Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles) (23 page)

“Not at all. I simply meant I wouldn’t want to dissuade you. You might be the only ally I have. Go now, Novice Jora. The mystery of the tones awaits.”

She stood to leave. “Thank you, Retar. It was nice meeting you. I hope to talk with you again someday.”

But the bird didn’t answer.

Chapter 14

When a whistle sounded three sharp, staccato notes, every soldier leaped to his feet, grabbed his armor and weapon, and ran to the east. Boden followed, putting his leather cuirass on as he ran. He looked around for Rasmus and found him a few steps behind.

“Come on,” Rasmus said, sprinting to overtake Boden. “Can’t let the old cusses have all the fun.”

Ras, wait
, Boden wanted to say. Running headlong into battle without assessing the situation was the way to get killed, and Boden didn’t plan to die in his first battle.
Imagine the sport Hadar would have with that,
he thought.

Something warned him to turn and run, to hide from the men who’d come to kill him. That something, he realized, was fear, a feeling he hadn’t had since he was a child. It shamed him to feel afraid, after all the training he’d had for this very thing, and shame kept his fear from overtaking his mind.

He pushed his legs to keep churning, keep running, though the cold feeling in his blood made every step feel sluggish and heavy. Rasmus was gaining distance on him, and he knew that he would need to stay with his friend if he wanted to survive the next hour. All around him, the soldiers of company forty-four, dressed and armed for battle, ran through the ankle-high grass to the shore. He felt like a fawn running with the herd of older, wiser deer, hoping they would protect him from the wolves closing in.

Korlan caught up to him. “I got your back, pal.”

Relief replaced terror, and while he was still scared, it wasn’t the mind-numbing panic he’d experienced a moment ago. Just having a friend by his side gave him the courage to continue.

When they reached the beach, Boden spotted two ships off the coast and ten smaller boats, loaded with men, rowing toward the beach. Behind the Serocian swordsmen, a wagon arrived with bows, arrows, and a vat of oil. The supply hands started handing the weapons down to the waiting archers.

“Lay down two lines of oil in dry sand parallel to the water’s edge,” Staff Sergeant Krogh told the archers. “Don’t set it alight until the boats are ashore and their fighters charge.”

“Mangendans,” someone shouted. Others repeated the warning.

“Get into position,” the corporals shouted.

Mangend, Boden recalled from his training, employed archers from distance, firing poison-tipped arrows onto the beach in advance of their swordsmen’s arrival. The best defense, aside from fleeing altogether, was to huddle together to form a shield wall. Boden crowded with the other men of his unit and took a knee, raising his shield overhead, its edges overlapping with the edges of the others around him. Inside the huddle, it was dark and warm. The sounds of heavy panting filled his ears, and the smells of sweat and fear and aggression assaulted his nose.

“Cover,” someone shouted.

Thudding and splintering wood followed. Something hit Boden’s shield and sliced along the underside of his forearm where he gripped it. He hissed in a breath but held the position. His shield was intact. A splinter of wood about an inch long was embedded under his skin. He pulled it out and adjusted his shield to block out the sunlight on the side. Another rain of arrows fell, thudding and splintering. A few men cried out. Holes in the shield wall created by fallen men were quickly filled in by men pressing closer together.

“Hold for the third round,” Sergeant Keskinen shouted. “They’re almost ashore.”

A third launch of arrows fell upon their shields. Two hit Boden’s shield, but neither sliced through.

Boden met the eyes of his two closest friends. “Stay alert, brothers,” Boden said.

“And you,” Korlan said. “See you on the other side.”

“We’ve got this,” Rasmus said with fury in his eyes.

“Light!” Krogh commanded. “Draw! Loose!”

A rain of arrows flew overhead, most landing in the water in front of the boats. Shields went up all the same, covering the heads of those on the boats.

“Ready swords!” came Keskinen’s command. Boden flexed his grip on his sword hilt and prepared to meet the wave of attacking soldiers. He mouthed a short prayer to Retar to help him stay alive.

The boats landed and enemy soldiers stormed the shore with a rallying cry.

“Now!” Krogh shouted. “Light the sand.”

Archers fired arrows at the sand, lighting the oil. Two lines of fire raced across the beach, catching the storming forces off guard.

“Attack!” Keskinen commanded. As one, the swordsmen rose and charged.

Mangendans screamed and flailed, their clothing and hair ablaze. Their screams ended quickly on the ends of Serocian swords.

Boden blocked one foe, parried another, and drove his sword through the belly of a third. At first he thought about every swing and step, but soon he realized that his movements weren’t all that different from the drills Gunnar had put them through. From that moment on, he let his training and habits guide his body. Around him, men grunted or cried out or cursed as blood sprayed them and soaked the sand and grass. Boden did his best to assist his fellows when they found themselves facing more than one opponent, and he turned at least twice to find a sword, about to cleave him in two, falling limply as his enemy fell to a comrade’s sword.

The battle might have lasted four hours or ten minutes. Boden lost track of time. He fought with sword and shield, kicking when he had to or head-butting and elbowing his foes when the need arose. The second he finished one foe, he assessed the battlefield and ran to where Mangendans were heaviest and Serocians were weakest. He swung and blocked and sliced his way through Mangendans as if he were in a macabre dance. He dealt the killing blow more times than he could count, though counting wasn’t on his mind as much as surviving. He battled what seemed like dozens of men, all with the same angry eyes and snarling mouths. The warm spray of blood across his arms and face and neck felt like getting splattered by a pissing horse. It revolted him, but better their blood than his own.

Ahead, Voster was battling two men, and he ran to help, reaching his tentmate as an enemy blade was poised to strike him down. Boden chopped down hard with his blade, severing the man’s hand at the mid-forearm. The hand, still gripping the sword, fell harmlessly to the sand as the enemy screamed, and Boden ended his life with a thrust through the torso. Voster shot him a grateful glance before turning to engage another.

As the enemy numbers dwindled, Boden had to actively seek out someone to fight, sometimes running across the blood-soaked sand and leaping over fallen bodies to reach a fellow soldier battling exhaustion as well as a foe.

Someone cried out, not a blood-curdling scream as he’d heard many times that day, but a desperate, anguished groan. Several yards away, a Mangendan brute was shouting something into Korlan’s grimacing face. The hilt of the brute’s sword was flush against Korlan’s torso.
Kor, no!
Boden reached them in a few long strides and plunged his blade into the enemy’s back. Korlan fell, the sword still buried in his body. The brute sank to his knees and then fell onto his face, dead.

“Kor,” Boden said, dropping to his knees beside his friend.

Korlan lay on his side, gripping the sword hilt loosely. “Pull... out.” He could only mouth the words around the blood bubbling out between his lips.

Boden pushed Korlan’s hands away and gripped it with both hands. “Steel yourself, brother.” He pulled steadily but not too quickly, until the blade was free.

Groaning, Korlan closed his eyes. He coughed weakly, blood spraying, and he turned to lie on his back.

Boden cast a glance about and saw the Mangendans were fleeing. The few skirmishes still ongoing were joined by Serocians who’d given up pursuit of the fleeing cowards. He turned his attention back to Korlan and unfastened his cuirass to see the wound. “You ate the godfruit,” he said, tearing open Korlan’s shirt. “You’ll make it. Hold on, brother.”

On Korlan’s other side, Rasmus fell to his knees and picked up their injured friend’s hand, gripping it and curling the fingers around his own hand. “We’re here, Kor. You aren’t alone. We’ve got you.”

Boden shrugged out of his own cuirass and pulled off his tunic, then wadded it up and covered the gaping wound in Korlan’s lower chest. “Medic!” he shouted, casting a desperate glance around. “Medic here.”

A few feet away, the Mangendan brute who’d run Korlan through groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He crawled toward the retreating boats.

“What the hell?” Rasmus said.

Korlan coughed. “I’ll be... all right,” he whispered, grimacing.

I killed him
, Boden thought. He was certain of it. Rasmus stood and plunged his sword into the brute’s upper back. The Mangendan collapsed back onto the grass, the sword standing upright in his body. Rasmus gave it a twist, pulled it out, and plunged it in once more. “He’s dead for sure now.”

“Hang on, Kor,” Boden said, returning his attention to his friend. He pressed his shirt, already half-soaked with blood, harder into the wound. “You’ll be all right.”

“Need... sleep.” Korlan closed his eyes.

“No, Kor,” Boden said, lightly slapping Korlan’s cheek. “You’ve got to stay awake. Medic!” he shouted again.

But Korlan’s eyes didn’t reopen. His head turned slightly to one side, and he let out one final breath.

“Kor?” Rasmus said. “Korlan?” He shook Korlan gently, and when he got no response, shook him harder. “Korlan!”

“No, brother,” Boden said. “You can’t die. You ate the godfruit. I saw you eat it.” He put his fingers to the side of Korlan’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He felt nothing, tried another spot and another, and tried a spot on his wrist. He pressed his ear to Korlan’s chest. Silence. Heavy, lonely silence. “He’s gone.” The words were hard to get out through the thickness in his throat. His friend, dead.

“I knew it,” Rasmus spat, his eyes hard. He stood, his body tense and his hands balled into fists. “The godfruit’s a lie, a twice-damned fairy tale to make grown men—”

Korlan gasped, his eyes flying open. Then he began to cough.

“You’re all right,” Boden said, feeling as shocked as Rasmus looked. “We’ve got you. Medic! We need a medic, damn it!”

“Challenger’s bollocks,” Rasmus said, falling to his knees beside Korlan once more.

Korlan struggled to rise, coughing sprays of blood.

Boden and Rasmus helped him sit up, each with a hand under his shoulders. The balled-up shirt fell away, revealing a fresh scar where the bloody wound had been. Finally, Korlan’s coughing subsided, and he was able to take a few deep breaths.

“Thanks to the heavens,” Rasmus said. “We thought you were dead.”

Korlan looked at them both squarely in the eye, but there was something unsettling in his gaze. “I was.”

By the time the medic finally got to Korlan, he was up and walking with the help of his two friends, his arms draped across their shoulders. Boden carried the extra sword and Rasmus carried the shield, and they helped him to the wagon, where other men, broken and bleeding, moaned in pain or lay limp and unresponsive. Boden stood by, his mind whirling, as he watched the medics’ cart turn and drive off back to camp.

Rasmus turned to him, his face pale and disbelieving. “He couldn’t’ve been dead. Actually dead.”

“He was. We saw him die. He had no heartbeat, no breath. How long was he gone? A half-minute?”

“Not even ten beats,” Rasmus said, shaking his head. “He passed out. That’s what it was. He lost a lot of blood and fell unconscious.”

They stared at the back of the retreating wagon as it rumbled across the plain to the camp in the distance. “Is it over?” Boden asked, snapping his thoughts back to the present place. The ships that had been anchored offshore were sailing away. Blood drenched everything and everyone, every blade of grass, every twig, every weed. The sand fared no better. It looked like a sea of blood had gone out with the ebb tide. The march commander was moving through the ranks of the soldiers left standing, making his way to Rasmus and Boden.