Blood of War (37 page)

He and his squad were veterans—Lef was the youngest at twenty-four but even he had nearly ten years in the king's army—and so, working like a well-oiled machine, they were some of the first in their platoon ready to march.

Without the drums in his skull, Hergis was able to more fully appreciate the march. Sure it was hard work, especially in the dead of summer or in the depths of winter, and sure he found his muscles sore after hour six or seven but really, how bad was it? All he was doing was going for a long walk in decent weather and for that, he was getting paid not just his regular rate of two coppers a day, but he was getting campaign bonus on top of it. That worked out to about another two coppers a day. That meant that he was earning nearly a full silver every two days. Not a bad haul for going on a long walk. Then there was the scenery. Early fall, this far north? He was a man whose word hoard was small; the best he could come up with was 'right pretty'. Even under the ugly gray, the colors seemed to pop from the trees as he and his crew plodded by.

Of course, he knew it would not last. He was no fool; he had seen plenty of real war. At thirty-two winters, he was getting to be considered an old-timer—few pikemen lived much past thiry-five or so though he had known a couple that claimed to be well over forty—a veteran whose opinion counted for a lot with the younger generation. When Herry and Lef started bragging about how much fun it would be to slaughter the Dakariin savages, it was up to him and Krendal (who himself was thirty-five and was the eldest of the whole platoon) to put them in their places which they did with a few sharp words.

Midday came and went, and they ate their rations on the march. Orders came from ahead that Colonel Ris was unhappy with their progress and they would be marching through lunch mess for the next few days to make up for time lost. The colonel was a good enough sort, but he tended to be a little pushy at times.

They set camp an hour later that night; the sergeant bawled for them to set bed rolls but no tents as they were to be off early the next morning. Several groans were uttered at this, including one from Lef which Hergis promptly stifled with a smack upside the head, but soon all were laid out and ready for their cold rations.

* * *

The third day passed as uneventfully—except for a good laugh when Trip caught his toe on a mostly buried rock and went sprawling. That was good for a day's worth of jokes about his nickname. The fourth day and fifth also went by with nothing to note, and Hergis found his spirits rising as the march went on. He really did love a nice walk. It was an added bonus that at the end of it, they would get the chance to blood their pikes on Dakariin swine.

On the dawning of the sixth, they arose as usual, in the gray-black of predawn, that strange time that straddled the worlds of day and night, and they packed their kit and started off.

Hergis was not quite himself that day. By sundown the previous day, he had been sneezing and coughing, and he awoke that morning with a nose that ran like a river. His joints felt achy and he just felt so
tired.

Nothing serious, the medic said. Just a little chill. He will feel like death in a handbasket for the next two or three days, she said, and then it would disappear—plenty of time before the fighting started. She gave him a tonic to help him sleep, and another one to take in the morning before setting out to lessen the aches but there was nothing else to be done, and so he plodded on, his good cheer a little muffled by the cotton that seemed to have been stuffed in his ears. At least the tonic had the added effect that his mind seemed to become numb. He dimly wondered if the tonic was really no more than some whiskey with a few herbs tossed in to change the taste a little.

So it was that when the alarm came a short while later, Hergis did not notice at first. He kept plodding, feeling a little sorry for himself as the northern flank became a flurry of activity. Screams started, followed by shouts, then more screams. Odd, he thought, what was that he was hearing?

It was Krendal who gripped his shoulder with vise-like strength and spun him so that they were eye to eye. His eyes were wide, feverish with what, even in his daze, Hergis recognized as the onset of battle-rage.

“We are ambushed. Come on.”

Shaking the mucky streams of lassitude from his thoughts, Hergis gripped his pike more firmly and followed Krendal. Glancing north then west, he saw something that seemed odd. That should not have been. Dakariin? Here? Last he had heard, they were all at Killhern. The worst part was, there were a lot of them, a horde of them, an ocean, pouring from the trees and smashing into their northern flank and western rear.

He saw the banners for the fourth and fifth platoons, saw the men gathering there, preparing their shield walls. He thought he could just make out The seventh through ninth setting formation farther off. In the east, near the forefront, he saw a mass of cavalry preparing their charge as he took up his position under the banner for the sixth platoon, some few ranks behind the front line.

Arrows darkened the sky, sergeants roared for raised shields, instinct kicked in. He dropped to one knee, raised his shield, heard a
thunk-thunk
and twin shivers ran up his arm. Somewhere in the distance a terrible ululation picked up; it took him a moment to realize they were Dakariin battle-cries voiced by a thousand—ten thousand—throats.

To his right, Krendal peeked under the rim of his shield and grinned tightly. To his left, Trip propped his pike on the ground with the point extending into the air.

“Where're the others?” Hergis shouted to be heard over the clamor.

“Herry's behind you. Lef-”

Krendal gasped as an arrow managed to find its way between the hair width cracks in the shields and seemed to sprout from his thigh. He grunted as he flopped back to sit hard on the loose and slightly damp soil.

“Oh shit.
Medic!
Herry, cover me. Take it easy, Krendal,” Hergis said. “
We need a medic over here!
”

As if anyone would hear him over the din.

Ahead, the thunder of hooves, the clash of metal, more screams. A triumphant shout.

Pale faced, Krendal grinned and pointed at his leg. “What this? Just a flesh wound. Come on.”

Hoisting himself back up, Krendal tried. He really did. As the order to press forward came, Krendal stood at Hergis's side and kept pace but soon it became apparent that the wound was worse than they thought and Krendal stumbled once, then again.

“Lef, help Krendal. Get him out of here.”

“Lef's dead,” Herry called. “Took one in the ribs a while ago.”

A while? How long had they been at this? He glanced up, saw the sun approaching its zenith. Already? He knew time had a way of playing tricks in the middle of battle. He should; he had seen it often enough, but still it seemed strange, almost eerie, that he had managed to lose somewhere near what he reckoned was three or four hours.

He did not pause to consider Lef. Not yet. This was battle; consideration came for the living first.

There was a lull. It was not that there was quiet, not a cessation of commotion. No, just a decrease in the frenetic pace. A glance over the shoulder of the rank in front of him showed the rear ranks of Dakariin disengaging and disappearing back into the trees.

Another thunder of hooves, this one not as pervasive as the last few, metal clashing, more screams and the Dakariin broke and ran into the trees. Another triumphant shout.

For a while, sergeants bawled for order, for formation. Medics hastened across the lines, tending to those that could be saved, bypassing those that could not. It was a battle. Losses were inevitable. And the losses that day were steep. Early estimates passed down the line put their casualties at a little over five hundred. There was cause for cheer: the Dakariin dead were piled high, maybe nine hundred, maybe a little more.

Hergis sat next to Krendal, and Trip tore a strip from his cloak to bandage a gash on his arm. Herry joined them, and for a moment they were silent as they let their blood cool.

They were not given long.

The alarms pierced the day once again. With a groan Hergis rose to his feet, helped the others up and took his place in ranks.

Once again, Dakariin poured from the trees, but this time instead of charging into the Sharong troops, they stopped about twenty paces away and waited silently, each one as stone-faced as the next. Craning his neck, Hergis tried to see what they thought they were doing. Each Dakariin carried a tube of some sort, about the length of his forearm. The ends that were pointed this way seemed to be hollow. Hergis drew down his brow in confusion.

Hergis heard Captain Fax call for the advance.

Flashes. Hundreds of them. Each one followed by a dull
Thub,
and a low hissing noise.

Then chaos.

Ruddy bright flames erupted in the lines, and hard roars split ears. The ground rocked and churned under his feet and it was all Hergis could do to stay standing as more and more explosions rocked the Sharong troops.

“
What the fuck is that?
” Herry shrieked.

The next instant there was a white heat beside Hergis and it seemed a giant hand slapped him across the torso. Knocked sprawling, Hergis blinked. When he looked up, the sky and the writhing mass of bodies above him seemed to be red and somehow there seemed to be no sound anymore, well almost no sound. It was like putting a seashell to each of his ears. He wiped a hand across his eyes and that helped. Now it was just his hand that was red. It was not until he tried to lift himself that he noticed the weight across his legs.

Glancing down showed him something that he never could have imagined in his lifetime. He stifled the urge to vomit when his gaze found what was left of Herry. His friend had been torn apart and the ruined upper left half of his torso was what held Hergis down. One eye stared still seemingly surprised from the half of his head that was not a bloody mess. Frantically, spastically, Hergis kicked the gory remains from him and lurched to his feet.

He turned left and right, wondering if he was underwater because everything seemed so slow, so
unreal
, watched as the Sharong garrison seemed to break apart at the seams and start a general rout even as more of those insane hellfire blasts blew through their ranks like angry demons. Gasping, fear turning his bowels to water, Hergis backed away a step and another.

Why exactly had he thought it would be so great to be posted here again?

For all the fire, for all the explosions, maimed bodies and blood, it seemed that the Sharong troops had entirely forgotten the Dakariin archers. Hergis was no exception. As he turned and broke into a run, he felt that giant's punch and black spots danced before his eyes. This time it was high in his back and he fell to his knees.

He felt a tug in his chest and he looked down. There, sticking out of his chest was a bloody arrow point.

Oh shit. Oh
shit.

It should hurt, shouldn't it? He had seen plenty of arrow injuries in his time and he had heard the howls. But there was no pain. Just an odd tingling heat that radiated outward. Perhaps the tonic the medic had given him was deadening the pain. There should be some. He was sure of it.

Then he coughed and along with the wetness that spewed from his lips there was a sensation of tearing deep in his chest and the pain was finally there. It raged through him unchecked and he suddenly found that he had a great deal of difficulty drawing breath. He battled that for a while, struggled to draw in one breath then the next, but he knew. He had seen enough battle in his life. He knew. The arrow had punctured his lung which was filling with his blood. Soon, he would drown in his own fluids.

Did someone mention that Lef took one in the ribs? He thought it might have been Herry, or Trip. Then he thought that this was no way to die. Poor bastard.

As crow's feathers brushed the edge of his vision, he felt suddenly cold and suddenly so
tired
. Perhaps he should lie down for a bit, rest up. It might help him feel better. That was what he did. As from far, far away, he felt his cheek grow cool on the ground and somehow it felt good where the other cold he was starting to feel, that spread relentlessly from his core, was an uncomfortable thing.

As the crow's feathers closed in and blotted out the world, he regretted for one last time his choice of transferring to Sharong.

* * *

In normal Dakariin fashion, the dead were left to rot where they fell, a veritable cornucopia for the scavengers who came to feast. Some few from the Sharong garrison escaped that terrible slaughter, but the Dakariin were ruthless and they spent the next few days in a frenzied hunting spree chasing down the fleeing, terrified men and women of the king's army.

There were not many.

When they were finished with their butchery, the Dakariin set camp and had a great festival to celebrate their victory over the sunlanders. There was much drunkenness as well as activities common to an invading horde when there are villages, and women, nearby.

When they set out some few days later to meet the other half of their force to the south of Killhern, they left nothing behind except for ashes and somewhere north of eleven thousand bodies.

Chapter 32

One moment, he stood beside a blasted lilac tree in a barren and lifeless landscape, and the next he stood beside a pond in an idyllic lea that brimmed with birdsong and the chitter-skitter-twitter of wildlife at play and at war. One moment, he smelled dust, and decay, and the next, flowers and grasses, earth, life.

The sun played hide and seek among the powder-puff clouds and his pond alternated between dull iron gray and sparkling quicksilver. Just seeing his pond brought a sharp pang to him, brought his past back into stark clarity. Days spent here fishing, swimming, playing games of Catch-Me-If-You-Can, or just sitting there by the shore watching the sunset and trading stories with his friends returned so clearly to his mind's eye that it might have just happened yesterday.