The Wizard_s Fate e-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  The Wizard_s Fate

  ( Ergoth - 2 )

  Paul B. Thompson

  Tonya C. Cook

  Paul B. Thompson, Tonya C. Cook

  The Wizard_s Fate

  Chapter 1

  Soldiers and Diplomats

  Raising a tin cup to his lips, Tol of Juramona took a sip. The water was warm and brackish, but it cut the thick coating of dust from his throat. He spat, noting it was tinged with red.

  “Are you well, my lord?” asked his comrade, Darpo.

  “Well enough.”

  Tol had taken a hard knock from an enemy horseman. The blow had left his jaw black and blue and loosened a couple of teeth. The plainsman who landed the blow was with the gods now. Tol had separated his head from his shoulders.

  During this brief lull in the battle, Tol and his men had ridden into a shallow draw to down bread and water. Wine would have been more welcome, but after ten years on campaign, wine was in short supply.

  Tol removed his helmet. Beneath the heavy iron pot his long brown hair was soaked with sweat. He untied the thong at the back of his neck, letting the breeze blow through his hair. The wind off the bay was cool-too cool. Winter was coming, and life in the open on the Tarsan coast would soon be even more difficult.

  Through the swirling dust, Tol spied a rider galloping toward them. His company drew swords and interposed themselves between their commander and the approaching stranger. When they saw he wore Ergothian trappings, the warriors relaxed.

  “Dispatch coming,” Frez announced. A spearman of great repute, Frez was one of Tol’s companions from the early days in Juramona.

  When Tol first came to that provincial town as a mere boy, twenty years before, Frez and his fellow foot soldiers had been in the pay of the Marshal of the Eastern Hundred. Since then, they’d all come far, in station and location. Tol, the farmer’s son, was now Lord Tolandruth, Champion of the Empire; Frez and Darpo were his chief lieutenants.

  The young dispatch rider hauled his mount to a skidding stop. “Message from Lord Regobart!” he cried, voice cracking.

  Tol dismounted and made his way to the rider, parting his men’s horses with easy shoves. Not a big man, he was compact and very strong. Taking the dispatch from the messenger, he saw the youth’s hands were shaking.

  “Nervous, boy?” he asked, not unkindly.

  “The enemy has sortied, sir!” The messenger’s fist spasmed, drawing the reins tighter and causing his sweat-streaked horse to prance in a half-circle. “They mean to break Lord Regobart’s position!”

  Tol studied the missive. His reading skills had improved over the years, but the abbreviated script used by Regobart’s scribe was hard to decipher. Frowning, he held the square of parchment up to Frez and Darpo.

  “Does that say twenty thousand, or thirty?”

  Frez, less literate than his commander, merely shrugged. Darpo, a well-traveled former sailor, pushed blond hair from his face and peered at the writing. “Thirty thousand,” he said firmly.

  Tol’s face split in a fierce grin. “They’ve come out at last!” he said, spirit rising in his voice. “Anovenax has committed the garrison-the Tar sans have come out!”

  He strode back to his horse and leaped into the saddle. “To your positions, men! At last we can carry out the plan!”

  By the dispatch rider Tol sent message to Lord Regobart to hold on. Tol and his men were coming hard and fast.

  Before departing the young warrior bared his dagger in formal salute. “My lord! I have long prayed to Corij for this day!”

  “So have we all, son.”

  Tol’s retinue broke up, each man riding out to resume command of his horde of one thousand men. Only Frez remained close by his commander’s side. The two of them rode down the ravine, toward the battlefield where eighty thousand warriors and sixty thousand horses had churned, screamed, fought, and died.

  The Imperial Army of Ergoth had battled its way to the very gates of Tarsis. Behind its thick white walls, the city’s thousand spires gleamed, despite the haze of dust drifting overhead. Beyond the spires lay the Bay of Tarsis, dotted with numerous ships of the Tarsan fleet. The normally placid blue water of the bay was dotted with whitecaps. A strong offshore wind churned the water and kept the great galleys, crowded with highly paid Tarsan marines, from reaching land.

  Tol squinted against the sunlight. Three, perhaps four, hours of daylight remained. The battle must be concluded before sunset or their great gamble would fail.

  He and Frez guided their mounts to the ridge above the ravine. On their right, battle raged between Lord Regobart’s thirty hordes and the city’s army. The Tarsan commander, Admiral Anovenax, was bold and brave but not much of a tactician-very like his opponent, Regobart. The admiral had marched forth from the city with his entire garrison thinking to smash the Ergothian army and enable the Tarsan fleet to dock. With the Tarsan forces thus united, the imperial hordes would be outnumbered and cut in two. All that would be left to them was ignominious retreat.

  However, the admiral’s plan had not brought him the swift victory he’d expected. Foiling his triumph were the inhabitants of a cluster of tents set up on the rolling dunes two leagues from the city. There, priests employed by the empire worked the powerful and prolonged wind spell that held the Tarsan fleet at bay. Twice the Tarsans had tried to destroy the clerics; first, in a night raid that failed, and then with magic of their own. Their hired magicians had called forth a flock of fire-ravens, living birds made of flame. Imperial spellcasters countered with torrential rain, and the fire-ravens were extinguished before they could do serious damage. Now Anovenax was concentrating his attack on the tents.

  Sixteen hordes were under Tol’s command, the six thousand horsemen and ten thousand infantry which made up the Army of the North. All lay flat on their bellies, the riders’ horses likewise down. Rolling dunes screened them from the sea and from sharp-eyed city sentinels.

  The preponderance of foot soldiers in Tol’s command was unique in an empire forged by the Riders of the Great Horde, hut Tol had made a specialty of leading men on foot. He and his tough, well-trained, highly loyal force had won many signal victories. In the past decade they had marched all the way from Hylo in the north, fighting eleven battles large and small, to arrive at this place, where they hoped to end the war that had raged so long between Ergoth and Tarsis.

  Tol drew his saber and lifted it high. “Rise up!” he cried. “Now is our time! For Ergoth!”

  Sixteen thousand men rose as one. Shouting “Ergoth! Ergoth!” they came streaming over the ridge. The horsemen spread out to confuse the enemy about their true numbers; the footmen marched in close order to convey overwhelming strength.

  As the first block of spearmen reached him, Tol got down from his rawboned gray mount and tossed the reins to a surprised Frez. “I’ll fight this battle on my own two feet,” he said.

  He accepted a spear from a nearby warrior, telling Frez to remain in the saddle, the better to bring the news from other fronts. Frez dismounted anyway and sent both their horses cantering away.

  “After the battle, you may flog me for disobedience, my lord,” Frez said to his glowering leader. “But now, shall we fight?”

  The going was hard-the soldiers had to slog through loose sand while burdened by the weight of scale shirt and leggings. In addition, each man had an eight-foot spear ported on his right shoulder and a brass and wood shield slung on his left arm. Tol was glad he’d taken the time for water, brackish or not.

  The din of combat grew louder with each dune they crossed. A vast melee was boiling under the walls of Tarsis. Regobart’s force, nearly all cavalry, had been bent backward like a huge bow.

  In the
center of the battlefield was a bizarre sight: four enormous turtles, each six paces high, and each carrying upon its back a tall wooden hoarding. The Tarsans had bought the creatures at great expense from the breeders of Silvanost, where they were used to tow ferries across the Thon-Thalas. From the makeshift platforms on the turtles’ backs, Tarsan archers showered the Ergothians with arrows. No weapon in the imperial army could penetrate the shells of the giant turtles.

  “Quarter turn, right!” Tol shouted.

  The marching block of men slanted off, avoiding the slow-moving, implacable turtles. Arrows fell on them like a deadly squall. Men toppled, pierced in the head or shoulders. The phalanx closed the resulting gaps and kept going. They had no choice but to ignore wounded comrades; if they paused, more men would fall. The surest way to save Ergothian lives was to come to grips with the enemy as quickly as possible.

  Riderless horses galloped past, eyes wide with pain and terror. Broken weapons cracked underfoot, and the sand was stained with large scarlet patches. At Tol’s order, spears were leveled. A section of Regobart’s cavalry scrambled to steer clear of the approaching block of warriors. Catching sight of the banner of Juramona, Tol’s hometown, the cavalry let out a roar of approbation.

  “Tolandruth! Tolandruth!” they chanted, raising high their bloodied sabers. Tol’s footmen pushed through open lanes between the cheering horsemen.

  The Tarsan soldiery grouped behind the spearhead of giant turtles was composed mainly of mercenaries, with a few city dwellers pressed into the ranks. The mercenaries were a mixed lot: leather-clad plains nomads, Thoradin dwarves wielding double-axes, and a few wild elves from the forest lands, their faces painted with red, blue, and green loops and lines. Tarsan officers led this contingent. Their bright golden headgear made them easy targets for the Ergothians.

  Tol swung his phalanx smartly in a half-turn left. The leading ranks of the Tarsans, long-haired sailors now serving as spearmen, recoiled at the sight of five hundred Ergothians maneuvering with such unity and precision. Tol watched them brace themselves for the inevitable collision, setting their feet firmly as inexperienced soldiers were wont to do. To his expert eyes, the Tarsans with their spears couched looked like a picket fence standing in the path of an avalanche.

  For the last few paces the quick-moving Ergothians leaned forward, now almost running. Arrows flickered in from the platforms atop the creeping turtles. One creased Tol’s cheek. He ignored the sharp sting, blinking away involuntary tears. The clash of arms was at hand.

  Iron spearheads, backed by the weight of a full phalanx, hit the Tarsan line. They went down like grass before a scythe, hurled backward into their comrades and knocking them likewise flat. Tol’s men penetrated five ranks deep before they were stopped. Ergothians in the rear ranks laid their spears on the shoulders of their comrades and pushed. All the maneuvering and strategy came down to this: bodies of armed warriors shoving at each other.

  On either side, other blocks of Ergothian spearmen struck the enemy line. Horns blared, and the Tarsan ranks opened to reveal a corps of archers. At spitting distance they lashed the Ergothians with arrows. The soldier on Tol’s right dropped, pierced through the eye. Tol put up his shield in time to block an arrow coming at his face. The bronze-tipped shaft penetrated halfway through his shield.

  “Get those sons of snakes!” he cried.

  Men four ranks in the rear broke formation and charged. The archers were northerners, from the wild coast east of Thoradin. They stood their ground admirably, bombarding the Ergothians with deadly missiles. At the last moment the archers melted back into the Tarsan army, several lofting arrows backward at their foes as they ran. It was a masterly performance, and Tol grudgingly admired their skill.

  Freed by the pressure of Tol’s counterattack, Lord Regobart re-formed his horsemen and charged again, aiming to cut off the Tarsans from their city. A small band of mercenary cavalry tried to defend the gates but proved no match for the fury of Regobart’s Great Horde. With their guard routed, the Tarsans had to close the city gate to keep Regobart out. The massive brass portals swung shut just as the lead riders reached them. From atop the walls, stones, molten lead, and arrows scourged the Ergothians. Lord Regobart recalled his men.

  Cut off now, the Tarsans did a remarkable thing. Instead of surrendering or trying to fight their way back into the city, they continued to drive toward the distant row of tents where the imperial priests labored. For a moment the Ergothians did not react, so surprising was this bold move. The four giant turtles ponderously changed formation from a wedge to a line. One of Tol’s phalanxes tried to stop a green behemoth, jabbing it continuously with their spears. The beast’s shell and leathery hide turned aside all their efforts.

  Frez appeared at his commander’s side. “They’re not themselves today!” he shouted in Tol’s ear. “They fight like wild men.”

  Tol nodded. “They’ll expend every life they have to reach our mages-then their fleet will have a chance to save the city!”

  “Can we stop those monsters?”

  Tol craned his neck to see over the sprawling battle. The hoarding on each turtle’s back held fifteen to twenty archers. The wooden structures, pointed at the fore, reminded him of the forecastle of a ship. That thought brought a grin to his face.

  “Let’s board ’em!” he said, clapping Frez on the back.

  Tol withdrew his phalanx, ordering the rest to keep up the pressure on the Tarsans. Marching swiftly behind the line of battle, his men grounded their spears and drew swords. With about four hundred men fit to fight, Tol sent a hundred against each of the four turtles.

  “Scale them any way you can,” he ordered. “Rope and grapnels, a human ladder-whatever you can devise!”

  One group dashed off to the closest turtle. Bracing themselves against the nearly vertical slope of the beast’s shell, they laced their arms together. More of their comrades clambered up their backs to their shoulders and repeated the pose. Tol’s band used shields to create footholds for the next wave to scale the great creature’s side. All this occurred under a constant hail of arrows. Fortunately for the Ergothians, the safest place to be was up close to the crawling giants. There the turtle’s bulk shielded them from the Tarsan archers.

  Tol, Frez, and a dozen soldiers climbed the staircase of shields to the top and threw themselves onto the turtle’s back.

  The shell was steeply curved here, but the Ergothians were able to crawl up the smooth shell. Tarsans on neighboring animals shouted and pointed at the encroaching enemy. More arrows whistled in and several of the climbing Ergothians tumbled to the ground, their bodies studded with white — fletched Tarsan missiles.

  Tal reached a more level area and drew himself into a crouch. Survivors of his band gathered behind him. All drew sabers.

  With a shout, Tol vaulted over the low wooden hoarding and planted a booted foot on the chest of a wide-eyed Tarsan archer. His men swarmed in behind him, howling for blood. Some of the archers had star-headed maces for close combat, but these were no match for Tol’s swordsmen. The Ergothians cleaved through the enemy in short order, shoving dead and wounded foes over the side to clear the small structure. Soon only the turtle-driver remained.

  The driver, a Silvanesti hired when the turtles were purchased, sat on the forward slope of the shell. Bare-chested, wearing loose white trousers that ended above his knees, the elf was screened on each side by a low wooden wall. His bare feet rested in niches carved into the forward face of the shell.

  Tol put the edge of his saber to the elf’s throat and demanded he halt the beast.

  Calmly the driver replied, “Kill me, and nothing will stop the great Zeboim.”

  The turtle named for the tempestuous sea-goddess was by now only half a league from the tents housing the imperial clerics. Frustrated, Tol sheathed his sword and ordered the insolent Silvanesti dragged from his perch.

  There were no reins or other obvious means of control, but with its driver gone, the turtle did slow a bit.
Tol slid into the leather seat and tried yelling for the creature to halt. Zeboim continued to plod directly toward the vulnerable tents.

  Frez leaned over his commander’s shoulder. “The elf’s nearly naked,” he said. “Mayhap the beast needs to feel skin?”

  Tol unwound his leggings and removed his boots and stockings. Planting his bare feet in the carved niches, he tried to influence the giant with pressure from one foot, then the other.

  Zeboim swung his huge head from side to side. A deep grunt gusted from his nostrils. Tol’s men cheered him on, while he gave all his attention to the task. Sweat rolled down his face. Zeboim was foremost of the turtles; Tol was close enough now to see the pennants on the tent tops. A solid wall of Ergothian infantry had formed between the tents and the oncoming giants, a gallant, if futile, gesture.

  Tol’s men had seized a second turtle but failed to wrest the other two from their owners. Ergothians on the captured turtles took up Tarsan bows and loosed arrows at the two beasts still controlled by the enemy.

  Tol exerted more and more pressure with his right foot. With agonizing slowness, the beast bore into a turn until it was crawling straight at another turtle, one still under Tarsan control. Between the slowly converging creatures the air was thick with arrows. A quartet of missiles shattered around Tol’s naked feet and more thudded into the low-walled box that sheltered his upper body.

  He glanced back to see the other beast captured by his men had halted for some reason, but even that slight movement stirred Zeboim off his path. Wiping sweat from his eyes, Tol concentrated on keeping the giant on his collision course.

  “Stand ready, men!” he shouted.

  The driver of the other turtle was so distracted by the general melee that he didn’t notice Zeboim’s approach until it was too late. Zeboim’s nose touched his comrade’s shell. Then he kept moving doggedly forward until gradually his head was forced back into his shell.