Beyond the Edge of Dawn (32 page)

The Battle of Kalad Tol

Like wraiths, the dark shadows crawled across the battlefield towards the ancient fortress. Moncrieff’s commandos were dressed in black clothes, void of anything capable of producing noise. Ten men began their advance while the rest of the army was still moving into position. Exposed flesh was darkened with coal ash and mud. They moved in slow precision, a meter at a time. Moncrieff had arranged for a series of cavalry feints to give the commandos more cover.

The mission was simple. Infiltrate enemy defenses, kill the guards, and open the gates to allow the massed column of heavy infantry a chance at punching through the heart of the Fist before the enemy could regroup. They’d been crawling for seven hours. Most were dehydrated, angry. They wanted the fight. They wanted to avenge their fallen brothers and make the Fist pay.

Moncrieff collapsed his spyglass. All was going according to plan, leaving him with that nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. Battle plans were perfect until contact was made. The sun was setting. His forces were able to deploy without any further aerial bombardment, further heightening his nerves.

“Commander,” he barked.

A bald man eased to his side. “Sir?”

“Begin massing the assault column. I want one thousand men ready to attack within the hour.”

“So many, sir? That’s a great risk.”

Moncrieff’s eyes narrowed. “You dare to question?”

“Sir, you’re asking to send the bulk of the army in one move,” he said without backing down.

“Risks are part of war. The Fist must pay for what they did this morning. I’ll have that fortress tonight.”

The commander’s face flushed. “Sir, do this for tactical reasons, not revenge. This will only result in the loss of more lives.”

“My lives!” Moncrieff raged. “These are my men, and as commander of the armies, I will proceed how I deem best. Either obey my orders or stand relieved.”

Commander Jesterin snapped to attention, rebuked. He’d tried and failed. The only question remaining was how many lives were about to be wasted. “Sir, I request permission to lead the attack.”

Moncrieff stood, speechless. Jesterin had invoked his ire — though, he forced himself to admit, his anger was misdirected. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was wrong. His blood was up, and honor demanded satisfaction. Moncrieff drew to his full height and eyed his commander for signs of treachery. Jesterin was one of his most valuable assets. Losing him was more than Moncrieff was willing to consider. Still, if the commandos did their part, a senior commander leading the troops might work.

He nodded. “Very well, Jesterin. Permission granted. You will advance as soon as you see the flare go up. Seize the gates and command center. I’ll send the rest of the army in to keep the Fist from escaping. Bring honor to us, Jesterin.”

Jesterin saluted and went to assume his post.

“Luck in battle, my friend,” Moncrieff whispered.

One by one, the commandos rose and covered the last few steps to the base of the wall. The sergeant in charge wiped his brow and looked up. Ancient beyond recollection, the walls of Kalad Tol were strong. Rising twenty feet, they provided a daunting climb. He prayed they hadn’t been spotted crossing the killing field.

None of the Fist appeared on the walls with crossbows. The sergeant relaxed slightly. Getting to the walls was the problematic part. His men quietly donned their climbing spikes while he inspected the gate. The wood was old, easy to burn. He hoped General Moncrieff saw that as a benefit should the commandos fail. The man beside him touched his arm and pointed upwards. The sergeant nodded and began to climb.

Pebbles and loose stone chipped away. The commandos froze in place each time it happened. They were dangerous but vulnerable. The climb resumed. Ten feet. Fifteen. When he reached the lip of the wall, the sergeant pulled his short sword from the sheath across his back. He whispered a quick prayer and rose just enough to get a look.

He smiled. There wasn’t a guard in sight, and those Fist in the compound seemed to be going about normal business. Smells of stew and roasting meat filled the air. His stomach growled at the temptation. They’d caught the enemy unawares. If all was going according to plan; the army would be massing right now, waiting for his signal. He slipped over the wall and crouched in the natural shadows. One by one, his men followed until they were assembled.

A Fist guard emerged from the tower to his right, blindly heading their way. The sergeant set down his sword in favor of a throwing knife. His aim was true. The blade took the Fist in the throat. A commando darted out to catch the body before it fell. Three others rushed past to kill those remaining Fist in the tower.

“Go,” the sergeant ordered. “Half and half on each side of the gate. I want it open in five minutes.”

They nodded and filed down the aging steps.

Jesterin waited anxiously as night continued to deepen. He hated waiting almost more than any other single event revolving around a battle. It was both hated and necessary, the one moment every commander was forced to endure. Any one of a hundred things could go wrong. Tension and apprehension clashed in him. War was fickle, seldom predictable and run by raw emotions. Jesterin felt the unease rise among his men.

“Steady, lads, steady,” he turned and said with all the poise of a veteran. “We’ve all been here before. You know this game. Once the gate is open, we rush in and kill them all. Nothing to it.”

Jesterin hoped his captains and sergeants were doing the same throughout the ranks. The army was ready to attack, trusting in their leaders to do the right thing and keep them alive. He wished for their confidence. Moncrieff wasn’t acting like himself lately, giving Jesterin pause. The senior commander was beginning to think Corso had gotten to the general.

Corso. He’d never liked the man, seeing him as a base coward who twisted others into doing his bidding. Jesterin doubted he’d ever gotten his hands dirty before. Yet for all that, Eglios trusted him implicitly. Corso all but ran the kingdom now. This campaign had been his creation. No one else in Aradain viewed a handful of mercenaries as much of a threat. Certainly not enough to send the bulk of the army with the commanding general in charge. Jesterin reckoned their current course of action was leading them all down an unrecoverable path.

“Why isn’t the catapult firing?” one of the rankers asked.

Jesterin grimaced in the dark. “We don’t want them to know we’re coming, do we? You just worry about doing your job, trooper. That goes for all of you. Look after the men to your left and right, and you’ll be fine. The enemy hides behind his walls hoping to break our morale. We’ll put them to rights soon enough, never you worry about that. Get inside, and kill everyone you find. No prisoners. Come the dawn, we’ll plant the king’s colors on the highest tower.”

Those nearest murmured approval. Fine words often were enough inspiration right before a fight. Jesterin knew this from experience, he just didn’t know if they would be enough. Bright green light burst over the walls of Kalad Tol, shattering his thoughts. The sign. Jesterin’s heart lurched. He drew his sword.

“Forward!”

The command echoed down the ranks. The army of Aradain committed to battle.

“March!”

One thousand heavy infantry surged forward under a symphony of grinding boots and jostling armor. Jesterin stepped out a quick pace, hoping to cover the five hundred meters as quickly as possible. The sooner he closed with the enemy, the less chance the Fist had to react, negating their air power. Grounded, the Fist were no better than his men.

Jesterin’s legion moved faster. Concerns for stealth vanished. Speed became the key to success. The ten commandos inside the castle wouldn’t last long without support. Soldiers surged behind as he broke into a jog. The flare burned supernaturally, reminding Jesterin of ghostly tales his father used to tell. He half-expected to see rotted corpses rising from the ground to pull them all down to the underworld. Jesterin shivered. They had less than one hundred meters to go. His pulse quickened. No matter what else happened, they wouldn’t stop until either dead or victorious.

At fifty meters, he broke into a full sprint. The soldiers refrained from issuing battle cries. Jesterin burst through the open gates with his lead squads and froze. Moncrieff’s commandos lay in front of them. Their bodies were torn and hacked. Jesterin lifted his gaze to find fifty archers and a hundred pike men leering back at them. Pharanx Gorg grinned savagely, blood staining his face. The Fist commander lowered his sword arm. Fifty bows thrummed.

“Fire!” Pharanx bellowed the command loud enough for the rest of the Fist concealed atop the walls to hear.

Two hundred men rose from cover and began peppering the advance ranks of infantry with well-placed fire. Having amassed so close, they were easy targets. Barum directed the assault from the center wall. He and those closest began targeting the rear ranks, driving the front closer to the false protection of the walls. Below came the sounds of clashing steel.

Pharanx Gorg attacked with reckless fury. He hadn’t sought out this fight, but Corso had forced it nonetheless. He relished the surprise registering in the enemy commander’s face right before an arrow cut him down. Geblin stood beside him, launching quarrel from his crossbow into the confused enemy. His wizened face was expressionless. The Gnome went about his work with dispassionate efficiency. Men died where he aimed, though he took no pleasure from it. There was no honor in this massacre.

“Check you fire, Gnome,” Pharanx hissed. “I don’t want one of your quarrels in my ass!”

Geblin ignored him. The Fist commander stepped into a slashing blow, slipping in a pool of blood while whipping his sword out. Steel crunched bone, and the enemy infantry dropped with a shout. One of Geblin’s bolts pierced his forehead, driving through brain and out the back, cutting off his cry. A horn bellowed from outside the gates. Moncrieff’s soldiers fell back in a disorganized rabble.

“They retreat!” Barum called from the wall.

Still on his back, Pharanx croaked, “Cease fire! They are broken.”

Fist archers fell silent. Only now did they take stock of the carnage committed. More than three hundred bodies lay on the field. Most were dead, while a small handful tried to crawl away. The Fist had lost thirty with another ten out of the fight.

“Damnation,” Geblin whispered.

Pharanx got to his feet, frowning at the blood coating his back. The acidic stench of so much death was overpowering.

“I’ve never seen the likes before,” Geblin explained.

“Pray you never do again. No race should slaughter one another so readily.”

Geblin slung his crossbow. “Will they retire?”

Pharanx lead his friend outside the gates. “No. Moncrieff will only try harder. We are still sorely outnumbered. He has the option of calling for reinforcements. We don’t. Each of our dead hurts badly.”

Wurz joined them. He was drenched in blood, some of it his. The Dwarf wore a surly look mixed with pain and exhaustion. “Bastards kept coming.”

Pharanx looked his lieutenant up and down. “Get to the surgeon before you bleed to death on me.”

“I can do my job just fine. There’s worse in there than me,” he argued back.

“That’s an order, Lieutenant. I’m going to need you before this is finished.”

Wurz grumbled something unintelligible and turned to leave. He collapsed first. Pharanx dropped to his side, fearful his friend was dead.

“Medic!” he cried.

Four men rushed to carry Wurz to the hospital. Barum walked up, shock in his eyes.

“What do we do now?” Pharanx asked him.

Barum wasn’t sure. By rights, they should all be dead. If it hadn’t been for Geblin spotting the commandos, the fortress would already have fallen. They owed the Gnome their lives.

“Clear away the dead, and drag the wounded away. Let Moncrieff come to get them. Hopefully, that will buy us more time.”

Pharanx kicked one of the corpses, staring deep into the dead man’s eyes. A cold chill ran down his spine. “Perhaps. But how much time do you think that will really buy us?”

“There’s only two more days until the eclipse,” Barum answered.

Pharanx Gorg nodded. They’d given a good account so far, but he wondered if they had enough left to last two more days.

Counterattack

The Fist counter-attacked shortly before dawn, when the night was at its darkest and coldest. Fiery explosions raged throughout the Aradain camp. The price of slaughter was high. Men lay broken, screaming. Pharanx’s riders targeted the camp center, hoping to cut off the command structure. They watched Moncrieff’s tent burst into flames, along with a dozen more. Mission complete, the Fist riders headed back to their camp.

“That’s the end of that,” Pharanx said after taking his place on the wall. “We’ve got no more surprises.”

Barum finished fletching the arrow in his hand. “They’ll be wary at first.”

“Only until they figure out we have no more tricks. If Moncrieff still lives, he’ll hit us hard, nonstop.”

“A hard fight,” the knight agreed.

“Incoming!” shouted a sentry.

The Fist took cover moments before the first catapult round exploded against the wall. Gouts of flame licked up, catching any too slow. Black smoke curled into the sky. The smell of burnt flesh assault their senses.

“We won’t last too long against that,” Geblin commented, forgetting the enemy only had one functional catapult.

The Gnome appeared a decade older. His sarcasm was gone. The bitterness he’d had when the knight had rescued him had been replaced by the overwhelming need for survival. Most of all, Geblin had lost the urge to continue roaming Malweir. He wanted to go home. Gnomes weren’t meant for war. Yet the only way home was getting through Moncrieff’s army. Creidlewein had already been attacked once. He feared the worst was yet to come.

Barum asked, “I thought we took out their siege engines?”

“They had one remaining. Unless, of course, their engineers managed to piece together more.”

“We need to take it down, fast. As long as Moncrieff has it, he owns the advantage. Time is our enemy as much as that army,” Barum watched a second fireball scream towards them.

The projectile exploded against the crenellation of a guard tower, sending flame and rock everywhere. Men fell screaming. Others rushed to extinguish the flames. The barrage continued for another hour. Moncrieff clearly intended on pummeling them into submission and had the ammunition to do so.

By noon, the defenders were on edge. Gaping holes peppered the side of most of the buildings. Too many Fist had been wounded. Fortunately, only a handful had been killed. Surgeons treated the wounded, cursing as fresh patients continually arrived. Pharanx looked to the mass grave growing in the far corner of the main compound. The names of the dead were engraved in the stone walls of the old chapel. He wouldn’t let those who died disappear into nameless history.

“We’re already down to three hundred men,” he told his council.

It was late at the end of the second day. Moncrieff’s one catapult continued firing. The mercenaries had grown accustomed to it.

Barum scratched his chin. “They have to be hurting as much as we are.”

“They can afford to. Moncrieff doesn’t have to make a move. He can sit back and wait until we’re reduced to nothing.”

He had to admit Pharanx had a point. The Fist didn’t have much left. “Do you think we can destroy the catapult? We need to negate that advantage.”

Pharanx shrugged. “I don’t see how. It has to be the most heavily guarded site in their camp. It would a suicide mission. Frankly, we can’t afford to waste the manpower. You saw how well their raid worked out. Why should ours be any different?”

“We must do something,” Barum insisted.

“We are just the diversion,” Pharanx reminded.

“That doesn’t mean I plan on dying here. Kavan can handle himself. What we —”

A cry from the wall cut him off. “Rider coming in!”

Pharanx and the others grabbed their weapons and rushed to the wall. One man on a chestnut mare rode casually within bow range. He bore a captain’s rank and appeared just as haggard as the defenders. A small white flag hung limp from the end of a broken spear.

“That’s far enough,” Pharanx called down.

“General Moncrieff wishes to discuss a temporary truce,” the captain said. The words were like acid on his tongue.

Pharanx felt a tremor of hope. “Speak your terms.”

“We request amnesty to gather our wounded and dead from the field. General Moncrieff gives his word that we will not attack during that time, so long as you hold your fire.”

“That’s not really in my best interests.”

“Time, Pharanx. They’re giving us time,” Barum whispered.

Clearly irritated, Pharanx submitted. “Very well, Captain. You have your two hours.”

The mercenary leader left the wall. His thoughts were scrambled with trying to devise a trap for the enemy. Honor demanded otherwise. Were he a lesser man, he’d attack as soon as Moncrieff’s men were distracted.

“What are your orders?” Barum asked.

Pharanx halted halfway down the stairs. “Let them have their dead. As you say, we need the time.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not.”

Barum caught the glimmer in his eye. “You’re scheming.”

“As long as he has that damned catapult, our position remains untenable. I’m going to lead a group and destroy it.”

Barum balked.

“Take command here. The men will follow you,” Pharanx told him. He enjoyed how Barum’s mouth dropped. “I know what it is you have to say, Gaimosian. Save your words. My mind is decided. May fortune favor you. I have had my fill of fighting.”

Moncrieff climbed into his saddle. Stretcher bearers and wagon masters readied around him. A platoon of fifty cavalry waited in columns of two. Moncrieff didn’t suspect any treachery but couldn’t leave it to chance. Mercenaries seldom were honorable, and, from what he’d been told, Pharanx Gorg was no exception.

“Sir, we are prepared to move,” the chief surgeon announced.

“Very well, sound the advance,” Moncrieff replied.

He still smarted from the loss of Jesterin. Regrets echoed. He shouldn’t have let his most senior advisor lead the first assault, but anger had reduced his capacity for reason. Slaughter was the result. And in a day when a third of his army was diminished, he sorely felt the loss. The siege was taking longer than he wanted. Aradain was all but undefended while he wasted away at Kalad Tol.

He toyed with the idea of betraying the truce and ending it all now. The Fist certainly deserved as much. That band of misfits was making a habit of embarrassing him. His commando’s failure cut almost as deep as Jesterin. With most of his tactical options shattered, he was left with the old-fashioned infantry assault with scaling ladders. The loss of life would be tremendous.

Moncrieff had proven capable on numerous battlefields. The Fist presented him with a unique dilemma. He’d never been attacked from the sky. It was unheard of, cowardly. It was also highly effective. His men spent more time watching the skies than on the forces in Kalad Tol. Both attacks thus far had taken heavy tolls. The men of Aradain were losing confidence.

His sole purpose in leading the recovery column was to get a glimpse at the man who had stymied his army. Good generals led from the front. He needed not only for Pharanx to see that but also for his men to understand that he cared. He offered encouragement here and there as they passed through the front lines.

Moncrieff studied the shattered front walls of Kalad Tol. They would have already crumbled if he’d still had use of his engines. The gates were old, probably shored up from within. Dozens of mercenaries watched from the ramparts. Their impassive stares told him all he needed. Naturally, they were no more impressed with him than he was with them. Moncrieff spied the distinctive features of a Gnome among them and tensed. Corso’s Gaimosians were said to be travelling with one of the small folk. His stomach began to churn. His men weren’t prepared to battle Vengeance Knights. He checked the men around him to see if any had noticed the same thing.

For their part, none cared about the defenders. They went about the grim task of gathering the wounded and dead. Surgeons acted desperately to save what lives they could. Others pointed out corpses to cloth-faced litter bearers. The dead were stack unceremoniously in the wagon beds. Once one was full, the driver headed back to camp.

“General, over here.”

Moncrieff saw where the ranker was pointing and gradually slid from his horse. He removed his helmet, allowing nearby soldiers to witness the grief etched in his face. He knew who the ranker was point at. Drawing heavy breath, the general of Aradain’s army knelt beside Jesterin’s broken corpse.

A lifetime of warfare, and he still hadn’t gotten used to how pale and waxen the dead looked. Especially when it was a friend. He laid a tender hand on Jesterin’s chest beside a gaping wound. Whoever had killed him had done so instantly, a small mercy.

“Put him on the back of my horse,” Moncrieff ordered. “He’s to receive full military honors. He died a hero of the kingdom.”

“Yes, sir.”

Moncrieff stayed with the body until two more soldiers retrieved it and then walked behind them, eyes lowered to the ground. He’d made an unforgivable mistake, and it had cost Aradain many loyal sons. It would be many years before he managed to forgive his error. Moncrieff vowed to erect a monument to Jesterin and all of the others upon his return to Rantis. He didn’t speak again until rejoining the lines.

“Captain, where do we stand?”

“All of the siege equipment is ready. We’ve pieced together another functional catapult. The line units all know who will be in the main assault tomorrow.”

Moncrieff nodded. “Very good. See that Jesterin’s body is prepared for travel back to the capital.”

“Yes, sir.”

Moncrieff drained his mug of water. “I want every man not involved in the assault to attend the funerals. Order those two catapults to resume firing. Let’s give the Fist scum a long night, shall we?”

“I’ll send a runner immediately, sir.”

Moncrieff watched him go, suddenly feeling tired. His senior commander was dead, his troops demoralized. He needed a victory, any victory, but was at a loss for ideas. Perhaps observing the funeral rites would ease his troubled mind.

“Sir, we’re under attack!” shouted his captain from just outside the tent flap.

Moncrieff exploded from his cot. The initial daze and confusion bled away with the touch of familiar leather straps on his sword hilt.

“Where?”

Flames rose above the rear of the camp, dangerously close to his supply lines. Cold dread crept upon him. The catapults. Moncrieff scanned the semi-dark skies for signs of those damnable flying beasts. Squads of soldiers ran in various directions, taking positions on the perimeter.

Moncrieff grabbed the captain by the collar. “How did this happen? I ordered triple guard.”

“The guards were all killed,” the captain struggled.

“Impossible. That would mean the enemy has found a path into our camp.”

“Yes, sir, that is what we believe.”

Moncrieff shoved the man away, cursing them both for being fools. His mind raced through scenarios in an effort to discover the truth. Then it dawned on him. The dead. He had never bothered checking to ensure all of the bodies had been his men. Now, the worst of all scenarios was playing out. Enemy assassins roamed his camp freely.

“Gather my personal guard,” he barked.

The captain protested, “Sir, it’s much too dangerous. If you fall….”

“I’m aware of the risks, Captain,” he snapped. “Now, do your job. I want their heads before dawn.”

“We could spend hours trying to find them. They may have already gone,” he protested.

Moncrieff’s face darkened. “No. They are still here. Get ready, Captain. I think they have come to kill me.”

“Based on what?”

“That’s the only move that makes sense. Pharanx Gorg knows we can pummel him down until they’re no longer mission capable. He must attack now, try and break us when we least expect it.” Smoke caressed his nostrils. “Send the attack.”

His adjutant stared back in disbelief. “At night, sir?”

Moncrieff’s eyes were ablaze. “Yes, damn it! Now! Form ranks and attack.”

He threw a crisp if undecided salute and marched off barking orders. Moncrieff fought down a smile. Assaulting Kalad Tol wasn’t his main objective, though he hoped it would flush out the mercenaries in his ranks. Moncrieff wanted the fight. Wanted to be done with this bloody affair.

The veteran general stalked through his camp, ringed in personal guards. He bellowed encouragement to the forces marshalling for the assault. “For the glory of Aradain,” he roared, sword raised high. Weary men found their pride renewed and cheered both their leader and their kingdom. His blood up, Moncrieff authorized the advance. The siege of Kalad Tol had entered the final stage. By dawn, the battle would be done.

Moncrieff and his ring of steel marched past dozens of shadows. His focus was on exposing enemy infiltrators, to lure them out. What better temptation than the general of the army? His first two guards went down with arrows in their chests. The rest halted, constricting around Moncrieff. None had seen where the shots came from. Moncrieff snarled. Three more guards fell dead, all from different angles in the circle.