Taloc s’Tonan and his brothers had remained in the shadows of the forest for as long as they could, unseen by any of the combatants on the wide field before them. But as the morning wore on, the melee had drifted nearer and nearer to their hiding place, and as midday approached it seemed unlikely that they would be able to remain concealed for much longer. His father Tonan, chieftain of the clan, had begun exchanging hushed whispers with his closest advisors, calculating the risks of attempting to remain hidden versus charging onto the field of battle before their carefully orchestrated plans allowed.
At strategic locations all throughout the forests lining the great field, Taloc knew that the other warrior-clans were occupied with similar deliberations. The plan of attack devised by the council of chieftains had called for the Eokaroean clans to remain concealed until one or the other of the two great faithless forces were all but defeated, and then to burst from hiding and fall upon the victor, who would be so depleted from the struggle that they would be unable to resist the Eokaroeans’ might.
As the battle had unfolded, though, it was clear that neither side was weakening as quickly or as completely as the warrior chieftains had hoped, and as things stood it would likely be well into the afternoon before the strength of the faithless had ebbed sufficiently to ensure an Eokaroean victory. If the warrior clans were to take to the field too soon, with the strength of the faithless not yet waning, the superior numbers and weaponry of the invaders on both sides could threaten to overwhelm the Eokaroeans entirely.
However, worst still for the warrior clans if they were to be discovered by either the Caritaigne or the Sipangish while still in hiding, encumbered by the close-growing trees on all sides, where a barrage of incendiary fire from the invaders’ cannons might serve to wipe out all of the warriors of a clan in a single attack.
As the melee raged ever nearer to their place of concealment, Taloc’s father seemed to come to a conclusion. He rose up from a crouch, and motioned to the other warriors of the clan who were arrayed through this section of forest. Keen ears straining to listen, the brothers of the clan gripped their ironbrands in anticipation, ready to follow the chieftain’s orders, whatever they might be.
“Now!” Chieftain Tonan called out to the others, raising his own sword Lightning high overhead. When he had been a young man in the tourneys, his ironbrand had earned the name on account of the quickness with which Tonan had slashed and hacked, knocking all competitors’ blades aside as quick as a flash from a storm cloud. Now Lightning flashed again, and seemed to be eager to bite deep into faithless flesh. “The hour is upon us! Attack, my brothers, and drive the faithless invaders back into the sea!”
Taloc lifted his head and let forth the deepest, most guttural martial call that he could manage, answering the beastly roars from his brothers on all sides. And then, ironbrands swinging in two-handed grips, the Eokaroeans of Tonan’s clan burst from the shadows, throwing themselves into the melee beyond.
Jean-Robur du Queste held his place in the defensive ring until a superior force of Sipangish swordsmen crashed into the ring’s far side, and suddenly their defences were broken. The ring splintered, becoming first a ragged bowed line as a handful of their number fell to the Sipangish blades, then breaking into ever-smaller segments as more of their fellow officers were cut down. Ringed together, back to back as they had been, the Caritaigne had succeeded in standing firm against the previous Sipangish onslaughts, but having lost their cohesion when faced with a party of even greater numbers the Caritaigne were unable to withstand this newest attack. Perhaps if enough of them survived they could reform into a smaller defensive ring, but for the moment Jean-Robur and the officers were left to fend for themselves.
Jean-Robur found himself alone, cut off from the others, and only now realised that he had never learned any of their names. All around him on the ground were sprawled the dead and the dying, Sipangish and Caritaigne alike, and the air was filled with the stench of acrid smoke, the coppery tang of spilled blood and the noxious odour of human waste as the corpses on all sides voided their bowels in death’s final embrace. Jean-Robur’s eyes stung, and with the bright island sun directly overhead he was forced to squint in the glare. With his left arm shading his eyes, his right hand holding his falchion before him, Jean-Robur turned to one side and then the other, trying to find any familiar faces, or at least any who bore the armour and ensigns of Caritaigne that he might join. But the only Caritaigne he saw was as isolated as he was, and busy holding off Sipangish attacks.
A short distance off he saw the officer who had stood beside him in the ring, his sword dancing in his grip as he struggled to ward off the thrust and blows of an older Sipangish swordsman. The Sipangish had his back turned to Jean-Robur, and in that instant the young Caritaigne saw an opportunity to blood his falchion at last.
Students in the salles d’armes of Caritaigne were taught never to stab an enemy in the back. Lowborn soldiers might employ such techniques, Jean-Robur’s instructors had told him, but it was poor etiquette not to allow one’s opponent the opportunity to face one’s attack head-on.
“Etiquette be damned,” Jean-Robur said in a low voice. He sneered, raised his falchion and advanced towards the Sipangish swordsman’s back.
* * *
Zatori Zan exulted in the feeling of the tachina leaping in his hands. He parried away the lunge of the Caritaigne swordsman, then danced back out of the reach of the dagger in the swordsman’s other hand. Then, as the swordsman shifted his footing, Zatori slashed down with his tachina, coming within a handbreadth of slicing into the swordsman’s forehead before the Caritaigne blocked the blow with a cross made of his sword and dagger held overhead. Sparks flew from the edge of Zatori’s sword as he whipped his tachina back against the Caritaigne’s crossed blades, and then Zatori fell back into a ready stance, preparing to try again.
Zatori’s heart swelled with pride that his mastery of the blade was equal to the challenge of facing such a strong and skilled opponent. That he had not yet managed to do more than nick the Caritaigne swordsman’s shoulder and cheek with his tachina merely meant that he had not yet divined the proper technique, but the fact that Zatori had so far succeeded in blocking or parrying all of the Caritaigne’s own thrusts and attacks meant that Father Nei had taught Zatori well.
Thinking of his honoured master brought Zatori up short.
Since the moment Zatori had closed with the swordsman intent on attacking Father Nei from behind, he had not kept track of the battle-monk’s movements. Considering that his sacred duty in combat situations was to remain by his master’s side and serve his every need, the fact that Zatori had no clear idea at the moment just where Father Nei was did not speak well of his service. He could have simply shouted out a warning to the battle-monk, and let Father Nei deal handily with the swordsman, but Zatori had wanted to enjoy the thrill of combat himself. If his absence meant that some harm were to befall his master…
The panic on Zatori’s part was momentary, but the Caritaigne swordsman saw an advantage and pressed the attack. Flipping his dagger end over end in the air, the swordsman caught hold of the blade, then threw it in a spiralling arc directly at Zatori’s head. Zatori saw the blade spinning towards him, and scarcely managed to duck out of its way before it could drive point-first into his head. As the thrown dagger continued flipping harmlessly past his ear, though, Zatori was unprepared and off-balance when the swordsman rushed forwards, swinging his sword over his shoulder like a club, bringing it slicing down towards Zatori’s exposed neck.
Zatori reacted on pure instinct, the muscle-memory of Father Nei’s long hours of martial instruction taking hold. Rather than trying to regain his balance, as his opponent might expect, Zatori instead allowed gravity to overcome, and fell straight back towards the ground. As the Caritaigne’s swing whistled harmlessly through the space Zatori had just vacated, Zatori thrust his tachina forwards and up as he fell backwards and down. The point of Zatori’s tachina drove into the Caritaig
ne’s left hip, and red arterial blood came fountaining forth when Zatori pulled the blade back out.
As the Caritaigne fell howling to the ground, clutching the crimson bloom on his hip, Zatori sat up, looking from one side to the other for any sign of Father Nei.
There! Zatori spotted his master in close combat with a Caritaigne officer, a few dozen paces away. True to form, Father Nei was easily besting his opponent, who was already on his last legs. In perhaps a moment or two, but little more, the battle-monk would deliver the fatal stroke, and the officer would fall.
Only then did Zatori see another young Caritaigne swordsman, rushing at Father Nei from behind, a naked blade in hand and murder in his eyes.
“Master! No!” Zatori shouted, struggling to rise to his feet. But by then it was already far too late.
As Taloc s’Tonan rushed the unsuspecting faithless nearest the forest’s edge, he tried to imagine what sort of name the day would win for the iron-brand in his hands. Perhaps something that could refer in some fashion to his father’s blade Lightning? Of course, at the moment there were other considerations that should have occupied his attentions.
The two armies had clearly not accounted for the disposition of the island’s warrior-clans as their battle had raged across the field, and as the brothers of Tonan’s clan raced towards the nearest of the combatants shouting blood-curdling war cries, the Caritaigne and the Sipangish seemed at first hardly to take notice.
“For Eokaroe!” Taloc shouted, as he swung at the nearest of the faithless, paying no heed whether it was a Sipangish or Caritaigne. He felt the edge of his nameless ironbrand bite into the flesh of the faithless’ unarmoured shoulder, hearing the satisfying thunk of metal against meat, but experienced a momentary bout of panic when the ironbrand’s blade seemed to become lodged in the bone beneath. The faithless looked back over his shoulder, shouting in surprised agony, and fixed wide and frightened eyes on Taloc as the young Eokaroean wrenched his ironbrand back and forth to pull it loose from the bone. Blood sprayed in a fine mist as the blade finally pulled free, and as the faithless reached up in a futile attempt to staunch the flow, Taloc stabbed forwards and drove the ironbrand halfway to the hilt into the soft tissue of the man’s back. The faithless collapsed to the muddy ground as Taloc yanked the blade free, bile and viscera pouring from the wound.
Taloc had felled his first enemy. Teeth bared like a mastiff protecting its territory, he felt strangely unsatisfied by the moment. Was it that he had not actually faced the faithless in combat, braving an enemy’s blade being the act that would have earned Taloc the distinction of manhood? But what did it matter that Taloc had struck the man down from behind? This was no tourney, where the champions would observe the protocols of tradition, each declaiming his name and his ancestry before approaching one another to close in single combat—these faithless were not champions or respected opponents, but were instead little more than vermin to be eradicated. Such degenerates did not deserve the observance of protocols, and could be struck from behind or unawares with as little hesitation as one would behead a viper who had slunk its way into an infant’s crib.
Taloc pushed such thoughts from his mind. He would have ample opportunity to brave an enemy’s blade before the battle was through, he had little doubt.
Glancing around him, he saw that the other warriors of his clan had also cut down faithless combatants, at least one Caritaigne or Sipangish fallen for every one of Taloc’s brothers who had taken to the field of battle. But while the Eokaroeans were able to score easy hits against the faithless in the attack’s first rushing instants, it would not take the main body of the Sipangish and Caritaigne armies to discover that a third force had taken the field, and to respond accordingly.
Taloc turned to see one of the faithless rushing towards him with some manner of long spear in his hands, though whether the attacker was a son of Sipang or of Caritaigne he had no way of divining.
Remembering all of his father’s lessons, Taloc leapt to one side just as the spear’s point traversed the space he had previously occupied, and then swung his ironbrand down with full force at the haft of the spear, hoping to cut straight through and sever the metal spearhead from the wooden shaft. But the spear’s shaft was reinforced with metal, and when Taloc’s ironbrand connected it rebounded with a clash of metal on metal that rang through the noisy din like the sound of a distant thunderbolt.
The shock reverberated back up Taloc’s arm, jarring his teeth and causing his vision to jitter, but as the faithless turned the spear’s point on him, Taloc found himself thinking of thunder, and of Lightning. The young Eokaroean felt as though he were moving in slow motion, as if he was trying to run while completely submerged in clinging mud, as he saw the spear being brought to bear.
“Ware the spear!” shouted the gruff voice of Taloc’s father from somewhere off to his left. In the next instant, the spearman was spitted on the point of Tonan’s Lightning, Taloc’s father scarcely out of breath from having raced over to his son’s side.
Taloc felt himself synch back up with the speed of the world around him as his father turned to regard him for the briefest of instants.
“Don’t lock your elbow when striking a blow, son. Your flexed arm will absorb the impact.”
And with that, Tonan turned and met the charge of another faithless’ attack.
Taloc nodded, needlessly, and followed in his father’s wake. “Thunder,” he said beneath his breath. Then he smiled, and added, “Thunderbolt.”
Zatori burned with rage and shame in equal measure—rage at the cowardly attack of the young Caritaigne who had struck down his master, shame at having failed to stick by the battle-monk in combat as was his duty.
In the time it took Zatori to cover half the distance to where Father Nei had been attacked from behind, the battle-monk had already slumped to the ground, bright blood mixing with the mud and the dust beneath him. By the time Zatori reached the battle-monk’s side, his master’s face was already wan and bloodless.
It was clear that the wound was a fatal one, and that while Father Nei still lived, it would not be for long.
“Sacred Duality, no!” Zatori grabbed hold of his master’s shoulders, teeth gritted as though the pain the battle-monk felt were his own.
Father Nei’s eyes fluttered open, and his gaze locked with Zatori’s.
Numb with shame and rage, awash in sympathetic pain as he imagined the agony of his master’s wounds, still Zatori could not help hoping for some final pearl of wisdom from the battle-monk’s dying lips. Some final admonition that Zatori could carry with him always, or a plea for vengeance on his murder that could spur Zatori in slaying all of the Caritaigne on Eokaroe in holy retribution. Any final utterance that could connect him to the man who had come to mean more to him than a father, and who had taught Zatori everything that he truly needed to know.
Instead, eyes locked with his squire and pupil, Father Nei was suddenly wracked by a fit of body-shaking coughs, pinkish foam flecking the corners of his bloodless lips. The battle-monk convulsed, violently, and when the coughing fit passed, so had Father Nei’s life. Sightless eyes rolled up in their sockets as the battle-monk’s head fell back to the ground with a sickening thud.
There would be no final moment of connection, no final lesson from master to student. Only death and blood and pain, and in its wake the lingering rage and shame.
Zatori forced his hands to release their vice-like grips on the dead man’s shoulder, and then raised stinging eyes on the confusion around him. His gaze sought out the one whose hands had taken his master from him, the one whose cowardly blade had spilled Father Nei’s lifeblood.
There he was, only a dozen paces away. His sword still stained with the battle-monk’s blood, the decadent Caritaigne was standing close with a pair of Caritaigne officers, one of whom was sporting a grave wound on his arm.
Zatori surged to his feet, and only then realised that he’d lost track of his tachina somewhere along the way Perhaps he had
dropped it in the mad scramble to reach his master’s side? Could it still lie back on the ground where he had fallen after the Caritaigne swordsman’s attack? He could not say. But there at his feet was Father Nei’s own tachina, lying discarded in the dust.
Snatching up his master’s fallen sword in a two-handed grip, Zatori set his jaw. Then, with a final glance at the body at his feet, he started running towards the murderous wretch, a sudden thirst for vengeance burning deep inside.
Jean-Robur du Queste stood with the two officers, one of whom was bleeding freely from a deep cut to his sword arm. It appeared that the three of them were all that remained of those who had stood together in the defensive ring.
Now that Jean-Robur’s falchion had tasted enemy blood, he felt surer of himself, better orientated on the field of battle. To be sure, his fencing instructors would have turned up their noses at his disregard of etiquette, but Jean-Robur was still standing and the accursed Sipangish had fallen. His instructors could keep their damned etiquette, Jean-Robur thought, but he would rather keep alive.
The three Caritaigne were still formulating their next course of action through the confusion when Jean-Robur heard an angry shout from close by, and looked up to see a young Sipangish soldier rushing towards him, waving a long curved sword overhead. Jean-Robur saw the rage that distorted the Sipangish’s face. He appeared to be racing right towards him.
Jean-Robur raised his falchion, confident in his ability to fend off the artless attack of a Sipangish youth no older than himself, but in the final moment before the Sipangish closed the distance between them the circumstances took a sudden turn. When the raging Sipangish youth was near enough for Jean-Robur to see the whites of his eyes, a dozen or more newcomers burst onto the scene with ear-splitting shouts.
[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn Page 4
