Act of Will

SCENE XXVIII



Chaos

We heard the raiders before we saw them: They came charging in through the mist, loosing arrows that flashed out of nowhere and streaked like sparks into the open wagons. They appeared only for a moment, their crimson cloaks whipping about them, their faceless, bronze helms crested with scarlet horsehair. Their bows were drawn again almost as soon as the first arrows left their hands. They aimed and shot in a single motion as their horses pounded the earth beneath them. Our soldiers fell back with terror as the crimson specters materialized, loosed their arrows, and wheeled away. Then there was a moment of stillness, a shocked hole in the morning.

The silence was filled by the groans of the injured or dying. Officers cried out to regroup or extinguish the flames, and the panic-stricken infantry shot bows and crossbows blindly into the mist, hitting nothing. Then came the drumming of hooves and the cry of realization as they came again, the scarlet soldiers shooting their flaming arrows.

They never came within more than thirty or forty feet of the spear line, but by the end of their second assault I could see seven or eight of our men dead or close to it and one wagon already well ablaze. Mithos was screaming for crossbowmen and lining them up behind the kneeling rank of spears. Renthrette joined him and they stood at either end of the line, their bows drawn back and ready.

There could be no more than a couple of dozen raiders attacking, but their skill and training made each of their men worth several of ours. Mithos ordered our cavalry back and out of danger. The blond officer protested angrily, then wheeled his horse with contempt and rode it back to the blue-cloaked horsemen. I heard him calling to them, saw the light on his raised saber again, and thought vaguely about how noble and courageous he seemed. Mithos was crouching with the archers. I think I called something encouraging out to the cavalry officer, but I’m not sure.

They came as before and their arrows rattled into the wagons like burning hail. Two more infantrymen fell before Mithos gave the order to shoot.

The heavy crossbows jolted in the inexpert hands of the infantry and several bolts flew wide, but there was also a staggered smack as some found their targets, and two of the crimson-cloaked horsemen fell. A great chestnut stallion, a jet of blood shooting from where a bolt had pierced its neck, stumbled and crashed down, casting its rider over its head and pinning him to the earth. The others reined their mounts and turned them about, their order momentarily broken. A shout of triumph rose up from the spear line.

The young cavalry officer roared something at Mithos and spurred his horse through the spears, his sword lifted high above his head. Without waiting to see who followed him, he galloped after the raiders. About thirty horsemen went after him, through the ruptured spear line, vengeful elation in their raised voices and lowered lance heads. Mithos, his arms spread wide, shouting incoherently, tried to bar their path, but they brushed him aside and he fell into the ditch. I was running towards the infantry, who now stood cheering their comrades on, when I saw the fear in Mithos’s eyes as he stumbled to his feet. Dimly, I realized that he was listening.

I stopped running as all about me fell simultaneously still. There were horses coming from the north. A lot of them.

Through the mist we could just make out the blue and silver of the cavalry as the raiders they chased slowed and turned to face them. Then we saw the others, fifty or more of them, their scarlet and bronze blurring through the fog as they bore down on the Grey-coast cavalry. The raiders hit them side-on at unbearable speed. I doubt that the young officer knew they were there till he felt the tip of a lance tear through his side.

I was close to Mithos now and I saw him wince as the two forces clashed, the blue swept aside by the crimson. He watched, unflinchingly, trying to piece together the carnage that the mist veiled. Then came a sound from our ranks: slow, horrified disbelief, like the gasp that ripples round a theatre audience, stupidly amazed.

Lisha appeared among us.

“Where’s Garnet?” she demanded. Mithos didn’t respond, so she seized his arm and shook him.

“Where’s Garnet? Mithos! Did he go with them?”

In a dazed tone, his eyes still staring towards the sounds of clashing steel and shouts of pain, he said softly, “Yes. Yes, I think so. I didn’t see him go, but I think he did.”

Lisha turned away and shouted, “Renthrette! Get the rest of the cavalry together and take them to the rear of the column. The raiders will come back and I want what’s left of the cavalry to hit their flank. Orgos, get that spear line together. Now! Will, get down here and make sure every crossbow is loaded and ready. Then help me get these archers into a line behind them. Shoot over the top and bring the horses down. If we hold out against the first wave, I want the spear line to advance and deal with the fallen enemy. Orgos, are you listening?”

She turned back to Mithos and he nodded once and began calling orders to the spear company. Orgos threaded himself through the line, hurriedly repositioning hand grips and adjusting shield straps. Lisha watched Mithos for a split second and then leapt onto her horse.

“Will,” she said, “take care of the archers and crossbowmen.”

“Me?”

She kicked at the stallion’s flanks so that it shuddered away. I turned to the frightened archers and waved them into a line behind the spears. The crossbowmen bent double over their weapons, drawing back the slides and fitting bolts with their free fingers. They were about ready when the sound of hooves set us staring into the soft, dreadful greyness ahead.

Before the riders emerged it was clear that there weren’t many of them. There were in fact four, in ragged blue cloaks, with their weapons shattered and their eyes mad. Garnet was with them. He tore the helm from his head and gasped the air as he rode. His shield was splintered and the left side of his face was covered with blood. He raised his ax for us to see but there was no pride or joy in his eyes. He looked numb with shock, almost lifeless. Afraid.

The infantry watched them as if they were ghosts. Close by, somebody began to weep. The four cavalrymen stopped and stared about them, unsure of what to do next.

“Join the cavalry at the back,” shouted Mithos. They passed outside the spear line to where Renthrette and Lisha were silently walking the remaining horsemen away from the caravan, into the misty field. Mithos turned, and for a moment, his eyes met mine. No expression showed in his face. I smiled despite myself and longed to be elsewhere.

“Stand firm, Will,” said Orgos darkly as he passed, reading my thoughts.

For a minute or two there was silence. The soldiers around me shifted uncomfortably, their nervousness increasing. Then Mithos called, “They are coming! Crossbows to the front.”

I pushed forward through the double ranks of spears and the others followed me. We found ourselves on the front line at the edge of the road, nothing between us and the lines of shadowy crimson horsemen. I turned to Mithos in alarm. “We’re all going to die,” I whispered.

The words just came out: Honest. Scared.

“Quiet, Will,” he answered, quickly, without looking at me. “They will charge any moment now: try to break the line by hitting us directly. When they are in range, shoot. Then drop into the ditch and let the spearmen advance over you.”

I think he was going to say more, but the mist suddenly thinned and a gasp of dismay slid out of our troops. The enemy were trotting towards us, no more than 150 yards away now, in a long, tight line. Their horses were calm and massive, their lances raised like a thicket of steel. Even at this range you could see their uniform bronze-faced helms: a true army.

I looked for the remains of our cavalry but they were nowhere to be seen. The line of crimson-cloaked soldiers kept coming. God, there were a lot of them. Seventy or more. Half of our sixty cavalry were dead and the rest were gone with Lisha and Renthrette. I stood with seven other crossbowmen in front of about sixteen spearmen and nine or ten archers. We didn’t have a chance, but the raiders weren’t going to give us an option.

And I think it was then that I noticed that one of the raiders was different from the rest. His bloodred helm was topped with a pair of horns, and his cloak looked heavy, like it was made of fur lined with crimson silk. He carried something that might have been a spear or a staff of some kind, and he never moved at all.

With a breath of quiet resolve they surged towards us. Mithos yelled the order and there was a thin swish of bows from behind me. Still they came on, their steeds churning the grass as they galloped on. None fell to the arrows. I held up my hand. A second pattering of arrows flew overhead and fell harmlessly behind them. In four or five seconds they had halved the distance between us.

Wait. Wait.

“Shoot!” I shouted. I shot for the neck of a white charger with a cloak of crimson over its leather barding. It shuddered as the bolt struck home and dropped to its knees, but the rider slid easily from the saddle and drew out his scyax. Mithos grabbed my shoulder and thrust me to the earth. I didn’t even see how many we’d brought down. Not many, I think. We fell on our faces in the drainage ditch and the spearmen stepped over us.

My hands fumbled for the crossbow slide and began tugging it back. The sound of the horses grew deafening. Through the legs of the spearmen I saw their speed break as they hit the embankment and a couple of them stumbled. The horses lurched up the grassy slope and, refusing to go further, boiled around the spear line. I saw one horse, unable to halt its advance, lunge and spit itself upon a spear, falling only a couple of feet away from where I crouched. The spearman in front of me suddenly cried out and fell heavily, blood gurgling from his lips. He wasn’t the only one.

The raiders pulled back. I suppose the order to advance was given before they realized how large a hole gaped in our poor defenses. I think six or seven of our spearmen had fallen and the line no longer really existed. As the raiders drew away I could see the vast hulks of their dead horses. We had killed only two of the raiders themselves.

“Draw your swords,” shouted Mithos. The enemy were dismounting, unwilling to force their reluctant mounts on our meager spear line. They were coming on foot, grimly, deliberately, with their huge, cruel-headed scyaxes sparkling coldly in their hands. There were so many of them, it seemed madness to resist but, knowing what would surely happen if we attempted to surrender, I finished cocking my crossbow and struggled to my feet.

Vaguely I smelled the sour smoke of two wagons blazing at the front of the convoy and, with a defiant cry, aimed and shot at the advancing line. The bolt struck one of them in the head, rang out sharply, and glanced away. He paused for a second and came on. Terrified, I reached for my sword.

Orgos was beside me, his twin swords with their fine long blades held out before him. On my left a soldier dropped his spear and fled, crying bitterly. With murderous calm the enemy clambered up the embankment to where we waited. When the first man reached the top, Orgos cried out and fell on him. Mithos followed suit and a handful of others lunged and slashed inexpertly with their swords. More raiders pressed around us. I stabbed at one and he parried it easily. A young infantryman fell to a scyax beside me and his hot blood splashed across my arms.

That was enough for me.

I moved back from the fray as Orgos’s inspired blades swept a bronze head from its shoulders and then turned to fend off the strokes which fell upon him from all sides. I ran, turning to watch only when I was safe behind the heavy wheel of one of the wagons. My hands shaking worse, I fumbled with my crossbow and wondered if I could catch one of the stray horses and make a run for it.

Then out of the mist came the remnants of our cavalry with Garnet at the head, Lisha and Renthrette on the flanks. The Grey-coast lancers hit the dismounted raiders in the flank, stunning them with the impetus of the wild charge. For a moment the tide changed and several of the enemy fell. But the advantage was lost as soon as the enemy got over the surprise. Then they turned to face the cavalry, some of them hacking at the horses to stop the advance while the rest retreated to their mounts.

What was left of our spear line broke rank and plunged down the embankment after them. There was a familiar flash of amber light, and the raiders seemed to slow, unsure of where they were or what they were doing. And out among them, leading the charge, was the source of the fiery flash, Orgos. He was a demon. Of the dozen or so men the raiders lost that day, I think Orgos killed half of them. Mithos ran with him and Garnet harried them from the saddle, his ax tracing wide and brutal arcs. I crept out from behind the wagon and stood up to watch.

It couldn’t last. The raiders shrugged off our inexperienced infantry and, by sheer weight of numbers, put us on the defensive again. A crossbowman was hacked down beside Mithos and the last of the spearmen turned tail and fled towards the wagons. The raiders went after them, though they shied away from Mithos and Orgos, the only ones still standing firm.

“Fight me, damn you!” roared Orgos.

He leapt into the mass of bronze-and-crimson warriors with Mithos at his heels. Garnet’s horse ploughed into the enemy and he leapt from it, swinging his ax as he dived. I caught a glimpse of Renthrette trading blows with two of them. There were dozens more. Absolute victory was theirs, but the party fought them still.

Then I saw Lisha. She stood apart, watching as the last of our men fell to the scyaxes. There were only two or three of our escort still fighting and the muddy earth was thick with corpses swathed in royal blue cloaks. Still, Lisha dug her heels into the glossy flanks of the black warhorse called Tarsha and crashed into the throng of the enemy.

“No!” I shouted.

The battle was lost. She heard me and for a split second her eyes found me out, oblivious to the plunging and stamping of her battle-trained stallion. Then she raised her black-shafted spear and struck downwards. There was a bluish spark like a small lightning storm, and a thunderous roar. I stared, astonished. Two raiders fell before her, and Tarsha’s hooves rained down upon them. The rest of them parted before her in confused panic as she made her way to where the remainder of our company stood: Orgos and Mithos with their blades outstretched daring the enemy to attack, Garnet and Renthrette bleeding but angrily defiant, and two or three tattered soldiers from Greycoast, the last of our hundred-man escort. They gathered about Tarsha’s steaming sides, and Lisha, her black hair spilling from her helm, looked sternly about her. I was pretty sure that sixty or more of the enemy remained, but only a couple of dozen were visible. The others had melted away in the mist, and that could mean only one thing: They were about to attack again.

It was now or never.

I slipped between the wagons and started to head in the opposite direction, hoping to lose myself in the misty fields till it was over. Then I could get a horse and head north. My adventuring days were done.

“Where shall we stand, sir?”

It was one of the Greycoast spearmen, who had recognized me. He had retreated to the wagons, to hide, probably, but now he had regained his laughable courage. He wasn’t alone, either. There were five or six others, one with a horse and a couple with bows, all clinging to the shelter of the wagons but now watching me expectantly.

“Do what you like,” I muttered, clambering over a dead horse to the far side of the road.

“Sir?” said the soldier.

“Be heroic,” I muttered sarcastically. “Charge!”

“That way, sir?” said the bewildered soldier, squinting out into the misty emptiness where I was heading and then glancing back to where Mithos and the rest stood, squared for the final, inevitable assault on the other side.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Definitely this way, if you value your skins.”

With that I started to run into the mist where it was densest, getting as far away from the wagons and the battle as I could. The few remaining stragglers ran after me, though God alone knew what they thought they were doing. Distantly I heard Orgos shouting at the enemy back there, but I ran on, gasping for breath, my heart thudding against my ribs, no thought in my head but escape.

Then the wind gusted, and everything changed.

The mist ahead shifted. It rippled clear for a moment and I saw the scarlet cloaks of forty men no more than ten yards away. They were dismounted, getting ready for a quiet attack on the rear that would wipe out the survivors. I would have sworn they hadn’t been there only seconds before, but they were there now, and I had run right into them.

I froze. The heavy mist was coursing back into place all around us. They obviously hadn’t seen me, and with care I might still slip by them and make a run for it. I was considering how I might do this when one of the infantrymen who had “fled” with me ran blindly into my back. I fell forward with a startled cry and, as I hit the ground, my temperamental crossbow went off. There was a shout of pain as one of the raiders twisted to the ground clutching his abdomen, and then a stuttering and scattered shout as the half-dozen men who had followed me pitched their spears and shot their bows.

The raiders were, of course, in no real danger. They were, however—perhaps for the first time in their savage career—taken completely off-guard. They weren’t ready to fight and they didn’t know whom they were fighting, where the enemy were, or how many they numbered. One horse fell, maybe more, and one of the Grey-coast troops got in close enough to lunge his spear into the stomach of one of the unwary raiders. No more than shadow figures in the thick mist, the raiders stumbled about in the confusion, trying to get back into their saddles, calling out to each other and nervously watching for their equally shadowy attackers. A few more arrows fell amongst them and I heard another shout of pain. I don’t know if they lost any others, but I do know that in seconds they were gone: mounted and fled.

“Brilliant!” said one of the spearmen, wheezing heavily.

“What?” I gasped, still lying on the damp ground.

“That was a stroke of tactical genius,” he said as the others gathered about us, exhausted and beaming. “And real courage,” he went on. “It’s an honor to serve under you, sir.”

With that commendation and a grin of triumph, they hurried back to the wagons for more. I sat there in the mud for a moment and then, very slowly, followed.

By the time I found my way back to the road the survivors had gathered with the party. The raiders stood a hundred yards away, regrouped and orderly, though somehow you could tell that there was to be no final attack. I slipped in amongst the party, hoping that as Mithos’s name had saved me in the burning village, so his presence would now. We stayed where we were, conscious of the wagons smoking behind us but staring at the crimson, faceless line.

And then the raider with the horned helm and the staff finally moved, raising his arms in some grand gesture. The staff traced a slow circle in the air and, as the raiders began to walk their mounts away, I had the odd impression that the mist was getting thicker around them. Only a solitary officer, distinguishable by the lateral plume across his helm, paused and looked back at us before he too pulled his horse around and rode slowly away into the mist. He seemed to fade as the fog thickened, and then they were gone.