Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Now!” she shouted.

  Morigna and Antenora were on either side of her, and Calliande and used this tactic with them in past battles. She blocked the enemy’s attacks, and Antenora and Morigna struck back. Antenora sent another fireball at the priestesses, while Morigna flung more of the acidic mist. The spiderlings were ready for it. Calliande glimpsed a group of the black-robed figures standing together, working their magic as one, and a shell of flickering blue light appeared around them, strong enough to deflect the elemental magic. Antenora’s and Morigna’s attacks splashed off the shell without touching the priestess, though they did kill several nearby arachar orcs.

  Calliande summoned her own power and worked another spell, focusing her will and calling on the magic of the Well of Tarlion. A shaft of white fire sliced from her hand, shot across the battlefield, and struck the shell of blue light around the priestesses. The spell shattered the defense, and the warding spell collapsed. Morigna and Antenora had already begun their own attacks, and fire and acidic mist lashed at the spiderlings. Antenora’s fireball exploded over them, and as it turned out, the mist that Morigna had conjured was also flammable. A bloom of fire washed out, engulfing all five of the priestesses, and the spiderlings fell to the ground, their bodies wreathed in flame.

  There was a flash of harsh red light, and the Sight detected another current of power. Elemental magic this time, flame to be specific, and it was fearsomely strong.

  Calliande focused the Sight, and her physical eyes saw her first kyralf.

  It was a man clad in crimson chain mail and a long red cloak, fire burning around his hands as he worked a spell. His skin was a strange dusky gray, not the silvery gray of the Shaluuskan orcs and Warlord Shalmathrak, but a more pallid color. The kyralf’s features were a mix of orc and dark elf – he had the thick jaw and brow of an orc, but the pointed ears of an elf, and no tusks. Morigna had said that the Visionary, one of the seven urdmordar, had created the kyralven kindred by fusing orcs and dark elves, using them as powerful servitors much as the dark elves had created urdhracosi and urvaalgs. The kyralf’s black eyes narrowed as he focused on Calliande, and she worked a spell of her own.

  A lance of fire ripped from the kyralf’s hands, but Calliande thrust her staff. A shimmering dome of pale white light appeared, and it deflected the kyralven wizard’s magic. Calliande’s mind reeled from the impact – the kyralf was both strong and skilled – and her ward collapsed. The wizard’s eyes narrowed, and he began another spell, and so did Calliande.

  Before either of them could finish, Gavin galloped past, the soulblade Truthseeker burning with white fire in his fist. The soulblade ripped through the kyralf’s wards without slowing, taking off his head. Dark blood spurted from the stump of his neck – more of a deep gray than a black – and the headless wizard fell motionless to the ground.

  Calliande took a few deep breaths, and she sensed more magic nearby.

  “We must withdraw soon, or else we shall be overwhelmed,” said Antenora.

  “Aye,” said Calliande. “When Ridmark sounds the retreat.”

  She summoned power for another warding spell as the battle howled around them.

  ###

  Ridmark cut down another arachar orc, the soldier falling motionless to the ground. The orc’s blood dripped from Oathshield’s burning blade – a deep red, marked with black flecks from the taint of the urdmordar. He looked around for his next foe but could find no one else nearby.

  His horse slowed, and Ridmark stood in the stirrups, taking stock of their situation. He knew that would make him an obvious target for any nearby archers, but he needed a look around, and their attack had thrown the enemy into disarray. It was a rare archer who would stand and draw his bow when a armored and mounted knight thundered towards him.

  His horsemen had sliced deep into the half-finished camp, scattering the orcs and cutting down many of them. Yet the rest of the nearby camps were responding. Soldiers marched from them in good order, spearmen leading the way, crossbowmen behind them. With the soldiers came priestesses in black robes and strange gray-skinned creatures in red cloaks – likely the kyralves that Morigna had described.

  Overrunning a half-finished camp was one thing. Organized resistance was quite another. And even caught flat-footed, the arachar orcs had put up a ferocious fight. Ridmark had seen more of his knights and men-at-arms fall than he would have wished. The arachar were not the equal of the Anathgrimm, but they were close.

  It was time to go.

  “Sir Peter!” shouted Ridmark, turning his horse in a tight circle. “Sir Peter, sound the recall!”

  He spotted Peter Vanius and two other royal knights battling half a dozen arachar. The orcs were getting the better of the fight, and even as Ridmark looked, one of the knights fell in a spray of blood. The man’s horse panicked and bolted off, galloping away along the beach. Ridmark cursed and kicked his horse to a gallop, charging at the melee.

  The arachar orcs started to turn as they sensed the new threat, but it was too late. Ridmark’s horse crashed into one of the orcs, the soldier falling beneath his mount’s steel-shod hooves. Ridmark swung Oathshield in a downward slice, all his strength and the soulblade’s power driving the blow, and took off a second arachar orc’s head. Peter and the remaining knight rallied, and soon they had slain all the orcs.

  But there were many, many more to take the fallen soldiers’ place.

  “Sound the recall,” said Ridmark.

  Peter let out a ragged breath, nodded, and lifted the war horn to his lips. He blew a sequence of blasts, and all throughout the melee, the knights began to turn and ride back towards the grassy slope. Ridmark galloped through the half-finished camp, aiding the knights and the men-at-arms so they could break free of their foes.

  The horsemen rode away, heading towards Cintarra proper.

  Ridmark reached Calliande’s side. She rode with Antenora and Morigna, and the three sorceresses had left many corpses in their wake, the charred bodies smoking from fire and acid and lightning. The organized resistance marched towards them, no doubt recognizing the three of them as the most dangerous threat. Ridmark cut down several arachar who tried to converge on Calliande and the others, and even as he approached, the sorceresses cast spells. White fired slashed out from Calliande’s staff, striking a pair of black-robed priestesses guarded by arachar orcs. The dark shell of their defensive spells collapsed, and Antenora hurled a fireball. The priestesses and their guards disappeared in the blast of the explosion.

  “Go!” shouted Ridmark, pointing Oathshield to the north.

  Calliande nodded and turned her horse, and Antenora and Morigna followed suit. Gavin fell in alongside Antenora, his armor and soulblade spattered with arachar blood. Together they rode to the northeast, joining the other men as they withdrew from the melee. Soon they formed back up where they had started, at the top of the shallow rise overlooking the beach. Ridmark counted his men as they formed up, and he had lost at least twenty-five of them, probably more.

  The loss was enraging, but they had probably killed hundreds of arachar orcs, and at least a dozen of their priestesses and kyralven wizards, who would be more valuable than the common soldiers.

  But as Ridmark looked at the army filling the beach, it seemed that they had barely made a dent in the foe’s numbers, and even more soldiers were pouring off the waiting transport ships.

  “Come,” said Ridmark once the men had formed up. The arachar orcs showed no inclination to pursue the horsemen, no doubt recognizing the futility of foot soldiers chasing mounted men. “Let us return to the High King and report what we have seen.”

  They rode to the northwest, making for Queen Mara’s castra.

  The enemy did not pursue.

  Ridmark knew that would not last.

  ***

  Chapter 20: Legions

  Drums boomed as the host of Andomhaim assembled to meet the army of the Heptarchy in battle.

  After hearing the reports from Ridmark and the
other captains of the mounted raiders, Arandar decided to act at once. The enemy was landing more and more troops east of the city, and the longer they waited, the stronger the Heptarchy force would become. If they acted right now, they could do considerable harm to the enemy army. Between twenty to twenty-five thousand arachar orcs had landed east of Cintarra, and Morigna thought that was a significant portion of the Heptarchy’s invasion force.

  If the army of Andomhaim struck now, they could destroy many of the invaders, capture their supplies, and perhaps even burn some of their ships.

  Ridmark knew it would not be an easy battle. The arachar had nowhere to retreat, save for their ships, and escaping via water in the face of a hostile force would be impossible. To the north would be the army of Andomhaim, to the west the walls of Cintarra, and to the east the coast road that eventually led past the Shaluuskan Forest.

  The arachar orcs would have no choice but to win. There was no possibility of retreat for them, nor even any hope of a truce. Ridmark doubted the enemy would have surrendered in any event. Knowing what spiderlings were like, no doubt the priestesses would insist that the arachar fight to the last man.

  The army of Andomhaim assembled three miles east of Cintarra, overlooking the arachar camps. Arandar massed the footmen in the center, placing them three lines deep. A wall of spearmen stood in front, and archers and skirmishers waited before them. The knights and mounted men gathered on the left and right wings of the army in hopes of circling behind the enemy and striking them from the back.

  The invaders formed up to meet the defenders. They gathered in a broad line, with two more lines behind them. The Anathgrimm often fought in a similar formation, three lines that could rotate through the battle as necessary. Archers and skirmishers waited before the enemy formations, crossbows and javelins in hand. Calliande, Antenora, and Morigna all said that the priestesses and kyralven battle wizards had gathered behind the three lines, no doubt where they could fling their power into the defenders.

  “Are you sure you do not want to summon the Anathgrimm?” said Ridmark.

  “Not yet,” said Arandar. “Not until we are sure the enemy is committed.”

  Ridmark sat atop his horse near the High King’s banner. Arandar, Accolon, and the chief royal magistrates had gathered beneath the banner behind the footmen. The Magistri waited there, hundreds of them. Some of the Magistri wore their white robes, though most of them had gone with a more practical approach like Decimus and wore a long coat over leather and chain mail. Calliande, Morigna, and Antenora stood near the Magistri. The task of the Order of the Magistri would be to defend the army from the dark magic of the priestesses, and hopefully, Antenora and Morigna would be able to strike back.

  Though Ridmark suspected most of their efforts would go to preventing the enemy priestesses and battle wizards from tearing apart the host of Andomhaim. He wished that the Arcanius Knights from Owyllain had arrived in time. Their aid would have been invaluable.

  “I never thought I would say this, but seven thousand Anathgrimm warriors would go a long way towards balancing the odds,” said Lord Corbanic, the Constable of Tarlion. He was a grim old knight, as implacable and unyielding as a glacier. During Andomhaim’s civil war, he had held Tarlion against Tarrabus Carhaine’s siege for a year, refusing all demands of surrender.

  “We need a reserve,” said Arandar. The High King wore his battle armor, polished steel plate beneath a blue surcoat adorned with the red dragon sigil of the Pendragons. A simple crown of red gold rested atop his helmet. Excalibur, the ancient sword of the High King of Britannia reforged as a soulblade, hung on his belt. “Most of the strength of the realm is committed here. If there is a defeat, or we need reinforcements, the Anathgrimm are the only ones able to provide it.”

  Ridmark was unable to argue with his logic. The High King was right. The realm had already committed most of its strength to this fight. If the battle went ill, or if the arachar orcs prevailed here, they would need reserves. The Anathgrimm, waiting near Queen Mara’s castra, were the logical ones to provide that reserve.

  But Ridmark still wished they were here. The Anathgrimm had stood fast in many terrible battles, from the final battle against the Frostborn before the gates of Tarlion to the fight against the jastaani horde outside of Cathair Animus.

  “I will join the Swordbearers on the right flank,” said Ridmark.

  Arandar’s eyes remained on the army, but his expression turned almost wistful for a moment. “I almost wish I could join you. At moments like this, I wish I was a simple knight and Swordbearer, and the responsibility of command lay with another man.”

  “As do I,” said Accolon, touching Hopesinger where it hung on his belt. He had taken up that soulblade after Valmark Arban had fallen in battle defending Castarium from the goblin attackers. Ridmark felt a pang of regret as he looked at the soulblade. He mourned for Valmark’s death, though Ridmark was not particularly close to any of his brothers – they were too far apart in age, and they had more or less been raised separately – though he still wished he could have saved Valmark.

  But looking at the soulblade reminded Ridmark of his older brother’s death…and made him wonder how many others would die today. How many women would be made widows and children left orphans. Perhaps Calliande and his children would have to fare without him…

  He pushed aside the thought. The final moments before a battle were not the place for such musings. And the only thing that could mitigate the horrors of war, the only thing that could ease its losses, was total victory over the enemy. That would save more men than anything else Ridmark could do.

  “Certainly not, High King, Crown Prince,” said Corbanic. “Bad enough that both the High King and the heir to the realm are at a single battle together. But if you both fight in the front line and fall, what shall happen to Andomhaim? The Duxi shall succumb to squabbling as each one attempts to wed Princess Nyvane, and the Heptarchy and the Dragon Cult shall devour us all.”

  “I am aware of that, Constable,” said Arandar, half-amused, half-annoyed. “Fear not. Neither Accolon nor I have forgotten our responsibilities.” He looked at Ridmark. “Go with God, my friend. May we meet victorious on another battlefield.”

  “If God wills it, High King,” said Ridmark, bowing from the saddle. He turned his horse to face Calliande, and she offered him a sad smile.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “I will,” said Ridmark. “But only if you are.”

  “Ah,” she sighed. “That could be trouble, then.”

  “Fear not, Shield Knight,” said Antenora. “We shall defend the Keeper and ensure that she comes to no harm.

  “I am grateful,” said Ridmark.

  He dropped from the saddle, Calliande following suit, and then gave her a quick kiss. Ridmark jogged south to the right flank of the army, past the waiting horsemen, and joined the Swordbearers massed on the right wing of the host. Arandar had gathered most of the available Order of the Soulblade here. The Swordbearers were the strongest fighters in the army, but they had the additional advantage that their soulblades would protect them from any form of dark magic. If the path was clear to the priestesses and the battle wizards, the Swordbearers would take it.

  Ridmark joined the Swordbearers. Unlike most of the knights, the Swordbearers preferred to fight on foot. Their soulblades made them stronger and faster than regular men, but the powers of their swords did not extend to their mounts. Ridmark walked through their ranks, exchanging nods and greetings with some of the other knights. He knew many of them by now. Some of the Swordbearers were older men, a few of them over sixty or even seventy. Their soulblades gave them enhanced vigor, and a Swordbearer who lived that long was a terror on the battlefield, the experience and knowledge of age fused with the raw power of a soulblade.

  He stopped next to Gavin, who waited with his hand resting on Truthseeker’s hilt. Gavin wore armor identical to Ridmark’s, armor stolen from the armories of Urd Morlemoch all those years ago. On his le
ft arm, Gavin had a round shield of dwarven steel he had taken from Khald Azalar on their quest to find Dragonfall and the Keeper’s staff. In all the battles in all the years since, the shield remained unscratched and intact. Dwarven steel was a sturdy metal.

  “Do you think they’ll come to us?” said Gavin. “Or will we have to march to them?”

  “They ought to make us come to them,” said Ridmark. “That would be the better tactical choice. It would expose us to their missile fire for longer.” He rolled his shoulders. “But we might have a way to get them to come to us.”

  “How?” said Gavin.

  “Just watch,” said Ridmark.

  Gavin raised an eyebrow. “You’re about to do something dramatic, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not,” said Ridmark. “But…”

  No sooner had he spoken then the attack began.

  Dozens of parties of ghost orcs appeared out of nothingness halfway between the two armies. Hundreds of ghost orc rangers raised their bows, drew back the strings, and released arrows. A storm of missiles stabbed into the Heptarchy army, and Ridmark heard the cries of rage and pain from wounded soldiers. The ghost orcs loosed arrows again, and again, their shafts finding the mark.

  Gavin snorted. “Nice trick.”

  “Warlord Shalmathrak’s idea,” said Ridmark. “We did the same at Rhudlan against Merovech’s army. We might have won the battle if they hadn’t pulled back.”

  It was a deadly trick, but the Heptarchy orcs reacted with greater skill and speed than Merovech’s goblins and ogres had displayed. Hoarse voices shouted commands, and the front ranks of arachar raised their shields, creating an interlocking wall of wood and steel. Meanwhile, the arachar archers and skirmishers unleashed their arrows and javelins, and two balls of fire fell from the sky, conjured by the kyralven battle wizards. It had been a deadly trick, but the ghost orcs paid for it. Dozens of them died, slain by arrows or burned by battle magic, and the rangers disappeared, drawing their power of invisibility around themselves as they withdrew back to the safety of the host of Andomhaim.