His spear trapped, Ullsaard snatched out his sword and waded into the mass, his legionnaires around and behind him shouting the king's name. The Salphors fought with the desperation of doomed men, defending their homes and families with every last breath. Caught up in the frenzy of the fighting, Ullsaard had a grudging respect for his foes even as he cut them down and bellowed for his men to leave none alive.
Whether deliberate or accidental, at some point in the fighting, the thatched roof of a hut went up in flames, spilling smoked across the battle. Burning embers landed on other houses, setting them ablaze. The shrill screams of women, the wails of terrified children joined with angry shouts and cries of pain, the crackle of flames and ring of metal. Engulfed in the chaos, Ullsaard hacked and slashed, cuts on his face and arms, chestplate scored several times, his shield battered, the rim ragged with dozens of nicks.
Blood rushing, Ullsaard vented his frustration with every blow of his sword. He roared wordlessly as he fought, intoxicated by the sense of release and the thrill of fighting. In the smoke he felt alone, though shadows raged close at hand. Bearded faces loomed out of the gloom to be hacked at and cut down. The smoke burnt Ullsaard's throat and his lungs rasped with every heavy breath, but he laughed away such discomfort. Not for quite some time had he felt such feral joy, such vitality, only a spear thrust or sword swing away from death.
It was with a shock that he came up against two legionnaires racing through the smoke. He checked his sword just in time, even as they brought up their spears. He looked around, seeking the silhouettes of the enemy, but all he could see were the crested helms and spears of legionnaires.
The Salphors were all dead.
"Search the houses!" Ullsaard called out. "Kill any men. Take whatever else you find."
The crack of splintering wood drifted with the smoke as bands of soldiers kicked down doors. There were scattered, muffled yells as a cowardly few were found in their hiding places and swiftly despatched. Legionnaires emerged from the blanket of smoke dragging women and children behind them, or carrying bundles of loot, sacks of grain, haunches of meat, using their shields to bear piles of trinkets and jewellery.
His battle-rage subsiding, Ullsaard felt his strength leeching away as he circled the village, checking to see if there were any wounded Salphors to finish off. Amongst the looting, some of the legionnaires had organised themselves into casualty bearers, using spears and shields as stretchers to carry the badly wounded from the smoke.
After the cacophony of battle, the scene was strangely quiet; the noise of the flames, the sobs of the captives, groans of the wounded and casual conversations between legionnaires seemed muted and distant to the king. He heard the squeal of a pig somewhere, followed by laughter.
Ullsaard searched through the bodies until he found the gilded haft of his spear. He ripped it free from the back of the Salphor and took it in his shield hand; his right arm was now too sore to move, his fingers numb from the wound in his shoulder. Ullsaard did not look at the cut as he made his way back to the shattered gate.
Already the post-battle business was well underway, organised by Anasind and the second captains. Carts were coming down from the baggage train to carry the dead and the loot. Luaarit, chief surgeon of the Thirteenth, was directing his orderlies, attending to the wounded. The surgeon's arms were bloodstained up to the elbows, his leather smock splashed with smears and handprints. Ullsaard watched numbly as Luaarit knelt down beside a man with a long gash in his thigh. The king couldn't hear what was said, but the man was hauled to his feet between two orderlies and half-carried over to a table surrounded by buckets and bandages, the grass matted with blood beneath it.
Ullsaard turned away, raising his shield hand to catch the attention of Anasind. The First Captain jogged through the throng of Askhans streaming out of the village.
"How many?" Ullsaard asked.
"Seventy-eight dead on the field," said Anasind. "Perhaps add another hundred to that from those too injured to fight. Same again for walking wounded. It could have been better, but it could have been a lot worse. These Salphors are no pushover."
Ullsaard looked at the burning village, the column of smoke now piling high into the sky, a signal to those that could see that the Askhans had arrive.
"You should have Luaarit look at that cut," said Anasind, pointing to Ullsaard's shoulder. "Wouldn't want to get an infection."
"It's going to be a long summer," said the king, ignoring the First Captain's suggestion. He flexed his fingers, dried blood flaking from his knuckles. "A really long summer."
Carantathi
Autumn, 211th year of Askh
I
Smoke from lamps and the fire pit created a thin haze that wafted along the hall as arguing nobles shouted and gesticulated, creating eddies in the smog. The bleating goats in the yard outside made more sense to Aegenuis than the bleating of the chieftains in his hall.
The King of the Salphors leaned back in his throne, hands gripping the arms, and ignored the anarchy. He heard gnawing and looked down at his feet. One of his wolfhounds rasped teeth on a bone, head between the king's feet. He ruffled its ears affectionately, waiting for the storm of debate to blow itself out.
"Why do you just sit there and ignore us?"
Aegenuis glanced up to see his son, Medorian, standing in front of the throne. Twenty years old, Medorian had his father's dark red hair, rangy limbs and broad chest. He had the blue eyes of his mother and the down of hair on his cheeks was fairer than the greying bush that sprouted from the king's face. Most of all, it was the constant frown that marked Medorian out from his father.
The king sighed and returned his attention to the dog. The loudly exchanged growls and insults of the twenty chieftains washed over him, easily ignored. A bang of the main door and a sudden draft of air heralded a new arrival. Aegenuis looked up as the nobles parted, allowing Haegran to approach the king.
"The Askhans attacked the Vestil thirteen days ago," announced the chieftain. "Five tribes have fled into my lands since then. They cannot stay."
Aegenuis studied his cousin. There was no malice in his expression, only honest inquiry. Haegran genuinely believed that this was somehow not his problem.
"What am I going to do about it?" the king said quietly. The conversations subsided as the chieftains gathered around to hear their ruler. "Why do I need to do anything about it? I have told you what you have to do, but you will not listen."
The Salphorian king stood up, throwing off his cloak of dyed lion skin to reveal a vest of bronze mail and tautly muscled arms tattooed with red ink. Heavy gold bracelets hung on his wrists and silver rings adorned each of his remaining eight fingers. The clay bindings of beard braids clinked together as Aegenuis took a pace towards his subjects.
"I warned you that the Askhans were too many to fight," he said, patting a hand on Haegran's shoulder. "I warned this council that no tribe or people were strong enough to resist this onslaught alone."
"And the council voted against you," said Linghal, chief of the Hadril tribes. The youthful chieftain pushed his way through the crowd. "It would be an affront to the spirits of our ancestors to give our warriors to you. We were right. The Vatarti had pushed the Askhans back beyond the Laemin River, and the Menaeni defeated a legion only forty days ago."
"Only you would use a time like this to try to grab our lands, Aegenuis," said Liradin, ruler of the Cannin who had taken the first brunt of the Askhan attack. "Where were your warriors and promises when my hall was being burned?"