The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (57 page)

*

Colonel Craiglen arrived at the north bridge just as the mercenaries reached the river. His own forces, led by a young officer named Darltin, had arrived only minutes earlier, and were gathering to meet the mercenaries in battle. Craiglen found Darltin in the chaos and quickly took command, ordering his own company to the bridge. He could see the wave of Norvans cresting on the other side, disappointed that they had not reached their destination sooner. Amazingly, Baron Glass had sent a larger part of his army to the north bridge than he had the main one, where Raxor was battling. Counting up their numbers in the darkness made Craiglen blanche. Along with the companies of Darltin and Tom, he had perhaps a thousand men under his command, but it seemed to Craiglen that the Norvans had at least that many, a ragtag army of enraged mercenaries without any cause to fight for save their own enrichment.

Craiglen had no dogs or war machines to stem the tide. The catapults, which weren’t ready anyway, had all been stationed further south to hold the central bridge. It would be man to man here, Craiglen knew.

‘The way things ought to be,’ he muttered.

Colonel Craiglen could remember his every battle. He had been charmed since birth at the art of fighting, gifted with a sword and touched by heaven so that he’d never once been wounded. And yet, seeing the mercenary army made him afraid. At the bridge, he watched as the first of Darltin’s men forded the river, the Norvan mercenaries quick to meet them. On the other side of the Kryss waited the rest of the motley force, some trying to come across on horseback and being swept away by the fast-moving tide. The Reecians picked at them with arrows. Others sent volleys skyward, reaching across the Kryss to strike the enemy. Craiglen thought for a moment, wondering how best to direct his forces. It was simply a fight for the bridge, he determined quickly. On the bridge, the battle would be won. Or lost.

Craiglen took out his sword and thundered forward. At the top of his voice he called his men to follow, rallying them to war. With his company in tow, he raced for the bridge, and when he reached it fought his way to the front of the meˆle´e, slashing past the Norvan blades, face to face with his foes. Yards away he saw the dark-skinned man. Craiglen recognized him at once. He had come with the Norvan colonel that day to talk peace at the bridge. Enraged, Craiglen brandished his blade high.

‘You, desert man!’ he cried. ‘Scum!’

They were fine fighters, all of them, these men who the dark man commanded. Like their leader, many of them had the same sun-baked skin and wild, colourful garb. With their curved swords and leather-wrapped spears, they clashed against Craiglen’s armoured cavalry, smashing
together with a thunderous din. Craiglen muscled his horse across the bridge, step by agonizing step toward the dark-skinned leader. One by one he fought through the mercenaries, bringing up his sword against the attacks. His soldiers bolstered him, surrounding him as men and horses tumbled from the bridge. Craiglen fought for every inch, screaming at his quarry, who at last caught a glimpse of him through the battle. Craiglen spat in his direction.

The desert man spun off from his fellows and headed for Craiglen. The old Reecian colonel obliged, using his shield like a battering ram to pass the throng of fighters. With his sword at the ready, Craiglen brought it windmilling overhead just as his foe came in range. Instantly the dark man had up his defense. The two circled, exchanging blows, Craiglen blocking with his shield while the other used only his expert sword arm. Ignoring everything around them the men were like dancers locked in a deadly waltz. Craiglen renewed his attack, driving the mercenary to the edge of the bridge.

‘Is this how you talk peace?’ he raged. ‘By murdering the prince?’

The desert man grunted, fighting off the big man’s blows. Nearby, his men saw his predicament and cried out to him.

‘Kaj! The edge!’

Too late, the desert man saw the stone rail. Forced into it by Craiglen’s horse, he leaned back too far to avoid the Reecian sword. Craiglen pressed his attack, but the other mercenaries had charged forward now, pushing and unbalancing him. Now both close to tumbling, the two men grabbed for each other. The desert man was going over. Craiglen could see it in his eyes. Too close for swords, they grappled with each other until the pressure from the battle drove them over the edge.

Only blackness filled Craiglen’s eyes. He felt the sensation of the world whipping by, then the stunning cold of the river.

King Raxor ordered his cavalry to the bridge.

It had taken almost an hour for Baron Glass’ forces to deal with the mastiffs, more than enough time for his men to make ready. Lines of archers had filled the air with arrows, softening up the mercenaries and the complicit Liirians while the dogs slowed their advance. Behind Raxor, the catapults were finally ready to launch. Each one had a brazier filled with hot coals, burning wood and flammable liquid, ready to send the potent mixture skyward. Along the river, handfuls of Norvans had fought their way onto Reecian soil, making human chains and using ropes to pull themselves though the Kryss. Skirmishes had broken out all along the bank, but on the bridge, barely visible to Raxor, a small number of mastiffs still held back the bulk of Glass’ forces. Reports were coming in from the north and south. Raxor listened to them all keenly. Craiglen’s
men had so far held the bridge, but in the south the mercenaries had already broken through.

‘How the hell can that be?’ Raxor shouted, glaring at his young lieutenant.

‘They have more men, my lord, and they reached the bridge before us.’

‘Darltin?’

‘Still alive,’ the officer reported. ‘He requests more troops.’

Raxor quickly dispatched another company, this one a reserve unit he’d hoped to use himself against the baron. The young lieutenant thanked his king and galloped off, guiding the new troops south. But Raxor knew that the south was already lost. Once the bridge was breached, stemming the tide would be impossible.

‘My lord, let me go with them,’ pleaded Aric Glass. So far, he stayed true to the king’s order, never wandering far. Together they had watched the battle unfolding in the moonlight.

‘Stay,’ the king commanded.

‘My lord, I’m useless to you here. Let me fight, please!’

‘Useless? You are useless?’ King Raxor at last took the time to look at Aric. Despite the battle raging around them, he spoke in a soft, kindly voice. ‘When this over, you might be the most important person in the world to my kingdom.’

Aric shook his head. ‘I have to see my father. At least let me do this.’

‘Rubbish. You’ll stay here, boy. Stay safe. You have a mission to accomplish.’

Aric smouldered as Raxor turned aside. At the bridge the Reecian cavalry met the first of Glass’ men.

Overhead, Thorin heard the roar of fire. Streaking skyward came the hot missiles from the Reecian catapults, firing one by one in rapid succession, lowering their deadly payload among his troops. Behind him he saw the impact as the first load of coals and liquid exploded, splaying out like a fiery hand amidst the unprepared Liirians. Siagan had fallen back, his men pushed to the rear by the onslaught of the mastiffs. Among his men he still fought the last of the dogs, but when the payload crashed around him his horse reared up with a cry. For a moment the night turned to daylight as the flames engulfed the soldiers, dazzling Thorin with its terrible light. He wheeled on the bridge to see the result as another missile crashed, this time closer than the first. By the time the third one hit Thorin could not see Siagan at all.

The baron spun around to face the coming cavalry. A rain of arrows continued to fall, heralding their arrival. Rase and a few dozen of his men had reached the bridge, ducking the deadly shafts. Thorin raised his sword to rally his mercenaries.

‘No retreat!’ he cried. ‘The bridge is ours! Don’t give it up!’

But as the Reecian horsemen thundered closer, the baron’s boast seemed hollow. Thorin braced himself as the lead riders lowered their lances. More of his men were fast approaching, but the Reecians made a tidal wave as they approached, shaking the bridge with their attack. The first of the horsemen galloped across, aiming straight for Baron Glass. Without a shield to parry the lances, Thorin let his armour take the blow. The horseman aimed his weapon. Thorin steeled himself, then felt the lance smash against his breastplate. Splinters flew as the weapon buckled. Stunned, the rider kept on going, straight ahead toward Thorin’s blade. The sword whistled and the head tumbled, and the Devil’s Armour drank the blood that fell like rain.

Now the Reecians swarmed the bridge. Thorin felt the madness descend. His blade was everywhere, finding every mark, shattering his enemies as his magic armour glowed with life. It writhed on him, its metal hot with blood, its black spikes moving like snakes. Against the hurricane of Reecian lances Baron Glass withstood the storm, not giving back an inch as the Reecians came to challenge him. His sword arm swung without tiring, cutting down the cavalry and littering the bridge with corpses. Amazed, Race and his mercenaries pressed onward, shielded by the miraculous killing machine.

‘Let them come all night!’ bellowed Baron Glass, sure that somewhere across the bridge Raxor watched with dread. He ignored the arrows pelting his hide, and paid no heed to the sky filled with fire. He forged on, meeting every lance and sword, easily besting the Reecian barrage.

You see!
Kahldris laughed.
How beautiful you are! How indestructible!

‘Yes!’ Thorin cried, loving the sweet madness. ‘I’m alive again!’

Undaunted, the Reecians came across the bridge, and one by one Baron Glass slaughtered them. And while he fought his Devil’s Armour fused to him, taking every blow like a gentle kiss.

Colonel Craiglen exploded up out of the water. Around him he heard the roar of the river and the screams of men. He gulped for breath, groping for anything that would get him to shore. Next to him, the mercenary who’d tumbled with him over the bridge was swimming for shore. The dark-skinned man had survived.

Exhausted, Craiglen went after him. His aching arms stroked quickly through the river, fighting the current to reach the rocky bank. The mercenary glanced over his shoulder.

‘Don’t follow me!’ he cried.

Determined to catch him, Craiglen kicked and pinwheeled his arms, forcing himself to breathe. His body ached from the concussion of the fall. His head pounded with agony. Still he swam, and just
as the mercenary clawed his way ashore he caught hold of the man’s boot.

‘No way you live!’ he growled, pulling him back into the river. The man kicked out, catching Craiglen’s jaw and sending teeth and blood flying. But the old colonel kept hold, and with his other hand freed the dagger from his belt.

‘Dog!’ he spat. ‘Dog for hire! That’s what you are!’

Colonel Craiglen raised his dagger, and in that moment saw the stranger on the bank, lowering a crossbow. With an awful, split-second calculation he realized he was dead. He cried out, leaping from the river like a shark, plunging his dagger into the dark man’s back. The man called Kaj cried out, his head falling hard against the rocks. Then came the twang of the crossbow.

As the bolt struck his neck, Colonel Craiglen released his dagger. He felt his legs go slack and the current take him. His eyes fluttered, but for an instant he watched his enemy on the rock, sagging with death.

Unable to stay alive, Craiglen stopped trying. He let the river carry him away.

Aric waited helplessly at Raxor’s side. While the moon swept overhead, he counted the hours going by as the battle continued. King Raxor had refused to fall back, even as the mercenaries forded the river and the battle for the central bridge raged on. Wave after wave of cavalrymen had been sent to the bridge, but so far they had been unable to secure it or beat back their outnumbered enemy. Aric chaffed atop his horse, eager to get into the fight. Mostly ignored by Raxor, he listened as the king took council from his lieutenants and listened gravely to reports from the north and south, where the fighting continued. Raxor had already sent most of his reserves to the main bridge. He had come to the Kryss with nearly ten-thousand men, but throughout the night that number had dwindled. Raxor’s face glistened with sweat and twisted with a kind of disbelief. Aric, however, was stoic, and could easily believe the carnage his father was causing.

Reports from the main bridge told of the slaughter. Baron Glass and his mercenaries had somehow held out against the Reecian onslaught. A handful of men had so far returned, running messages to and from the bridge. Each of them told of Baron Glass in his armour and how he was holding the bridge nearly single-handedly. Raxor scoffed at the reports, refusing to look at Aric. Instead he sent more of his men into the fight, even as the Norvan free-lances forded the river and threatened their southern flank.

The catapults had fallen silent. The only light came from the torches and the waning moon. In the darkness, the noise of battle seemed louder,
deafening Aric, driving him to ride in impatient circles. Despite the king’s bravado, he knew that only retreat could save the day. Dreadfully he watched as the reserves dwindled, slowly drained by his father’s ragtag army.

‘My lord,’ he said at last. ‘Will you listen to me now? Is it not as I have told you?’

Old King Raxor refused to hear him. ‘I have lieutenants, Aric Glass.’

‘And what do they tell you? They’re being slaughtered! Craiglen’s dead, my lord. The north bridge is already lost.’