It was a bloody misfire.
The man on the ladder looked demonic now, his face soot blackened, his teeth showing wild and white. He began to pull himself over the wall. Sardec felt a brief flicker of remorse, that he should do such a thing to one who had just survived certain death, then smashed the man across the face with the barrel of the pistol. Teeth flew out, blood splattered and the attacker fell backwards from the wall. A bullet whizzed past Sardec’s head but he remained upright just long enough to kick the ladder free of the wall and send it tumbling backwards towards the ground.
He squinted through the gloom and saw nothing but more men emerging from the smoke clouds, shrieking with fear and battle madness.
Sardec dropped back down behind the battlements and saw to his horror that a group of the enemy were clambering over the barricade at the manor’s gateway and pouring into the courtyard. Among them were a group of ripjack wyrms, more massive than men, with jaws that could tear off a soldier’s arm at a bite. The very sight of them caused fear among the Foragers. Sardec took the stairs three at a time as he bounded to meet them, praying that someone would follow him.
Where in hell was the relief column, he wondered?
The wyrm crossed the ridge. Rik could see the ford and the fortified mansion, wreathed with smoke and surrounded by men. Those he could see had Blue armbands. A Terrarch officer in a blue frock coat roared orders. Bugles sounded, drums banged loud as demons bashing down the walls of Bedlam. It was chaos.
“This is madness,” he heard Asea say. “What do those men think they are doing?”
Rik wondered if she was going to try any magic, but she sat still and silent. If she had anything like the wand she had used in battle with the hill tribes, she kept it out of sight. Rik saw the rest of the Talorean force top the ridge.
“I think they are attacking the manor, milady,” said Rik.
“They have left no sentries, no rear guard, nothing. Their commander should be shot for incompetence.”
“I will try and arrange it if the opportunity arises.” As soon as the words had left his lips, Rik regretted them. Jesting with a great Terrarch lady was not something humans were supposed to do. To his relief she saw that she was smiling. Even that, lovely as it was, made him deeply uneasy. It was as if she was smiling at some secret joke of her own, not the one he had made at all. Another realisation hit him. He did not like having so much of his hopes for the future pinned on one person. He did not like being bound to her. Part of him resented the loss of freedom deeply.
“It seems you have something of the assassin in your blood, Rik,” she said, still smiling at her secret joke. He looked at her. Her words obviously had more meaning to her than to him.
“If you say so, milady,” he said.
“I do.” She gave her attention back to the battle. Most of the battle wyrms were headed towards the ford now. On the backs of the leaders, horns sounded, calling the beasts to war. Behind them, the infantry surged forward. There was no way to keep formation on terrain like this, although their officers did their best to hold them into units. As they advanced into the besiegers, fire and smoke spouted from their muskets. The battlefield became obscured once more in drifting clouds of powder smoke. From inside the billows came all the horrendous sounds of combat.
More horns sounded in the distance. These were of a subtly different tone from the ones the Talorean Regiments used. Someone played a series of martial notes. Rik heard the thunder of hooves from somewhere. Moments later he saw cavalrymen racing down to the banks of the ford, sabres flashing as the hussars cut into the Talorean infantrymen. They were met by a volley of fire from atop the nearest bridgebacks. A long-necked wyrm head snaked down to rip one rider from his saddle.
A chaotic tone entered the sounds of distant bugles. Rik heard the charge of the Talorean cavalry sound off in the distance. That was strange, he thought, how had they got there? Then he remembered they had been dispatched east in the morning. They must have crossed the bridge and turned north and then west. The besiegers were caught in the claws of a pincer.
Surely now, the Taloreans must have overwhelming force, Rik thought. Surely now the battle must be decided. The obscuring smoke made it difficult to tell.
Sardec slashed the screaming soldier across the face with his hook. Only then did he realise it was one of his own men. In the madness of the melee, the wounded Forager had lashed out at him with a bayonet. Maybe it was not an accident, Sardec thought. Maybe he had known all along he was striking an officer, perhaps settling an old score. He was saved from having to decide whether the man should be court-martialled when a bayonet ripped through the human’s chest and he fell to his knees.
A monstrous ripjack wyrm loomed out of the dust and smoke. Its great jaws snapped so close to Sardec’s face that he could smell the rotting meat tang of its breath. Ferocious rage and hatred showed in its tiny mad eyes. Round its neck was a jewelled collar. The gem glowed in such a way that Sardec knew that there was an enemy officer somewhere nearby controlling it with a Leash.
Sardec rammed his hook into the creature’s mouth. The jaws slammed shut. The wyrm hissed in rage at the strange taste of the thing in its mouth. God, but the beast was strong. It moved its head and Sardec’s arm was nearly torn from its socket. Sardec smashed it in the face with his pistol butt. The wyrm let him go. More by accident than design Sardec got the tip of his hook into the creature’s eye. He drove it deeper into the jelly until it pierced the creature’s tiny brain. It died with a hiss, not a whimper.
A man in the furs of a trapper with a blue scarf wrapped around his throat glared at Sardec in triumph. Sardec lunged at him with the butt of the pistol. He held it by the still-warm barrel now, using its weighted grip as a club. The man let go of his rifle and leapt back, whipping out a long skinning knife. His smile widened. Sardec’s heart sank. This man undoubtedly knew how to use this weapon.
He came forward now, poised on the balls of his feet, confident of the kill. Sardec raised his hook and gestured for him to advance. There was still blood on it. The man flinched at the sight, which struck Sardec as unusual, then the trapper stiffened and fell, and the Lieutenant saw the bayonet protruding from his side. Sergeant Hef grinned his monkey grin up at Sardec, removed the bayonet, and then paused.
“Sounds like we’ve got company, sir,” he bellowed. “Steady, lads! Steady! Reinforcements are here!”
There was no way of telling whether what the Sergeant was saying was true but it was the right thing to say at this moment. Their own men took heart and fought with renewed fury. The men who moments ago had been so daringly leaping over the barriers now look scared and panicky.
Sardec listened and heard the blowing of bugles and the sound of wyrms. Perhaps they belonged to Azaar’s army, but at this point he realised that it did not matter. Whether the newcomers were friend or foe, his own men could not hold their embattled position for more than a few more minutes. He came to a decision.
What was important now was what the men believed, not what was true. As far as he was concerned those soldiers out there had to be on their side. He forced a confident smile on to his face, and shouted; “The Sergeant is right lads. Just a few more minutes and we’ll show these traitor bastards what for!”
Almost to his surprise, his words gave the Foragers more heart even than the Sergeant’s. A strange pride filled Sardec that they should have such faith in him. He forced his aching weary body forward, brandishing his pistol like a battle banner.
Just as surprising was the change that had come over his foes. A few moments ago they had been attacking like rabid wolverines. Now they seemed stunned. A man emerging from the smoke stood like an ox in an abattoir as Sardec pole-axed him with his pistol butt. Others began to throw down their weapons, as the contagion of panic spread. Here and there, Sardec could hear officers and Sergeants shouting and trying to keep their foes steady, but their words had a panicked quality that just added to the confusion. Sardec heard his own voice roaring and shouting mad exhortations, and he was not sure whether it held the exultation of victory or simply the relief of pent up fear of failure.
He stuck the pistol in the waistband of his britches, and stooped to pick up the long sword of a fallen enemy officer. Brandishing it left-handed he roared at his men to stand firm, to hold on, to reach out and seize victory. In his heart, his most fervent wish was that he knew what was really going on out there.
The wyrm’s rolling stride faltered for a minute. Something crunched under its enormous paw. Rik looked down and saw the flattened, broken-backed body of a man flopping behind him. Weasel’s musket banged near his ear. Rik turned and saw the former poacher reloading, calm as a man out pheasant shooting, not standing on the back of a huge beast as it forged its way across a battlefield, crushing their enemies under foot.
