Brave Men Die: Part 2 (16 page)

‘That won’t do. We need a distraction. How long before they spot us?’

‘We won’t last the day here.’

‘Then we just need to hope that Duncan decides to charge some time today.’

Volans ordered another knight to return to the forest and keep an eye on the enemy. He grabbed a mouthful of water from his flask and leaned against a tree trunk. It would be a long day.

More and more troops were arriving from the front line. The message was relayed back and forth from the soldier stationed at the edge of the forest. This was not going well. If Duncan didn’t charge soon they were screwed, and they needed to make a decision to head back onto the trail or leap blindly into the pass.

Volans closed his eyes and imagined that the drums had started beating. They echoed down along the pass, their steady rhythm keeping time with his heart. He opened his eyes when he was tapped on the arm. The drums were still beating. He looked at Hydrus’ smiling face.

‘Duncan decided to play nice?’

‘It looks that way. The infantry are moving back toward the front line. It will be a few minutes before they get back and then we can go. So on your horse, lieutenant.’

Volans mounted up and waited. Time seemed to stand still. Finally the scout came racing back, giving the thumbs up and jumping into the saddle.

Hydrus gave the order and they formed a single file and rode between the trees, coming out at the edge of the deserted enemy camp. They made a quick line for the exit and out toward the empty plains.

Volans hoped it would stay that way. It would be a few hours ride before they reached their target, a pocket of woodland in the Derelict Plains. From there they would wait until a target presented itself. Good plan, but they just needed to not be discovered in the mean time.

Hydrus and Volans sat atop their mounts overlooking the vast areas of green grass of the Derelict Plains. From their vantage point hidden in the woods, Hydrus watched on as a small band of carriages trailed hours behind a larger force headed for the mountains.

‘What are your thoughts Volans?’

‘Supply train. Full of whores, cooks, and squires. It’s at least half a day behind the rearguard of that large force that passed us in the morning.’

‘Tell the men we have a target.’

‘Sir?’

‘This is war. We have to make decisions. We must send a message that nowhere is safe from us.’

‘Sir.’

Hydrus was struck by the look on Volans’ face. The order surely could not have been a surprise. Yet sometimes the big man surprised him. His last touch of humanity would be destroyed out here. Hydrus had turned it all off, just looked at everything like it was a target. He had to. He was the leader after all. He stared at the caravan, wobbling along over the ground.

Soon Volans returned, riding up beside him with all the troops in tow. ‘We are ready sir.’

No time like the present. Hydrus kicked Honour in the flanks and the stallion took off. From the tree line the Nails came pouring out onto the Derelict Plains. There was nothing but silence as they rode toward the caravan. No chants, cheers, or war cries. The men knew what they were doing, what was asked of them. There were no complaints. In unison the cavalry drew their weapons.

The caravan continued to trundle on until the Nails were almost on top of them. Drivers pulled hard on the reins and the wagons came to a stop. The squires darted around to form up in front of the whores. Screams rang out when they realised what was happening. Horses cantered in tight circles as the boys squared off against men.

Hydrus hit first. His blade flashed out across a squire’s face. The boy buckled under the blow before Hydrus’ blade pierced the chest of a whore who was leaning out of the back of a wagon. He turned to find another target and witnessed the massacre. The Nails rode into them, blood sprayed as all that opposed them were butchered. Some of the squires fled only to be chased down and hit from behind. Some of the knights hadn’t pursued and moved around the wagons to prevent any further escape. A handful of them moved in to kill the whores, dismounted from the saddles and stepped up into the back of the wagon. The first man up was smacked over the head with a frying pan and fell back on his arse in the dirt. Laughter erupted at the spectacle. The man dusted himself off, gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly, and went back in, swinging his blade and evoking screams.

Hydrus heard Volans order the men to stay back as he dismounted. He put his hammer down and took out his dagger. He alone moved to kill the cooks. They were trembling before him as light glinted off his blade. It wasn’t a fight, but murder. He grabbed the first by the hair, lifted her chin, and sliced the blade across her neck. He let the body slip to the ground as the others burst into tears. Their sobs were silent. He moved to the next.

Four squires on foot had grouped together, circling around, their eyes frantically searching for where the attack would come from. Castor dismounted and headed purposely for them. The look in his eyes was enough to deter any of the other Nails from taking part.

Castor shifted his legs shoulder length apart, one foot in front of the other. He pulled his sword up beside his head, tip pointed toward the squires and signalled them to engage.

‘One versus four is fair. The others will not interrupt,’ he assured them calmly.

The first squire charged forward swinging his sword wildly with as much bravo as he could muster. Castor stepped to the side and ran him through, impaling the boy up to the hilt.

The sight of the squire’s death put the courage into the others who hesitated briefly before they surged as one. Castor whipped his blade out of the dead boy and blocked the first of the strikes. His feet danced as he easily avoided the novice attacks. Castor slashed out and took off one boy’s weapon arm. Before the limb touched the ground he had decapitated the next. The last squire stood his ground and thrust his sword at Castor’s side, but the stroke was easily deflected. The boy’s eyes locked into Castor’s as the blade pierced his heart.

Castor turned to the remaining squire with the one arm. The boy was crying. Tears flooded down his face. He stepped away, tried to escape but tripped over his own feet. Castor realised the boy knew this was it. He put the blade over his heart and looked into the enemy’s eyes as he bought the weapon down fast, making the death as quick as possible.

Hydrus nodded his head at Castor when he looked his way, the bodies of the four boys behind him, but he paid it no attention and went straight for his horse.

‘Grab what you can, men,’ Hydrus ordered. ‘Food, spears, anything of use. Just make it quick.’

The Nails dismounted and methodically searched for anything useful, climbing into the blood-soaked wagons.

Hydrus looked at Castor and then Volans. His corporal and lieutenant were a strange pair. They took no part in the looting but rather sat quietly in their saddles, staring past the men as they worked, never meeting their gazes. But that was not what bothered him the most. Since he had known Volans, he had learnt that he would never order a man to do something that he would not do himself. By volunteering to murder all of those unarmed cooks and serving girls he saved his troops from the nightmares that he would now be plagued by. He grudgingly respected it but would never have done it personally. He liked his sleep too much. Plus he’d need to live with the decisions to attack the helpless supply trains in the first place.

Castor was another matter entirely. Since he and his brother had come to Buckthorne all those years ago he had sensed that Castor was the quieter one, but with the strongest sense of loyalty and duty. He had a great sense of fairness but since Argol had died he had become more reckless and dark. He threw himself at the enemy, hoping for gods knows what — revenge, vindication, death — and this bloodlust would get him or someone else who was following his orders killed. Maybe that was a warped sense of loyalty to a dead friend, to take as many of them with him before he died. He would have to watch them both.

Castor wanted no part of the stealing from the dead. He rode past a group who were claiming food and weapons but could not raise his eyes from the ground. He could not even look at them. Blood stained his hand. They were only boys, much like he'd been when he started at Buckthorne. Since when was killing kids part of soldiering? That was the last thing he ever thought he would be doing when he dreamed of being a knight.

He looked over the landscape, away from the massacre. A rider sat on top of a horse, armoured, still. His vision was blurry so he rubbed his eyes. The rider remained, stationary and still. He had the look of someone he knew, a way that his body tilted in the saddle, blond hair moved in the wind.

‘Argol?’

Castor kicked in his heels and rode toward the rider, who remained motionless on the hill. He could hear the shouts of the others behind him, questioning. He kept going until Volans rode up beside him and cut him off.

‘Where are you going Castor?’

‘To the rider on the hill. I need to know who he is.’

‘What rider?’

‘That rider,’ Castor answered, pointing to the hill.

‘No one is there Castor,’ replied Volans.

Castor turned away from the lieutenant and looked at the hill. His rider was gone, vanished from sight.

‘Where did he go? We need to get after him, find him.’

‘There was no one there in the first place Castor, no one, you hear me?’

‘But I need to know, what if he wasn’t dead? What if he woke up and crawled out and has followed us out here?’

Volans put a hand on his shoulder, looked into his eyes. Tears were forming in the corners. Castor tried to blink them away.

‘Argol is gone Castor. Nothing is going to bring him back. We buried him, he was dead. We buried him remember? Don’t get caught up searching for ghosts. They will lead you in circles until you’re a wrecked man, delusional and broken.’

‘But I swear I saw him.’

‘Perhaps in there,’ Volans said, pointing at his chest, ‘But not with your eyes.’

Castor shook his head. He didn’t know what to trust anymore.

‘Let’s get back to the unit. They should be done with the clean up and about to burn the lot.’

Castor looked up at Volans and nodded, tugging at the reins and nudging Virtue to follow their companion. He reached the rest of the unit and no one seemed to know that he'd been missing. Hydrus grabbed a torch and flung it into the first wagon and the procedure was repeated with the others.

‘Let’s move out, I want to be as far away from here when they come to investigate the smoke,’ Hydrus ordered.

Castor silently fell into line with the others and put the whole scene behind him, ignoring the rider who had returned to the hill.

Baron Scythe stood on the walls of the barricade. The enemy sat in the distance, waiting. The advanced portion of the army had arrived, formed ranks, and waited for a command to attack. Heavily armoured, these were the experienced troops he had been waiting on. The remains of his forces lined the walls with repeater crossbows, waiting for them to move closer. Ammunition was running short. They had resorted to pulling them out of the dead.

He watched his men. They looked grim, resolved. Most of them had never killed before the start of this, but they had managed to survive their first encounter and now were veterans. The last three weeks had been brutal, a real test of the men and their commanders. The wounded were patched up and returned to the walls, fear of letting their brothers down the strongest incentive. Cronos’ commanders had come and gone, newly raised sergeants saw a day or two before succumbing to a Kyzantine blade or arrow. Surprisingly the two constant commanders for the Fists managed to live through it by throwing themselves at the enemy, and they were the two youngest.

He gave the orders to a messenger for the remains of the Fists to wait beyond the gate in preparation for its collapse. The Fangs and the Sentinels lined the walls of Black Claw. There was no point now having the cavalry waiting to charge: it had been clear for the last two weeks that the Kyzantine generals were planning on a long siege to whittle down his numbers and eventually take the walls.

Cronos watched as tower shields were carried to the soldiers in the front line of those waiting below. Blades were drawn in preparation. Instinctively they started banging their blades against their shields. The rhythmic booming echoed out across the Fatelli Pass. Cronos let a slight grin appear. The haunting echo was designed to panic the enemy and scare them into thinking there were thousands behind the wall instead of hundreds. If only they knew just how few men he had left to give their lives.

He needed to hold on until reinforcements arrived but had no idea where they would be coming from. Gravid’s Drift was the closest but the earl would be forced to supplement the guards at the Musea Pass. Reinforcements would come from Sarkridge but those would still be weeks away. The Kyzantines would be ready to charge before then. More kept arriving. Horsemen and infantry. It wouldn’t be long. It would be the infantry who would do all the work, the cavalry wouldn’t have a target to get at, not while they stood on the walls. If the gate fell however … that was something he didn’t want to think about until it happened.

But they were tired. Exhausted from waiting. Paranoid from the night attacks.

Cronos looked at Byrn. His old friend stood silently by his side scanning the massing army. He looked proud in his polished armour, regal with his beard trimmed short around his jaw line, and defiant with his steely blue eyes gazing at the enemy. As boys they had served together along the borders, fought all manner of men for all manner of reasons, and Cronos knew that his friend would always have his back. They had too many scars to know this wasn’t just playing.

‘What do you think about all this Byrn?’ Cronos asked.

‘They must have a bloody good reason for coming at us like this. Either that or they have just plain lost their minds.’

‘It’s like they've just marched every soldier straight to the mountains and herded every person they found along the way that can wield a sword and brought them to our doorstep. Those faces down there in the front line look like a bunch of farmers and those bastards behind them are going to send them up here like fodder just to whittle us down.’

‘Then when we’re tired, lost a few men to some lucky strokes, the real soldiers will come and swarm us and they’ve got the numbers, Cronos. There are thousands of them cramming into the pass and they probably fill up Cerebus Valley too. They are just going to whittle us away and there’s nothing we can do but stand here and take it.’

‘But that’s when us Buckthorne men are at our best, isn’t that right? Each one of them down there on the wall or standing behind the gate know that there isn’t going to be anyone else coming to help them. If they don’t stand and fight the Empire will just march on in here and take everything that they’ve sworn to protect.’

‘There is no doubt about that, I’m just worried that even if every man stands and dies, there aren't going to be enough bodies to keep them out.’

‘That’s why we need to take as many as we can before that happens. But hopefully it won’t come to that. I plan to keep as many of my men alive for as long as possible so that maybe some of them get to go home.’

‘That’s a nice thought, but not one we should be concerned with right now. Home is something to hope for and mentioning it is just a slap in the face for these men, who probably realise they won’t ever see it again.’

Cronos shifted his attention from Byrn’s truthful words to the Kyzantines spread across the pass. He sensed a shift in the air before he saw the movement. Flags dropped forward and the charge came. Cronos stood like a stone gargoyle on the tower, fierce and protective.

‘Positions!’ Cronos screamed. ‘Lock and load, this is what we have been waiting for.’

‘Get ready,’ Byrn screamed. ‘They are coming!’

The Kyzantines marched forward, horns and drums played a steady rhythm as the formation came on. Units of archers got into firing range and let loose their barrage. Arrows flew around him, covering the movement of the infantry across the pass toward the barricade. A few Murukans died as the arrows rained down and slammed into their bodies but most of the barrage fell short. Cronos waited. Waited until the front runners took two more steps and he screamed, ‘Fire!’

All crossbows launched their bolts. They hurtled through the air, puncturing armour and piercing flesh. The payload of bolts massacred the minions eager to die. Cronos watched as his men reloaded and the Kyzantines ran over the dead.

‘Fire at will’ he ordered, in an effort to litter the battlefield with corpses to make the cavalry ineffective if their time came.

He needed enough men left alive to defend the walls in close combat. Another salvo was sporadically released. The dying screams deafened his ears. Cronos smiled. Let them come. They would taste his blade.

On top of Black Claw’s tower, Daria and Ara stood with a group of archers unleashing spell after spell, devastating the enemy below. Each mage concerned herself with one side of the pass, as fire, lightning and ice helped to keep the attackers from reaching the wall.

A line opened up in the centre of the pass as a squad of Kyzantines ran forward, the soldiers at the front lifting their shields to defend those running behind carrying a massive battering ram. Daria noticed and urged the archers to fire, watching as their payload bounced harmlessly off an emerging yellow shield of energy.

The same shield countered Daria’s attack on the ram, the lightning reflecting off and burning unprotected soldiers. Cursing, Daria upped her attack and a group of meteors fell from the sky. They landed with accuracy only to bounce harmlessly off the enemy shield.

‘They have a mage,’ Daria screamed over the sounds of battle to Ara.

‘That’s impossible. It’s against their whole belief system.’

‘See for yourself. Strike at the battering ram,’ Daria ordered.

Summoning a lightning strike that would have burnt a man from the inside out, it was absorbed by the yellow shield that flickered over the large oak wood.

Screaming in frustration, Ara slapped her hands together and cast Shock Waves toward the squad of Kyzantines, aiming directly at the ground before them. The yellow shield flashed to life but did little to stop the men falling to the ground.

‘We need to find out who is casting and deal with them. There are thousands of women in the Kyzantine army, it could be anyone of them,’ Ara said.

‘Or a man,’ Daria sneered.

The possibilities were endless. It could be one or many of the Kyzantine warriors in the pass. The battering ram team got back onto their feet, lifted the ram, and moved forward again. No matter what they threw at them they were going to make it to the gate.

Ara searched the battlefield for any sign of a mage as Daria’s shield flared up and protected the right side of the barricade from a volley of arrows. Ara searched for what was different from before, different from all the other times that the Kyzantines had attacked and never before shown any sign of a magical defence. The baron had mentioned that they had more troops, maybe one of them was the mage.

Outraged, Ara sent Lava Orbs into the masses, burned some Kyzantines as the ram team made it all the way to the gate and out of her sight. The first impact struck loud and booming, shaking the very foundation of Black Claw. With the main siege weapon safely escorted to the gate, more and more of the magi’s spells were countered by the sickening pale yellow shield.

In the distance, just within eyesight, Ara noticed a standard wavering that she had not recognised before. A white hand on black and red represented the Hand of God, the religious men of the Kyzantine Empire. There was no way of telling how many were there, but that flag meant that at least one was. Masked under the presence of their One God, these men and their secret sect could have continued to learn the art unopposed.

‘The priests, Daria, the priests. They are the ones casting. We need to stop them,’ Ara screamed desperately.

Daria turned a ghastly shade of white as she saw the Hand of God’s standard in the distance and looked like she was about to hurl. ‘They never possessed any real power, not before this.’

‘Not that we know of, but they’ve shown their hand now. A mage must have infiltrated their ranks and climbed to power, usurping the beliefs and telling them his was the power of their One God. It is the only explanation.’

‘That doesn’t matter now. We need to stop him. There is only the one, the energy signature doesn’t change.’

‘Tell me where he is and I’ll take care of him,’ Ara sneered.

‘There,’ Daria said pointing. ‘In the distance surrounded by all those men. He is impossible to reach.’

‘Leave it to me. Just keep casting and occupy him while I get into position.’

Daria looked over at Ara but she was already gone, leaving a puff of sulphuric black smoke behind her. Casting like she said she would, Daria watched as her spells fizzled harmlessly over the shield. Catching the first sight of black smoke, Daria followed it as it criss-crossed across the battlefield.

Ara didn’t stay in any position too long, she teleported herself in, saw her next spot and moved on instantly. It was taxing doing it so fast but she needed speed on her side. Startled Kyzantine expressions stared at her as she materialised, only to be confused when she was gone in the blink of an eye.

Approaching closer and closer to the priest and his guards, Ara looked for a position to leap to. Inhaling a deep breath, she ported behind him and clamped her hands on either side of his head.

‘Die fucker,’ she screamed, turning her head as the man’s skull exploded under the pressure of the spell.

The left side of her face was covered with the clergyman’s blood and brains as the guards around him turned. The priest’s body fell to the ground as Lava Orbs appeared in Ara’s hands and the guards prepared to charge. The balls of flame launched as the first man stepped forward, engulfing the detachment in flames.

Ara glanced around to ensure she was safe for the moment and stooped over her adversary’s body and rummaged through the bag that he had beside his feet. Inside was a book and a few vials of liquid, things that warranted further investigation.

Ara ported back to the tower top within the blink of an eye, dropped the bag on the ground as the ram battered into the doors again.

‘That was impressive Ara,’ Daria muttered as her spells finally did some damage.

‘I’ll have to teach you some time. But for now I’m going down to the gate. It will give sometime soon and they are going to need my help.’

Daria nodded and watched as the young redhead went to the back of the tower and stepped off before returning her focus to burning the enemy.

Baron Scythe moved along the rampart as the Kyzantines surged against the walls and gate. It would give soon. His men fought on, on top of the wall, repelled all who attempted to climb it. Byrn was right behind him, sword already in his hand, an eagerness in his blue eyes to get amongst it. As a Kyzantine climbed over the wall a scant metre behind, Cronos turned his head slightly to see that Byrn had leapt at the woman, his sword slicing her arm off and pushing her back below.

Cronos stuck his head over the wall, taking the head off the first man to come near him, and peered down at the gate. The ram itself looked like it was made of solid oak with a metal lion’s head at its tip. Ten men on either side of the battering ram pulled it back and constantly slammed it into the gate. Dust fell from the mortar around the stone. Back and forth they ran, hurtling the ram into the wooden doors. With each impact the doors jarred, the rivets in the metal hinges popping.

His blade dripping with blood, Cronos raised it above his head and slashed out across a man’s face before running to join his swordsmen behind the gate. He could still hear the rhythmic crunch of wood with each step. The younger mage waited below too, he had seen her leap from the top of the tower a moment ago. He would order her to strike first before he and his men surged forward to block the hole.

He moved to the front of the Fists, his shield sitting high against his torso, his blade outstretched before him as he nodded to the girl.

‘As soon as the gates fall cast something that is going to make them wish they’d never left their fucking Empire.’

Ara nodded in understanding.

Time seemed to slow as the Fists stood waiting for the gate to collapse. With each resounding boom they teetered on the balls of their feet, ready to jump into the breach. Dust fell and the heavy wood creaked. Again the Kyzantines battered away but the gate remained in place. They all held their breath. Finally the gate gave way with a sickening crunch of splinters. The doors caved inwards under the pressure of the Kyzantine bodies pressed against the gate and thudded against the stone. The Kyzantines leapt forward as the ram was dragged back.