‘No, the treasury, armoury and food stores all burned.’
‘Ach, Artorus’s teeth, you are going to get what you deserve. Take this man out and hang him.’
‘No!’ Wyak started to struggle against his guards. ‘You treacherous little pup, who are you to do this to me!’
‘Who am I?’ Fenchard queried. ‘Why, I am your king.’
‘One other thing,’ Trask added. ‘This man has betrayed us; he needs a traitor’s punishment. Cut his bollocks off first and burn them at his feet as he hangs. Then leave
the body to rot, for Leontius to discover.’
Fenchard nodded in agreement and the screaming, struggling man was hauled out of the tent.’
Fenchard and Trask were left alone. Fenchard was giggling helplessly at the justice he had just dispensed. ‘The day is getting better, my friend,’ he laughed. ‘Now, Leontius is
bringing anything from six to ten thousand men with him. What numbers do we have to stop him?’
‘Well, you have some two to three thousand men yourself; there are a thousand mercenaries and a thousand more Arshumans in Tetha Vinoyen. Garal has some five hundred to trouble Esric with
and I shall recruit some more men this winter. By the spring we should have an army of five to seven thousand if we are lucky, four if we are not.’
‘Then Felmere and Leontius will outnumber us!’
‘Arshuma will back us. We can expect General Terze to have a couple of thousand at Grest. The Arshuman king will not want to lose the lands he has gained.’
‘
I
have gained.’
‘
We
have gained,’ said Trask. ‘Never neglect your generals; we are nothing without them.’
‘And they must not forget their king. And that applies to you equally.’
Trask was about to unleash a suitable rejoinder when a high-pitched shriek from outside cut through their conversation. Wyak was obviously having his sentence carried out already.
‘Mytha’s blood,’ said Fenchard, ‘Wyak screams like a girl.’
‘Well,’ replied Trask, ‘to all intents and purposes that is exactly what he is now.’
The two men laughed, then went outside to see the proceedings for themselves.
By all the Gods the men were as jumpy as a spring fly crossing an open lake. He, Captain Nazaren, had done what he could – he had formed the covered wagons into a circle,
posted all the pickets he could spare at regular intervals around the camp, and lit one single fire at its centre to provide no easy targets for any arrow. His was the third supply train to leave
Grest that week. The other two had been forced to return to the town, both captains complaining of sustained harrying by the Wych horse demons, so these supplies really had to get through this
time.
They were halfway to Tetha Vinoyen where nearly a thousand fellow Arshumans were based helping to support that ridiculous, preening, treacherous fop of a man and his overweening ambition.
Granted he had helped hand them victory at Wolf Plain, but to betray your country for a patch of mud? The thought stuck in Nazaren’s craw.
This war was ten years old and he – a professional soldier who had risen rapidly in his superiors’ favour – had served for six of them. This was not a part of the world where
he had ever really felt at home, for he was a southern Arshuman. As a country, Arshuma was almost geographically split into two. The north, bounded by mountains, hilly, inhospitable but the source
of the countries mineral wealth, and the south, flatter, warmer, a country of rolling woods and open fields. What connected the two disparate halves of the country was Harshafan’s Belt, a
thin strip of land barely a mile across, stretching between mountains and sea. The south had traditionally provided the country’s kings until just over a hundred years ago when the Agana
family had seized the throne in a brief but bloody coup in which dozens of noble families were butchered out of existence. Resentment had festered ever since and now, after a war in which the south
had no interest, which had nearly bankrupted the country and for which they had tried their hardest to wriggle out of providing any support whatsoever, some were making free and open overtures to
Chira, an empire with which they had a love–hate relationship and which had occupied Arshuma on more than one occasion in its proud history.
Still, none of that mattered to Nazaren right now. He had sworn an oath to his country’s king and, as he came from peasant stock himself, the politicking of a bunch of surly nobles was of
little relevance to him personally. He blew into his cupped, gauntleted hands and listened to the horses munching contentedly at their oats. How to kill twenty minutes or so? he wondered.
Shortly afterwards, he emerged from a tent several Arshuman kopits poorer. He loved to gamble and had spent the last half-hour doing so; it was just a shame he was so damnably poor at it. A
young sergeant came up to him; Nazaren noticed the man’s armour was a little too large for him, making for an ill fit.
‘Sir, the fresh sentries are deployed; there is nothing to report at present.’
‘Good, the Gods have been with us so far. Carry on. If the wind changes slightly, a bird sings at the wrong time, or one of the horses belches out of turn, I will want to know about it. I
will be in my tent should you so need me.’
In charge of others and not yet grown into his armour! So many had been lost at Grest that mere boys had been drafted in to replace them. Had the traitor baron not disrupted the enemy at Wolf
Plain, he dreaded to think what the outcome might have been.
Grest! – his mind went back to it again and again. That terrible witch and her bolts of lightning. He had seen men reduced to cinders before his very eyes screaming in their agony as their
skin smoked, their eyeballs popped and their flesh shrivelled away from blackening bone. She was dead now, he had been told, so for that at least he would offer up a prayer to the Gods tonight.
And that is what he did. Back in his tent he prayed, then lay on his bunk where he was soon asleep dreaming of the beach and his home town, hearing the cries of the gulls and the booming sea and
gazing on the ruddy freckled face of his beautiful wife whom he had not seen for so long. Seven years was the term of service for a campaigning soldier, aping the Chiran tradition, and so, in less
than twelve months, by the grace of the Gods, he would be home again.
Abruptly his eyes opened. What had he heard? He listened and heard it again, a sound he was more than familiar with. The hissing of arrows. He threw himself off his bunk just as the sergeant he
had seen earlier tore into his tent, his eyes wide.
‘Sir, we are under attack!’
‘From who, man? From who?’
‘We cannot see them; it must be the Wych demons.’
‘Then get the cavalry out; see if they can be chased off.’
He strapped on his armour and pulled his sword out of its scabbard. Outside there was full-scale panic. Men were doing their best to hide behind the wagons as arrows flew into the defensive
circle from all directions. He peered into the blackness, trying to see their tormentors. An arrow whistled barely an inch from his ear but, with some effort, he could make them out –
galloping horses, darker shadows in a vista of shadow circling the camp raining death upon them.
Nazaren reached the captain of horse, mounted and ready with his fellows.
‘They are riding around us firing at their leisure! Try and break their circle, confuse them; if you disrupt their movement, they may just ride off.’ Neither of them really believed
this but what else could he say?
The captain and his men rode off, through the gaps between the wagons. When they had gone Nazaren stationed archers and spearmen to plug these gaps, the archers being told to fire only if they
had a clear mark. Inevitably, given their inexperience, most fired blindly and he had to run around shouting at them not to waste arrows or, worse, hit their own men. Lying on the ground around
him, or huddling under the wagons were the civilians – the ostlers, wainwrights and coachmen with their families – realising at last that the small fortune they had been paid to do this
job was nowhere near enough.
Nazaren heard the clash of arms and the cry of men and elves outside the circle. Evidently battle had been joined. The elven battle cries were shrill and disturbingly alien. He could even hear
women among their voices.
Then suddenly came the sound of receding hooves. The shouting stopped. And then there was silence. Nobody moved. He could hear his men breathing; short, anxious breathing frosting in the night
air. Everyone was hoping against hope that the cavalry had done its job. Its record against the elves had been poor thus far but perhaps they had learned. Perhaps the tide was turning. Nazaren did
not move, ears trying to cut through the darkness. Then the noise came. A solitary set of hoof beats soon joined by another and then another. Everyone tensed up, muscles rigid as bone, waiting.
Waiting and watching.
And then at last there was something to see, something that caused Nazaren’s heart to plummet like a stone. To his right, emerging from its covering of shadow as it drew closer to the
wagons, was a horseman. Not an Arshuman horseman. This rider needed no saddle. He was shrouded in a cloak that billowed behind him, wore dark leathers and rode without using his hands, brandishing
as he was a short-hafted spear. His hair was red and his eyes green, his face was contorted into a mask of concentration and feral hatred. Approaching a gap between the wagons, he called out
ferociously ‘
Thenessaveyuzhe!
’, then thrust the spear into an archer poised to shoot him down. Then, controlling his beast with his legs and his free hand, both elf and horse
sprang over the heads of the defenders, past the wagons and into the clearing behind them scattering screaming civilians hither and thither. Without stopping he swept out his bow, knocked an arrow,
and fired it into the back of another defender. Then, still at full gallop, the horse leapt over the heads of men defending another gap in the wagons and was lost to the darkness before anyone
could get a meaningful shot at him.
It was a situation that could not be controlled, although Nazaren tried. That first horseman was followed by another, then another, all crashing into the clearing, shooting an arrow or two, then
racing back into the night. Once or twice a defender’s arrow hit home – one horse was struck, one elf had a thigh pierced – but they were all gone before they could be brought
down.
‘Civilians, under the wagons!’ Nazaren called. He had noticed that the Wyches were not targeting them deliberately but a couple had been run down in error and the rest had been
disrupting any attempt at a meaningful defence. But the elves kept coming. Only now it wasn’t a single attacker but two, three or four, all breasting the defences at the same time and felling
Arshuman soldiers with a calculated precision. Some of the gaps between the wagons now had no men to defend them. The elves could ride in as they wished.
‘To me! To me!’ Nazaren called, moving away from the fire with his back to a wagon. Those that could, that were not too wounded, or those that hadn’t bolted into the night and
certain death joined him. Nazaren grinned sourly; there were barely twenty of them.
‘The Wyches have really gone for us tonight, boys. Let us make them pay for it in pagan blood. I hear they torture their prisoners, so if we are to die, let us die like men with our swords
in our hands.’ He sounded proud and bitter both.
As he spoke, opposite them the elves finally came. Not galloping this time but riding slowly, casually past the wagons, obviously expecting little resistance. In this manner they passed the
dying fire until they all stopped, not twenty feet from the defenders. At their head was someone Nazaren recognised by reputation. The Wych Queen – dark-haired with outlandish eyes, aloof and
beautiful. Brandishing a bow she rode forward until she was just feet away from Nazaren, who stood at the head of his men.
‘Lay down your arms!’ She spoke with an accent, her words slightly clipped.
‘Pagan whore!’ snapped Nazaren. ‘You would kill us in a trice!’
She made to reply but before she could one of the men behind his captain pulled his bowstring ready to fell the Wych Queen. He never got close. Before his arrow was fully knocked elf bowstrings
twanged left and right and he fell with half a dozen feathered shafts piercing his body.
‘Arshuma!’ screamed Nazaren, lofting his blade, the frenzy of battle upon him. He would cut the Wych in half and die gloriously. His sword had begun its down stroke when her arrow
hit him. He fell backwards, as dead as a stone, an arrow piercing the socket where his right eye had once been.
With Nazaren’s battle cry, the Arshumans had surged forward, eager for blood. Seconds later half their number were dead, felled by a remorseless rain of arrows. The ten or so survivors
then cast their weapons to the ground and raised their hands to the skies.
The Wych Queen seemed rather irritated by the show of defiance.
‘What is it with you people? Are you all so desperate to die? It is impossible to reason with you. Anyway, you must now listen to me. Your weapons will be taken as will your wagons and
horses. You will be left one wagon to carry your wounded. You will all be allowed to live, but your soldiers will have their right wrist tendons severed so they cannot fight us again. We will leave
you enough food to get to your destination; you will be allowed to leave shortly.’
She rode out of the circle of wagons as her warriors proceeded to carry out her instructions. Another horseman galloped hastily to join her. It was Culleneron.
‘A successful outcome, don’t you think?’ He seemed pleased with himself, the joy of battle gleaming in his eyes. ‘We have actually taken their supplies rather than drive
them back to their city. A good manoeuvre to ride though their camp, I thought. They were not expecting that.’
‘A risky manoeuvre, you mean,’ she snapped back. ‘We could have lost many warriors; it was only the surprise of our tactics that won it for us.’
‘Are you ever happy?’ he barked in reply. ‘It was a triumphant attack, glory for all of us. I would, of course, have killed all the survivors but it is your command
today.’