John Marco - The Devil's armour

‘Why didn’t you leave?’

‘Leave the library, you mean?’ Van took a sip of his soup. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you were a mercenary. You didn’t have to stay, but you did.’

‘You didn’t have to stay either.’

Mirage looked away. Somehow, Van could tell she was thinking of Lukien. He waited before answering her question. The sounds of the distant drums filled the awkward void.

‘When I came here Breck showed me a tapestry,’ said Van. ‘You may have seen it.’

Mirage nodded. ‘I’ve seen it. The one with the old men.’

‘It’s called “The Scholars”,’ said Van. ‘Breck kept it because it represents what this place used to be, and what it might be again. Something bigger than ourselves, Mirage.’

She looked at him hopefully. ‘Do you believe that?’

Van sighed. ‘I do now. I didn’t always.’ He let his gaze linger on the dark hills filled with Norvans. ‘I don’t think we’re given life just to eat and gamble and make love. Sometimes our lives are a struggle. Sometimes we have to fight for things we care about.’ He looked back at Mirage. ‘That’s why I stayed.’

Mirage said nothing. She barely stirred. Van was glad she didn’t leave. With so little time left, he was glad to spend it with a pretty lady.

At dawn precisely, the Rolgan drumbeats ceased. Baron Glass sat atop his black stallion with the wind in his hair and listened to the silence. He watched the sun rise in the sky, noting the irony of its beauty and ignoring the anxious stares of the soldiers with him on the hillside. With the sunrise he no longer needed his helmet to see clearly. The meagreness of the Kothan defences were plain to him. Near the entrance to the city, Demortris had arranged his cavalry in long ranks, ten abreast, flanked by chariots from Poolv. Inside each chariot were two spearmen and a driver to steer the muscular team of horses. Backing up the ranks of cavalry stood brigade after brigade of infantry, mostly from Vicvar and Carlion, swelling the fields surrounding the city. It was, Thorin determined, a frightening vision, and he did not envy Breck for seeing it.

Down near the pillared gates, Lord Demortris sat atop his own horse, barely in view of Thorin, beneath his Rolgan banner. The Rolgan waited quietly for the order to attack. Beside Thorin, a signalman waited with a trumpet in his hand. He watched the baron curiously, wondering about the delay. Far away to the north Thorin saw Library Hill, defiantly appearing in the growing light. Like the city, the library was surrounded. In fact, Thorin realised, the library belonged to him already. He merely needed to pay for it with blood.

His aide, a colonel from Carlion named Thayus, waited patiently nearby, keeping his horse a pace away. After a moment more, Thorin turned to look at him.

‘Give the order,’ he said quietly.

Colonel Thayus nodded to the soldier with the trumpet. ‘Sound the attack.’

The soldier put the instrument to his lips and very deliberately shattered the morning’s peace. As he heard the piping notes, Baron Glass slipped his horned helmet over his head and watched as Demortris waved his men onward.

The note that came off the hillside sounded like a birdsong to Breck. He waited on his horse, sword in hand, five hundred feet from the entrance to the city, and listened for its aftermath. It came like thunder to his ears.

The column of men and chariots that had stayed so unmoving now came to life, snaking towards them. The march of countless infantry boots, all in unison, backed up the hooves of horses prancing forward and the mechanical squeal of chariot wheels crushing stone. The mass moved slowly at first, like a boulder rolling downhill, little by little picking up speed, aiming for the entrance to the city. The noise of it made Breck’s breastplate rattle. Beside him, Aric Glass had turned the colour of curdled milk. Breck doubted very much that he would live past the first assault. Once the Norvans broke the bottleneck near the pillars. .

Breck steeled himself, gripping his sword in a shaking fist. He was an old man now but today he felt young again, invigorated to have a battle on his hands. Next to him, Lukien sat like a metal god in his armour, his face hidden beneath his gleaming, golden helmet. His broadsword hung in his hand with almost casual grace. He did not look at Breck or utter a sound. His rigid body, like a coiled spring, trembled with energy. Behind them stood the Royal Chargers, taking strength from the Bronze Knight, ready to ride into the teeth of the Norvans.

Breck raised his sword slowly, a signal to Captain Aliston in the towers. Aliston’s archers, two hundred of them, aimed their longbows toward the coming enemy, waiting for the signal. Their brothers in the lower buildings crouched behind their crossbows, guarded by stone windows and overturned barrels. As the Norvans sped forward, Breck quickly lowered his sword.

‘Now, Aliston!’

Up in his tower, Captain Aliston shouted to his men. ‘Fire!’

A cloud of arrows darkened the sky as the longbows loosed their shafts. Projectiles arced upward, sailing toward the Norvans who raised their shields to deflect the storm. As the first volley landed among them, the air filled with the popping of wood and armour and the cries of those pierced by the arrows. Aliston’s archers drew back again, again firing at the coming army. An angry shout rang up from the Norvans as, undeterred, they galloped for the gates. The chariots thundered ahead, driven quickly by their four-horse teams. Breck could see them clearly now, churning up the earth as they hurried toward him. The crossbowmen readied their weapons, their fingers ready on the triggers. Breck and his men crouched in their saddles, ready to charge. Lukien, at their vanguard, raised his sword and wrapped the reins of his warhorse tightly around his golden gauntlet.

‘Aliston, the chariots!’ Breck shouted.

Aliston and his bowmen needed no reminding. As the first of the chariots neared the gates, Aliston called down to the crossbows, ordering them to fire. The powerful bolts shot forward, skimming across the avenue toward the horses and their drivers. The huge chariots made excellent targets. One by one the bolts found targets, smashing into the breasts of the beasts or the determined faces of the drivers, sending the war machines careening out of control. A horrible noise shook the street as the crossbowmen cocked back and fired again. Overhead the longbow shafts continued to fly, but down below the crossbow bolts did the damage, wreaking chaos on the chariots and the Rolgan cavalry. But the mass of men and wagons was endless, and for every one that fell another instantly took its place. Soon, Breck knew, they would breach the pillars and enter Koth. He turned back to look at his determined Royal Chargers.

‘Make ready,’ he told them. His men, their faces white with dread, prepared for his order. At the other end of the city, Captain Andri and his men had already engaged. Breck could hear the faint din of their battle over the roar of his own. He turned back toward the gates and watched the Norvans struggle into the avenue, falling over themselves in the storm of arrows and quickly piling bodies. A chariot had overturned near the gates, giving the bowmen time to reload. Aliston took quick advantage, directing his longbows toward the halted horde. The rain of arrows drove the Norvans backward, sending them tumbling from their rearing horses. The Rolgan commander under his flag slashed his sword in the air, screaming obscenely at his army to advance.

Breck knew the time had come. His whole body shook in angry terror. He glanced at Aric, whose frozen face stayed locked on the Norvan, then at Lukien, who turned to nod at him.