by Brian Murray
The mist grew denser, forming a white wall that started to obscure the defenders’ view. The Chosen could just make out the shapes of the Dark One and the Darklord whose chanting reached a crescendo. The mist became an opaque white fog that whirled and churned around the defenders.
“Be ready for anything and not a sound!” bellowed the Chosen.
“I cannot see a damn thing,” cursed Platos, squinting in the fog.
“Quiet,” ordered the Chosen softly. He heard movement from the other side of the moat, the sound of something being dragged through the earth. The scrapping noise increased with intensity and then came a dull thud and a loud splash. Subconsciously, the Chosen drew his short swords and Platos hefted his huge war-hammer. The water in the moat started to splash gently with a continuous, dull thudding sound. The Chosen closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds. He tried to picture what the sounds meant. His eyes shot open.
“They have bridged the moat! Every man stand ready.”
In the thick soupy fog, no one could see where the attack was coming from. The Chosen surmised the first attack would be directed at him. The Dark One would want to conclude this battle quickly and killing the emperor would mean the men would lose morale.
“To me!” called the Chosen and several warriors gathered around him with their weapons ready. To Platos, he said, “I think they are building a bridge directly below us. Is there anything you can do?”
Platos smiled a wicked smile. “Give me a moment.”
“We may not have a moment,” barked the Chosen, stepping back a stride.
Platos handed a warrior his war-hammer, walked to the catapult to their right, and disappeared in the fog. He shortly returned, his face red with effort. In his arms, he carried a large piece of masonry, the size of a man’s torso.
“Help him,” ordered the Chosen.
Several men helped the huge smithy with the boulder.
Platos looked at the Chosen. “Where do you think?” he asked, grimacing under the strain.
The Chosen smiled. “About there,” he replied, pointing before his feet.
“Good,” replied Platos and he dropped the boulder. The boulder crunched into something, then plopped into the water. Then the Chosen heard a gurgling scream to his left, followed by howling. The fighting—and the dying—began.
“They have reached the mound!” hollered the Chosen, rushing to the shrill sound.
Platos retrieved his war-hammer and ran after the Chosen before he disappeared in the fog. Platos ran into something big and furry. Without a second thought, he raised his war-hammer above his head and drove it down on the beast before him. Platos’s hammer smashed the beast’s skull and it pitched over the mound. More gargling screams erupted along the mound. He heard the Chosen shout more orders and the sounds of steel rending hide. Platos cursed. He could see only a few paces in front of him. Suddenly, the fog evaporated. Platos, like the fog, felt his fears of the unknown evaporate as about thirty beasts fought on the mound. Now that the defenders could see, they started attacking the beasts. Platos looked over the mound and saw a second bridge already being crossed by beasts. Again, he swore. He looked down the mound on the city side and saw a wagon half-full of building rubble. Platos noted in his mind the wagon should not be there, but it gave him an idea.
He ran down to the wagon and turned it so it would travel up the mound’s slope backwards. He called out to some of the reserves who stood below the mound waiting for orders. They came rushing over to the man with the authoritative voice.
“We need to push this in a straight line up and over the mound,” shouted Platos.
The men nodded and put their backs into the wagon. It started moving.
“Faster!” shouted Platos. They needed more momentum. If the wagon stopped on the slope, they would not be able to move it. At a run, they reached the bottom of the slope. They started rising up the incline and the wagon slowed.
“Put your bloody backs into it!”
They slowly pushed the wagon up the slope. Rubble started to bounce out of the wagon, hitting the men, but they continued to push. At a crawl, the wagon crested the mound. Platos guessed they were still in line.
“One more push, lads!”
With a mighty shove, the men forced the wagon over the edge of the mound. The wagon toppled down and crashed into the wooden ramp below. The men whooped, but then realised there were still beasts on the mound. Drawing their weapons, they charged in, hacking and cutting.
Many of the defenders were thrown from the mound and others screamed when Talon Hunters’ claws sliced through them, tearing away flesh and skin. The Chosen stood in the middle of the fighting, hacking and chopping with his short swords. He himself had killed two of the beasts that had charged him. He helped another defender who had speared a Talon Hunter. The creature slashed down and snapped the spear. The Chosen jumped and kicked the beast two-footed, sending it careering over the mound. The Chosen rose when another beast pounded the ground where he had lain moments before. Reversing his sword, the emperor used his weight to slam the blade through the beast’s neck. Yanking his blade free, another warrior shoulder-charged the beast off the mound, into the moat. Rowet grabbed the man’s arm so the warrior managed to keep his footing and stay on the defensive structure.
Platos ran to the Chosen’s side. The last of the beasts were thrown from the mound into the moat below by several burly warriors. A cheer went up from the defenders.
“A small victory, Rowet,” said Platos softly.
“Yes, only a small one but crucially the first. It is time to try out those weapons of yours.”
Platos beamed a huge smile. “Danf!” he shouted.
“Yes sir,” answered the clansman, scurrying up next to the master armourer.
“Prepare your catapult.”
The young clansman snapped a crisp salute and rushed off to his catapult, shouting out commands.
“Time to show those creatures Phadrine weaponry.” The Chosen turned to face his master armourer. “Fire when ready.”
A wicked smile grew on Platos’s face. Without turning he gave the order. “FIRE!”
“Away!” called Danf.
The men around the catapult stepped back and Danf pulled the trigger. The firing arm snapped up and hit the padded retaining bar. The first clay orb flew through the air, arcing high and leaving a small trail of smoke. The clay pot hit the ground and shattered, releasing sticky oil that splashed many of the beasts standing close by. For a brief moment, nothing happened. Then . . . whoosh! Several Talon Hunters and Shadows became engulfed in dancing flames.
The Chosen turned from the burning beasts and looked at Platos’s smiling face.
“Fire at will until they fall back.”
“Yes, your Highness,” replied Platos, bowing deeply.
For the next half hour, a variety of clay balls full of salt water, fire oil, and stones were hurled at the enemy. Hundreds of the beasts were hit by the clay balls and burst into flames while flying stones crushed many others. The beasts splashed with the salt water screamed in pain. The briny water burnt through their thick hide like acid, releasing hissing, fetid steam into the air.
The Chosen called a halt to the firing when the creatures fell back out of catapult range. Only the Dark One and his three bodyguards remained, standing defiantly.
The Chosen walked to Danf.
“Do you think you can hit that obnoxious monster?”
The young clansman looked to where the Dark One was standing and asked, “What with, sire?”
“Just a large boulder will do.”
“Yes sire.” The clansman primed his weapon, turned it on the rails, and aimed. “Ready sire.”
The Chosen looked at the Dark One and his eyes narrowed. “FIRE!” he ordered.
“Away,” called Danf and when his men stepped clear, he pulled the trigger lever. The firing-arm snapped up, slamming against the retaining bar, and the projectile was released into the air. The boulder arched in
the air and fell towards the Dark One. The Dark One casually pulled the Blade of Yallas from its sheath and looked up at the falling boulder. The rock hurtled towards the four men, but they remained motionless. Then at the last possible moment the Dark One sliced upwards with his black sword. The blade sliced through the boulder. Suddenly, the chunk of masonry exploded into thousands of tiny pieces, peppering the warriors’ armour. The Dark One walked forward, stopped before the moat, and pointed his sword towards the Chosen. Then surprisingly, the Dark One bowed his head slightly, turned, and walked back to his tent. The three silver-armoured warriors followed him when he passed.
Three more times that afternoon, the Dread tried to use bridges to cross the wide moat and charge the mound. Each time several of the beasts reached the mound, but were ruthlessly cut down by the defenders. Then the accurate firing from the catapults repelled them.
At dusk, the Dread fell back and the warriors on the walls cheered loudly. The Chosen took the opportunity to have his commanders along the mound report to him. The defenders had lost nearly two hundred men; one hundred and twelve were killed and the rest would not fight again, so severe were their wounds. One more attack followed during the evening, but was swiftly repelled.
Later, back in the Chosen’s private chambers, Platos and Rowet sat down wearily and looked over the casualty lists. Rowet sighed heavily and rubbed his chin.
“What’s wrong?” asked Platos.
Rowet got up and poured two glasses of watered wine, handing one to his master armourer.
“I think they were toying with us today.”
“Toying with us, what do you mean?”
“He only used the Talon Hunters today. None of the Shadows were used, and those massive warriors did not even move.”
“I saw them move quickly enough when our catapults rained boulders down on them.”
Rowet chuckled. “Yes, that’s true.”
“What do you expect tomorrow?”
“More of the same, but we have a surprise for them tomorrow.”
“And what’s that?”
“And spoil the surprise? Wait until tomorrow, my friend,” said Rowet, smiling with mischief in his eyes. He sipped his wine.
***
The first couple of assaults were the same. The Talon Hunters alone were sent forward to try and breach the mound, but each time they were repelled. There was a lull in the fighting around noon.
“Now I think,” said the Chosen to Platos. The Chosen turned and pointed to one of his Imperial Guards. The man turned and waved a red flag. Throughout the city men were sending the signal on. Then at the top of the palace, on one of the tallest turrets, someone lit a smoky fire.
“What’s going on?” asked Platos, shielding his eyes to see.
“I hope a surprise for our unwanted guests.” As the Chosen finished his sentence, the Talon Hunters charged forward again. The defenders battled against them, but this time more of the creatures reached the mound. One of the beasts breached the defences and made it down the mound into the city. Several Imperial Guards, waiting in reserve, set upon the Talon Hunter. Without mercy, they hacked the beast into pieces. Slowly, the men defeated the beasts, but the number of casualties rose. Brave stretcher-bearers constantly ran up and down the mound removing the screaming injured and the silent dead. Again, the Talon Hunters retreated to prepare for another assault.
Then from the west came a low rumble. The grumble slowly grew getting louder and louder. Dust rose in the distance. All activity on the mound stopped and men shielded their eyes and gazed out to the west, wondering what was making the mysterious sound. The Dread stopped and turned towards the west.
All waited.
Within the dust, shapes formed. The shapes became clearer. Several men on the mound with keener eyes began to cheer. Horsemen—Dar-Phadrin horsemen.
The Chosen looked to his left and waited with pride. Leading a huge cavalry charge was General Gordonia.
***
A week before the Dread arrived, General Gordonia and the Chosen had continued to plan their battle strategy. In the emperor’s private chambers, the two men poured over maps of the city and surrounding area, seeking weaknesses in their city’s defences or their plan. General Gordonia had just returned from recruiting warriors to help with the defence of the city. He had travelled throughout the Steppes and returned with good news.
“I should have about fifteen thousand warriors coming before the Dark One’s arrival. So, with the twenty thousand we have in the city already, we should have a force in excess of thirty thousand.”
“Well done Gordy, I could not have raised such an army without you. But should it not be thirty-five thousand?”
“I have an idea that should dent the Dark One’s plans.”
Rowet leaned back in his chair and made a tent with his fingers, pressing them against his lips. “Please explain?”
“I have recruited four thousand warriors from my clan, the Grey Pony. As you know, we are formidable horsemen and I think we should use their talents. You know we are taught to ride a pony before we can walk. And then throughout our lives we treat our ponies with more love and are deemed more important than our women.” Gordonia chuckled. “We are dedicated horsemen. I intend to use our cavalry armour, arm the clansmen, and then charge into the Dark One’s forces.”
“You want them to wear the Imperial Guard cavalry armour?”
“That’s my intention. They would not survive my plans without armour. My plan will involve lightning charges into the ranks of the Dread. We will hit them, hit them hard, then pull away and attack again. Therefore, armour will be essential for the clansmen’s survival in such raids.”
Rowet thought for a while. “They must be outside the city. I cannot risk opening the gates and extending the bridge.”
“I have thought about that.” The general leaned over the desk and pointed to a valley about twenty miles east of the white city. “I can hide the men and our ponies in this valley and we will have supplies to last us until the signal is given.”
“How are we meant to signal you if the city is closed?”
Gordonia smiled wryly. “I have an answer to that too. In one of the highest turrets of the palace you will light a fire and add damp wood. The smoke will rise and we will be able to see the signal from this hill,” explained the general, stabbing the map with his finger.
Rowet sat expressionless thinking, looking at the map. “It will take you a while to reach the city after the signal is given.”
“Yes, so you will have to give us plenty of daylight when lighting the signal. That is the key. I would not like to charge into those beasts at night, that’s for sure.”
Rowet looked into his warlord’s eyes. “What do you mean by ‘I’ and ‘you’ when talking about the signal and the charge?”
The general sat back in his seat and sighed. “Rowet, you know me. I am the best strategist in open warfare. When it comes to a siege, I am no better than Platos. I am at my best on open ground. I lead your cavalry and that’s where I will be at my best. I am the best cavalryman you have. And this is going to sound poetic, but I am at my best with the wind blowing in my face and a sturdy pony galloping underneath me. With respect, you know my knee would not last standing all day and night. I would need to sit down every few hours or so. And if there’s a constant charge, I would be useless within a short time. No, I will not have that indignity. And do not even start with the ‘what about your age?’ rubbish. I can ride a pony all day. I am a Grey Pony clansman. If I am going to die, it will be on a pony with a sword in my hand.”
“Gordy,” started Rowet softly. “You are my general, my truest friend, and my mentor. I do not want to stand on the mound and watch you die. I could not stand it.”
“If you see me die, then it will be on my pony and with a pile of those beasts at my feet,” replied Gordonia, unable to hold his emperor’s gaze. “Please Roo, I need this. You know what I mean? I need this.”
Rowet nodded glumly.<
br />
The day the Dread was spotted Rowet went to the southern gate and saw off his warlord. They spoke for a while and embraced before General Gordonia mounted his pony. With several Grey Pony clansmen at his side, General Gordonia rode off to the west.
***
General Gordonia waited in the valley for the signal. The men began to get restless for they were just waiting and no signal came from the city. A month passed and there was still no signal. Gordonia started to fear that the city had fallen. He sent out scouts and they reported that the beasts were just waiting. When the beasts started to march southeast, Gordonia readied his men, thinking that they had been spotted. But the Dread continued their course due southeast. When the beasts returned, Gordonia sent out scouts to the southeast, to ascertain where they went.
The report came back that the town of Negrilton had been utterly destroyed. No one had survived and the town had been put to the torch. A deep hatred welled up in Gordonia’s soul when told of a mountain of bones in the town centre. The scout had reported there were no skulls—just bones.
Still, he waited for the signal. A month after leaving, a scout returned and informed the general that the battle had started. Gordonia knew it would only be a matter of time before the main attack.
Then in the distance smoke rose from the palace turret. The clansman on the lookout hill rushed down and saluted to his general.
“Sir, we have our signal,” reported the clansman and Gordonia smiled.
“Arm yourselves!” he ordered.
The Grey Pony clansmen donned their armour and each man armed himself with a war-hammer, tulwar swords strapped to his back, and small bucklers strapped on his left arm. They had armour on their torsos, and chain mail that flowed over their legs like a long kilt. On their heads, they proudly wore the helm of the Chosen’s cavalry. General Gordonia rode to a nearby rise, turned, and addressed the men.
“Clansmen, this will be our hour. We need to hit the beasts hard and fast. Do not under any circumstances engage in a standing fight with the beasts, for we will lose. Keep moving and we will win the day. We fight for our emperor, the Chosen, for our clan and all clansmen on the Steppes. We are the Grey Pony clan. Let the Dark One tremble as our ponies thunder towards him.” Gordonia paused and gazed at his clansmen. “Clansmen! Let’s ride!”
