The Ragged Man Part 50

The spearmen threw down more than a dozen bridges and walkways, some six feet or more wide; the defending regiments ran to meet their attackers, and a savage struggle for each began, as they battered each other to death in the restricted s.p.a.ce. One bridge was thrown down barely ten yards from where they stood, and Daken forced a path to the head of it and stood with one foot on the wooden platform as he waited for the attack.

He smashed at their s.h.i.+elds with his great axe, pitching one after another down into the ditch through his sheer strength. After four men had fallen, the enemy hesitated, stunned by the raging white-eye with glowing blue tattoos, and the defenders had enough time to chop away at the end of the bridge and shatter the wood until that too dropped into the ditch below.

The Narkang pikemen were not faring so well. The Chetse continued to heave forward with practised skill. Their long two-handed axes decimated heads and pike-shafts alike, and Osh saw the line weaken further and started to buckle. Men started thinking only about survival, and began to give way to the pressure as they were forced further back. With each step the Chetse gave a triumphal shout, driving forward with one will, and after barely a minute their greater strength told and the line of pikemen parted and split.

Some scrambled madly backwards as the front ranks collapsed, only to be trampled in the onrush, while the right flank disintegrated, dozens pushed by their terrified comrades into the open end of the defensive ditch. Others found themselves colliding with the line of defenders behind the ditch.

Icy fear filled Osh's gut as the first of the Chetse s.h.i.+elds burst through. 'Where are the reserves?' he croaked. 'Daken!'

The white-eye looked over and saw the danger. The Chetse were still advancing in close order, towards the archers strung behind the main line, who panicked and fled, most heading directly into the forest. Beside them was a division of pikemen, the troops who had held the line in the first a.s.sault.

Leaving his own position Daken brandished his axe to wave the reserve troops forward. 'Charge, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!' he hollered, and without waiting, the white-eye followed his own orders, heading straight for the exposed flank for the Chetse, his axe raised. As he ran, a long tendril of bluish light darted out from his body and snagged the ankles of several soldiers, who stumbled and fell, sprawling under the feet of their comrades and causing a moment of confusion just as Daken arrived to decapitate the nearest. He wasn't alone for long as the pikemen followed their white-eye general's lead. They all knew what would happen if the Menin gained a foothold inside the Narkang lines, and that knowledge overrode their fear.

Daken battered away at the nearest Chetse, hacking furiously at the smaller soldiers, whilst being careful not to cut a path into their ranks and find himself surrounded. The flank of the legion ground to a halt as the soldiers turned to face the new a.s.sault, and their tight formation stretched, becoming ragged as the rest continued to advance on through - then a chorus of whoops and shouts came from the forest side and a disordered crowd of soldiers raced out from the trees into the Chetse's other flank. The Narkang Watchmen had arrived.

Finally the Chetse stopped and prepared to defend themselves. The reserve pikemen were advancing towards their short front rank and the ma.s.s of Watchmen, bolstered by some of those archers who'd just fled into the trees, slammed into the side of the Chetse, attacking furiously.

Osh took a moment to look back along the ditch and saw they were holding - but only barely.

'Sen, get that messenger to summon more troops from the reserve, as many as he can!' Osh yelled, grabbing his former pupil by the arm and shoving him towards a horseman stationed behind the advancing pikemen. 'Is the ditch breached?'

'No, sir,' answered another aide, looking down the defensive line, 'only one bridge has gained ground and there's a company already surrounding the incursion.'

The Mystic of Karkarn turned back to the Chetse. They may have been under a.s.sault on three sides, but they were by far the most ferocious of the troops involved. Making a decision, he yelled at a squad of pikemen standing ready to see off the next bridging attempt and beckoned to include his own small command staff too, 'All of you; come with me!' With that, Osh started limping towards Daken's small group attacking the left flank of the Chetse, but before they arrived he could see the Chetse line had relaxed and lost its tight formation, the better to surround and slaughter their attackers.

'But, sir, look!' said his young lieutenant, the fear evident in his voice as he pointed to a second block of troops following in the path of the Chetse.

'I know that,' Osh growled, grabbing the youth by the arm and dragging him a few steps along, 'but you don't get to choose every fight - the longer we hold 'em, the better chance the rest have.' He released the lieutenant and drew his scimitar. 'Form up on me, you coddled girlies! It's time to see if any o' you had a teacher worth a d.a.m.n!' And he headed straight for the few dozen Chetse who'd broken away from their line, intent on surrounding and destroying Daken's men. Under his breath he muttered a prayer, one he'd never spoken before; it was reserved for moments such as this: 'Karkarn aid me, for these offerings with my blade. Karkarn welcome me, for this day I die.'

Lord Styrax watched the second wave march within bowshot of the fort and raised his own sword. All around him the heavy infantry roared with one voice, thumping the b.u.t.ts of their spears against the ground. The beat of the war drums behind cut through the noise and they set off, marching in time towards the open stretch of ground between the wooden fort and the defensive ditch. With only seventy yards of ground to work with he'd stood two legions side by side, fifty men in each tight rank, and he'd placed himself in the centre.

Since the Cheme Third Legion had been decimated, the Second was on his right, the Arohat Fourth on his left and the more manoeuvrable Cheme First in front, already closing on the defensive ditch. The archers there started firing as soon as they were past the marker, but Styrax's attention was on the solid line of defenders ahead. There were at least three legions packed into one solid line - it was impossible to judge how many, but it looked like the commander had pushed as many troops as he could into that gap. No doubt there were several legions of archers behind.

'My Lord?' said a cultured voice behind him, 'my coterie-brother has contacted me.' Mage Esetar sounded animated for a change, the prospect of marching into battle and being surrounded by death apparently exciting the Adept of Larat. It didn't surprise Styrax; Esetar epitomised everything that folk hated about his kind: he was s.a.d.i.s.tically cruel, and dispa.s.sionate about almost everything. Only power and death could spark some life in his washed-out, almost reptilian face.

'He reports Duke Vrill has breached the line, but they are defending it vigorously.'

'Hear that, Hain? The enemy are vigorous,' Styrax said, not taking his eyes off the enemy for a moment.

Captain Hain glanced at his lord. 'Aye, sir.' His face was grave behind his half-helm; his humour had died with the bulk of his legion.

'Have the men step lively, then,' the Lord of the Menin ordered, 'Vrill will be insufferable if he wins this battle - I may have to kill him.'

'Advance pace, sir, aye,' Hain said, and repeated the order at the top of his voice to the drummer. The command was beaten out, and on the final note the two legions broke into a jog, ignoring the arrows that started whistling down almost immediately. Styrax could see the men of the First Legion were getting a harder time of it, out ahead of the main body and lacking the heavy armour of their comrades in the Second.

One hundred yards from the enemy line the hail of arrows intensified as the fort too turned its weapons on them; now black ballista bolts of varying sizes were slamming into the side of the Arohat Fourth, and a name was shouted out by someone in the front rank of the Cheme legion, calling the first blood. As he looked over he felt the solid impact of an arrow on his pauldron, pounding his shoulder back, but he was lucky: the head had failed to punch through his armour.

'Esetar,' Styrax called over the clamour of the dead soldier's name, 'signal the Reavers.' The elite white-eye regiment was in its customary place, stationed behind the advance troops, ready to be thrown by mages directly into the fighting. His remaining minotaurs, more than a dozen of the monsters, trailed behind the Cheme First, screened from the worst of the artillery fire until they were within leaping distance of the ditch.

Fifty yards. A new drum beat crashed out, a frantic heavy hammering readying the men for the charge. Styrax added his deep voice to those around him bellowing out the name of the first man lost. The infantry hefted their spears. The drumming intensified, and with a roar they were off, surging forward like a tidal wave.

Styrax put his free hand to the Skulls on his chest and felt the vast power inside them kick like a mule. With energies crackling around his unarmoured left hand, racing along the lines of scar tissue, he reached out towards the enemy.

The Narkang troops lacked the armour of his heavy infantry, most were wearing only studded leather tunics and peaked helms. As Styrax ran he yelled arcane words that caused the mage behind him to squawk with surprise. The words seemed to flow from his mouth like jagged shards of ice, sharp edges brus.h.i.+ng over his tongue to meet the raging power held in his hand. A cold cloud filled with murderous slivers of energy roiled over the ground, glints and winks of steel reflecting the jagged clumps of gra.s.s underneath.

The vaporous ma.s.s started rolling now, swift and savage, leaving the gra.s.s ripped up as it went scything over the moor until it gusted through the enemy soldiers like a bank of darkly glittering smoke. Styrax watched men staggering and falling as their unprotected legs were slashed to ribbons, dropping their pikes, or throwing them away as the murderous magic sliced its way through the Narkang defence. The front ranks crumpled, just as the Menin charged, first one line of men then a second, and a third, falling to their knees across a twenty-yard stretch.

Styrax grinned maniacally at the sound of the high screams of men in agony before his own troops drowned them out with shouts of brutal intent. Distantly he heard the minotaurs joining in the savage cry, but in the next moment the gap between them had closed to nothing and he shouted even louder as his infantry smashed into the still-reeling enemy. With s.h.i.+elds high and spears back they drove in, stamping down on the shrieking fallen, bludgeoning the pikes with their heavy s.h.i.+elds, then stabbing forward with broadsword and longsword, scimitar and sabre.

The Menin exploited the gap left by the magic-struck pikemen, savagely attacking the disordered and poorly armoured defenders, while Captain Hain led the next ranks of Menin onwards. A shriek of fury cut through the cacophony as the Reavers arrived on their blade-edged s.h.i.+elds to fall upon the a.s.sailed enemy. Even their warcries were drowned out by the roaring minotaurs as the monsters joined the battle. Styrax beamed as he saw the ripple of fear run visibly through the besieged pikemen.

With Kobra drawn he started pus.h.i.+ng forward to get to the heart of the fighting, but he was stopped in his tracks as another great tremor ran through the ground. Suddenly the air was full of cras.h.i.+ng and confusion, and they heard the groan of the earth tearing open. Styrax followed the sound and turned - just as four ranks of the Cheme Legion disappeared in a cloud of dust, dropping like stones into the hole beneath them.

We must - The thought didn't get any further as he sensed something else blossom on the battlefield, magic as vast and weighty as the Narkang weapon, but still distant. Surprise turned into astonishment, then anxiety as a presence s.h.i.+mmered into being like a beacon igniting into a blaze . . . The thought didn't get any further as he sensed something else blossom on the battlefield, magic as vast and weighty as the Narkang weapon, but still distant. Surprise turned into astonishment, then anxiety as a presence s.h.i.+mmered into being like a beacon igniting into a blaze . . .

Except the presence wasn't ahead of him, it was behind.

He turned, even as he realised who it was, though he couldn't see anything past the Bloodsworn behind him. But there was no mistaking that scent; he knew it only too well . . . and the knowledge sparked something akin to fear in his belly. The air behind his troops seemed to judder, and a haze of dust appeared.

The presence was not alone.

Not alone, no, he'd not come alone, Styrax thought, desperately trying to work out what this would mean, whether he needed to pull back from the fight, go and deal with the new threat first. The cries of injured men from the crater behind put paid to that thought; he couldn't leave this weapon alone, or it would devastate his army.

The time has come, he realised. King Emin's made my choice for me - I must destroy this weapon, and hold nothing back to do so. We live and die on this strike of the sword. Would I have it any other way? King Emin's made my choice for me - I must destroy this weapon, and hold nothing back to do so. We live and die on this strike of the sword. Would I have it any other way?

Lord Styrax ignored the presence and turned back to the fight, barging his way forward to bring his formidable skills to bear. Even before he reached the defenders he could see their eyes widen in fear as they saw just how huge he was.

You will have to wait, Mortal-Aspect, he thought as his obsidian-black sword tore into the first Narkang soldier. The blade greedily absorbed the spilt blood. But never fear; I have strength enough to teach both King Emin and Karkarn a lesson they'll never forget . . . if they even live that long. But never fear; I have strength enough to teach both King Emin and Karkarn a lesson they'll never forget . . . if they even live that long.

The lance drifted down in a smooth, practised arc, timed to perfection, and the steel tip drove into the nearest enemy's unprotected throat. His head snapped backwards under the force of the blow and blood sprayed into the air. Momentum carried Vesna's hunter on into the dead man's horse and its armoured shoulder smashed the smaller steed away. Vesna reached for his sword as the crash of similar impacts all around him sounded: the Farlan had arrived.

The cavalry were completely unprepared for the Farlan a.s.sault, and panic ensued as those who tried to flee got caught up with those trying to stand their ground. The scarlet-liveried Ruby Tower Guards had recognised their black-and-white-clad attackers well enough; they were reluctant allies of the Menin, and few wanted to face the charge of the Ghosts. They knew they weren't strong enough to face the heavy cavalry of the Farlan, and they barely tried. As Vesna fought his way through, the Byorans struck back weakly, more interested in getting out of his way. Many never even raised their weapons as he chopped a b.l.o.o.d.y path through.

The air was filled with the stink of blood and s.h.i.+t and sweat, and all Vesna could hear was the clash of steel and the screams of the dead and dying, a symphony of pain that made his divine half soar. His heart hammered loud in his chest, suddenly alive, and beating with more power than ever before. He struck again and again, blindingly fast, already moving, ready for the next blow, while men fell like wheat before him.

A Byoran braver than most of them lunged at him with his spear, and Vesna was forced to twist in his saddle to deflect it. The press of men behind him was pus.h.i.+ng his horse away, out of reach, but Vesna swept his sword low, then up, stretching his arm and slicing towards the man's face - and felt the weapon jar and bite into flesh, but his hunter carried him on, and he didn't see if he had killed the man.

Instead, he found himself face to face with the Byoran standard bearer, who went at him with a long sabre, which Vesna caught on his s.h.i.+eld, raising sparks off the embossed lion's head. Sweeping upwards with his own weapon he sheared through the standard's pole, and brought the sword back down to chop through the Byoran's wrist on the downwards swing. The man fell screaming, and the standard fluttered as it toppled after him.

And what remained of the Byoran resistance collapsed.

They ran blindly from the black-and-white-liveried soldiers and colourfully dressed n.o.bles, all of whom were hacking around themselves with equal savagery. The swords and war-hammers and axes took a terrible toll, despite halting their chase after no more than twenty yards, pulling back into formation, ready for the next challenge.

Vesna saw General Lahk's legion advancing to their left flank. The Chetse had spotted them and an infantry division was approaching quickly - but in their fervour, they had underestimated the distance between the forces. Vesna turned the other way to check on Suzerain Torl's more lightly armed legion of black-clad Brethren - more than a match for anything the Menin could call on. Vesna couldn't see their one force of heavy cavalry, the Bloodsworn, which was conspicuously absent, but he wasn't complaining. As much as the Iron General side of him might have wanted to test his Ghosts against the fanatical Menin elite, the human side overruled it.

Battles are there to be won; glory can take care of itself: the sentiment came unbidden, the memory of his first weapons-tutor, Shab. Like many young n.o.bles, Vesna had been interested only in glory and elegance at first, and using a s.h.i.+eld as an offensive weapon had offended that sensibility, until Shab had proved otherwise - the hard way.

He smiled grimly to himself. 'And this lot don't stand a chance,' he muttered.

'Nope,' replied Swordmaster Pettir beside him, 'we'll be sending the whole d.a.m.n lot to the Herald's Hall soon enough - they're b.u.g.g.e.red.'

'But not quickly,' broke in a hesitant voice. Legion Chaplain Cerrat was standing a few feet away, and his bright white robes were splattered with mud and gore. 'King Emin could fall by the time we reach him.'

The young man looked stunned by his first battle, but he'd clearly given good account of himself. His robe had been sliced open, revealing the armour underneath, and the gibbous blade of his moon-glaive was stained with blood.

'Not quickly, no,' Vesna admitted, scanning the troops ahead of them. The infantry looked ragged to his practised eye, but there was still the greater part of five legions of heavy infantry between them and the king, enough to swamp Vesna's three thousand cavalry. 'But that's not our concern right now; the king will just have to stand.'

A hunting horn rang out over the moor and the three men watched General Lahk lead a wedge of Ghosts into the centre of the advancing Chetse legion, who were lacking both the heavy armour and the spears of the Menin infantry. With any luck they would be as brutally - and speedily - dealt with as the Byoran Guardsmen. In the distance he could see a ma.s.sive engagement going on at the furthest fortification: thousands of soldiers were swarming over all sides of it in what he guessed was a pincer movement. On the left the Narkang cavalry were ma.s.sed, apparently waiting for the enemy to react to the Farlan shock troops before committing themselves.

'Did we arrive too late?' Vesna asked as he signalled for his legion to close on Lahk's. The Dark Monks had already moved up, approaching the Chetse's other flank, and they were also preparing to charge. It was too late to countermand that order, Vesna thought; they would have to let this move play out before he could strike at the rear of Styrax's main force. Vesna asked as he signalled for his legion to close on Lahk's. The Dark Monks had already moved up, approaching the Chetse's other flank, and they were also preparing to charge. It was too late to countermand that order, Vesna thought; they would have to let this move play out before he could strike at the rear of Styrax's main force.

'Advance at the canter,' he called. Ahead were two stationary cavalry legions and one of Menin infantry, both close enough to come to the Chetse's rescue, perhaps - but showing no inclination to do so. They had a ma.s.sive cavalry force on their other flank, and no apparent intention of moving, or breaking their formation, any more than they already had.

'That's it, you worry about your own skins,' Vesna said with forced cheer, causing Pettir to laugh coa.r.s.ely. 'We'll keep you boxed in there, and cut your lord's hamstrings while you watch.'

'Can you sense Styrax?'

Vesna pointed towards the wooden fort. 'He's up there, right in the thick of it all.'

'He's committed then. If you can sense him, he must know we're back here.'

Vesna laughed. 'Trust me on that - I made quite sure of it. He knows he's running out of time. Might be we can force him into something desperate.'

Lord Styrax lashed out, feeling the blood patter onto his armour as he sliced through flesh and bone. A falling body thumped against his leg and he turned on instinct, cutting up, but catching only air. He moved into the gap, and continued to hew a path through the Narkang defenders, hearing the clatter of armour in his wake as the Cheme men surged up to support him. Over their heads he could see the minotaurs had leaped over the ditch and were battering the enemy - they'd already torn a hole in the line and the enemy were looking hard-pressed to fill it.

More and more of his soldiers poured over the ditches, eagerly charging in the wake of the minotaurs - then a great shaking ran through the ground again. Styrax hissed his defiance and pushed on, not waiting to watch as the Narkang mage ripped another b.l.o.o.d.y great hole in the ground underneath his monstrous shock-troops. He answered with lances of darkness and flame that gouged furrows through the ground and ripped soldiers in half. The defenders were definitely buckling under the a.s.sault, unable to resist the pressure being exerted by his minotaurs and Reavers.

The Menin white-eyes had congregated near the rear of the enemy line, not far from where Styrax himself was standing. They were fighting back to back, leaping forward to kill with axe and s.h.i.+eld before withdrawing, howling maniacally all the while. The white-eyes moved with such speed and aggression the Narkang could barely get close enough to bring their pikes to bear. The Cheme infantry were pressing further and further forward, and Styrax cast darting spirals of slicing magic into the supporting troops. They were inching closer to the mage's platform.

There was a crash beside him as the soldier on Styrax's left vanished and a heartrending scream rang out. When he turned, he saw the soldier's body lying behind him. A ballista bolt had turned him into a b.l.o.o.d.y, shrieking mess. Captain Hain took one look and dropped his axe into the injured man's neck, saving him a last few seconds or minutes of pain before moving to take his place. Styrax, furious, flicked his free hand towards the ballista and shouted arcane words over the clamour, and the air around it burst into flame, engulfing both engine and crew.

The white-eye, seeing an enemy commander ahead of him, struck out, but missed as the red-helmed n.o.bleman jumped back and out of the way. Styrax moved with breathtaking speed, kicking the man in the chest and knocking him flying, then swiftly dispatching the hurscal next to him. He fought on, his upward blow taking out the man in front of him, the downward sweep taking care of the man behind him. He stepped into the gap they left, lunged right to impale a soldier, sweeping his leg out to kick the feet from underneath another, then trampling him to his death and he moved on another foot.

He moved so quickly that the next figure to loom into view was almost decapitated before he'd seen them; Styrax checked his blow just in time and Kobra's fanged swordpoint glanced harmlessly off the Reaver's cheek-guard. The smaller white-eye was shaking with bloodl.u.s.t and euphoria; at Kobra's touch the Reaver reared backwards in surprise, but wasted no time in throwing himself at Styrax. The Menin lord sidestepped the maddened Reaver and dodged his axe, twisting as the Reaver's momentum carried him past and cracking him on the back of the head. The blow dropped the white-eye instantly, and the Cheme soldiers behind him jumped the felled man without stopping.

Their goal was in sight.

Seeing the defenders' line torn open, Styrax allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. A rabble of frantic soldiers stood between him and the mage's platform, but behind him he could hear his Bloodsworn and the remaining Reavers making their presence felt. And away over the moor he could feel the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn coming closer, the beat of his hooves echoing in Styrax's mind. He ran forward, crackling bands of energy wrapping his sword, eager to be unleashed at the mage ahead.

As though in response, the ground began to rumble again, faster and more urgent this time, and above him the air roiled, tinted red - by blood, or magic? Styrax couldn't tell; the air was suffused with both. All he could see around him was frantic movement and swirling dust, the chaos of war - and he its beating heart. He screamed, and pushed them on, one last drive to the heart of the enemy's defences, to break them before Karkarn's Mortal-Aspect could get to them.

Daken rolled in the blood-spattered dirt, his fingers stiff around the handle of his axe. The sky turned from pink to black as he forced himself onto his back and discovered his left arm was broken. He couldn't feel the fingers of that hand - couldn't see if he even still had his hand in the butcher's mess surrounding him. His ribs felt like they were on fire, and the memory of a steel-bound s.h.i.+eld being smashed into his side flashed across his mind. The Land was silent around him, other than a constant, dull note that rang in his ears, filling his head.

Daken looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling high above; he felt their cool touch on his skin. The pain in his side receded as a voice drifted closer. He didn't know the words, but the voice was girlish. Daken blinked, not comprehending, as the voice gradually drew closer, until she was whispering into his ear. He felt her fingers on his skin, and when he flinched, he felt a fresh searing pain down his ribs.

'It is time,' the girl whispered, her voice laden with breathy, seductive promise. 'Strike now, my precious.'

Daken felt her hands underneath him, lifting him up until his feet were underneath him once more. Shapes blurred across his vision, all meaningless, until he suddenly saw a face, one like his own, who stared at Daken in surprise, frozen in the moment of lifting his helm from his head, spilling black-red hair onto his shoulders.

Daken felt a beast snarl in his belly and his fingers tightened about his axe. He wrenched it forward, dragging the heavy weapon up from the ground one last time to hold it high above his head. The other white-eye let his helm fall again, and it was as if both men moved in slow motion as Daken let his axe fall, inexorably, and it slammed down high on the side of the man's helm, and the steel crumpled like tin under the enormous force of the blow.

Daken felt the shock of impact in his arm as the white-eye's head snapped downward; he was dead before he hit the ground. Daken stumbled forward, his feet falling from underneath him, then the girl's hands were under him again and he felt her pulling his body past the dead white-eye, over the b.l.o.o.d.y earth until the ground disappeared beneath his feet and he was falling into darkness . . .

'Coran, go!' the king yelled at the top of his voice, startling Doranei. The Menin in front of him tripped on a corpse underfoot and he dropped his guard to catch himself. Doranei cracked his s.h.i.+eld into the man's temple with such force it shattered what was left of the frame. He shook the useless pieces from his arm and looked around for Coran.

The big white-eye had dropped from the rampart and was heading for the reserve division of Kingsguard, standing ready in the centre of the fort.

'Your Majesty,' Doranei shouted, 'where's he going?'

'Styrax has broken the line,' the king replied, standing still for a heartbeat as he a.s.sessed the a.s.saulting troops once more. 'Someone must try to cut him off from his troops.'

The fort was a scene of horror, no sc.r.a.p of ground untouched by the gore of mutilated men, and the screams of the dead and dying rose and fell in fearful cacophony. Doranei grabbed a discarded s.h.i.+eld from the ground, only to discard it again when he saw an arm still snagged in the handles. As a Chetse warrior struggled up what remained of the ripped-apart rampart wall, even that elite warrior looked drained by the effort. Doranei flicked the s.h.i.+eld, arm still attached, at the Chetse to slow him, then stabbed the man in his face, slicing a b.l.o.o.d.y furrow through his cheek.

A moment later Doranei felt his foot go from underneath him. He skidded on a blood-slicked log and crashed heavily on the ground. The king, seeing him fall, moved to cover him - and stepped into an arrow that caught him high in the shoulder, pitching him backwards onto the ramp to the ground.

Doranei gave a shout of horror and forced himself upright, realising the effect such a sight would have on the defenders, but Veil had seen too, and beat him to it. The King's Man pulled the ensorcelled axe from Emin's unresisting grip, snapped the shaft of the arrow, and helped him over to a standard pole he could use to support his weight.

Three Chetse, emboldened by the sight, surged over the rampart wall, but Doranei was ready and charged into them, his sword cutting a dark path through the stinking air. Two were killed cleanly; he caught the down-swing of the third Chetse's axe on his sword and kneed him in the b.a.l.l.s, following that up with an elbow that knocked him over, and swiftly finished him off.

'Keep the king safe!' Veil yelled as he took up position beside Doranei. Blood was flowing freely down the side of his face. 'If he falls they'll crumble,' he said more quietly.

Over the clatter and crash of battle Doranei heard a roar from the reserve Kingsguard as Coran led them out into a slaughter every bit as bad as the one they'd just left. Veil nudged him and pointed at what looked like a cavalry battle, and both men felt a sudden surge of hope: it looked like General Lopir had got around and was tearing through the light Menin cavalry.

A gust of cool wind blew across the ramparts, and Doranei felt a few spots of rain. Strangely, the patter of water seemed to wash away his fears, and he felt a swell of elation. On his left, Suzerain Derenin, the Lord of Moorview, cleaved into a man's neck. The n.o.bleman was caked in blood and filth, and his arm sagged under the weight of his notched, broken-tipped sword, but from somewhere he found the strength to lift it again and meet the next attacker.

Doranei checked his monarch was still standing, then, shouting incoherently, he threw himself back into the fray with renewed strength. He dropped to one knee to slash across a Chetse's belly, catching him under the breastplate, and the man fell, staring down in disbelief as his guts spilled into the churned-up mud - until Veil clouted him across the face and sent him tumbling down the gouged slope.

Behind them one of the battle-mages cast another lance of fire into the crowd of attackers, but they were exhausted and the fire barely sizzled as it hit.

Doranei felt a fine mist of rain on the exposed parts of his face, and unbidden, a memory rose in his mind: the scent of the ocean, rolling in over Narkang's streets, and in that moment he felt the strength of the nation behind him as King Emin's words blossomed to life in his heart.

One way or another, he realised, it ends now. it ends now.