William King - The Serpent Tower

A chaotic tone entered the sounds of distant bugles. Rik heard the charge of the Talorean cavalry sound off in the distance. That was strange, he thought, how had they got there? Then he remembered they had been dispatched east in the morning. They must have crossed the bridge and turned north and then west. The besiegers were caught in the claws of a pincer.

Surely now, the Taloreans must have overwhelming force, Rik thought. Surely now the battle must be decided. The obscuring smoke made it difficult to tell.

Sardec slashed the screaming soldier across the face with his hook. Only then did he realise it was one of his own men. In the madness of the melee, the wounded Forager had lashed out at him with a bayonet. Maybe it was not an accident, Sardec thought. Maybe he had known all along he was striking an officer, perhaps settling an old score. He was saved from having to decide whether the man should be court-martialled when a bayonet ripped through the human’s chest and he fell to his knees.

A monstrous ripjack wyrm loomed out of the dust and smoke. Its great jaws snapped so close to Sardec’s face that he could smell the rotting meat tang of its breath. Ferocious rage and hatred showed in its tiny mad eyes. Round its neck was a jewelled collar. The gem glowed in such a way that Sardec knew that there was an enemy officer somewhere nearby controlling it with a Leash.

Sardec rammed his hook into the creature’s mouth. The jaws slammed shut. The wyrm hissed in rage at the strange taste of the thing in its mouth. God, but the beast was strong. It moved its head and Sardec’s arm was nearly torn from its socket. Sardec smashed it in the face with his pistol butt. The wyrm let him go. More by accident than design Sardec got the tip of his hook into the creature’s eye. He drove it deeper into the jelly until it pierced the creature’s tiny brain. It died with a hiss, not a whimper.

A man in the furs of a trapper with a blue scarf wrapped around his throat glared at Sardec in triumph. Sardec lunged at him with the butt of the pistol. He held it by the still-warm barrel now, using its weighted grip as a club. The man let go of his rifle and leapt back, whipping out a long skinning knife. His smile widened. Sardec’s heart sank. This man undoubtedly knew how to use this weapon.

He came forward now, poised on the balls of his feet, confident of the kill. Sardec raised his hook and gestured for him to advance. There was still blood on it. The man flinched at the sight, which struck Sardec as unusual, then the trapper stiffened and fell, and the Lieutenant saw the bayonet protruding from his side. Sergeant Hef grinned his monkey grin up at Sardec, removed the bayonet, and then paused.

“Sounds like we’ve got company, sir,” he bellowed. “Steady, lads! Steady! Reinforcements are here!”

There was no way of telling whether what the Sergeant was saying was true but it was the right thing to say at this moment. Their own men took heart and fought with renewed fury. The men who moments ago had been so daringly leaping over the barriers now look scared and panicky.

Sardec listened and heard the blowing of bugles and the sound of wyrms. Perhaps they belonged to Azaar’s army, but at this point he realised that it did not matter. Whether the newcomers were friend or foe, his own men could not hold their embattled position for more than a few more minutes. He came to a decision.

What was important now was what the men believed, not what was true. As far as he was concerned those soldiers out there had to be on their side. He forced a confident smile on to his face, and shouted; “The Sergeant is right lads. Just a few more minutes and we’ll show these traitor bastards what for!”

Almost to his surprise, his words gave the Foragers more heart even than the Sergeant’s. A strange pride filled Sardec that they should have such faith in him. He forced his aching weary body forward, brandishing his pistol like a battle banner.

Just as surprising was the change that had come over his foes. A few moments ago they had been attacking like rabid wolverines. Now they seemed stunned. A man emerging from the smoke stood like an ox in an abattoir as Sardec pole-axed him with his pistol butt. Others began to throw down their weapons, as the contagion of panic spread. Here and there, Sardec could hear officers and Sergeants shouting and trying to keep their foes steady, but their words had a panicked quality that just added to the confusion. Sardec heard his own voice roaring and shouting mad exhortations, and he was not sure whether it held the exultation of victory or simply the relief of pent up fear of failure.

He stuck the pistol in the waistband of his britches, and stooped to pick up the long sword of a fallen enemy officer. Brandishing it left-handed he roared at his men to stand firm, to hold on, to reach out and seize victory. In his heart, his most fervent wish was that he knew what was really going on out there.

The wyrm’s rolling stride faltered for a minute. Something crunched under its enormous paw. Rik looked down and saw the flattened, broken-backed body of a man flopping behind him. Weasel’s musket banged near his ear. Rik turned and saw the former poacher reloading, calm as a man out pheasant shooting, not standing on the back of a huge beast as it forged its way across a battlefield, crushing their enemies under foot.

From their position on the creature’s back, Rik caught odd glimpses of the battle. He could peer down across some of the ridges, see into the gaps the breeze tore in the smoke clouds. Over to the right a cluster of men tore at each other with bayonets and swords, their faces demon masked by fury and fear, their teeth powder blackened. In front of them a wyrm brushed its way through the heavy cavalry horses like a man pushing through a crowd of beggar children. Behind them, the waters of the ford were stained with the blood of man and beast.

Asea looked around feverishly. Her silver mask mirrored the emotion of her face. There was a contained excitement in her manner that told Rik that in some way she was enjoying this. Perhaps it was the risk, he thought. Perhaps the fact that she might be hit by a stray ball and thus end her immortal life, added a spice that was normally missing from her days. Or perhaps it was something else entirely, some strange alien emotion that she had brought from her far home world, that he would never understand.

On the back of this huge beast, as part of a force that was so obviously overwhelming the enemy, he had no sense of personal risk, although he knew that there must still be some. He could feel the thrill of victory with far less fear than he normally felt. It was somehow less satisfying, but, if truth were told, it was enough for him at the moment.

He could see that everywhere the Taloreans were victorious. There was something about their manner, the way they moved and the way they acted, that said they were men conscious of their superiority, and certain of triumph. They had the confidence to stand their ground in the face of inevitable casualties, a confidence that was swiftly being leeched from their foes.

Rik understood why. In a few minutes the enemy had seen their positions reversed. They had gone from being the encircling army, attacking with overwhelming advantage, to being in the position they had thought their foes were in. It was the sort of psychological change that could spell disaster for an army, unless its commanders were better leaders than their foes appeared to be.

Here and there knots of men had already thrown down weapons. Others were running for the woods, or shouting for help or their mothers.

“It’s over,” said Asea, with utter certainty and not a little spite in her voice. “Let’s hope there’s somebody up there to be relieved.