'By the end of the summer, surely,' he said.
'Ullsaard will be king by the time spring is over,' said Anglhan, speaking with confidence, though he was far from certain. 'He'll not let Magilnada fall.'
'And if Ullsaard fails? What happens then?'
Anglhan didn't answer. I'll be stuck between Lutaar and Aegenuis, he thought. Neither of them wants me here. He put on a brave smile and looked at Furlthia.
'Ullsaard won't fail.'
Nalanor
Spring, 210th Year of Askh
I
There was so much shouting; the bellows of the officers, the cries of the men around him, the roars of the enemy. Gelthius never realised battle would be this noisy. He winced as his company crashed into one of Nemtun's phalanxes. As a new hand, he was in the back ranks. All he had to do was shove the man in front and keep his spear from hitting any of his own men. The veterans at the front and along the right side of the phalanx would be doing all the hard work.
It was a far cry from the fights he had been in, stealing cattle from the neighbouring tribes in Salphoria. In those scraps it was every man for himself, and Gelthius fancied himself as quite a handy swordsman in his prime. Age might have slowed him a bit, but on the first charge he had realised why they had spent so many miserable days marching back and forth across the drill squares, raising and lowering their arms, setting their shields and walking in step shoulder to shoulder.
Askhan fighting wasn't about skill, not for the greater part. It was about strength and stamina; grinding down the opposition until they could fight no more. This was the fourth melee he'd been involved in since the battle had begun a little before noon. Sweat soaked his tunic and his kilt chafed against his thighs. Fortunately his hands had been worn hard over years at the cranks, but some of the others around him had wrapped linen bandages around their palms because of tears and blisters. Similarly his back was strong, but his legs ached, despite the lean muscle brought on by miles of marching.
In front of him, Gebriun pulled up suddenly, dropping his spear to clutch at his calf.
'Fucking cramp!' the legionnaire snarled.
'Step up!' bellowed the rank sergeant, Muuril.
Gelthius pushed into Gebriun's place as the legionnaire hobbled towards the back of the phalanx. Passing his spear into his shield hand, he grabbed Gebriun's fallen weapon and passed it back after the retreating legionnaire.
'Lock!'
The order came from the front, probably third captain Lonnir. Gelthius slid his shield across that of the man to his left, while the man to his right did the same to Gelthius. Putting his left foot forward, Gelthius braced himself against the legionnaire in front and felt the pressure of the shield from the man behind along his back. Glancing up from under the brow of his helmet, Gelthius could see enemy pike heads swaying against the cloudy sky.
'Step!'
Gelthius gave a shout and pushed, bringing his right foot up to his left and forcing his left foot another pace. As one, the phalanx heaved the enemy backwards.
'Step!'
Again Gelthius urged himself on, feeling the weight of the rank behind on his shoulders, his right arm tiring from holding his spear above the heads of those in front.
'Step!'
'I'll fuckin' step on 'im when we're back in camp,' muttered the man in front.
'Brace to the right!'
And so it carried on, a blur of shouts and aches and surging bodies. Gelthius felt a tap on his right shoulder and he turned to see Loordin, one of the ten-year veterans, who had taught Gelthius how to maintain his kit and stand sentry. His face was covered in blood from a gash just below the rim of his helmet. The legionnaire winked through the crimson mask.
'Welcome to the legions!' the man laughed.
'What's happening?' Gelthius said.
'We're winning,' Loordin said with a grin.
'How can you tell?' Gelthius could see nothing of the rest of the battle, engulfed by the press of bodies around him.
'You're still alive, aren't you?' came the reply.
II
From a bluff overlooking the battle, Ullsaard was pleased with what he saw. I'll teach you to patronise me, you old fart, he thought. Nemtun had come running for Narun like a child chasing a ball; straight into Ullsaard's army waiting for him a day's march from the city. Donar and the Fifth had been given a chance to redeem themselves, making a forced march to coldwards before swinging in between Nemtun's army and the Wall, cutting off their retreat. Giving Nemtun no time to turn his legions against Donar, Ullsaard had ordered eight of his remaining legions on a full attack, keeping only one back in case of some disastrous turn of events. The kolubrid riders had pinned the enemy in place with their bellows-bows, their heavy arrows forcing the opposing companies to form into defensive circles, shields raised against the attack while the infantry closed for the kill.
There had been a couple of dubious moments. Nemtun's lavathowers and spear thowers had been gathered in one place for the march and once set up they had reaped a bloody and burning toll of the Twelfth on the right flank. Jutiil had pushed his men on into the storm of the war machine fire taking heavy casualties, but had eventually overrun the enemy position.
Nemtun had also feigned a retreat on his right, dragging the Thirteenth and Second Magilnadan ahead of the rest of the army, which allowed Nemtun to turn his centre to attack them. This exposed the legions in the centre of the enemy line, but if Nemtun had broken through he would have turned the whole flank. The Thirteenth had done Ullsaard proud, holding even after the raw men from Magilnada had started to fall back, giving Ullsaard time to move his own central phalanxes to relieve the pressure.
When this gambit had failed, Nemtun had pulled back his attacking regiments and was now resetting his line on a ridge to coldwards. One legion had been left a quarter of a mile ahead of the main army; Ullsaard felt sorry for the poor soldiers in that vanguard, sacrificed to buy time for the other legions to withdraw towards the Wall.
Nemtun's army started to turn away, heading dawnwards away from the battle. Ullsaard could see the covered wagons and ailur-riding officers of Nemtun's staff at the head of the retreating column. The king's brother would be on one of the carts, no doubt shouting at the drivers to whip the abada as fast as they could.
'Fuck that,' said Ullsaard, turning to his messengers. 'I'm not letting him get away. Send word to Jutiil. Full march to engage the enemy before they reach the road. Tell him to keep Nemtun busy until the rest of us catch up. Everyone else is to concentrate on the rearguard. I want them dead in half an hour. Remind my captains that every man that escapes will be fighting them again at the Wall. That should hurry them up.'
As the messengers rode away, Ullsaard swung himself up into Blackfang's saddle. It was time to hammer home the advantage.
