None stood to fight.
Like leaves driven before the winds of a storm, they pelted for the rear.
Because Aram had lined up on the tangent of the tents, there were only a few pickets who’d been forward of the line that the men and horses to his left faced as they charged forward. Almost to a man, these scattered Elamites fell to the ground as the horses swept down upon them, holding their hands up to defend themselves or to surrender. Seeing this, Aram ordered a few of his own men on the extreme left to circle around and take these men into custody.
Over to his right, the charging line came into contact with many more of the fleeing Elamite soldiers. Whether a few of the enemy captains succeeded in partially rallying their men, or whether, like Jonwood, the blood of the attackers was up beyond the urge to accept the surrender of the enemy, was unclear. But the screams of wounded and dying began to arise on the right side of the charging line as they swept forward. Then, from behind the line of horses came more screams, mixed with yelps and snarls as the wolves made contact.
The enemy to the front continued to tumble in terror for the rear and appeared to be nowhere willing to attempt to rally. Hearing the evidence of carnage over to his right, Aram considered dropping out of line, swinging to his right, and reminding those on that end of the line about his stricture against gratuitous slaughter. But just then they reached the outskirts of a small village. Many of its buildings lay in smoking ruin. Broken furniture, clothing, pottery, even rotted food was strewn in its streets.
But the worst of what had happened there was suspended above those litter-filled avenues.
From the stout branches of a large tree at the village center, several bodies hung at the ends of lengths of rope, their heads at odd angles. Three were women. One was that of a child.
Aram’s blood cooled toward the temperature of ice and he continued on, and let the killing over on his right go unchecked.
In less than a quarter-hour, they reached the end of the enemy’s line but not the end of his treachery. A hundred yards or so beyond the end of the Elamite encampments there was another burned farmhouse, standing alone, surrounded by ravaged fields. In the open space between the barn and the ruined house another tree sported foul fruit – four bodies this time, a man and a woman, and two children.
A family.
“Turn about,” Aram commanded, at the same time sending the order into the minds of the horses. “We’ll go at them again. Harder, this time.”
No one in that line of mounted warriors needed to ask what had caused his change of heart.
57 .
As the wolves swept toward the southern end of the battlefield, fifty yards or so behind the line of horsemen, they encountered the routed ranks of the enemy in great numbers, piling madly toward the west. Bearing in mind their master’s exhortation, they did not stop to finish off any of those they wounded in their passing, opting simply to slash and tear and leap among them, adding to the panic.
Shingka, because of her size and fierce spirit, nonetheless left many of those she encountered dead or dying at the point where they were unfortunate enough to cross her path. Many of the Elamite troops had brought their weapons with them in their mad rush from the front lines, perhaps out of habit or maybe they thought to turn and rally at some point west of the main thrust of Aram’s troops. Whatever the reason, the assault of the wolves altered their thinking.
After the terrible and bloody passage of the wolves, few were yet armed. Most had flung anything aside, including weaponry, that hindered the course of their flight. What had begun as a rout of shocked and frightened men with the passage of the horses became a terrified dash for life with the advent of the wolves upon the field.
Barcur soon found himself lagging behind the others. The partial loss of a front limb had not dampened his martial spirit but hampered his ability to keep up nonetheless. The big gray wolf ignored the wounded that lay in increasing numbers, and the clumps of terrified enemy that kneeled or curled upon the ground with their hands over their heads, crying out in terror, hoping to be spared and allowed to surrender. Desiring prey more substantial than the pathetic souls cowering in the wake of the horses, he turned toward the west, seeking a foe worthy of the heat of his blood.
About the middle of the field, as his kin swept on toward the south, following the line of horses, Barcur found a man standing in front of a tent. This man was gesturing madly, red-faced and hoarse, screaming curses at the clots of panicked soldiers that streamed by him. Except for his uniform, the man did not look much like a soldier. He was thick through the middle of his body, his arms and hands looked soft and fleshy, and though his hair hung long on one side of his head, he was bald on top.
“Stop, you bastards!” He yelled at the top of his voice, striking at each one that passed close enough to him with a short whip. “Cowards! Turn and fight!”
Abruptly, the bald-headed man saw Barcur, and froze; his outbursts trailed away. The big wolf had slowed and was approaching the man cautiously, as he would stalk a deer. Here was someone important, someone it would be wise to kill. The wolf sensed this instinctively, and his instincts were corroborated by the way the man conducted himself. His exhortations to his routed men were having no effect, true. Still, he was important, and Barcur’s blood was up with the need to kill a worthy opponent. The man’s eyes widened as if he were suddenly made privy to the wolf’s thoughts and he turned to run, tossing aside the whip and reaching under his jacket.
Barcur was upon him in a flash, burying his teeth in the fleshy part of the man’s thigh. Down they went, rolling over and over. As they tumbled, the end of Barcur’s damaged leg jammed into a rock and his grip on the man came loose as he uttered a yelp of pain.
Loosed momentarily from the teeth of the wolf, the man rolled once more and ended up on his back. Something shiny glinted in his right hand as he made to get to his feet. Ignoring the something shiny, Barcur leaped and buried his teeth in the man’s throat.
An instant later, the wolf felt the terrible sharp pain of cold steel piercing his heart. As his body quivered involuntarily with the awful agony of a mortal wound, he clamped his teeth down harder on the man’s throat, even as the world around him grew dim and receded, to be replaced by a silent darkness.
58 .
Upon Aram’s command, each of the horses pivoted while keeping his place in the line. Wheeling around, they charged away from the ruined farmstead with its awful harvest and made for another charge through the disordered lines of the enemy.
Back to the east, where the front line had been, groups of Elamite soldiers cowered here and there across the field. With their hands raised in surrender, they squatted in the ditches or hunkered in the tenuous shelter of their battered tents. Abandoned weaponry lay scattered everywhere. The rest of the army, numbering in the thousands, was still running westward across the fields, fleeing the battlefield singly and in clumps of all sizes. The wolves had reached the southern end of the line and had reversed course and were weaving in and among the terrified, running, stumbling men. With a command, Aram brought the line of horses to a halt. Standing high in the stirrups, he slowly surveyed the field. Unable to find any enemy soldier attempting to resist anywhere, he looked over at Jonwood, two places to his right. “Take some men,” he said. “Collect the prisoners.”
Jonwood turned his face from glaring across the fields to his front and met Aram’s eyes. The small man’s blue orbs shone hot and bright. “And if they won’t surrender?” He asked.
Aram returned his gaze without speaking. The Prince’s face was set, hard, his eyes cold with fury. Jonwood nodded and moved forward, peeling away four other riders. “You, you, you, and you – come with me!”
After Jonwood cantered away, Aram gave the command to re-orient the line, swinging it around until they were aligned more toward the west. Then he ordered them forward again, in order to continue driving the enemy, perhaps isolate more of them for capture, or at the very least, give them even more reason to
flee. As they came to about the middle of the enemy’s former position, his eye was drawn further to the left, toward the west. Rising above a copse of trees, and situated behind the large barns of a formerly prosperous farm, there were the strange plank-and-pole contraptions that he’d spotted from the walls of Tobol the day before.
Ordering his captains on either side to continue the pursuit of the fleeing enemy, he signaled for Boman and Matibar to fall out of line and join him. Together, they approached the enormous objects and then sat on their mounts, gazing up at them.
“Either of you know what these things be?” He asked.
Boman shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Shaking his head in agreement, Matibar spoke to Yvan, moving the horse around to the other side of the nearest object, cocking his head as his eye roved up and down the strange construction. After a long examination he looked over at Aram and with his hand indicated the pallet that was attached to the longer end of the pole that angled down through the structure. “I believe it’s meant to hurl something in the direction of the enemy, Lord Aram.”
Studying the pallet indicated by Matibar and the configuration of the rest of the thing, Aram slowly nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right – but what?”
Boman had moved away, toward the rear, where several oxcarts, minus their oxen, which had apparently broken their traces and fled, were drawn up in a line. After peering inside the wagons, he looked up and gained Aram’s attention.
“This,” he said.
Aram spoke to Thaniel and the great horse cantered over to the line of wagons which were parked some twenty yards behind the giant structures. From the depths of the wagons, a foul stench arose. Aram moved Thaniel up next to one, leaned over and looked inside. On the floor of the wagon round clumps of dried grass, each about three feet thick, were stacked in rows.
He looked over at Boman curiously. “Dead grass?”
“Yes, or hay,” Boman replied as he glanced around the fertile, albeit terribly ravaged, countryside. “There’s plenty of it about.”
Aram frowned. “This is what they intended to hurl at the enemy – hay? Dried grass? To what effect?”
Boman unsheathed his sword and poked at one of the clumps, revealing a leather sack ensconced inside which, when punctured, released a thick, black, tarry substance that oozed slowly out and spread across the planking. It was immediately apparent, from the increased pungency in the air, that this substance was responsible for the foul odor. Matibar, seated on Yvan behind Aram, nodded with sudden comprehension. “I’ll warrant you anything that that stuff burns,” he said.
“Yes – I suspect you’re right,” Boman agreed.
Aram looked up at the tri-pod constructs and then turned in the saddle and gazed at the distant walls of Tobol. “How far do you think those things will send those bundles?”
“Much farther than a strong archer can send an arrow, I’d say,” Matibar replied.
Aram continued to gaze eastward. Understanding came, and his hardened eyes grew harder. “They meant to burn the city.”
“Yes, they did,” Boman agreed and then looked at him. “What do you want done with all this? Should we destroy it?”
Aram thought for a moment and then shook his head. “I burned another thing once that I now wish was whole,” he answered. He looked up through the struts of the massive construct. “No,” he stated. “I believe we may find use for this.”
A sound from the east made him turn and look once more in the direction of the city with his head cocked to the side, listening. From across the rolling farmland, harsh shouts reverberated. “That will be General Kraine and his troops,” he said, as a distant dark line of men appeared, advancing rapidly from the direction of Tobol. “They’ll be taking charge of the prisoners.” He looked up again. “We will deliver these to him. That which can be used to assault a city can be used to defend it as well.”
As he waited for the Basurans to come up, Aram examined the huge machines more closely, focusing his attention on the large wheels, which instead of rims, had wide planking attached all the way around the perimeter, evidently to keep the weight of the things from sinking them into the ground. “How are these things moved, I wonder – by men or oxen?”
“Both, probably,” Boman suggested. “But with difficulty, either way.”
“They’re too tall to be taken into the city without dissembling,” Aram said thoughtfully. “Perhaps when they are moved, they should be moved westward rather than toward the east.”
Matibar laughed and looked westward. “The front line just moved a good distance that way, and is still moving.”
The three of them waited by the structures until Kraine came marching up and ordered his troops to halt. After acknowledging Aram with a respectful nod of his head, the general let his curious gaze rove up and down the enormous constructions beneath which they all stood. After gaping up at them for some time, he gazed into the west. The vestiges of the High Prince’s army were barely visible, scurrying like rabbits through the fields and hedgerows, harried by groups of men and horses and wolves. After a long moment, he looked back at Aram. “I don’t suppose we’d ever catch up to that lot.”
Aram laughed grimly. “I think not. My men and the wolves are driving them.”
Olyeg Kraine grinned in return and shook his head in wonder. “I will never forget that which I’ve seen this day as long as I live,” he said. He looked up then and met Aram’s eyes. “I salute you, Lord Aram,” he said, using the title for the first time. “In one morning, you have utterly altered the fortunes of Basura – and maybe all of Elam.”
Aram acknowledged this with a respectful but slight nod of his head. Then he inclined his head toward the north, where Jonwood was busy herding prisoners into an open area near where their tents had been pitched. “I’m afraid we have provided you and your men with an abundance of work, General.” He turned and looked westward. “And there will be more to come over the next several days.”
The general also looked to the west, frowning. “But they are running – will you not just let them go?”
“That was my intention,” Aram assented. “But after seeing what has been done to the citizens of this land, I would rather that they all be made to face judgment. We will allow just enough to slip away that they may tell the tale of defeat to those that sent them here. As for the rest; once they are gathered, they are in your hands.”
Kraine’s frown deepened. “But they are your prisoners, are they not, my lord? We did nothing.”
“No – they are yours, General,” Aram stated firmly. “If you like, make certain they are disarmed and then send them home. Before you do so, however, I suggest that you take a hard look at what things they have committed in this province.”
Kraine’s visage darkened. “We know what they have done, my lord. If they are indeed prisoners of the House of Basura, the criminals among them will be found out and judged.”
“The one most culpable in all of this will be him who is their commander,” Aram replied. He looked over at Boman and Matibar. “Did we capture him, I wonder – Slan? I would like to look him in the eye before handing him to Basura.”
Boman glanced over at Matibar. “We will go and discover him, if you like, my lord.”
“Do so,” Aram nodded. “If you would. Find him and bring him to us. I’ll wait here with General Kraine.”
After they left, Aram indicated the massive machines towering above them. “These will be yours as well, General.”
Kraine looked up into the workings of the tripod structures. “What are they?”
“I don’t know what they are named,” Aram responded, “but we believe their purpose is to hurl flaming objects at the lines of the enemy – in this case, your city.” Dismounting, he led Kraine to the row of wagons and showed him the round bundles containing the black, tarry substance. “These, we think, will burn. Upon impact, the fluid will likely catch fire and spread the damage.”
�
�They meant to use this on us?”
Aram nodded. “I believe that Slan intended to set the city on fire before assaulting your lines.”
“Bastard.” The word came out of Kraine, harsh and low. “I really want to meet him now.”
“My captains will find him and bring him,” Aram assured him and once again indicated the structures. “These are yours now, general. Although, if you wish to move them inside the city, I don’t know how you will manage to get them through the gates.”
Kraine frowned. “Of Tobol?”
“Yes.”
Kraine shook his head firmly. “And give up all the ground you have won for us this day? No, my lord, we will turn them around and point them west – after we figure out how they work, of course.”
“Good.” Aram nodded approvingly. “You are right. Basura should be whole again, as soon as is possible.” His brow furrowed thoughtfully as he examined the structures that rose overhead. “If Timmon were here, he could no doubt tell us how they work.”
“Timmon?” Kraine asked.
“A friend of mine,” Aram stated. “He was an engineer in his own land before coming to join with us.”
Olyeg Kraine looked back up into the workings of the giant machines. “We’ll sort them out.”
Aram chuckled. “Timmon will want to come and see them anyway – when he hears of them,” he said with a grin. He looked westward. “But where will you deploy them?”
Kraine narrowed his gaze and studied the west. “There is another, larger stream – a river – perhaps ten miles further on that also flows northward into the Shosk,” he answered. “And there is no city there, only a small village, so few civilians will be put in harm’s way. With Rahm’s army on the run, this is an excellent opportunity to regain lost ground.” He thought for a moment as he returned his attention to the machines towering above him. “And with these contraptions in our hands rather than theirs, I think we might find it easier to hold.”
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 48
