Terry Simpson: The Shadowbearer

At the rear of the infantry, the small complement of bowmen stepped forward. They drew fletchings to ears. Bows twanged and arrows loosed.

Stefan’s gaze followed the flight of the Setian arrows. As expected, they fell woefully short. No man could fire as far as the Astocans with the monster bows they wielded. A derisive cheer rose from the Astocan legions. Stefan smirked.

“Slow forward,” Stefan said to Kasimir and Garrick arrayed on either side of him.

With nods, they called out the order. The Setian heavy foot surged ahead, a step at a time. Their boots drowned out all else.

Across the plain, in numbers like swarming brown ants, the leather-clad Astocans dispatched their infantry. Their cavalry spread to their flanks, lances upright, tassels blowing in the wind. Mounted bowmen moved among them. Stefan gave a wry smile. Renowned for their horseback archery, the large Astocan warriors could deftly handle their mounts while firing their oversized bows with deadly precision. The sight was a thing of beauty … or terror.

“Have the drays follow.”

This time, there was no trumpeting the command. Bannermen brandished the Setian flags in a complicated pattern. The images of a forest with a quake splitting it down the middle swirled with the movements.

Each pulled by a pair of huge, tan-skinned Cardian slaves, the drays trundled forward. The two-wheeled, flat bed carts followed in the paths created by the infantry. The thin, gill-like slits on each side of the Cardians’ necks flared open and closed with their exertion. Two Setian soldiers-the operators-followed behind every dray.

Scorpios sat atop each dray, positioned between the wheels. The weapons measured five-feet from their front to the end of their loading chambers. They were in essence massive crossbows with arms twice as long across. With two thousand scorpios at his disposal, the Astocans stood little chance. Stefan had hoped he wouldn’t need to resort to their use today, but their general had rebuffed any further attempts to parley.

“You wish to speak, Cerny?” Stefan said to the red-faced Knight General. Why had King Nerian chosen to send this buffoon with his message? The man couldn’t lead a horse to a trough. Kissing the King’s ass does have its benefits, he supposed.

“Why would you risk getting your men wounded by moving closer to the Astocans?” Cerny said in a huff. “You will not be able to reach them with your bowmen. Why use them anyway? You have the scorpios.”

Stefan preferred not to waste his time or breath, but he still spoke. His answer might shut Cerny up. Gods knew he couldn’t stand the man’s mouth. “The Astocans are overconfident. They believe if they make us work, that by the time we engage, our men will be tired from marching in heavy plate armor. Add that to the wounded, and they think-”

“The armor is imbued,” Cerny blurted, hairless brows rising. “It weighs no more than leather. And their arrows will not penetrate unless they get lucky.”

“The Astocans know this how?” Stefan tilted his head toward Cerny. Explaining himself was a chore he’d rather not take up with the man, but he did so nonetheless. “They will continue to fire, maybe even take out a few slaves, thinking they have the advantage as we advance. In close combat, their general believes he can win because of the strength kinai gives them. Against lesser forces? Yes … but my men have had their fill of kinai juice as well. Their stamina is beyond what General Dedrick expects. I’ll allow him to feel he can milk their superior range while we draw closer. By the time the scorpios begin, it will be too late for them to retreat.”

“You’re going to force them to charge,” Cerny said, eyes widening.

Stefan gave a slight nod then resumed his attention of his army’s advance.

The Knight Captains bellowed orders. Accordingly, the rearmost shieldbearers paused for the drays to catch up. They aligned themselves next to the wagonbeds in order to protect the slaves against a possible Astocan volley.

Again the buzz rose, the sky darkened, and a hail of arrows fell. Shafts landed among the drays in greater concentration. The Setian soldiers raised shields to protect not only themselves but also the Cardian slaves closest to them. The scorpio operators had their own shields on each dray, and they raised them as well. In some spots, a slave fell, an arrow protruding from his body. When the sky once again lightened, slaves in reserve dashed forward to replace their fallen comrades.

“Cavalry to the wide flanks,” Stefan ordered.

“Hmmm,” Kasimir mused, “you think we’ll need them?”

“I doubt it, but one can never be too certain.”

In response to the horns blaring the new order, several Knight Captains flapped their reins and detached themselves from the long line of horsemen stretching to Stefan’s left and right. Their men followed hard on their heels as they rode toward the battlefield’s eastern and westernmost edges.

The Astocans deployed more men to the wide flanks to outmatch any numbers Stefan produced. Good, maybe I can save some of you.

He judged the distance between his infantry and theirs. “Five hundred feet. Sound the last command for the men to prepare.”

The call went out. Now, it was a simple matter of waiting for the battle to unfold. Despite the certainty that he already knew the outcome, a slight tingle of fear and anticipation ran through Stefan’s body as the space between the armies closed.

“Four hundred and fifty feet or there about,” Knight General Garrick said, a smile splitting his square face, his dark eyes twinkling.

Kasimir grunted his agreement. “No turning back for them now.”

“Nope.” Garrick’s amusement grew to a toothy grin.

The roar and rumble of sixty thousand Astocans became thunderous. Their cavalry wheeled as if to begin their charge.

A feint.

“S-Sir,” Cerny said, his voice shaky, sweat beading his brow. “Shouldn’t you respond with our cav-?”

“And waste good horses to their mounted archers?” Stefan wrinkled his face in distaste at Cerny’s suggestion. After a deliberate shake of his head, he refocused on his men.

“Watch and learn a thing or three,” Garrick added as flippant as ever.

The Cardian slaves ran to the sides of each dray and began to work. There was the clack, clack, clack of winches being turned, closely followed by the grind of metal gears. The drays, with one operator on top, elevated another few feet. Within moments, two thousand scorpios were primed and ready.

The scorpio operators cranked the winches that drew the bowstring back into firing position. Once secure, they fed the large, steel-tipped bolts into the sliding chambers and declared their readiness.

Standard-bearers waved their flags all along the ranks.

A simultaneous twang followed as the scorpios fired. Indiscernible blurs in their flight, the bolts ripped into the Astocans.

The precision was uncanny. The majority struck true, punching through armor, flesh, and bone like paper. Blood sprayed. Men and horses screamed.

Within the first minute, a second and a third salvo ensued. If a bolt struck a man on horseback, it threw him from his mount. Those on foot simply crumbled before their brethren trampled them.

Two-handed great swords brandished, the Astocans’ pace began to increase in tiny increments. Behind their ranks, the drumbeats also sped up.

Stefan’s army advanced at an almost leisurely rate, one pronounced step at a time.

The air hummed with another flight of death from the scorpios.

Soon the Astocans were trotting. A horn blew from among them. The drums rose to an incessant roll, unfaltering. A roar went up from the enemy ranks, and their speed increased to a sprint. The cacophony of the Astocan charge-hooves, boots, rolling drums, screams, and shouts rolled across the plain in a living wave.