Rage of a Demon King (Serpentwar Book 3)

‘I see.’

 

 

Erik grinned. ‘You’re being polite. Let’s say that if I were on the other side, I’d use my cavalry in the middle, to screen and deliver cover fire, while I brought up my heavy infantry to attack just north of here.’ He pointed to a problem point in his defensive line, a modest gully where he hadn’t had enough time or materiel to build a proper defensive position. ‘If I could punch through there, then that motley army down there could pour through and wreak havoc’

 

‘Let’s hope they don’t think of it.’

 

‘They should,’ Erik said softly. ‘What I can’t fathom is why they don’t.’ Suddenly he said, ‘Send a message to Greylock, if you can. Tell him I think this massing here is possibly a feint to get us to concentrate our efforts, then spring an attack somewhere else along the line.’

 

The magician smiled, though he looked fatigued. ‘I’ll try.’

 

Erik didn’t wait to see if the magician was successful, but sent runners to the north, south, and east. After a few minutes, the magician shook his head and said, ‘I’m sorry, but I just can’t focus my will anymore.’

 

‘You’ve done enough. We’re pulling out tomorrow. I think it would be wise if you started toward the next defensive position to the east. If you leave now, you should reach a safe camp by sundown. Tell the quartermaster I authorized you be given a horse.’

 

‘I can’t ride. Captain.’

 

Erik looked over his shoulder. ‘Some sort of magic means to move quickly?’

 

‘No, I’m sorry to say.’

 

As trumpets blew down at the bottom of the hill, Erik said. Then I suggest you start walking and get as far as you can on foot. If you’re not near a friendly campfire, find someplace sheltered to hunker down. Sometime in the morning the wagon carrying the wounded will come past you; flag it down and get a ride. I’ll pass word to pick you up.’

 

‘Can’t I stay?’

 

Another trumpet blew and Erik drew his sword. ‘I wouldn’t advise it.’ As he turned away he said, ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

 

An arrow sped by overhead, a wild shot from someone below who was overanxious. Erik glanced over his shoulder and saw the magician running to the east with surprisingly renewed strength. Erik took the moment to indulge himself in a chuckle at the sight, then turned his attention to the bloody work ahead.

 

‘All right,’ he shouted. ‘Archers, pick your targets and wait until I give the order.’

 

A familiar voice came from behind as Sergeant Harper said, ‘Captain von Darkmoor, you’re forgetting yourself. If you don’t mind, sir?’ He turned and said, ‘First one of you mother-lovers who lets fly an arrow before I give the word’s going to have to run down there and fetch it back to me! Understood?’

 

Erik smiled again. He had never gotten the knack of being a proper bully sergeant and was pleased to have men like Harper, Alfred, and the others under his command.

 

Then the enemy came.

 

 

 

 

 

Erik welcomed the darkness. The enemy was retreating down the hillside, but had left his men in tatters. He had been wrong about the feint. The only reason he still held his position had been the enemy’s ineptitude. They had charged straight up the hill, into first the withering missile fire of the Kingdom’s archers, then a rain of the short, soft iron spears Erik’s commands had been training with since he had first come to serve Calis. Hundreds of the enemy had died for each yard traveled, and they had still reached only the first trench.

 

The defense had been a series of trenches and breastworks cut along the contours of the hillsides, and whatever natural slope of the landscape concentrated the attackers, there they found overlapping fields of missile fire waiting for them. When the survivors of the first wave reached the first breastwork, they found a highly banked, hard-packed earthen barrier, studded with sharp wooden spikes. The spikes caused little damage but forced the attackers to move slowly, making them easy targets for the defenders.

 

But they had come and kept coming. After the first hour, Erik felt as if he would never be able to raise his arms again, but still he had to fight on. During the fighting, someone - a squire or town boy, he didn’t know which - had come by with a bucket of water and handed him a tin ladle during a tiny lull. He had drunk it quickly, handing the ladle back to the boy, and resumed fighting a moment later.

 

For what seemed an eternity, Erik fought, striking down any head that appeared on the other side of the redoubt. Then the enemy was fleeing, unwilling to continue pressing the attack as the sun began to sink beyond the western horizon.

 

Raymond E. Feist's books