Martin Scott - Thraxas at War

'Surely you—' begins the General, but Prince Dees-Akan angrily waves him quiet.

‘I forbid you to speak to this woman. Lisutaris, if you do not withdraw I will have my guard remove you.'

Makri is nearby, with the horses. As the Prince threatens Lisutaris I notice Makri's hands drift towards her twin swords. Another horseman appears through the snow. It's Harmon Half Elf, with his cloak askew. He looks like a Sorcerer who's dressed in a hurry. Immediately after him comes Coranus the Grinder, wearing his habitual scowl. The Sorcerers address the leader of their guild.

'We received your message and came immediately. The others are following.'

'What is this?' demands the Prince. 'You have summoned the Sorcerers Guild without consulting me?'

Coranus eyes the Prince and speaks harshly.

'Have you not yet acted on Lisutaris's warning?'

Three more horses pound on to the scene, mouths foaming, bearing younger members of the Sorcerers Guild. Anumaris Thunderbolt, too young to have been in combat before, leaps from her horse and looks around her wild-eyed, her hands raised, as if expecting to confront a dragon this very moment. When Old Astrath Triple Moon rolls up with the appearance of a man who's very glad to be back in the saddle, the Prince erupts in fury.

'How dare you disregard my orders!' he roars.

'Perhaps we should hear her out,' suggest General Pomius. He doesn't want to go against the Prince but he's too wise a soldier to ignore the Sorcerers Guild.

'Hear her out? The Ores are marching? In this weather?'

'The force is made up of northern mountain Ores,' says Lisutaris. 'They're used to the weather.'

And are they used to transporting dragons by magic? Do you see any dragons?'

'Yes,' says Makri. 'There's one right there.'

We look up. Through a thin grey cloud, masked by the falling snow, an ominous shape is just visible, circling in the sky. It's joined by another, and another. Suddenly the shapes become clearer, as the war dragons begin to swoop from the clouds. At this moment there's a great shout from the eastern side of the field, a shout that extends into a prolonged series of screams and the clash of weapons. As the dragons hurtle down towards us, Orcish troops smash into the left flank of our unprepared army.

Chapter Twenty

The noise, chaos and confusion are indescribable. Appearing unseen from the banks of snow, the Orcish phalanxes mow their way through the unprotected flanks of the Turanian soldiery. Simultaneously the dragons pour down fire on our heads. I'd be dead already if it wasn't for the instantaneous protection thrown out by the assembled Human Sorcerers, most of whom have now arrived on the field, thanks to Lisutaris's alert.

In the overwhelming confusion Senator Marius tries to form up the phalanx and turn to face the enemy but it's not easy. Men are panicking, and with the phalanxes on either side marshalled to hear the Prince, there's not enough room to manoeuvre. Spears, shields, arms and legs become tangled up as another phalanx collides with us. The snow is falling thicker than ever and we can't yet see our enemy, though we can hear the screams of the battle in progress. Soon our ranks are further disrupted by streams of fugitives from the fighting, remnants of the troops on our left flank who, I can readily guess, have been swept aside in an instant.

All the while the dragons above, twenty or so, keep up the attack. Each dragon carries a rider, a Sorcerer and perhaps ten more Ores, who shoot bolts into our ranks with crossbows. Their Sorcerers pound us with spells, attempting to break through the protective barrier set up by Lisutaris and her companions. Shafts of fire pierce the sky as our own Sorcerers return the fire.

In the deafening confusion no one can hear Senator Marius's orders. His centurions struggle to bring the men into line. Noise and confusion are always present on the battlefield A well-trained phalanx could cope. We're not a well-trained phalanx. By the time we're turned to face the attack there are gaps in our ranks and our whole right flank is lagging behind. I scream at the men around me, ordering them to get in line and bring our long spears into position. There's frantic movement on all sides but we're nowhere near organised when an Orcish phalanx looms out of the snow, marching in good order towards us. With their craggy features, black clothes and dull armour, it's a sight to unnerve the novices around me.

The instant they appear I know we're doomed. Whatever we might have believed about the Orcish army's lack of organisation was wrong. This phalanx is fearsomely well organised. As soon as they see us, horns blow and the long spears that point to the sky are lowered towards us, forming a sharp and deadly wall. The Orcish phalanx breaks into a slow run, picking up speed as they advance. Each man around me grasps his short spear, preparing to hurl it at the enemy, hoping to break their ranks. This doesn't work as well as it should. The whole of my phalanx should toss their spears in unison, raining a blizzard of steel on to the enemy. Men all over the line, unable to hear their orders and forgetting their training, let go of their spears far too early. Most of the missiles fall short. Meanwhile the disciplined Ores have held their fire. Without pausing in their stride, they let go with their own short spears. A lethal barrage of pointed metal rains down around our heads. All our Sorcerers are engaged with the dragons and we have no protection from the enemy spears. Every man here wears a breastplate and helmet, but a sharp, heavy spear, falling from above, can penetrate the sort of armour worn by a common soldier. Even if your armour turns the spear away, the next one is as likely to hit an arm or a leg, causing terrible,- incapacitating wounds. Men on either side of me crumple to the ground. I've raised my shield over my head. A spear catches it. piercing it, and scraping my helmet. Fortunately it doesn't penetrate far enough to wound me.

By now the front line of my phalanx has yawning gaps which grow larger as a supporting unit of light Orcish infantry, running alongside their phalanx, pelts us with spears and arrows. I scream at the men behind me to advance, to fill in the gaps, but it's useless. Panic is setting in. Many of the long spears, which should bristle from the front of our formation, are either lying on the ground or pointing at the sky as men struggle to keep some sort of shape in the face of the onslaught. The man in front of me falls to the ground with an arrow in his eye. I step forward into his place. I'm now in the ragged front line. The Ores are forty feet away, running towards us at great speed. Their long spears are held rigidly in line as they charge. I grab the lance that's waving above my shoulder, held there unsteadily by the men behind me, point it firmly at the Ores, and wait for their phalanx to strike. As I do so I mutter a prayer which, I'm quite certain, will be the last words I ever say.

The dark Orcish phalanx crashes into us. My spear goes through the throat of an Ore but few others do. Our front line crumples on impact and the Ores mow us down. I'm on the ground with bodies piling on top of me, feet trampling us into the snow, my face covered, unable to breathe. I use my strength to fight my way to my knees. My helmet is gone, I can't free my arms and an Ore from the middle of their phalanx draws back his sword to cut my head off. I yell out the spell I've been keeping in reserve, a spell for killing Ores I learned a long time ago. My assailant falls silently to the ground, slain by magic. Three or four Ores around us fall with him. By now I've freed my arms and drawn my sword but my situation remains hopeless. My phalanx is broken, I'm isolated from my troops and I'm surrounded by hundreds of Ores. I can use my spell one more time before it vanishes from my memory. I do so. The three closest Ores fall dead. That's it. My magic is used up. I've killed eight Ores. Not so bad for a death stand. I raise my shield as they come in swiftly from all sides.