Brave Men Die: Part 2 (7 page)

Pulling the tent flap across carefully so as to not disturb his blonde, Rigel moved quickly into the night air and across the compound. A few of the mercenaries nodded their heads as he passed and he returned the gesture. Once again, Finn had made sure that all his men were on duty tonight.

The captain was waiting for him at the gate with the same two men as last night. All three were heavily armed, and heavily armoured, and would be too slow if they were actually participating in combat tonight. If the creature attacked the gate, they wouldn’t even draw their blades before its claws tore through the steel plate they all wore.

‘It isn’t midnight yet boy.’

Rigel tilted his head to look at the rising moon. ‘It won’t be long.’ He wanted to be out there waiting when it arrived, not in here where it would slaughter everyone to get to him. And then there was the chance it would track down Finn before it found him.

‘Doesn’t feel right, you going out there on your own.’

‘You didn’t even see it last night did you?’

Finn was silent. Both men knew the answer. There wasn’t a man in the camp besides Rigel who had been able to track the beast’s movements as it traversed the woods last night. Rigel put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder and smiled as confidently as he could.

‘It will be fine. I’m much better at this kind of thing than I look.’ Even he sort of half believed that. It was enough for Finn to let him walk out of the compound, alone, and that was all he needed.

Rigel stopped halfway between the camp and the woods. He had two hours to wait until midnight. He didn’t know exactly what it was but the creature was magically enhanced and took the shape of a giant wolf crossed with something from the depths of hell.

He swallowed and his throat was dry.

Rigel stood perfectly still, his eyes trained on nothing but the woods. His arms rested by his side, his leather armour stretched as he breathed deeply, meditating. His hands clenched and unclenched, his fingers flexed out of nervous habit. His blade was never far from reach.

He noticed the movement on his left without having to actually see it, his heightened senses picking the creature up as it stalked him. Without betraying himself, his green eyes shifted to his left slowly until he found the beast.

It hugged the tree line, perhaps five to ten metres back under the safety of the shadows, darting across his line of sight as if weighing him up. Rigel kept his arms by his sides, nonchalant, as if the creature wasn’t there at all, slathering and scratching the ground with its claws. He resisted the urge to arm himself, the fear of confronting something from hell making his stomach drop.

Rigel knew Finn and the other mercenaries were watching him, their eyes glued to his back. Instinctively, he knew Carina was still asleep in the tent. Over the last few weeks no one else had even seen the creature and tonight, when it made its move, he doubted they would see it launch itself at him. They would probably just hear his screams and find his corpse in the morning.

It was directly in front of him now, waiting, its chest rising and falling with heavy breath. Rigel waited, his fingers dancing on the hilt of his blade. The moment dragged. He locked eyes with the beast, those deep red eyes held his stare. Then it charged.

The mercenaries would have blinked and missed it. His eyes remained focused on the demon, the steel sliding against his sheath scraped at the night air, opposing the growls from the depths of the beast. Rigel moved like a blur himself, charging to meet it, his blade up in front of his torso.

A claw scraped against his left shoulder as his blade sliced the beast’s chest and Rigel instinctively rolled with the blow to lessen the damage. Blood was already streaming down his arm, but he raised it to take a two-handed grip as they began circling.

The beast snarled and leapt. Rigel darted to his right and slashed at its side, cutting through its thick fur and grazing it slightly. It turned quickly and smashed Rigel down on his back. Barely managing to get his blade up, he pressed it against its throat, holding the back of the blade up with his wounded arm to keep its snapping jaws from his jugular. Saliva dripped down on his face and he blinked furiously to get it out of his eyes.

Rigel tucked his legs up underneath the beast and kicked it over him, rolling quickly and stepping back to avoid the slashing claws that took chunks out of his armour. His blade twirled through the air and came crashing down through its face, taking an eye and some teeth. It howled in pain and retreated a couple of steps. Rigel approached quickly, wanting to end it before he bled out, and had his blade raised to take off its head when it moved suddenly, charging in low and sunk its fangs into his flesh. He swallowed the scream that wanted to come out of his chest.

He hacked into the creature’s head, raised his arm and smashed it down repeatedly, drenching the steel and his body in the creature’s blood. When it wouldn’t let go he reversed his grip, twisted his body so he could grab the hilt with both hands and slam the tip of the blade down between the creature’s shoulder blades. He stabbed it over and over again, until its body finally slumped.

Rigel released his blade and put his hands between its jaws, still clamped around his leg, straining under the vice-like grip. Moments passed before he snapped the bottom jaw bone, carefully removing the fangs from his muscles. He grimaced as he steadied his footing to wrench his blade out, before taking off the thing’s head with three heavy blows. Wiping the blood off with the thick mane of fur, he sheathed his blade and picked up the mangled head, then slowly headed back toward the mercenary compound dragging his prize with him.

Finn and the two mercenaries at the gate stood aside as he hobbled through. They hadn’t moved the entire time, they’d just stood there as he limped back bleeding. They stared open-mouthed at the creature’s head, its broken jaw and gaping eye. A trail of gore smeared along the ground behind him.

‘Told you I could handle it,’ he managed to get out between rasping breaths.

Finn only nodded and accepted the head when Rigel lifted it in offer. Its remaining red eye stared vacantly back at him.

‘We can deal with that in the morning. Maybe Carina can tell us exactly what it was.’

‘You don't even know?’

‘My job is just to kill things like that, not to worry about what they are. Now, I’m going to bed to try and stop the bleeding.’

‘You want us to patch you up first?’

‘Nah, I’ll let Carina do it, she just loves it when I bleed on the sheets,’ Rigel said with a grin as he limped back.

The sun hovered listlessly as Cronos stared into the Fatelli Pass. He watched as the yellow globe dropped inch by inch into the western sky, knowing that every moment that passed was another that his forces were waiting twiddling their thumbs. The Kyzantines had time to grow stronger. He scratched his cheek and gave up his vigilant post, stalking along the wall back and forth.

Cronos had sent out a scout but it seemed like ages ago, when the sun was higher in the sky after they had first managed to retake Black Claw. Hell, he just wanted to make the most of the day.

‘Shields up,’ he snapped at two soldiers on the wall. ‘They could attack at any moment. Do you want an arrow in the chest boy?’

‘No sir’, the lad stammered, raising his shield.

Cronos stormed off and looked over the rampart. The sides of the pass were dark in the shadows and a wind funnelled through sending a chill down his spine. He strained his eyes, ever looking for his man. A hand touched him on the shoulder, his head turned slightly to see the master of arms.

‘Does this remind you of old times?’ Cronos asked.

‘What exactly are you referring to? Us standing on the walls of a barricade somewhere across the Kingdom, or Black Claw itself?’

‘Any of the above, Byrn. It’s like we’ve done this so many times in our lives that they all seem to blur into one another.’

‘We have only been here twice before, Cronos. The first time as young men, spending our days performing drills and standing watch on the walls. The second time was when those Kyzantine mercenaries got the shits with us. Remember, we wouldn’t let them through into the Kingdom and they tried to overrun us.’

‘They weren’t quite expecting us to be actually good at our jobs back then. We held them for a whole three days before their captain ordered the retreat and headed back into the Empire.’

‘You know I can still remember the man’s face like it was yesterday,’ Byrn commented.

‘Same. There was something about the way he raised his eyebrow and looked down on us in outrage when he learned a seventeen year old had convinced the captain to refuse them entry. What was it, “no respectable man in Murukia would hire them.” Bloody dodgy lot they were.’

‘They were good times Cronos.’

‘Yes, but it’s different now. There are a lot more of them than there are us.’

Byrn shot him a look. ‘We don’t know that yet.’

‘I feel it in my bones. History won’t repeat itself here like it did back then. This is going to be bloody and a lot of these boys won’t be going home at the end of it.’

‘Maybe not, but they know what they signed on for. They will gladly give their lives if we give them the order to stand and fight and hold them off Murukan soil.’

‘I don’t doubt that Byrn. I just want to strike the first blow before they can get themselves dug in out there in the valley and we have to spend months getting them out.’

‘We still don’t know why Black Claw came under attack. This could have been it, this handful of soldiers acting under orders from a disgruntled Kyzantine, and it ends here with them.’

‘That might be the case but I won’t hold my breath in the meantime. Is everything set Byrn?’

‘Yes, the Sentinels are on the wall, the Fists are resting, and the Fangs are preparing for a charge.’

‘Good … good, I want to be able to go as soon as the scout returns.’

‘He still hasn’t yet?’ Byrn asked, a look of worry flashing across his face.

‘Speak of the devil,’ Cronos exclaimed, pointing toward a lone figure darting out of the shadows and racing across the open toward the gate.

‘Lower a rope,’ Cronos’ voice boomed. He and Byrn raced along the rampart.

The scout hit the wall running, grasped the rope and heaved himself up. Cronos reached out and grabbed him when he was within arm’s reach and pulled him over the top of the wall.

Sweat dripped from the man’s face as he gulped in air. His eyes were open wide and the whites of them gave away his growing concern. His lips were parted and dry, waiting for the signal to report. Cronos indicated he should get on with it.

‘Sir, there is a small detachment camped just around the bend, about a hundred and fifty soldiers. I climbed the slopes to get a better angle to look into the valley but I could see no one there.’

‘Surely they know that we that we have retaken the gate. Perhaps this is just the advance force?’ asked Cronos as he stroked his beard.

‘That’s likely. If we push through now while the sun still shines across Cerebus Valley we could hold them at Iron Talon Gate,’ Byrn suggested. ‘If this really is an invasion and not a disgruntled neighbour pissing on the fence.’

Cronos paced along the rampart in tight circles. He raised his head and looked for the sun. The afternoon would last for another couple of hours and the summer heat was still rising.

‘Let’s go. I want the Fists to take out the detachment. The Fangs will overrun those that flee and press on into the valley. Leave half the Sentinels to guard the gate and the wounded, the rest will follow. We march upon Iron Talon by nightfall.’

Pollux marched through the gate next to Octans in formation. The Fists moved as one. He tightened his grip on his shield. He kept his eyes forward. Head up. Swallowed.

Once through Black Claw’s gate the infantry pushed out, the unit’s width expanded to the edges of the pass. Eight hundred of the originals marched on. Of the others, most were wounded but some were dead. Kryst marched silently out the front, leading the Fists to the encampment.

Pollux separated from Octans as the Fists moved to occupy the entire pass, his own contingent of men following him along the right. Some of the faces he recognised, a few had followed him up the stairs when he retook the walls of Black Claw. They all looked to him for orders, to get them through this in one piece, which he doubted he would. He just hoped that he could rally them quickly enough to save some of them when the time came.

After two hundred metres, just prior to the bend in the pass, the captain ordered weapons drawn. Minimal clutter could be heard as every soldier’s gauntleted hand unsheathed their weapon in unison. Kryst raised his sword high, paused momentarily, and dropped it forward, signalling the charge. The Fists took off, the line haphazard as they raced around the corner startling the Kyzantine force.

The enemy scattered before the Murukan attack. Two thirds of them formed into ranks and waited, lifting shields and spears while the others raced to the horses. It was a tactical manoeuvre designed to imply frantic chaos.

‘Charge!’ Pollux screamed, surging with the front line of the Fists toward the waiting Kyzantines. His men raced beside him and around him, eager to impress. Pollux watched as the soldier in front of him was impaled on a spear as the lines met. He twisted his body side on, squeezing past the dying man, and brought his sword down into the Kyzantine. It punctured his jugular and blood pissed out.

Octans pushed forward, knocked a careless jab away with his shield and impaled another before the Kyzantines broke. Men fought around him, followed him, even though he hadn’t given a single order. The scattered enemy infantry raced after those that had fled initially. Octans leapt after one, lunged forward and sliced his sword across a woman’s hamstring. She fell as the Fists swarmed over her and swarmed down the pass in pursuit.

In the mayhem of the battle the Fists hadn’t moved to the stabled horses to cut off their retreat. They had charged along the pass pursuing the routed infantry but the early riders were long gone. The last Kyzantine fumbled with a stubborn mount, having to calm it before she could get close enough to get into the saddle. Pollux took off to intercept the last rider, his thighs aching as he sprinted off in a perceived intercept course. He slid into position in front of the rider, balanced himself as she kicked the mount and raced toward him. Pollux waited until the horse was almost on top of him, sidestepped to the right and swung, cutting off the horse’s front leg. It smashed head first into the ground and threw the rider. She hurtled forward, arms and legs flailing in the air before she smashed into the dirt. Pollux raced after her, his legs hurting as he got there before she could draw a blade. He stepped on her hand and looked over her broken body: her shoulder had popped and one of her legs was twisted and the bone had broken through. He looked at her face as he raised his sword and noticed a smile between grazed lips.

‘It’s too late,’ she muttered.

Pollux tilted his head in confusion as he drove the blade down and the Fangs thundered past. Pollux looked at the cavalry charge chasing after those that had fled on horseback and then back at the woman he had just killed, her twisted smile now permanent on dead lips.

Baron Scythe raised his war lance, a motion copied by the entire unit, as the Fangs charged forward after the fleeing Kyzantines. His banner waved in the breeze, brushing against his peripheral vision on his right. The five hundred men roared through the Fatelli Pass, a rumbling that shook the mountains. The Fists had parted to allow them through, the crash of the hooves thundering down the pass. They easily overran the last few Kyzantines that took a stand and fled on foot. Blades hit the backs of heads, blood sprayed as the bodies fell. The riders never paused.

The Kyzantines on horseback kept the pace and the distance between their pursuers. The fifty outraced the five hundred hurtling through the pass. The riders weaved in and out of the shadows until finally the pass widened into the valley. The high speed chase raced out of the pass and into the sun-covered valley.

Emerging into Cerebus Valley, the wave of heat hit Cronos in the face. He grinned and bore it, determined to chase them down. Noise erupted all around him and alarm bells went off in his head. He kept up the pace and frantically looked behind him over both shoulders. On the left a unit of cavalry had charged into his flank halfway back along the column. On the right an infantry unit was running to attack the other side.

Making his decision, he turned his mount around to the right and led his unengaged knights into the flank of the lightly-armoured infantry. The front half of the Fangs turned in a wide arc, the horses ripping up the grass as their hooves found purchase. As the knights turned they spread out in a long line, the baron at the centre. Lances lowered at the enemy, they charged across the grassy plain and hit as one, impaling the unguarded flank. Soldiers were thrown off their feet as the lances punctured flesh and muscle trampled those pinned underneath.

‘Fight your way to the back of the column!’ Cronos yelled. ‘Don’t let them trap us in a pincer!’

The dying screams of his men echoed in his ears. Geysers of blood erupted into the sky as blades were driven into his knights, the arms of the enemy driving steel into his men. Cronos’ contingent swept across the front of the Kyzantine infantry, protecting his own flank as Byrn charged by with his squad in tow.

‘With me!’ Byrn screamed above the din of battle.

Two dozen of the Fangs followed him as the old master of arms swung around and went barrelling back into the enemy.

Kryst yelled at the stragglers to reform ranks as he began marching with those already assembled. Blood dripped down the side of his face as he screamed, ‘Left, right, left. Keep in line you bastards!’ Spit flew from his mouth as he stirred the fighting spirit into his troops.

Pollux marched in the middle of the unit, his sword in hand. He looked around for Octans but the giant of a warrior was nowhere to be seen. There was no point looking over his shoulder, Octans would only be at the front of the unit. That was the focus. Moving forward. There was no turning back, not when there was so much at stake.

Within moments the sounds of battle drifted to them, the clash of metal and the screams of the wounded, battle cries and horses.

Kryst ordered the full charge and the Fists and the Sentinels raced down the pass. Lines were forgotten as the faster men took off, legs pumping as they hurtled to the valley. Pollux raced forward, passing the slower men as sweat dripped from his face, down the back of his neck and spine. He was one of the first to see the corpses of Murukan knights and their mounts stricken on the valley floor. He could see others performing a fighting retreat, and some fighting frantically for their lives pinned between the two forces.

‘Attack the flank!’ Pollux screamed as he picked up the pace, sweat dripping further down his back. He ran out of the pass into the brilliant sunlight and toward the left, leaping onto the back of a slain horse and springing off it. Holding his sword high he flew through the air and sliced through the body of a passing Kyzantine knight. The man screamed as Pollux’s weapon tore through him and others turned to face the new threat.

The Fists and Sentinels crashed into the Kyzantine cavalry and in a flurry of swift attacks cut down the closest of them. Hands reached out and pulled riders down, hacking and slashing their bodies. Horses reared up and kicked out, smashing Kingdom men in the head, or battered their shields. Swords flashed out and silenced some of the mounts, their falling masses crushing fighters on both sides.

Pollux weaved in between the horses, his blade striking at the buckles on the saddles. As the straps came loose, the knight came down and those Murukans following silenced them for good.

Pollux heard the Kyzantine leader scream for order, to continue to press the knights. But as the Fists slammed against the flank, more knights turned to the screams of their dying brothers. Still the Kyzantine knights were only partially divided, while some had turned from their task, others continued the mindless slaughter of the baron’s Fangs.

Octans noticed that most of the Fists went left to engage the Kyzantine cavalry so he directed his men to the right. Not the fastest man alive, Octans was in the first third to cover the distance. Before him the enemy infantry had positioned themselves amongst the struggling Fangs who were being pushed back against the pressure and unable to manoeuvre.

Octans tore into the first of the enemy he came across, his blade rising and falling into the woman’s chest. He pushed past his men, squeezed between two knights and launched himself at the enemy. The Fists followed. Some of the Sentinels too. He was the arrowhead that led the way, clearing a path that his men raced to fill, their weapons spilling blood to hold the ground he made.