The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (73 page)

‘Gods, man, you bleed more easily than a virgin in a barracks,’ Amber joked. He got to his knees and started to haul the smaller man up. ‘You’ll live, get that bound up.’

‘Aye—Shitfuckingdamn!’ Hain gasped, his eyes widening.

Even before he turned, Amber could see the reflected yellow glow in Hain’s eyes. A party of horsemen drove into the Menin line, knights and priests alike led by the enormous yellow-robed figure of Lord Chalat himself. The white-eye was silent and focused, striking left and right with a huge copper broadsword, a gauntlet of flame encasing his left hand. As Amber watched, the huge white-eye punched one Menin soldier and the man was thrown back nearly twenty feet, flames spreading over his body before he even hit the ground.

‘Gods, where are the Reapers?’ Amber called.

As if on cue, a deranged shriek of fury and ecstasy cut the air. In the east he saw a large man crouched almost flat on an enormous blade-edged shield, two more following on in quick succession, but they disappeared behind the mass of cavalry swarming around the enemy lines.

‘Shit, they’re off target,’ Amber realised, looking around him to see what troops he had left to repel the attackers. The newly arrived reserves lost no time in heading towards the beleaguered line, but he realised they wouldn’t be enough if there were any more Aspects or breaches. The battle-mage behind him had fallen silent, the golden corona replaced with a faint greenish glow, and his expression was one of total concentration as he focused entirely on the Chosen of Tsatach.

The major turned back to Chalat in time to see a crossbow bolt wing him in the fleshy part of his bicep. The wound wasn’t deep, looking at the way he tossed his sword to his left hand, but perhaps it would be enough.

‘You can defend against him?’ Amber yelled to the battle-mage.

The man looked bewildered for a moment, then nodded. ‘Directly; only for a few seconds.’

‘Then defend me,’ Amber yelled, and without giving the mage a chance to reply he turned and snatched up Hain’s long spike-tipped axe in his left hand. With his scimitar in his right Amber sprinted towards the huge white-eye, cutting a bloody path through the defenders. Chalat had kicked a hole in the wall and pushed a few yards past his allies, fighting with all the skill of the Chosen, despite using his left hand. Amber had always been quick, especially for a big man, and now he ignored the fighting to put every last ounce of strength he had into the sprint.

Twelve yards to the breach, eight, five - a warm glow enveloped him as the mage wrapped a protective cloak over him. He saw Chalat glance around at the movement and flick a wrist in his direction. A lance of flame spat out just before he reached his target and was deflected by the battle-mage’s protective wrap. Amber flinched, but kept running. One yard away and he launched himself towards Chalat with a scream of triumph, his scimitar whistling around towards Chalat’s neck.

The white-eye moved faster than Amber could see and his vision went white as fire wrapped his body. Again it was deflected away, just in time for him to see Chalat had turned right around, his broadsword raised to catch Amber’s sword. When the blades connected, with Amber’s full weight behind the blow, he felt his body savagely jerked back as Chalat’s arm didn’t give an inch. Pain flared in his wrist as it snapped, but momentum carried him around. Now with no thought to his own survival Amber thrust the axe forward, slamming it into the centre of Chalat’s body.

The spike drove in deep as Amber’s face collided with the white-eye’s. It felt like hitting an oak tree. He felt the axe head crunch against Chalat’s breastbone, then the weapon was knocked from his grip and stars burst in his eyes as gravity embraced him once more. He fell back and the sky turned purple as the weight of his scimitar twisted his broken wrist around, then his head and shoulders hit the ground and sudden, shocking darkness enveloped him.

 

Advancing at a canter, the Farlan cavalry forded one river, then the next. Ahead of them were screens of light cavalry divisions, who had raced ahead to allow the heavier troops the ease of an uncontested crossing. He could feel a presence behind him, watching his back as they headed towards the battle. Byora had been so quiet all day that it fuelled his paranoia, but Isak knew he could spare no more than the legion of light cavalry he had stationed outside the quarter.

He fought the urge to squirm in his saddle, fearful both of what lay behind and what was ahead, and going against every instinct by marching between them. All around him fluttered the bright clashing colours of the Farlan nobility and their hurscals: six hundred heavy cavalrymen, the centre of the Farlan line. The men were hushed, apprehensive, the nerves wound taut. All around him men were gripping their weapons just a shade too tightly, even Count Vesna, and many were being a little too severe with their horses. The hero of the Farlan was silent, his attention fixed on some vague point in the distance, his visor down, so it fell to General Lahk to keep Isak informed. With every piece of news, and each word of advice, Isak’s world grew darker.

On the left flank, Suzerain Torl was fighting a slow and controlled retreat; drawing back from the Menin lines, but taking heavy losses whenever they engaged with the minotaurs. In the centre and on the right flank chaos reigned; the Farlan were being driven back in on themselves by the steady push of the Menin reserves. Though he was being outflanked, Chalat was neither retreating nor regrouping.

The Menin centre had repelled several attacks and were refusing to be drawn off their positions, content to wait for their cavalry as they worked their way around. According to his scryers, without the heroics from the light cavalry, the entire crusade would have been wrapped up and slaughtered by now - but even so, they weren’t going to last much longer.

‘My Lord, may I order support to Suzerain Torl?’ General Lahk asked.

Isak looked at the three divisions of Ghosts and one light cavalry legion. ‘You may - send the First Guardsmen and the Fordan-Tebran legion to Torl’s command.’

Lahk gave the order and soon troops were wheeling away, the light cavalry leaping ahead of the Ghosts to reinforce Torl’s beleaguered troops as soon as possible. Isak was left with a division of Ghosts on his left flank and three legions of light cavalry on his right, with one of each as rearguard.

‘Tirah legions advance to right flank attack?’ asked General Lahk, sticking rigidly to protocol.

Isak repeated the command back and the order was sounded. The right-hand legions began to move ahead of the centre, peeling off to attack the rear of the Menin reserves. Isak couldn’t see what was happening; he had to trust Lahk’s experience, all the while his nerves were jangling like wind-chimes in a gale.

Another hundred yards on, and the view opened out.

Parting before the steady advance, a straggly group of Farlan cavalry broke left as their assailants gave ground to the right. The battered regiments wore the dark robes of penitents, so Isak knew the ordered troops with white lances were Menin cavalry. They were retiring to ensure their infantry weren’t encircled, not realising it was Farlan heavy cavalry facing them. As they moved, the Menin infantry units were revealed like the sun through parting clouds. Isak felt his heart quicken.

‘Sound the advance!’ he roared, not needing Lahk’s prompting.

The pace of the heavy cavalry immediately quickened, every knight realising they could shatter the heart of the enemy’s reserves. Two hundred yards, the gap closing fast. Some instinct made Isak look up and his heart lurched as he saw the winged shape of a wyvern passing high overhead.

‘
The sands are falling
,’ crooned the Headsman at the furthest recesses of Isak’s mind; ‘
the hunter is calling
.’

Isak shook his head and drove the voice from his mind, flooding his body with the eager fire of magic from his Crystal Skulls. He felt his hands tremble momentarily as the intoxicating energy surged through his veins and wrapped him in a warm cocoon of power.

The enemy ahead snapped into focus, and in the confines of his helm Isak heard his breathing turn to a growl as his muscles tightened with anticipation. His shoulders ached with power begging to be released, and now he was only too glad to oblige. Raising Eolis he roared the order to charge that was echoed by every man with him, and he unleashed the fury of the storm.

A blinding burst of lightning flew from the tip of Eolis, forking in the air and lashing the ground once, twice, before snapping across the front rank of infantry in an explosion of sparks. Isak barely heard it, for he was near-deafened by the hammer of hooves surrounding him, but it had the desired effect for he saw the bodies on the ground and the hole torn in the front rank for the Farlan to charge through.

Toramin barely slowed as they hit the enemy. Isak felt the impact as man after man was smashed to the ground by the huge charger’s armoured chest. He cut left and right, shield held low, barely seeing the men he killed. Beside him he heard Vesna bellowing even more wildly as blood flew, weapons glanced off him, men screamed and cried and died.

The Farlan cavalry battered a path into the heart of the enemy legion, leaving only crushed and broken bodies in their wake. As their momentum slowed, many knights dropped their lances and grabbed the weapons hanging from their saddles. Only Vesna and Isak had swords in their hands; the rest hacked at the enemy with axes and maces - heavy, brutal blows that crushed skulls and removed heads. In the centre of it all, Isak roared, putting every ounce of unnatural strength into each cut and revelling in the jarring impacts. Eolis cut steel and bone with equal ease as Isak used his shield to batter weapons away and smash faces to pulp.

In moments or minutes, he could not tell which, the enemy fled under the onslaught. Many threw their weapons down and ran blindly, racing for the safety of the Menin line, which had now turned to face the Farlan. Isak screamed his frustration as he saw them run and drew on the Skull again.

He reached up and brandished Eolis above his head, and in the glittering blade’s wake, silvery threads appeared, and spun and spun at a blinding speed until Isak threw the swirl after the fleeing soldiers. Though it barely brushed the first, it ripped his arm and shoulder away, and streaked on past the shrieking man into the main bulk of soldiers. Everyone it touched was thrown to the ground, blood fountaining from a thousand cuts; those it engulfed simply disappeared in a crimson blur.

Isak released the stream of magic and panted for breath. The knights with him were cheering as they watched the enemy flee. He looked lower and saw the brutalised remains of the Menin infantry, a carpet of corpses spread out behind him.

‘That’s what it’s about, my Lord!’ yelled a man beside him, his voice ragged from heaving breaths and elation. Isak didn’t recognise the crest for a moment before his memory kicked in: rose petals and a dagger; that’s Suzerain Lehm.

‘Showed the bastards what a heavy cavalry charge can do, eh?’ Lehm gestured at the slaughter all around him and Isak realised he was right. Half of the dead would have been killed by the steel-shod, armoured horses.

‘We’ve no time yet for celebration,’ General Lahk roared, his voice carrying over the clamour, ‘form up!’ Men jumped to obey as the familiar repeating warble of the horns rang out. Light cavalrymen rode forward in pursuit of the routed troops, looking to cut them down before they reached safety.

As Isak watched, the Menin cavalry regained some semblance of order and started preparing to repel the Farlan soldiers - then a cry came from behind him as someone shouted, ‘’Ware! Attack - attack from the city!’ The alarm in his voice was plain for all to hear, and Isak turned at once and began to force his way through the crowd, Vesna close behind him, leaving the general to berate hurscals and nobles alike for not reforming quickly enough. Somewhere near the back, a hurscal in Suzerain Foleh’s colours called out, ‘Don’t know how it happened, but judging by the way they’re running, looks like someone’s just torn through that legion.’ The man, who didn’t appear much older than Isak himself, was standing in his stirrups, pointing back towards Byora. Despite his youth he sounded assured, like a veteran.

Isak could see the reserves were already turning; doubtless they’d heard the bugle calls from the legion guarding the entrance to Byora.

‘There’s never a bloody scryer when we need one,’ Isak growled. He closed his eyes and placed one hand over the Skull fused to his cuirass, drawing deeply on its energy again. A cold wave surged through his mind, making him gasp with shock. He centred himself, breathing slowly and deeply, and closed his mind off to everything but the steady rhythm of his beating heart for a moment before sending his senses soaring high up into the brooding sky. He ignored the angry swirl of clouds and concentrated instead on the Land below. The wind rising up off the ground carried the damp smell of earth and the tang of spilled blood. He could feel the remaining priests and Aspects as a gentle fizz at the back of his mind; Kastan Styrax was a bright burning beacon, his Crystal Skulls causing a spark of sharp pain until Isak managed to block him. He felt a sense of great age wash over him when he looked north: whatever was attacking them was old, very old. At the back of his mind a presence stirred, then all of a sudden there was a rushing sensation and he yelped, throwing up a hasty wall around his mind before realising he didn’t need the defence, he wasn’t under attack. Something had
left
him - maybe not entirely, for he thought he could still detect a thread of energy connecting them - but it had found the strength to cross the battlefield.
The Soldier
, he thought,
the Aspect of Death who is at his strongest on the battlefield—

He paused, suddenly struck by something: the presences out on the field felt remarkably similar to the Soldier, more like divine than mortal. Before he could investigate further, a stirring in the east grabbed his attention. When he turned in its direction, a vast presence suddenly locked its gaze onto him, and in that instant Isak sensed rage beyond anything he’d experienced before, even surpassing that fury that had almost consumed him in his first battle.