He estimated that perhaps four or five thousand of the black creatures had now assembled.
‘It’s horrific,’ Lan breathed. ‘Look at them all.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Fulcrom replied, dismounting from his horse.
‘I’ll see to the people’s safety again,’ Lan said from the saddle. ‘Do you want me to stay and fight? Wherever you want me, I’ll go.’
‘No, do what you do best, help people, and be careful,’ Fulcrom replied, holding her fingertips for a little longer. ‘Make sure everyone gets their chance to get up that hill and out to sea.’
Lan smiled softly and nodded, before riding towards the last few hundred people.
No kiss goodbye. No longing embrace. To do so would have seemed to tempt fate.
‘I hope that’s not the last I’ll see of you,’ he whispered.
Remnants of the City Guard, Dragoons and Regiments of Foot began to adopt their pre-planned formations, which was essentially two standard lines of defence.
They stood now near the base of the hill, which flattened out to a vast stretch of abandoned farmland hardened by the snow and ice. There were two largely dead forests either side of these fields, up on slightly higher ground. Aside from that, the terrain was even, just a barren, featureless stretch of land. It would make the fighting straightforward, though Fulcrom didn’t know whether or not that was a good thing. He marched over to a band of cultists, seven of them who had remained loyal to the cause of the convoy, united by their homelessness. Some had brought crude catapults, and such weapons were very welcome right now. The cultists began assembling their makeshift war gear on the spot. One had a sack of relics which she brought down from a nearby cart; another began dragging their catapults — three in all — into a neat row.
They were like none Fulcrom had seen before — like enormous wooden crossbows, the height of a human or rumel, and each sitting on a two-limbed stand. They didn’t look as if they should stay upright, but they did.
Fulcrom moved around behind the cultists offering a simple suggestion. ‘I want you to use these catapults as heavily as is possible. Show no mercy. Don’t hold up. Give everything you’ve got.’
‘Ballistas, mate,’ one of them said. ‘They’re ballistas, not catapults. And we’ll do our best. We’ve got a few hundred munitions, mate. All depends on the torsion springs mind — these are pretty old. Still, should do the trick, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Fulcrom replied, having no idea.
He watched them load up with munitions and aim them towards the enemy lines. In order to get a better view of the scene, Fulcrom climbed up onto the nearby cart. The few hundred Empire soldiers had formed a row now, protecting the rear of the convoy — it might not be much, Fulcrom thought, but it was at least a layer between them and the refugees.
Behind, the cultists had lined up the three ballistas and were now making minor adjustments to the mechanisms, before aiming them at the enemy.
It looked futile, Fulcrom had to admit. ‘What’s the furthest you’ve ever shot one of those things?’
‘’Bout half a mile at best,’ one replied. ‘Why, how far away are the fuckers?’
‘I’d say nearly half a mile,’ Fulcrom said.
‘Right you are, chief. Want us to fire?’
‘Might as well,’ Fulcrom said.
‘Uh, investigator?’ one of the cultists was pulling at his legs. Fulcrom looked down and then up to where the man was pointing. In the sky, on the other side this time, there were yet more forms — drifting down towards the other side of the convoy about a mile or so away.
Fulcrom held his hands over his head. ‘Shit!’ he shouted despairingly. ‘What now? Are we not hunted enough already?’
‘Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t, eh?’ the cultist said.
‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ Fulcrom said, ‘but I’m not going down without taking down some of that lot. You with me?’
‘That’s the spirit, chief,’ the cultist laughed and returned to the others. ‘Ready, lads?’
‘Release your munitions,’ Fulcrom ordered.
The cultists each pulled a lever at the back of the ballista and Fulcrom barely had time to notice the munitions launch off with a thwack into the distance. They rocketed in huge arcs and, for a moment, Fulcrom thought they were going to fall short, but they carried on going and eventually connected with the ground. Something flashed: a moment later came the sound of explosion. A disproportionately large purple fireball began spreading and smoke bubbled and billowed upwards into the sky.
Fulcrom felt his spirits soar. Soldiers in the front two rows were visibly excited.
‘Not bad, chief, eh?’ one of the cultists said, slapping another on the back. ‘Right, next one.’
Another set of munitions were released and sent arcing through the sky. They closed the distance gracefully, before once again causing fireballs. This time Fulcrom saw enemy numbers caught up in the upward-billowing inferno and he felt the cart shake beneath him.
Those things are horrific, he thought; for a moment he felt deep sympathy for whoever was on the opposing side. But then something hardened inside of him. These repugnant things deserved everything that could be thrown at them.
Another munition, another fireball; four, six, ten, and still they kept coming — the cultists showed little mercy, but the black-armoured enemy continued to march, through the smoke, towards their Jamur lines.
It’s the waiting that’s the worst part of all this, Fulcrom thought as he drew his sword.
Despite the munitions that thundered into them, back over their first rows, and thinning them out randomly, there was no stopping the sheer flow of. . creatures. Fulcrom felt a lump in his throat. The creatures were running now, not marching, great swarms of them approaching the base of the long and gentle slope. Soldiers in front of him readied themselves.
It was not difficult to predict the bloodbath that would occur, but this was the right thing to do — to die here. If they could hold out long enough for as many of the refugees to make it out to sea, if Frater Mercury had managed to develop some way of crossing the water, then thousands of lives would be saved.
Yes, that’s not a bad way to go, Fulcrom concluded.
A flicker of movement overhead caught his eye. ‘What the hell is that?’
Two, six, ten and more, enormous reptilian creatures — with a wingspan of dozens of feet — swooped down and lowered themselves onto the field of battle, directly between the Jamur soldiers and their enemy. The gargantuan beasts bore giant wooden crates on their backs and, as soon as they had landed and stooped lower, the crate doors burst back: soldiers were revealed inside, gripping on to ropes; they filed out and jumped down onto the ground and drew their swords. .
‘They’re wearing Empire colours!’ one of the cultists screamed.
There must have been over forty of these enormous reptiles now on the field of battle, each of them deploying Imperial reinforcements, and more were landing by the minute, more swooping down from the sky.
Where had they come from?
‘It’s the Night Guard!’ the convoy’s defenders shouted. ‘The fucking Night Guard are here!’
The reptiles, having released their cargo, one by one extended their wings and launched themselves back into the air; strong down-draughts of wind whipped across the soldiers on the ground.
Fulcrom could barely believe the scene: thousands of the Empire’s soldiers were now standing between the convoy and the enemy. Spearheading this new assault were the Empire’s finest warriors, the Night Guard and, at the very front, stood the famous albino commander.
In the distance, the enemy had paused, as if to assess their new situation. The Empire soldiers began beating on their shields like tribal warriors — it was like nothing Fulcrom had ever witnessed. The air was now filled with a new confidence, a relief, a knowledge that this was not yet over.