‘Ye have no armour!’ a bigger, Harndon accented man called.
He didn’t have armour on his arms and legs, and the wicked scythes on their limbs sliced him to pieces, dragged him down and carved him up. And they ate him – even the dying ones took a bite.
Random couldn’t lift the buckler high any more. He knew it was just a matter of time before he was struck in the visor or the groin – only luck and the efforts of the spearmen kept him at it.
More irks came. They took their time coming over the low mound of dead, and they all came at him together. A shield caught his outstretched arm – the vambrace held the blow, but he was unbalanced, and the boglins dragged him to his knees – a blow struck the back of his helmet and he was down.
He could feel a sharp pain across his instep – something was hacking at his armoured shin – and then, to his horror, he began to be dragged out of the doorway, into the pile of corpses.
He couldn’t help it. He screamed.
And then he wasn’t being dragged, and a heavy weight crushed him. Only the strength of his breastplate and his backplate and their hinges kept the crushing weight from taking the breath out of him.
There was a sharper pain in his right foot.
He tried to call out, and suddenly his helmet was full of liquid – he spat. It was hell – dark – bitter. He choked and spat and realised that he was drowning.
In boglin blood.
He tried to scream.
More pain.
Christ, I am being eaten alive.
Christ, save me in my hour of need.
The Wild – Peter
Nita Qwan loped through the woods. The circle of the sun was high overhead. It was a poor time to set a trap, and he wanted to wait for night, but it was late spring, and darkness – true darkness – was still a long way away.
A brilliant emerald flash lit the sky to the south. A titanic concussion rocked the earth.
Ota Qwan grinned. ‘Our signal. He is mighty, our chief. Let’s go! Gots onah!’ The acting war chief ran ahead of the band, and they began to sprint over the grass, angling east, and the summer light threw shadows under them.
They had almost a mile to go. Nita Qwan was a strong man, and had lived with the Sossag for weeks, but running a mile to fight was the most exhausting work – especially after a morning of food gathering and cooking. He put his head down and tried to seal off his mind from his thighs and his lungs, and he ran.
It took many long minutes to run all the way to the east of the great ridge, but finally, Ota Qwan raised a hand. ‘Down!’ he called, and the People fell to the earth in the tall grass. He turned to Skahas Gaho and another warrior and sent them off farther to the east, and then he lay down by Nita Qwan.
‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘We are in the right place. Now we see if Thorn knows what he is doing.’
Lissen Carak – Thorn
Thorn watched the action develop from the utter safety of the western edge of the woods. He was not strong enough to risk himself today – because he’d thrown too much in a single casting. It rankled. But he had thousands of servants to aid him, and today he was spending them like water, his usual caution forgotten.
Many of his servants would have been disturbed to note that he had already decided to use them all, if he had to. He knew where more creatures of the Wild could be raised. He himself was irreplaceable.
And she was dead.
He had made mistakes, but the end game was going to play out with the inevitability of one of those ancient plays he had once so enjoyed, and now could no longer remember.
The king would come, and be defeated. That trap was already laid.
And then it would all be his.
Albinkirk – de Vrailly
He could no longer set his tent away from the army. Tonight, the army was camped hard by a small stream that ran down to the Cohocton; the carcass of a great beast of the Wild lay in sodden and hideous majesty, the bones picked redly clean in mid-stream. A litter of corpses and the screams and quarrels of the animals that fed on the recent dead marked the scene of a recent battle.
The king ordered the wagons pulled in, trace to axle tree, a fortress of tall, wheeled carts chained at the hubs, and even de Vrailly couldn’t fault him for his caution. They were in the very midst of the Wild, and the enemy was palpable, all around them. Many of the footsoldiers and not a few of the knights were afraid – scared, or even terrified. De Vrailly could hear their womanish laughter in the firelit dark, but he himself knew nothing but a fierce joy that at last – at last – he would be tested, and found worthy. The much-discussed fortress of Lissen Carak was three leagues away to the north, the Queen’s flotilla was, by all reports, already lying in mid-stream, ready to support their attack in the morning. Even the cautious old women of the king’s council were forced to admit that there would be a battle.
He was kneeling before his prie-dieu when the angel came. He came with a small thunderclap and a burst of myrrh.
De Vrailly cried out.
The angel hovered, and then sank to the earth, his great spear touching the cross-beam of the great tent.
‘My lord de Vrailly,’ the angel said. ‘The greatest knight in the world.’
‘You mock me,’ de Vrailly said.
‘Tomorrow will see you acknowledged as such by every man,’ said the angel.
Jean de Vrailly was struggling with his doubt. He felt as a man does who knows he should not mention a certain fact to his wife, but does so, anyway – precipitating an avoidable argument. ‘You said we would fight a battle,’ he said, hating the whine of doubt in his voice. ‘At Albinkirk.’
The angel nodded. ‘I am not God,’ he said. ‘I am merely a servant. The battle will be here. It should have been at Albinkirk, but forces – circumstances – forced my hand.’
The angel’s hesitation froze de Vrailly.
‘What forces, my lord?’ asked Jean de Vrailly.
‘Mind your own role, and leave me to mine,’ said the angel. His voice sounded like a whip-crack. Like de Vrailly’s own. Beautiful and terrible. Imbued with power.
De Vrailly sighed. ‘I await your orders,’ he said.
The angel nodded. ‘Tomorrow, at dawn, the king will attack. The Enemy has a blocking force on the road between here and the bridge. Let the king lead the attack on that force, and when he falls-’ The angel paused.
De Vrailly felt his heart stop.
‘When he falls, seize command. Cut your way free, save the king’s army, and you will save the day.’ The angel’s voice was pure and precise. ‘His day is done. He has failed. But he will die well, and you, my lord, will take the woman and be king. She is the kingdom. Her father was the greatest lord of Alba next to the king. With the woman, you will rule. Without her – you will not. Am I making myself clear to you?’
De Vrailly’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what of the north?’ he asked. ‘If I am to save the army, am I to let this mighty fortress fall?’
‘You can retake it,’ the angel said reasonably. ‘When you bring an army from Galle.’
De Vrailly bent his proud head, shading his eyes from the brightness of the angel. ‘Pardon me, my lord,’ he said aloud. ‘I have doubted, and been misled by false images.’
The angel touched his head. ‘God forgives you, my son. Remember – when the king falls, take command, and cut your way clear.’
De Vrailly nodded, eyes downcast. ‘I understand very well. My lord.’
Lissen Carak – The Red Knight
The captain pointed his wedge south and raised his hand. He could feel the heat coming off the hot glass circle to their right – it went right through his steel gauntlet and his glove.
Ouch, he thought. And thanked Harmodius with a silent nod.