Part 50 (2/2)
The western line bent, bowed, withdrew a hundred yards under Badalamen's predawn general attack. But he committed auxiliaries and allies, spending their lives to tire and weaken his toes. They didn't break through. The panic of the night hadn't gotten out of hand.
Ragnarson, having shed his tears, rose from beside his dead. He shook off Reskird's sympathetic hand. ”I'm all right.” His voice was cold and calm. He glanced at the crown of the hill where, till last night, his headquarters had stood. The surviving attackers were heightening their earthworks.
They had completed their mission. Now they would await relief from their commander.
VisiG.o.dred departed the tent concealing the remains of his oldest and dearest antagonist. Mist held him momentarily, whispering. Radeachar had just found Marco.
Like scenes were occurring everywhere. A dozen national ensigns flew with hastily st.i.tched black borders. Death had shown few favorites during her midnight rampage.
Bragi glimpsed a winged horse settling into the remains of the Imperial fortress.
He growled, ”We begin.”
Trumpet voices filed the air. Drums responded. The knights advanced. Their pennons waved bright and bold. Their spirits were high. King Wieslaw of Iwa Skolovda had made a speech to stir the souls of veterans as old as and cynical as Tantamagora and Alacran.
This would be their finest hour, the battle remembered a thousand years. The greatest charge in history.
An infantryman walked at each stirrup. Some were the knights' men. Most were doughty fighters Ragnarson had a.s.signed: Trolledygnjans, Kaveliners, Guildsmen, veteran swordsmen who had been withheld from the front. They were rested and ready.
Aisles opened through the pikes and bows. Arrows darkened the air. Mangonels and trebuchets released.
The Iwa Skolovdan battle pennon dipped, signaling the charge.
How bright their crests and pennons! How bold the gleam of their armor! How brilliant their countless s.h.i.+elds! The earth groaned beneath their hooves. The sun itself seemed to quake as the army shouted with a hundred thousand throats.
The drums changed voice as Wieslaw spurred his charger. Lockstep, the men in black marched backward.
Not many pits appeared, but enough to blunt the charge.
”d.a.m.n!” Ragnarson growled, watching the gleaming tide break on the black wall, slow, and swirl like paints mixing.The knights abandoned their lances, flailed with swords or maces. The men who had run at their stirrups guarded the horses.
The bowmen, unable to ply their weapons without killing friends, grabbed swords, axes, hammers, mauls, rushed into the melee.
Bragi had kept no reserve but the pickets round last night's raiders, and the pikemen, who would screen any withdrawal.
From river to river the slaughter stretched, awesome in scale.
”Even the Fall of Tatarian wasn't this b.l.o.o.d.y,” Valthcr murmured.
Derel Prataxis, without glancing up from his tablet, observed, ”Half a million men.
The biggest battle ever.”
He was wrong, of course, but could be pardoned ignorance of the Nawami Crusades.
”Need to fall back and charge again,” Ragnarson grumbled. But there was no way to order it. He could only hope his captains didn't let their enthusiasm override their sense.
Not that time. Wieslaw, Harteobben, and Blittschau extricated themselves, returned to their original lines. The easterners pressed the pikemen hard till the Itaskians again hid the sun behind arrows. Then the knights and stirrup men charged again.
Ragnarson and his party talked little. Grimly, Bragi watched Harteobben and Blittschau, on the wings, begin to be devoured. Only Wieslaw's echelon maintained momentum.
Ragnarson considered fleeing to Dunno Scuttari. He could take s.h.i.+p to Freyland and rally the survivors there.... No. Inger wouldn't be there. He had left too many dear ones behind already. His role in this war had been to leave a trail of his beloved.
There had to be an end. He would share the fate of his army. He would fulfill the letter of Badalamen's message.
He saw to his weapons. His companions watched nervously, then did likewise.
Prataxis rode through camp collecting cooks, mule-skinners, grooms, and the walking wounded.
THIRTY-FIVE: Palmisano: The Guttering Flame
It seemed he had been chopping at black armor for days. He had trained and trained, but his instructors hadn't told him how arduous it would be. Here, unlike the practice field, he couldn't rest.
”Almost through!” Wieslaw screamed, gesturing with his b.l.o.o.d.y sword. Only a thin line screened the open ground beyond s.h.i.+nsan's front.
The esquire glanced back. The hundreds who had followed Wieslaw now numbered but dozens.
The youth redoubled his attack.
The line broke. They were through. Wieslaw cavorted as though the battle itself had been won. His standard bearer galloped to his side. More knights surged through the gap, rallied round, congratulated one another weakly.
The respite lasted but moments. Then a band of steppe riders attacked. While the westerners turned that threat their bolt hole closed behind them.
”Badalamen,” said Wieslaw. ”We have to plant a sword in the dragon's brain.”The esquire stared across the quarter-mile separating them from the born general.
Badalamen's bodyguards had sprung from the sorcerous wombs of the laboratories of Ehelebe. And crowds of Throyens masked them.
Wieslaw a.s.sembled his people to charge.
The Throyens put up little fight. In minutes the knights reached the tall, expressionless guards surrounding Badalamen.
Ragnarson cursed as his mount screamed and stumbled. Her hamstrings had been cut.
He threw himself clear, smashed a black helmet with his war axe while leaping. He continued hacking with wild, two-handed swings, past pain, rage, and frustration, exploding in a berserk effort to destroy s.h.i.+nsan single-handedly.
He knew no hope anymore. He just wanted to hurt and hurt until Badalamen couldn't profit from winning.
His companions felt the change. Morning's optimism was becoming afternoon's despair. The invincible legions were, again, meeting their reputation. Soldiers began glancing backward, picking directions to run.
Varthlokkur, too, despaired. He had recognized his antagonist at last. s.h.i.+nsan, Tervola, Pracchia, Ehelebe, all were smokescreens. Behind them lurked the Old Meddler, the Star Rider. He knew, now, because someone was negating his manipulation of the Tear.
Only the other Pole's master could manage that.
The devil had come into the open. He needed anonymity no more.
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