Thraxas - The Complete Series (186 page)

Makri looks balefully at me.

“You just had to run and tell tales, didn’t you?”

“Tell tales? You think that’s bad?” I retort, with some justified outrage. “After the catalogue of appalling behaviour you’ve involved yourself in recently? What a curse it was the day you walked into the Avenging Axe.”

We lapse into a brooding silence. As the landus passes through Thamlin, Makri departs towards Truth is Beauty Lane, home of the Sorcerers. She doesn’t say goodbye. We turn east towards the Superbius Gate. Progress soon becomes impossible as we find ourselves mingling with a horde of part-time soldiers on their way to the practice fields. We leave the landus and join the throng. The snow is falling heavily. Visibility is poor. A few boisterous souls among the crowd attempt to cheer their friends by shouting encouragement, but mostly the citizens trudge along quietly. No matter what happens in the war, a lot of these men won’t be around next summer.

Rumours in the city are rife. The Elves won’t be able to sail because all the young Elves have become addicted to dwa. The Simnians won’t come because they’ve decided to defend their own borders instead. The Niojans are doing a deal with the Orcs to sack Turai and split the booty. Queen Direeva has done a deal with the Orcs to provide them with a squadron of fresh dragons in return for leaving her kingdom alone.

The rumours are not all negative. Last week we heard a report that Prince Amrag had been killed in a feud arising from bad feelings among the Orcish nations over the rumour that the Prince’s blood is tainted by a Human ancestor. There’s little likelihood of this being true. The Prince has already shown himself capable of subjugating all opposition.

Before we reach the city gates we’re forced to the side of the road by an official cavalcade. It is the Consul riding out with his retinue. As he passes in his liveried carriage it strikes me how ridiculous my investigation has become. It’s brought me to the verge of accusing the Consul of conniving in the murder of Prefect Galwinius. How can I possibly pursue such a notion at this time? Even if I had proof, what could I do about it? Interrupt the War Council to accuse the Consul of murder? Hardly. At best I’d be ignored. At worst I’d be quietly got rid of. No one wants to hear the truth behind the murder of Galwinius.

More official carriages delay our progress. This time it’s Prince Dees-Akan and various members of the War Council. Today will be a major event, with the whole of our forces arrayed on the field.

Once outside the gates I hurry along to join up with my phalanx. Our spears have been brought here by wagon and I supervise my troop as we get into position. The line of spears projects almost twenty feet from the front of the phalanx. As corporal in command of my section, I’m in the third row. The first row is made up of the youngest and strongest men. They have to carry large shields, and bear the brunt of an enemy attack. I know from experience that it’s not a comfortable place to be. When I find myself screaming at some of the more incompetent soldiers under my command it’s really because I know that if we don’t do our job properly, the young men in front will be the first to die.

I can’t see Gurd’s phalanx; it’s some way to the left of us. I regret that we argued this morning but no doubt by tonight he’ll have got over his dread of marriage. Or at least he’ll have got over blaming me. Gurd is too old a companion for us to really argue; we’ve been through too much together.

Senator Marius gives an order and the centurions start barking at us. We walk up the field, turn and come back again, more or less in formation. No one falls over. It’s progress. We even manage to draw up alongside Praetor Capatius’s phalanx without bumping into them. The mercenary companies have emerged from the Stadium Superbius to join in the drill. Intent on their own manoeuvres, they’re no longer mocking us. I can hear Viriggax as he bellows at his men. Must be making young Toraggax’s head hurt, after his experiences of last night. I’m annoyed that Makri let him into her room. I don’t know why. None of my business, as she said.

After an hour or so of manoeuvres the Senator draws us up in ranks.

“Prepare to meet the Prince.”

Prince Dees-Akan trots up on his horse. It’s a fine-looking stallion and the young prince makes for an impressive war leader in his shining chainmail and gold-plated helmet. He pushes the helmet back on his forehead and begins to address us. He’s a good speaker and I can sense that the men around me are heartened by his words of encouragement. I’d be more heartened if the Prince had ever led an army into battle, but at least he looks the part.

After a nice build-up, he’s exhorting us to stand firm when he’s interrupted by the sound of galloping hoofs. Heads turn. Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, is approaching fast, riding a white horse. The Sorceress is wearing a man’s tunic and leggings, something I haven’t seen her in since the last war, and there’s a sword at her hip. Behind her comes Makri on a black horse, dressed in the light body armour she brought with her from the Orcish lands, made of black leather and skilfully wrought chainmail. There’s no sign of the rest of the Sorcerers Guild. Obviously Lisutaris has come in haste. She leaps from her mount and hurries towards the Prince.

I’m close enough to hear the conversation. It starts badly. Prince Dees-Akan, showing little respect for Lisutaris’s rank, rudely demands to know what the Sorceress is doing here. Lisutaris informs him that she has some urgent news. The Prince tells her that any news she has can wait till he’s finished inspecting the troops. Lisutaris replies that it can’t wait. Voices are raised. In front of the soldiers, it’s an unseemly sight.

“You are no longer even a member of the War Council. Leave the field.”

“I will not leave the field until I’ve informed you of my latest findings.”

General Pomius, next in command after the Prince, shifts his stance uncomfortably, not at all enjoying the spectacle of his commander ordering Turai’s leading Sorcerer from the field. There are murmurings from the troops and the mercenaries. It’s bad for the city to have our commander and our main Sorcerer on such poor terms. Finally Lisutaris gives up on the Prince and turns to General Pomius.

“General. The Orcs are coming. Soon. They’ve sent an army to Yall and they’ve been marching from there through the winter. Sorcerous interference in Turai has prevented us from tracking them. Worse, they’ve learned how to teleport dragons. They could be here any second.”

“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 Orcs are marching? In this weather?”

“The force is made up of northern mountain Orcs,” 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.

T
he 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 Orcs, 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 Orcs 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 Orcs 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 man behind me, point it firmly at the Orcs, 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.