The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (29 page)

Off to the left fluttered the archer legion’s colours; the men around the pennant stood with shoulders hunched against the wind at their backs. As the cavalry approached, one man raised his longbow in a salute and disappeared down the slope to report their arrival to the legion’s commander.

‘My Lord?’

Isak realised he’d been turning in the saddle, into the wind coming from behind them. It carried elusive snatches of that scent he was suddenly determined to identify. Vesna had followed his gaze and found only soldiers, grave eyes encased in steel and black-iron. Isak sensed his confusion and turned his thoughts away; there was nothing in the air except the scent of men wanting to avoid what was to come.

Isak reached out and gripped Vesna’s shoulder-plate. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘just thinking about this place.’

‘Don’t - it distracts you from the battle. Every man does that the first time. I know what you’re thinking and you mustn’t. Imagine the enemy, and nothing more. Think of the path your horse will take, the way you’ll make your first strike. Picture that rank of enemy crumpling and freeing your path to ride away while Certinse’s wing hits the other side. Picture wheeling and forming the line again.’

Isak grinned. ‘Yes. I understand.’

In the distance they heard hunting horns - the command calls of the light cavalry - echoed by the drums of the foot legions. Behind Isak, men shifted in their saddles, impatient to be off.

‘It begins,’ commented General Lahk, from the front. The heavy cavalry was in three groups, to better negotiate the ford, with Isak’s Ghosts at the fore. Behind him were another five hundred knights, under Duke Certinse’s command, and the final group, led by Suzerain Ked, followed closely behind, a mix of black-and-white-clad guardsmen and brightly coloured nobles. Once the first two parties were caught up in the fighting, Ked would lead these men hard and straight into the trolls, a final shock movement intended to drive the beasts away.

Seeing the heavy cavalry together in one place brought home to Isak the beauty of the Farlan system. Though the general had grumbled that the turnout should have been significantly higher, it was unlikely any other nation or tribe in the Land could field more than half the number of heavy cavalry that the Farlan could muster. The tribe’s entire social structure worked to keep this war machine operating at peak performance.

A knight of battle age who didn’t maintain a full suit of armour would be stripped of his title and lands. However impoverished his family might be, the knight’s hunter would be well-fed, and ready to carry him into battle at any moment. Any tenant who could shoot an arrow from horseback and hit four out of five times was entitled to a small wage from his landlord, whether he were a landlocked serf or a local poacher. Drilling was of paramount importance for every healthy Farlan male; as children, they play-acted the battles they would fight as men. It was in their blood.

The horns sounded again, over a rising clamour in the distance. High in the patched blanket of cloud, Isak could see birds soaring - scavengers of some sort, kites and buzzards, no doubt. A handful of crows were cawing in the trees to his right, disturbed by the movements below but refusing to be driven off.

‘What’s that call?’

‘Strike left, strike right,’ replied Vesna automatically. ‘The light cavalry has found a target.’

‘They’re not supposed to engage, though.’

‘But it is to be expected. The captains know they can engage if they can still break and continue with the plan. They’ll fall back quickly and move south to open a path for us, but there’s always the chance they can rout an enemy division before they do.’

‘Where’s the herald with the flags?’ A white flag would mean the attack could go ahead as planned, red that the enemy was advancing en masse. If that happened, the plan was to ride out and attack whatever troops presented themselves. Red meant salvage whatever they could, and buy the rest of the army time to regroup.

‘There.’

Isak fell silent. His fingers skittered over the surface of his armour as he waited for their signal. He was burning to be off and into action himself: he needed it to start. More horns came, fainter this time, and the heavy beat of a battery of drums. Isak’s head twitched up as he felt magic burst from the ridge ahead: the battle-mages were joining the attack.

Even from the other side of the ridge, Isak could feel their elation at the release. The mages had kept their distance from him for the whole journey, no doubt Afger Wetlen’s death strong in their minds.

Isak’s impatience grew as the prickle of magic went down his spine. He could feel the blood pumping through his body, the memory of his muscles in movement; he could imagine the power and animal heat of the huge horse charging. He blinked and felt his hand tighten about the reins. The edge of his shield pushed on his thigh and he forced it down harder, glad of the pressure as a distraction. It kept his mind from wandering, kept his eyes focused on the figure ahead.

Then - finally - the flag was raised and frantically swept from side to side. The horses surged forward as one, even Isak’s, as he paused for a moment to check the colour of the flag. Against the grey sky it was hard to make out - then he realised that red would have been clearly visible. Things were going to plan.

As they clattered over the stones of the riverbed and urged their horses up the small bank, Isak saw nothing but disorganised crowds. Farlan horsemen were outstripping their pursuers, a tidal wave of elves following them south. Between the horsemen were the ranks of infantry, running back in disorder, but Isak could see the gaps between the lines, the spaces that would allow them to reform, even if it looked like they were fleeing in terror from the enemy.

A minute later a horn rang out. The leading rank of Ghosts apparently running away stopped dead and turned to face the enemy. The second rank, behind them, did the same, and the third, until the men were in line, forming a shield wall and ready to take on the elves again.

Isak tore himself away - they knew what they were doing; they didn’t need him - and concentrated on the hulking grey shapes two hundred yards away. His charger picked up speed. All he could make out were wide, heavy bodies and long thick arms, and deep, bestial growls that turned to bellowing as they heard the horsemen.

Isak’s horse thundered to the head of the group without any encouragement from its rider. On either side lances edged down as they began to close the distance. The trolls loomed large and a few took hesitant steps forward, but most, confused by the sudden appearance of the cavalry, stood still, apparently unaware of what was happening - until the horses were almost upon them.

Isak stood up in the saddle. He was the only man there without a lance; he’d refused one without really knowing why. Buoyed by the energy of the knights behind him and the streams of magic bursting around the trolls, Isak felt a euphoric power run down in his arm. Only now did he draw Eolis, holding the sword up high as though drawing strength from the heavens. The Ghosts behind roared their approval as he towered over them all, a divine figure ready to strike down the cursed.

Then he threw it. Eolis flashed through the air like an arrow and slammed into the nearest troll. One of the light cavalry had already hit it - a red-feathered shaft struck straight up from its shoulder. Isak couldn’t tell whether the troll had even noticed the first wound, but when Eolis buried itself into its chest, the creature shuddered and gave a guttural groan. It looked down in surprise, one hand sluggishly reaching up to touch the hilt. With a thought, Isak called the weapon back to him. Eolis slid back out with a gush of black blood and the troll collapsed.

There was no time to cheer the first kill. Eolis returned to Isak’s hand just as they reached the first line of trolls, those that had advanced early. Leaning out in his saddle, Isak slashed one as he passed, not even noticing the spurt of blood that spattered his thigh. Before he was clear another stepped out, swinging its arm up to swat him off his horse. Barely in time Isak wheeled away and chopped downwards to cut through the thick limb. The massive hand slammed into his shield and threw him back in his saddle, then the arm fell away and he was clear.

Behind Isak came the meaty thump of lances piercing flesh and breaking bone. A horse screamed, but when Isak turned to look, he could see nothing more than a whirl of men frantically urging their horses away.

From the bodies on the floor it was clear that many had failed to drive their lances deep enough. One troll bounded forward with frightening speed, seeming not to notice the three lances in its body. A Ghost saw the movement and moved in behind the creature, but it had anticipated him and, turning, crashed a huge fist down on to the horse’s neck. Its forelegs crumpled into the ground and the Ghost was catapulted forward, rolling over and over until a second troll hopped forward and stamped down on his head. His armour provided no defence against so foul a death; Isak heard the man’s scream cut off and winced, then looked to the living again.

As a group of trolls started towards where the Ghosts were stopping to turn, Duke Certinse came hurtling on to the field, howling madly, at the head of a long column of knights. His lance thudded smartly into the skull of his chosen target, then he tore Lomin’s Torch, his family’s ancestral sword, from its scabbard and claimed another before riding away.

The plan had been to ride past on the first run, then cut deep into the trolls’ ranks on the second pass, but the trolls ran forward so quickly that there was nowhere else to go. General Lahk saw the charging knights absorbed. He wasted no time finding his herald but grabbed his own horn from its sheath on his saddle and blew a shrill volley of notes.

‘Form line,’ he roared, the words hardly carrying against the clamour of battle, ‘form line!’ The general spurred his horse hard to get in line with Isak; his Ghosts streamed past, then reined in hard. There was no time to fetch spare lances: the nobles would be slaughtered unless help came immediately. The Ghosts, calmly and efficiently, formed a line around the general as he drew his axe and held it up for them all to see. Isak watched men on either side heft spiked hammers and crow-bill axes; a savage mix of crushing weapons sprang up all down the line.

Off to their right the ordered ranks of Suzerain Ked’s party, their lances raised, waited for the general’s order. As soon as the Ghosts were ready, a double blast of the trumpet sent them into a headlong charge, straight into the trolls. Once they were in full gallop, he called the charge, indicating with his axe the left flank of the expanding group of trolls.

Isak kicked his spurs in hard and his charger surged forward. Distantly he heard a voice shouting to hold the line, but a cold rage suffused his mind and Isak barely noticed anything, other than the creatures that had sullied this place he called home - beasts that would pay for this at his own hand.

The sickening, wet crunch of lances meeting flesh and bone, human war-cries and monstrous roars filled the air as Isak led his men into the beasts, hacking left and right with the fury of a madman. Abandoning all pretence at grace, Isak slashed and stabbed with mechanical precision, snarling with rage. The buzz of magic filled his mind as the lumbering horrors threw themselves at the knights with an animal hunger.

Though attacked on three sides, the trolls ignored the numbers piled against them and swung their huge arms tirelessly, crushing and breaking horses and soldiers alike. As each troll fell, another rushed forward to take its place in the front line, fearless and frenzied. Isak didn’t care, he wanted them to come. Unaware of his comrades, Isak drove deeper into the creatures. His rage consumed everything, dulled the pain, cowed fear and desperation - he didn’t even notice the blows that rocked him in his saddle.

With the ecstasy of hatred came the release he craved so desperately. His arms filled with warmth, the sharp tang of magic was acidic in his throat. Tentative flickers of lightning lit up the mud-spattered grey hides clustering around him and lashed forward to tear into them. Fingers of spitting fire worked their way into the troll’s throat and nose, stabbing down through the troll’s small ears and reaching through to its thick spine. Lifting it up in his sorcerous grip, Isak roared with laughter, then threw the dead body into the trolls’ ranks.

Before he could focus on the next victim, a massive weight slammed into his side as a fist punched him from his saddle. Distantly he felt the snap of ribs breaking, but still his fury eclipsed all. Isak rolled as he hit the ground and came up with Eolis ready to take out the first enemy in range. Leaving the blade buried in its skull, Isak stretched his arms out wide and embraced the clamouring energies that coursed through him.

A nimbus of bright white light enveloped his body. Whipping sparks danced over his armour and arced from one fist to the other. He rose up on an effusion of wrath. The air shimmered and wavered as he held the rampant magic tight in his hands, then unleashed the spitting bursts of light on his enemies.

With the sparks and screams fell a haze of rain. He heard someone calling out, a name, but didn’t know if it was his own. He didn’t care. That part of him that had a name was hidden - now, he was an avatar of death, glorying in the majesty of his work. Words came unbidden to his lips, gathering those sparks and raindrops together. He pulled Eolis from the dead thing impaled upon it and cut it through the glittering swirl he’d created. It became a storm of golden shards of glass, spinning faster and faster, until he threw it forward to slice and ruin.

As the magic drained from his body, Isak felt something else ahead, something growing with ferocious speed and burning with the same anger he felt. The air grew hot around him and dirty grey wisps of smoke appeared from the churned ground. A shape, orange and white, burst into life on the ground, a creature of flame bound by hatred. A memory forced its way into his thoughts: a Chalebrat. He was facing a fire elemental. As Isak gasped, he felt scorching heat run down his throat. He staggered back, the fringes of his cloak alight, and held his shield high to protect his exposed eyes as swirling hot trails danced in the air and a crushing pain pressed in on his skull.