‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Another four miles,’ said her dour looking second in command.
Like many of the hard-bitten Dalwhinnies Paddy seemed largely unaffected by the difficult march. The only sign that he might be struggling was an air of ill temper that seemed to hang about him like a cloud.
‘Any sign of the Fourth?’
‘Not yet. But they can’t be far away.’
Bryna’s voice dropped to a whisper.
‘And the demon?’
‘Closer than we thought,’ said Paddy, looking round to make sure none of the men could hear them. ‘Can’t see us finishing a battle before it arrives.’
Bryna felt a surge of panic clutching at her heart. She remembered the debilitating fear of the demon in the mountains, washing over the people of Caer Dour like a hot shadow of despair.
‘Is the fear as bad as they say?’ asked Paddy.
Bryna said nothing but the expression in her eyes filled Patrick Feckler with dread.
*
Falco’s body was numb from lack of sleep and being in the saddle for so many hours. The route over the bleak moors had not been easy and when the moon set they had been forced to walk through the cold wet blackness. The trail had disappeared in the darkness so they proceeded by the light of two burning torches held by those in the front. Slowly the smothering gloom began to lift and they could make out the path once more. Shortly after dawn they came across the site where the cadet army had made camp. By the residual heat of the camp fires they guessed the army was now just two or three hours ahead of them. They rode on for a few more miles until the heath covered moors gave way to low rocky hills. Along the way the piles of dung were now still steaming slightly in the cold morning air.
‘We’re getting close,’ said Sir Garnier as they reached the summit of a stony hill.
Falco and the others were eager to continue, but the knights insisted that they stop and eat before going on.
‘You will need your strength,’ said one of the knights when Malaki refused to eat.
He felt that they were wasting time but finally he took the food and forced it down his throat. Taking a swig of water he started towards his horse, the other knights-in-training following his lead.
‘Wait!’ the voice of Sebastien Cabal brought them all to a halt.
‘We will arm ourselves here,’ said the Lord Commander and they all realised what this meant. It meant they were now in hostile territory and could come upon the enemy at any time.
Without another word the squires began removing items of armour from the saddle bags. In the grey light of morning the knights were quickly decked in additional layers of plate, transforming them from mail wearing cavalry soldiers into the formidable ironclad warriors renowned throughout the world.
The scene was like some ancient ritual, which indeed it was, a ceremony of preparation going back to the very dawn of war. Not having squires of their own the knights-in-training helped each other. Falco had been wearing his armour throughout the training campaign so he helped Malaki to don the blue steel armour that had been made by his father. It was a strangely intimate experience and, as he tightened the last buckles and straps, he looked into his friend’s eyes.
‘We’ll find them,’ he said. ‘We’ll get there in time.’
Malaki did not reply but his deep brown eyes burned with determination as they turned their attention to the horses.
Being part of a training campaign the academy horses had not been equipped with armour but Quirren and the others had managed to secure some from the armouries in Le Matres and so the horses too were quickly fitted with armour that would help to protect them.
The whole process took far less time than Falco had expected and within a matter of minutes the war horses were ready and they stood there shifting and snorting in nervous anticipation. These were animals bred and trained for war. They knew what was coming and their blood was rising to meet it.
Finally the knights strapped their helmets to their saddles and climbed onto their mounts. Lances, which had been bundled together and carried by the squires, were now untied and handed round, one to each knight. Falco watched as Malaki swung up onto Fidelis’ back and took a lance from one of the squires. There was little now to distinguish the cadets from the Knights of Wrath. They may not be many in number but the strength of their presence was profound.
Climbing onto his own horse Falco unstrapped his shield and slipped his arm into the straps. Then he took up the reins and swung round ready to depart.
‘La force, l’honneur et la foi,’ said Lord Cabal.
‘Strength, honour and faith,’ the knights replied and with that they went on.
As they continued they came across a group of soldiers who had fallen behind the cadet army, men suffering from injury or exhaustion, unable to keep up with the rest of the army. As the knights appeared they stepped back from the track, pointing in the direction that the cadet army had gone.
‘That way,’ said one of the men. ‘No more than two hours ahead of you.’
‘Just two hours ahead,’ thought Falco. They were almost at the site where the Fourth Army planned to make its stand. The cadet army must be there already and now they too would definitely arrive in time to play their part in the battle.
*
Bryna looked down into the valley where the Fourth Army was supposed to be but there was no sign of them or the Possessed army that pursued them. Her heart was instantly filled with doubt. Had they come to the wrong location or had the Fourth Army already been overtaken? The answer to both questions came almost immediately in the form of a rider making his way up the side of the valley towards them.
‘What news?’ asked one of the commanders as the man gained the higher ground.
The man was clearly exhausted and he took several deep breaths before speaking.
‘The demon army comes on more quickly than we thought,’ said the man. ‘The Chevalier was forced to engage them sooner than he had planned.’
‘How far?’ demanded the commander.
‘Another four miles to the west.’
The commander muttered a curse but then he called to the signalmen.
‘Sound the call to march. Pace and a half.’
There was a groan of complaint from the already footsore soldiers, but they fell back into line and prepared to move out.
‘Do you think Falco and the others are coming?’ said Kurt Vogler and the fear in the cadets’ eyes was painfully clear. They had all heard stories of what it was like to face a demon.
The question was put to Bryna but it was Alex who answered.
‘They’ll be here,’ he said, with not the faintest trace of doubt in his voice.
The cadets nodded in agreement although their expressions were far less certain than Alex Klingemann’s. Unsettled by their fear, Bryna rode back to the Dalwhinnies who moaned and cursed at being made to march on.
‘That’s enough whinging, you gutless worms!’ growled Paddy. ‘Now, one last push and we can show the poxy twangers of the Fourth how real archers fight.’
The men were too tired for anything more than a few half hearted cheers, but they shuffled back into line and matched the pace that was set for them.
‘Four miles,’ thought Bryna.
Just four more miles and they would be charging into battle. As the army moved on she glanced back down towards the moors, looking for any sign of Falco and Malaki. Like Alex, she had no doubt that they were coming. The only question was whether they would get here in time.
67
The Fourth Army
The emissary looked around as the battle raged before him. He had a difficult decision to make. The Possessed had attacked with a frenzied energy, while the soldiers of the Fourth met them with the dogged resilience of people who were fighting for their lives. The emissary knew they were exhausted, but he also knew they would hold. Unfortunately, holding was not enough.
Not for the first time he turned to look up
the valley hoping to see some sign of the reinforcements from Le Matres but there was nothing to be seen and he could not afford to count on their arrival. This left him with two choices. He could be patient and conserve his troops or he could go on the offensive and throw caution to the wind. That would end the battle sooner, but it would also be far more costly in terms of casualties. However, if they were still fighting when the demon arrived then the Fourth Army would be annihilated.
The emissary looked to the right where the infantry were fighting to contain the hordes of Sciritae. While on the left, General Renucci was using archery salvos and cavalry charges to prevent the Possessed from coming around their flank.
At the centre the emissary’s massed ranks of spearmen prevented the Possessed from driving forward while his cavalry and heavy infantry dealt with any blocks of Kardakae that managed to break through. Even the mage warriors were contributing to the fight. Now split up into small groups, and distributed throughout the army, many were able to use magical attacks to support the regular troops who fought beside them.
But it was not enough.
Winning the battle this way would take too long and he could wait no longer for the reinforcements to arrive. Knowing he had no other choice he made the decision to attack.
Turning to the signalmen he was about to issue the order for ‘Repulsus’, meaning to repel or drive back, but then he noticed something against the skyline of the ridge to the left, a fringe of dark shapes that spread and grew deeper as he watched. The fringe resolved into human figures and the banners that fluttered in the breeze bore the turquoise and blue of Clemoncé. The cadet army had arrived with the garrison from Le Matres. Five thousand troops ready to fall on the Possessed from the high ground at the side of the valley.
The emissary felt a great rush of elation as a chorus of horn blasts rang out.
Impetus!
Impetus!
The reinforcements from Le Matres were sounding the attack.
*
Bryna’s mouth felt dry as dust as she stood at the head of the Dalwhinnies waiting for the order to attack. Coming upon the battle in full spate, the commanders had wasted no time in moving them into position just below the ridge of the hills overlooking the valley. They waited until the whole force was in place before giving the order to advance. In near silence they had crested the ridge and looked down into the valley.
‘By the shades but you can feel the heat of them,’ said Patrick Feckler as the infernal heat of the Possessed rose up towards them.
For many of the soldiers, and most of the cadets, this was their first sight of a Possessed army and it filled them with dread. They saw the Possessed stabbing and clawing at the soldiers of the Fourth, fighting with a mindless violence that was truly terrifying. The battlefield was littered with bodies from both sides and they could see injured men being trampled underfoot or trying to crawl back behind the safety of their lines. By contrast the Possessed appeared undeterred by injury.
‘Does nothing stop them?’ breathed Dedric Sayer.
‘They can be stopped,’ said Bryna, remembering what Old Man Reese had said to her in the mountains. ‘You just have to keep on shooting.’
Patrick Feckler glanced at Bryna, an inscrutable expression in his deep-set eyes. In his wildest imaginings he never dreamed that he would take courage from some slip of a girl that was young enough to be his daughter.
Hearts thumping and limbs trembling with adrenaline the Dalwhinnies watched as the signalmen came forward. The call for ‘Impetus’ rang out and the reinforcements from Le Matres charged down the grassy slopes.
The emissary wasted no time in adding his orders to those now driving the reinforcements into the valley. The soldiers of the Fourth Army gave a great shout as their own signalmen sounded the order for Impetus. From somewhere deep inside they found the strength to push forward.
At the centre the spearmen broke their defensive formation and brought their spears to ‘charge’, deep ranks of long spears now driving forward in a wall of vicious stabbing points.
To the right the swordsmen locked their shields together and braced themselves for the crush that would drive them forward, forcing the Sciritae back into their own heaving ranks. As the Possessed stumbled back the shield wall opened and swords flashed out in perfectly drilled co-ordination before the shields came together once more.
Close... push... open... attack.
Close... push... open... attack.
At first the progress was slow, but as the front ranks of Sciritae were cut down so the swordsmen advanced in a savage line of rhythmic lethality.
On the left flank General Renucci gave up the task of containing the Possessed and directed his cavalry into attack formations with the most heavily armoured warriors at the front. Lances were couched and lines dressed, and even before the reinforcements arrived the general led a charge that drove deep into the main body of the Possessed. He did not worry about being engulfed because the entire left flank was pushing forward with him and the reinforcements were coming on behind.
The Possessed were slowly being encircled and for all their ferocity it was now only a matter of time before they were overcome.
Bryna’s orders were to occupy a slight promontory to the right, behind the main body of spearmen. From there they could cover both the centre and the left flank of the battle. Glancing to her left she saw the dark surcoats of the Exiles streaming down the hillside with Alex at their head, and outstripping them all were the spritely horses of Jarek’s Royal Hussars.
Jarek Snidesson felt sick with fear but he was still haunted by the fact that he and his father had left the people of Caer Dour in the mountains. Such an act had justified the contempt people felt towards his family and he was determined to prove that he did not need Falco Danté or any other supposed ‘battle mage’ to give him courage in the face of the enemy. And so he led his cavalry on, letting the heat of battle sweep away the fear of what might happen if he were unhorsed and taken by the Possessed.
Bryna could almost sense the determination with which Jarek drove his horse down the hillside. But the attack was bravely made and so she forgave him any trace of hubris. In fact a great surge of pride swept through her as she saw the cadets coming into their own, but the battle was far from over. There were still thousands of Possessed who feared neither injury nor death. They would never collapse and run as a regular army might. They would need to be destroyed to the last.
Reaching the promontory the Dalwhinnies moved into position. Every one of them had a war quiver containing sixty four arrows and they each carried a second sheaf for when the first was spent. Placing the bundle of spare arrows at her feet Bryna glanced back to make sure the Dalwhinnies were in formation. Then looking down at the battle she searched for an area where the Fourth’s advance was being stalled.
‘Thirty yards ahead of the nearest phalanx of spear!’ she cried. ‘Ten shafts, standard rate!’
Among the seething ranks of Sciritae they could all see a block of Kardakae that was refusing to give ground.
‘Ready your bows!’ bellowed Patrick Feckler, his coarse voice cutting through the deafening clamour of battle.
‘Nock!’
‘Mark!’
‘Draw!’
There was a collective ‘creak’ of tight strings and straining wood then...
‘Loose!’ cried Bryna and two hundred arrows leapt from the bow.
‘Loose!’ cried Bryna, for the men had already set a second arrow to the string.
There was no need to call the order again. The Dalwhinnies fired to the rate at which they had been trained. There was something almost theatrical about the synchronised rhythm of their movements, barely pausing at full draw before letting go with a collective thrum that shook the air.
In a series of regular waves two thousand arrows stabbed down into the block of dark warriors and although arrows alone were not enough to stop the Kardakae it was enough to weaken their position and allow the spearmen to drive
forward once more.
With a grim nod Bryna looked around for her next target.
*
There was an expression of fierce pride in the emissary’s eyes as he watched the cadet army charging the Possessed. They must have had a hard march to get here so quickly, but the weariness did not show and, as he looked round the valley, he knew they could now defeat the Possessed and quickly.
Calling up his reserves he decided to throw them into the fray. He would move his own archers forward to match the steady advance of the spears and send his swordsmen to relieve the right flank where the men were starting to tire. And as for the cavalry he would lead them himself, swinging up the southern slope of the valley ready to fall upon the enemy’s rear.
But even as he turned to issue his orders he knew that something was wrong. The troops behind him appeared hesitant and slow to respond to his orders. They showed no sign of relief that the reinforcements from Le Matres had arrived. Instead their faces were filled with fear. Many were looking behind them to a point where this valley was joined by another coming up from the south.
The emissary turned his horse, his brow gathering into a deep frown of foreboding. Then he saw it... a single dark angel emerging from between the hills so that it could see down the valley towards them.
The soldiers of the reserves saw it too and then they began to back away as armoured shapes emerged from the southern valley behind the emissary’s army. Sciritae... hundreds of them.
And now he felt it... a terrifying presence, like the poisoned vapour that seeps into a dream, turning a normal scene into a nightmare. More dark figures came streaming into the valley and in a sudden flash of black despair the emissary knew that they were out of time.
The demon was upon them.
*
Jarek did not know what had happened. All he knew was that one minute he was confident of being able to master his fear and the next he was not. The day was not bright, but it seemed as if an intangible cloud was spreading across the sun and the valley behind the emissary’s army appeared darker than it had before. Glancing up from the battle he tried to see what might account for this change in his perceptions.
Battle Mage Page 53
