less fired at a living foe. Even if the undead provided only a walking shield to the infantry behind them, they served a crucial purpose in the enemy’s plan.
Cannons boomed on the hills behind them. The ground beneath Sardec’s feet vibrated in time. Clouds of smoke and earth erupted in the Sardean line. Walking corpses were thrown skywards like rag dolls tossed by an angry child but the rest of them came on, following their drums, ignoring the carnage around them in a way that no living man could.
Sardec had to force himself not flinch as cannon balls whizzed overhead. He heard explosions behind him, and the sound of iron being twisted and wood splintered. It looked like the enemy was going in for counter-battery fire, seeking to destroy the Talorean cannons while they concentrated on clearing the undead.
He forced himself to stand tall and proud. The waiting was always the worst part of any battle. Right now there was nothing he could do save stand there and pray he was not hit before he could get to grips with the foe. He had to set an example to the men around him, who had to do the same. This was worst he could ever remember it being, perhaps because of the presence of the walking dead men, perhaps because of the feeling that this was a battle his side could not win.
He pushed those thoughts aside, telling himself it was the evil magic of the booming drums, and tried to judge the distance separating his men from the enemy. It was hard because the land rolled and sometimes the Sardeans vanished below the line of sight but he estimated that it could not be more than three hundred yards now; extreme range for a musket but still within the realms of possibility for shots like the Foragers.
He looked at Sergeant Hef, who looked at Weasel, who nodded. “Foragers only. Fire!” he bellowed. Moments later the first wave of shots tore into the oncoming dead men. Many staggered, a few fell, their heads torn asunder by the heavy shot. Those coming on behind tripped and were trampled but they did not stop. They marched on, inexorable as a glacier, reducing the corpses they trampled to jelly.
Shots continued to ring out as the Foragers kept a hail of fire on the undead. Despite orders other units began to join in, sending a hail of fire tearing into the enemy line. In places the Sardeans stopped, as a wall of corpses built up ahead of them, but the main body of the foe kept coming on, swirling round the islands of bodies, marching ever forward, unstoppable as death.
Rik saw the lines come together. Musket and cannon fire tore great holes in the undead line. Some of the walking corpses simply picked themselves up after being knocked down and came on. Others, legless, dragged themselves along the ground. All of them seemed animated by one terrible implacable will. None of them showed the sort of fear and indecision that a human trooper might after coming under such withering fire.
Volley after volley rang out but still they came on, with the Sardean infantry bringing up their rear and preparing their weapons. The sound of their fifes and marching drums cut through the sound of battle. Over them towered huge wyrms, their howdahs filled with riflemen, trained sharpshooters picking out selected targets.
Now the walking dead tore into the Talorean line and their presence brought terror. It was not just fighting the massed ranks of the undead; it was the terrible threat that you might be infected by their disease, or rise again to fight against your comrades if you went down.
The Sardean artillery had inflicted some damages on the Scarlet cannon, while they had been busy fruitlessly trying to stem the tide of the undead attack. Tamara met his gaze evenly and shrugged. There was nothing to be said. She obviously shared his opinion of the way things were going.
Overhead the Sardean dragons swept forward and their Talorean counterparts rushed to meet them. Massive beasts smashed into each other in a maelstrom of teeth and claws. Two of the great creatures dropped to earth limbs and wings and tails inextricably intertwined. They fell amid the great melee in the centre of the battlefield, crushing men and walking corpses, and continuing to fight even if their riders were dead and their own bodies hopelessly mangled. Their ferocity was appalling.
The Sardean cavalry flowed round the mass of the battle, taking to the wings of the army, threatening to flank the Taloreans. It was a move that Azaar appeared to have anticipated. The guns on the hills opened fire, carving great holes in their ranks, leaving broken and mangled beasts flopping in the bloody mud. The whole right flank of the Sardean cavalry turned and fled but somehow, against all the odds, with the sort of bravery that can turn the course of battles, the cavalry on the left kept going. The Talorean cavalry rushed to intercept them and the two forces smashed together in a clash of sabre and pistol.
Asea chanted and unleashed a salamander from the ancient jars in which she kept them imprisoned. The giant elemental leapt skywards and hurtled into the battle of dragons; swiftly another and then another joined it, until their blaze lit the sky, and meteor-like other elementals rose from the Sardean line to join the fray. Witchfires underlit the clouds as the supernatural creatures smashed into each other.
Rik glared around, feeling trapped and impotent. There was nothing for him to do here. His skills were useless. His sorcery was not strong enough to have any effect on the outcome of the battle, and he was too far away to take an effective part in the fighting. All he could do was wait and act as a bodyguard for Asea, if worst came to the worst.
He kept watching and praying. It was the only thing he could do.
“Stand firm, lads,” Sardec shouted, from beneath the regimental colours. The walking corpses were mere yards away, intermittently visible through the billows of powder smoke. “One last volley and fix bayonets!”
The final blast of musketry sounded like thunder in his ears, and then the men were desperately attaching blades to their musket barrels as the undead closed with them. The Barbarian slung his rifle back over his shoulder and drew his chopping blades, taking up a position near Sardec, Weasel and the Sergeant. Sardec was suddenly glad he was there as the first wave of corpses broke on their position.
He brought his blade down to slash off the arm of a skeletal creature, its skin blotched with mould, that looked like it had been dead for days, and then took off its head with his return thrust. The men had formed up in a defensive ring around him, thrusting with blades, smashing rifle butts into undead heads. Still the monsters came on.
With all the smoke and noise it was difficult to grasp the situation but he guessed that things were not looking good. Even if all the deaders managed to do was pin down his force it was enough. His lads were already fatigued, and the undead were tireless. Behind them were waves of fresh human infantry, led by Terrarch officers and supported by monstrous bridgeback wyrms. All he really got a sense of was that his own side were being pushed back by the sheer numbers of their foes.
Even as that thought occurred to him, he heard the bellows breathing and kettle-whistle shriek of one of the great creatures. The earth shook beneath its tread as it raced forward.
“Disperse, lads!” he shouted, and the formation thinned to let the creature pass. It loomed gigantically out of the sulphur-tainted smoke, five times as tall as Sardec, a man, feet kicking frantically was caught in its beak-like jaws, and then sheared into two halves with a flick of its head.
Sardec lashed out at one columnar leg with his blade, aiming to ham string it. He felt the weapon bite home and then he hurled himself aside to avoid being crushed. Those around him were not so lucky. He saw one man go down beneath an enormous padded foot, when it rose again he was nothing more than a bloody smear.
A musket ball buzzed beside his ear, and the side of his head felt wet. He reached up with the back of his hand and felt blood flow. Looking up he caught sight of musketeers on the howdah on the beast’s back. He could do nothing except bellow at them with impotent rage. The blade in his good hand was useless under the circumstances.
Something caught him a heavy blow on his side. He turned and saw a walking corpse, so close the air billowing from the open wounds in its chest washed over his skin like the breath of a demon in a nightmare. He slashed with his hook, catching the thing across the eyes, blinding it, then punched it in the face with the hilt of his blade, breaking teeth and sending the deader tumbling backwards.
For the next few minutes everything was a chaos of pain, and smoke and blood and blows. He lashed out at any walking dead man within reach, losing all sense of self in his desire to put them down. The futility of the exercise, of trying to kill dead men, only goaded him to greater efforts, frustration fuelling his anger, and his rage fuelling his demented blows.
Glancing around he saw the company colours were down. The Angel of Death lay in the mud, covered in blood and dirt. He strode over and picked them up, looking around for familiar faces and finding none.
“Foragers to me,” he shouted. “To the colours!”
From the mist around him emerged a few scattered shouts. Sergeant Hef emerged from the gloom, blood
