Tom Lloyd - The ragged man

Despite himself Doranei raised his sword and cheered with the rest of them. There'd be little enough to cheer come the end of the day. But as he shouted with the others, he found his body didn't want to stop. Tired though he was, that sudden rush, feeling alive as he yelled himself hoarse, was hard to let go of. Then Veil tossed him a flask of brandy and he felt something better.

Standing with one foot on the artillery's marker stone, Lord Styrax watched his first wave fall back without comment. He started to turn to his right, and stopped when he realised no one was there. Under his enclosed black helm his expression darkened: he still expected to find Kohrad in his lee. The young white-eye had been slow to learn restraint, so he'd kept him close, to teach him the skills he'd need when he inherited his father's empire.

Styrax's hand tightened into a fist. There would be no inheritance now. He could nominate a successor – a man he respected, and trusted with the future of his empire – but there would be no swelling of the heart as he watched his son find his own path to greatness. Kohrad's mother, Selar, had poisoned her own womb when she saw how he worshipped his father; Kohrad's betrayal had broken her heart.

'Captain Hain,' he called brusquely. 'What is the state of the cavalry?'

The officer hurried up and saluted. What was left of his troops had been temporarily reassigned, and Hain attached to Styrax's own command staff. 'It's good, my Lord. General Gaur continues to shadow the enemy, to ensure they cannot outflank us, so their horsemen are effectively negated.'

'I am glad to hear it,' Styrax said, still staring towards the fort. 'What are the casualties from that first tunnelling spell?'

'Severe: at least a regiment incapacitated, probably the best part of two. We must assume the second strike has had the same effect.'

The huge white-eye was silent for a moment. 'Tell me, Captain Hain,' he said eventually, 'if you were King Emin, how would you approach this battle?'

'I – Ah, I'd expect it to be my last, sir. A lord's importance to his army is immense, especially when inexperienced troops make up the majority.'

The white-eye nodded. 'So you would expect me to kill you as swiftly as I can. Why then would you place yourself in a crucial position?'

'Because my presence would inspire them to fight hardest. If the position falls, then my life is likely lost, no matter where I am. Casualties in the first wave look heavy; it'll cost thousands to take for sure.'

Styrax raised a hand to stop him. 'Or you could place yourself there as a lure, to keep me occupied while the weapon you hope will win the battle does just that.'

Hain shrugged and tugged the strap holding his axe in place. 'Didn't hear what we did at Tor Salan, then. It's a desperate thing to trust your whole nation to.'

'But if you fear there is no other option?'

'Then I'd defend that weapon with everything I have. Make sure no one gets through, no matter the cost, and aye, risk my own life to drawn the attack away.'

Lord Styrax turned and looked back at the cavalry. It was hard to make much out as they were spread out to prevent enemy incursions. There had been dozens of small engagements, testing the enemy and probing for weaknesses but Gaur would see they remained inconclusive. The enemy had the advantage of numbers, but the beastman had two heavy infantry legions to hold his centre. If the Narkang cavalry tried to pin Gaur down or swamp him, they'd find themselves blunted on his shield wall, then butchered.

He looked further, to the seven legions of the reserve, three of which were Menin heavy infantry. They remained in formation directly behind Styrax, ready to exploit any opening.

'Send the second wave to attack the fort and a rider to inform General Gaur I'm committing the reserve. I want the Bloodsworn, Reavers and remaining minotaurs on the right flank of the fort with the Menin reserve, and Lord Larim to take the other flank with the rest, together with Gaur's infantry. Gaur is to keep tight to the first wave of troops once they've reformed and use them as he seems fit.'

'Like pulling the head off a sentinel lizard,' Captain Hain commented as he saluted to acknowledge the orders.

'Exactly – I'll deal with this weapon myself and leave King Emin stranded. He'll learn the hard way that no defence is absolute.' Styrax stared at the fort, where the king was commanding its defence. 'But of course, full honours to any man taking the king's head before they surrender, Menin or otherwise. Ensure the men know.'

The fighting along the tree-line was growing increasingly desperate. Daken prowled behind the lines of troops like a hunting lion, all the while bellowing orders and cursing. Osh watched him, blood-stained and battered after the desperate fight with the Chetse but as unrelenting as winter. Intentionally or not, Daken was performing exactly the role King Emin had intended for him: the raging, indefatigable white-eye hero. He was egomaniacal by nature and blood-crazed in battle; it was impossible not to take heart from the Mad Axe's presence. Daken's legend was mixed, but Osh could see Daken's past crimes meant little here.

Large numbers of Chetse had got lost in the tangled forest, trying to skirt the troops stationed there, making little headway as they'd attacked piecemeal. Now the men were gathering up the several hundred Menin dead and piling them up as makeshift barricades – they wouldn't stop anyone attacking, but it channelled the remaining forays to ground of Osh's choosing as well as keeping the troops busy.

The Menin had withdrawn to regroup after half an hour of brutal hand-to-hand combat, the sobbing cries of the injured filling the air as they were dragged back from the front line. The grass at their feet was stained by the blood and loosened bowels, and Osh could see from the faces of those left that the full horror of the battle was settling in. The only thing he could do about it was to keep the men busy, bringing up the next line of troops and withdrawing the battered legion that had borne the brunt of the first assault.

Counting the dead was difficult amidst all the bustle and chaos. The open ground was a hundred yards across, and the dead lay strewn across it. The enemy had brought makeshift walkways to cross the fifteen-foot-deep ditch and used their archers to pin the down the defenders while they got enough troops across to take them down. Their attack plan had nearly succeeded.

Shouts suddenly rang out from the front rank of troops. Osh scanned the ground, at first thinking the Menin were advancing already, but he could see nothing. When he listened more carefully he realised it was anger, not alarm, that he was hearing.

He sent one of the young officers attending him to investigate while he checked behind him: an old man's battlefield paranoia never died. Troops behind stood in neat blocks; a division of five hundred spearmen was heading over to bolster his numbers. Companies of fifty were stationed all around, watching for surprises from the rear. They'd had to deal with a second pair of minotaurs, but now all was quiet; it appeared they'd weathered the worst of the flanking attack. He doubted they'd try to surprise them again from the forest – it was impossible to maintain any form of order there, and a piecemeal assault wasn't going to be enough.

'Sir,' called the lieutenant as he returned, face pale, 'sir, they've got captives out on their line – they're torturing them.' The young man was barely old enough to join the army – seventeen winters if that, and most likely a year into some commission promised before his parents had known what was coming.

'Tell our archers to fire on them,' Osh ordered.

'But they're women and children, sir!' the youth exclaimed in dismay.

Osh lurched forward and grabbed him by the throat with one powerful hand. 'Sonny, they're going to die, no matter what – so you'd wish them something slow and agonising, or the peace of a swift death?'