Tom Lloyd: The ragged man

'No, sir – yes, sir,' the lieutenant spluttered.

Osh released him. 'Exactly. So give the order.'

He watched, his teeth gritted, as the first few arrows were fired. Despite the deaths they'd just seen, the slaughter of hundreds whose blood now stained their boots, shooting at captives was clearly a reminder of things they'd pushed to the back of their minds. Osh knew men faced battle in different ways, but none wanted to dwell on thoughts of family and loved ones: that sucked the fire from a man's belly, and sure as anything would see him face-down in the mud before long.

And now I'm at it, Osh chided himself, Gods, man – you are getting old!

'No time for all that,' he said aloud, ignoring the questioning looks he got from his remaining aides, 'what are the bastards going to try next?'

'Ah, Reavers, sir?' opined the boldest of his aides, a tall olive-skinned youth who has been one of Osh's pupils until war had broken out, when he had begged to join his teacher's staff.

'Let's hope not,' Osh laughed. 'Last thing we need's more bloody white-eyes here! But you're right – it'll be something to disrupt us. Maybe mages, something to give them a step forward, at least. They won't win the ground easily, there's too many of us to push back, so they'll need to chop a path through.'

'Shall I send another division to support? Increase the number of ranks?'

Osh frowned at the lines of fresh infantry, their pike-heads glinting in a rare shaft of sunlight. The men were eight ranks deep and tightly packed. He shook his head. 'No, it's sufficient. Bring the reserves up in regiment blocks with free ground around them. I want them to be able to react when the unexpected is thrown at us.'

'Tachrenn Lecha,' General Vrill said slowly, as he watched the last of the captives discarded after having their throats cut.

The Chetse commander turned to face the white-eye, screwing his eyes up slightly as the Menin's enchanted armour fluttered in a breeze that Lecha could not feel, the air around it appearing to constantly dance and twist.

'General,' Lecha said dully, letting the head of his axe fall to the ground. The tall Chetse's skin had turned almost bronze in the summer sun, a similar hue to his polished armour. He tugged his helm from his head and tucked it under his arm as he waited for Vrill to speak. He had little time for most Menin officers, despite acknowledging Lord Styrax as a man capable of leading them all to glory.

'Your troops are ready?'

'For what?' Lecha spat. 'Another suicide mission? It looks to me as though most of the Flamestone Legion aren't coming back out of that damn forest.'

'For the decisive action,' Vrill growled, swinging abruptly around towards Lecha and forcing the smaller man to step back. 'Your legion is the Caraper Guard, is it not? And is that not a powerful, armoured predator?'

'It is,' Lecha said warily.

'Well, emulate it then.' Vrill pointed at the left flank of the open ground, where the ranks of enemy abutted the long defensive ditch. 'We've heard enough of the strength of Chetse warriors; now it's time to prove it. Reform your legion, forty ranks deep, and punch through the enemy. Add whatever remains of the Flamestone Legion to extend your front ranks and conceal your depth.'

'Just us?'

'Not alone.' Vrill assessed the two Menin heavy infantry legions briefly. 'The Second Tocar Legion on your right flank, the First behind you. We'll move up the line to widen the breach.' He gestured towards a hairless mage with unnaturally pale skin hovering nearby. 'Lord Styrax intends to penetrate the line behind the fort – let us show him how it's done.'

Tachrenn Lecha bared his teeth and jerked his axe up into his hands. Heading back towards his men the Chetse called back to Vrill, not caring who else could hear, 'Tsatach's chosen people will show you all.'

Osh watched a line of shadow sweep from the north over the Narkang lines as a bank of cloud drew in. The late morning sun was again hidden as the king's mages kept the threat of a storm close to dissuade Lord Styrax from employing his wyvern.

'Enemy advancing,' called one of his aides, hurrying up from his position at the ditch, 'Menin legion in deep order on the left. Chetse legion tight to them, and more Menin approaching the ditch directly.'

Osh hissed a curse as he turned to wave forward more troops. 'Major, take your troops and brace the left flank – shoulders in their backs, man.' He pointed to where he wanted them, and didn't wait to watch them go. He walked to the aide's station at the ditch: there was a division of archers on the right of the Chetse, then a gap of fifty yards before two legions of infantry in Byoran colours. He could see they carried more bridges to throw across the ditch; many of their front rank were using them as shields against the continuous arrow-fire.

Daken appeared at his side, clapping a massive hand on the ageing warrior's shoulder. 'Not getting enough action at the back, eh?'

'I'm trying to work out if they've got anything more up their sleeves than brute force.'

'Force works fer me. Strongest man wins, that's the way o' things,' Daken declared.

They watched the enemy approach at a steady tramp. They wouldn't want to be running more than two hundred yards in heavy armour, however quickly they wanted to cover the ground. The Menin approached with spears ready to be levelled, hunched down behind their shields, while the Chetse carried shields only in their front ranks, to protect the majority while they closed for the kill.

At seventy yards, Osh suddenly felt a cold ball of dread appear in his stomach. The Chetse legion had angled unexpectedly, just as they were readying to charge, moving ahead of the slower Menin. Suddenly the right hand side of their line faltered and Osh realised what they were up to: the Chetse were in deep formation, massed on one side behind a standard front rank. The effect of the men of the right halting slanted the legion's advance so when the charge was sounded, they were coming at an angle.

'Merciful Gods,' Osh breathed.

For once Daken had nothing to add. He pointed with his axe to the alarmed aides behind them. 'Summon the reserves, everyone you can – now!'

There was little time for anything more. A great roar came from the Chetse legion as they gathered pace, their shield line intact and closing. Osh felt the rumble of their feet through the ground: fifty yards, now thirty… The pikemen lowered their weapons to present a spiked wall, but now the pikes weren't pointing directly at the enemy.

Osh looked around as enemy arrows began to fall and the Byoran troops marched steadily towards him. He stood only twenty yards from the end of the ditch and felt as much as heard the impact as the Chetse collided with their line. It rang out like a long peal of thunder, distantly building before crashing against his ears.

The ranks shuddered visibly, and a dozen men in the final rank were thrown from their feet as the force was transmitted back through the press of bodies. Any screams were drowned out by the clatter of weapons and the bloodthirsty bellows of the Chetse… then it went suddenly and terribly quiet. Normally the front line would hunker down behind their shields and let the heavy axes do their horrific work, but not this time. Osh found himself frozen, unable to move as the line of conflict paused, held in the balance, before the Chetse drove forward as one.

The concentrated mass of troops was too much to bear and more fell at the back of the legion and were trampled as several hundred men were physically shoved backwards a step, then another. The front rank was hidden from him but Osh could picture it easily enough, his troops pressed further up against each other, able to do little beyond keep their pikes level while the Chetse drove harder and harder into them. However many Chetse were dead at the front, those at the back would know nothing of casualties, only that they could not stop pushing at any cost.