William King - The Serpent Tower

All around them soldiers moved through the woods. Most of the companies moved in column along the narrow path. Long lines of light infantry threaded their way through the trees on either side. Rik knew that there were more scouts up ahead and watching the rear behind. There were a number of great wyrms. On their backs sat high Terrarch officers, the greatest of whom was Azaar. Most of the army’s battle wyrms and artillery were not present though. They had headed east with the cavalry before first light. Clearly the General had a plan, but Rik was not entirely certain what it was. He guessed there were enough infantry present to match the enemy force he had seen last night, probably more.

He hoped they would be in time to relieve the Foragers

Sardec poured a splash of wine on his wound. It burned like hell. Holding one end of the bit of fabric in his teeth, he wrapped the rest of it around the holed area with his good hand, telling himself that it was one of those cuts that looked worse than they were.

Desperate men crouched behind the battlements, ramming powder and ball into muskets, making ready to fire. Sergeant Hef bellowed encouragement. A bold few stood and fired and were rewarded with screams from their foes as their musket balls ploughed into flesh.

Down below, the courtyard was full of bodies. The wounded lay in their blood-stained rags. A few of the older men hacked at wounds with saws and sealed stumps by searing them with flame. The screams echoed in Sardec’s head.

Why had he not surrendered?

The answer was simple, he reminded himself: because it would not do to have this enemy force fall on the unprotected flank of the Talorean Army. If that happened, that might prove to be the end of this campaign and a grievous blow to the whole war in the East.

It was odd how the fates of armies and nations, could sometimes balance on the courage of a few determined soldiers in a god-forsaken flyspeck like this. Or maybe that was simply his vanity. Maybe this was an essentially meaningless skirmish fought because of his foolishness and pride.

More screams sounded outside the walls. The stench of powder and voided bowels filled the air. Had war always been like this, even in the age of dragons and knights? Probably. The aura of chivalry and heroism that clung to the old tales was most likely a product of time and distance. It did not matter if you wore armour and carried a lance, or dressed in broadcloth and fired a musket, in the end, the truths of war would always be the same. Men died. Terrarchs died. The winners made policy. The losers nursed grudges.

A thump and a faint vibration of the wall against which he leaned told Sardec that the attackers were about to try swarming over again. The enemy had not wasted all of their time last night. They had found ladders somewhere. There were ropes too with their ends wrapped round heavy sticks. When thrown through the crenulations they could sometimes find purchase and anchor and provide another means of climbing. These walls were not castle high.

Sergeant Hef crawled over on hands and knees and handed Sardec a loaded pistol. He took it in his left hand, and cursed the fate that had left him a cripple and his father’s sword embedded and ruined in a mad wizard’s body. Once he would have faced the oncoming attackers with Moonshade in his hand, and killed them where they stood. He had been a formidable swordsman and the old magical blade had made him more formidable yet. Now all he had was this accursed hook.

No use crying over spilled wine, he told himself. He would have to make do with what he had. One of the enemy yowled coming up the ladder. Sardec rose. A man’s face stared up at him. He had just time to take in the horror in the man’s eyes then he put his pistol against his target’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The hammer flashed forward. Powder sparked, smoke belched, but nothing else happened.

It was a bloody misfire.

The man on the ladder looked demonic now, his face soot blackened, his teeth showing wild and white. He began to pull himself over the wall. Sardec felt a brief flicker of remorse, that he should do such a thing to one who had just survived certain death, then smashed the man across the face with the barrel of the pistol. Teeth flew out, blood splattered and the attacker fell backwards from the wall. A bullet whizzed past Sardec’s head but he remained upright just long enough to kick the ladder free of the wall and send it tumbling backwards towards the ground.

He squinted through the gloom and saw nothing but more men emerging from the smoke clouds, shrieking with fear and battle madness.

Sardec dropped back down behind the battlements and saw to his horror that a group of the enemy were clambering over the barricade at the manor’s gateway and pouring into the courtyard. Among them were a group of ripjack wyrms, more massive than men, with jaws that could tear off a soldier’s arm at a bite. The very sight of them caused fear among the Foragers. Sardec took the stairs three at a time as he bounded to meet them, praying that someone would follow him.

Where in hell was the relief column, he wondered?

The wyrm crossed the ridge. Rik could see the ford and the fortified mansion, wreathed with smoke and surrounded by men. Those he could see had Blue armbands. A Terrarch officer in a blue frock coat roared orders. Bugles sounded, drums banged loud as demons bashing down the walls of Bedlam. It was chaos.

“This is madness,” he heard Asea say. “What do those men think they are doing?”

Rik wondered if she was going to try any magic, but she sat still and silent. If she had anything like the wand she had used in battle with the hill tribes, she kept it out of sight. Rik saw the rest of the Talorean force top the ridge.

“I think they are attacking the manor, milady,” said Rik.

“They have left no sentries, no rear guard, nothing. Their commander should be shot for incompetence.”

“I will try and arrange it if the opportunity arises.” As soon as the words had left his lips, Rik regretted them. Jesting with a great Terrarch lady was not something humans were supposed to do. To his relief she saw that she was smiling. Even that, lovely as it was, made him deeply uneasy. It was as if she was smiling at some secret joke of her own, not the one he had made at all. Another realisation hit him. He did not like having so much of his hopes for the future pinned on one person. He did not like being bound to her. Part of him resented the loss of freedom deeply.

“It seems you have something of the assassin in your blood, Rik,” she said, still smiling at her secret joke. He looked at her. Her words obviously had more meaning to her than to him.

“If you say so, milady,” he said.

“I do.” She gave her attention back to the battle. Most of the battle wyrms were headed towards the ford now. On the backs of the leaders, horns sounded, calling the beasts to war. Behind them, the infantry surged forward. There was no way to keep formation on terrain like this, although their officers did their best to hold them into units. As they advanced into the besiegers, fire and smoke spouted from their muskets. The battlefield became obscured once more in drifting clouds of powder smoke. From inside the billows came all the horrendous sounds of combat.

More horns sounded in the distance. These were of a subtly different tone from the ones the Talorean Regiments used. Someone played a series of martial notes. Rik heard the thunder of hooves from somewhere. Moments later he saw cavalrymen racing down to the banks of the ford, sabres flashing as the hussars cut into the Talorean infantrymen. They were met by a volley of fire from atop the nearest bridgebacks. A long-necked wyrm head snaked down to rip one rider from his saddle.