The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (34 page)

Alissa nodded
and smiled a shaky smile, and then with many backward glances,
hurried to where the mages waited in safety.

*

“They are not
far now,” Bini murmured, the plainsman seemingly barely visible to
Aran through the heavily falling snow and swirling mist.

“Aye…I can
sense them near,” Aran replied his awareness although warded now,
still easily picking up the thought-emotions of the Thakur. “They
are filled with a nervous energy but seem to mask themselves with
overconfidence. They see only the fog and snow, and are already
lusting after our women and lands.”

“How far now?”
asked Darven nervously, drawing his deadly longsword

“Moments
only,” replied Aran coldly, as he secured the mail aventail to his
helmet to protect the lower part of his face.

“It already
feels like hours.” Darven said. “By the Goddess I feel sick to my
stomach. There is nothing in the training that prepares you for
this! Nothing…”

“Aye,” Aran
breathed, staring about him at the silent, almost invisible ranks
of Guardsmen and legio around and behind them. Although this army
of his boasted five thousand soldiers, due to the all-enveloping
mist Aran could see only the few immediately about him. “Prepare
yourselves,” he hissed to the Guard immediately drawing the faintly
glowing King’s Sword from the scabbard that hung from his side.
“They will be soon driven upon us…”

Just at that
moment, the strident sound of horns could be heard being blown from
their forward left and right, and the ground began to shake as over
a thousand mounted legio galloped in on the ranks of the enemy.

Aran lifted
his sword and slotted his shield in next to Darven’s and called
out, “Slow advance all! Do not break formation until at the last.”
He turned his head to survey the ranks spread out at his back, “All
behind keep formations, and do not break your shield walls. Strike
when the enemy lies within spear or sword reach,” he cried.

Ahead,
invisible in the heavy fog, could be heard the fierce cries of the
horses, and the screams of the enemy as they fell to the thrown
javelins of the mounted legio coming in from the side. The drumming
of hooves was closer now, and there were more sudden screams, both
equine and human, as the Thakur, realising their peril, were coming
to grief in the treacherous sloppy snow and hidden spiked traps and
pits.

“Increase
pace!” Aran snapped. “Keep formation.”

Immediately
the Guard and Legions behind walked quicker, whilst ahead of them
the invisible mounted battle raged.

Suddenly and
without warning the first of the enemy were sighted.

“Ware all!”
Aran shouted. “The enemy is upon us!”

Next to him
Aran could hear Darven’s sudden intake of breath, as ahead and
through the now lifting, moving fog hundreds of unhorsed dark
haired, pale featured figures could be seen running towards them,
battleaxes, swords and deadly looking maces upraised in their
fevered hands.

Suddenly there
was noise all about him, and the world was filled with men fighting
a desperate battle in the snow and sleet. A figure loomed up, dark
clad in a spiked helmet, blackened leather and bright metal scale
vest, and wielding a blood splattered battle axe. Aran immediately
fell into the accustomed progressions, bringing down his opponent
with a hard slash across the throat. The body toppled forward
spurting blood onto the ground. Darven at his right brought his
sword down, his opponent almost cleft in two by the ferocity of the
Wolf Leader’s attack.

The Guard were
hemmed in by the sheer numbers of attacking Thakur, and Aran
immediately gave them the signal to break formation so as they
could operate independently, finding their own space for fighting.
Aran, Darven and Bini fought back to back against the running
Thakurian swordsmen, their own private spearhead against the
howling enemy.

“They are
running onto our swords,” shouted Darven over the din.

“They are mage
driven…” Aran shouted back, even though Darven was at his shoulder.
“Keep pushing forwards. Use our wedge against them…”

Suddenly,
still more of the Thakur were appearing out of the thinning fog.
All seemed to have lost their mounts in the carnage of the attack
of the mounted legio, and the horror of the pits. All were howling
obscenities against Aran and the Guards. All seemed driven towards
where Aran was fighting with the Wolves…

“They are
concentrating their attack upon us…” yelled Bini, fighting hard in
the melee.

“I know!”
shouted back Darven. “We must keep with the rest of the Guard, and
not let ourselves be separated…”

Then the
relentless flow of Thakur burst over them, and suddenly the trio
and the Guard were fighting for their lives. Desperately the
soldiers of Andur’s Keep fought to advance against the murderous
onslaught. Aran looked back, hoping that the mages would somehow
notice the Guard’s plight and intervene. Mechanically his sword
rose and fell before him, hewing each crazed face down. The wind
moved sluggishly, and for just a moment the mist cleared, and he
looked back and saw the mages clearly in the safe distance. To his
horror and deep anger they stood still, their hands hidden within
the folds of their grey robes.

Filled with a
sudden cold rage, he swung his sword across to decapitate yet
another black-armed Thakurian who rose up before him. “We must look
to ourselves!” he screamed hoarsely to the Guard. “Expect no help
from the mages…”

Aran caught an
answering shout from Bini, and with another relentless rush the
Thakur threw themselves upon the Guard, and his companions were
immediately swallowed up by the fog and snow, and Aran was alone
for the first time since the battle had begun.

Moving
mechanically, the tempestuous sound of battle ringing loud in his
blood and mind, Aran strode through the battlefield the ranks of
Guardsmen moving like ghosts about him. He advanced, slaying each
enemy in turn, before implacably going onto the next frenzied face
that rose before him. After a time he ceased to see things clearly.
The world became red with blood and anger, the faces of his enemies
in his mind were not human—instead skull-like visages stared at him
as he cut them down—they ceased to be the faces of men.

Another enemy
soldier ran up, fully intending to spit him on a pike. Negligently
Aran cut him down, the man’s cries of despair and agony a mere
whisper against the rage rising loud in his ears. A knot of enemy
swordsmen ran forward, but any plan of overwhelming him with force
came to nothing. Immersed in a cold, hard anger, Aran killed each
and every one of them, hewing off arms, legs and heads with
calculated abandon. Aran found himself sinking into a nightmare
world, a surreal landscape of twisted bodies and hacked limbs, and
as he strode through the growing carnage, a small voice within his
mind cried out at the horror of the things he did and saw—the voice
of Aran as a child, of innocence lost.

Unconcernedly
he walked over the mess of twitching bodies, and with a howl of
rage took on half a dozen more Thakurian spearmen who had pinned
down two of the hard pressed Guards. Aran waded into the fight,
seeing nothing but red rage before him, and hearing nothing but the
roaring anger in his ears. Two, three, four, then five of the
spearmen fell down before him with the last one turning in
desperation to flee. Unconcernedly, Aran took his dagger and aimed,
that unfortunate soldier took only two steps before he toppled
forward, falling face first into the red churned slush, his back
sprouting the dagger from between his shoulder blades. Pushing the
blade in, Aran savagely twisted it deeper then pulled it free, Aran
thrust it still bloodied into its sheath and walked on into the
roaring battle...

*

Aran pushed
the body of the soldier from his blade, then immediately swung the
weapon up, cleaving another man in two. Around and behind him were
littered over a score of bodies. All were dead, Aran had made
absolutely certain of that. A horseman appeared through the biting
sleet, Aran went for the killing stroke, but his hand was stayed
from behind. White rage engulfed him and he turned to kill the
enemy who would lay a hand upon him, except he was immediately
wrestled to the ground.

“My lord! My
lord king, in Andur’s name, stop I pray you.”

White hot with
rage, Aran writhed and twisted to free himself and fight, but he
was finally immobilised when three men sat down upon him, pinning
him to the ground.

“My lord King!
Aran, we implore you, stop…there is no one left to fight,” Darven
cried out.

Aran lay for a
moment in the dirty and bloody slush, his head pounding, and his
body shaking with fury. Finally the cold snow in which he was half
buried, cooled the white hot rage, and finally he growled, “Let me
up. I will not hurt you.”

Aran felt the
weight leave his back, and wearily he eased himself to his feet.
Looking about him he saw the Guards clustered a few yards off,
exhaustion and fear were openly displayed upon their faces.

“How many did
we lose?” he asked heavily.

Darven went to
put a hand on his king’s shoulder, but Aran shrugged it off,
swinging around in barely controlled anger.

“I ask you.
How many of the Guard did we lose?”

Darven stepped
backwards in shock and bewilderment. “Thirty-seven, lord King. The
wounded have been returned to camp. The Healermages…”

“Don’t talk to
me about the mages,” Aran snapped turning away. “They refused to
come to our aid.”

Another
Guardsman stepped forward, blood running down his face, “My lord,
the last of the enemy are fleeing the field. What do we do?”

Aran stared at
the man and saw him quail at his barely checked anger.

“None are to
survive. Kill them all, so others may see against whom they
war.”

“But,
but…Sire,” Caldor loomed out of the murk. “This is not
honourable.”

Aran’s hand
tightened on the pommel of the King’s Sword and the point lifted,
“You dare defy me Bear Leader?” he snarled, his eyes flat with
rage.

Caldor dropped
bonelessly to his knees, “Nay Sire.”

“Then do as I
order… Now!” he snapped furiously.

There were
hasty bows and nods, and the Guard dispersed to dispatch the last
of the enemy, only Darven and Bini remained, bewildered at the
day’s events.

“Sire?”

Aran furiously
looked up from the blood soaked snow at his feet, “I gave you an
order soldier.”

Darven’s face
tightened as he too struggled with his composure—bitter, hasty
words trembling unsaid on his lips.

Aran stared at
the Wolf Leader, at the man he called friend, and tried to grasp
what little sanity remained, “I am not myself Darven” he grated.
“Leave me be…I need time…alone.”

*

“Go carefully,
he’s changed.”

Darven was
hastily leading Maran back to where he had left Aran.

“I will…”
Archmage Maran stopped, and stared at the distant figure kneeling
amongst the blood and carnage. “I have heard of battle rage before
but never in my wildest dreams did I think Aran would be prone…”
his voice trailed off.

“Is he sane?”
Darven asked apprehensively, as he finally bent to wipe clean his
blood encrusted sword on the snow, and wearily sheath it in his
scabbard.

Maran shook
his head, “No, at least not yet. It will take a while for the anger
to seep out of him. I should try to talk to him but I don’t think
he will hear me.”

“He single
handedly killed over twenty men in as many minutes,” Bini’s voice
was hushed with awe. “I saw him. He walked through them as easily
as if he was scything a field of ripened grain.”

Maran’s brow
lifted, “I did not think of that. I know Aran has the Andurian
temper, but this is new. He is a Warriormage; perhaps this rage is
a manifestation of that Ability?”

Darven’s face
paled again, “He will be like that at each battle? In Andur’s name,
how will we control him? He came close to killing two of my men
before he was pulled away and restrained!”

Maran shook
his head, “We know little about the early Warriormages. I think
this madness may be because he is half-trained. Perhaps when he has
a better control of his Ability?”

Darven stood
and regarded the distant hunched figure, “So what do we do
now?”

Maran pulled
his robe closer about him against the cold. “Wait here and hope he
returns to us soon.”

“And Alissa?”
Bini asked. “Will she come?”

Maran nodded,
“I found her working frantically with the Healermages back at camp.
She has already heard what happened…” Maran looked out into the
deepening gloom, “She railed at me and blamed me entirely for not
allowing the mages to aid the Guard. I understand her anger, but
there was no other way.”

“He will blame
you too,” Darven said unhappily. “Now that you’ve told me I
understand why…. I realise we can’t afford to drain the mages of
their power so soon, but…”

Then his face
hardened, and he turned upon Maran, forgetting for one heated
moment that he spoke to the Archmage. “By Andur mage…you were not
out there! It was a killing field and the only reason the Guard
lives still is that Aran broke the Thakurian attack,” Darven’s eyes
went like hard slate. “Do not be surprised if he will not listen to
you. I have never before seen him, or any man alive, so angry.”

Maran eyes
flared with suppressed power, “You forget yourself Wolf Leader…”
then he too remembered himself, and his voice gentled. “I doubt you
will see the same Arantur back again. He is now a blooded
Warriormage and will be perilous until he has sorted himself
out.”

Bini looked
longingly back at camp. “Alissa would help. Why does she not
come?”