Another Kyzantine came running straight at him, face locked in rage, a battle cry screaming from his lips. Each step brought him closer and Castor remained motionless, staring at his would-be killer. The soldier passed the tree that Ron was standing behind, stopped screaming as the knife went in, stopped running toward him as his body crumpled around the wound. As the blade came out slick with blood the man fell dying to the ground.
With a quick exchange of hand signals Ron was already off and moving as Castor submerged himself into the shadows. Pushing south, he wanted to sweep around to ensure that they hadn’t missed any Kyzantines before moving north to close in on the enemy and return to the rendezvous.
Volans had submerged himself amongst the low-lying shrubs and waited patiently with his warhammer in hand for the first of the Kyzantines to approach. It took nearly twenty minutes before they started coming past and another five before the first came anywhere near him. Grabbing hold of the man’s ankle, he tripped him over before his hammer arced overhead and smashed in the man’s skull.
An arrow flew overhead and took the next soldier who had witnessed his brutal stealth attack in the chest. Volans had no idea where his archers had positioned themselves but was reassured once he was up and moved past the bodies with the shafts pumped into their chests.
Stepping off his right, he darted around a large oak, brought his hammer up, and swung it around into the chest of a woman ducking down to avoid arrow fire. Her ribcage shattered under the impact, her mouth gaping for air. Leaving her for dead he ran on, weaving along a tiny trail until a Kyzantine appeared before him. With spear lowered, the man ran on, another armed with a sword raced steps behind, hoping to get into the action. Stepping to the left, Volans avoided being skewered and slammed his hammer into the man’s head. The skull exploded under the force, covered him with gore as the other soldier came on only to have an arrow rupture from his neck.
Grabbing hold of the dead man’s spear in his left hand Volans soldiered on, keeping his body moving. He caught movement off to the left as a Kyzantine soldier moved toward a Murukan archer with his back turned. Hefting the spear, he threw it clumsily with his left arm and it sailed between the trees with luck but landed at the woman’s legs and tripped her up.
She fell to the ground with a thud and the archer turned at the sound from his current target, losing an arrow into her eye as she looked up at him from the ground. Lucas stood with his back to him, arrow nocked but not drawn back, seeking another target. His brown eyes searched amongst the green and brown background for the red on the Kyzantines uniforms. With nothing in the vicinity his shoulders slumped and he turned to Volans.
‘What now, lieutenant?’
‘We should go north, check that no one has got round the end of our line then double back, head south to support the centre of the line. My guess is they are a bit more concentrated in that area.’
Lucas nodded and started off at a jog, bounding over the low lying canopy and making it look easy as Volans reluctantly matched his pace and ran parallel to his location.
When Lucas slammed his back into a tree, Volans dove to the ground for cover as his companion’s hand flashed signals, trying to desperately warn him of imminent danger. Looking up between the leaves of his not so well hidden location, Volans made out five enemy soldiers stalking toward his position. Cursing under his breath, he was in two minds about moving and revealing his location or hoping that they wouldn’t discover him lying defenceless on his stomach. Time ticked down as he judged the possibilities.
The decision was taken out of his hand when Lucas judged they were too close and his first arrow went straight through the neck of the man closest to Volans. As they turned to confront Lucas, another of the Nails emerged from his hidden position between the roots of a tree and ran his blade through another’s back. Lucas’ second arrow hit a woman’s breast.
Volans scrambled to his feet and charged the scattered remnants of the group. He chased one woman down, following her along the narrow winding trail away from the others until she tripped over an exposed root. Turning over, her young face stared back at him as he kicked her weapon from her hand.
‘Please,’ she whimpered. She knew it was coming.
He met her eyes before raising his hammer and violently ending her life. The sounds of her whimpers hung in the air; a ghostly memory replaced by silence from broken lips.
Breathing heavily, Volans managed to look up in time to see the sword strike come from the left. Dodging to the side, he brought his hammer up and deflected it from taking him dead centre in the chest. It sliced down the side of his left arm leaving a shallow gash. The bitch had led him directly into the path of a waiting comrade. He hadn’t thought it possible.
Volans kicked the man in the knee, hoped to break it, but settled for unsteadying the man. He barrelled into him, clutched the man’s weapon arm and tried to disarm him while clonking him over the head with his hammer. They fell to the floor in a tangle as each tried to disarm and kill the other. Muscles strained under the pressure, both knowing that only one man would survive the outcome and help was not close.
Hydrus watched on as the enemy company’s standard bearer walked under the trees, doing his best to hold the pole upright while the banner itself got snagged on the branches. Tugging, the man finally wretched it free only to smack it on the next tree. A thin smile formed on his lips as the poor boy strained to keep it upright and tangle free.
A few metres away stood the captain of the unit and a bishop in his robes. They trudged through the forest, the captain yelling orders to keep their eyes open and the bishop saying that this was the One God’s will.
It may have been their God’s will to march through the forest, but it was Hydrus’ will that they had to worry about. And his men. A group of Nails squatted down behind a decaying tree stump, bows in hand with arrows nocked, waiting for him to give the order.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded and the waiting men stood and turned, drew back their arms and sighted targets. Within a heartbeat six Kyzantines were dead or dying and the Nails were racing for their lives.
The Kyzantine infantry went chasing after them, archers fired and spears flew through the air. The captain screamed for his men to chase and only realised his mistake when his men ran past the concealed Murukans and they sprung their traps, cutting down the pursuers.
‘Stay in line!’ the Kyzantine captain screamed. ‘Don’t break ranks!’
It was already too late.
Hydrus stepped around the tree and impaled the first soldier who was startled to see him there, his blade a foot out the soldier’s back. Pushing the body away he started running toward the command group, the need to silence the officers his top priority.
The adrenalin pumped around his body as he reached the standard bearer, battered away his feeble attempt to defend himself, sending his sword flying and hammering a blow down across his face. The man fell in agony as the captain charged, trampling over the fallen company flag.
Steel clashed and sparks flew around the blades as they slid along each other. The two opponents sprung apart as the bishop started hollering blasphemies and cursing Hydrus and his barbaric ways. They circled briefly, eyed each other off before they launched at each other. The combatants shifted between wards, blade parried blade, moving in and out of distance.
He couldn’t look around, but Hydrus hoped no one else would join this fight. This was between them. The bishop was screaming off in the corner, some incoherent chanting that was starting to get annoying as it got louder and louder, faster and faster.
The captain surged forward, pressing his luck as Hydrus parried the first and second blow and stepped around to avoid the third. Striking out at the exposed side, Hydrus covered quickly as the man snapped his blade around and countered as if he was expecting it. Cursing under his breath, Hydrus’ blade whirled around him in a blur of movement, defending and striking, inching closer and closer to his target.
An arrow flew through the space between himself and the captain, took the Kyzantine sneaking up on him in the throat. Gurgled blood sprayed from the dying man’s mouth over the combatants. Temporarily blind, the captain brought his blade up which Hydrus parried with a low cross, kept the blade low, snapped his left arm around with a hook that sent the captain reeling back. The man charged back with a low thrust that would have impaled him if he hadn’t had the foresight to spin away to the right, letting the man ran slightly past him before he cut him down.
Exhausted, Hydrus turned to the bishop, his lips still moving fervently in his high pitched preaching. Moving with deadly purpose, he tightened his grip on the blade as he went to finally silence the holy man.
‘The One God will not permit you to strike me down barbarian,’ he screamed, staring at Hydrus’ advance.
Hydrus didn’t flinch, didn’t stop, this man and his words did not faze him. The energy that shot out of the amulet hanging from his neck did. The yellow energy sizzled through the air and Hydrus raised his sword in a feeble attempt to defend himself. The blade took the brunt of the force, shattering in his two handed grip and sending him flying back through the forest.
The archers fired instantly. All the soldiers fighting in the nearby forest felt the energy, felt the magic. The Nails turned their attention to the bishop, the missiles falling harmlessly off the yellow shield that had surrounded the older man’s body. Hydrus got to his knees, dazed, and wondered when the Kyzantines had started condoning the use of magic, as the bishop started sending crackling beams of yellow light through the forest aimed at his men.
The light punched through the chest of one, he screamed as his insides were ripped from his chest and fell to the blood-soaked ground. The Nails dove behind any cover they could find as the pulsing light shattered trees around them, branches and splinters exploding everywhere. The surviving Kyzantines ducked as well, edging their way closer to the bishop and behind his field of vision.
Men died from both sides as Hydrus wondered about this new turn of events. He couldn’t really believe this was happening.
‘Archers keep firing,’ he screamed. ‘The rest of you, close the gap and kill that fucking bishop!’
Sensing the charge, the remaining Kyzantines formed into thin ranks on the old man’s flanks and waited for the charge to come.
The Nails sprung from their concealed positions, tore across the battlefield. A wave of arrows hit the ranks moments before the first of them crashed into it, blood erupting onto the battlefield. Hydrus charged from the front. He could sense the shadows moving alongside him as others blindly charged up the middle. It was suicidal, but this man had to die or the Nails were lost. Hydrus weaved between deadly energy blasts, his thighs straining under the pressure as his brain told his legs to run faster, to keep moving.
His dagger felt comfortable in his left hand, his only weapon now except for his fists, but he was worried they wouldn’t be enough. The shield flared once again as the latest barrage of arrows rained down before another blast erupted from the bishop and seared its way through the man running on Hydrus’ left. The dying man’s scream echoed through the trees and Hydrus felt a twinge of guilt for not knowing who had been running by his side. He promised himself that he would find out later, if there was a later.
On the right flank one of the Nails had broken through the line and ran hell-bent toward the bishop and his indestructible magic shell. Hydrus thought he was going to make it when the bishop turned and fired, the man diving forward underneath the attack and burying himself face first into the dirt. He screamed as smoke smouldered from the burn running down his shoulder and back.
Hydrus ran harder, pushed himself faster and crashing through the magical barrier, he barrelled into the bishop. It did little to stop the flesh and muscle that was Hydrus — and he hit with enough force to fling the bishop metres back. Clamping his free hand around the old man’s neck, he began to squeeze the life out of him as the bishop’s thin strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and kept his dagger at bay.
It came down to strength now. Magic couldn’t help the God-fearing man of the cloth and no aid would come from any of the Nails. This was a struggle for survival and Hydrus wanted it more.
As Hydrus’ hand squeezed tighter, the bishop’s grip loosened as he struggled to get oxygen through his crushed larynx. The blade lowered closer to his chest, Hydrus’ muscles straining to bring it down and end his miserable life. The old man’s lips moved fervently, a last prayer to his One God, before they too became slower and more deliberate. Hydrus didn’t care to know what he was saying, didn’t think it was really important. As the bishop took his last breath, Hydrus hammered the dagger down into his heart.
Slowly he got to his knees, taking in the damage around him. It was over. The Nails that were positioned on the flanks were moving in, attracted by the pretty lights and the dying screams. Three Kyzantine soldiers had surrendered: they knelt with their hands on their heads, wide-eyed at the scene that had played out before them. Hydrus pulled himself up even though it was agony to do so. Tired and bloody, he turned to the closest soldier and told him to take inventory. He ran off to do it as Hydrus wondered how many had died.
Looking down over the three prisoners, he stared at the young soldiers who had managed to survive. They were dirty and bleeding but wore that resigned look about their eyes, like it was all too much and they knew what was coming next. Two girls and a boy waited for the death sentence to be carried out, they looked no older than seventeen years of age. He hoped that they hadn’t all been that young.
‘Take their weapons and let them go. There has been enough death today. I don’t need more blood on my hands,’ he ordered the men standing with arrows trained on the prisoners.
He looked directly at the prisoners. ‘Go home to your families; the war is over for you. You have served your Empire and you managed to survive — there is no shame in survival. Just don’t line up against us again. Who knows how lucky a man can be but who wants to risk his luck eh?’