Chapter 23
They made good progress and camped that evening with only half a day’s ride still to go. Rothir compelled himself to sleep: he had learnt the trick of it many years ago on his first campaign. Pretend you were asleep, that was the thing, and after a while your mind forgot to tell the difference. Although it hadn’t always worked well for him lately, tonight it did.
However, neither he nor his fifty men and women needed any rousing in the morning. He spoke a few words to each of them, for he knew them all at least slightly, and some well: Calenir, for instance, the young man from Olbeth’s farm, and Naileb who had left her milking-parlour to ride out with the Vonn. Rothir was heartily glad that Olbeth was no longer riding. That would have been a burden of responsibility he could do without.
But he had a good strong company, a stalwart second-in-command in Theol, and good horses. Narba was sleekly well-fed after a lazy winter; he galloped as swiftly and as willingly as ever along the southern border of the Darkburn forest. This was the route Bruilde had taken, although they would not need to travel nearly so far as she had. They would not glimpse Caervonn.
Before long they did glimpse something: a line of stonemen marching along the forest edge towards them. Thoronal called a halt and quickly they assessed the ground. Here it was flat and soft, but a little further on, a small rise would give them an advantage.
“What’s to say they won’t just wait for us to come down to their level?” Sashel asked.
“They don’t care about that,” said Parthenal. “They’ll fight anywhere.”
Rothir was inclined to agree. The stonemen, in his experience, did not use tactics other than attack and ambush – and of course the darkburns, which they sent ahead to sow terror and confusion in their enemies. They’ll find they are relying on their darkburns too much, he thought grimly.
However, the Riders had, as yet, no defence against the darkburns but their swords. There would be no opportunity to carry out any ambush of their own, and they had come across no stray stonemen to be caught and slaughtered for their stones. That harvesting of stones would have to wait.
Like the others, Rothir now strapped on his armour. The toughened leather cuirass and gorget were almost as effective as plate armour, especially with their metal banding, but were lighter and more comfortable. While not altogether proof against a heavy axe-blow, they would protect against a sword slash – and importantly, they would not heat up in proximity to a darkburn, as metal armour would.
Full leather armour had been Veron’s suggestion, apparently, although Rothir doubted if Veron himself would have the patience to wear the lot. He donned the leather helmet and the arm guards, but did without the leg guards. They hampered movement; and speed was of the essence when fighting darkburns.
They rode onward to the rise knowing that the enemy was watching them. Below, the stonemen had begun to draw up in a crude battle formation: carts were being pulled to the front on long ropes or chains. Five of them. The stonemen were shouting – whether to alarm their opponents, or simply as a means of communication, Rothir did not know. He could make out no words.
By contrast, the Riders were almost silent as they collected the horses together on the far side of the rise. Rothir was aware that if a darkburn got too close there would be no controlling them; so the Riders would fight on foot. At present, however, the horses were calm and steady. He returned to his company: a nod, a signal of the hand, was all they needed to take their agreed positions.
“Now we wait,” commanded Thoronal.
So Rothir waited, alongside the other captains and a selection of the soldiers – those with the most experience of darkburns, who were to take the lead. The others stood behind. In Thoronal’s troop he saw that Maeneb had moved up to the front: Durba stayed further back. On either wing of their small army a dozen archers took up their stance. Arrows would have no effect against the darkburns, however. They were for the stonemen.
While he waited, Rothir felt no fear of battle or of death; that would be what it was. What he chiefly feared was fear. He feared to let down his companions, to be unmanned by the dread and horror that emanated from the darkburns. Now as he waited he readied himself, girding up his will against them.
The carts were opened. He heard the metallic clatter from below, and louder shouts as if to drive the darkburns out. But they required no driving. Within seconds the darkburns were rushing towards the Riders faster than a man could run. Two large, three small; the stench was bad, but not as bad as the horror that came in a wave ahead of the indistinct dark figures.
Behind him someone moaned.
“Hold steady!” he shouted. “Hold up your swords!” And he held up his although it made his muscles quiver with the effort of defying the powerful urge to drop it, turn and run.
Darkburns take no account of swords or armour, he thought. Do they see us?
Well, I see you: and with that, Rothir leapt forward to strike the nearest darkburn as it rushed towards him.
It was like hitting a tree. How could such an indistinct thing be so solid? Part of it flew off into the air, and when he smote again, another fragment did the same.
But his leather shield could not give him full protection from the heat that radiated from the darkburn. He had to leap back and let Theol take his place. Two strokes, and Theol had to fall back, giving way for Ebril.
Now the darkburn was in their midst and they had to all withdraw from its incinerating heat, slashing as it came close and then running. It was near-chaos; he was vaguely aware that much the same thing was happening in the companies on either side.
And this was the moment that the stonemen chose to charge.
“Hold your ground!” he roared, and jumped forward to strike the darkburn yet again, three times, ignoring the burning of his hands and legs. Finally it fell, crumbling into many pieces at his feet.
At the same time a flight of arrows hissed overhead towards the stonemen. A few of them toppled over – but too few, and then their fellows trampled heedlessly over the injured men in their advance. Immediately the first line of the stoneman army was upon him, shouting and flourishing their swords and battle-axes. No sign of fear.
Yet this was easier than fighting darkburns. Many of the stonemen were unskilled with a sword, although the battle-axes could be lethal even when wielded unhandily. But with a curved sword in one hand and an axe in the other, there was no space for a shield. The few that carried shields bore them bumping on their backs. Rothir had an idea that stonemen regarded shields as cowardly.
Well, that was fine by him. He hacked his way through the first line without receiving more than a glancing blow on his helmet. Some of the stonemen had no more protection than their tunics, and although a few – those with more stones – wore chain mail, even so their necks and limbs were vulnerable; so that was his first area of attack. The trick was not to think of them as people. He was not a person to the stonemen, after all.
Before long he had accounted for three dead and several injured, while Ebril and Theol on either side were fighting strongly too. The air was full of the dreadful sounds of battle: though there was little breath for shouting now, and not even the screams of wounded men were so audible as the whistling scream of swords and the thunk of axe on leather or worse. Rothir yelled encouragement at his troop, who were holding firm under the onslaught. At the same time he noticed that Sashel’s people were in trouble.
A darkburn had run riot through them and two Riders lay contorted on the ground. The stonemen held back while the darkburn did its work, flinging itself at one Rider after another as they tried vainly to destroy it. He saw Sashel, who had lost his helmet, jump forward in attack and retreat with his hair briefly flaming. Kalbe doused the fire with her cloak.
Rothir turned to meet another stoneman running at him. Parrying the sword-thrust, he took the heavy blow from the axe on his shield and while the man was still trying to pull it free he let the shield drop. Then swinging his own sword in a long arc with both hands he swiped the stoneman’s head off cleanly.
It fell near his feet. He grabbed it by the ears and flung it, raining blood, into the midst of the shouting melee around Sashel. There was a dreadful noise that might have emanated from the darkburn: he couldn’t tell. At any rate the darkburn spun and flung itself away from the rolling head, hurtling out of the affray and down the hill in the opposite direction to the stoneman army.
“Get ready!” shouted Rothir, for even as the darkburn fled, the stonemen began to run at Sashel’s troop. Sashel turned to meet the nearest with a fierce blow of his sword. A second later Rothir had to attend to his own attackers again, cutting and hacking with grim concentration until there was a brief lull in the fighting.
Then he paused to take a quick survey of his position. He had five injured, no fatalities. Could be much worse. A scatter of dead stonemen lay around; they would keep darkburns at bay. Down the hill, the remaining ranks of stonemen had gathered together and were noisily consulting. Rothir did not expect them to retreat. His sword was badly notched. He leant on it and tried to catch his breath while he was able.
But behind him came a warning shout of “Mind the horses!” He saw that the runaway darkburn, having zig-zagged to and fro, was veering towards the group of increasingly restless horses. If it got much closer they’d stampede.
Quickly he hacked with his sword at the nearest corpse; this time the damaged blade took three attempts to sever the head. Rothir picked it up and ran with it towards the horses, hurling it so that it rolled amongst their feet. Like some dreadful game of bowls, he thought, watching the darkburn swerve away and veer off again on a random path. It seemed to have no plan.
He grabbed his spare, homemade sword from Narba’s saddle before he ran back to the front. It was clear that, unlike the darkburn, the stonemen did have some sort of a plan. Most of them were again beginning to advance, while a smaller group moved backwards to the forest margin. He wondered why. As the heavier force of the enemy surged forward in this fresh attack, it became clear that they were trying to push the Riders back sufficiently to stop them gaining any protection from the corpses with their stones.
“Oh no, you don’t,” said Rothir, and with a shout of “Don’t retreat!” he led the charge again.
This time the fight was long and bitter. Over to his left he glimpsed Parthenal laying about him with his sword, but had no time to see how he was doing. The stonemen in this second wave were tougher and more wily fighters than those of the earlier attack. They sent in the disposables first, but these ones have more stones, so higher rank, he thought, as he took a blow on his cuirass and stabbed the man who’d done it.
“Over here!” he yelled to Sashel. “Re-form!” His group and Sashel’s moved together to combine into one unit, with several injured Riders lying within their protective crescent.
The Riders were holding their ground, but only just. Rothir was growing tired. Knowing that his enemy would be tired too, he urged his troop on, shouting praise of every strong blow of a Rider’s sword and trying to encourage those who were faltering.
Suddenly the stonemen all fell back.
“What?” said Rothir.
“They’re giving up. We’ve done it,” panted Theol. “Shall we charge them?”
“No! Wait. Something’s going on.” Rothir did not trust this abrupt retreat. Glancing over at Parthenal on his left, he saw him hesitate as well, holding back his own company with his outstretched sword.
But to his right, Thoronal was grinning in triumph. “Forward! Attack!” he shouted. “We have them on the back foot!” He led the charge at a run, with his company following at his heels.
“Wait!” bellowed Rothir. The shout went unheeded. Thoronal’s troop were racing down the hill towards the stonemen, who made no attempt to fight, but rapidly withdrew towards the forest. Rothir saw Maeneb standing in their midst, holding back whilst Riders ran past her with their swords upraised.
And then they all came to a sudden, stumbling halt.
“What in the name of all the stars is that?” muttered Ebril beside him.
For out of the shadow of the trees, herded by the second group of stonemen, something was emerging: something long and low and creeping, but creeping fast. This was different to any previous foe.
Although it was as charcoaled as a darkburn it was bigger than any that he had come across before; and more distinct – no formless whirl of smoke, but a solid, clawed, yet almost headless shape. Some spur-like objects on its back might be rudimentary wings.
What was more, the malice and hatred that emanated from it were far greater than any he had felt from any darkburn hitherto. The fury. The relentless loathing. The inner voice commanding him to die.
He felt his muscles turn to milk and his limbs begin to tremble. This was what he had feared. When he tried to grip his sword firmly he could barely feel its hilt, let alone raise it.
The darkburn was glowing. Somewhere in the centre of it there was fire. So this was what Bruilde had seen; and Eled. It was nothing like the wonderful creature of the old tales – nothing at all. It was a monster, hideous. Nevertheless, there it was, implacably advancing.
“It’s a firedrake,” he said hoarsely: and then he again bellowed at Thoronal’s troop. “Firedrake! Get back! Get back!”
They needed no telling. Some of them had fallen to their knees in shock and feebleness: others were already turning and starting to stagger back on collapsing legs as the firedrake opened its mouth – or what would have been a mouth, had it not been burnt away.
Inside it was a furnace. From the furnace leapt a stream of flame.
He could feel it from where he stood. It was like the forge multiplied by a hundred. One of Thoronal’s men, unable to run, was caught in the blast. He pitched forward: and an instant later the companion who turned back to help him fell likewise, writhing in the flames. Thoronal was shouting at them in a gasping voice, but the words were indistinguishable.
Rothir yelled again. “Get back behind the stonemen!” He meant the line of fallen foes, whose stones would offer them protection. They did not seem to understand. He ran forward, beckoning his company to follow: they grabbed those of Thoronal’s troop who were close enough, and dragged them forcibly back across the line.
But not far enough back. The stones were not sufficient protection from this enemy. Although the firedrake halted ten yards away, its blunt head slowly swinging, its heat carried far beyond the line of corpses. Inside his leather armour, Rothir felt himself begin to cook.
“Back! Back!” he shouted. The Riders were still moving further back when the firedrake opened its mouth a second time.
“Get down!” He flung himself to the ground as the searing burst of flame poured over him. Several Riders were caught, their screams adding to the horror. It was overwhelming him. But he would not let it. As the firedrake closed its mouth again he scrambled to his feet, trying to push away every thought but the need to work out what to do.
Surely all they could do was to keep retreating. But that would not help for long: for a few stonemen were starting to run in a wide arc round the firedrake to pull the nearest corpses out of the way. When one of them got too close and caught fire his comrades made no attempt to help him.
Still the firedrake stood squatting on its short bowed legs, facing them, if that blunt lump of charcoal could be called a face. With its charred stumps of wings it was a grotesque, ruined thing. Heat pulsed from it: and now it lifted its head for a third assault.
We have to run or die, thought Rothir. Or both. Might as well run this way, then.
He dropped his sword and shield and picked up the two nearest stoneman corpses, seizing one in each hand by the back of their tunics. Holding them in front of him he ran, staggering, towards the firedrake. He couldn’t see beyond the stonemen’s lolling heads. But he could feel the firedrake’s burning – even with his human shield, it was close to unbearable.
It’s no worse than the forge, he told himself, you’re used to that. It’s just the forge.
He had to get still closer before the next surge of flame. So on he ran, half-blind, into the heat, into the furnace. He heard the roar as the darkburn sent out its third stream of fire. He heard the cries of agony.
But this time the cries came from in front of him. The firedrake had turned half away from the corpses that he carried, its head swivelling, so that its fire had hit the stoneman army. It seemed that it did not discriminate between friend and foe.
As long as it can hate and kill, he thought, it doesn’t matter who. Although he felt almost on fire himself, Rothir kept lumbering towards it with his bloody burden. And now the firedrake turned fully round from him to face the stonemen in its path.
Instead of advancing to make it move away, the stonemen panicked and began to run. Those in the rear took the full blast of the firedrake’s fourth attack: several went up in yellow flames like beacons.
Rothir’s human shield was now steaming and sizzling, and he could go no closer. Thrusting the corpses away from him towards the firedrake, he ran back to rejoin his troop. By the time he reached them the firedrake had set out on a new path, creeping fast and low towards the fleeing stonemen, sending wave on wave of fire after them.
As the Riders watched, the surviving stonemen fled into the forest, the firedrake crawling behind them as fast as they could run. It left behind a blackened trail of burning grass and burning men beneath a cloud of smoke.
Then it too lurched into the forest. They saw sudden leaping flames and billows of black smoke mark its progress through the trees. Soon it had disappeared entirely: the only enemies in sight were dead ones. Before them lay an abandoned scene of mud and fire and devastation.