a few horns and shouting began to sound among the raiders below him. They began to rouse from their meals and light slumber, putting down their drinking skins filled with wine and ale and taking up weapons in their place. It was time.
Torsten called to his men below. They all knew what must be done. At his signal they would ride forth. All but two would engage the enemy. The remaining two would make a break for it in the confusion. Their orders were to disappear into the night and carry word back to the armies of The Kingdom. The same stood for any man who might survive the coming fight.
When Torsten asked for two volunteers, every man had stepped forward eager to do the bidding of his commander. It was only when he revealed his plan that those same men blanched at the thought of running away while the others stayed and fought. It finally had to come down to drawing straws to determine who would go.
Each man’s skill at riding and evading was nominally equal in the band of scouts. After all, it was what they had been training to do and doing every day for most of their lives. Though one man, Ragnald, far surpassed the others in what would be needed of the messengers. Before the straws were drawn, Ed and Torsten conferred in private. Ed would hold the straws and ensure that the right man got at least one of the shortened pieces.
The emotion on most of the men’s faces when they saw the straws they had drawn was raw and unmasked, if only for a brief second. Relief, surprise, anger. One man remained stone-faced when his turn came. He drew a long straw, meaning that he stayed with the others.
Styg, the man who had been wounded in the tunnels fighting beside Ed. His eyes seeming to look through everything around him, and through the walls of the tower itself. As though his gaze lingered on something in the distance unseen by others. It was all too familiar to Torsten. If the man survived the fight, his life would be very different going forward.
Finally Ragnald and another scout by the name of Lon stood as the men who had drawn the short straws. Ragnald showed genuine anger and protested vehemently, insisting that he be allowed to stay and fight. Torsten finally had to order him to carry out the task before the man would accept it.
“But should you happen to kill any man who gets in your way,” Torsten began and let the thought trail off as Ragnald nodded with a grim expression.
The second man made of show of being angry, but the relief he felt at being one of the men who was ordered to leave what would surely be a fight ending in everyone’s death was obvious to Torsten. He could not blame the man.
Torsten wanted nothing less than to die. And he would fight with every fiber of his being and slay any and all that he could to buy enough time for the messengers to make good their escape. But he considered himself not to be quite as old as perhaps others saw him, and there was much left to do in this life before shoving off for what may come afterwards. There were far too many women left in the world to lie with and far too much wine left to drink. He would stay and fight, but he would be damned if he or any of his men died here this day if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Or this night, as it were.
The men who would stay crowded around the two who would leave, wishing them luck and giving them the odd letter or trinket to take back to loved ones if they didn’t make it. Lighter weapons were exchanged with the messengers and their mounts stripped of all but the absolute necessities. Lighter horses moved faster and further.
More shouts and screamed orders carried into the tower on the wind. The raiders were about to launch their assault. The horses were put in place and final preparations were made. Torsten ran up the stairs to take a final look with the two messengers and decide the best path for them to take. There was oddly a large gap between the groups around the tower and the gap led to wide open plain that ran into low hills and brush. Ideal territory for a skilled scout to disappear in. And there were none more skilled than Torsten’s crew.
“Men of The Kingdom,” an impossibly loud voice tore into the still air of the night, ringing in Torsten’s ears and threatening to deafen him with its force. “I give you one last chance to surrender the Nexus to me and to save your lives.”
The voice was as unmistakable as it was supernaturally loud. The sorcerer of the Mountain Men strode into view with his gray men at his sides and his standard bearer behind him. Torsten noted his position relative to the gate and nodded. There would be a reckoning with this one in the very near future.
He and the two messengers joined the rest of the crew assembled before the gate and took their mounts. One man stayed on foot, as his mount had been the one that collapsed after entering the tower. The beast still lived, but it was too weak to be of any use in the fight.
Torsten had given the man the option of staying in the tower and attempting to find his own way out of the fight, but he had elected to advance upon the enemy on foot. A brave thing to do, but foolish in Torsten’s eyes. Though the man, called Pier, carried a heavy axe and wore extra mail, his life would likely not last much longer.
Torsten watched through an arrow slit as the two rams were manned and their march toward the gate began. When they reached the predetermined distance, he gave his order.
The gate had been all but removed from its hinges by the scouts and now was barely held up by a few ancient boards. It would surely crumble at the first touch of a ram. But before the rams could reach striking distance, the gate was shoved outward by the scouts. The heavy timbers crashed down with great force, utterly crushing one bloodthirsty raider that outpaced the vanguard of the advancing attackers.
Almost before the gate hit the ground, the remaining mounted scouts surged forward, blades in hand and screams of death on their lips. The crews on the rams and the men attending them froze for a moment and then died as they were run down and carved to pieces by the sudden attack of the cavalry. Those lucky
enough to survive were pushing themselves to their feet when they were cut down by the heavy axe of Pier, the scout with no mount.
The sudden attack took more than the crews of the rams by surprise, and the scouts charged into the midst of the advancing raiders. The men had been prepared to pound on rocks and wood until they caved in, not to fight for their lives. Many were drunk or very nearly so, and they were slow to react. A fact that cost them their lives as blades and hooves cut them and struck them down.
But the horses that carried the scouts had been bred for speed and endurance. Not strength. They were not the warhorses that carried knights in heavy plate and with heavy lances into battle. They had been trained to obey their rider’s commands, but they had not been trained to ride through the thick of enemy infantry trying to kill them. The attack of Torsten’s crew was brave, but ultimately it would fail.
Every man knew as much. But they fought as though they were of one mind. They had to buy every second possible for the two men streaking away from the fight on horseback. As of yet, they were unmolested in their flight. In the distance a few men on foot pointed at them, but none seemed too concerned with them. The Mountain Men who had moved to surround the crumbling tower began moving instinctively towards the fight.
A scant few seconds after Torsten struck down the first man on the rams, one of the horses carrying the scouts went down. It was mortally wounded and would not recover. Though injured in the fall, the rider was still able to fight. He joined Pier advancing on foot. They delivered a merciful last blow to the fallen horse. Then the two began cutting a bloody swath of carnage through the raiders intent on the horsemen charging through their midst. A secondary wake of blood began to flow among those lucky enough to have survived the initial charge.
Torsten called out his orders as the initial charge began to flag and the small group of riders lost momentum in the sea of hostile warriors. Most were able to respond to Torsten’s orders, but a few were not, due to the logistics of the mess and being too busy laying about them with their blades in the work of separating heads from shoulders.
Already gore slicked, Head Splitter struck again and again, staying true to its name. Torsten whirled his mount about, knocking several men to the ground and joining a dozen of his men in a tight wedge that began driving at an outward angle from the tangle of bodies and blades. They cut down more in their path, beginning what they hoped would be a game of chase that lasted long enough for the messengers to disappear into the night.
As they carved a new path, Torsten glanced back towards the rams that had been aimed squarely at the tower’s gate but a few seconds before. There a lone raider, badly wounded and oblivious to the state of the battle about him, rose from where he had fallen and shakily walked back to the nearest ram. He feebly began pushing on it and calling for the others to put their backs into it. Only there were no others.
The raider’s shouts drew the attention of Pier and his great axe. He looked upon the lone man, wounded, unarmed, and confused. Pier laughed and called his encouragement to the raider before he turned his attentions elsewhere. The man would be no threat, and there would be no honor gained in crushing him.
A narrow wedge composed of about a dozen riders formed on Torsten and plunged back into the mass of Mountain Men, aiming along the edge of the crowd of warriors. Torsten cut down men without thought as the same scene played itself out around him over and over in both directions. Many of the infantrymen they faced seemed to be drunk. No doubt they had been expecting a somewhat longer siege than they had been given. It spoke of poor discipline among their leadership.
Weapons lashed out at Torsten and his crew as they crashed into the raiders’ lines once more. His mail turned aside a blow from a crude sword and a single-headed axe almost bit into his leg, cutting the unprotected flank of his horse. The beast hesitated for a moment, giving Torsten enough time to cut deep down into the torso of the man who had just swung the axe before continuing on.
The Mountain Men were at the momentary disadvantage, but their numbers and bravery were beginning to chip away at the riders’ position. As if on cue, the last man in the wedge to Torsten’s left went down with his horse and was swarmed with weapons and feet. The charging riders turned again at Torsten’s command and broke away from the body of infantry they had been engaging.
The other two camps around the tower were moving piecemeal to the fight. The first group was closing fast, but they were strung out and held no formation. Though ready to fight and crush their enemies individually, they were poorly positioned to face even a small group acting as a unit. Torsten’s crew cut them down quickly and without mercy. A few horses were lightly wounded in the exchange, but they remained in the fight.
War horns sounded, relaying commands among the raiders. If someone was taking control of this grand melee on their side, things could only get worse for Torsten’s crew. He looked back to see a few lone riders fighting their way through the mass of footmen. One of them went down, dragged from his mount by a spear piercing his side as Torsten watched. He vowed to himself that the man’s death would not be in vain.
A flight of poorly thrown spears landed among the wedge of riders, causing no real damage but spooking a few of the horses. The beasts were tired and it was beginning to show. Their movements were becoming sluggish and their responses to their rider’s commands were slowed. A bad omen.
The wedge of riders crashed into the footmen again, killing more, but this time their momentum faltered. Two men were taken from their mounts and began fighting on foot, but they continued on borrowed time. Torsten saw one die as he was stabbed through the back of the neck with a long knife. The tip of the blade erupted from the man’s throat and he collapsed to the ground.
A spear ripped into the side of Torsten’s horse and it stumbled, threatening to fall and send him to the ground. His mount kept its feet as he struck down the man who had wielded the offending spear. He shouted orders to his men as his mount limped and he battled with the men on foot beneath him. If they stayed in this quagmire of flesh they would all be dead in moments. Their only hope was to retain their mobility and cut the edges of the enemy horde.
Another blow glanced off of Torsten’s mail and as he whirled to send an attack back at the warrior who had dealt it he heard a voice that was becoming all too familiar. The sorcerer shouted in words Torsten couldn’t understand and as he turned towards the voice he saw one of the gray men cutting a scout’s horse in half, just behind the shoulders with a single blow of his eerily glowing blade. The scout tumbled from the dead beast and rolled to his feet, bringing his sword down on the gray man with a two handed blow at an angle that would surely take his head off.
Steel rang loud enough to hear over the fray of fighting as the blade met the gray man’s gorget. The blade came to a complete stop and the gray man showed no sign that he was even aware that he had been struck. With incredible speed the gray monster raised his sword and cut down through the scout’s blade and into his body diagonally from one shoulder to the opposite hip. The man fell to his knees trying to hold his guts in with his hands and groaning. The gray man didn’t hesitate to take his head off with a single casual strike of his blade.
Death roared in Torsten’s ear as the sound of the Demon’s Maw flaring to life washed over him. He spurred his horse into action and turned to see the sorcerer wave the weapon and the miasma of death it produced through the men around Torsten, seeking to destroy him with the enchanted weapon. Not caring who else died.
The breath of the demon caged within the strange club slaughtered a score of men, raider and scout alike. Men screamed for a moment as the cloud of death issuing from the weapon touched them and they burst as though their insides were boiling. What pieces of them became airborne were burned to ash in an instant and drifted violently in the air, glowing like the embers of a great fire. Torsten’s mount stumbled again and he saw that he only had one choice as the path of the weapon descended on him.
He launched himself
from the saddle, rolling to his side. He looked back as he fell, seeing the warped air of the weapon’s attack tear through his horse. The creature’s skin seemed to erupt into flames for a brief second before it simply burst. The fall took entirely too long in Torsten’s mind as he watched the track of the weapon swerve towards him. One hand gripped Head Splitter tight, trailing behind him to add momentum to the attack he planned to launch at a raider near to him as he rose from the ground.
Head Splitter glowed white hot for the briefest moment and then the top half simply turned to molten metal, falling to the ground as Torsten did, leaving him clutching half of a sword. He met the ground hard, jarring his shoulder and knocking the air from his lungs. His skin along his arm was numb for the blink of an eye and then began to burn with pain unlike anything he had felt before. His eyes fell upon his limb and through the vision blurred by pain he saw blisters beginning to rise where the heat from the demon’s breath had nearly claimed his arm. If he survived long enough, there would be significant scarring.
He remained unmoving for a moment, realizing that to stay still was to die, but his legs refused to obey him. The muscles inside his chest seized, refusing to allow him to breathe. He pushed himself to his hands and knees on the verge of blacking out, still gripping the ruins of Head Splitter. A raider roared as he rushed towards Torsten with a large axe lifted over his head to deliver the final blow.
The man’s head rolled from his shoulders and came to a rest looking up at Torsten with a look of surprise still across its face. Ed and his horse passed by the now headless raider and knocked his body to the ground. Torsten forced air into his lungs and sprang to his feet, burying the remains of Head Splitter in the skull of a raider with a downward blow. The weapon was done for. Beyond repair, there would be no more fitting final resting place for the blade.
Sons of the Gods Page 6
