Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (37 page)

Fear
gripped him as another two men fell near him. He was torn between carrying on
the pretence of retreating or ordering them to turn and fight. They were
throwing their lives away. He could see the same thought running through
Hamsun’s mind. He flinched as another familiar face from Lilyon fell to the
ground, dead before his body landed.

“Retreat!”
the warlord screamed and Althalos was thankful for it. He was not sure he could
have proceeded with the plan. To his right, he noticed the yellow banner had
been raised. This was the signal for the right side to push forward. Those that
had fled had not left the basin but instead had gone left or right to replenish
the battling soldiers on that side.

To
the left, there was still no sign of a yellow banner. He licked his lips. It
was vital the two sides advanced at the same time.

Vashna’s
forces, headed by Stasiak, continued to plough their way through the centre.
They could not afford to give up much more of the battlefield and still succeed
with his plan. He wiped his brow where a new layer of sweat had formed. He was
shocked at how coarse his skin felt. When he glanced at his hand, he saw flecks
of dried blood on his fingertips.

A
horrific cracking sound reverberated around the plain. Althalos looked in
Stasiak’s direction and through a tangle of bodies was appalled to see him
stamping repeatedly on a soldier’s neck. The fearsome fighter was less than
thirty yards away. Next to him one of his allies retched at the sight.

Althalos
looked over to his left again. There was still no sign of a yellow banner.
Come
on, Unger, don’t let me down.
He fended off an attack from a warrior of
Meadowmead, who had a painted shield of green hills revealing his origin. The
warrior was not very skilful and Althalos killed him by ramming the edge of his
shield into his eyes, making a horrific squelching sound that made him feel queasy.

In
front of him, three men charged at Stasiak seeking to take advantage of their
numbers. One of them was knocked down by another foe who moved to intercept
them, but the other two made it through to him. They moved in a coordinated
fashion, one feigning forward and then withdrawing leaving the other to deliver
the real attack. Althalos’s vision was blocked by two other soldiers engaged in
a furious melee.

Out
of the mass of bodies, a huge man leapt towards the prince as if he had been
launched by an unseen contraption. Althalos stabbed the man through the heart
before he could land. When Althalos looked again, Stasiak was advancing towards
him, the bodies of his two attackers lying motionless on the plain.

The
prince again looked over to his left. This time his heart leapt; Unger’s yellow
banner swayed for all to see. The sun shone upon it making the golden colours
seem more radiant.

“We
stand here,” Althalos shouted. Around him his men responded instantly, turning
and forming a new line, as best they could. For the second time that morning,
the prince watched Stasiak point towards him and single him out.

“Let’s
see just how good you really are,” Althalos muttered to himself. Whether he was
talking about Stasiak or his own ability, the prince was not sure.

*
* *

Cordane
surveyed the battle. Althalos had organised the smaller eastern alliance well
and was holding his own. However, the valiant effort would prove to be futile.
Vashna’s numbers were just too great. Cordane admired Stasiak as he remorselessly
tore through the opposition. He was like a ship aided by a strong wind parting
the ocean waves.

Cordane
had raised the boy, subjecting him to the most inhumane methods of training and
thus knew the terror he was capable of. Yet still, this was the first time he
had the opportunity to witness him in battle.

The
lad was not disappointing him. In fact, he excelled in every way a warrior
could, leaving countless bodies in his wake. Some of them he just severely wounded,
rendering them incapable of fighting further. These victims writhed in agony on
the floor waiting for mercy that only death could deliver.

Vashna
sat next to him astride his horse. The warlord looked bored by the whole scene,
if anything. He lazily ordered his men to advance where necessary, but seemed
to view the whole affair as a minor inconvenience rather than the struggle for
supremacy it actually was.

The
dark warlord had lost much of his zeal for battle when he learned Jacquard was
not leading the army himself. Instead, he was disgusted the king had delegated
the responsibility to his son. He saw this as a personal slight and fretted
that his victory would be a hollow one as a result. The messenger who had
delivered the news of the king’s absence had lost his head as a result.

An
almighty cheer erupted as Stasiak broke through the enemy line. Warriors before
him, including the prince and a furious Hamsun, fled to safer ground.

“Victory
will be soon, my king,” said Moirin, captain of Vashna’s personal guard.
Already they had taken to calling him a king.

“I
wanted to win a war, not preside over an annihilation,” Vashna snapped.

Cordane
held his tongue. Vashna’s army had the advantage but the warlord was foolish to
underestimate the opposition. He would have to drive the complacency out of the
warlord if he was to rule Frindoth effectively.

Cordane’s
attention turned to Carle and his unit. The warrior who had impressed him days
earlier impressed him again today. His unit was making more progress than any
other through the centre. Undoubtedly, the plaudits would go to Stasiak, but
Carle’s well-drilled unit was contributing to the push.
I will definitely
keep you in mind for the future.

“This
watching is tedious. Moirin, get the men ready to attack,” Vashna said.

“Is
that wise, my king? The flanks are not advancing as well as expected,” Moirin
said.

Cordane
frowned as a yellow banner appeared on the left flank. It was Calloway’s men
waving it. Something about it worried him. In the centre, the majority of
Althalos’s men continued to retreat.
Why are they  not all retreating?
Stasiak and Carle’s men were deadly but was that the only reason why the men
were fleeing in front of them? Come to think of it, he had never known Hamsun
to back down in his life. Something was definitely amiss.

As
he watched more closely, Calloway’s unit seemed to swell in numbers and force
back the Snowland warriors opposing them.

“Vashna,
Moirin is right, the enemy seems to be winning the day on the left flank,”
Cordane said.

“Then
keep an eye on it yourself. I’m not going to endure this entire battle without
getting my hands bloody. I will split this army down the centre and then circle
back on the stragglers,” Vashna replied and with that he raised his sword in
the direction of the prince and charged forward, bellowing his battle cry as he
disappeared into the fray.

Warriors
on either side of Cordane followed suit, rushing past him and unnerving his
horse. To his right, another yellow banner was raised. Cordane tried to think
of the significance of this. In all of those tedious war councils Jacquard
held, he could not recall a yellow banner ever being mentioned once.

The
right side seemed to push forward with new vigour. The yellow banners on either
side of him advanced slowly, like a cat stalking a field mouse ready to pounce.

Vashna
entered the commotion, his men engaged with the enemy on either side of them.
Cordane strained to see the prince amongst the mass of bodies, but there were
now too many warriors in his way. Frustrated, he looked to the sky and focussed
on a circling vulture.

He
closed his eyes and tried to channel out the sounds of the battle. Screams of
agony and rage filled his ears, the clash of metal on metal. One by one the
sounds faded as he emptied his mind. The acrid smell of blood filled his
nostrils, this too he tuned out until he was at one with the world.

Occasionally
a kaleidoscope of men’s thoughts infiltrated his mind, the desperation to
survive, the horror of imminent death. He ignored them all until he found the
mind of the vulture.

He
felt the breeze on his face, the sense of gliding through the air and then when
all other distractions had left him, he saw through the vulture’s eyes: eyes
that took in the chaotic scene below and did not judge; eyes that only sensed
the food nearby.

Through
these eyes he saw that the men were not retreating from the basin, but were
instead veering to the left or right as they reached the edge of the plain to
bolster the flanks. Cordane’s eyes flew open, the yellow banners on either side
were now adjacent to him. The men that opposed them were being forced into the
centre more and more as the enemy used the slopes on the circumference of the
basin to their advantage. In an instant he realised their plan and shouted for
Vashna to retreat.

*
* *

If
Stasiak felt any caution about taking on the prince of Frindoth, he did not let
it show. Althalos rushed to meet him hoping the offensive stance would take the
painted soldier by surprise. The two warriors met with a ferocity that
surprised those around them as they
fell away from the
pair. Stasiak’s swords crossed to block Althalos’s strike. The two stayed like
that for a few moments, Stasiak
snarling like a dog at the prince.

Althalos
withdrew his sword and made to strike again but Stasiak was too skilful and
forced the prince’s blade down to the ground with one sword and swung the other
blade at Althalos’s neck with a backhanded motion.
Not a good start!
Althalos
thought as he barely managed to duck away from the curved sword.

Stasiak
took advantage of the temporary loss of balance and kicked Althalos from
behind. The prince struggled desperately to stay upright but ended up stumbling
forward several steps before losing the battle and falling to the ground.
Stasiak roared with laughter and advanced upon him twirling his swords about
him like a masker with batons.

Althalos
was vaguely aware of the other soldiers fighting around him, for every one of
them engaged in combat another watched the duel out of the corners of their
eyes. He leapt to his feet and assumed a defensive stance. Infuriatingly, this
only caused Stasiak to laugh harder.

Althalos
felt like a little boy. He knew the warrior before him was younger than
himself, but the way he carried himself gave the impression of a seasoned
veteran. He reminded Althalos of Fyfe, encouraging him to give his best attack
only to be thwarted with ease.

Stasiak
attacked. Althalos managed to parry blow after blow but each one got closer to
its mark as his arms grew weak. Sparks flew as the blades collided. He was
defending purely on instinct, blocking the blur of blades that cascaded upon
him.

Yet
still he got the sense Stasiak was toying with him, until he caught a glimpse
of the warrior’s face. The eyes displayed a fury he had never seen before in
any man.
He has underestimated me!
he thought with a wave of relief. The
thought spurred him on, he felt a new lease of life enter his arms, and even
managed a positive strike himself once in a while. Stasiak roared with
frustration.

“Die,
you weakling boy,” he yelled.

The
subsequent attack that accompanied the words was awesome. Althalos blocked
where he could but it was out of desperation rather than composure. He let out
a childish yelp as the blade nicked his cheek drawing warm blood. Exhausted, he
fell to his knees, trying to maintain some sort of defence against the flurry
of strikes.

Suddenly,
Hamsun was standing between him and Stasiak. The bearded warlord swirled his
great axe above his head, bringing it down towards Stasiak’s skull with
frightening speed. Stasiak blocked the blow but the effort caused him to drop a
sword. It was the first time in battle that Stasiak had been weakened. Around
them the king’s soldiers seemed to take encouragement from Hamsun’s success and
hurled themselves into the enemy.

Althalos
looked for the yellow banners at each side of the basin. At first he could not
see them and despair almost overcame him. If they had fallen then all was lost.
The despair turned to elation, however, as he caught sight of the two banners
being waved furiously side by side at the other end of the plain. The trap was
set, now the prey just had to be caught.

“Squeeze,”
he shouted. “For Frindoth, squeeze!”

Others
took up the cry and fought their way into the enemy. For his part, Althalos
attacked Stasiak with renewed vigour. Between himself and Hamsun, the fearsome
warrior could only defend. Each step he was forced to concede made him angrier.

“Squeeze,
squeeze, squeeze,” the men were chanting now, forcing the enemy back. Confused
as to what was happening, the enemy soldiers were easier to fight. The
Shangonites, who at the start of the battle had looked intimidating with their
painted skulls, now looked petrified as their masks washed off  by sweat.

Althalos’s
men made up the perimeter of the basin. With each yard they gained, the
tremendous number of enemy soldiers were forced back on themselves. With each
step there was less and less room for them to manoeuvre.