The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (18 page)

Even from this distance, Fulcrom could already see the horrors that lay ahead.

The swarms that had spilled from the alien structure were individual warriors all right, but they looked like nothing he had ever seen before, not even what came down into Villjamur. Their
armour looked more like black shells . . .

These are no ordinary creatures
.

His small group of defenders eventually arrived at the rear of the convoy, where the black things were lining up to face them. The sun was sliding from the sky, over the distant hills and behind
the enemy. The sunlight was right in Fulcrom’s eyes.
Yet another disadvantage.

He estimated that perhaps four or five thousand of the black creatures had now assembled.

‘It’s horrific,’ Lan breathed. ‘Look at them all.’

‘I’d rather not,’ Fulcrom replied, dismounting from his horse.

‘I’ll see to the people’s safety again,’ Lan said from the saddle. ‘Do you want me to stay and fight? Wherever you want me, I’ll go.’

‘No, do what you do best, help people, and be careful,’ Fulcrom replied, holding her fingertips for a little longer. ‘Make sure everyone gets their chance to get up that hill
and out to sea.’

Lan smiled softly and nodded, before riding towards the last few hundred people.

No kiss goodbye. No longing embrace. To do so would have seemed to tempt fate.

‘I hope that’s not the last I’ll see of you,’ he whispered.

Remnants of the City Guard, Dragoons and Regiments of Foot began to adopt their pre-planned formations, which was essentially two standard lines of defence.

They stood now near the base of the hill, which flattened out to a vast stretch of abandoned farmland hardened by the snow and ice. There were two largely dead forests either side of these
fields, up on slightly higher ground. Aside from that, the terrain was even, just a barren, featureless stretch of land. It would make the fighting straightforward, though Fulcrom didn’t know
whether or not that was a good thing. He marched over to a band of cultists, seven of them who had remained loyal to the cause of the convoy, united by their homelessness. Some had brought crude
catapults, and such weapons were very welcome right now. The cultists began assembling their makeshift war gear on the spot. One had a sack of relics which she brought down from a nearby cart;
another began dragging their catapults – three in all – into a neat row.

They were like none Fulcrom had seen before – like enormous wooden crossbows, the height of a human or rumel, and each sitting on a two-limbed stand. They didn’t look as if they
should stay upright, but they did.

Fulcrom moved around behind the cultists offering a simple suggestion. ‘I want you to use these catapults as heavily as is possible. Show no mercy. Don’t hold up. Give everything
you’ve got.’

‘Ballistas, mate,’ one of them said. ‘They’re ballistas, not catapults. And we’ll do our best. We’ve got a few hundred munitions, mate. All depends on the
torsion springs mind – these are pretty old. Still, should do the trick, eh?’

‘Yes,’ Fulcrom replied, having no idea.

He watched them load up with munitions and aim them towards the enemy lines. In order to get a better view of the scene, Fulcrom climbed up onto the nearby cart. The few hundred Empire soldiers
had formed a row now, protecting the rear of the convoy – it might not be much, Fulcrom thought, but it was at least a layer between them and the refugees.

Behind, the cultists had lined up the three ballistas and were now making minor adjustments to the mechanisms, before aiming them at the enemy.

It looked futile, Fulcrom had to admit. ‘What’s the furthest you’ve ever shot one of those things?’

‘’Bout half a mile at best,’ one replied. ‘Why, how far away are the fuckers?’

‘I’d say nearly half a mile,’ Fulcrom said.

‘Right you are, chief. Want us to fire?’

‘Might as well,’ Fulcrom said.

‘Uh, investigator?’ one of the cultists was pulling at his legs. Fulcrom looked down and then up to where the man was pointing. In the sky, on the other side this time, there were
yet
more
forms – drifting down towards the other side of the convoy about a mile or so away.

Fulcrom held his hands over his head. ‘Shit!’ he shouted despairingly. ‘What now? Are we not hunted enough already?’

‘Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t, eh?’ the cultist said.

‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ Fulcrom said, ‘but I’m not going down without taking down some of that lot. You with me?’

‘That’s the spirit, chief,’ the cultist laughed and returned to the others. ‘Ready, lads?’

‘Release your munitions,’ Fulcrom ordered.

The cultists each pulled a lever at the back of the ballista and Fulcrom barely had time to notice the munitions launch off with a
thwack
into the distance. They rocketed in huge arcs
and, for a moment, Fulcrom thought they were going to fall short, but they carried on going and eventually connected with the ground. Something flashed: a moment later came the sound of explosion.
A disproportionately large purple fireball began spreading and smoke bubbled and billowed upwards into the sky.

Fulcrom felt his spirits soar. Soldiers in the front two rows were visibly excited.

‘Not bad, chief, eh?’ one of the cultists said, slapping another on the back. ‘Right, next one.’

Another set of munitions were released and sent arcing through the sky. They closed the distance gracefully, before once again causing fireballs. This time Fulcrom saw enemy numbers caught up in
the upward-billowing inferno and he felt the cart shake beneath him.

Those things are horrific
, he thought; for a moment he felt deep sympathy for whoever was on the opposing side. But then something hardened inside of him. These repugnant things deserved
everything that could be thrown at them.

Another munition, another fireball; four, six, ten, and still they kept coming – the cultists showed little mercy, but the black-armoured enemy continued to march, through the smoke,
towards their Jamur lines.

It’s the waiting that’s the worst part of all this
, Fulcrom thought as he drew his sword.

Despite the munitions that thundered into them, back over their first rows, and thinning them out randomly, there was no stopping the sheer flow of . . . creatures. Fulcrom felt a lump in his
throat. The creatures were running now, not marching, great swarms of them approaching the base of the long and gentle slope. Soldiers in front of him readied themselves.

It was not difficult to predict the bloodbath that would occur, but this was the right thing to do – to die here. If they could hold out long enough for as many of the refugees to make it
out to sea, if Frater Mercury had managed to develop some way of crossing the water, then thousands of lives would be saved.

Yes, that’s not a bad way to go
, Fulcrom concluded.

A flicker of movement overhead caught his eye. ‘What the hell is that?’

Two, six, ten and more, enormous reptilian creatures – with a wingspan of dozens of feet – swooped down and lowered themselves onto the field of battle, directly between the Jamur
soldiers and their enemy. The gargantuan beasts bore giant wooden crates on their backs and, as soon as they had landed and stooped lower, the crate doors burst back: soldiers were revealed inside,
gripping on to ropes; they filed out and jumped down onto the ground and drew their swords . . .

‘They’re wearing Empire colours!’ one of the cultists screamed.

There must have been over forty of these enormous reptiles now on the field of battle, each of them deploying Imperial reinforcements, and more were landing by the minute, more swooping down
from the sky.

Where had they come from?

‘It’s the Night Guard!’ the convoy’s defenders shouted. ‘The fucking Night Guard are here!’

The reptiles, having released their cargo, one by one extended their wings and launched themselves back into the air; strong down-draughts of wind whipped across the soldiers on the ground.

Fulcrom could barely believe the scene: thousands of the Empire’s soldiers were now standing between the convoy and the enemy. Spearheading this new assault were the Empire’s finest
warriors, the Night Guard and, at the very front, stood the famous albino commander.

In the distance, the enemy had paused, as if to assess their new situation. The Empire soldiers began beating on their shields like tribal warriors – it was like nothing Fulcrom had ever
witnessed. The air was now filled with a new confidence, a relief, a knowledge that this was not yet over.

A shaven-headed man wearing the black uniform of the Night Guard ran over to the convoy troops in front of Fulcrom to announce what was going on and what would shortly happen, and what would be
required should the lines fall. His voice was bass and authoritative. A few people turned and pointed towards Fulcrom, and the soldier nodded his acknowledgement.

‘The enemy we face are called Okun,’ the Night Guard soldier announced. ‘They are brutal, but we have defeated their kind once already.’

‘Thank you for coming!’ another soldier shouted.

‘Aye, they were about to charge and kill us, no doubt.’

‘Well, we’re here now,’ the Night Guard soldier replied, grinning. ‘Yeah, that’s right – we stand together with you.’ He gestured with his glimmering
sword to the distance and shouted, ‘And we’ve come to fuck them up! Now are you with us? Are you prepared to die to save your people?’

A cheer went up and, seemingly satisfied with the noise, the man returned to the elite regiment.

The albino commander was now giving some orders, though Fulcrom couldn’t discern what. There were movements of the Empire troops, a discreet reorganization. Units began to file off in
different directions, giving further breadth to the defence. The ground thundered. Rows and lines became staggered, formations took more complexity. Archers fell in behind the Night Guard and
Dragoons, and stood now just before the original convoy defence, two vast rows of them with longbows. The speed with which they had organized themselves was impressive.

Then it became clear that there weren’t just the Imperial soldiers here: there were humans wearing uniforms that Fulcrom didn’t think were part of the Empire, clothing that was more
primitive yet far more ornate, and they looked as if they meant business.

And, remarkably, there were beings of another species entirely.

There were creatures, bipedal, bull-headed, and very tall – hundreds of them, armed with spears and round shields. They took their positions at the very front of the Empire’s
defence, ahead of the Night Guard. There were green, lizard-like things armed to the teeth with a variety of weapons, and they began stalking their way along the flanks.

The commander shouted more orders and Fulcrom’s gaze was then drawn once again to the archers, who nocked arrows, each with a fat flame at the tip; and there was a deeply unnatural
chemical smell that drifted towards him on the breeze. He had no idea what was making that fire, but these weren’t any standard arrows, that much was certain.

In the distance, the enemy commenced their charge.

Everyone waited.

The commander held up his sabre.

Half a mile’s distance eventually became just a few hundred yards and the commander lowered his arm: hundreds of flaming arrows were suddenly loosed and slipped through the air . . .

They plummeted down on the enemy, clattering against their shields or armour and setting off hundreds of small explosions. The thickness of the enemy’s charge diminished noticeably, and
another wave of arrows was lined up then without hesitation loosed into the air.

Again they hailed down on the enemy; again they thinned out the ranks. Black forms were sent collapsing to the ground. There was enough time for one final wave of arrows and explosions before
the archers hauled their bows over one shoulder and marched out quickly to the flanks of the formation.

Closer still, the advance of the Okun was creating a thunder that vibrated through the earth.

Now the bull-men readied themselves to charge into the enemy, tipping their spear-tips forward; they galloped onto the battlefield, closing the gap towards the thinned and broken lines, their
speed phenomenal, then they ploughed into the advancing Okun with a sickeningly loud noise, smashing the black forms down, stomping on their bodies, slamming spears into faces.

While they rammed themselves forward, a few of the Okun managed to find gaps in the line and filtered through.

The commander was marching up and down the neat line of the Night Guard who now had their weapons drawn. A large humanoid suddenly lumbered alongside them, blue-skinned and holding two wide
blades that seemed so large a normal human would have struggled to lift them. This figure posed nonchalantly next to the commander, who showed an acknowledgement of her presence with his
sword-tip.

The Night Guard lifted their shields to their chests, and the Dragoons followed suit. They took a fighting stance. Fulcrom hoped they would hold the line but, surprisingly, the Night Guard began
to edge forward while the Dragoons held the tight row behind. Spears-men stepped in and prodded the tips of their weapons through, and the Dragoons locked their shields to form a vast, spiked
wall.

The blue figure strolled forward into the arena of battle, showing no knowledge of Imperial decorum. As the Okun approached, the blades began to whirl in its hands and with remarkable grace it
cleaved into the enemy as if it was a sport.

At the same time the Night Guard broke away from their formation and engaged with the enemy in small clusters with swift, life-stopping moves; their blades sliced through the air at a ferocious
velocity, finding postures and styles that Fulcrom had never thought possible. The speed and grace was breathtaking; they made warfare look like an art form. Some of the soldiers fought
individually, each one surrounded by two or three Okun, yet still the enemy creatures seemed outmanoeuvred.

It was only when they were this close, some just a hundred yards away from Fulcrom, that he could see the Okun for what they were: grotesque creations, something between a hominid and
crustacean. He shivered at the thought of having to fight one, yet here the Night Guard were making it look effortless.