The Crown of the Conqueror (43 page)

  To his left, the behemodons carrying spear throwers had also come into range. A fierce artillery battle had broken out, rocks and bolts raining down from the hillside and soaring up into the ranks of the spear companies.

  A new wave of kolubrids emerged from behind the Askhan line, held in reserve by their commanders. The snake-like mounts swiftly circled around the end of the enemy line and joined with the others to drive back the lacertils. Into the space created, half a dozen spear companies advanced, guarding the lava throwers. The men manning the Mekhani war engines saw the threat and directed their weapons against this advance. Two black-red blossoms of fire erupted amongst the Askhan ranks as the machines found their marks on the fuel barrels of the volatile weapons. The engineless behemodons lumbered into the legionnaires, their crews jabbing down with long spears, the beasts crushing men with their bulk and snapping off limbs with fangfilled mouths.

  Five of the lava engines had been dragged into range and gouts of flame spat out towards the enemy, engulfing three of the behemodons. The howdahs ignited swiftly, sending charred corpses tumbling, sticky fire clinging to the hide and armour of the monstrous lizards. Panicked, the creatures ran amok, smashing into the Askhans and lunging at each other in their madness.

  Erlaan-Orlassai was no more than two hundred paces from the waiting Askhans and could spare no thought for the battle to his left. He looked in the other direction and saw that the left flank of the Askhan line was pulling back from the overlapping hook of the Mekhani right, anchoring their flank against the walls of their camp. More figures appeared at the rampart and arrows rained down on the desert warriors from above. The king-messiah heard the furious shouts of the shaman-chiefs and the Mekhani surged up the hill, straight at the retreating phalanx.

  Erlaan-Orlassai fixed his gaze on the First Captain standing beside the legion icon ahead. There was nothing more the reborn king could do for the moment, save fight himself. Ullsaard had done well to defend against the advantages of the Mekhani, but his army was still outnumbered by at least ten thousand warriors, probably more. Erlaan-Orlassai would break the shield wall himself and the advantage of numbers would do the rest.

  He broke into a run at a hundred paces, arms pumping, massive shield on the left, his sword gripped tightly in his right hand. His strides took him quickly clear of the sprinting Mekhani and a thicket of spears seemed to converge on him. He trusted to the gifts of the eulanui and charged straight in, head bowed, sword lifted for the attack.

  Wood splintered as Erlaan-Orlassai crashed into the first company. Bronze spearheads bit at his flesh, pricking his thick skin like thorns of a bush would scratch a lesser man. The impact of his arrival hurled two legionnaires backwards with buckled shields and snapped spears. Sweeping down his sword, he carved through three more and plunged into the heart of their formation.

  Metal screeched on metal as bronze spear tips met bronze armour. The king-messiah used his shield as a weapon, smashing aside the enemy, crushing their fallen bodies beneath his booted his feet; his sword severed heads and limbs with every wide swing, slicing through shield, armour and flesh without hindrance.

  He howled his excitement, the deafening noise terrifying the legionnaires around him. Most of them broke and ran, overwhelmed by the nightmare warrior that confronted them, their bravery washed away by the ensorcelled cry that rang in their ears. A brave few mastered their terror to thrust their spears toward his face, but such was his height, it was easy to sway aside. Erlaan-Orlassai's sword descended in a flash, carving apart a legionnaire from head to waist. With a snarl, the kingmessiah wrenched the blade free and swung backhanded, the edge of his sword chopping through a shield and decapitating another legionnaire.

  Around and about their godlike king, the Mekhani poured through the breach in the line. The spear companies hurriedly adjusted their facing, turning their spears to confront the redskinned savages wailing and shrieking in their midst. Some were successful, greeting the charging warriors with a wall of spears; others were caught in mid-manoeuvre by the lightly armoured warriors leaping between their ranks.

  With his foes dead or fleeing, Erlaan-Orlassai paused for a moment to take stock. He caught a glint of gold out of the corner of his eye and turned. Kicking aside the corpse of a second captain, he found the fallen icon of the legion, the numerals of the Seventeenth etched into a plaque beneath the disc of Askhos's face. For a moment, he considered mangling the standard, crumpling it beyond recognition with his bare hands. He stopped, remembering that he fought to become king of the empire. He was not some Mekhani savage; he was the future commander of the legions.

  He sheathed his sword and stooped to pick up the icon. The stylised bearded face of Askhos was half-covered in blood and spattered with mud. With barely any effort, Erlaan-Orlassai drove the haft of the standard through the body of the dead captain and into the ground beneath. He tore the officer's cloak from his back and used it to wipe away the filth from the face of his ancestor before casting aside the ragged scrap.

  Shouts and the ring of weapons sounded out from the left and right, mixed with the cries of the wounded and the screams of the dying. Towering above the normal men around him, ErlaanOrlassai could see some considerable distance along the line. From one end to the other, the Mekhani and Askhans were locked together. Several more companies advanced from a position in reserve to plug the hole opened by the king-messiah. Erlaan-Orlassai drew his sword and headed straight for them.

  He met the nearest reserve company a few dozen paces from the mass of fighting. Perhaps having seen the destruction he had inflicted on their first company, the legionnaires did not wait for his attack but pressed forwards, both sides charging at each other.

  Blood flowed from biting wounds as spear points found ErlaanOrlassai's face and exposed flesh between the plates of his armour. He ignored the stinging pain and slashed left and right, hewing down the legionnaires with no finesse. He laughed at himself, thinking about the careful guards and postures he had learnt for use on the bloodfields. His raw strength was now such that brute power served him better than any amount of guile or skill.

  It was like being swarmed by wasps. The legionnaires converged on him from all directions, jabbing and slashing with their spears, setting his armour ringing, grazing his leathery skin, probing for eyes and joints. He swatted away a handful of foes with a swipe from his shield, bones splintering through flesh from the blow. A spear drove up between the plates protecting his lower back, digging the length of its point into his flesh.

  He whirled around, the movement ripping the weapon from the legionnaire's grip and sending him to his back. Erlaan-Orlassai drove his sword point through the man's helm, slicing off the top of his head. Shields battered at his legs and more spears rattled and scratched as the legionnaires closed in again from every direction. Though he felt little pain, Erlaan-Orlassai could feel the trickles of blood flowing from under his armour, staining his hands and pooling in his boots. He swung his sword in a wide arc from right to left, not looking, the serrated blade savaging four men in a sweep of gore.

  "Where is Ullsaard?" the king-messiah bellowed. A spear snapped, leaving its head in the side of his throat. With a growl, Erlaan-Orlassai kicked out, his foot crushing the chest of the legionnaire who had struck him. Hands grasped at his left arm, trying to drag down his shield, and he fought back, lifting two men from their feet, tossing them into their fellows with a casual flick of his shield. "I'll kill you all if I have to!"

  Another spear point took the king-messiah in the back of his right knee, forcing him down for a moment. Before he could right himself, his ears picked up another sound amongst the cacophony of melee: a deep-throated growl.

  He half-turned, just in time to see the ailur leaping for his shoulder, claws bared, mouth wide. Her weight slammed into him, pushing him to one knee whilst her claws left gouges across the bronze of his armour. Her masked face snarled and hissed a hand's breadth from his face, hot breath on his skin. With a snarl, he flung out an arm, smashing fist and sword hilt into the giant cat's chest, hurling her backwards. She twisted and landed and sprang again, claws raking a furrow across the king-messiah's cheek. He kicked her away again and raised his sword to cleave her in half.

  He stopped mid-stroke, hearing the steady tread of booted feet to one side. He caught a whiff of a familiar smell. It was Ullsaard. Almost absent-mindedly, Erlaan-Orlassai caught the leaping ailur on the flat of his shield. He pushed against the momentum of her attack and drove downwards, crushing her against the ground at his feet with the rim of his shield. She scrabbled for a moment in the last throes of life, blood leaking into the mud, mewls escaping her red-flecked muzzle.

  The king-messiah of the Mekhani rose up and turned to face the king of Greater Askhor. Erlaan-Orlassai's sword was smeared with blood, as was his shield and armour. A hundred dents and scratches marred the bronze of his war gear. He felt nothing of the dozens of small wounds leaking blood along the swirls of runes etched into his skin.

  "You'll pay for that," said Ullsaard, hefting his golden-headed spear. "You killed my cat, you cock-eating son of a snake's cunt!"

 

It was hard to make any sense out of the confusion. Nemasolai sat upon the back of his xenosaurus, a blanket for a saddle, looking left and right across the groups of warriors fighting under the shadow of the Askhan camp. He tried to direct the attacks of his tribe with shouts augmented by gestures from his wand – a crooked branch from an irsakki tree tipped with the skull of a sand weasel. He could not tell if his orders were unclear, unheard, or simply being ignored.

  From the parapet above, Askhan youths pelted the Mekhani warriors with stones. The slingers did their best to reply, but the protection offered by the wooden wall proved impossible to overcome. Nemasolai had sent fifty of his warriors around the camp to attack from the other side, but there was no sign of them and he guessed that they had been slain. Ahead, the melee surged back and forth, companies of Askhans giving ground and advancing with the tide of battle as the tribal warriors attacked and regrouped.

  Dozens of dead and wounded from both sides littered the trampled grass and mud. Broken spears and discarded shields added to the debris of war. A few dozen paces to Nemasolai's left, the two sides parted for a moment and the shaman saw an Askhan crawling through the gore, dragging himself over the fallen with blood flowing from the stump of his right leg. A Mekhani warrior, himself bleeding from spear cuts across his arms and chest, heaved himself out of the murk and smashed his shield into the back of the wounded legionnaire's head. A spear thrust from freshly advancing Askhans finished him off in turn.

  Nemasolai heard a shout to his right and turned to see Manamosalai waving frantically with his stave. Nemasolai grabbed the rope rein hooked into the fronds behind the xenosaurus's head and tugged in the direction of his fellow shaman, urging the beast into a waddling trot.

  "What is it?" he called out as he approached.

  "Are we winning?" Manamosalai asked. "I cannot see what is happening."

  Glancing over his shoulder, Nemasolai could see nothing beyond the mobs of warriors around him; the lay of the hill obscured everything beyond a few dozen paces to his left, though the sound of fighting seemed to come from everywhere.

  "I do not think we are losing," he told his companion with a shrug. "I saw Orlassai striking down the Askhan dogs without pause."

  The clear notes of Askhan horns rang out over the din of battle, signalling some change or manoeuvre. Nemasolai had no idea what they meant, but as far as he could see, nothing changed. Shouting warnings, a cluster of red-skinned fighters fell back from a charging Askhan phalanx, some of them tumbling as they retreated down the slope. Manamosalai bellowed at his own warriors to press forward into the flank of the advancing spearmen, urging them on with shakes of his feather-hung staff.

  "I think we have killed as many as we have lost," Manamosalai said, returning his attention to Nemasolai, his words almost lost in the whooping war cries of his followers as they leapt to the attack. "That must be a good thing."

  "Watch out!" bellowed Nemasolai as he saw figures appearing at the camp wall not far from where he was. Manamosalai guided his reptilian mount away from the wall as a new hail of stones rained down on the Mekhani. The two of them rode a little bit further down the slope, out of range and were joined by a third chieftain, Annomasai.

  "We have some of the bastards pinned up against the wall," the new arrival declared with a grin. "Push your warriors forward and we shall finish them off!"

  "Which way?" asked Nemasolai, craning his neck to see what was happening. Annomasai pointed up and to the right, but nothing particular could be seen past the throng of bodies.

  Manamosalai kicked his xenosaurus into motion and called out the names of the senior warriors under his command. He waved them in the direction Annomasai had indicated and several dozen Mekhani peeled to the right and headed back towards the camp, shields raised against the shower of missiles that greeted them. Nemasolai looked to see if any of his men were able to help, but they were all fighting hard, trying to encircle two Askhan companies, jabbing with their spears and hollering.

  Nemasolai wiped the sweat from his face with the cloth of his poncho. It was hot work, even for warriors raised in the desert. The wind had died to nothing and the air was heavy with a gathering spring storm. As he turned his mount towards Annomasai, he happened to glance back to coldwards. He caught sight of metal and with a sensation that felt like a kick in the gut, he saw a column of Askhan soldiers curving around the hill on which the Mekhani had made their camp.