More Possessed had appeared in the valley, but far worse was the sense that something else was approaching, something that dwarfed the courage in his heart, something he could never hope to oppose.
A sudden rush of movement brought him back to his immediate surroundings.
‘Have a care, my Lord,’ called one of the older hussars as his horse smashed aside two Sciritae that were closing on Jarek.
‘Darkness is coming!’ cried Jarek.
‘Just hold for as long as you can,’ shouted the seasoned hussar, hacking desperately at the Sciritae who were now pressing forward more strongly than ever.
Jarek knew he could not resist such fear for long, but he was of the noble house of Snidesson and while he could fight, he would. Knowing he was close to panic he slashed down at the Possessed warriors that were trying to kill him, but he felt hot liquid running down the inside of his thigh and his weakness made him feel sick with shame. He had heard about the terrible fear that went before a demon but he had never understood such tales. Until now.
*
The fear came on like a dark intangible mist, washing over the emissary’s reserves and spreading out over the army until the very pitch of battle changed. Optimism and valour were suddenly replaced by doubt and uncertainty. The emissary watched as two columns of Kardakae followed the Sciritae into the valley behind them and then the demon appeared, huge and black and horned and hot, a totem of fear and despair.
Almost twice the height of a man it stood, its powerful body sculpted from dark and cindered flesh. Its massive head was ridged and angular with downward curving horns and a heavy thrusting jaw with teeth protruding like blackened points of steel. The familiar back-bent legs were short but its arms were long and the fingers on its hands ended in claws that could rip through armour and tear a man in two.
Looking down, the emissary saw that it was carrying something in its fist. It took him a moment to realise it was one of the scouts he had sent to track the demon’s movements. The demon held the man by one ankle leaving his head and arms to drag and bump along the rocky ground. The emissary could only hope that he was dead but at least this explained why he had not been warned of the demon’s imminent arrival.
For a moment the demon paused to look at the emissary. It raised the scout’s body like a taunt before dropping it with an air of contempt. The demon’s small eyes flared and the emissary felt the first cracks in the foundations of his courage. He had no choice now but to accept that Nathalie was lost and there was no sign of Falco among the reinforcements from Le Matres. And without a battle mage they were doomed. They might struggle on for an hour or two but wherever the demon came, so death would follow.
Held by the demon’s searing gaze he was suddenly filled with the fear that he could be transformed into one of the Possessed. He had a sudden vision of himself cleaving through the palace guards in Wrath until he reached the Queen and then of cutting her down until she was all blood and ribboned flesh, begging for mercy while he gloried in her agony and the utter desecration of their love.
With an effort the emissary tore his gaze away from the demon.
Tears blurred his eyes as he tried to expunge the images of horror from his mind. He told himself that such a thing could never happen, but he knew for a fact that it could. If the Possessed took him then he would be remade in their image, robbed of all humanity with only the faintest vestige of his former self allowed to persist because it would add to his everlasting torment.
Determined to keep the fear at bay for as long as possible the emissary clenched his jaw and tried to think what he should do. Strong leadership was what they needed now otherwise half the army would throw down their weapons and plead for mercy that would never come.
More possessed warriors were emerging into the valley and they would soon be fighting on both sides. There was no way they could win and the only thing he could do was to try and save some of the men and women who were now caught in the valley. He would form two lines of battle, one to the east and one to the west. And while these held he would try to evacuate as many as possible up the sides of the valley to the north. Some of them might even make it back to Hoffen or Le Matres.
With the decision made he gave the order for the reserves to form a defensive line to their rear.
At the centre of the army the advance of the spearmen ground to a halt and their tight formation began to lose cohesion as they glanced behind them, desperate to see what it was that had made them so afraid. On the right flank the swordsmen were suddenly aware of how exhausted they were. Their line became ragged and the Sciritae attacked through gaps in the shield wall that had not been there before. Archers stopped shooting and the whole army was gripped by an overwhelming urge to run.
Bryna saw the effect of the fear passing over the army like an insidious wave of uncertainty. Around her the Dalwhinnies began to mutter and curse. Many of these men had done terrible things in their lives and guilt was like an open door to the evil of the Possessed.
Beside her Patrick Feckler looked like a cornered animal. His normally ruddy complexion was pale and his deep set eyes looked hostile and guarded. The instinct to survive was making its presence known and Bryna knew that now, at this moment, Paddy would commit murder if it might help him survive.
She was far from immune to the fear herself, but she knew it would only grow worse as the demon drew closer. Down the slope she could see the emissary forming a new line of defence to his rear. Knowing she only had moments before the Dalwhinnies broke and fled she barked the order to advance. Paddy shot her a feral look and for a moment she thought he might refuse, but then a sense of recognition returned to his gaze.
‘Come on you limp shafted bastards!’ he roared. ‘A few more shots before you turn tail and run.’
There was a smattering of nervous laughter. Surely they could manage a few more shots. Bryna offered Paddy a look of thanks but he just shrugged.
‘We’re fucked anyway,’ he muttered. ‘Might as well go down fighting.’
Bryna gave him a nod and the closest thing to a smile she could muster. Then she led the Dalwhinnies down to a point where they could support the emissary’s lines of defence. She reached for an arrow but her hand was trembling so much that she could not fit it to the string.
‘Don’t let them take me, Paddy,’ she whispered as the tears of fear began to flow. ‘Promise you won’t let them take me.’
‘Don’t worry lass,’ said Patrick Feckler. ‘Yours’ll not be the first throat I’ve cut.’
*
The emissary felt the fear like a multitude of hooks clawing at his guts. He felt the guilt of a commander who has led his soldiers to their deaths and winced as the hooks found purchase in his soul.
‘At least we didn’t lead the demon to the children of Hoffen,’ he thought and some of the hooks tore free.
He knew the ways of the enemy. Guilt, grief, pain and despair, these were the tools of its dominion. He knew he could not resist the fear forever. Like every man and woman in the valley it would claim him in the end. But not without a fight.
He felt a great welling of pride as the soldiers of the Fourth resisted the fear and came together to form two battle lines. Up on the slope he saw the dishevelled unit of the Dalwhinnies. Even in uniform they managed to look scruffy and unkempt, but they held formation as they moved into position to support him. And at their head the diminutive figure of Bryna Godwin, her auburn hair tied back in a braid. At that moment he wished with all his heart that he had never sent for the reinforcements from Le Matres. And the hooks of guilt snagged a little deeper in his soul.
Biting down his regrets he raised his sword and gave the order for the archers to loose.
The vanguard of the demon’s force was already in range and scores of Sciritae fell under the ragged volley that flew from shaking bows. The demon’s army was not a large force, perhaps no more than a thousand Possessed, but with the demon among them it might as well have been twenty. Behind him the emiss
ary heard the crunching impact of the revitalised Possessed slamming into the main body of the Fourth.
So this was the place where he would die.
Well, so be it. He was a member of the Knights Adamant, the Queen’s emissary. He would show the enemy how such a warrior met his death.
The simple acceptance of his fate brought with it a certain calm and he could almost feel the fear lifting from his mind, but then he noticed that the untidy block of swordsmen were dressing their ranks once more, overlapping their shields ready to meet the Sciritae streaming towards them. The archers, which only a moment ago had appeared on the edge of panic, now seemed steadier and even the cavalry had regained their composure, their horses no longer shying from a fear they did not understand. Behind him he heard a concerted shout as the spearmen tried to reassert themselves over the pressing ranks of the Possessed.
No. It was not his imagination. The fear was definitely lifting from his mind and that could mean only one thing...
The emissary turned to scan the ridge to the south, convinced that Nathalie had finally returned but there was no sign of her or her amber coloured dragon. His gaze swung to the north ridge but all he could see was a small group of riders silhouetted against the sky. From the look of them they appeared to be knights but one, a somewhat slighter figure, stood forward from the rest and the emissary almost wept with relief.
Danté.
68
The Greatest of These
Falco looked down at the army now hemmed in on either side by the Possessed; twenty thousand souls, floundering in a storm of fear. For a moment he was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of it but then he closed his eyes and reached out to embrace them. In his mind he drew them close then he opened his eyes and looked down upon the source of the fear and his green eyes burned as his gaze found that of the demon.
‘No,’ he thought, ‘If you want to get to them. You will have to come through me.’
On the floor of the valley the demon stopped to look at him, its heavy brow lowered as it tried to reconcile the strength of this Defiant’s will with the image of the adolescent gazing down at him from a horse. For a moment something like humour surfaced in its mind.
Were the Faithful now to be opposed by children?
Falco could feel the heat of the demon’s scorn but the strength of a battle mage came not from a belief in victory, but from the act of defiance itself. Reaching across his body he drew his sword and looked down the smooth slope towards the demon.
‘No!’ said Lord Cabal as he saw what Falco intended to do. ‘You have no offensive abilities and we cannot afford to lose you.’
‘The Lord Commander is right,’ said Sir Garnier. ‘You cannot waste your life in confronting the demon. You must shield the army while we try to save as many as we can.’
The look that Falco turned upon them was implacable and dangerous. This was his responsibility, the very reason he was alive. The Lord Commander held his gaze, surprised to see such a challenge in the eyes of one so young.
‘But what about those in the front ranks?’ asked Huthgarl. ‘There’s no way they can disengage.’
‘They must hold the Possessed while those in the centre retreat up the sides of the valley,’ said Sir Garnier. ‘And we will charge any Possessed that try to cut them off.’
‘But our friends are in the front ranks,’ said Quirren. Both the Exiles and the Dalwhinnies were among the front lines of the battle. ‘You can’t expect us to abandon them.’
‘The Chevalier is also in the front ranks,’ said Lord Cabal, still staring at Falco. ‘He would not expect us to risk the entire army just to save him. Now come. We must act swiftly.’
The Knights of Wrath quickly donned their helms and Falco turned to Malaki, but if he had been hoping for some gesture of support he was disappointed. Malaki’s eyes were as dark and hard as Falco had ever seen them, his jaw set with unthinkable resolve.
‘They are right,’ he said, his voice hollow and distant. ‘You have no offensive powers and we cannot afford to lose you.’
Falco just stared at him while Lord Cabal gave a stern nod of approval. The Knights of Wrath swung their horses about, ready to ride to the point where the main part of the besieged army might just be able to retreat out of the valley. Looking desperately torn the knights-in-training began to follow, all except Malaki and Quirren.
‘Quickly!’ barked Sir Garnier but Malaki made no move to follow. Instead he turned his horse away and moved a few steps off the path. With Fidelis now facing down into the valley he turned to Falco.
‘Can you protect me?’ he asked and the fear of what he was about to do swam in his deep brown eyes.
Falco wanted to scream, ‘No! It should be me!’ but he knew that if he died then the entire army would be destroyed and reborn into the ranks of the Possessed. So instead he gave his friend a nod.
‘Always,’ he said and Malaki actually smiled before settling the great-helm onto his head. Then he armed his shield and couched his lance.
Without a word Quirren fell in beside him and then Huthgarl and the rest of the young knights from the academy.
‘What are you doing!?’ cried Sir Garnier when he saw the direction of their charge. ‘You cannot charge a demon. No knight has ever brought down a demon!’
‘If the demon isn’t killed then our friends will die,’ said Quirren.
Malaki said nothing. This was not an act of bravery. He simply had no choice. There was no way in the world he could leave Bryna down there to die. For a second he turned to look at the Knights of Wrath, his helmeted gaze settling on the huge figure of Lord Cabal. He gave the Lord Commander an almost imperceptible bow of respect then he turned to look down into the valley where the demon had now started towards them, a line of black armoured Kardakae moving ahead of it.
‘Huthgarl,’ said Malaki. ‘You take point with the others in chevron to forge a path for Quirren and myself.’
The big Beltonian gave a nod and moved into position.
‘Quirren, you draw the demon with en passant to the left and leave the final attack for me.’
Quirren just stared straight ahead.
‘This is madness!’ cried Sir Garnier but the knights-in-training were beyond such remonstrations.
‘For our friends and for the Queen,’ said Malaki.
‘For our friends and for the Queen,’ said the others and with that they started forward.
The slope leading down into the valley was fairly smooth with just a few rocks and patches of heath along the line of their attack.
Fighting against a terrible feeling of inadequacy Falco dismounted from his horse and moved to a flat edge of rock overlooking the valley. He watched the young knights as they quickly descended the steeper slope before the side of the valley levelled out. Glancing to the left he saw the battle raging as fiercely as ever. He could not afford to relax the shield of faith he had spread across the army, but as the knights closed the distance the demon began to focus its malice on the V-shaped formation that was now charging towards it. The weight of its spite was like a physical force and Falco began to wonder if he could protect Malaki in the face of so much power. Dropping to one knee on the flat edge of rock he closed his eyes as Sir Garnier voiced the collective doubt of the Knights of Wrath.
‘It cannot be done!’
Falco heard the conviction in the knight’s words but he quashed all doubts as he tried to shield his friends from the fear that was threatening to rip them from the saddle.
On the slope below Malaki felt like they were charging headlong into an inferno that would sear the flesh from their bones. Every instinct screamed at him to stop, to veer away and flee, but he simply refused to listen. Twenty yards ahead he could see Huthgarl and the others struggling to hold formation. It was only the unwavering sense of Falco’s presence that allowed them to drive on into the fear.
Fighting to keep his focus Malaki stared at the demon which seemed to be growing in size as they galloped towards it. There wa
s not the faintest trace of concern in the creature’s bearing. Rather it hunched forward relishing the pleasure of claiming such strong young souls. In front of it the line of Kardakae braced for the impact of the charging knights, but even these powerful warriors were not enough to stop Huthgarl and the others. They slammed into the Kardakae at full charge, smashing a great hole in their line before wheeling round to engage with swords and their horses’ battle shod hooves.
As the way ahead was opened Malaki saw Quirren adjust his course. At this speed there was no margin for error and Quirren would have to be careful not to be caught within the demon’s long and powerful reach. Somehow, amid the raging storm of hatred, Quirren managed to maintain his composure. Spear point lowered and shield raised he charged the demon, disguising his feint until the last possible moment. The demon got ready to deliver a blow that would fell both horse and rider but at the last moment Quirren yanked the reins to one side and his horse almost lost its footing as it fought to respond to his command.
Quirren veered to the left. He leaned away from the demon’s lethal attack but he could not avoid the blow completely. The demon’s talons caught his horse as it sped past, gouging four deep gashes in the black Freysian’s rump. The blow sent the horse skidding sideways and Quirren was thrown from the saddle.
Malaki had no chance to see what became of him but for now that did not matter. The feint had worked and the demon had no time to recover before Malaki was upon it.
Time seemed to hang on a heartbeat as the demon turned back to face its second attacker. Its face contorted with rage as it balled one massive fist. Malaki saw the demon turning back to face him. He saw the red hot fist driving towards him but he also saw the hollow in the demon’s arm pit. An instant before the demon struck him he leaned into his lance and drove the spear point into the demon’s flesh. The collision was so forceful that Malaki was snatched from the saddle. For a moment his right arm and shoulder screamed with pain but then he hit the ground and the breath was punched from his lungs. His helmet rolled free and his entire body thrummed, his ears ringing so loudly that all the commotion of the battle was reduced to a distant fuzzy roar.
Battle Mage Page 54
