John Carr - Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

Phidestros lowered his head reflexively as the internal pounding rose in volume. By Styphon's Brass Balls, I wish I were down on that field bashing in someone else's brains, rather than making my head a battleground of thoughts.

Kalvan drew in a deep ragged breath. He was at the eye of the storm; all around him battle raged, but for the moment he was shielded by his Tymannian Guard and had his first opportunity in an hour to catch his breath. Halberds, poleaxes, glaives, bills and polearms of every description were tilling the human soil, spilling a river of blood and gore upon the ground. His arms were so numb from hacking at enemy foot soldiers that he couldn't trust them to re-load his pistols. Pistol, he should say. Somewhere in the heat of battle, he had thrown away or lost four pistols.

If that were all he lost today, it would be a miracle!

His left wing was in retreat, his right wing was lost, and meanwhile the center was getting the stuffing kicked out of it. He had heard that Rylla had re-joined the battle, but hadn't seen any sign of her. Their only hope was that Hestophes would return and save the day. Had he been a praying man, he would have fallen down upon his knees to Dralm for that miracle.

Suddenly there was a commotion and he saw a helmet-less Colonel Porthos trying to work his way through the tightly packed horses to his side. Kalvan helped by turning his own horse and pressing toward his aide.

When Porthos was within hailing distance, he began to shout. "Part of the enemy is breaking off the attack."

"Is it Captain-General Hestophes?"

"I don't know."

"Let's pray to Dralm that it is. Men, it's time to give our friends some help. Down Styphon! Down Styphon!"

A thousand voices quickly took up the chant. He took a moment to reload. Kalvan didn't know where he was, only that he was somewhere inside the Unholy Host. It reminded him of Fyk, the Dralm-damned Battle, where everyone was lost in the fog. Kalvan guessed it didn't matter where they struck so he pointed his pistol at the nearest concentration of Hos-Ktemnoi and shouted, "Charge!"

The troopers around him moved, sluggishly at first, but slowly picking up momentum. It's like fighting through quicksand! Kalvan thought. He just hoped Hestophes was somewhere on the other side of this mass of Ktemnoi billmen.

The Hostigi hit the Ktemnoi line like a bulldozer running into a stone wall. Suddenly, as the battle surged around him, Kalvan found himself at the front. He used his pistol at point-blank range to kill a Ktemnoi petty-captain, then drew his nicked and bloodied saber. One of the Ktemnoi recognized him, starting a counter-chant of "Kill Kalvan! Kill Kalvan!"

He looked all around for his Guardsmen. Within an instant, Kalvan found himself fighting half-a-dozen billmen and musketeers for his life. He slashed one in the face, opening the cheek to the bone beneath, and chopped off a falling billhead. Then a bill sliced through his guard and he felt it slash through his steel tasses and cotton breeches into the muscle underneath. A groan slipped through his teeth. He could feel sharp, hot pain, wetness on his right thigh. His head grew light.

Kalvan grabbed on to the pommel with all his strength; if he fell right here he would be finished. Then what would happen to Rylla, his daughter, Ptosphes, and so many friends? As if the enemy sensed his weakness, the attack against him grew in fury. It was all he could do to beat off the falling billheads and swords. Then he was propped up from behind by a hand so strong it could only belong to Vanar Halgoth.

The rest of his Tymannian Guard raced to his side, many diving off their horses to fight their enemy on foot with their axes. The billmen scattered before their concentrated fury. The enemy pulled back and Kalvan found he could breathe again, but his head was growing lighter…

Suddenly, he began to fall. It was only Vanar's grip that kept him from falling to the ground.

"The Great King's hurt! We must get him to safety."

Kalvan tried to straighten up. "It's just a flesh wound!" His breeches were soaked with blood, but the bleeding appeared to have been staunched-for the moment. He still felt lightheaded, but he could ride.

"Vanar, I need to get back to the top of the ridge so I can see the course of the battle. Can you get me there?"

"Of course, Your Majesty. And kill more of Styphon's servants on the way."

Syllon took a moment to catch his breath and drink some warm wine from his flask. He was in a little pocket a ways back from the front line. He had someone's red sash wrapped around his head; his morion was long lost. He had lost his helmet when he was struck in the head.

He was still dizzy when he moved too quickly, but that didn't happen often on this impossibly crowded and blood-soaked ground. He knew he'd come close to death when he'd been struck by a warhammer. He remembered a vision of blinding light and something about Galzar's Great Hall- but already the memory was fading. It was good; men weren't supposed to know their gods' will.

If the battle current hadn't passed away from him, he might have been trampled or had his throat slit by Sastragathi robbers or Harphaxi camp followers. Whether or not he had visited Galzar's Hall, he owed the War-god his life and he would make the proper sacrifices at the next temple he visited.

Once again Syllon began to move in the press of bodies. He realized the movement away from the frontline was like a slow river current; you could push against it, but it would still have its way. The entire Hostigi center was moving back up the hill, pressed upon the front and both sides by the Grand Host. The guns were silent; the smaller ones had been moved while the bigger ones were spiked or now in the hands of the godless Styphoni.

A few Hostigi had broken ranks and tried to run, but they were shot dead by their fellow soldiers. Better a bullet from a friendly gun than the agony of the red-hot branding iron of the Holy Investigation of Styphon's House. It wasn't just former Captain-General Harmakros' warning either; it was the stories everyone had heard from the refugees fleeing Beshta and Sashta that had convinced every man jack of the Hostigi Army that if they broke formation they would die-and die horribly. "No quarter, no mercy from Styphon's House!"

Galzar the Wargod and Judge, despite his vision, was not at Ardros Field today!

His arquebus was a memory, but Syllon carried a pistol he'd ripped out of the hands of a dead Harphaxi cavalryman. What he needed was a pike! He searched the battleground, careful to maintain his footing. The dead and the wounded covered the ground like rusty autumn leaves.

At last, he spotted an unbroken pike, dropped by one of the Nostori soldiers. He held the ash stock lovingly; it was as smooth as his wife's cheek.

Syllon raised the pike to high port and began to push his way to the front. Other pikemen in Nostori green and black saw him and followed his lead. A few musketeers dropped their muskets to pick up abandoned Harphaxi and Hostigi pikes.

One of the petty-captains took up the cry, "Hedgehog! Pikes forward!" Other captains joined the cry.

Soon the pikes reached the front of the battle-line, forming at first one thin rank, then two and suddenly three and four ranks. The arquebusiers and riflemen began to fill the files. A huge grin split Syllon's face. This was the natural order of warfare.

"Pikes down!"

A group of Harphaxi lobsters, in three-quarters armor, slowed as their horses fell back from the sudden forest of pikes. Several of them were shot out of their saddles by the riflemen in the files. Syllon pushed his pike head into the face of an unarmored horse, which reared up and threw an arquebusier off his saddle. After a short pause, the line started to fall back again, but this time it was at a measured cadence-the Styphoni press had relaxed.