“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the right flank. “We’ve got to rebuild the formation if we’re going to win this. Keep an eye out for the officers.”
Karran and Nyssa nodded in tandem, and each woman hefted swords or claws as they followed him down the blood-slickened hill. The groans and pleas of the wounded and dying floated up around them as they passed, and Leo soon found his nape slick with sweat. In a strange way, the pained, hopeless pleading was worse than the ferocious roars and savage curses from those still fighting.
The elves hardly seemed to notice Leo’s arrival, save for the two or three who gratefully drew back to yield their places. The enemy, however, responded with a shiver of anticipation and delight that spread throughout the hundred or so nearest men. And like flies on scraps of rotting meat, they descended.
Leo snarled as he knocked aside the first attack, a belligerent swipe that would have taken his head from his shoulders a dozen times over. The blow was so obvious that he almost took it for a feint until the man swung. Then, as the man struggled to recover from his unsuccessful assault, Leo stepped forward and nimbly drove the tip of his sword through his foe’s neck. Gurgling and clawing at his wound, the man fell.
Leo dealt similarly with the next man who attacked him. And the third. And fourth. The attacks came one after another and followed the same pattern so closely that he would have laughed if not for the adrenaline coursing through him. Compared to his fight with the golem, fighting the count’s half-trained conscripts was like dueling a gaggle of toddlers.
He realized then, as he sidestepped the clumsy, headlong charge of a man with a splintered pike, what a gift Nyssa and Lucius had given him. While fighting veteran soldiers or skilled noblemen with decades of training might have been a challenge, a battlefield such as this one was ludicrously simple. Even battered and bruised as he was, the only threat these men posed to him was their numbers. So long as he avoided risky advances and kept one eye on his surroundings, there was little to fear.
Leo did laugh then, cutting down his attacker and pivoting to fell another before he even had the chance to swing. He knew instinctively that he must look and sound as though he’d lost his mind. His eyes were wide and wild, burning from flecks of splattered blood, and yet the very act of blinking felt unnecessary. The skin of his face was drawn tight into a wolfish smile and felt so hot around the edges that it wouldn’t have surprised him if it began smoking.
The momentum of battle felt as though it was sweeping him forward. Leo wanted to follow it, crash headlong into the enemy ranks, and leave a golemesque path of destruction in his wake. But, he didn’t. Instead, he stopped short, allowing Nyssa and Karran to leap forward in his place. Both were silent as they slaughtered the terrified men opposite with a graceful ease that Leo finally felt capable of appreciating.
He turned, facing the elves who had gathered behind him. Their faces were pale beneath splattered blood, but Leo could read the awe and astonishment in the eyes that peeked out at him beneath padded helms. Laughing again, he lifted his bloodied sword and brandished it triumphantly overhead.
“Follow me!” he bellowed. “Follow your Sha’rath!”
It had been a spur-of-the-moment impulse, a whim, but by the resounding, collective roar the elves answered with, Leo knew that it had been a wise one. The elves charged forward, bellowing and shouting with newfound resolve. Spinning round, Leo joined them. He resumed his place between Nyssa and Karran, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with the pair as they drove the enemy back.
He lost track of how long they fought thus. Leo knew only that he slew dozens, and by the time there were no more men ahead of him, the number of elves arranged to his left and right had swelled three or four times over. There were hundreds now, including a half-dozen sergeants who, for once, were not cut down after issuing their orders.
The slowly recovering formation did not grow unopposed, however. With each passing minute, more and more of the straggling or isolated pieces of Leo’s army took notice of its presence. Elves ran to join him by the dozens. And, following close behind came the matching component pieces of the count’s forces. Some of these splintered and fled when the elven lines shifted to receive them. But, others lingered at a distance, joining together with similar-minded conscripts until the sheer weight of their numbers or the bellowed orders of a particularly bold officer spurred them forward into the fray.
It was only after the second such counter-attack had been squashed and some two hundred fresh corpses added to the carrion that Leo grabbed Nyssa and Karran by their sweat and blood-soaked collars and pulled them back from the front lines. Both came willingly, and he was relieved to see that neither had been injured beyond a few bruises and scrapes that could just as easily have come from the golem as from the men.
“Yes?” Nyssa asked impatiently, once they were far enough back to converse safely. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he blinked furiously as several beads dripped into his eyes and began to sting. Wincing, he indicated the reassembled formation before them. There were now well over a thousand elves. “And they’re fine too. We need to find Buchanan or Buchold. Someone.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when his burning eyes landed on an armored figure dashing vaguely toward them. Though Buchanan was still too far away for Leo to make out his face, he recognized the man’s armor. Or, more precisely, he recognized the way the man’s thick, copper beard protruded beneath the leather chin strap of his helm and spilled over his gorget.
“Speaking of,” Leo murmured, not knowing or caring if Nyssa and Karran could hear him. Lifting his arms, he waved at the jogging man. Almost immediately, Buchanan veered toward him.
“Buchanan!” he called as the man neared. “Good to see you’re still alive. How’s your flank doing?”
The captain staggered as he came to a halt. Wrenching off his helm, he doubled over and sucked in great lungfuls of air. His face was a fiery red and drenched in a thick layer of sweat.
“Retreating,” he gasped, panting and grimacing. Weakly bracing himself with one arm and knee, he gestured weakly back the direction he’d come. “Buchold. And that trow. Sophe. They rallied. Like you. I thought we… had them. Pushed them back. To those trees.”
Again, Buchanan flailed an arm backward.
“Catch your breath, man,” Leo said, alarmed and impatient in equal measure.
The captain didn’t pause, though he did straighten with a pained groan.
“There’s more of them, sir,” Buchanan said. It was only now that the dread in his voice became audible past his exhaustion. “Thousands of men. Must be another one of the counts. I don’t know if they split off at some point. Or if they found us on their own. But they’re just on the other side of those trees. We don’t stand a chance. We might have been able to fight this one to a draw. But two counts at once? We need to withdraw.”
“What are you saying?” Leo demanded. He couldn’t believe his ears. There was no mistaking Buchanan’s words, but the significance of them was strangely lost on him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Buchanan said. “We’re about to lose.”
***
Leo watched, bewildered, furious, and numb, as the retreating elements from his army’s left flank and disintegrated center rejoined the formation. Despite the presumably thousands of casualties the battle had wrought on both sides, his army looked to be in acceptable, if diminished shape. The count’s forces, on the other hand, were in full-blown retreat. Officers and men alike streamed toward the trees where reinforcements awaited.
It just wasn’t fair. His army was intact, the enemy’s in flight. He had taken the field.
So how in seven hells was this his defeat?
Such notions spiraled endlessly in the private world of Leo’s thoughts as Buchanan and the other officers furiously organized the remains of the army. It wasn’t ordering the retreat itself that proved
difficult, but the wounded. Hundreds of elves had been felled by non-lethal blows, and sensing that they were about to be left behind to suffer the count’s captivity, large numbers of them attempted to rejoin the ranks. Many hobbled on broken or tourniquet-bound limbs and although capable of moving, most stood no chance of keeping pace with the hale. And so, the unenviable task of triage fell to Buchanan, Buchold, and the others.
The anguished, despairing cries of those who had been singled out as true casualties were as piercing as any knife. Leo pretended to massage his temples, instead screwing his eyes shut and trying to block out the weeping and groans.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
“Leo?”
Nyssa’s voice broke through the fog of pain and self-pity. Leo glanced up, blinking the stiffness from his eyes as he sought her face. And, much to his dismay, he found it soft and gentle with understanding.
“Yes?” he said.
“Do you have any orders?” she asked in a tone every bit as tender as her expression. Beside her, Karran watched him with a stiffer, but no less compassionate gaze. “Anything we need to retrieve from the camp?”
He tried to consider it, but the effort quickly proved too much. He shook his head weakly.
“No,” he said. “There’s nothing that can’t be replaced.”
“And what about Sann?”
Leo froze. In all the disappointment and heartbreak of the past few minutes, he’d completely forgotten about the wounded drakonid lying defenseless barely a stone’s throw from the top of the hill at his back. His shock and incredulity must have been apparent since Nyssa hesitated and shared a look with Karran.
“We’re not leaving her behind, are we?” Nyssa asked warily.
Leave her behind? Sann? Sann, who had saved his life on multiple occasions, warmed his bed, and supported him more unquestioningly than any other?
“No,” he spat. “We’re not. And we’re sure as hell not going to stand around waiting for the counts to get here. Where’s Buchanan? Tell that bastard I’ve got orders for him.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Sir, are you certain this is the wisest decision?” Buchanan asked, yet again. The captain was growing increasingly nervous the longer they waited and Leo’s unyielding attitude wasn’t doing anything to succor him.
“I’m certain,” Leo said, somewhat less patiently than before. “If you’re having doubts, you have my permission to relieve Cochran and protect the wounded.”
Buchanan bristled and Leo thought he might actually accept, if only for an excuse to storm off. But then, after a moment, the captain gave a ragged sigh and shook his head.
“No, sir,” he said. “Of course not. I’m simply trying to understand. Fortifying our position here gives us no tactical advantage. The counts’ counterattack could begin at any minute. And we’ve already wasted nearly an hour that could have been used to put distance between their men and ours.”
“You’re wrong, Captain,” Leo said. “Retreating is the worst possible thing we could have done.”
“I hardly see how that’s possible.”
How many wounded do we have?” Leo asked, nodding toward the center of camp where Cochran and his handful of walking wounded guarded the surgeons and their more gravely injured patients. “Hundreds. If we’d abandoned them, what kind of fool would expect to be treated differently when his time came? Even an imbecile would think twice before fighting if he knew that his commanders would sacrifice him at the first sign of trouble.”
“Soldiers die in every war,” Buchanan countered. “And they always have. A few noble words don’t change the fact that you’re risking thousands more on a battle we cannot win!”
The captain’s words strayed dangerously close to insubordination, but Leo didn’t even blink. He was strangely glad that Buchanan hadn’t simply accepted his orders without question. And under different circumstances, he hoped the man would again voice his opinion so vociferously.
“So you say,” Leo said. “I say that a battle is decided by more than just numbers.”
“Aye!” Buchanan agreed. “But we’d stand a better chance if numbers were all that mattered! We can’t maneuver, we’re outnumbered, and we’re likely surrounded by now!”
“You’re forgetting something.” It was hard for Leo to mask his smile. He was enjoying himself far more than he had any business feeling before what could easily prove a fatal battle.
“Oh?”
Turning, Leo gestured at Iresh. The Gwydon paced behind the lines, bellowing exhortations and encouragement. With every step, he gestured wildly with his bone club. And no matter who found themselves staring it down, whether officer or weary recruit, a resultant shout of “Sha’rath!” answered. There was no fear, dread, or defeat in the voices that Iresh’s deafening chant inspired, only anger and a fierce, indignant determination.
“Ah, yes. The elf.” The scorn was obvious in Buchanan’s voice, but he made a valiant effort at disguising it. “With all due respect, sir, I think you overestimate his influence.”
Leo shrugged. “I suppose we’ll see,” he said. “Until then, I—”
“Leo!” Nyssa interrupted, urgently. At his glance, she shook her head and gestured at a distant, somewhat elevated tree line. “They’re moving.”
Debate forgotten, Leo strode forward and climbed atop one of the wagons that had previously held the golems. Now that the beasts were as good as lost, they had been repurposed as makeshift blockades to funnel their attackers. But, until then, they worked just fine as viewing platforms.
Leo squinted as he tried to make out details. It wasn’t the first time he’d wished he’d thought to bring a glass, like the one he’d used aboard the Unity. But, since no such tool was available, he used the next best thing.
“Nyssa,” he called, waving her forward. “What can you see?”
She didn’t join him atop the wagon, though she did stand alongside it. Cupping her hands around her eyes, she stared in silence for a long while.
“Just soldiers,” she said at last. “I don’t see any golems or nobles.”
“What about numbers?” Leo pressed. “Is it all of them?”
“I can’t be sure,” she said, after another interminable pause. “I think so? There are several thousand at least. But it’s not as though I have anything to compare against.”
“That’s good enough.” Turning back to Buchanan, he met the man’s eyes and held them for a moment. “We’ll meet them here, Captain. Pass the word along. We’ll use the formations you suggested.”
In an instant, all memory of doubt and debates vanished from Buchanan’s features. The man stiffened, offering a rigid salute.
“As you command, Your Excellency.”
The quarter-hour wait that followed the captain’s acknowledgment reminded Leo so markedly of his time sailing with the Navy of Ansiri that he nearly looked about for Summers before he could help himself. To be sure, there was a certain, undeniable resemblance. The gradual, irresistible approach of his enemies and the knowledge that escape was impossible, all while the violence of combat remained far off, constricted his insides with the same gnawing dread he’d felt on the Unity’s quarterdeck.
Only now, rather than being surrounded by trusted bodyguards and supported by veterans with decades of experience, he found Nyssa to be the only hint of continuity. Sann was nearby, but in no condition to defend or fight beside him. And while he knew that Karran would fight as hard as she could, he couldn’t fool himself into thinking her abler than Lucius, Atarah, and Fanette combined. Nor could he pretend his conscripts the equal of Talbot and Summers’ men. At sea, he’d always had the numerical advantage. Now, he was one less-than-miraculous resolution away from disaster and death.
But, he’d made his decision. Nothing else remained but to see it through.
Buchanan’s orders were passed quickly, and Leo’s army responded accordingly. While the elves had initially
formed a defensive perimeter around the camp, the better to respond to unexpected angles of attack, they now arranged themselves in a crescent formation to receive the counts’ forces. The wounded and prisoners huddled near the center of the camp, guarded by a skeleton crew of non-combatants and lightly bandaged casualties. And although the rearmost ranks of elves glanced nervously over their shoulders at the former enemies, the unarmed and partially bound men offered no hints of further resistance.
The sluggish, dragging seconds turned to minutes. And then, with the inevitable haste of a condemned man’s final moments, the counts’ united army halted.
Leo descended the wagon and was almost surprised when his trembling legs did not give out from under him. If he’d been a more talented tactician, he might have remained on his perch. But, since he was not, he knew remaining would offer only despair.
Nyssa was correct; there were thousands of them. And although he’d hardly taken the time to count, it was obvious from a mere glance that they were hopelessly, desperately outnumbered. Not quite two-to-one, perhaps, but near enough that the prospect of fighting turned his stomach sour.
Was Buchanan correct? Should he instead have—?
He didn’t hear the order as it was given, but there was no missing the roar that followed. A deafening bellow of anger, fear, and senseless noise shook the very air like a thunderclap as the enemy charged. Leo spun to face them, drawing his sword as Karran and Nyssa dashed to his side.
His own soldiers roared in answer. Pikes and spears were leveled. Swords clanged loudly against shields or twitched through the ever-shrinking gap like hundreds of crabs challenging the tide with their claws.
And then, as the chorus of shouts and stampeding feet rose to a crescendo, the two armies collided.
For all his occasional folly and bold proclamations to Buchanan, Leo was no fool. He knew full well that Iresh’s sermons and declarations might not win the day. Morale was a fickle thing. And although he was more than willing to exploit it, it was far less reliable a tool than arms or numbers.
Duke of Minds (Master of Monsters Book 4) Page 21
