Leo felt a large hole open up where his stomach had been. It was one thing to march on a few hours of sleep to ambush an unsuspecting foe. But his forces hadn’t eaten, they hadn’t rested, and many were occupied with prisoners or the wounded. This new enemy, on the other hand, would be fresh. And, judging by the breadth of their front, their numbers were substantially larger than Count Moor’s had been.
Perhaps even larger than Leo’s.
“Buchold,” Leo said. His throat was dry and tight and the word escaped as little more than a hoarse whisper. Clearing it, he continued, “Buchold! Buchanan! Where the hell are you?”
“Right here, sir,” Buchold said, practically at Leo’s elbow. Leo glanced at him, startled, and by the time he’d recovered, Buchanan had joined them.
“We’re going to pull back,” Leo announced. “But I want it to be disciplined. A fighting withdrawal, if you will. If those bastards decide to give chase, I want us ready to meet them at a moment’s notice. And whatever you do, keep the ranks tight. The moment one formation breaks, this will turn into a rout. You will not allow that to happen. Understood?”
Both nodded. However, it was Buchold alone who spoke.
“Understood, sir,” the elf said.
Chapter Twenty-One
Leo had enjoyed his fair share of crushing victories. He’d even endured a number of unavoidable defeats when he’d been caught flatfooted by an unexpected foe. But retreating before the battle even began, knowing that to fight would be to lose, was almost worse. It was like watching a catastrophe unfold in slow motion, each detail of the scenario playing out one after another, with more than enough time in between to contemplate the mistakes that had carried him here.
Why had he been in such a hurry to press his advantage? Why had he forbidden the scouts to roam farther afield? No wonder there had been such inconsistency in the reported size of the enemy! It wasn’t unreliable reports; there were multiple armies! Surely it would have been better to risk alerting his enemies to his presence than to charge headlong in a simple trap. And yet, that was precisely what he’d done.
No sooner had Leo’s forces begun to retreat than the newly arrived count’s army burst from its shelter among the trees. They didn’t charge headlong—that would almost have been preferable. Instead, they kept their distance, hooting and taunting and jeering a hundred paces from the rear, occasionally loosing arrows that sent Leo’s troops scrambling behind shields or ducking into cover.
It was painfully obvious what they were doing. And yet, the strategy was all the more infuriating because it was unavoidable. Burdened as he was by so many wounded and stumbling prisoners, Leo had no hope of outrunning this new foe. They were tiring him out, wearing at his nerves like a pursuit predator stalking its prey until frustration or exhaustion got the better of him. But the instant he stopped running and turned round to challenge his foe, they would strike. In narrow valleys and winding gorges, there would be no hope of relying on strategy or cunning; sheer numbers and raw might would determine the victor. His chance—his only chance—lay in luring the count’s forces far from their camp and onto advantageous terrain.
But, as the dawn aged into a bright, gusty midmorning, they steadfastly refused to do anything of the sort.
His only distraction from the maddening affair was Sann, though in a wearying sense rather than an encouraging one. Karran had joined him a few minutes after the retreat began, bearing the unconscious drakonid on her back. And rather impressively, she’d continued to do so for several hours. It wasn’t until they’d covered nearly three-quarters of the route back to camp that she stumbled and nearly dropped her precious cargo.
That was how Leo had found himself with a drakonid draped across his shoulders, adding to the weight of his armor. He’d been tired and aching within a matter of minutes but refused to allow his discomfort to show. Nor did he accept any of the frequent offers to carry Sann in his stead.
Propriety be damned; Sann was his responsibility and he wouldn’t see her in another man’s arms if he could help it. Besides, her presence distracted him from the very real possibility that he was about to lose this war.
“Leo,” Nyssa said, with the subtle insistence that suggested it was not the first time she’d called his name. “Are you listening?”
“Hmm?” he grunted. Grimacing, he bounced Sann higher to shift her weight from his lower back. “Sorry, what?”
“We’re almost there,” she pointed out. “It’s not even half a league. The camp is just past that rise.”
“Ah. Right. So it is.”
The air was thick with expectation like the span between lightning and the resulting thunder. Nor was Nyssa the only one contributing to it. Karran, Buchold, Sophe, Buchanan, and even Iresh seemed to be leaning toward him, waiting for some sign of what lay before them.
Leo met their eyes fleetingly. Then he sighed.
“We’ll use the golems,” he decided. “This isn’t where or how I wanted to do it—the terrain isn’t flat enough for them to build momentum—but we don’t have any other choice.”
It was a strange sensation. With every word, Leo’s hesitation melted away and made the next step easier. He wasn’t any happier about it; the necessity of using his trump card in such an early skirmish continued to grate at him, but it was better than simply giving up or petulantly wasting his forces on a hopeless battle.
“Nyssa, I want you to run ahead,” he continued. “Find Skipper and help him get the golems into position. As soon as we’ve maneuvered out of their way, start the charge. Once they’ve broken the count’s lines, we’ll rejoin the fight and sweep through what’s left of them.”
Nyssa nodded, expression hardening with newfound purpose. Catching the attention of a pair of nearby sergeants, she gestured for the men to follow. And, no doubt due to the self-assured manner in which she commanded them, the pair remarkably obeyed without question.
“The rest of you spread word of the plan,” Leo said, eyeing Sophe and Buchold in particular. “I want everyone ready to move in unison. We’ve got to hit them before they have a chance to reform ranks. Otherwise, we’ll have wasted the golems for nothing.”
A sudden outburst of coarse, mocking laughter drew every gaze, including Leo’s. Which, judging by his foul-tempered smirk was precisely what Count Bordeau had been hoping for. The man was unperturbed by the heavy iron shackles that fastened his arms behind his back. In fact, he almost seemed to be jostling their lead chain on purpose as he strolled behind the cluster of officers. One of the elves assigned to guarding the man lowered his spear and pressed its burnished steel head to Bordeau’s back but, again, the count was not outwardly disturbed by the reminder.
“Yes?” Leo asked testily. “Something to add, Your Grace?”
Bordeau chuckled, shaking his head. While his fiendish grin looked to Leo as though the count knew something of value—details he would refuse to share, of course—it was equally possible that it was naught but a bluff designed to unnerve them. Why else would he draw attention to his implied insights? He had to know that if Leo emerged victorious, even if the odds were stacked against him, he was risking a punitive flogging just for the sake of… what? A moment of infantile smugness?
Eyes narrowing, Leo turned his attention from Bordeau to the pair of elves guarding the man. They stiffened beneath Leo’s gaze, hands tightening on their weapons.
“Watch this bastard closely,” he instructed. “If he so much as thinks about trying to flee, you have my permission to kill him. I give you my word that you will not be disciplined for it.”
The amusement drained from Bordeau’s face, turning his smirk into a sullen scowl.
Leo hardly noticed. He had better things to do than waste time gauging the expression of a man who’d tried to overthrow him. There was a battle, then a war, and then a throne to be won.
The rebels didn’t make it easy for him. It was as if they could sense the nearness of Leo’s camp and somehow grasped t
he prospect of a counterattack. They pressed near, loosing arrows with greater and greater frequency until not even the bulwark of shields and the cover of occasional trees could shelter them. Cries of pain grew louder and more numerous. And soon, even the prisoners taken from Bordeau’s shattered army joined the walking wounded.
“Son of a bitch!” Leo growled as an arrow buried itself in the dirt barely an arm’s length to his left. “They’re not even trying to aim anymore! Don’t they care about the count’s men?”
“I doubt it,” Buchanan growled back. The man was the last of Leo’s officers to remain nearby, with the possible exception of the ever-silent Karran. “As far as they’re concerned, the prisoners are as good as pressed by now.”
“Maybe that means we’re dealing with Grey,” Leo said. “He seems like the sort.”
“With respect, Your Excellency, any of the counts are the sort. They’re not in the habit of losing sleep over the lives of a few commoners.”
Leo hesitated. Oddly, a part of him wanted desperately to dispute the man’s claim. But another, equally compelling part of him knew that Buchanan was absolutely correct. Most of Ansiri’s nobles would have sacrificed hundreds of lives to achieve such an end.
As would he.
And, as they neared the crest of the fateful hill, the sight that greeted Leo on the opposite side was a stark reminder of that very fact. Nyssa, head uncovered and platinum hair blowing in the wind, stood atop a corner of a wagon parked at the edge of the camp. Skipper and the dozens who’d stayed with him stood close by, clad in their armor and barely visible behind the row of enormous golems.
Leo’s back throbbed and the burden of Sann’s weight seemed to double at the sight of the idle beasts. He pushed the pain aside.
“Buchanan,” he called. The man turned and met Leo’s eyes. “Do it now.”
The man straightened.
“Right, ye bastards!” the captain bellowed. “Unless ye want to get trampled, it’s time to move! Get yer sorry asses down the hill and in position!”
They did just that, with a breathy, warbling growl that made the hair on the back of Leo’s neck stand on end. He hurried forward, struggling to keep pace with the almost running forces that comprised the first few ranks. The ground beneath his feet was muddy and slick with dew and it was a challenge to keep his balance with Sann still slumped against his shoulders.
He was panting by the time he reached the wagons. Nyssa spotted him immediately and moved to join him, but he waved her aside. She would be more useful looking after the golems than wiping the sweat from his brow. He did just that then carefully lowered Sann to the wagon’s box. The linen wrapped around her shattered wing had loosened somewhat during the return march and the limb flopped awkwardly as he arranged her on the seat. Grimacing, he turned her slightly and gingerly tucked the broken wing over her side like a blanket.
“Wake up soon,” he whispered, caressing her cheek. “That’s an order, Sann.”
Dozens of figures streamed past Leo, hurriedly squeezing between the wagons. Some were wounded or guards but the majority were prisoners. And although the enemy’s sweaty and exhausted conscripts hardly shared the haste of Leo’s army, they looked more than a little relieved to find their long march concluded. Even the presence of Cochran’s men and elves, come to collect the captives, hardly seemed to bother them. They followed the orders given without hesitation or a word of protest.
“About turn!” Buchanan roared. “You there! Get the fuck out of the way! Do you want to be trampled?”
Leo glanced ahead to find Buchanan jogging the width of the reassembled ranks. The captain wielded his scabbard like a club, swatting at elves and men alike. Even officers were not exempt. Anyone who threatened the precise avenues he’d created for the golems’ charge was at risk of experiencing his discipline.
One of the trow cried out suddenly and Leo briefly thought Buchanan responsible. But no, the dark-skinned soldier staggered toward the wagons, cradling his arrow-skewered forearm. And, as if on cue, the first helmed heads of the count’s army began to protrude above the ridge they’d descended a minute earlier.
“Fuck it,” Buchanan grumbled aloud. “They want to hide? We’ll give them something to hide from. Get the golems moving!”
It took far longer than expected to accomplish the task but that was hardly a surprising development. Several soldiers, Nyssa included, did their best to mobilize the creatures by any means necessary. Cursing, gesturing, and whipping them across the calves with a leather strap—sometimes it took all three. But, in the end, the golems charged up the hill with thunderous, earthshaking footfalls.
“What are you waiting for?” Buchanan shouted. The man trotted a dozen paces ahead, then wheeled around and drew his sword. His eyes were wild and his teeth bared like some feral beast. “Gods bless the first to fall!”
It was hardly the rallying battle cry Leo would have picked, but it did the job. With boisterous cries, the foremost ranks charged as well, sallying forth with swords and spears and all the outward signs of faith in their inevitable victory. Those behind followed after with equal enthusiasm.
Leo drew his blade.
“Don’t,” Nyssa said, startling him. She emerged from between two wagons, observing the charging horde with narrowed eyes. “If things go poorly, Karran and I won’t be able to protect you.”
Leo scowled. Rather than sheathe his sword, he rested it against his shoulder and glanced at Karran. She’d been practically glued to his side since descending the hill, but her silence had made her easy to overlook. Now that he’d looked at her, however, the wariness in her eyes made her agreement clear. She shook her head then gestured deferentially at Nyssa.
“I’m not going to stand around waiting,” Leo protested.
“You don’t have to,” Nyssa assured him rather quickly. “Just wait a few minutes. Buchanan knows what he’s doing.”
“So do I,” he snapped. But despite his frustration, he didn’t stomp up the hill in a fit of temper. Instead, he began to pace.
And, in hindsight, that decision probably saved his life.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Leo waited as long as he could. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but even that brief delay was nearly unbearable. The screams and groans, the sound of clashing steel and stomping feet, all of it conspired to steal his patience until he would rather face death than another moment of indecision.
With a soft growl, Leo rolled his shoulder and swung his sword in an experimental uppercut. It responded accordingly, the blade following the correct arc and halting at the assigned angle, with only the slightest tremble.
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
Nyssa must have sensed the determination in his voice since she hastened to his side. “Leo, give it another few minutes,” she urged.
“I’m done waiting,” he said. Turning to Karran, he jerked his head. “Stay here if you want, but I’m going.”
Nyssa cursed under her breath, something elven judging by the unfamiliar syllables, and eased her swords from their scabbards. She adjusted her grip on them for a few seconds then regarded Leo grimly.
“Don’t blame me if you lose a hand or something,” she said.
Leo didn’t smile or laugh. He wasn’t in the mood. Plus, he was almost positive that Nyssa wasn’t joking in the slightest.
She wasn’t wrong either. Leo paused just long enough to confirm that Karran was following as well then marched straight up the hill. Having already lived through one battle and participated in plenty of smaller skirmishes, he expected the sight to be a familiar one. But the scene that greeted him was so unlike his past experiences that he nearly froze stiff as a statue.
Rather than organized ranks and battle lines, the conflict had devolved into a chaotic patchwork of separate clashes. Here and there, lieutenants and the odd captain tried to rally disparate squads of footmen into something resembling a cohesive unit. Occasionally, they succeeded,
but such victories soon proved short-lived. Leo watched as one such unified front manifested some sixty paces ahead of him. But before he could even consider hurrying forward to bolster the officer’s efforts, a swarm of enemy soldiers descended on the formation like locusts on a ripe field. The elves crumbled immediately, the two fringes of the squad veering away to engage the newcomers and leaving their would-be commander exposed. The man fought bravely, if briefly, then fell noiselessly as he was skewered simultaneously by a trio of pikemen.
The same scene repeated itself over and over across the full breadth of the battlefield. Already, the hillside was stained red with spilled blood and hundreds of corpses from both sides lay strewn across the grassy knolls and slumped against trees in visible agony. There was no sign of Buchanan, Buchold, or any of the other officers. If they were still alive, they had plainly decided to focus on their immediate surroundings rather than attempt a large-scale maneuver. The sole saving grace of the whole situation was the fact that their foe appeared no better organized. There was no sign of Grey, Parrott, or whichever of the counts they might have been facing.
That much, at least, Leo could account for. Visible swathes of crushed and trampled bodies had been carved through the count’s forces like a half-harvested field of wheat owned by a heavily intoxicated farmer. Most of the golems responsible appeared to have gotten lost or else had been slain. Leo saw three of the bulky creatures lying motionless atop mountains of corpses. A fourth, however, lurched ferociously in the distance, swinging at the count’s soldiers with its remaining good arm.
“Leo,” Nyssa called, shouting to make herself heard over the din of battle. “We can’t stay here! They’ll spot us!”
Her words snapped him from his reverie, and he nodded, the motion completing the work her warning had begun. He glanced about, surveying the carnage below for a moment before reaching a decision.
Duke of Minds (Master of Monsters Book 4) Page 20
