David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

On the sixth day the sky cleared, the sun blazing down upon the sea of mud that was to be the battleground.

Samildanach decided to wait one more day for the ground to become more firm, and rode for Mactha to report to the King.

In the hills Elodan and Manannan redirected their forces to the east and west, where the advancing wings were meeting little resistance. Lamfhada arrived at the camp at noon.

‘They have two thousand men on each side of us,’ he told Manannan. ‘If we stay here, we will be trapped; the horns will close in, drawing us on to the foot soldiers. We must retreat.’

‘I agree,’ said Elodan. ‘We cannot allow them to force us into a pitched battle; their numbers would swamp us.’

‘I can see that,’ said Manannan, ‘but I don’t like the feel of retreating — and I am not speaking of pride. Most of the men are here as a matter of choice. If they think we are losing, they will run for their homes. Every step we march back will see our army shrink.’

‘There’s truth in that,’ agreed Errin, moving with Ubadai to join them. ‘We’ve already lost some of the warriors from Bucklar’s force. Twenty men headed home last night as the rain ceased.’

Elodan shook his head. ‘You are saying we cannot retreat, yet Lamfhada tells us we are soon to be surrounded and overwhelmed. That does not leave us many choices. We cannot attack. We have not the discipline, or the lines of command. We can only fight as we are. Any suggestion would be appreciated, Manannan.’

Manannan nodded. ‘I think a small victory would serve us well at this stage. May I suggest we shift our position and hit their left wing? While the mud is still deep, their horses will be restricted and it should give our infantry a sound advantage. But there is a danger. It will leave their foot-soldiers with no opposition and they could march into the forest and sack all the settlements between here and the mountains.’

‘True,’ said Elodan. ‘And the men will desert in their hundreds — they will have to, in order to save their families.’

‘The enemy is short of food,’ Errin put in. ‘They cannot march too far, for they will need supplies. They cannot live off the land as we do. We have scattered the herds, driving them north, and there are no crops as yet.’

‘Food will no longer be so great a problem for them,’ said Lamfhada softly. ‘The Duke of Mactha has been slain by Samildanach, and all the men with him are lost to us.’

Errin cursed. The others said nothing. Finally Manannan spoke. ‘I do not think they will attack in force today; they will wait for the mud to dry out. It seems to me we have only one choice: we must attack them. Hit their camp. But it is a risky venture, my friends, and our losses will be high.’

‘I am not a military man, Manannan,’ said Errin, ‘but I have an idea — it is probably foolish.’

‘Speak, Errin,’ Manannan invited.

They listened in silence as Errin outlined his thoughts. Ubadai, who had been quiet throughout, stood and walked away.

Towards dusk Okessa left his tent, lifting his long purple robes to prevent them from scraping the mud, and walked out to the hill at the centre of the camp. From here he could see the neat lines of tents and the regularly spaced cook-fires, the long trestle-tables where the men gathered to collect their meagre rations, the picket lines set at right-angles to the tents and the latrine ditches dug downwind of the camp. Tomorrow would see the end of the rebels and the beginning of Okessa’s dream. Already he was the Duke of Mactha, and he had the ear of the King. Soon the army of the Gabala would march into neighbouring lands, sweeping out to the sea — and the riches of Cithaeron. Okessa longed for the day when the King would make him Satrap of a foreign realm — almost a king in his own right. His two acolytes joined him on the hilltop, leading a white goat. They lifted it to the crude altar and Okessa slit its throat, then he disembowelled it and tore the liver from its innards. Dropping the carcass, he carried the liver to where an acolyte held a burning torch. But the organ was diseased and covered with black spots. Okessa swallowed hard and swung on the acolyte. ‘Fetch another goat,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now.’

The man nodded, handed the torch to his master and ran down the hill, slithering in the mud.

‘How are the King’s fortunes, my Lord?’ asked the second acolyte, approaching his master. Okessa’s pale eyes fixed on the man.

‘I did not sacrifice the goat for the King,’ lied Okessa, ‘but for the enemy.’ He showed the man the bloody liver and the acolyte grinned.

‘Tomorrow should be a fine day, sir.’

‘Yes,’ Okessa agreed. Dropping the liver to the ground, he wandered to the brow of the hill. Below, the soldiers were gathering in rings around the camp-fires. From the west came a troop of Lancers riding slowly, almost wearily. ‘Go down to that officer,’ called Okessa. ‘Tell him to report directly to me.’ The acolyte bowed and made his way down the hill towards the approaching riders.

The troop rode into the camp. Some of the men dismounted and gathered torches; others moved on towards the picket lines where more than five hundred horses were tethered. Okessa watched in astonishment as three riders drew their swords and cut down the picket sentries. Fires leapt from several tents to the west, the wind fanning the flames. Suddenly the camp was in an uproar as men surged from the cook-fires, running to their tents to rescue their possessions. The westerly breeze caught the flames, lifting them from tent to tent. A shout went up from the east and Okessa swung to see the horses thundering towards the forest, being chased by a dozen riders — no, not chased, herded! At the centre of the camp all was chaos. Okessa could see swords flickering in the firelight and men falling.

Then he saw the troop thundering from the camp. His own tent caught fire and he began to run down the hill, but his foot slipped in the mud and he tumbled headlong, spinning and sliding until he came to rest at the foot of the rise. His robes were ruined. Cursing loudly, he got to his feet and strode into the camp to see his tent was blazing, his books and scrolls destroyed.

An officer ran by and Okessa grabbed his arm, but the man tore himself free and continued on his way. Thick smoke curled around him and tears started from his eyes as he coughed and spluttered, backing away from the inferno. To the east men were tearing down their tents in an attempt to halt the advance of the blaze. Just as it seemed they were winning, a tremendous crack of thunder rolled across the heavens and the rain lashed down, dousing cook-fires and torches. The flaming tents hissed and spat, but could not compete with the torrent; within minutes the entire camp was plunged into darkness.

Okessa’s fury rose, but there was no one to vent it upon. The storm lasted for more than two hours. When at last the moon broke clear of the retreating clouds Okessa, drenched and filthy, located the general, Kar-schen. He ordered the night sentries to be put to death and the captain of the watch flogged.

He watched the executions at dawn, but they did not lift his spirits.

How could they?

He had seen the King’s future.

In Mactha, King Ahak was in a better mood. The upper rooms were warm, the food plentiful and the evening promised heady pleasures. He did not need Nourishment, but what had need to do with joy? To take a woman, use her in the way the Gods intended, fill her with new life and then draw her life from her, filling himself. Never had he believed such joy possible.

He remembered the day Samildanach came to him, with the gift of Ambria. That had been incredible. But the first time he had sucked the life from another living being… that was indescribable. Now he had it all. Immortality. Power. The King for Ever. Everlasting. He savoured the feel of the words on his tongue.