I think he was going to say more, but the mist suddenly thinned and a gasp of dismay slid out of our troops. The enemy were trotting towards us, no more than 150 yards away now, in a long, tight line. Their horses were calm and massive, their lances raised like a thicket of steel. Even at this range you could see their uniform bronze-faced helms: a true army.
I looked for the remains of our cavalry but they were nowhere to be seen. The line of crimson-cloaked soldiers kept coming. God, there were a lot of them. Seventy or more. Half of our sixty cavalry were dead and the rest were gone with Lisha and Renthrette. I stood with seven other crossbowmen in front of about sixteen spearmen and nine or ten archers. We didn’t have a chance, but the raiders weren’t going to give us an option.
And I think it was then that I noticed that one of the raiders was different from the rest. His bloodred helm was topped with a pair of horns, and his cloak looked heavy, like it was made of fur lined with crimson silk. He carried something that might have been a spear or a staff of some kind, and he never moved at all.
With a breath of quiet resolve they surged towards us. Mithos yelled the order and there was a thin swish of bows from behind me. Still they came on, their steeds churning the grass as they galloped on. None fell to the arrows. I held up my hand. A second pattering of arrows flew overhead and fell harmlessly behind them. In four or five seconds they had halved the distance between us.
Wait. Wait.
“Shoot!” I shouted. I shot for the neck of a white charger with a cloak of crimson over its leather barding. It shuddered as the bolt struck home and dropped to its knees, but the rider slid easily from the saddle and drew out his scyax. Mithos grabbed my shoulder and thrust me to the earth. I didn’t even see how many we’d brought down. Not many, I think. We fell on our faces in the drainage ditch and the spearmen stepped over us.
My hands fumbled for the crossbow slide and began tugging it back. The sound of the horses grew deafening. Through the legs of the spearmen I saw their speed break as they hit the embankment and a couple of them stumbled. The horses lurched up the grassy slope and, refusing to go further, boiled around the spear line. I saw one horse, unable to halt its advance, lunge and spit itself upon a spear, falling only a couple of feet away from where I crouched. The spearman in front of me suddenly cried out and fell heavily, blood gurgling from his lips. He wasn’t the only one.
The raiders pulled back. I suppose the order to advance was given before they realized how large a hole gaped in our poor defenses. I think six or seven of our spearmen had fallen and the line no longer really existed. As the raiders drew away I could see the vast hulks of their dead horses. We had killed only two of the raiders themselves.
“Draw your swords,” shouted Mithos. The enemy were dismounting, unwilling to force their reluctant mounts on our meager spear line. They were coming on foot, grimly, deliberately, with their huge, cruel-headed scyaxes sparkling coldly in their hands. There were so many of them, it seemed madness to resist but, knowing what would surely happen if we attempted to surrender, I finished cocking my crossbow and struggled to my feet.
Vaguely I smelled the sour smoke of two wagons blazing at the front of the convoy and, with a defiant cry, aimed and shot at the advancing line. The bolt struck one of them in the head, rang out sharply, and glanced away. He paused for a second and came on. Terrified, I reached for my sword.
Orgos was beside me, his twin swords with their fine long blades held out before him. On my left a soldier dropped his spear and fled, crying bitterly. With murderous calm the enemy clambered up the embankment to where we waited. When the first man reached the top, Orgos cried out and fell on him. Mithos followed suit and a handful of others lunged and slashed inexpertly with their swords. More raiders pressed around us. I stabbed at one and he parried it easily. A young infantryman fell to a scyax beside me and his hot blood splashed across my arms.
That was enough for me.
I moved back from the fray as Orgos’s inspired blades swept a bronze head from its shoulders and then turned to fend off the strokes which fell upon him from all sides. I ran, turning to watch only when I was safe behind the heavy wheel of one of the wagons. My hands shaking worse, I fumbled with my crossbow and wondered if I could catch one of the stray horses and make a run for it.
Then out of the mist came the remnants of our cavalry with Garnet at the head, Lisha and Renthrette on the flanks. The Grey-coast lancers hit the dismounted raiders in the flank, stunning them with the impetus of the wild charge. For a moment the tide changed and several of the enemy fell. But the advantage was lost as soon as the enemy got over the surprise. Then they turned to face the cavalry, some of them hacking at the horses to stop the advance while the rest retreated to their mounts.
What was left of our spear line broke rank and plunged down the embankment after them. There was a familiar flash of amber light, and the raiders seemed to slow, unsure of where they were or what they were doing. And out among them, leading the charge, was the source of the fiery flash, Orgos. He was a demon. Of the dozen or so men the raiders lost that day, I think Orgos killed half of them. Mithos ran with him and Garnet harried them from the saddle, his ax tracing wide and brutal arcs. I crept out from behind the wagon and stood up to watch.
It couldn’t last. The raiders shrugged off our inexperienced infantry and, by sheer weight of numbers, put us on the defensive again. A crossbowman was hacked down beside Mithos and the last of the spearmen turned tail and fled towards the wagons. The raiders went after them, though they shied away from Mithos and Orgos, the only ones still standing firm.
“Fight me, damn you!” roared Orgos.
He leapt into the mass of bronze-and-crimson warriors with Mithos at his heels. Garnet’s horse ploughed into the enemy and he leapt from it, swinging his ax as he dived. I caught a glimpse of Renthrette trading blows with two of them. There were dozens more. Absolute victory was theirs, but the party fought them still.
Then I saw Lisha. She stood apart, watching as the last of our men fell to the scyaxes. There were only two or three of our escort still fighting and the muddy earth was thick with corpses swathed in royal blue cloaks. Still, Lisha dug her heels into the glossy flanks of the black warhorse called Tarsha and crashed into the throng of the enemy.
“No!” I shouted.
The battle was lost. She heard me and for a split second her eyes found me out, oblivious to the plunging and stamping of her battle-trained stallion. Then she raised her black-shafted spear and struck downwards. There was a bluish spark like a small lightning storm, and a thunderous roar. I stared, astonished. Two raiders fell before her, and Tarsha’s hooves rained down upon them. The rest of them parted before her in confused panic as she made her way to where the remainder of our company stood: Orgos and Mithos with their blades outstretched daring the enemy to attack, Garnet and Renthrette bleeding but angrily defiant, and two or three tattered soldiers from Greycoast, the last of our hundred-man escort. They gathered about Tarsha’s steaming sides, and Lisha, her black hair spilling from her helm, looked sternly about her. I was pretty sure that sixty or more of the enemy remained, but only a couple of dozen were visible. The others had melted away in the mist, and that could mean only one thing: They were about to attack again.
It was now or never.
I slipped between the wagons and started to head in the opposite direction, hoping to lose myself in the misty fields till it was over. Then I could get a horse and head north. My adventuring days were done.
“Where shall we stand, sir?”
It was one of the Greycoast spearmen, who had recognized me. He had retreated to the wagons, to hide, probably, but now he had regained his laughable courage. He wasn’t alone, either. There were five or six others, one with a horse and a couple with bows, all clinging to the shelter of the wagons but now watching me expectantly.
“Do what you like,” I muttered, clambering over a dead horse to the far side of the road.
“Sir?” said the
soldier.
“Be heroic,” I muttered sarcastically. “Charge!”
“That way, sir?” said the bewildered soldier, squinting out into the misty emptiness where I was heading and then glancing back to where Mithos and the rest stood, squared for the final, inevitable assault on the other side.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Definitely this way, if you value your skins.”
With that I started to run into the mist where it was densest, getting as far away from the wagons and the battle as I could. The few remaining stragglers ran after me, though God alone knew what they thought they were doing. Distantly I heard Orgos shouting at the enemy back there, but I ran on, gasping for breath, my heart thudding against my ribs, no thought in my head but escape.
Then the wind gusted, and everything changed.
The mist ahead shifted. It rippled clear for a moment and I saw the scarlet cloaks of forty men no more than ten yards away. They were dismounted, getting ready for a quiet attack on the rear that would wipe out the survivors. I would have sworn they hadn’t been there only seconds before, but they were there now, and I had run right into them.
I froze. The heavy mist was coursing back into place all around us. They obviously hadn’t seen me, and with care I might still slip by them and make a run for it. I was considering how I might do this when one of the infantrymen who had “fled” with me ran blindly into my back. I fell forward with a startled cry and, as I hit the ground, my temperamental crossbow went off. There was a shout of pain as one of the raiders twisted to the ground clutching his abdomen, and then a stuttering and scattered shout as the half-dozen men who had followed me pitched their spears and shot their bows.
The raiders were, of course, in no real danger. They were, however—perhaps for the first time in their savage career—taken completely off-guard. They weren’t ready to fight and they didn’t know whom they were fighting, where the enemy were, or how many they numbered. One horse fell, maybe more, and one of the Grey-coast troops got in close enough to lunge his spear into the stomach of one of the unwary raiders. No more than shadow figures in the thick mist, the raiders stumbled about in the confusion, trying to get back into their saddles, calling out to each other and nervously watching for their equally shadowy attackers. A few more arrows fell amongst them and I heard another shout of pain. I don’t know if they lost any others, but I do know that in seconds they were gone: mounted and fled.
“Brilliant!” said one of the spearmen, wheezing heavily.
“What?” I gasped, still lying on the damp ground.
“That was a stroke of tactical genius,” he said as the others gathered about us, exhausted and beaming. “And real courage,” he went on. “It’s an honor to serve under you, sir.”
With that commendation and a grin of triumph, they hurried back to the wagons for more. I sat there in the mud for a moment and then, very slowly, followed.
By the time I found my way back to the road the survivors had gathered with the party. The raiders stood a hundred yards away, regrouped and orderly, though somehow you could tell that there was to be no final attack. I slipped in amongst the party, hoping that as Mithos’s name had saved me in the burning village, so his presence would now. We stayed where we were, conscious of the wagons smoking behind us but staring at the crimson, faceless line.
And then the raider with the horned helm and the staff finally moved, raising his arms in some grand gesture. The staff traced a slow circle in the air and, as the raiders began to walk their mounts away, I had the odd impression that the mist was getting thicker around them. Only a solitary officer, distinguishable by the lateral plume across his helm, paused and looked back at us before he too pulled his horse around and rode slowly away into the mist. He seemed to fade as the fog thickened, and then they were gone.
SCENE XXIX
The Fallen
Though many have fallen,” called Orgos from atop one of the wagons, “we ride in triumph to Ironwall. We owe much, even our very lives, to each other and to those who didn’t make it through. But we owe the most to one man whose courage and ingenuity saved the lives of many, perhaps of the convoy itself. When we reach Ironwall, we will celebrate, but for now let us simply cry, ‘Three cheers for Will Hawthorne!’ Hip hip, hoorah. Hip, hip . . .”
This came as something of a surprise to me, and for a split second I thought it was an unpleasant joke at my expense. But they cheered loudly and gripped my shoulder and shook my hand and said I was a good fellow and a dashed fine general. And since their saying so seemed to make everyone forget what a fiasco the whole thing had been, I took my praise modestly.
I caught Renthrette watching me thoughtfully. Our eyes locked and I couldn’t think of anything to say. She tried to smile in an encouraging sort of way, but she still looked shocked and exhausted from the battle. I nodded quickly and looked away.
This was where I got off. I had seen enough and had decided that staying to be massacred with the rest of them was not my idea of a fun day out. I hadn’t told them yet, but I was done.
Funnily enough, it was Orgos who had made me realize that this was no place for me. In his little post-slaughter speech he had said in his proud, warrior voice, “We leave the field honorably, and had they charged us at the end, they would have learnt to their cost that valor permits no surrender.” He meant it, too. What I had intended as a prompt to get them to see the futility of what they were doing, he was echoing without a trace of irony.
Well, speak for yourself, mate. The road was littered with bodies. We had been inches away from being a huddle of corpses beside a few burning wagons, another failed defense against the raiders; but we would have died honorably and that made it all right. No. Honor is just the carrot that leads donkeys like Orgos to pointless deaths, leaving the downtrodden without a champion and the tyrants secure as before. Call me pragmatic, call me cynical, but I didn’t get it and I wasn’t about to die for it.
Despite Orgos’s words of honor and triumph, I detected a glimmer of panic amongst the party as they looked over the casualties. I suppose we are brought up to believe that the good guys always win in the end, though they might take a few tear-jerking losses along the way. Sooner or later the enemies are brought low by that superior skill, or that extra spark of intelligence, or that flash of magical power too mysterious for the narrator to have to justify it. Well, we hadn’t seen any of that. They had wiped our force out and toyed with the survivors. I’d seen some more of that strange light from Orgos’s sword, and something similar from Lisha’s spear, but whatever such things were, they clearly weren’t enough. For once, Lisha’s party didn’t have the edge, and—however much they tried to keep it to themselves—it shocked them like a spear in the side.
Before we set off I saw Mithos and Lisha standing together. He loomed over her in his stained armor and she talked up to him. Though I don’t know what was said, it was a while before they parted. When he caught my gaze I thought he faltered for a moment before he spoke. “Give them a hand putting that fire out, Will. Then help Lisha collect the dead for burial.”
I did, but I’m not going to talk about that.
There was something else as well, the icing on the whole horrible cake. We hadn’t killed any of the raiders. Not one. There wasn’t a single corpse on the battlefield wearing the scarlet and bronze of the enemy. This was troubling on several levels.
I had seen several of the raiders go down. I would have sworn that we had killed maybe a dozen—not a huge dent in their force, of course, but enough to prove they were mortal. I wandered the battlefield when the fog lifted, but there were none.
“The mist was thick,” said Garnet. “They must have come back and taken away their dead while we were tending to our survivors.”
“And the tracks?” said Renthrette, gazing out over the fields. “There are hoofprints on the battlefield itself. They radiate out for a couple of hundred yards. But beyond that, nothing. How did they get here? Where did they go?”
SCENE XXX
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Ironwall
It was evening by the time we reached the city. A slight buzz of excitement rose up from the wagons as the citadel’s towering walls and turrets came into view. In other circumstances I might have been impressed too, since it far outshone anything I’d ever seen in the Empire lands, but I was having a bad day. It seemed like I’d had a lot of bad days lately. Since I blamed my companions for that, I ignored their vaguely awestruck whispers about the scale of the fortifications and glowered at the Greycoast capital.
Ironwall looked like it had emerged from the earth. It was completely contained by its perimeter wall—no straggling inns and houses overspilling the city proper—and only the road we were on showed signs of civilization beyond its massive battlements. It breathed unassailable authority from its granite bulk. I shifted uneasily in my saddle as the thing got closer, filling the horizon and looming over us like storm clouds.
Renthrette had raised the beaver of her helm by the time we approached the huge gatehouse, but her face gave so little away that she might as well have kept it down. She had been like that since the battle: quiet, watchful, uncertain. It was weird and a little scary. If the raiders could leave her unsure of herself, then their powers had no limits.
She had ridden ahead to announce our coming, since it took about ten minutes to get the massive porticullis open, and by the time we got there, soldiers and townsfolk had gathered along the walls to watch our entry. I think they were cheering. I dismounted, tethered my horse to the back of the wagon, and climbed inside, where I felt less exposed. Garnet rode out to the front looking brave and stalwart.
An expensive-looking wagon bearing a silversmith’s arms was stuck in the roadway, trying to get out of the city and head north. The old man driving it paused to cheer us on. He wore a silver pendant at his throat shaped like a sun disk with a huge blue stone in the center. The cheering increased, muting only slightly as the corpse wagons passed over the bridge and into the city.
Act of Will Page 18
