Bazil Broketail (25 page)

A troll crashed to the ground on the other side and Relkin jumped. The troll’s head rolled away from the body, severed by Piocar. Bazil stood over the troll’s body and swept Piocar as if he were scything tall grass and hewed through the imps in front of him.

Relkin looked past the Broketail dragon and saw Nesessitas throw down another troll and then end its life with her sword. But dozens more imps were coming and were jammed up on the far side of Asgah’s head.

Bazil felt a sudden inspiration. Another troll had clambered over the wall and leapt upon him. Bazil dropped his sword, knocked the monster’s axe with his shield and got both hands around the troll’s waist.

With a quick heave he jerked the surprised monster off the ground and lifted it over his head. The troll gave an odd cry of dismay—trolls fear any dislocation between themselves and the earth. Then Bazil swung the creature and dashed it against the upside down god’s head.

The troll collapsed, all the fight gone out of it, but the huge head wobbled and then rolled over onto the massed imps on the far side.

With shrieks of dismay they were crushed and milled and the head kept rolling until it had resumed an upright position once more, the face of ancient Asgah staring back at the dragons and boys with a sneer of cold command that had once been well-known to his worshipers.

“Asgah!” yelled Marco Veli, and his cry was echoed by the other boys.

Asgah had heard their call!

There was a breathing space now on their front, although elsewhere the fighting went on, hard and heavy. Some trolls were now attempting to climb the ruined wall and get in among the exhausted men of Marneri.

With little sobs of effort, Bazil and Nesessitas roused themselves and staggered into the fray, huge swords whirling.

Bazil was immediately lucky, his first stroke took the arm off a troll and stopped its charge. The next one behind it was encumbered with the first and unable to do more than defend itself for a while.

Nesessitas was not quite so fortunate. The troll there had already gotten over the top of the tumbledown wall; it jumped down and dealt her a massive blow on the shield that almost toppled her. Then the troll axe swung hard at her head and caught her a glancing blow on the helmet. Nesessitas was rocked backwards, stunned momentarily and unable to fight. A gap was opened in the line.

Men ran up and hewed furiously at the monster and succeeded in distracting its attention. With a snarl of fury it swept its axe through them like a scythe through corn, chopped two men in twain and scattered them.

Grim-faced the other men held on, refusing to flee, their swords slashing into the troll’s flesh from left and right. Black troll blood flowed among them, making the stones slippery, but still the creature stood firm while another was already climbing over to join the first.

Then great Vander swung in and stunned the troll with a terrific overhand cut to its helm that sent blue sparks flashing over the men’s heads. While it was motionless Nesessitas recovered herself and smashed it across the side of the head with the flat of her sword and sent it sprawling. The men finished it off with their swords and knives.

Vander was already engaging the next troll.

But now the imps were coming back, in greater numbers than before, and there were only a few desperate men, the dragonboys and Dragoneer Tetzarch to face them.

Tetzarch called out a great cry to rally them and then collapsed as an arrow slipped through a gap between his chest plate and his heavy belt. When they turned him over, he was dead.

Then the imps were upon them. Relkin fired an arrow, then dropped his bow and drew his sword. An imp swung at his head; he ducked and jabbed the creature in the leg above the knee. It dropped its shield and drove at him and he was pushed back by its superior strength and almost overthrown.

He clung to his balance by the thinnest of margins and then struck down over the shield and caught the imp on the side of the head and knocked its helmet free. The imp threw him off the shield and cleaved the space where he’d been, but Relkin had darted sideways and now repeated his trick, jumping to greet the shield, leaning over and striking down on the imp’s bare head. It went down with a groan.

There was no time to feel any sense of triumph or revulsion at the deed for the next was upon him, and behind it were more, many more.

The end loomed for all of them, for it was the same on every side. They were less than fifty and they were surrounded by three hundred or more enemies.

On the other flank Hollein Kesepton exchanged exhausted looks with Duxe and Weald. They all sensed the approaching end.

And then floating over the tumult of the imp drums and their infernal battle cries came the sound of bugles and cornets, high and silvery. And then with time a great shout as if half a legion were there.

“We’re saved!” shouted Weald.

“A relief column,” said Duxe. “But how?”

The cornets sounded again; one, two, three, four of them. And there was another shout.

“No time for questions,” said Hollein. “Blow the cornets, we will charge. Now!”

“Charge? But we’ve got less than fifty men on their feet and only four dragons.”

“Doesn’t matter—the enemy is wavering, listen.”

And it was true, the drums had ceased, the horns no longer brayed. And once more came the clamor of bright cornets, the clarion of the legions.

Kesepton grabbed up a cornet and began blowing the charge. Duxe ran down the line and shouted to the men, and someone else took up the other cornet and blew it too, and the men reached down into themselves for the last fraction of their strength and came up with a great shout. They stormed over the ruined wall and hurled themselves upon the foe.

The imps were irresolute, terrified of being taken at the rear, and now came the men they had ground down to the point of defeat, flying at them with steel and fury in their eyes. With a collective shriek the imps broke, suddenly, completely, and ran streaming away through the trees as witless as rabbits, dropping weapons, shields and anything that might impede their flight.

And after them came the survivors of the 13th Marneri harrying them all the way out onto the meadow, where by a stroke of fortune, Subadar Yortch and his weary horsemen were just then returning from routing the enemy riders.

Yortch sent his troopers into the fleeing imp horde at once, and they never regained their formations and fled in a panicked mass all the way to the Argo where many drowned as they milled about at the fords.

Only the trolls remained, and these had to be surrounded and shot full of arrows until they finally gave up the ghost and fell to the ground and lay still.

At which point, Hollein Kesepton rode briskly across the meadow in search of the reinforcements, whose horns had saved the day but who had not made an appearance.

He entered the woods. There was no sign of a legion or even a company. No sign that there had been anyone at all.

Baffled, he rode further on. They had all heard it; the damned imps had heard it and run. So where were they, those who had blown those wonderful horns?

The sun was setting and throwing somber, reddish light across the field as he returned, a puzzled frown etched on his forehead. Weald met him, his helmet replaced by a large bandage.

“Well, sir, where are they? What happened to them?”

Hollein shook his head. “There’s no one out there, Weald, no one at all.”

Lieutenant Weald stared at him with startled eyes, then looked over to the woods.

“The men were talking about the dead god Asgah, did you hear?”

“No. Asgah?”

“Veronath god of war. That was his temple. They say his fallen head rolled over and crushed a dozen imps at one point.”

Hollein snorted in disbelief.

“You think it was Asgah blowing the cornets we heard?”

“I don’t know, but if there’s no one out there and we definitely heard the horns, then…” Weald’s eyes probed the murk over the field.

Hollein Kesepton shrugged, at a loss for an explanation. Could the old gods still live? Weren’t they all dead and gone, replaced by the Great Mother? Hollein was not a great believer in gods or even the goddess, but now he was sorely perplexed.

At length he mumbled, “Gods or human, I don’t know who it was and I guess I don’t care, but they damn well saved our lives. Without that threat I don’t think we’d have lived to see this sunset.”

Weald had an odd smile. “The dragons are going to burn the trolls on Asgah’s temple floor, they think he might appreciate them as a burnt offering.”

“That’s going to make a stink fit for a god, alright.”

They rode back towards the campfires.

By the time the very last rays had fled from the field, the survivors were counted and organized into burial parties.

Of the seventy-eight men of the Marneri 13th there were nineteen to be buried and another twenty with wounds ranging from cuts to sword thrusts through the belly. The medics were sure that at least three more would die in the night.

Of the Talionese horse, seven men were missing, presumed dead somewhere between the field and the distant Argo, to which Yortch had pursued the enemy horsemen. Another five bore wounds that would keep them from active duty for the rest of the season.

And of the 109th dragons, there were but four fit for duty plus poor Kepabar, whose head was still ringing from the rock that had laid him out cold.

While the men buried their dead, Yortch sent some troopers to round up wagons from the nearby farms to carry the wounded down to the landing. Meanwhile, the dragons and dragonboys cut brush and piled it up to form a vast bier upon which the dragons then laid the body of Sorik.

As dusk faded, Relkin and Tomas lit a small fire with which they set several large torches ablaze. The dragons then thrust these into the great mound of brush and set it alight. At first there were just clouds of smoke, but then quite suddenly the flames took and presently a great blaze roared up, with sparks whirling high into the air.

Now the blaze threw a harsh red light over the scene and sent spectral shadows across the meadow from the mounds of dead imps and trolls that had been piled up nearby.

Local people began to arrive, bringing wagons with food and ale, supplies that were much appreciated by the both the men and the dragons. Soon the cook fires were lit and cauldrons of polenta and pasta were bubbling.

The dragons drank beer at their usual frightening rate, and then began to sing the low, mournful dirge for the dead. The huge, heavy voices of the great wyverns rang off the rocks of Mt. Red Oak and carried away into the valley and were heard miles off, where people stepped out of doors and stared up towards the mountain with wondering eyes.

However, when the first cauldrons of noodles arrived the great reptiles ceased their song. Like everyone else in the legions the dragons subsisted on wheat, most commonly in the form of pasta. No other food was as immune to spoilage and so light and durable. Dragons spiced up their noodles with akh. Humans spiced theirs with milder preparations.

After they’d eaten their usual prodigious helpings, the dragons took up the beer kegs again and resumed the dirge. More locals had arrived by then, and there was quite a crowd gathered on the field by the time the dirge came to an end.

And now the dragons laid themselves down to sleep, each beside his or her dragonboy, with the light of the huge bier throwing somber shadows across the field.

There was however no sleep yet for Hollein Kesepton. After some extensive persuasion he had induced Yortch to send out scouting patrols. With their reports and those of the local people, who were coming in thick and strong now, he knew that the bulk of the enemy force had fragmented and fled down to the bottomlands along the Argo. Some had crossed into Tunina and disappeared into the great forest. Others had been rounded up by posses of those farmers who had stayed on their lands.

The enemy riders had also been dispersed. Six had been captured and were held in the stockade at Argo Landing, another had been killed in a fight at the crossroads south of the landing. The rest were across the Argo, scattered through the great forest.

Still there was the possibility of more raiders at any time, and Kesepton found himself surrounded by anxious farmers who were demanding protection for their properties. With only thirty-nine soldiers, four dragons and eleven cavalry troopers at his disposal, Kesepton could not protect very many farms. Indeed his entire force was in a state close to collapse.

If more raiders showed themselves in the next few days, he doubted very much if he could offer battle without reinforcements from Dalhousie.

Hollein had never been to Argo Landing, but from what he knew of the dimensions of the fort he would need more than fifty men just to man its fortifications. Of course the townsfolk would help, they were already showing themselves to be bold enough now that the main enemy force had been broken and driven from the field. But for the farmers with their tales of fear and woe he had nothing to offer. Privately, Hollein was wondering just how long it might take for reinforcements to reach him. If he sent a message by trooper to Dalhousie in the morning, it would get there within three days, providing the rains didn’t make the road impassable. After that it might take anywhere up to a month before help could reach him. At any time during that period his force could be overwhelmed if the enemy came again. It was not a reassuring prospect.

The huge funeral pyre for Sorik was still blazing high, and the smell of incinerating dragon flesh was spreading in a great plume on the winds, borne to the north and west.

Kesepton struggled to keep his temper during a half dozen further passionate appeals for immediate patrols to particular farms where it was feared that imps might be hiding. His men were exhausted; nothing more could be expected from them that night. At last Lieutenant Weald relieved him and he waved aside the farmers.

Weald spoke quietly in his ear.

“We’re set up on the other side of those cook fires. Your tent is up and there’s some food set aside for you there.” And so Hollein finally sat down, just outside his tent, and ate and drank and tried to relax with a second mug of ale.