The Ragged Man (82 page)

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Authors: Tom Lloyd

BOOK: The Ragged Man
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Osh gestured to his ruined knee - after escaping the Ruby Tower in Byora, with a little help from the Brotherhood, the mage, Tomal Endine, had healed the injury as best he could, but Osh still need the brace to stop the knee collapsing underneath him. ‘Until you give me a good shove anyway.’
Daken did just that, thumping Osh hard on the chest and doubling over with laughter as he fell backwards onto his rump. The mystic gave a wheezing cough, trying to recover his breath while Osh’s aides helped him up.
‘I suppose,’ Osh puffed, ‘I asked for that.’
‘Sounded like’n invitation to me,’ Daken agreed, beaming. The white-eye general wore a battered breastplate and a plundered Menin helm, but the cloak around his neck was pristine: white, with a red border. Osh tilted his head to get a better look at the design on it: a massive curved axe.
‘Fate’s eyes,’ Osh breathed, ‘he really has ennobled you?’
‘Aye, but he made me a marshal too!’ Daken said, grinning. ‘Likes a man who carries out orders well, does King Emin.’
Osh turned and looked towards the defensive lines ten yards away. ‘So you’re here commanding this flank?’ They were near the tree-line, and the smaller of the two Menin forces was closing in, now only four hundred yards away.
Daken nodded. ‘He wants my axe here, help hold the line. I command this flank, General Lopir’s got the cavalry, and Suzerain Tenber has the right, for all the good he can do there.’
‘The reserve?’
‘Yours to call when you want ’em, half o’ Tenber’s infantry are moving this way already.’ Daken’s face twisted in scorn. ‘Fer some reason he’s given command of the reserve to a bunch o’ Raylin there — some local crone and that blind bitch who smells like a Demi-God and is pretty enough to be the next thing I ask the king fer!’
A tall soldier in Canar Fell colours interrupted them. ‘Sir, the first line of skirmishers are withdrawing.’
The pair looked over the heads of the blue-liveried infantry and watched the furthest division of archers scramble back towards the Narkang lines. They were pursued by two regiments of light cavalry, but without enthusiasm as a second division of bowmen positioned behind the next staggered ditch had already started firing.
‘Hurry up, ya bastards!’ Daken called out to the enemy army, ‘we’re gettin’ bored back here!’
Osh smiled, watching the effect one white-eye’s belligerence could have on a unit of men. This was why Daken had been removed from the cavalry: to stiffen the resolve of nervous troops in the face of an undefeated enemy.
More enemy cavalry were out ahead of the advancing legions. Those not engaged in trying to clear the skirmishers lingered on the edge of bowshot, but Osh knew they wouldn’t stay there long: Before the heavy infantry caught them up they’d start to strafe the Narkang line, see if they could draw out a pursuit. If anyone followed they’d quickly be surrounded and wiped out, so every single officer had had the same order drummed into them: if they allowed anyone to leave the line without a clear order from the king or a general, they would be executed.
Not long after, the beat of drums drifted over the moor and the sound prompted a sudden jerk from the cavalry and a grin from Daken.
‘Here they come,’ he yelled triumphantly, ‘now hold the line, all o’ you!’ He beckoned over one of Osh’s aides. ‘Archers ready, fire on my word.’
The man saluted and gestured to a major commanding the archers on the right.
Daken watched the Menin follow the tree-line, aiming to slant across the line of pikemen holding the open ground at the end of the ditch. ‘Rear legion,’ he called, turning to face the officer waiting for his order, ‘five volleys, fifty yards in from the trees — furthest range: Fore legions,
fire at will
!’
Osh resisted the urge to duck as he heard the dull thrum of bowstrings ring out and a cloud of black arrows flashed over their heads, arching down towards the attacking cavalry, and before the second volley was loosed, the first of the enemy were tumbling from their horses.
The cavalry pressed on, unable to do anything but close the ground and throw their javelins at the infantry; attacking an ordered line head-on would be suicide, and even their efforts to ride down the line cost them dearly as archers were positioned there specifically to pick them off.
‘Hold the line!’ an officer shouted from within the press of infantry, and his call was quickly taken up by the rest as the cavalry swept past and turned away.
Once they moved away Osh could see the heavy infantry behind: armoured Menin troops with fat, oval shields and long spears, advancing steadily in two wide blocks. They appeared oblivious to the streams of arrows raining in on their flank from archers behind the ditch.
‘Rear legions, another five volleys, furthest range,’ Osh called to the officer behind him, ‘then keep firing just beyond our line.’
‘What’re we missin’ here?’ Daken muttered as the officer spread the order. ‘Those heavy infantry ain’t goin’ to push their way through eight ranks o’ pikes, not unless they got another few legions behind.’
‘Scryer said eight of them, but they don’t look like they’re all engaging yet,’ said the mystic, scratching his cheek. He looked up suddenly. ‘’Ware incoming arrows!’ Osh called loudly. They watched the missiles fall with a strange detachment, knowing they could do nothing - most fell short, but a few found their mark and the screaming started.
As the Menin closed they heard shouts from their left, at the tree-line. A fierce grin appeared on Daken’s face as a youth ran out from the trees, one of the division of volunteer infantry stationed there.
‘Chetse!’ the youth shouted again and again in a high, panicked voice, ‘Chetse in the trees!’
It took Osh a moment to place his uniform, then the mystic realised he’d last seen it on the streets of Narkang: this division was comprised of City Watchmen, who’d arrived unannounced a few days before, inspired by the sacrifice of Commander Brandt, in Narkang the previous year. They’d been assigned to the forest, as their weapons were barely suited to an open battlefield.
Daken moved with surprising speed. The youth running towards them, still shouting, barely had time to look surprised before Daken clouted him around the head hard enough to knock him down.
Osh looked at the rear rank of the pikemen; the white-eye had been right to do so; they were looking panicked at the thought of Chetse axemen appearing behind them.
‘I heard ya the first time,’ Daken growled, standing over the young watchman, ‘now: get up!’
The youth was still sprawled on his back, dazed by the blow. He was wearing a peaked iron helm and a leather coat and carried a wooden shield; not much protection against the Menin, but good for anyone trying to negotiate the dense forest. At the white-eye’s words he pulled himself to his feet and saluted clumsily.
Daken unsheathed his axe and brandished it above his head. ‘First reserve division to me,’ he shouted, heading towards the tree-line and dragging the youth with him.
Five hundred men broke to run after him as their officers bellowed the order, awkwardly forming a shield wall in five uneven ranks no more than thirty yards from the first tree of the forest. Ahead of them walked the white-eye general, into the gloom of the forest. Seeing nothing, he shoved the young watchman forward.
‘Go keep a watch out for ’em,’ he roared.
The youth, still shaking, headed back into the forest to find the enemy, while Daken started barking orders.
He’s enjoying himself
, the mystic realised.
He’s looking forward to facing axemen as mad as he is. Reckon he’s the only one.
 
‘
Damn you, Cetarn,’ King Emin hissed, ‘what in the name of the Dark Place are you waiting for?’
The Menin were marching ever closer, hunkered down behind their shields under a barrage of arrows and ballistae bolts. Their own archers were massed in loose order ahead of the infantry, doing their best to limit the effectiveness of the Narkang bowmen. The main front line was made up of alternating Menin heavy infantry and troops from the Chetse élite Ten Thousand.
Doranei looked back at the central tower where Endine was standing with Fei Ebarn and the scowling mercenary, Wentersorn, the two battle-mages who’d been part of the assault on the Ruby Tower. Camba Firnin, the illusionist, was down by one of the catapults, filling the bowl with something horrific. Doranei waved madly until Endine noticed him, but the scrawny mage just gestured for them to wait.
The main line of Menin was a hundred yards away now. Doranei drew his sword and felt a rush of power tingle up his arm as Aracnan’s weapon seemed to drink in the summer sunlight. It was most likely even more ancient than Doranei’s vampire lover, and there was something about it he disliked, but it was worth its weight in battle: it was frighteningly swift, and could cleave both an enemy’s weapon and his helm in one stroke.
Under Hambalay Osh’s tuition Doranei had been learning a new style of fighting, one more akin to the ritualistic combat used by warrior-monks. Mystics of Karkarn and the like eschewed armour, concentrating instead on technique and clean, controlled strikes rather than the fury required on a battlefield, where blows had to batter through a man’s defences.
‘Now we’ll see something,’ Veil commented as Ebarn stepped back from the catapult. The crew wasted no time in firing the weapon and half a dozen clay balls the size of baby’s heads were hurled over the wall. Doranei kept one eye on Ebarn, having seen her magic work before; the mage was standing perfectly still, her eyes closed. The balls spread unevenly in the air and had barely started to drop by the time they reached the front rank.
When they were still at least twenty yards off the ground Ebarn clapped her hands together once, then made as she were flinging the contents before her, and Doranei heard the crump of igniting flames. A sheet of fire tore through the air above the Menin and flopped down on top of them, sloping down off their raised shields onto the men below. Screams echoed across the moor, followed by cheers from the fort, but the Menin faltered only a moment, and a roar of defiance was their response when a ballista bolt tore deeper into the blackened ranks. They were ten legions of élite troops; it would take more than one mage to turn them back.
When the Menin were eighty yards away Doranei felt a tremor run through the earth rampart of the fort. Behind them he could just make out the oversized shape of Cetarn on the circular earthen platform they had built. The air above him was shuddering as though it were being assailed and the iron chains running from the mound into the ground lifted, taking the slack as cracking loops of energy ran through them.
‘Piss and daemons,’ Doranei breathed, watching the tortured air crackling. With a final flourish Cetarn dropped to one knee and slammed both hands to the ground and a great crash reverberated as a burst of energy surged towards the enemy lines and into a Chetse legion.
Half of the first rank were thrown from their feet, but they were the lucky ones. A boom like distant thunder rumbled out, and the rear ranks on one side of the legion disappeared in a great cloud of dust. Doranei gaped as he realised the ground had opened up underneath them, swallowing several hundred men.
‘Karkarn’s horn,’ Veil breathed, ‘I didn’t know the old bugger had it in him!’
‘He didn’t,’ the king said grimly. He was now wearing a steel helm detailed in gold - for the first time. His flamboyant feathered hat he’d tossed over the rampart, declaring to the amusement of all that he’d fetch it later.
‘What — ?’ Doranei hesitated. ‘He has a Skull? You’ve ordered him to sacrifice himself?’
‘I’ve done what I must,’ the king said sharply, ‘Endine and Cetarn as are much of the Brotherhood as you or Sebe and they know their duty just as well. Cetarn may be the only mage here capable of this, he knows it, and he volunteered for the task.’
Doranei ducked his head in acknowledgement. He’d blurted it out without thinking; not out of a desire to question the king’s decision. ‘Of course - I just realised why Cetarn made a point of toasting the Brotherhood two nights past. Wish I’d known.’
‘Aye,’ said the king, ‘normal men aren’t built for channelling so much power. He knows he’ll either burn himself out with the Skull, or he’ll become Styrax’s principal target.’
‘Is that why — ?’ Doranei looked back at Cetarn and the troops guarding him. ‘Never mind - it’ll just make my head hurt.’
The king smiled briefly at him, a flash of teeth showing behind the steel grille visor. ‘There’s a lot doing that right now - let’s just try to survive the day.’
‘Here they come,’ Coran growled from behind the king, his huge mace in one hand, a spear in the other. He circled his shoulders, stretched his arms, and got ready to drive his spear all the way through the first man to reach him.
The Menin were fifty yards off.
Doranei heard the order to charge, followed by a roar of hatred from the thousands massing and almost immediately the Chetse moved ahead of the more-disciplined Menin infantry. The King’s Man raised his sword and looked down at the rampart. A spiked ditch at the base of an earth wall, propped by wood. Their climb would be difficult, but far from impossible.

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