The Menin exploited the gap left by the magic-struck pikemen, savagely attacking the disordered and poorly armoured defenders, while Captain Hain led the next ranks of Menin onwards. A shriek of fury cut through the cacophony as the Reavers arrived on their blade-edged shields to fall upon the assailed enemy. Even their warcries were drowned out by the roaring minotaurs as the monsters joined the battle. Styrax beamed as he saw the ripple of fear run visibly through the besieged pikemen.
With Kobra drawn he started pushing forward to get to the heart of the fighting, but he was stopped in his tracks as another great tremor ran through the ground. Suddenly the air was full of crashing and confusion, and they heard the groan of the earth tearing open. Styrax followed the sound and turned - just as four ranks of the Cheme Legion disappeared in a cloud of dust, dropping like stones into the hole beneath them.
We must —
The thought didn’t get any further as he sensed something else blossom on the battlefield, magic as vast and weighty as the Narkang weapon, but still distant. Surprise turned into astonishment, then anxiety as a presence shimmered into being like a beacon igniting into a blaze . . .
Except the presence wasn’t ahead of him, it was behind.
He turned, even as he realised who it was, though he couldn’t see anything past the Bloodsworn behind him. But there was no mistaking that scent; he knew it only too well . . . and the knowledge sparked something akin to fear in his belly. The air behind his troops seemed to judder, and a haze of dust appeared.
The presence was not alone.
Not alone, no, he’d not come alone
, Styrax thought, desperately trying to work out what this would mean, whether he needed to pull back from the fight, go and deal with the new threat first. The cries of injured men from the crater behind put paid to that thought; he couldn’t leave this weapon alone, or it would devastate his army.
The time has come
, he realised.
King Emin’s made my choice for me - I must destroy this weapon, and hold nothing back to do so. We live and die on this strike of the sword. Would I have it any other way?
Lord Styrax ignored the presence and turned back to the fight, barging his way forward to bring his formidable skills to bear. Even before he reached the defenders he could see their eyes widen in fear as they saw just how huge he was.
You will have to wait, Mortal-Aspect
, he thought as his obsidian-black sword tore into the first Narkang soldier. The blade greedily absorbed the spilt blood.
But never fear; I have strength enough to teach both King Emin and Karkarn a lesson they’ll never forget . . . if they even live that long.
The lance drifted down in a smooth, practised arc, timed to perfection, and the steel tip drove into the nearest enemy’s unprotected throat. His head snapped backwards under the force of the blow and blood sprayed into the air. Momentum carried Vesna’s hunter on into the dead man’s horse and its armoured shoulder smashed the smaller steed away. Vesna reached for his sword as the crash of similar impacts all around him sounded: the Farlan had arrived.
The cavalry were completely unprepared for the Farlan assault, and panic ensued as those who tried to flee got caught up with those trying to stand their ground. The scarlet-liveried Ruby Tower Guards had recognised their black-and-white-clad attackers well enough; they were reluctant allies of the Menin, and few wanted to face the charge of the Ghosts. They knew they weren’t strong enough to face the heavy cavalry of the Farlan, and they barely tried. As Vesna fought his way through, the Byorans struck back weakly, more interested in getting out of his way. Many never even raised their weapons as he chopped a bloody path through.
The air was filled with the stink of blood and shit and sweat, and all Vesna could hear was the clash of steel and the screams of the dead and dying, a symphony of pain that made his divine half soar. His heart hammered loud in his chest, suddenly alive, and beating with more power than ever before. He struck again and again, blindingly fast, already moving, ready for the next blow, while men fell like wheat before him.
A Byoran braver than most of them lunged at him with his spear, and Vesna was forced to twist in his saddle to deflect it. The press of men behind him was pushing his horse away, out of reach, but Vesna swept his sword low, then up, stretching his arm and slicing towards the man’s face — and felt the weapon jar and bite into flesh, but his hunter carried him on, and he didn’t see if he had killed the man.
Instead, he found himself face to face with the Byoran standard bearer, who went at him with a long sabre, which Vesna caught on his shield, raising sparks off the embossed lion’s head. Sweeping upwards with his own weapon he sheared through the standard’s pole, and brought the sword back down to chop through the Byoran’s wrist on the downwards swing. The man fell screaming, and the standard fluttered as it toppled after him.
And what remained of the Byoran resistance collapsed.
They ran blindly from the black-and-white-liveried soldiers and colourfully dressed nobles, all of whom were hacking around themselves with equal savagery. The swords and war-hammers and axes took a terrible toll, despite halting their chase after no more than twenty yards, pulling back into formation, ready for the next challenge.
Vesna saw General Lahk’s legion advancing to their left flank. The Chetse had spotted them and an infantry division was approaching quickly - but in their fervour, they had underestimated the distance between the forces. Vesna turned the other way to check on Suzerain Torl’s more lightly armed legion of black-clad Brethren - more than a match for anything the Menin could call on. Vesna couldn’t see their one force of heavy cavalry, the Bloodsworn, which was conspicuously absent, but he wasn’t complaining. As much as the Iron General side of him might have wanted to test his Ghosts against the fanatical Menin élite, the human side overruled it.
Battles are there to be won; glory can take care of itself
: the sentiment came unbidden, the memory of his first weapons-tutor, Shab. Like many young nobles, Vesna had been interested only in glory and elegance at first, and using a shield as an offensive weapon had offended that sensibility, until Shab had proved otherwise — the hard way.
He smiled grimly to himself. ‘And this lot don’t stand a chance,’ he muttered.
‘Nope,’ replied Swordmaster Pettir beside him, ‘we’ll be sending the whole damn lot to the Herald’s Hall soon enough - they’re buggered.’
‘But not quickly,’ broke in a hesitant voice. Legion Chaplain Cerrat was standing a few feet away, and his bright white robes were splattered with mud and gore. ‘King Emin could fall by the time we reach him.’
The young man looked stunned by his first battle, but he’d clearly given good account of himself. His robe had been sliced open, revealing the armour underneath, and the gibbous blade of his moon-glaive was stained with blood.
‘Not quickly, no,’ Vesna admitted, scanning the troops ahead of them. The infantry looked ragged to his practised eye, but there was still the greater part of five legions of heavy infantry between them and the king, enough to swamp Vesna’s three thousand cavalry. ‘But that’s not our concern right now; the king will just have to stand.’
A hunting horn rang out over the moor and the three men watched General Lahk lead a wedge of Ghosts into the centre of the advancing Chetse legion, who were lacking both the heavy armour and the spears of the Menin infantry. With any luck they would be as brutally - and speedily - dealt with as the Byoran Guardsmen. In the distance he could see a massive engagement going on at the furthest fortification: thousands of soldiers were swarming over all sides of it in what he guessed was a pincer movement. On the left the Narkang cavalry were massed, apparently waiting for the enemy to react to the Farlan shock troops before committing themselves.
‘
Did we arrive too late?’
Vesna asked as he signalled for his legion to close on Lahk’s. The Dark Monks had already moved up, approaching the Chetse’s other flank, and they were also preparing to charge. It was too late to countermand that order, Vesna thought; they would have to let this move play out before he could strike at the rear of Styrax’s main force.
‘Advance at the canter,’ he called. Ahead were two stationary cavalry legions and one of Menin infantry, both close enough to come to the Chetse’s rescue, perhaps — but showing no inclination to do so. They had a massive cavalry force on their other flank, and no apparent intention of moving, or breaking their formation, any more than they already had.
‘That’s it, you worry about your own skins,’ Vesna said with forced cheer, causing Pettir to laugh coarsely. ‘We’ll keep you boxed in there, and cut your lord’s hamstrings while you watch.’
‘Can you sense Styrax?’
Vesna pointed towards the wooden fort. ‘He’s up there, right in the thick of it all.’
‘He’s committed then. If you can sense him, he must know we’re back here.’
Vesna laughed. ‘Trust me on that - I made quite sure of it. He knows he’s running out of time. Might be we can force him into something desperate.’
Lord Styrax lashed out, feeling the blood patter onto his armour as he sliced through flesh and bone. A falling body thumped against his leg and he turned on instinct, cutting up, but catching only air. He moved into the gap, and continued to hew a path through the Narkang defenders, hearing the clatter of armour in his wake as the Cheme men surged up to support him. Over their heads he could see the minotaurs had leaped over the ditch and were battering the enemy - they’d already torn a hole in the line and the enemy were looking hard-pressed to fill it.
More and more of his soldiers poured over the ditches, eagerly charging in the wake of the minotaurs — then a great shaking ran through the ground again. Styrax hissed his defiance and pushed on, not waiting to watch as the Narkang mage ripped another bloody great hole in the ground underneath his monstrous shock-troops. He answered with lances of darkness and flame that gouged furrows through the ground and ripped soldiers in half. The defenders were definitely buckling under the assault, unable to resist the pressure being exerted by his minotaurs and Reavers.
The Menin white-eyes had congregated near the rear of the enemy line, not far from where Styrax himself was standing. They were fighting back to back, leaping forward to kill with axe and shield before withdrawing, howling maniacally all the while. The white-eyes moved with such speed and aggression the Narkang could barely get close enough to bring their pikes to bear. The Cheme infantry were pressing further and further forward, and Styrax cast darting spirals of slicing magic into the supporting troops. They were inching closer to the mage’s platform.
There was a crash beside him as the soldier on Styrax’s left vanished and a heartrending scream rang out. When he turned, he saw the soldier’s body lying behind him. A ballista bolt had turned him into a bloody, shrieking mess. Captain Hain took one look and dropped his axe into the injured man’s neck, saving him a last few seconds or minutes of pain before moving to take his place. Styrax, furious, flicked his free hand towards the ballista and shouted arcane words over the clamour, and the air around it burst into flame, engulfing both engine and crew.
The white-eye, seeing an enemy commander ahead of him, struck out, but missed as the red-helmed nobleman jumped back and out of the way. Styrax moved with breathtaking speed, kicking the man in the chest and knocking him flying, then swiftly dispatching the hurscal next to him. He fought on, his upward blow taking out the man in front of him, the downward sweep taking care of the man behind him. He stepped into the gap they left, lunged right to impale a soldier, sweeping his leg out to kick the feet from underneath another, then trampling him to his death and he moved on another foot.
He moved so quickly that the next figure to loom into view was almost decapitated before he’d seen them; Styrax checked his blow just in time and Kobra’s fanged swordpoint glanced harmlessly off the Reaver’s cheek-guard. The smaller white-eye was shaking with bloodlust and euphoria; at Kobra’s touch the Reaver reared backwards in surprise, but wasted no time in throwing himself at Styrax. The Menin lord sidestepped the maddened Reaver and dodged his axe, twisting as the Reaver’s momentum carried him past and cracking him on the back of the head. The blow dropped the white-eye instantly, and the Cheme soldiers behind him jumped the felled man without stopping.
Their goal was in sight.
Seeing the defenders’ line torn open, Styrax allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. A rabble of frantic soldiers stood between him and the mage’s platform, but behind him he could hear his Bloodsworn and the remaining Reavers making their presence felt. And away over the moor he could feel the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn coming closer, the beat of his hooves echoing in Styrax’s mind. He ran forward, crackling bands of energy wrapping his sword, eager to be unleashed at the mage ahead.
As though in response, the ground began to rumble again, faster and more urgent this time, and above him the air roiled, tinted red - by blood, or magic? Styrax couldn’t tell; the air was suffused with both. All he could see around him was frantic movement and swirling dust, the chaos of war - and he its beating heart. He screamed, and pushed them on, one last drive to the heart of the enemy’s defences, to break them before Karkarn’s Mortal-Aspect could get to them.