Rage of a Demon King (50 page)

After most of the day had passed, the sound of marching feet began to reverberate from the west. At first faint, the sound began to increase, until at last Harper said, “Sounds like they’re bringing the whole lot this time, Captain.”

“That it does,” said Erik.

At the other end of the road, where the riders waited, the woods were thick on both sides of the King’s Highway. The sound of the approaching army grew louder, but no soldiers could be seen.

Then, suddenly, men emerged from the woods, an unbroken line of men with shields, wielding battle-axes, swords, spears, and bows. They marched to a point half the distance between the line of trees and the defenders, then halted.

“What have we here?” asked Harper softly.

“Looks like they’ve learned a few things since they’ve landed,” said Erik. “If they send the infantry first, we’re going to lose some advantages.”

Since the time when Calis’s company had served with the Emerald Queen’s forces, the usual tactic had been for them to simply unleash their cavalry at any defensive position when able. Infantry was saved for sieges and for flooding gaps in the defenders’ lines.

Erik cursed. “I thought we could steal a day having their cavalry getting themselves butchered.”

Harper said, “Don’t give up hope yet, Captain. They may do something rash still.”

A column of riders crested the distant hill, moving down the road to halt slightly beyond the infantry. Then they waited. Officers rode into view, each moving to a location along the line, stationed before their men. Still they held position.

“If the riders come down the road, while the infantry cross the clearing, it could get interesting,” observed Harper.

Erik said nothing.

More riders appeared at the crest, then a trumpet sounded, three short blasts. With a roar, the assembled footmen started running across the clearing. “Signal to catapults,” Erik said. He raised his hand, a motion duplicated by the signalman holding a red flag.

Erik watched as the attackers raced toward his defenses. He had studied this terrain so well he could gauge the distances without markers. When the leading edge of the attackers reached the outer range of the catapults, he paused, then dropped his hand. The flag went down an instant later, and then the well-disguised war engines atop the second ridge let fly.

A shower of stones, ranging from ones the size of a man’s fist to some the size of a large melon, rained down on the attackers. Men screamed and fell, dead or wounded, with broken bones. Those behind could not halt, and some of the wounded were trampled to death by their own comrades.

As if the rocks had been a signal, the cavalry charged down the King’s Highway. “They mean to be here before the catapults reload,” observed Harper.

“Black signal!” shouted Erik, holding up his hand again. A second flag went up, and when the charging horsemen reached the appropriate range, Erik’s hand came down. The black flag dropped, and another round of missiles rained down. Horses screamed and men were thrown as the second company of catapults unleashed its rain of death upon the invaders.

“Green flag!” shouted Erik, and the third flag went up. When it came down, two special catapults
called mangonels, large counterbalanced beams of wood with huge baskets on the long end, flung a rain of caltrops: metal stars with six sharpened points. Those that didn’t strike an attacker landed on the ground, with one point always up. Men and horses both stepped on the terrible spikes, which lamed horses and felled men.

By the time the attackers worked through the mass of wounded in the front ranks, the first company of war engines had been reloaded and were launching their missiles. And by the time the third green flag had been raised and fell, the entire attacking front was broken and in retreat.

Hundreds of men and horses lay in the late afternoon sun, and not one Kingdom soldier had been wounded. Erik turned to a grinning Harper and said, “Get the perimeter companies out and start looking for their infiltrators. They’ll want those catapults out of action by tomorrow, so expect a lot of unwelcome visitors in the hills tonight.”

Harper said, “Sir!” and turned to carry out his orders.

Erik watched the withdrawal and thought they had gotten off as lightly as possible for the first day. He also knew that, starting tomorrow, things would get considerably more difficult.

Dying men groaned in pain, begged for water, or cried. Some called to their gods, or their mothers, or wives, while others could not speak. Erik watched the carnage as the sun sank behind the western hills.

He had been correct in his prediction that the invaders would avoid another confrontation before attempting to neutralize the defenders’ catapults.
Bands of infiltrators probed through the night, being met at every possible weak point by alert defensive resistance, with Jadow’s men acting as a flying company, to reinforce any breach on the north, and another company under a corporal -named Wallis did the same on the south.

At dawn it was clear the attackers had tired of trying to find a weak spot, and had decided to simply throw men at the defenders. Erik watched as four times during the day thousands of invaders ran across the battlefield, the Funnel, as Erik thought of it, to die under the devastating fire of the defenders.

Harper said, “Sir, will they ask for truce to give comfort to their wounded?”

Erik said, “No. It’s not their way. Their wounded only slow them down.”

“It’s a bitter thing, then. So we’ll have no truce to retrieve our lads on some future occasion?”

“No,” said Erik. “My advice if you are wounded is to act dead and hope they don’t spare any time to ensure you are. Then crawl off somewhere after they’ve passed.”

“I’ll remember that, sir.”

Erik watched as three companies of defenders had actually reached the barricades on the last assault, and while none of his men died, several had taken wounds as they killed those who tried to climb over the barricade.

The attackers had found all of Erik’s traps the hard way. Pits with stakes and the cleverly disguised trench just below the defensive breastwork had claimed scores of attackers, but now the route was clearly marked. Erik judged the light and thought they might try one more attack before sundown. He prayed they didn’t. He had
planned to fall back under cover of darkness to the secondary defensive position, a well-placed second barricade that would put the attackers in the clear line of Erik’s bowmen as they climbed over the first barricade, and turned the fifty yards of open space between the two lines into a killing ground. If he could hold here another night, then keep them away for one more day after that, he felt sure those fleeing toward Darkmoor would be safely away.

Patrols were riding along the eastern slopes of the hills, ensuring no small companies of invaders had somehow slipped through to trouble the defenders from behind. Erik knew that, yet he feared some unnamed surprise would come to put an end to all his clever planning.

Trumpets sounded and Erik said, “Damn! I was hoping they’d give it a rest.”

“Not likely, sir,” said Harper, pulling his sword, a large hand-and-a-half affair, which he preferred to the broadsword and shield used by most of the men.

From out of the trees across the field men ran, shouting and exhorting their fellows to get close to the defense and breach it. Erik started giving signals, and the catapults and mangonels dispensed death to the attackers, and then the archers let their bows sing. But this time the attack rolled forward.

When the first few men struck the barricade, and died trying to climb, Erik could see more men emerging from the woods, entering the Funnel, and he knew that whoever commanded on the opposite side was throwing everything at him. Erik pulled his own sword and said, “Sergeant, order the support companies to the ready. I want them right behind our men on the barricade.”

“Sir!” said Harper, and started shouting orders.

Three squads each, the support companies numbered one hundred and eighty men, under the direction of a sergeant whose job was to recognize a breach and fill it as quickly as possible. The value of the zone between the two defensive barricades would be lost if defenders were mixed in with the attackers; the archers on the rocks above and on the second barricade would not be able to safely fire into the killing ground.

Erik saw a plumed helmet, a captain in the Emerald Queen’s army, who was trying to force himself past a determined attacker who was keeping the defender before him busy. Erik was about to order the archers to pick off the officer, but someone on the ridge above had seen him and sent an arrow flying before Erik could speak.

The battle raged along the barricade, and Erik felt frustrated standing on the second ridge, sword in hand, knowing that if he fought, the advantage was lost. Remembering he was now an officer, in command of the area, he put away his sword and watched.

As the sun sank out of sight, the fight at the barricade remained in balance, attackers swarming across the Funnel to replace men who had fallen. Messages arrived from both flanks, indicating the fighting was uniformly fierce at both ends of the line, but that all sections were holding.

When the western sky began to darken, Erik waited for the recall trumpet to sound, but it didn’t come. As darkness approached, torches appeared in the west and soldiers ran toward them carrying illumination to continue the fight into the darkness.

“Damn,” said Harper, “they’re not about to go away, are they?”

“Apparently not,” said Erik. He calculated he had to make a choice now; either beginning the withdrawal, losing the ability to cover the retreat across the killing ground, but getting most of his men to the second barricade, which was almost certain to hold through the night, or continuing to fight and trying to hold them until they withdrew. If they were victorious, it would be a major victory, one that would hold the enemy here in Ravesnburg for at least a week more. But if they collapsed and the invaders overran the second bather before the Kingdom troops could fall back, the results could be disastrous for the Kingdom.

Erik hesitated. For the first time since he had returned to Ravensburg, he cursed Calis for being absent. He or Greylock should have to make this decision, not a young soldier who had only read about these sorts of problems in books.

Harper had his sword ready. “What are we to do, sir?”

Erik’s mind raced. He needed an inspiration and a way to get his men back to the second barricade by sunrise, without letting the enemy follow.

Harper said, “Maybe a few of those lads will trip over something and set fire to themselves.”

Erik’s eyes widened. “Harper, you’re a genius!”

“I know, sir, but that still doesn’t tell us what we’re to do.”

“Charge,” said Erik. “Bring up every man we have to the barricades and hold them until sunrise.”

“Very well, sir.” Harper turned and began shouting orders, and men held in reserve were suddenly
tumbling over the second barricade and hurrying to reinforce the first.

Erik said, “Now things get easy.”

“If you say so, sir,” said Harper. “Do we stand here or join the fight?”

Erik pulled his sword. “We fight.” The two men ran forward.

Erik shouted.

It was a mindless howl of agony and fatigue, serving only to focus the rage he needed to continue the struggle. It was an animal sound, without meaning. It was a sound repeated throughout the night by thousands of men.

For the first time since the fall of Krondor, the main elements of the invaders’ army were locked in battle with the Kingdom. Throughout the night the wave of attackers had continued unabated.

As dawn hinted in the east, where the sky had softened from its funereal black to a dull grey, men had struggled to control a dozen yards of ground. The dead were piled high on both sides of the barricade, where Erik and Harper stood like anchors in a storm.

Three times in the night there had been lulls, when water buckets had come to them, and when
young boys from the baggage company could haul away the wounded, dying, and dead. But most of the night had been filled with grueling butchery, with little skill, a simple raising and lowering of the blade, much as when Erik had hammered steel. Yet even steel yielded eventually to the smith’s hammer. But this sea of flesh, this never-ending supply of bodies willing to be cleaved and sundered, would not stop.

In a moment of lucidity, after striking down another man attempting to climb the barricade, Erik glanced to the rear. Dawn was less than two hours away. To Harper he gasped, “Hold them here for a few more minutes.”

Harper only grunted in reply as Erik stepped away from the fighting. He stumbled a few feet farther, and his legs went out from under him. He scrambled upright and saw he had slipped on a man’s leg. Where the rest of the man was, Erik couldn’t see.

He was thankful for the darkness. He knew that when the sun rose, the carnage would be unspeakable. The worst slaughterhouse in the Kingdom would appear a clean white room for milady’s sewing compared to what the two armies had done that night.

A messenger boy waited nearby with a bucket of water. Erik fell to his knees and picked up the bucket, pouring it over his face, his mouth hanging open. The water ran down his parched throat, reviving him. When he had finished, he told the boy, “Run to the rear and find Lieutenant Hammond. Do you know him?”

The boy nodded.

“He’s with the reserve company. Tell him I need him now. And tell him to bring torches. And oil if there’s any.”

Erik rose on legs so heavy he could barely lift them, yet when he returned to Harper’s side, he found instinct and training driving him onward, filling him with a fire to fight, to kill the enemy, and to survive.

Time was suspended, just another series of savage sword blows, repeated over and over. Sometime during the night Erik had lost his shield, and now he grasped his sword with both hands, in imitation of Harper’s mighty slices. Those who tried to duck inside the long sword’s reach were greeted with a kick to the face, or a downward slash, breaking spines and lopping off heads.

Suddenly a voice at Erik’s rear shouted, “Hammond, sir. What are the orders?”

Erik glanced over his shoulder and almost died for the effort. Only a glint in his peripheral vision caused him to dodge the sword point aimed for his side. He slashed backward with his sword and felt it strike, hearing the sound of crushing bone at the same instant. A man screamed. Erik moved back from the fighting and said to Hammond, ‘Did you bring oil?”

“We have a dozen casks, no more.”

“Light the barricade!” he ordered, and then he said to Sergeant Harper, “As soon as the flames take, I want a full withdrawal.”

“Sir,” said Harper as he cut a man deep enough along the chest that Erik could see the whiteness of ribs.

Erik could smell the fumes as behind them men poured oil around the base of the barricade. “Ready?” came the voice of Lieutenant Hammond.

“Yes!” shouted Erik as he killed another man.

Harper’s bellow carried above the sound of battle as he cried out, “Withdraw!”

Trumpeters blew the retreat, and as Erik and the others stepped away from the barricades, dozens of torches were stuck into the wood. Those invaders coming over the barricade were either burned as the flames quickly spread or were trapped on the wrong side of the fire and quickly killed by the soldiers of the King.

Half staggering, half running, the exhausted defenders made their way to the second barricade. Water and food waited there. Those men who could, drank and ate, while those too tired to move just dropped down where they were. A few fainted from the effort, while others closed their eyes, grasping at the chance to sleep, if only for a few minutes.

Other men moved along the barricade, guarding against the possibility of the enemy somehow following closely, but as the fire rose along the first barricade, it was clear no one was crossing over that burning mass for at least the next hour. Harper said, “ ’Tis right daft you are, Captain, sir, but it was a hell of a notion.”

Erik sat upright, his back against the barricade. He finished drinking his third ladle of water and accepted a wet cloth, which he used to wipe the dirt, sweat, and blood from his face and hands. “Thank you, Sergeant. It gains us an hour’s respite, and gives us an open killing ground.” He glanced at the east, where the sun would soon be visible above the mountains, and said, “If we can hold here for this day and tonight, we should be able to get safely to Darkmoor with most of the men.” Erik stood and shouted for a runner.

“Find another of your company,” Erik ordered the youth. “I want orders sent to the north and the south that the time to fall back will come soon. Tell both flank commanders that once they see the enemy moving toward the center, I want a show of offense—make it look like a counterattack—then as soon as the enemy is moving away from those positions, they’re to move with all speed to Ravensburg.”

The runner sped off.

Erik sank back down behind the barricade and said, “I need some sleep.”

“You should have an hour, sir,” said Harper, watching the distant fire. When there was no answer, he turned to see Erik’s eyes already closed.

“That’s a capital idea, sir,” said the exhausted Sergeant, who hailed a reserve soldier and said, “I’m grabbing a bit of sleep, so be a good lad and keep an eye on things for the Captain and me, all right?” Without waiting for an answer, Harper slumped down next to Erik and was asleep before his chin touched his chest. Elsewhere along the line, men who had fought all night also tried to rest, while the reserves kept vigil across the burning barricade.

Pug groaned. Miranda said, “Hold still!”

He lay on a table covered with a fresh white cloth while she massaged his back. “Stop acting like a baby,” she scolded.

Pug said, “It hurts.”

“Of course it hurts,” she responded. “You get burned to a crisp by a demon, then as soon as you can, you go find another demon to battle.”

“Seven of them, actually,” Pug said.

She straddled his back, massaging him as they rested after their ordeal. “Well, you’ve got one left to deal with, and you’re not even going to think about it until you’re fit.”

“We don’t have that much time,” Pug said.

“Tomas should be in Sethanon soon, and unless there are more surprises, I think he should be able to deal with this Jakan.”

Pug said, “I don’t know. What little I witnessed when your father fought Maarg, and what I remember when Jakan attacked me, leads me to believe we should all be at Sethanon when the demon finally reaches there.”

Miranda got off his back, and Pug admired her long legs, shown to advantage by a short Quegan-style skirt. He sat up and stretched. “That felt great.”

“Good,” she replied. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”

They left the room in Villa Beata, Pug’s home on Sorcerer’s Isle, and retired to the dining room. A servant, a Jikora reality master, appeared. The creature looked like a large upright walking toad. A year earlier he had appeared unbidden and begged entrance into Pug’s school, and Pug had agreed. Like the other students on Sorcerer’s Isle, he gave service in exchange for his studies. “You eat?” he asked.

“Please,” said Pug, and the ugly creature stalked off toward the kitchen.

The midday meal was pleasant, as it had been each day since they had returned from the Pantathian mines. Though it had been only a week, it felt like ages since they had awakened in darkness, disoriented and exhausted. It had taken all of Miranda’s energy for her to create a mystic light by which they could see.

The bisected demon had started to rot, so they assumed they had been in a stupor for at least two or three days. Pug used his last reserves of energy to transport them to Sorcerer’s Isle, where Gathis had immediately seen to their needs.

They had been carried to their room and put to bed, where they slept for another day. Upon rising they had eaten, returned to bed, and slept the day through again. It had now been over a week since their return, and Pug felt as if he was getting close to his old strength back.

Gathis approached as they finished their meal and said, “May I have a word with you?”

Miranda rose. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, please,” said the goblinlike creature. “This concerns you as well, Mistress.”

She sat down. Gathis said, “As I once told you, I shared a bond with the Black One”—looking at Miranda, he said to her—“your father, Mistress.”

She nodded.

To Pug, Gathis said, “When Macros last left Midkemia, at the end of the Riftwar, I told you I would know if he should die.”

Pug said, “You think he is dead?”

Gathis said, “I know he is dead.”

Pug glanced at Miranda whose face was an unreadable mask. Pug said to Gathis, “Of all of us, you knew him best. The loss must be difficult for you. I am sorry.”

“Your commiserations are appreciated, Master Pug, but I think you misread me.” He motioned for them to follow. “There is something I need to show the two of you.”

They rose and followed him down a long hall. He led them outside, across the meadow that rolled away
from the rear of the large house, and up a gentle rise to a plain hillside. When they were halfway up the rise, Gathis moved his hand and a cave was revealed.

Pug said, “What is this place?”

“You shall see, Master Pug,” said Gathis, leading them into the cave.

Inside the cave they saw a small altar, upon which rested an icon. The image was of a man sitting atop a throne, a man familiar to both Pug and Miranda.

“Father,” whispered Miranda.

“No,” said Pug, “Sarig.”

Gathis nodded. “It is indeed the lost God of Magic.”

“What is this place?” asked Miranda.

“A shrine,” Gathis said. “When the Black One found me, I was the last of a race that had once held a position of some importance in our world.”

“You said you were related to goblins in the way the elves are akin to the moredhel,” said Pug.

“That’s an oversimplification. Elves and Dark Brothers are the same race, taken to different paths. My people, while distant kin to the goblins, were far more than that. We were a race of scholars and teachers, artists and musicians.”

“What happened?” asked Miranda.

“The Chaos Wars lasted for centuries. To the minds of the gods they were nearly instantaneous, but to lesser beings they lasted for generations.

“Humans, goblins, and dwarves were among those who came to Midkemia at the end of the Chaos Wars. My people remained in our birth world. While other races thrived, mine did not. Macros found me, the last of my race, and brought me here.”

Miranda said, “I am sorry.”

Gathis shrugged. “It is the way of the universe. Nothing lasts forever, perhaps not even the universe itself.

“But one thing my people were as well as those other things I mentioned was a priesthood.”

Pug’s eyes widened. “You were a priesthood of magic!”

Gathis said, “Exactly. We were worshippers of Sarig, though by a different name.”

Pug looked around and found a rock ledge upon which to sit. “Go on, please.”

“As the last of my race I was desperate to find someone to carry on the worship of the God of Magic. Before I died I wished to see the continuation of what we believed was a most important cause, the return of magic to Midkemia.”

Miranda said, “There’s always been magic in Midkemia.”

“I think he means the Greater Magic,” said Pug.

“More,” said Gathis. “The return of magic in the order intended.”

“Intended by whom?” asked Miranda.

“By the nature of magic itself.”

“There is no magic,” said Pug, laughing.

“Exactly,” said Gathis. “Nakor believes there is a primary reality in the universe that
anyone
may manipulate, take advantage of, and use beneficially, if he but tries. He is partially right. What is known as the Lesser Magic to humans is an intuitive magic, a magic of poetry and song, of feelings and senses. It is why the Lesser Magicians chose totems and elements with which to identify.

“The priests of the other orders believe that all magic is prayer answered. They are correct, though not in the way they think. It is not their gods answering
their prayers, but rather magic itself responding in accordance to the nature of their particular clerical calling. This is also why the high priests and other highly advanced members of each order can effect magic that resembles one another’s, while lesser practitioners would find such displays anathema.

“All is of a piece.”

“So you’re saying that magicians are in actuality worshipping Sarig?” asked Miranda.

“In a manner of speaking, but not exactly that. Each time a spell of the Greater Magic is incanted, the opportunity exists for prayer, for a tiny bit of that worship to feed Sarig, bringing him that much closer to returning to us.”

“Well then,” said Miranda, “why aren’t you down at Stardock gathering converts?”

Pug laughed. “Politics.”

“Exactly,” said Gathis. “Can you imagine what should occur if one such as I appeared and claimed all that I have told you?”

Miranda nodded. “I see your point. I’ve experienced enough to know you’re probably right, and I still find it difficult to believe.”

“That’s because you’re a product of your training, as was I,” said Pug. “We must rise above that.”