The birds whose incessant chattering had filled the morning air had finally fallen silent. The Caritaigne vanguard was just stepping onto a wide, green field, large enough to swallow the entire royal palace of Caritaigne. There was a scrum of movement on the clearing’s far side, indistinct grey figures that milled to and fro like carpenter ants.
“You see?” Benoit called out to his friends in lusty tones. “The Sipangish are even more fearful than Mamzel du Queste, and huddle at a distance afraid to face us.”
His friends joined in with Benoit’s guffaws, laughing at the expense of Jean-Robur and the enemy alike.
Jean-Robur was about to retort when he heard a sudden cracking sound, like a sharp peal of thunder in the near distance. He turned to his cousin, just in time to see Benoit dissipate from the waist up in a fine red mist.
“Mortar fire!” one of the Caritaigne officers yelled. More peals of thunder split the air, and Jean-Robur could feel vibrations travelling up his legs from the ground. “Take cover!”
The ordered ranks of Caritaigne nobility broke into confusion as they went to ground, making room for the musketeers and grenadiers—commoners all—to come to the forefront and return fire. Once they had laid down suppressing fire, the officers, swordsmen and pikemen would advance to close with the enemy.
Jean-Robur huddled behind the bole of an ancient tree, waiting for the order to advance, the image of his cousin’s smirking face exploding to mist and viscera fixed in his mind’s eye. The avenues and salles d’armes of Caritaigne suddenly seemed very far away.
It was nearing mid-morning, and the wide field which had been green at first light had by now been transformed into a quagmire of mud and blood and gore. The two great armies had exchanged their initial volleys of mortar and musketfire, and then closed in a chaotic melee that ranged from one side of the clearing to the other.
Zatori Zan stuck close by as his master and the other warrior-elite slashed their way through the enemy, tachinas flashing like silver lightning in the bright island sun. Though the forces of the Sovereign were well equipped with firearms, Sipangish tradition held that such weapons were base and crude, and not fit to be carried by the storied warrior-elites. And so mortar and musket, cannon and carronade were reserved for the rank and file infantry, lowborn soldiers with no honour to stain. Warrior-elites like Father Nei and the others went into battle armed only with their blades, as was right and fitting.
“For the Sovereign!” shouted one of the battle-monks as he drove his tachina’s blade straight through the neck of a Caritaigne soldier, the point protruding a full arm’s length out the other side. Zatori studied the battle-monk’s technique as he removed the tachina by forcing it sidewise in a flat arc, slicing out through the flesh and gristle of the Caritaigne’s neck, leaving the man’s head to flop to the other side like a dead fish dropped onto a dock. The exposed bones of the dying man’s neck vertebrae shone white for a moment, then were subsumed beneath a tide of crimson as the Caritaigne’s heart pumped its last lifeblood out through the severed arteries.
“Squire Zan! Attend!”
The voice of Zatori’s master shouting at him shook him from his reverie. He’d been too easily distracted by thoughts of form and technique, and by the chance to finally see the effects of the blade on living human bodies. Such distraction could easily get him killed on the field of battle, Zatori knew.
“Coming, master!” he called back.
Father Nei was standing over the body of a fallen enemy, his tachina in his right hand and his left hand staunching the flow of blood from a wound on his right shoulder. The fallen Caritaigne had managed to drive the point of a pike into the joint between two segments of lacquered leather armour, and the resulting wound was bleeding freely.
“Here,” Zatori said, sheathing his own tachina—which had so far remained unblooded—and drawing a length of bandaging from the pouch at his waist, along with the makings of a poultice. “Allow me to—”
“No.” The battle-monk shook his head, and Zatori could not help but notice that his master’s cheeks seemed bloodless and drawn. “No time for that. Simply apply the styptic, and quickly!”
Zatori stifled a grimace, and pulled the vial of greyish powder from the pouch. As soon as he pulled the stopper his nostrils stung from the faintest scent of the stuff, and he hoped he got none on his own bare skin.
“Quick now!” Father Nei urged, tightening his grip on his tachina’s hilt with his right hand while blood continued to seep through the fingers of his left.
“Yes, master.” Zatori lifted the open vial. “Your hand?”
Father Nei pulled his hand away, and as quickly as he was able Zatori liberally dusted the battle-monk’s shoulder with the contents. Most of it powdered his master’s armour or drifted away on the breeze—the few bare granules wafting into Zatori’s eyes being sufficient to bring stinging tears streaming down his cheeks—but enough reached the wound within to do its work. Father Nei hissed in pain as the styptic powder caused the ragged edges of the wound to violently contract, all of the severed arteries and veins sealing themselves shut.
It was as effective a treatment as cauterising a wound with an open flame, and about as painful.
“Come along,” Father Nei said through gritted teeth, pausing only a moment to wipe clean his bloody hand on the fabric of the fallen Caritaigne’s tunic. “The battle continues. And it is time for you to join the fray.”
Zatori returned the first aid equipment to his belt-pouch, careful to fit the stopper securely in the vial of styptic, and then followed his master, drawing his own tachina and muttering a quick prayer to the Duality.
“Grant me strength and a keen blade, and allow me victory or an honourable death, whichever pleases the balance.”
Taloc s’Tonan and his brothers remained hidden in the shadows, watching the two faithless powers clashing in the great field. The Sipangish had enjoyed an early advantage, but as the morning wore on the Caritaigne had taken up fortified positions to the north and west, holding them in reserve while the bulk of their forces joined in the melee and then rotating out elements as they became wounded or incapacitated.
Taloc’s nameless ironbrand had been in his fist since morning’s first light, and he ached to rush onto the field of battle waving his sword overhead, to shout defiance at these faithless wretches for daring to defile this holy place. But the decision to attack rested with the chieftains, and like the other warriors of his clan Taloc looked to his father, Tonan, to give the sign to move. So far, Tonan had remained silent and immobile, carefully studying the battle unfolding before them.
When Tonan finally spoke, it seemed to Taloc as though these were the first words ever spoken, the first words of any true importance at least, and that all other utterances up to this point had been mere preamble, generations of throat-clearing before the truly significant words were given voice.
“Soon, my brothers,” Tonan said simply, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “Soon.”
Taloc tightened his grip on the ironbrand’s handle, and drew a deep breath into his lungs. When the moment came, and courage was needed, he would not be found wanting.
Unseen by any in the field or in the forests, the star which had outlasted the night still hung over the southern horizon, growing larger with each passing moment.
But it was no star, no distant sun that hung in the heavens. It was a vessel, and carried holy warriors from beyond the stars.
“The population is divided into nation-states, brother-captain. Two predominate, in their own tongues called ‘Caritaigne’ and ‘Sipang’.”
Two of the holy warriors peered down at images of the planet taken from high orbit, gauging the prospects.
“And they war with each other, brother-sergeant?”
“Yes, brother-captain. The conflict between the two has raged for generations. But not since its earliest days has the war touched the shores of either nation. Instead the battles play out on the few independent states not yet und
er the yoke of one country or the other.”
“Such as this one.” The holy warrior reached out a gauntleted hand and pointed towards the irregularly shaped emerald island set against the sea of crystal blue. The data which scrolled across the display indicated the number of troops now massing on the island, the largest concentration of military forces currently gathered on the planet.
“Exactly, brother-captain.”
“Well, then.” The holy warrior paused, considering. “There should be sufficient candidates gathered for a cull, I would think. Wouldn’t you, brother-sergeant?”
The other holy warrior straightened, nodding in reply.
“Prepare the Thunderhawks. We are going hunting.”
CHAPTER TWO
Zatori Zan followed close on his master’s heels as the veteran battle-monk sliced his way through the enemy forces, felling one Caritaigne after another. He had accompanied Father Nei on a number of skirmishes since first becoming the older man’s squire, but never before had he been granted the opportunity to see his master unleash his skill against so large an enemy force. It was truly a sight to behold.
Father Nei seemed completely unencumbered by the lacquered armour he wore, moving with the same supple grace and agility which Zatori had seen him display in the simple robes of the sparring hall. For his part, Zatori was still somewhat unused to the weight of his own armour on his shoulders and arms, even as light as it was, and found that he was always forced to compensate for its effects on his own movements.
As a squire, Zatori was charged with assisting his master in combat whenever necessary, whether by tending his wounds as he had already done, or by making any repairs needed to Father Nei’s armour on the field of battle, or by alerting his master to any unseen threat. But of all his responsibilities, it was this duty to cover the battle-monk’s back that sent a thrill up Zatori’s spine. In melee combat such as this, squires were instructed to prevent any enemies from approaching unseen from behind while their masters were engaged with other combatants. Traditionally squires were required merely to alert their masters with shouts of warning, but wielding a warrior’s blade in his hands meant that Zatori would never be content merely to cry out an alarm.
Father Nei’s blade was darting back and forth before him like a hummingbird, parrying the crude lunge of a Caritaigne officer, then reversing the blade’s motion to slice back across the officer’s forearms. The Caritaigne howled in pain and fury, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut in agony, and Father Nei ended his suffering by neatly lopping the man’s head from his shoulders in a single stroke. Then, before the officer’s decapitated body had even begun to fall to the ground, Father Nei shifted slightly to the left to meet the onrushing attack of a Caritaigne pikeman intent on goring the battle-monk on the end of his pike. Father Nei spun the point of his tachina in a tight arc around the tip of the pike, turning it aside in one smooth motion, and then skewered the pikeman through the belly with his tachina’s gracefully curved blade.
So intent was Zatori on studying his master’s technique that he almost failed to notice the Caritaigne swordsman rushing towards Father Nei from behind. The battle-monk, turning from the fallen pikeman to another opponent, could not from his vantage point see the swordsman’s approach.
Years of training and instinct impelled Zatori to shout out a warning, so that Father Nei could turn and address the swordsman’s attack. Zatori knew full well that the battle-monk would have no difficulty in fending off his present opponent and dealing with the onrushing swordsman at the same time. But if he cried out an alarm, Zatori would be denied the chance to wield his own tachina in single combat, and he would remain simply another squire lugging poultices and bandages in his master’s wake.
Raising the point of his own tachina, grimly silent with his lips pressed firmly shut, Zatori rushed forwards to intercept the Caritaigne swordsman before he came within striking distance of Father Nei’s back.
It was a struggle for Jean-Robur du Queste to avoid being overwhelmed by the tumult around him, and he was only barely succeeding. In the confusion after the traditional exchange of firearms volleys between the two sides, as the forces of Caritaigne had charged to meet the enemy in close-quarters combat, he had lost track of his uncles and the other members of his unit in the smoke and noise and confusion. He’d fallen in with a group of Caritaigne officers, none of whom he’d seen before, and had little choice but to follow along with them as they battered their way through the enemy forces.
Though he did his level best to maintain a stalwart demeanour, he was certain that he could not completely hide in his expression the disorientation he felt. He was, simply, unsure where he should be, or what he should be doing. There were enemies aplenty against whom he could raise his falchion’s blade, but he found himself completely unprepared for the scope of the chaotic battle.
In single combat with another fencer, whether in a duel upon the avenue or in a supervised bout in the salles d’armes, Jean-Robur knew precisely what actions were required of him in any circumstance, exactly when to lunge, to parry, to riposte. But in this frenzied melee, with friend and foe on every side, he scarcely knew which way to face. He would find himself confronted by a Sipangish soldier with spear in hand, and before Jean-Robur could address himself to his opponent and bring his falchion en garde, another Caritaigne would have shot or stabbed or clubbed the spear-bearer and suddenly Jean-Robur would find yet another Sipangish rushing at him from another angle.
He had not sheathed his blade since leaving the treeline behind, but so far had hardly used it. On occasion he’d had the opportunity to batter away a Sipangish thrust, but his parries had been artless, crude manoeuvres, displaying none of the skill in which he normally took so much pride. And as yet his falchion had not tasted enemy blood, as before he could riposte after each of his clumsy parries the Sipangish had already rushed away like frenetic hounds to attack another foe. Jean-Robur felt ineffectual and graceless.
The Caritaigne officers he followed had managed to clear a space some dozen paces wide, arranging themselves in a defensive ring with their backs turned towards one another, facing outwards. Jean-Robur had lingered in the midst of the ring at first, hoping to get his bearings, but when one of the officers was felled by Sipangish musket-fire, the officer to his right turned to see Jean-Robur hanging back.
“Hurry, boy!” the officer yelled, pointing to the gap in the ring where the fallen officer had previously stood. “Take it!”
Tightening his grip on his falchion’s handle, Jean-Robur had hurried towards the gap in the ring, stepping over the body of the fallen man, and taken up a position halfway between the officers on either side. Now he stood ready, shoulder to shoulder with the Caritaigne officers against the enemy.
A Sipangish swordsman came rushing towards Jean-Robur, shouting a war cry in the heathen tongue of Sipang, and at last Jean-Robur felt that he was on solid footing. The Sipangish whirled his sword overhead, the long curved blade flashing in the morning sun, and Jean-Robur slid his left foot back and planted his right foot forwards, turning to the side to present as narrow an approach to the enemy as possible. His left arm bent up at the elbow with the left hand hanging loose for balance, and with his right hand he raised the tip of his falchion, prepared to meet the enemy charge.
The Sipangish did not stop at sword’s length to make his first attack, but continued to run headlong towards Jean-Robur, screaming all the while, his long curved sword a blur in his hands. Jean-Robur blinked, momentarily taken aback. It was suicide to rush straight at an opponent’s blade, as every instructor in the art of the blade would agree. And yet here was an enemy swordsman rushing straight at Jean-Robur’s falchion with seemingly no concern for his own safety. Jean-Robur could handily skewer him on the point of his falchion, but with the forward motion of the Sipangish there was every chance that Jean-Robur himself would fall to the long curved blade of the enemy before his own falchion dealt a fatal blow.
Involuntarily, Jean-Robur t
ook a step backwards, flinching before the mad rush of the enemy. And in that single step he discovered that his footing was not so solid as he had hoped. Just as he shifted all of his weight off his right foot and onto his left, he ran into the motionless form of the fallen Caritaigne officer whose place in the ring he had taken. Knocked off balance, he toppled backwards, legs up and backside down, and landed flat on his back on the dusty ground with an audible thud, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Jean-Robur looked up, expecting to see the Sipangish sword arcing downwards to end his life at any moment, but was relieved to find the Sipangish swordsman spitted on the pike of a Caritaigne pikeman who had rushed at him from the side. Struggling up to his feet, Jean-Robur chanced to look to the right and caught the eyes of the Caritaigne officer to his right giving him an appraising look.
“Damnation, boy!” the officer swore.
Pushing to his feet, Jean-Robur felt the sting of embarrassment on his cheeks. He had vague memories of one of his instructors mentioning such a tactic, designed to throw an opponent off their guard in melee combat, but as it had seemed to have little utility in the avenues and salles d’armes the younger Jean-Robur had not given it much of his attention.
“Take your place, boy!” the officer barked, motioning towards the gap in the ring. “You can rest when you’re dead.”
Cursing under his breath, and sparing time for a discreet kick aimed at the fallen Caritaigne officer’s head in repayment for the tumble, Jean-Robur took his position. He scowled, and swore that he would not be caught out so easily again. The next Sipangish he faced would fall, and no foolish tactics or stratagems would do them any good.
[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn Page 3
