The Path of Sorrow Page 12
He looked bleakly at his fellow Templars. “Do you think Occido is watching?” he asked.
Felipe glanced up at the sky, as if expecting to see that terrible deity, in his horned helmet and burning iron armour, glaring down at him. “The War God wouldn’t miss a scrap like this for anything.”
“You think so? Best give him a show to remember, then.”
Not far away, safe for now behind the bristling ranks of the Grim Reavers, General Saqr gnawed on his fingernails and kept his eyes fastened on the glistening mass of the Pride.
“Nearer, and nearer still,” he said to no-one in particular, heedless of the anxious glances of Hoshea and his staff. “But not near enough.”
About a mile away, sitting on a barrel-shaped charger at the rear of her own lines, General Anma watched as her men tramped up the hill. The Pride was her greatest —and, indeed, only love— trained and equipped at great personal expense.
Her thick lips curled in disdain at those her opponent had chosen as his first line of defence. Foreigners from the cold, primitive island across the sea, barbarians with ungainly bodies, pale skin and crude weaponry. They would be brave, such savages usually were, but the Pride would make short work of them.
“No doubt he has press-ganged them,” she remarked to her second-in-command. “Desperate times for unhappy Saqr. I want him kneeling at my feet within the hour.”
Her second-in-command stroked his oiled beard and murmured that he didn’t think it unlikely.
Thump-thump-thump…the drums increased their rhythm and rose to a steady clatter as the Pride reached the mid-way point of the slope.
“Near enough,” cried Saqr, standing up in his stirrups and raising his sword.
Behind him a score of captains shouted in unison, and a thousand archers unleashed a whispering storm of arrows. They poured into the air like a flock of startled wild fowl suddenly rising from their nests, accompanied by the whip-like crack of straining ropes and sinews being released. Saqr had a number of wheeled flat-bows that fired bolts the size of a javelin, and small onagers that hurled chipped stone balls the size of a man’s head. The war machines came from his well-stocked arsenal at Hasan, and had been dragged all the way to the field by teams of sweating horses.
The arrows fell among the Pride like iron-tipped rain, lodging in mail and sticking into shields, or else skewering an eye, a hand, an exposed throat or two. Helmets cracked and shattered as the stone balls dropped onto them, scattering brains and bits of skull, and here and there a man screamed as his body was pierced by one of the oversized bolts.
“Good shooting,” remarked Jocelyn. “General Fuckface’s captains know their work, even if he doesn’t.”
“They’re not stopping, though,” said Felipe, “look at them come on. I do like an enemy with a bit of grit.”
“I thought you preferred them either dead or a long way distant,” said Guillaume, “like the Grand Master. He’s made fools of us, hasn’t he just, with all that nonsense about searching for a boy in the desert. I won’t underestimate the little shit again.”
“Nor me,” added Jean, “nor like to get much opportunity. Death looms before us, comrades.”
“Then let’s spit in his eye,” answered Guillaume, and charged.
Felipe was about to call him back, and then his mouth split into a grin as he watched his comrade of thirty years lumbering down the slope, bellowing old hunting songs and waving his sword above his head.
"I'm with the fat man," said Jean as cheers and laughter swept through the ranks of Northerners. He sprinted after his comrade, striding stiffly on his long legs like an arthritic greyhound.
Someone blew a war-horn, a clean piercing sound that awoke a reckless joy in the men far from home, forced to act the part of spear fodder in a cause they neither understood or cared for. Another broke ranks and charged, and another, until the trickle became a flood, all notion of order dissolved and the slope was alive with a crowd of running, whooping men, galloping straight down into the maw of death.
* * * *
“What are the foreign idiots doing? What are they doing?” moaned General Saqr, grasping Hoshea’s arm. “Damn them, they should hold fast! Can I not be obeyed? Hold fast! Hold fast!”
Hoshea looked at his master with concern. It’s never reassuring when the commander-in-chief of an army starts babbling at crucial moments. He looked around at the group of richly-dressed officers that formed the general staff. There was plenty of shock and bewilderment on the immaculately whiskered faces, but little sign of intelligence. Young and vain, selected by Saqr for looks and lineage rather than ability, they resembled a pack of sheep suddenly deprived of their shepherd.
Hoshea realised that he was going to have to do something. A born civilian and a lifetime slave with the sign of slavery branded on his shoulder to prove it, he could not imagine a worse time to begin an unwanted military career.
Knowing Hoshea’s reputation as the intellect behind Saqr’s throne, the young officers all looked to him for guidance. Feeling the pressure of ten desperate pairs of eyes, Hoshea did his best to think like a soldier.
* * * *
As he galloped down the slope, Felipe felt all the years of responsibility and frustrated ambition drop away from him like pieces of rotten bark from a tree. He was once again the man of his youth, a knight of the Temple and servant of the War God, facing all the world could throw at him with the simple tools of his profession: a shield strapped to his left arm, an iron-studded maul clasped in his right hand, and a good sword stuck in his belt.
The blood pounded in his neck as he ran, mingling with the thunder of drums, the hiss of arrows, and the screams of wounded and dying, filling his mind with primitive war-delight. He saw Guillaume crash into the Pride like a one-man battering ram, knocking men over with his sheer bulk and smashing a great hole in their ranks. Howling his approval, Felipe followed in his comrade’s wake.
A half-stunned trooper, his snarling metal visage knocked askew, rose on one elbow and thrust his sword at Felipe’s legs. The Templar broke his arm with his maul, kicked him in the throat, and charged on, hunting for an officer to kill. He picked one out, a tall man, towering over his fellows, roaring at them to stand firm against the onslaught of foreign devils.
“Bastard!” roared Felipe, lunging towards him. The officer saw him coming and stood his ground, battle-axe raised, shield covering his body. Felipe smashed his maul down on the shield, raising splinters as he battered away, forcing his foe back. But the man wasn’t an officer in an elite regiment for nothing, and with a deft piece of footwork he was on the offensive, swinging his axe down between Felipe’s neck and shoulder. Felipe caught the blow on his own shield, grunting as the impact sent a thrill of pain through his entire right side, and grinned at a blow well struck.
Perhaps the War God was looking down after all, for at that moment a spray of blood and fragment of eyeball splattered across the officer’s visor, blinding him. Felipe was not a man to waste such gifts, and he brought his maul down onto the officer’s helmet with all the strength his jarred arm could muster.
The steel crumpled, as did the officer’s brain-pan, and the business end of the maul burst, leaving Felipe holding a broken bit of stick. Tossing it away, he drew his sword and looked around for more slaughter. He saw Jean, exchanging strokes with another of the lion-pelted officers, and a Northerner writhing on the greasy grass with an axe lodged in his breast. Felipe had a moment to inhale the sweet, thick smell of blood and terror, and then three troopers of the Pride were on him, seeking to avenge the death of their captain.
* * * *
Hoshea watched the bloody melee on the slope and felt nothing but disgust. “Damn you all,” he muttered to himself, “all you butchers and takers of life. Is this what we were created for, to rend each other like beasts in the field?”
However, this was no time for philosophy. General Saqr was still in a hopeless funk, drivelling and rubbing his face, and one of the foolish young office
rs was pawing at Hoshea’s arm.
“What do we do, lord?” he pleaded, “what do we do? The foreigners are outnumbered, they will be overwhelmed!”
That was the first time in his life anyone had called Hoshea a lord, and to his surprise he didn’t like it. “Send in the Reavers,” he ordered. It seemed the obvious and most sensible thing to do.
The young man saluted gratefully and sped away on his horse, heading for the knot of mounted officers in black armour waiting just behind the Reavers. A flurry of salutes, a few brief words, and then the officers wheeled away and bellowed at their trumpeters to sound the advance. The din of squealing brass split the air, joining the screams and clatter of steel. Hoshea winced at the noise as it reverberated inside his helmet, and his insides twisted into a knot as the black-armoured legion raised a great cheer and advanced.
With four simple words he had just sent hundreds of men to kill and be killed. The knowledge of what he had done filled him with sick horror. Hoshea knew it would never leave him, and he could do nothing to call them back. The Grim Reavers were already marching down the slope in fine order, halberds extended in a bristling wave, blood-red banners streaming overhead like the tears of an angel.
Another blast of trumpets, another rousing cheer, and the Reavers struck. Every man on the ridge watched in hope and trepidation as the wall of black halberds cleaved into the already tottering ranks of the Pride. The bloody banners dipped, the clash of steel and wails of men caught in the awful crush rose to an unbearable pitch, and Hoshea hardly dared to breathe.
7.
Felipe’s world was tainted with blood. It filled his mouth where a glancing blow had broken two of his teeth, it drenched his sword arm up to the wrist, and it covered his sword in a sticky sheen. It gushed from the wounds of the three men he had just killed, flowing in wine-dark rivulets over their twitching bodies. It hung in the air as a fine red mist, turning the thousands of struggling men on the slope into a mass of crimson-flecked savages.
The Templar wiped his face, blinking away the gore, and looked around for any sign of his comrades. He was heavy with sweat, his heart hammering too fast and his breathing too laboured. For a moment he was an old man, his body shaking with fatigue and screaming with the pain of old wounds.
In his moment of weakness Felipe saw a terrible thing. There was no sign of Jean, but a little further down the slope Guillaume was on his hands and knees, retching blood. His huge back was a mess of wounds and the broken-off remains of three spears protruded from his spine.
“Oh no,” Felipe mouthed, stumbling down the hill to help his comrade. Here was a curious lull in the fighting, and the noise of screaming and killing echoed distantly in his ears, as though happening a long way off. He tripped over a body and fell headlong, dropping his sword. Crawling, almost weeping, he groped his way to Guillaume and grasped his shoulder.
“Up, man,” he begged, “you can’t fall. You’re our rock. Nothing beats you down.”
Guillaume turned his head, revealing a face made ghastly by pain and loss of blood. His hands were clasped to his chest, red with the blood flowing from a wound made by a leaf-shaped dagger. The dagger was still stuck in him.
“My lung,” he mumbled, his words obscured as pinkish foam bubbled over his lips. “My lung is pierced. I am drowning. Help me, Felipe. I cannot drown.”
Felipe knew that the big man, so coarse and imperturbable in many ways, had always possessed a morbid fear of drowning. Drowning in water or drowning in his blood, what was the difference?
“I can’t,” said Felipe, shaking his head, “I can’t. Not you. Don’t ask me again.”
For the first and last time he saw Guillaume’s hard little eyes well up with tears. Choking and beyond speech, his hands clutched at Felipe in silent entreaty.
According to the law of the Temple, such a request from a brother knight could be refused once, but not twice. Steeling himself, Felipe looked around for a sword, and saw one of the leaf-shaped Temerian blades lying in the outstretched hand of a dead trooper.
He rose, picked up the sword and looked down at his dying comrade. The din of slaughter was growing louder, and in a moment he knew the battle would wash over him. Felipe ignored it. He felt numb, careless of his own safety.
With trembling, bloody fingers Guillaume tore at the mail coif that protected his throat, exposing the white flesh beneath. Without hesitation, Felipe knelt and stabbed. Once, twice. The huge body shuddered and was still.
He had no time to think about what he had done. As soon as he withdrew the blade a man ran past him, ungainly in his black armour, throwing away his halberd and shield as he ran. Felipe recognised him as one of the Reavers, and then more of them fled past, throwing away their weapons in panic and wrestling off their heavy ram’s-horn helmets.
Astonished, Felipe looked back up the slope and saw the entire left wing of the Reavers collapsing like a hollow heap of sand. From out of nowhere a flood of howling spearmen in white coats and red caps had appeared, bursting on their flank and rear. Engaged on all sides, even the Reavers couldn’t stand against such weight of numbers, and their disciplined line had shattered all to pieces.
Felipe gaped. What in the Hells had happened? Saqr’s left flank was protected by rows of trenches and stakes, and the mass of infantry behind them. There was no way Anma’s troops could have got past that little lot, unless…
* * * *
“Treachery,” groaned Hoshea. He blamed himself. As General Saqr’s private secretary, he was also the unofficial spymaster, and flattered himself that he was well informed on all the current intrigues. But here was one that had escaped him, and that lapse had resulted in catastrophe.
The left wing of Saqr’s army was commanded by a noble named Tiglath. He was a smooth and handsome piece of work on the cusp of middle age, considered a capable soldier and an affable dinner companion, but prone to corruption. Some years before Saqr had found him guilty of embezzlement and confiscated certain of his estates. Tiglath had bowed to his punishment with a smiling countenance, but underneath the good grace he had evidently been burning with rage, and waiting for just such an opportunity as this to have revenge.
Some prior arrangement must have been reached between Tiglath and General Anma, for when she unleashed her divisions of white-coated spearmen up the hill his own men did nothing to stop them. Instead they put down their weapons and helped their erstwhile enemies across the fortified ditches, then stood aside as the spearmen piled into the flank and rear of the Reavers.
Shouts from behind him alerted Hoshea to a fresh disaster. Twisting in his saddle, he saw the great mass of Saqr’s conscripts, hundreds of hastily drafted farm boys and civilians, casting down their spears and helmets and taking to their heels. They cascaded down the northern flank of the hill, obviously hoping to save their skins by splashing through the marsh and swimming the wide waters of the Nephrates beyond. A few of their officers tried to hold the fugitives back, lashing right and left with the flats of blades, and got trampled for their pains.
“Well, gentleman,” said Hoshea, turning to address the stricken faces of the general staff, “the situation is bleak. We are betrayed, outnumbered and overrun, and now our men are running away. I would welcome any intelligent suggestions.”
“One last charge,” cried a passionate young officer, his beard little more than downy fuzz, “we can still break them, or else make such an end that will live in song until the end of days!”
Hoshea sighed. “Intelligent suggestions, I said. Anyone who wishes to stay and die a foolish death may do so. Anyone with a scrap of sense and proper loyalty will help me get General Saqr safely off the field.”
* * * *
The Grim Reavers were finished as an organised fighting body; their line rolled up as their left wing crumpled, their centre and right smashed beyond repair. Here and there the bravest among them stood their ground and fought on with the fury of despair, singly or in little groups, but the majority had succumbed to panic. Mo
st fled mindlessly down the slope, where they were met by the rallied survivors of the Pride and their support detachments, the Cubs, all thirsting for blood.
Meanwhile the few remaining Northerners sold their lives dearly, stabbed and dragged down like defiant stags by swarms of white-coated spearmen. Felipe stood over Guillaume’s body and cut down any Temerian who came near it, friend or foe. He was past caring, and his only regret was that Fulk could not be among the men he slaughtered.
Fulk…if Felipe died here, there would be no-one left to oppose the Grand Master and that bitch he had taken into his bed, Edith. He had no idea if Jean lived or not, and the man would be no use on his own anyway. The Temple, for centuries the home of pure fighting men and women, would continue to slide into ruin and desecration. It would become the plaything of the sorcerer and his whore, and the remaining knights their slaves.
Felipe knew he would rather die than allow that to happen.
* * * *
When the demons known as the Lords of Hell created Fulk the No Man’s Son, fashioning his embryo from a lump of their life-giving clay, they also created a second embryo, a brother for him. This boy grew up in the steaming jungles south of the Girdle Sea, among the same warrior tribe, the Djanki, that Colken hailed from. The humans who believed him to be their son named him Naiyar, and for the first eighteen years of his life he was raised as a Djanki warrior, entirely ignorant of his demonic origin.
Fulk and Naiyar met only once, briefly, in the ancient tumbledown fortress known as Temple Rock. Then they went their separate ways: Fulk pursued his destiny as Grand Master of the Temple, while Naiyar chose to retreat from the world. Naiyar crossed the sea and returned south, to the temple of his jungle home, seeking the private place where his powers of sorcery could do no harm to the world. With him he took a woman named Kayla, once a Goddess of the Celestial Sphere, who had freely given up her godhead out of love for Naiyar.