Blood Song (63 page)

“Can you hear that?” Dentos’s voice was steady but Vaelin saw the twitch below his eye. It had begun a year ago, when they cornered a large Lonak raiding party in a box canyon in the north. As ever the Lonak had refused to surrender and charged straight for their line, screaming death songs. It had been a brief but ugly fight, Dentos in the thick of it, emerging unscathed but for the twitch. It tended to flare up just before a battle. “Sounds like thunder.” He grinned, still twitching.

Vaelin pocketed the bluestone and looked out over the broad plain stretching away from the beach, sparse grass and scrub barely visible in the gloom. It seemed the northern coast of the Alpiran empire was not overly blessed with vegetation. Behind him the din of thousands of Realm Guard assembling on the beach mingled with the roar of the surf and the creek of countless oars as their fleet of Meldenean hirelings ferried ever more to the shoreline. Despite the noise he could hear it clearly; distant thunder, out in the darkness.

“Didn’t take them long,” Barkus observed. “Maybe they knew we were coming.”

“Meldenean bastards,” Dentos hawked and spat on the sand. “Never trust ‘em.”

“Perhaps they simply saw the fleet coming,” Caenis suggested. “Eight hundred ships would be hard to miss. It’s barely a couple of hours ride from here to the garrison at Untesh.”

“It scarcely matters how they know,” Vaelin said. “What matters is that they do and we have a busy night ahead of us. Brothers, to your companies. Dentos I want the archers on that rise.” He turned to Janril Norin, one time failed minstrel and now regimental bugler and standard bearer. “Form ranks by company.”

Janril nodded, bringing the bugle to his lips and sounding the urgent call to arms. The men responded instantly, rising from their resting places amidst the dunes and hurrying into their ranks, twelve hundred men forming into neat ranks in barely five minutes, the rapid unconscious actions of professional soldiers. There was little talk and no panic. Most had done this many times before and the new recruits took their lead from the veterans.

Vaelin waited until the men had assembled then walked the length of the regiment, checking for gaps, nodding encouragement or berating those he found with loose mail or poorly strapped helmets. The Wolfrunners were the least armoured soldiers in the Realm Guard, eschewing the usual steel breastplate and wide-brimmed helm for mail shirts and caps of leather lined with iron plates. The light armour befitted a force usually employed to pursue small bands of Lonak raiders or outlaws across rough country or thick forest.

Vaelin’s inspection was really Sergeant Krelnik’s job but had become something of a pre-battle ritual, giving the men a chance to see their commander before the chaos started, a distraction from the impending bloodshed, and it spared him the chore of making a rousing speech as other commanders were apt to do. He knew the men’s loyalty to him was mostly born of fear and a wary respect for his ever growing reputation. They didn’t love him, but he never doubted they would follow him, speech or not.

He paused before a man once known as Gallis the Climber, now Sergeant Gallis of the Third Company. Gallis greeted him with a smart salute. “Milord!”

“You need a shave, sergeant.”

Gallis grinned. It was an old joke, he always needed a shave. “Prepare for cavalry, milord?”

Vaelin glanced over his shoulder, darkness still shrouded the landscape but the thunder grew ever louder. “Indeed, sergeant.”

“Hope they’re easier to kill than the Lonak.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

He moved to the rear where Janril Norin was waiting with Spit, holding his reins with nervous hands and keeping as far away as possible from his infamously vicious teeth. Spit snorted as Vaelin approached, allowing him to mount without the usual shudder of annoyance. He was always like this before a fight, for some reason the impending violence seemed to calm him. Whatever his faults as an obedient mount the last four years had shown Spit to be a formidable war horse. “Bloody nag,” Vaelin said, patting his neck. Spit gave a loud whinny and dragged a hoof along the sandy soil. The confinement and discomfort of the voyage across the Erinean had been hard for him and he appeared to rejoice in the space and the promise of battle.

Reined in nearby were fifty mounted men of the scout troop, at their head a muscular young brother with lean, handsome features and bright blue eyes. Seeing Vaelin, Frentis gave a tight smile and raised a hand in greeting. Vaelin nodded back, pushing away rush of guilt.
I should have contrived to spare him this.
But there had been no way to keep Frentis in the Realm, a newly confirmed brother with already renowned skills made too fine an addition to the regiment.

Janril Noren quickly mounted his own horse and reined in alongside. “Signal prepare for cavalry,” Vaelin told him. The call quickly rang out, three short blasts of the bugle followed by one long peel. There was a ripple in the ranks as the men fumbled for the caltrops they wore at their belts. It had been Caenis’s idea, back when the Lonak had taken to charging the regiment’s patrols on their sturdy ponies. The caltrops had worked remarkably well, so well the Lonak abandoned their tactic, but would it work now against these Alpirans?

Out in the gloom the thunder stopped. Vaelin could see them now, barely visible in the pre-dawn light, a long line of mounted men, horse’s breath steaming in the cool air amidst the flicker of bared sabres and lance points. A quick calculation of their numbers did little to lighten his mood.

“Must be well over a thousand, my lord,” Janril said, his strong melodious voice showing the strain of the wait. He had proved himself a brave soldier many times in the past four years, but the wait before the killing could unnerve the strongest heart.

“Closer to two,” Vaelin grunted. “And that’s just what we can see.” Two thousand or more trained cavalry against twelve hundred infantry. The odds were not good. Vaelin glanced over his shoulder at the dunes, hoping the spear-points of the Realm Guard would suddenly rise above the sand. The riders he had sent to the Battle Lord must have reached him by now, although he had doubts about Al Hestian’s keenness to send aid. The man’s enmity remained undimmed, his eyes gleamed with it every time Vaelin had the misfortune to be in his presence, as did the barbed steel spike the Battle Lord now wore in place of his hand.
Will he lose a war just to see me dead?

The line of Alpiran horsemen paused, shimmering in the gloom as they dressed their ranks in preparation for the charge. A lone voice could be heard shouting orders or encouragement, answered by the horsemen as they roared out a single word in unison: “SHALMASH!”

“It means victory, my lord,” Janril said, sweat shining on his upper lip. “Shalmash. Met a few Alpirans in my time.”

“Good to know, sergeant.”

The Alpirans were moving now, at the trot at first then increasing the pace to a canter, three lines coming on in good order, each man garbed in chain-mail, spiked helms and white cloaks. Their discipline was impressive, not a rider was out of place and their lines moved forward at a precisely observed pace. Vaelin had rarely seen it done better, even the King’s Mounted Guard would have been pressed to match the feat away from the parade ground. When they had closed to within two hundred paces a fresh tumult of shouts and bugle calls sounded and they surged into the charge, lances levelled, each rider hunched forward, spurring their mounts onward, the precision of their lines fragmenting, becoming a mass of horse flesh and steel, thundering towards the regiment like a giant mailed fist.

There was no need for further orders, the Wolfrunners had done this before, although never on such a scale. The first rank stepped forward and threw their caltrops as far as they could, kneeling as the second rank repeated the manoeuvre, then the third, the ground directly in front of them now seeded with spiked metal the oncoming horsemen could not avoid. The first horse went down within fifty yards of their lines, bringing down another as it fell shrieking, blood on its hooves, the riders behind having to rein in or fall themselves. All along the Alpiran line the charge faltered as horses fell or reared in pain, the forward movement slowing, although the momentum of so many horses at the gallop kept them coming.

On the dunes behind, Dentos judged the time right and unleashed his archers. Over the years the company of bowmen had grown to two hundred men, slow-loading crossbows long since abandoned for the Order’s strongbow. Skilled and practiced veterans, they took down at least fifty riders with the first volley before commencing their arrow-storm, drawing and loosing as fast as they could. The Alpiran’s charge stalled and then stopped under the relentless rain of arrows, the three proud lines now a confused jumble of wavering lances and rearing riders.

Vaelin nodded to Janril once more and the bugler sounded the three long blasts that signalled the charge of the whole regiment. A shout rose from the ranks and all four companies surged forward at the run, pole-axes raised to stab at the riders, many dropping their lances to draw sabres in the press of the fight, clashing steel adding to the din of the battle. Vaelin could see Barkus in the thick of the struggle, his hateful two-bladed axe rising and falling amidst the chaos, cutting down men and horses alike. Over on the left Caenis had led his company in an oblique charge against the edge of the Alpiran line, hedging them in and preventing a manoeuvre around the regiment’s flank.

Vaelin watched with a practiced eye as the two sides thrashed at each other, waiting for the inevitable moment of crisis when the tide of battle would turn in favour of friend or foe. He had seen it happen many times now, men would assail each other with seemingly boundless ferocity then abruptly turn and flee, as if some primal instinct warned them of impending defeat. Seeing the way the white-cloaked Alpiran cavalry continued to hack at the Wolfrunners despite their mounting losses and the continual rain of arrows, he knew instinctively there would be no sudden rout here. These men were determined, disciplined and, if he was any judge, resolved to fight to the death if necessary. The regiment had killed many but they remained outnumbered, and the Alpirans were beginning to build up on the right flank, where Brother Inish’s company had started to bow under the pressure, riders forcing their mounts through the crush to slash down at the hard-pressed infantry. The barrage from Dentos’s archers continued unabated but soon their arrows would be exhausted whilst the Alpirans still had plenty of men.

Vaelin glanced behind him once more, seeing no sign of reinforcements cresting the dunes.
I might kill Lord Al Hestian if I live through this.
Drawing his sword he scanned the field once more, seeing a tall pennant waving in the centre of the Alpiran throng, blue silk emblazoned with a silver wheel. He waved to get Frentis’s attention and pointed his sword at the pennant. Frentis nodded and drew his own sword, barking a command at his men to follow suit.

“Stay close,” Vaelin told Janril then spurred Spit into a gallop, Frentis and his scout troop following. He led them around Brother Inish’s wavering company, keeping a good distance from the fight so as not to be drawn in too soon, then turned sharply towards the naked Alpiran flank.
Fifty horse against two thousand. Still, an adder can kill an ox if it finds the right vein.

The first Alpiran he killed was a well-built man with ebony-dark skin and a neatly groomed beard showing beneath the chin-guard of his helm. He was an excellent rider and a fine swordsman, nimbly bringing his mount around and raising his sabre in an impeccable parry as Vaelin closed. The star-silver blade took his arm off above the elbow. Spit reared and bit at the Alpiran’s mount, trampling the rider as he slipped from the saddle, dark blood jetting from the stump of his arm. Vaelin spurred on, cutting down a second rider, slashing through his leg then hacking at his face until he fell, his jaw hanging loose from his skull, his scream a silent gush of blood. A third rider came for him at the gallop, lance levelled, face livid with rage and bloodlust. Vaelin reined Spit to a halt, twisted in the saddle to let the lance-point miss him by inches, bringing his sword up and down to cleave into the neck of the charging horse. The animal went down in a welter of blood, the rider tumbling free of the saddle to surge to his feet, sabre drawn. Spit reared again, his hooves sending the Alpiran reeling, his helm flying.

Vaelin paused to gauge the impact of the charge. Nearby Frentis was running his sword through a dismounted Alpiran whilst the rest of the scout troop were cutting their way through the throng, although he could see three blue cloaked bodies lying amidst the carnage. Looking over at Brother Inish’s company he saw the ranks had stiffened, the line straightening as the Alpiran advance lost momentum.

A warning shout from Frentis dragged his attention back to the battle. Another Alpiran was charging, sabre outstretched, then abruptly pitching from the saddle as a well aimed arrow from the regiment’s archers on the dunes punched through his chest. However, the man’s horse kept coming, eyes wide with panic and fear, ploughing into Spit’s flank, the force of the impact sending them both sprawling to the ground.

Spit was up quickly, snorting in rage, kicking and biting at the offending horse then chasing after the terrified animal as it fled. Vaelin found himself dodging determined sabre thrusts from an Alpiran mounted on a grey stallion, parrying desperately until Frentis spurred between them to cut the man down. “Wait there brother!” he called above the din, reining in to dismount. “Take my horse.”

“Stay in your saddle!” Vaelin shouted back, pointing again at the tall pennant in the centre of the Alpiran host. “Keep cutting!”

“But brother - ”

“GO!” Hearing the implacable note of his command, the young brother hesitated before reluctantly riding away, quickly swallowed by the swirl of battle.

Glancing round he saw Janril was also dismounted, his horse lying dead nearby. The minstrel’s leg was gashed and he supported himself with the regimental standard, slashing clumsily at any Alpiran who came close. Vaelin sprinted to his side, dodging lances, casting a throwing knife at the face of a rider who raised his sabre to hack down the minstrel, the man wheeling away with the steel dart embedded in his cheek.