by J. P. Ashman
He stepped back once, twice, avoiding the swing of a falchion without exerting himself. There was something about that weapon being used against him that made his anger flare all the more; the thought of Fal took Gleave’s mind to the loss of Starks, and on to the losses of Mearson, Tom and all the others he’d known and fought alongside.
Axe to lips and a word hissed through teeth. The falchion wielding warrior frowned as Gleave’s elf-rune inscribed axe vanished from sight. The tattooed frown transformed into a grimace when Gleave stepped in and thrust his sword into the man’s belly, distracted as he’d been with the magical axe. The falling body sucked off Gleave’s sword, which he turned on the next man running at him. Iron clanged and Gleave felt it through his arm. He cast about, seeing Correia in her dance of swords, men falling about her. Gleave almost lost the side of his face as his eyes lingered on the woman’s twin blades, which glowed orange to white, like they’d been pulled from a raging forge.
So that was your gift from the elves…
Twisting away from the slice that swished past his face, without turning his back on his attacker, Gleave used his translucent axe to tie up the offending weapon. The surprise in the Orismaran’s face was doubled when Gleave’s sword found that man’s stomach too.
‘And down you go,’ Gleave said, his words little more than a growl. He turned, heart thudding in his chest, pulse in his ringing ears, looking across men dropped by arrows and back to Correia slicing through maille like it was leather. He looked past her and saw approaching riders.
‘Shit,’ he said, before shouting the very same.
Correia heard him and glanced the way Gleave pointed. She looked back to her nearest threat, dropping low and taking the leading legs from two men. Down they went, twisting and screaming.
‘They’re with me!’ Correia shouted, first back to Sav to stay his hand, then to a hard-pressed Gleave, who back-stepped out of immediate danger, swinging his sword as he did, muscles burning at the effort. Training was one thing, but the swift desperation of actual combat was another, especially with recent wounds not yet healed.
‘I’m getting too old for this.’ He spat the words as he changed direction, back at his enemy. The two tattooed warriors tried to adjust to Gleave’s sudden attack, but there was no defending against a weapon they couldn’t see. Both fell as the riders Correia had vouched for reached Gleave’s side. He looked up to the two men, both knights, although one, the older, wore fancy white clothing and no armour. Giles Bratby, Gleave thought, relieved to see the Earl’s faintly familiar face.
‘Amis de Valmont, at your service.’ The yellow knight looked to the Orismaran warriors now massing at the postern gate.
‘So, that’s where we’re to go through?’ Giles asked Correia, moving his sword about at the side of him, loosening his shoulder.
‘Aye,’ Correia confirmed, ‘that’s our route out.’
Another arrow arced overhead, taking down what looked to be an officer in the enemy ranks.
‘There must be two dozen and growing; massing before their assault,’ Amis said from his horse, standing in his stirrups. ‘And they’re coming through the gate we’re to leave by.’ He laughed nervously.
Another arrow and another man fell screaming to the ground.
A commotion from the back of the Orismarans and through came the beast of an armoured man with the ostentatious masked helmet, its grimacing visage panning left and right, taking in the people holding his own men back. As he emerged from the warriors around him, it became clear he was being pulled forward by two animals which he struggled to hold by their thick ropes.
‘What the fuck are they?’ Gleave said, eyes locked on the masked man’s pets.
Amis screwed up his handsome face before answering. ‘Honey badgers, I believe. Vicious little bastards.’
Gleave strode forward. ‘Look like overgrown polecats to me.’
‘Gleave!’ Correia surged forward, but Giles leaned down and took her arm.
‘Your man challenging that man is the only thing holding the rest of them back, I’d wager,’ Giles said, eyes back on Gleave, continuous groans and screams of pain coming from the multiple arrow-studded, slashed and pierce wounded scattered about the yard.
‘He’s right,’ Amis said. ‘As much as it pains me to say so.’ He turned to Correia. ‘I’ll ride out. I’ll challenge him.’
‘No, you won’t!’ Gleave shouted back, within earshot, the ringing subsiding. He continued on, meandering around dead and dying men, not passing close in case a knife found its way into his leg – again – or worse.
The Orismaran commander came forward, honey badgers bearing teeth and attempting to surge forward, their master straining to keep a hold on them.
Gleave glanced back and saw Correia turned to Sav and nod. An arrow followed that silent order, a swallow-tailed arrowhead, made to punch large and bloody holes in the heaving muscular chests of charging destriers. The arrow corkscrewed lazing through the air, or so it looked, but when it passed Gleave and punched into the honey badger on Gleave’s left, it churned its way deep into the animal, slamming it hard to the ground.
Gleave sprinted forward, aches and pains once more forgotten as fear and anger fuelled adrenaline flushed his system.
The downed honey badger shrieked, hissed and climbed to its feet, arrow jutting from a bloody hole in its thick, furred side.
‘Shit,’ Gleave said, another arrow speeding past him and slamming into the stuck animal. The first arrow downing the animal had shocked the onlooking tattooed warriors, the second sent them to roaring and running towards Gleave and the others behind him.
Gleave heard Correia shout and he heard hooves pound the earth as he reached the ostentatious commander and his pets. At the same time, a third arrow punched into the same honey badger as the first two. The animal dropped again to the floor, remaining there this time, hissing and thrashing and not dying, but remaining on the floor at least.
Both ropes were released by the man Gleave aimed for and the remaining honey badger lunged forward at a surprising rate; the speed and aggression of the animal put any hunting hound Gleave had ever witnessed to shame. Gleave dodged right and lunged left, his sword tip piercing hide. The steel blade snapped. Gleave cursed and leaped aside as his opponent drew a giant scimitar, which swung out as the man powered forward on a set of trunk-like, armoured legs.
The curved blade swished across Gleave’s maille-clad back. As he slid to a halt and turned, an arrow thumped into the remaining honey badger whilst it jumped at him. As if pricked by a thorn and no more, the animal struck Gleave, teeth snapping and long claws raking. Those claws cut through woollen surcoat, split iron links and padded gambeson to do the same to the skin and flesh beneath.
Falling back from the raging animal, Gleave dropped his broken sword and clutched his side despite his want not to.
The scimitar came in again, with a grunt of contempt from the armoured man. Gleave managed to avoid its bite, but not that of the honey badger, the powerful jaws of which clamped onto his bad leg.
The grunting animal on Gleave’s leg continued to thrash to and fro, mangling the limb as Gleave cried out in pain, the agony the worst thing he’d ever endured. He saw the grimacing mask of his opponent stood over him, looking down, eyes shrouded in the darkness of the iron helm.
Gleave steeled himself and grinned up at the man, causing the brute to hesitate.
‘You’ll get the point!’ Gleave said through gritted teeth as the honey badger continued to savage his leg, his invisible axe now embedded in it, not that it seemed to do any good.
The moment of impact was a glorious sight for Gleave to behold as one of Sav’s arrows entered the ostentatious visor through the gaping mouth grill, before exploding out the other side. Head snapping back, the Orismaran toppled backwards and hit the ground with a clattering thud, horrific gurgles coming from behind the convulsing brute’s mask.
There was no time for celebration. Gleave turned his painful cries
into shouts and curses of anger. He began hacking at the animal with renewed gusto as it broke bones in his leg. He hacked and hacked until he feared he couldn’t lift his axe anymore, but finally… finally, after two more strikes of the axe, the honey badger died.
The pain pulsing through Gleave’s leg matched his quickened heart. He bent and pawed at the wounds as a horse charged past, the yellow rider slashing left and right with sword, ending those warriors closing on Gleave, who, teeth grinding against the pain, was now attempting to leaver the locked jaws of the honey badger from his destroyed leg.
‘They’re still coming in!’ Amis shouted from above Gleave, who looked with tear filled eyes to the tattooed warriors pouring through the gate.
Sav was there, sword drawn and arrows spent. ‘We’re fucked,’ he said flatly, eyeing the Orismarans lining up for another charge. The gravity of it struck them all; deflated them.
A horse whinnied from the strangest angle, an impossible angle.
All eyes, on both sides, looked to the sky.
Chapter 44 – Royce’s Reds
From the blinding light of the sun came eight riders, their crimson caparisoned horses bearing feathered wings like those of a teratorn; all bar the leader, whose mount was both equine and raptor, horse and giant eagle.
‘Well, blind me,’ Correia whispered, unable to control the smile pulling at her blood-spattered lips. ‘Royce’s Reds,’ she said, looking about her companions. ‘It’s Royce’s bloody Reds!’ she shouted, waving her glowing swords to draw their attention.
The winged mounts landed at a canter, which took them clean across the centre of the yard, avoiding the wounded and dead as they did so. Pulling up near an outbuilding, the riders turned their mounts on the spot; they turned them to face the Orismarans at the gate.
The knights atop the pegasi charged, lances lowering as their mounts surged forward. The winged horses were as heavily muscled as any destrier. The bay beasts thundered across the yard, bearing their riders into the scattering enemy with destructive abandon.
As combat was joined, Amis and Giles kicked their own mounts on into the fray, swords rising and falling alongside the seven red knights, who’d dropped their soiled lances in favour of swords, axes, a mace and a hammer.
Correia made to follow the two horsemen, whilst Sav tended to a cursing, snapping Gleave, but before she could get close, the side-saddle riding woman atop the hippogriff barred her way, the beast looming over Correia, beak snapping as its front most talon clawed the ground.
Weapons clashed and men roared and screamed across the way. Correia looked up to the woman wearing red-died wolf fur. From beneath the wolf-headed hood, a badly scarred face stared back down.
‘Lady Burr, we need leave, now!’ The woman issued the words as a command, not a request, and Correia knew the captain to be someone who wasn’t accustomed to having her orders declined.
‘How did you know I was here?’ Correia asked.
Turning her great mount a half circle, the wolf-clad woman looked to her men, who were pushing the Orismaran warriors back through the gate.
‘Captain Hud?’ Correia said, anger flecking her voice. ‘Answer me, damn it!’
The woman turned back to look down on Correia, but not before issuing a shrill whistle through finger and thumb. Her mount shrieked high-low, matching the whistle, which was followed by the swift return of the rest of Royce’s Reds, along with Amis and Giles.
‘We’ve seen your elf friend,’ Hud said, eyes locked on Correia’s. ‘He told us where to find you, but there’s no time now. You’re needed in Wesson.’
‘Wesson?’ Correia said, brow creased.
Gleave cursed louder than normal and Correia looked to him, an unavoidable wince showing on her face as she took in his wounds.
‘They’ll push back through at any moment,’ one of Hud’s knights said, coming alongside his captain, who nodded and looked to the gate.
‘Correia,’ Hud said, looking down once more, ‘climb up behind me. We leave now.’
‘What’s happening?’ Correia demanded, whilst moving to Gleave. ‘Sav,’ she said, not waiting for a response from Hud, ‘go and get Fal.’
‘I’ll help,’ Amis said, pulling Sav up behind him and riding over the mound.
The hissing hippogriff walked up to Correia and Gleave, the latter of which had passed out from the ongoing pain. Correia looked up. ‘Help him!’
‘I have my orders, Lady Burr—’
‘From who? Royce?’
Hud nodded. ‘Through Royce, yes, but originally from Will Morton, I believe. Now come, I’m to get you out and get you back, nothing more.’
Correia snarled. ‘Help this man or fail in your mission, Captain!’
Hud spat and slid from her mount, which lowered to the ground of its own accord.
Crouching over Gleave, she lowered the red-furred wolf’s head from her own and began chanting over Gleave’s shredded and broken leg, a redwood wand appearing from her voluminous sleeve.
Correia looked back at the sound of hooves. Sav ran beside Amis’ horse, atop which Fal clung to Amis’ back, wrecked face pained through the motion.
‘What happened here?’ one of Royce’s Reds said, eyeing Fal. ‘Is he a prisoner?’ He pointed his bloody mace to Fal, who was helped from Amis’ horse by Sav.
‘No, he is not,’ Correia snapped, looking back to Hud, who was practically touching Gleave’s wounds with her moving lips, wand held to the side.
Hud pulled back and glanced at Correia. ‘He’ll live and is fit to ride—’
‘To ride?’ Sav cut in. His wrinkled nose and open mouth attested to his incredulity at the statement. ‘He’s not fit to stand.’
‘We’ll leave him here then, shall we?’ Hud looked up at Sav, her features drawn after the use of magic.
‘No, no of course not,’ Sav said, shaking away his disbelief.
A bestial roar erupted from the far side of the gate.
‘They’ll be in here in moments,’ Giles said. ‘Whatever we’re to do, do it now.’
‘My lord Bratby,’ Hud greeted, turning to Giles. ‘I’ll return you to your son and army, before continuing on to Royce with Lady Burr.’ The man merely nodded at that.
Shouting and another roar drew close and all eyes looked to the gate.
‘Mount up. Now!’ Hud said, to Correia.
Correia nodded. ‘You heard her.’
Moving quickly, Correia, along with Sav, helped Gleave up over the lap of the nearest red knight, whilst Amis did the same for Fal, before climbing up behind another rider himself.
The rest of them followed suit, with Correia riding behind Hud on her hippogriff.
‘Where from here?’ Correia asked, as they made for the far end of the bailey, avoiding bodies as they rode. The smell was cloying as bodily fluids stained the ground about them, mixing with the smell of wolf fur and mounts.
‘Bratby’s army, in Suttel,’ Hud said, slowing and turning her mount back to face the other side of the compound, along with her retinue. ‘Then west, to Royce.’
‘We need to stop at Twin Inns first,’ Correia insisted.
Pulling her wolf-hood back up, Hud said nothing before spurring her screeching mount on, hard and fast.
As the riders surged across the hard-packed earth, the Orismarans entered the yard in numbers. The nearest bore polearms long enough to snag the closest riders. Correia clenched her teeth and held her breath.
Wand out once more, Hud pointed it towards the tattooed warriors and uttered a series of unrecognisable words.
Orismarans fell face first, their limbs limp as they crashed to the ground, heads striking the floor more oft than not; several slid or rolled as they fell. Those behind stumbled or pulled up, not one able to strike at the winged mounts already taking flight, out over the wall and away from the roaring enemy below.
The sight the sudden lift allowed was of devastation and all out ruin. Homes burnt in the town outside the chateau. Dozens of townsfolk – shri
nking in size as the group rose in altitude – scattered where they could, chased from all directions by Orismaran warriors and their various beasts. One bipedal creature dwarfed the rest, its metallic armoured hide glinting in the sun as it crashed through the walls of homes, leaving collapsed buildings in its wake. Thick black smoke rose like columns to hold up the clouds above.
The awful noises from below quietened as the pegasi and hippogriff rose higher. It eventually died out altogether, replaced by the sound of rushing wind.
No one said a word. Shock had taken hold. Noses streamed, gripping fingers and ears numbed, and eyes watered; for more reasons than the bite of the wind as the pathfinders left behind not just the sacking of Easson, but the body of one of their own.
The adrenaline had passed and heart rates dropped. An unusual calm settled across the group as their eyes settled on nought but distant valleys and scrub-land below, and it hit them all.
Starks was gone.
***
Mandibles working, the wasp sliced a perfect sphere of red flesh from beneath charred skin. Using one of the still-warm metal rings as an exit, it crawled up and out into the lingering smoke filled light. Meat sphere held between six legs, the wasp lifted into the air and away, oblivious to the groans of the man it and its companions were ever so slowly butchering.
The groans of the man increased as, from under a blackened iron helm now welded to his scalp and scorched face, the realisation of what had happened sank in. Unconscious bliss fell away, revealing a searing agony from head to, well, where his feet should have been. Attempting to move resulted in fresh flares of pure agony through limbs that were little more than immolated strips of bone and blackened muscle, the tops of which were fused into and around a mass of iron links barely touched by the brief inferno’s heat.
Footsteps approached and the man-come-corpse attempted to turn towards the noise; attempted to look upon whom he hoped were his friends. The fact he’d somehow protected his eyes, sore as they were, was almost a blessing in comparison to the rest of his body. Almost.
