The Missing Kin (11 page)

A small force confronting a larger one. As Adalon
ran to the camp he tried to remember the lessons
his father had taught him. The most important thing
he recalled was not to be on the side of the smaller
force.

He found his belongings and began to don his
armour. The motions were as easy as breathing by
now. He strapped on the scabbard and felt utterly
whole and ready.

Fight, fall back and fight again. The tactics were
simple. Make use of the terrain, harass from a distance
wherever possible. Misdirect the enemy efforts. Make
them fight uphill and into the sun.

And don't lose a single soldier
, Adalon thought
as he studied the troops preparing for battle.
Ordoon's saur were readying themselves with the
quiet deliberation that came from experience and
training – a quick final whetting of blades, a checking
of armour straps, a last-minute bite of food. Their
expressions were grim but calm.

In contrast, the saur Adalon had brought from
the Lost Castle were organising their weapons and
gear while chattering with a mixture of excitement
and fear. Some looked bewildered and hefted spears
as if for the first time.

And I hope it's the last time
, Adalon thought.
I
hope they can go back to their families, their farms
and mines, and live long, quiet lives
.

He gathered Ordoon, Targesh, Simangee and
Hoolgar. 'Do you have magic, Hoolgar? Anything
we can use to stop them?'

The old Crested One spread his hands. 'I brought
advice and wisdom. I have no magic.'

Adalon's tail thrashed with frustration. 'Ordoon,
how many archers do you have?'

'Five score.'

'The Fist would be their best position, that
rounded peak overlooking the western entrance to
the valley. Make it hard for the enemy.' He clicked
his claws together. 'And I want the bridge ready to be
destroyed after we fall back. Can you put a company
on to that?'

'I can.'

'Targesh, keep your riders on the north side of
the road, ready to sweep in if we have to retreat.'

Targesh rumbled his agreement.

'Simangee, get the Sleeto saur we brought from
the Lost Castle. I have a task for them.'

'And the rest of my troops?' Ordoon asked.

'The road squeezes between the Fist and those
cliffs opposite. It is like being at the bottom of a deep
crevice. The rock walls there are hundreds of spans
high. It is the only way in. It will be pike and blade
work for your saur, I'm afraid.'

The camp became all haste and action. Fires were
doused, tents hurriedly stowed. Ordoon's lightly
armoured archers were the first away, trotting down
the road to assist the lookouts. It would take them
some time to climb the Fist, but they would be as
safe as anywhere – at least until their arrows ran
out.

Simangee brought up the Sleeto volunteers.
Adalon explained what he wanted: for them to show
him the best way to the heights overlooking where
the road entered the valley.

Half an hour's scrambling brought them to a flat
shelf of rock high above the valley. The Fist loomed
an arrow's flight away across the gap where the road
lay. Adalon waved at the brave lookouts who were
perched high on the rounded dome of rock. He could
make out the archers slowly climbing to join them,
but guessed it would be an hour or more before they
would arrive.

Adalon looked down and to the west. He hissed.
Far below, massing at the start of the upward climb,
was the Army of Thraag.

It was huge, spreading back along the road, which
mounted the slope in a series of long stages cutting
back and forth across the flank of the mountain.
The flags of the regiments, bright and colourful,
fluttered over the marching ranks, while polished
armour and weapons caught the sunlight. Adalon
saw disarray at the rear, with the soldiers marching
haphazardly, spreading out into the countryside. No
doubt they were pillaging as they went, a sign of
poor discipline. Further back, the baggage wagons
and camp followers stretched into the distance.

It was daunting, ten thousand strong at least, an
army to crush any foe. But the way it was marching
said that the generals weren't expecting to meet
resistance. Where were the outriders? The forward
scouts? The skirmishers? A hard smile came to
Adalon. They'd find that the road to Callibeen was
not as simple as they'd thought.

He slapped his gauntlets together. 'Now the work
begins,' he announced to his small band of saur. 'We
need to assemble an arsenal of stone. Boulders and
rocks will be our weapons. Spread out and bring
what you can – the larger the better.'

Much sweat and cursing and many skinned
knuckles later, Adalon heard a cry from across the
gap. He straightened from rolling a barrel-sized
boulder and saw one of the lookouts on the Fist. She
was waving frantically. Adalon peered over the ledge
and saw that the vanguard of the army was pausing
halfway up the mountainside.

He looked for Ordoon's archers. They still hadn't
reached the lookout position. He clicked his claws
together. It wasn't good. He'd aimed to begin the
barrage of stones and follow it with the archers'
deadly work. But if he held off for much longer, the
first ranks of the enemy could reach the entrance
to the valley. Tactically, they'd never be in a better
position than they were here, with the enemy trying
to climb a steep path toward them.

Behind him, the mound of missiles grew as his
band of saur laboured.

Simangee staggered up, holding one end of a long
stone shaped like a coffin. She and the squat Plated
One holding the other end dropped the stone onto
the pile. Simangee straightened and rubbed her neck.
Adalon caught her eye.

'It may be time to try your illusion potions,' he
said to her.

'If that means I don't have to lift any more rocks,
I agree wholeheartedly.'

She rummaged in her pack and pulled out a bottle
the size of her thumb. It had a gold cap. She handed
it to Adalon and he stifled a grimace.

She snorted – a pure musical tone. 'You're going
to have to overcome this dislike of magic. We're
living with it every day now.'

He knew she was right. His attitude was foolish,
but his distaste was real. He simply didn't trust
magic. It was slippery, sly, apt to turn and bite when
least expected.

Use it, but be careful
, he told himself and he flung
the bottle over the edge.

It fell, glinting in the sunlight. Adalon and Simangee
leaned out as far as they felt safe and watched. Adalon
held his breath.

A cloud of colour erupted right at the head of
the marching column. The neat ranks recoiled and
stumbled as apparitions sprang up in front of them:
twisted, long-limbed terrors, moaning and wailing,
which stretched up until they towered over the
panicking troops. But the illusions didn't last long.
The wind from the heights tugged at them, tearing
great holes in their flimsy substance before they were
whisked away entirely. Bellows and oaths from the
sergeants soon had the soldiers back in formation,
and the army pushed on.

Adalon grimaced at Simangee. 'I hope there's
something more successful in the other bottles.'

He was disappointed. The remaining potion
bottles burst to shower the advancing army with
flowers, buttons, a flock of bright, squawking birds
and, finally, a school of startled fish. This at least
surprised the front rank enough to cause a snarl in
the advancing column, but it wasn't the sort of effect
Adalon had been hoping for.

'I'm sorry,' Simangee said.

'It's not your fault.' He sighed. 'It's time for the
boulders.'

Adalon's heart was heavy as he heaved the first
rock over the edge, then followed it quickly with
another. He wished that the boulders would only
strike the warmongers, the generals who loved strife
and conflict, but he knew that was not possible.
The boulders were effective, but they weren't fussy.
They cut swathes through the column, knocking
the soldiers off the road and down the steep,
tree-covered slopes. Some soldiers tried to move
backwards but the press of the advancing troops
made it impossible.

Sickened by the task, Adalon ordered boulder
after boulder be brought to the edge and hurled onto
the unfortunate troops. It became a deadly routine.
Drag, move, make sure of position and then push.
No time to see the impact or the damage caused –
line up the next.

Cracked screams rose, buoyed by clamour and
confusion. The Army of Thraag finally understood
it was under attack. Adalon saw a flag crumple
and fall, but it was up again in an instant as the
standard bearer was replaced.

He looked over to the Fist. The archers had
arrived and flights of arrows began to rain down
on the hapless Thraag soldiers. Adalon was bleakly
surprised that they didn't move into a turtle
formation with shields held over their heads. It
reinforced his feeling that the Queen's Army was
poorly trained and led.

Adalon dropped to hands and knees and stared
at the mayhem.
Go home
, he thought,
turn around
and go home
.

The barrage continued but the massive army
pushed ahead, leaving the dead, wounded and
suffering on both sides of the road.

'We'd have to have a hundred thousand rocks to
stop them,' Simangee said, joining him and peering
over the edge.

'We must slow them down. We need to give our
allies time to arrive.' He looked eastwards, searching
for a signal.

'And if they don't arrive?'

'We fight. Fight and fall back, do what we can,
hope.'

'For what?'

Adalon stood and sighed. 'For something to
happen.'

It was just after noon when the final rock was
rolled to the edge and dropped onto the enemy. The
arrows had been exhausted an hour earlier and the
archers had retreated to the valley.

Adalon gathered his small band. They had failed
to halt the advance of the enemy, and they looked
miserable. 'You've done well,' he said to them. 'I
couldn't have asked for better soldiers.'

They stood taller. Although begrimed and
scratched, they deserved to be proud of their work.
'We join the others,' Adalon said.

On the valley floor, Adalon found Ordoon had
formed the Callibeen force into ranks where the
gap opened into the valley. There was no other way in,
no paths that would bring the Thraag Army around
the rear, no positions that would allow Thraag
archers to rain arrows on the Callibeen defenders.
The enemy had to cut through the Callibeen troops
to enter the valley. It was to be hand-to-hand
fighting.

The Callibeen force was quiet, waiting. Long
pikes in the front ranks, swordsaur ready behind
them. They stretched right across the road, ready to
plug the gap between the sheer rock walls, twenty
saur to a rank, forty rows deep, with a hundred kept
in reserve.

After conferring with Ordoon, Adalon joined the
troops he'd brought from the Lost Castle. They had
taken up their pikes and were fidgeting, wondering
about their role in the defence. He ordered them to
fall back to the far side of the river, ready to act as
light troops, harrying and skirmishing.

Once they'd crossed the little bridge they ate.
Adalon sat with his back to a large rock and wondered
when they'd find time for food again. The river, deep
and strong, rushed over rocks and hurried on its way
toward the eastern end of the tiny valley. Here lay
the cleft in the surrounding mountains where the
road wound down toward Callibeen. The village of
Sleeto had once stood there, where the river and the
road began their descent.

Suddenly, a roar went up from the west. Adalon
rose to his feet. The noise was like a vast animal
and it echoed from the rock walls of the gap. It was
made by thousands of saur giving voice – defiance,
oaths, promises of mayhem. Coming from the cliffs
and rolling into the valley, it was the voice of war.
Soon the sounds of steel on steel joined the din.

The Callibeen force held for a time, but the
numbers were too uneven for hope of victory. Slowly,
they were cut down and pushed back, inch by inch,
striving to stand but being overwhelmed, despite
their courage. They took a toll on the enemy, but
Adalon knew that for every Thraag saur who fell,
another ten were pushed into his place.

He gazed at the milling chaos, the boiling mass of
saur filling the gap, and made a decision. 'Take the
company back to the burned-out village,' he snapped
to Simangee. 'We may have to make our last stand
there.'

He swung into the saddle of his riding beast and
galloped along the road toward the fighting. He could
see the devastation being wrought by the Thraag
troops as they thrust forward. Half the Callibeen
soldiers had fallen in minutes.

He raced to the rear of the Callibeen defenders.
He sought for the standard of Ordoon but could not
find it. 'Fall back!' he cried. 'Fall back!'

The hindmost soldiers heard. They showed their
discipline, for which Adalon was glad, and didn't
break and run. They kept formation, wheeling and
marching, allowing the ranks further to the front to
move slowly backwards.

Adalon rose in his stirrups, scanning the melee.
With dismay, he saw the enemy was continuing to
pour into the western end of the gap. 'To the rear!'
he shouted.

As the Callibeen troops fell back, Adalon felt his
anger rising. It was wrong, giving way in the face
of the enemy. The way to victory was to advance,
sweeping through a larger foe with the strength that
comes from valour. Voices urged him on, insisting
that glory was for the brave, that triumph was
waiting to be plucked.

He narrowed his eyes and hissed.
No
, he thought,
I won't be tricked again
. He rejected the A'ak
whisperings with disgust.