The Chimaera Regiment (8 page)

Hector and Brynjar reached the weapons ahead of the northmen. All five were swords, dropped carelessly on the ground by the Keldans. Hector grabbed the one nearest him; Brynjar took a pair, leaving only two for their five enemies. Instead of retreating from the center of the field, though, Hector and Brynjar stood over it. With their backs to each other, they faced the five unarmed northmen, who now surrounded them on all sides.

Hector stamped his foot down on the blade of one of the swords; he heard Brynjar do the same. The northmen would have to dislodge them entirely to obtain a weapon, and they would have to pass by at least one blade to do it.

But the northmen were wary, methodical. They revolved around the pair of warriors, looking for blind spots and weak defenses. One would feint on Hector’s left, then another on his right, trying to draw him out.

“Don’t attack just anything,” Brynjar warned, “Wait for them to come to you.”

Hector nodded, though Brynjar could not see it. He tried in vain to keep his eyes on the three men that could attack him at any time, but they were spread too far. The blond northman on his left was now behind him; he would have to let Brynjar worry about that one.

The stalemate carried on this way for three more minutes, with the northmen circling and their opponents waiting. As the jeering crowd began to quiet, Lord Eitromal had watched in boredom for long enough. He gestured to an aide, who ran into the view of one of the archers atop the crumbling edifice. A wave of the hand was all it took; the rest had been planned. Eitromal had made it clear which men were supposed to walk out of the arena alive.

The archer notched an arrow to his bowstring and drew back the bow. “You have ten seconds to fight!” the announcer called out, “You have been warned!” Another bit of divine appeasement, Hector noted ruefully.

The crowd was appeased, too. They began to count down, eager to see something happen in this battle. Hector swallowed hard as he kept his eyes on the northmen; they might take advantage of this distraction and attack at any time. Hector knew that he could not afford to break the tight formation he and Brynjar had developed; the slightest falter would allow the northmen to pounce.

The crowd reached one. The archer did not wait for zero. He loosed his arrow. It whistled through the air, faster than the eye could follow, and struck home. The arrowhead pierced Brynjar’s thigh, just above the knee, and proceeded out the other side. Arrowhead and fletching protruded from both sides of his leg.

No matter how stalwart a warrior Brynjar was, the pain was sudden and excruciating. He yelled in agony and lost his footing.

The northmen reacted immediately. Two blonds charged Brynjar. The third blond had traded places with baldy, so he faced Hector directly, while redhead was on his left and baldy was on his right. The three adversaries exploited Hector’s momentary preoccupation by rushing him at the same time. His sword flicked out and slew the blond, puncturing the man’s chest near his heart. Then a fist collided with Hector’s right cheek, throwing him off-balance. He stumbled into redhead’s waiting arms. He was heaved bodily from the ground and thrown off the weapon pile.

Hector landed heavily. His breath was knocked out of him. Gasping, he clambered to his feet and rejoined the mêlée. His sword transfixed redhead’s hindquarters as he bent to retrieve a blade for himself. The northman screeched and stood up straight as a rod. Withdrawing his sword, Hector cut him down in a spray of gore.

Brynjar was on his back, fending off his attackers with both swords—but he could not cover his legs. One of his foes stamped down on Brynjar’s injured thigh, eliciting another roar of pain. Brynjar’s grimace forced his eyes shut for a moment, giving the other assailant an opening.

Hector knew he had to intervene. Ignoring baldy, who was now armed, he launched himself sword-point first at the man about to gut his friend. The villain never saw it coming; impaled by the blade, he died with a gurgle.

Perhaps fortunately, the body fell across Brynjar, shielding him from the other blond’s blows. That man, seeing an opportunity to retrieve a weapon, abandoned his attack and circled the fracas, looking for the last sword.

Baldy was not about to wait quietly. Charging in with a roar, his sword hilt came down hard on Hector’s skull. An explosion of light and shadow permeated the boy’s vision as he stumbled away from the fight. He tripped and fell flat on his face, dropping his sword in the process.

Sand filled his nose as he panted for breath, its grit burning into his eyes and mouth. He barely heard baldy’s shout as he flailed about for his weapon, but intuition’s warning told him to move, and he obeyed. Rolling to one side, he felt the northman crush the ground he had covered a moment before. Wiping the grains from his eyes, he saw through a blur that baldy’s sword had been embedded deep in the sand.

It would only take a moment to extract, but it was a moment Hector needed. Scrambling across the sand, his hand found his weapon, and he rolled onto his back. Baldy was charging again, with his sword raised high for a killing stroke. Hector brought his legs up and caught the northman in the stomach.

Baldy wheezed and turned, rolling off Hector’s kick to his right. He tried to swing at Hector anyway, but his sword only struck dirt. In an instant, Hector was on his feet. He batted away baldy’s sword, on which his grip had weakened. Another second later, and the northman was dead.

Turning back, Hector looked for his last foe, but the blond was already dead. Brynjar, still trapped under a corpse, had thrown one of his swords while the northman searched for a weapon, spearing him through the ribs. As he tried to breathe through the thick collection of sand on his face, Hector realized that they had won.

As Folguen came to escort them back to their cell, Hector met Lord Eitromal’s gaze. The spindly politician was furious. Hector could believe that; the whelp that had been added to the arena as a millstone had become a warrior in his own right. Hector smiled proudly at the scowling deceiver as he was prodded back into imprisonment.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The third of the month of Ennemen

Halfway through the seventh hour

That afternoon, Derek and the Chimaera Regiment attacked the Thuite town. To the seditionists’ disappointment, the Thuites had not abandoned the town, but stood ready to defend her walls. Einar, Fintan, and Azos wore their leather raiments; each had a
gladius
strapped to his hip.

Fintan did not hide his anger from his friends. He could not bear to kill someone defending their home from Derek’s rampaging horde, and he flatly refused to do it.

Einar had been less than supportive. “Cassus is a born-and-bred killer,” he had warned, “He won’t be hindered by honor or the protection of the gods. If he sees you holding back, he won’t hesitate to kill you himself.”

“Well,” Fintan had answered honestly, “when that happens, I won’t hold back, and Cassus can be the one to die.”

“Besides,” Azos had interjected, “Cassus will be focused on the Thuites.”

Fintan and Einar had exchanged a knowing glance then. Both men knew that their troop was untrustworthy. Between the addition of foreigners and the betrayal perpetrated by Mort and Umbra, no one put much stock in them. The rest of their troop was a ragged band of miscreants, without Mort and Umbra to lead them. Einar had assumed a position of leadership, but none of them followed him; Fintan doubted that they followed anything but their own whims. So Fintan and Einar knew that Drystan had not paired them with Cassus’ troop because he expected them to do well; the traitorous Guardian wanted to catch them in exactly the sort of scheme Fintan intended to pursue.

But the time for scheming had passed. The three men stood with the rest of their troop. A hundred feet to the west, Cassus paced in front of his troop, crisp and neat before battle. At any moment, Derek would sound the charge, and they would all be whisked away to the banks of the River Neth; only the gods could tell whether they or their enemies would cross over it.

Fintan took a deep breath and let it out again. He stood on arable land, a calm and fertile meadow. The late wildflowers taunted him as they waved in the wind, waiting for men of peace to lay a modest claim, plant a crop, and raise a family. The scent of falling leaves wafted on the breeze from the forest to their west, where a Regiment scout had reported spotting the local Thuites the day before. The autumnal aroma brought back memories of Fintan’s own family; he wondered if his beloved wife would be proud or ashamed of his actions today.

The memory solidified his resolve; he was not about to help this scum destroy more families. When the signal sounded, he set his jaw, gripped his sword pommel, and marched north toward the town, where he hoped they would kill a great many Leonites and Ferites.

The army easily had a mile to cover before laying siege to the walls; they did not charge the whole way, but marched at a steady pace until they neared the range of archers. Fintan glanced at the forest ridge, on his left, waiting for the Thuite attack. As he looked, a man from Cassus’ troop caught his eye. Fintan recognized him as the one called Bregdan, a swordsman. The Leonite gave him a wicked grin, showing his yellowed teeth. Fintan looked north again, but he could not shake the feeling that Cassus’ soldiers were keeping a close eye on them.

They were close enough now to see men moving atop the walls. The walls were thick and made of stone; without siege engines, Fintan suspected breaching them would be impossible. They would have to attack the gates, or lay siege to the town until the Thuites surrendered, but Derek had been clear that this battle was to be quick. Fintan could not imagine how.

Not far from arrow range, Derek called for a halt. The army ground to a stop. Fintan heard shouting from the back of the group as several troops began to come forward. Stepping a little closer to Cassus’ troop, Fintan asked the man with the wicked grin, Bregdan, “What’s going on?” He looked around, trying to discern for himself. “I thought we were going to attack now.”

Bregdan explained in hushed tones, “Oh, we are. But those walls are too thick to break down and too tall to climb.”

“And Lord Derek doesn’t want to wait for them all to starve to death,” another soldier added. Fintan thought his name was Icenar. “I think he’s going to use the boomer.”

Fintan frowned. “The boomer?” he echoed.

“Well, that’s what we call it,” Icenar answered.

A third man, called Shotan, interjected, “I thought we used the last of those against the Konites.”

“No,” replied Bregdan, “We have two left.”

“But what is it?” Fintan cut in. “What does it do?”

Bregdan looked uncertain, as though he were incapable of explaining it properly. “It’s a... brick,” he said finally. “We found a bunch of them in a place called Hentel Cave, far south of here. There were other things in there, too, funny bits of metal and the like, but Lord Drystan said he could help us use the boomers, so we took them.”

“As for what it does,” Icenar continued, with a weighty pause, “Well, let’s just say we won’t have to worry about that wall anymore.” Bregdan laughed in agreement.

Three troops of men came forward, marching front and center to the head the Regiment. Fintan slipped away from Cassus’ troop to stand with his own.

“Learn anything?” Azos asked him softly. Fintan shook his head. He really hadn’t.

The troops belonged to captains Brosne, Geapp, and Alfeal, who were famous in the Regiment for shield techniques. It was said that no arrow ever penetrated their formations. Fintan wondered what they had to do with this “boomer.”

Geapp called out in unwitting answer, “We need a soldier to carry the boomer.” He looked about, but no one seemed eager. His eyes settled on Fintan, who was too curious to break eye contact. Geapp took that as volunteering. “You!” he called, pointing at Fintan. “Come over here!”

Fintan obeyed with some trepidation. Alfeal laughed. “Don’t be scared, man,” he said, “The boomer has never gone without Lord Drystan’s say-so, and their archers will never hit you in the center of the turtle.”

Fintan had no idea what was going on, but he put on a brave face. “What do you need me to do, Captain?”

Brosne handed him the aptly described brick, as long and wide as his forearm with twice the thickness, weighing about six times as much as his short sword. A tiny metal object jutted from one end, looking very much like a lever; next to it was a smooth black circle. “Carry that in the turtle, put it next to the wall, come back,” Brosne said, “Easy as you please.” When he saw Fintan eyeing the mechanisms on the side, he added sharply, “And don’t touch anything else on it.”

Fintan was about to ask what the “turtle” was when Geapp ordered the three troops to prepare the formation. The shield-bearing soldiers formed four ranks. Seven men stood on the first, second, and fourth ranks; only six men stood on the third rank. Raising their tower-shaped shields, they overlapped them at the front and overhead, leaving their flank exposed. Their sides were covered like the front, except for a small opening.

Alfeal pointed Fintan to the empty space in the center of the third rank. Fintan looked at Einar, hoping for a way out of this, but he saw only the same fear he felt. Swallowing hard, he entered the turtle, which closed up behind him.

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The third of the month of Ennemen

Late in the seventh hour

The turtle formation was tightly pressed. Fintan had to take small steps to avoid tramping on the Leonites, who held shields all around him and his precious cargo. They had barely made it a dozen paces when he heard the first pings of deflected arrows. He started at the noise, and one of the men next to him laughed.

“Don’t worry about that,” the Leonite, whom Fintan did not know, said, “After about two minutes out here, you get used to it.”

The man was not wrong, Fintan thought. The distance to the wall was great, and, in order to maintain the integrity of the shield wall, they had to move very slowly. After several minutes, it almost seemed to fall entirely quiet. His uneasiness returned, however, when he learned that it had.

“They’ve stopped firing,” a soldier from the front announced. “I guess they’re waiting for an opening.”

“Don’t give them one!” another warrior ordered, and the three troops tightened their formation. Fintan guessed that man was a veteran of this technique, since the captains had neglected to accompany them on their trip across the battlefield. He had heard another man call him Sharian earlier.

The air was thick with clamor, and the rattling of armor and shields distracted Fintan from any outside noise, now that the arrows had stopped falling. It came as a surprise, a minute or so later, when one of the men in the back row laughed.

“Haha! The louts thought they’d flank us from the ridge, but our boys are cutting them down quick-like!” he rejoiced. There was a murmur of approval from the other soldiers, and Fintan tried to swallow the lump of remorse that was rising in his throat.

It was a long shuffle to the wall, but the turtle reached it without incident. When the front rank clapped their shields against the wall, they divided the formation to bring the third rank, Fintan’s rank, to the front. The wall lacked murder holes, so the defenders were unable to bring their arrows to bear on the turtle. Fintan was shielded from danger, at least for the moment.

“If the Regiment is waiting outside arrow range,” he asked the men around him, “what’s to stop the locals from charging out of their gates and attacking us?”

One of them shrugged a little. “For one thing, our archers couldn’t help much if they did,” replied he, “Too risky that they would hit one of us.”

“Besides,” another interjected, “They have no idea what we’re doing down here, and they don’t know what we have. Why waste your own soldiers attacking a heavily armored group when you can wait until they come into arrow range again?”

The first laughed. “They have no idea what’s about to happen to them.”

That was what worried Fintan.
He
didn’t have any idea what was about to happen to the Thuites, either. He could not fathom why the brick was called a child’s name for thunder, and how it would serve the purpose of gaining entry to the town. But he was in no position to fight off twenty-seven men, and he could not help anyone if he were dead.

“Put the boomer right up next to the wall,” Sharian ordered him, “then flip the lever on the side.”

“Captain Brosne told me not to touch anything,” Fintan objected, hoping to find a way out of the task.

The other man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, Captain Brosne forgot to mention this part. If you don’t flip the lever, it won’t work,” he explained.

Fintan barely contained a smile. That was his way out. He nodded, setting the brick down next to the wall. Then he adjusted its placement, then again. In his periphery, he watched Sharian, hoping he would turn away. Eventually, he did, and Fintan replaced the brick rather carelessly and stood up. “Finished,” he reported.

To Fintan’s dismay, the veteran knelt down to examine the brick before ordering their departure. He snorted, picked up the brick, and stood, holding it out to Fintan. “Idiot,” he said, “With all that fiddling around, you forgot to flip the lever.” He gestured meaningfully at the brick.

Fintan laughed nervously. Reaching out, he pressed the metal tab upward. It clicked, then a moment later, the brick chirruped. Fintan fell back, startled, and the men around him laughed. Sharian placed the brick back against the wall, then ordered, “Let’s move out!”

As the turtle reformed, Fintan lied to Sharian, “Sorry about that.”

The other man sneered. “Don’t let it happen again, farm rat,” he spat.

The return trip was even slower than the first. The soldiers had to walk backwards without losing pace, or the turtle’s shell would open and they would all be vulnerable to the Thuite bowmen.

After a little more than ten minutes, the turtle reached the rest of the Regiment. The Thuite longbowmen had fired a few more volleys at the retreating formation, but still were deflected by the heavy tower shields carried by the Leonites. Fintan marveled at the shields, that they could withstand the piercing power of a longbow.

When the formation disbanded, Fintan saw Sharian report to Brosne. “Boomer in place and ready, Captain!” the veteran announced. Brosne turned and, catching the eye of Lord Drystan, signaled his readiness. Drystan made no acknowledgment; Fintan suspected the Guardian had been watching the engagement, and already knew the “boomer” was in place.

Suddenly, there was a deafening noise like thunder. It was as loud and as close as any storm Fintan had heard in his life. Startled, he looked to the sky, but only saw the cloudless blue that had covered them all afternoon. Spinning, dazed from the sound as it echoed in his ears, he saw dust and smoke billowing from the Thuite town—more specifically, from the wall where he had placed the mysterious brick.

After a few moments, he heard cheering from the ranks of the Regiment. Bregdan slapped him on the shoulder. “Now we charge,” the Leonite shouted at him, “while they’re still stunned!” Bregdan entered the field with his troop and the rest of the Regiment, leaving Fintan behind.

The Sundan stepped closer to the town, slowly, until the cloud of dust began to clear. At last, he could make out the wall—and the tremendous gap where the wall had once stood. His heart caught in his throat as he realized what had happened, though he still could not fathom how. He fell to his knees, ignored by the passing army as they sped toward their conquest. He could barely breathe past the guilt that gripped him.

Across the field, Einar looked around for the younger Sundan, but knew that he could not delay. Drystan would be watching them, or having someone watch them, and he could not abandon the task they had been given. He looked at Azos worriedly, but the two warriors carried on toward the Thuite town.

The “boomer” had certainly lived up to its name. The great noise had torn apart a stone wall and shattered the boulders that had formed it. Without support from below, higher blocks had collapsed, bringing Thuite archers down with them. The wall had fallen, and the Regiment had an easy entrance into the unprotected town.

Keeping pace with Cassus on his left, Einar scrambled over the rubble that stood between him and the town. As subtly as he could, he examined the bodies that he passed, looking for Duncan. He hoped the other Alkimite had been far from the blast, but he had to be sure.

The Thuite resistance was weak and disorganized after the Regiment’s initial assault. Their soldiers had been deafened and scattered; they tried to fight back as the armies swarmed over the town, but with little success. Einar guessed that the Regiment lost as few as a dozen men in the assault. Once the chaos started in earnest, he and Azos were able to stay out of the way without contributing to the death toll.

Derek was among the last to enter the town. He surveyed the damage his army had wrought, smiling in grim approval. Cassus and Drystan walked beside him. The warlord gestured to the buildings that were still standing, ordering Cassus, “Make sure you sweep these structures for survivors.”

“Already done, milord,” Cassus answered, “The only one left is the chieftain’s hall. He retreated there with the last of his guards when the assault began.”

“Captain Cassus,” Drystan interjected, “believed you would want to be present for the Thuite lord’s demise.”

Derek looked between the two, then smiled wickedly. “Excellent thinking, Captain. It would be a delight.” The Leonite gestured for Cassus and Drystan to accompany him; then, seeing Einar, motioned for him to follow as well. Cassus’ troop accompanied them at a discrete distance, so Einar asked Azos to come along.

The chieftain’s hall was a modest structure, befitting a town like the Thuites’. There was no rich finery, no embroidered tapestries or silken curtains. The doors were made of oak and iron, and the throne was simple pine. There was not even a dais from which the lord could look down on his subjects, and Einar did not see an ounce of gold in the whole place.

The guards at the door retreated, rather than attack. There were only four left. Near the throne, a man in armor lay on the ground, attended by two other warriors. When they stood to face Derek and his entourage, Einar saw that one of them was Duncan.

Overjoyed to find his friend alive, Einar resisted the urge to charge past Derek and turn against the warlord alongside his friend. The Alkimites still needed the information Einar had gathered, and they would never get it if he died here.

But what Duncan said surprised even his grizzled old friend. “I am Lord Duncan of the Thuites,” he declared, “and I challenge you, Derek, to a Duel of Lords.”

Derek laughed. His tone and demeanor suggested that he and Duncan were old friends, and Duncan had told a clever joke. Knowing not to oppose their lord, Cassus and his troop laughed along awkwardly. Drystan said nothing. Einar was stunned, but even so, he saw the man next to Duncan grab his arm and hiss something at him. Duncan whispered a response, and the man released him.

“Why, by Kyrou, would I accept such a challenge?” Derek asked at last, still chuckling. “I have nothing to gain and everything to lose.”

Duncan smiled mischievously. “Do not think of what you will lose if you fight me and fall, Derek,” he retorted, “Think of what you will lose in the eyes of your men if you refuse the honorable challenge of the last lord in his line, who is—” he paused to open his tunic, revealing a broken arrow in a bleeding wound, “—already at a disadvantage.”

Einar looked at Derek. He could see the wheels turning in that evil brain as the warlord weighed his chance of defeat against the risk of losing control of his armies through fear and respect. At last, he smiled in acquiescence. “Very well.”

Duncan turned to the man next to him. “Soner, bring me my sword.” The man glared at him for a few seconds of obstinate silence. Duncan snapped, “Soner!”

“Yes,” Soner ground out slowly, making it clear that the words tasted foul in his mouth, “lord.” He left the room for an adjoining chamber; that was when Einar saw that he walked with a cane, making him unsuitable for a duel with the Leonite chieftain. A moment later, Soner returned, carrying a well-crafted longsword. Einar recognized it as Duncan’s own, and he furrowed his brow at the thought of Duncan leading the defense against Derek without his blade.

Duncan took the sword. Every soldier in the hall backed away from its center, creating an oval cleared of all except Derek and Duncan. The Leonite drew his own sword, hefting it casually in his unconcerned stance. Neither man bothered with the ritual preparation; Derek cared nothing for the gods, and Duncan would not give the villain an opening.

The false Thuite stepped out from the throne. In spite of his wound, he led with his sword on that side. He took careful, measured steps. Einar did not see a hitch in his gait or a falter in his advance.

Cassus’ troop had begun to murmur advice to their lord, suggesting stances and maneuvers which they thought most effective. Derek remained calm, gazing at his blade as if checking his own reflection, but the warlord must have been watching his opponent from the corner of his eye. Just as Duncan was in reach, Derek twisted, dropping one foot back and setting the other forward. He used his momentum to thrust at Duncan’s unprotected left side.

Duncan reacted smoothly and unexpectedly. He sidestepped toward the strike, bringing his own weapon against the offense. The sharp clang of contact resounded in the hall, focusing the audience response. Cassus and his men were shouting advice now.

“Keep your guard up, lord!”

“Watch his footwork!”

“Strike his wound while he’s distracted!”

“Go for a clean stroke and end it quick!”

Einar kept his silence, trying not to reveal his loyalties. It would be all too easy to cheer on his friend, but he would be signing his own death warrant.

The hubbub did not distract either combatant. They were circling each other now. The strain of the battle must have been taking its toll on Duncan and his wound, because the Alkimite was clutching at his injury with his free hand. Blood continued to seep through his clothes and fingers, Einar noted sadly. Even if he beat Derek, Duncan was not likely to survive for long.

Derek had a cruel smile on his face. “Tiring, I see,” he said mockingly. He gripped his sword with both hands, providing stability and power.

“Not too much yet,” Duncan retorted with a smile of his own, defiant and broad. He lunged, but his sword was swatted away. Twisting with the parry, he brought his sword around over his head and slashed down with a backhanded swing.