The Black Tower (19 page)

Blackhall gave the signal, and the cavalry advanced from the left flank and moved around the infantry to take on the charging
nek’dool
and the first line of Tuscar infantry.  Chain barding glinted in the dull sunlight as the riders moved to the upper crest of the hills. 

He felt a strange calm settle inside of him, a moment frozen as he drew a breath.  Everything quieted.  He saw the sun, an orange lens smeared across the morning sky, and tasted the desert dust.  He watched his men, saw their eyes, their sweat, felt the air tense as gauntleted fingers wrapped around the hafts of weapons.  White-and-blue armor and dark leathers, breaths held ready, muscles coiled.  The approaching mass moved as if in a dream, grey flesh and black armor, a thunderous cavalcade of fanged visages just a few hundred yards away.  Blackhall watched it all, waited for the moment.

The charge sounded, and the world snapped back into motion.  Noise crashed in on him. 

The horses thundered down the slope as the front ranks raised their weapons and launched themselves forward, right behind the cavalry. 

A brilliant flash cut through the air, and the sky cracked.  The massive iron tube in the valley let loose a brilliant burst of starlight.  A thunderous boom echoed up from the depths a few moments later, so loud Blackhall thought his skull would break.

The detonation fell like a meteor.  Waves of earth radiated out from where the missile struck just ahead of the cavalry, a churning pulse of soiled ground frozen dark. 

A blast of rank and icy air snapped over them.  He felt his teeth go brittle, and his skin frosted.  His eyes nearly glazed open in the chill. 

Icy blue-white smoke tore from the epicenter of the blast and enveloped the cavalry.  The horses and riders turned blue as they froze.  Even from a hundred yards away Blackhall saw their flesh crystallize, heard their calls of pain sharply cut off.  Their momentum carried them forward and into each other, and they cracked like shattering ice.  The frozen bodies exploded in a hail of blood and glass.  The sound of breaking rang heavy through the sky. 

A shockwave threw the archers and infantry back, and the blast of cold knocked Blackhall from his mount.  Everything spun as he tumbled and crashed hard to the ground.  Muscles jarred and blood welled in his mouth.  His neck ached, and for a moment he couldn’t see anything but the iced earth.  Everything sounded distant, distorted cries, steel and crackles of unholy magic.  He somehow managed to get on his feet, pulled his helmet off and cast it aside.  All he could see was the haze of ice smoke and soldiers breaking formation as enemies came crashing down on them.  He blinked hard, wiped ice and sweat away from his face with a gauntleted hand, and tried to blink the world back into focus.

Another boom sounded, much like the first, but Blackhall watched as his men charged forward undaunted, the reserve cavalry in the lead and the mass of infantry right on their heels.  The earth rumbled with stamping feet, and a great unified cry of “Jlantria!” rang into the heavens.  Earth tore beneath hooves and boots as men charged into the bitter fog.

Someone helped Blackhall to his feet and tried to pull him back, but he shoved the soldier away and ran with the infantry, his claymore brandished high.  His heavy armor weighed him down and he was already lathered with sweat, but he wasn’t about to stand aside and let his men charge into battle without him.

The wagons held back, and Blackhall heard orders ring out to ready the siege weapons.  The rear troops formed up to meet the Tuscar onslaught. 

He spied a runner, looking around madly for an officer to give him an order.  The lightly armored lad was maybe in his teens, with shaggy black hair and wide eyes, and he somehow managed to keep moving out of the way of other soldiers as they barreled by to join the infantry.  Blackhall stepped up and grabbed him by the back of the neck, and the boy nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Orders!” he yelled.  He had to shout just to be heard over the din. 

“Sir!” the boy shouted, his fear gone.

“Trebuchet crew, destroy that damn ice cannon!  Then I want you to find a battalion commander and order him to place all reserve infantry at this position, right here!  You hear me?!”

“Yes, Sir!” he shouted.

“Then go!”

Blackhall turned and joined the charge.  The tidal force of his men pulled him along like he’d fallen into rapids.  The sky was dark and full of blood-red clouds.  He felt like he was stepping off the edge of the world when he moved onto the slope and looked down at the open stretch of desert.  Adrenaline flowed through his veins.  Men thundered forward in waves, swords and axes and hammers held high as they charged into the approaching horde. 

This is insane
, Blackhall thought.  They were playing right into Ghul’s hands – he drew them in by striking first, goaded them into committing while he circled his superior numbers around to crush them from two directions. 
Too late now.

Coils of white-blue smoke slithered across his path like shifting walls.  A deafening crash of flesh and steel rang from up ahead as the forces joined in battle.  There was blood in the air, and screams.  He waded into the metal soup, a forest of armored bodies and flashing blades. 

Blackhall pressed forward, heart pounding, blood hot with anger.  He knew no fear, and suddenly felt as if he never had.  Everything faded, the sky, the field, thoughts of home or the ruined city in the distance.  It was just he and his men, doing whatever they had to in order to survive that field of iron and blood. 

Snarling enemies came at him.  Blood splashed across his path, grey bodies and black swords.  His blade sank into a Tuscar’s chest and split it open.  Another attacked, rune-cast skin and
shek’taar
looming in his sight, but Blackhall slashed sideways and hewed the head from its body.  Walls of carnage surrounded him.  The taste of gore and sweat settled like a fog.

A Tuscar’s skull exploded beneath his blade.  Blackhall watched as a Jlantrian’s face was ripped off by a clawed hammer.  He stepped up and drove his blade into the atacker’s groin.  A
shek’taar
sliced through a Corporal’s stomach.  Hammers splattered a man’s torso.  An iron sphere ripped through a soldier’s guts and splashed them onto a horse as it was ripped down by spears.  Geysers of filth exploded from a trio of men torn apart by axes. 

Blackhall slipped in blood ooze and cleaved off a man’s leg, ran a Tuscar through, ducked beneath a hammer and swiped back to crush the mercenary’s jaw.  Blood soaked his face.  He remembered he wasn’t wearing a helmet and ducked again, then rammed his claymore into a Tuscar’s chest. 

They kept coming, each attack and parry a rhythm he fell into, lost in the carnage, swimming through a sea of blades and blood. 

“This is definitely not for me,” Gess said as he and Malik navigated around the left flank. 

His flesh crawled because of the frosty energies which radiated from the ice cannon in the valley below.  He felt he now understood just what the Jlantrian and Den’nari armies had gone through in the Rift War, when they found themselves faced with weapons beyond their understanding that could wipe them out in an instant. 

Fear hung over the battlefield like a shroud.  Gess watched the sky and the valley below as their horses thundered along next to the armored wing, anticipating another blast of deadly energies which would most likely destroy them.  His heart pounded hard in his chest, and he had to lean in close and hang onto the horse for dear life. 

Malik was a much more accomplished rider, while all Gess could do was hold on and pray that he wasn’t thrown.  He felt the Veil’s cold energies grip his body as he and Malik raced past armored men.  The forces clashed up ahead, a deafening roar of steel and shouts.  Blood and cries flew through the air, massive collisions of bone and blade. 

What in the One Goddess’ name am I doing here? 

Before being assigned to assist Blackhall, Gess had largely acted in advisory or research roles.  He remembered the Rift War (he’d been a student at the Veilwarden’s Academy at the time), and he’d helped research the merits of using Veilcrafted weapons in the campaigns against the Tuscars in the years that followed, when the foul humanoids seemed intent on breaking the southern watchtowers and invading Ral Tanneth.  Though he’d used magic to defend himself against the occasional brigand or wastelands beast, before he’d gone to Ebonmark Gess had never been in real combat. 

I preferred things that way, I think.

Thunderous noise echoed all around them.  Gess kept low and held tight to the reins of his dappled steed.  The saddle pounded hard against his chest, and even with his legs squeezed tight it was all but impossible to maintain a good grip with just one hand, and he expected to fall at any moment.  Hot wind blasted his face.  The air was a blur of motion.  Gess stayed on Malik’s tail, and he guided his mare to follow the dun stallion as it weaved through the shifting ranks. 

Soldiers charged north towards the slope and the battle, but just as many fell into the second wave.  Those who saw the two Veilwardens knew to give them a wide berth. 

It seemed to be miles from the left flank to the right, but soon they had the shallow valley in sight, and though the lead war chariot was still some distance away it was easily visible, a monstrosity of twisted iron. 

The two Veilwardens stopped and jumped off their mounts.  Gess nearly fell forward, but he managed to hold the reins with his good hand and steady himself enough that he didn’t come face-down on the loamy earth.  The ground was torn and cracked where it had been dug up by hooves and boots. 

White Dragon regulars gave the two Veilwardens plenty of space on the rise overlooking the valley; the two of them were soon far enough removed that they wouldn’t be mauled by their own troops, but they still held a good vantage of the battle to the north and the Black Army forces below. 

Ghul had ordered his troops to circle around and come up through the narrow pass to trap Aaric’s troops from two directions at once.  There were enough plains and desert landscape for the Jlantrians to fall back to the west if need be, but a battle in the open often went to the advantage of the force with superior numbers.  It fell to Gess and Malik to try and level the playing field and make it so holding the valley was still an advantageous position, which was especially important now that Ghul had played his hand and displayed the awesome potential of his Veilcrafted weapons.

Gess looked out across the battlefield.  The fighting was some distance off, a swarm of blood and noise.  Ghul’s legions charged in across the valley floor, some continuing north to come head-on at the Jlantrians, while a sizable contingent went south to come around into a flanking position. 

A mist of fresh blood hung in the air to the east on the other side of the valley.  Malik cracked open a spyglass to try and get a better look.

“Syke’s cavalry,” he said in his thick Den’nari accent.  “And he has Den’nari regulars with him.”

“Thank the Goddess,” Gess muttered under his breath.  Syke’s small force was ready to out-flank the out-flankers. 

Another deafening blast tore through the sky.  The air turned sickly red, and then faded black.  A shock of cold lanced across Gess’s skin. 

Damn it.

Blue fog swept through the Jlantrians to the north, a second detonation laid by the ice cannon.  The smoking cylinder emanated crystal dust.  Gess snatched away Malik’s spyglass and looked to the western flank, where one of the Jlantrian catapults and dozens of men had turned white and shattered into bloody glass. 

The snap of a trebuchet echoed like a breaking tree.  A shadow fell over the field as a massive and unhewn stone turned end over end, descending on the black army.  Gess’s eyes glowed cold as he and Malik Touched the Veil and sent charred energies into the turning rock.  His breath frosted, his insides froze.  The world seemed to shrink in on him as the massive stone flew over their heads and descended into the valley.  Gess filled the folds in the rock with liquid fire, while Malik gave the projectile direction.

A thrill of satisfaction ran through Gess as the twenty-foot stone crashed down on the ice cannon.  Rippling metal flew outwards in jagged shards.  The strange containment tanks exploded into icy bursts of freezing fog which rolled through Ghul’s men.  Bodies froze in place, and at least a hundred enemy troops collapsed into chunks of frozen flesh.

The atmosphere was alive with motion.  Sweat poured down Gess’s face as he twisted Veilcrafted energies and sent them over the field as a roiling ball of flame.  Pain rushed through his skull, and his arm and hand ached from the effort.  The sphere continued to grow as it gained distance, and it took every shred of Gess’s concentration to maintain the levels of magical energy stored within and not allow them to release, not until the missile was in its proper position.  He was relieved when he felt Malik’s cold magic join with his.  The ball of fire gained speed as it raced over the heads of enemy troops.  Sick beams of light cast down, and the air burned.

A blasting groan of metal called Gess’s attention away; he managed to keep control over the sphere, and he held its position as he glanced back to witness the tower of spikes thunder up the north hill and move over the ridge.  The men riding in the corbelled apex of the weapon had clear vantage of the battle.  The wide base was supported by edged wheels which locked into place, and spikes drove down and clawed the ground like a tick taking root. 

The massive spindle of blades started to spin, and the sound of grating metal was so heavy Gess thought his ears would bleed.  A whirl of iron, a pillar of shaved blades.

Dozens of shards launched from the spinning obelisk, a volley of javelins each as tall as a man.  They hailed down on the ridge and sliced through Jlantrians and enemy soldiers alike.  Metal shards tore into men with such force the bodies were ripped in half.  Blood and flesh and steel sprayed out like geysers.  Screams echoed, barely audible over the barreling sounds of the bladed monument.  Horses and men flew forward mid-charge.  Piles of meat and steel.  Limbs fell outward, bursts of gore, a skin fog. 

The sky turned dark with metal.  Gess’s heart stopped as the volley of razors loomed overhead like a wave of black water.  Blood sprayed onto his face.  He felt a blast of air as iron shavings fell close. 

When the moment passed and Gess blinked through the blood and realized he was still whole he saw he was surrounded by sharded blades.  The tower had covered a quarter of the battlefield with its volley. 

Nothing was left of Malik but a torn and bloody carcass oozing steam and dripping muscle.  Gess stood frozen with shock.  He looked out over a field of corpses. 

Somehow, the fighting still raged on.  Those Jlantrians who’d survived the attack faced fresh ranks of Tuscars and black-clad humans who charged forward in a ferocious wave.  Boots slid on the muck of fallen soldiers.  The field was littered with broken steel, a forest of edges. 

Gess’s ball of fire exploded in the opposing ranks.  Fiery rain and chunks of flaming stone swept across the field and melted a swath through the enemy soldiers.  Ebon steam enveloped falling combatants.  The command chariot thundered through the melting ranks, spattering the fallen troops aside as its great wheels ripped the ground. 

His attack had missed.
 
He’d been aiming for the chariot.

Damn it!

Another trebuchet stone launched into the air. Its shadow eclipsed Gess, and he felt cold beneath the massive stone as it flew overhead. 

The bladed tower spun to life and fired again, a hail of bent shards which hammered the air like bladed rain.  Slivers caught the missile and shattered it into chunks of rock rain. 

Gess looked skyward, and he barely had time to throw his arms up over his head before shards of stone rained down on him, and everything went black.