Healer's Ruin (13 page)

Chalos doubled over and vomited. A strand of phlegm tumbled off his tongue as he gagged. The Corporal laughed and slapped him on the back, nearly winding him.

'Don't be frightened!' the Krune officer bellowed. 'War is like breathing. One must simply do it, yes?'

'Oh, gods!' Chalos whined, sucking in a breath.

'Hold firm, healer,' the Corporal said, his tone dropping to a severe growl. His large gauntlet cradled the healer as the Krune line wavered and fell back with a sudden crash. Boots thundered and it was all Chalos could do to stop himself from being dragged beneath them to certain death. With a grunt the Corporal lifted Chalos clean off the ground as the line trembled again and fell back another step.

To the north, the Riln had sensed something was amiss, and were pressing their advantage.

Chalos could feel the hooves of the Tarukaveri shadamars now, a great tattoo that beat through the earth and up the bones of his legs, making his femurs buzz. He now became aware of mounted Tarukataru leaving the front line to nudge their way through to meet Agryce's men and he could feel the heat rising off the sweating hides of the animals. It was a relief to see the mounted warriors but he also knew that whatever strength was brought to the rear of the line to defend against the Tarukaveri charge was strength depleted from the front, where the Riln were pressing.

We're all going to die, crushed between foes,
he thought.
What can Jolm do?

Even if Mysa had failed to alert the lieutenant of the threat coming from behind them, he would certainly know now. With a detached objectivity born of complete hopelessness, Chalos imagined the Tarukataru and their Dauwark allies pressed between the Riln horde and the Tarukaveri. Against the Riln alone, they might have eventually won, albeit with noticeable casualties. Against the Tarukaveri alone it would have been a much closer thing. As superior as Jolm's tribe considered itself to that of Agryce and the Duke, the Tarukaveri were still Black Talon. They were expert killers finely drilled in military tactics and Agryce had managed to not only become recognised as a capable warrior, but had risen to the rank of lieutenant, in spite of being a woman – something the Krune seemed to think of as a curse and a mark of inferiority. She must have proven herself as something special in the field to overcome what the Krune saw as a natural handicap.

So, like Jolm, she has overcome obstacles to attain the respect of her comrades. It would be madness to underestimate her.

The Tarukaveri line was slowly forming into a spearpoint and at the very tip emerged a Krune with a long halberd held high in the air. The Krune's armour was daubed in white and green. Beneath its skull-shaped white helm flowed a mass of black locks. When Chalos saw the subtly contoured shape of the warrior's breastplate he knew it to be Agryce.

He then saw that every second Krune on the front line of the Tarukaveri had a crossbow ready.

'Crossbows!' he tried to shout, but no sound emerged from his gaping mouth. Then a call went up amongst the Tarukataru and the rank of men before him closed. He heard shields slam into the earth moments before the dreadful whine and thud of crossbow bolts being released.

The Krune infront of him grunted and staggered, the tip of a bolt emerging through his side. Chalos did not panic, which surprised him as much as anyone. He pressed a hand to the larger man's back and with his other took hold of the tip and snapped it. Then, without thinking, he reached around, tore the bolt free and cast it to the ground. Pushing his hands against the wound and feeling thick, warm blood gush between his fingers, he found his mirror and healed the injury. When he came out of his mystical trance, large pale-green eyes were gazing down at him. The soldier chuckled.

'Gods and bones! You're a useful fellow to have around!'

The Krune lay a hand on the healer's shoulder.

'I am Ranuk, the Boar's Maul,' he said. 'I'm in your debt!'

Chalos saw the back of the Krune's greatshield. No less than seven bolts were embedded in it.

Any one of those could have killed me, had his shield not caught them all...

'I think you've paid it already,' he said shakily.

'True,' the Krune grunted, turning back to the oncoming foe.

For a moment the rank between Chalos and Agryce's oncoming force had loosened with a violent flinch under the volley of crossbow fire, but now the ranks were closing tight. Before the line had reformed, the healer saw the front row of Tarukaveri discard their crossbows and draw their swords, leaning forward, snarling.

Here it comes. Death.

Then a word he didn't understand ripped through the air on a shrill, ragged howl. The entire mass of men around him adjusted their footing on instinct at that single command, surging sideways to the east a few strides and then stopping sharply. On the west end of the line, the opposite happened. The men in the centre divided themselves between the two emerging formations, leaving the centre of the Tarukataru force non-existent. Bewildered, Chalos looked up at the faces around him. Far from impassive, they now had a sparkle in their eyes and smirks of smug arrogance on their faces.

Before he could ruminate further on why the Tarukataru warriors seemed so pleased with themselves despite facing certain annihilation, Chalos was hoisted up by powerful arms that gripped him with bruising force. 'Get him to safety!' the Corporal barked and with that the healer was passed eastward along the line, rapidly and with little care for his comfort, before being practically ejected from the massed ranks of Black Talon into a depression in the earth surrounded by rough-hewn grey boulders. Within the shallow pit a half dozen Krune were lying, nursing sword wounds. Another four, also bloodied, kept watch with crossbows in their gauntleted fists.

These men had been on the front line when they had first charged into the Riln. Now they were pallid and drawn, sweat prickling their brows and fatigue making their limbs tremble. Chalos caught his breath and then threw himself against one of the boulders on the south-west edge of the pit, peeping over to see the Tarukaveri clash with the Tarukataru.

My fate's about to be decided
, he thought, staring out from cover.
And I'm nothing but a bystander!

Chalos watched in mute horror as Aryce and her battalion slammed into the Tarukataru line. He could see that the force of Krune to his immediate right was now nine ranks deep instead of six, having accommodated men from the centre of the line. Three ranks faced north, pressed tight against the Riln. The other six ranks took the Tarukavari charge, the southernmost line rippling with the impact of the charging enemy shadamars, the men behind holding them upright and those behind pushing with their shoulders. Somehow the block of soldiers held its ground and the mounted Tarukataru spent their advantage. However, when the riders bounced away and began swinging with their halberds Chalos could see several Tarukataru lying in the mud in the space between the two opposing Krune forces.

Hooves thundered behind him and he whipped round to see twenty or so mounted Tarukataru circle the pit and meet the other tribe of Krune, driving their spears into the enemies' shadamar. It was a smart move executed with surprising alacrity and grace. For as soon as the barbed spear tips found their marks, the Tarukataru released the weapons and wheeled away. The Tarukaveri line wobbled as mounts collapsed, the beasts pulling their riders down with them and disrupting the stance and poise of their surrounding comrades, providing a window of opportunity which the Corporal, in command of the eastern block of the divided Tarukataru force, used to unleash a sudden and brutal counterattack.

A dazzling violet flare of magery made Chalos turn his head to the west, but he could not see Samine. However, thanks to the gradient of the plains he could see saw how the Tarukataru force had split evenly into two square-shaped detachments, one commanded by the Corporal and the other by Jolm. The closer group, driven by the Corporal's booming voice, was stretched. The north-facing ranks were holding the Riln as the south-facing ranks ploughed into the Tarukaveri.  Jolm's force had yet to engage with the Tarukaveri but were deeply entangled with the Riln. As Chalos watched, the fighting ebbed and flowed and a sizeable gap  developed between the two tribes of Krune, as if Agryce was hesitating to commit her warriors.

It was not hard to see why she would think twice. Jolm had revealed himself to be a wily and adventurous tactician. When Agryce had sounded the charge he had pulled his force in two, each end of the line expanding to accommodate warriors from the centre. This had not only created two huge masses of fighting men that would prove hard to wear down but had also opened a gateway for the Riln to pour through.

Erroneously thinking that Jolm's force had snapped beneath their onslaught the northerners had charged through the gap in the middle of the Tarukataru line without thought or planning, spilling out into the space between the two tribes of Krune. As they did so, Jolm was already shuffling his block of troops eastward, widening the space for the Riln, cleverly goading them into engaging Agryce. Mistaking the Tarukaveri as reinforcements for the Tarukataru, the Riln charged into them, buoyed by the false conviction that they had broken the Tarukataru and could now do the same to their latecomer allies. This was sheer folly, of course, for even though they outnumbered the Krune on the field – even taking Agryce and her men into account – they had lost all shape and discipline.

And in the gap that this chaos had created between Jolm's detachment and Agryce's line emerged a single rider.

Samine was leaning forward in the saddle, driving her shadamar hard towards the Tarukaveri. Her right arm was extended, fingers contorted into a claw from which came a violet light that splashed and spilled into the air with an unnatural crackle until it focused into a tight beam. Then, with a graceful movement that reminded Chalos of a violinist sawing a bow – slowly, even languorously, but with meticulous control – she guided the beam into the enemy.

A chorus of screams and a gout of black smoke rewarded the effort of her magery and the Tarukaveri staggered back. Then, Jolm's block of warriors began steadily moving southwards, attempting to close the gap with the Tarukaveri even with hundreds of Riln still at the detachment's heels.

We could win this,
Chalos dared to think.
Against all odds, and against all sense, we could win this!

Then more strangeness. The beam of violet light which was scorching the Krune to charcoal, armour and all, suddenly bent like light in a glass of water, arcing sharply eastward across the gently sloping plain. Squinting, Chalos could see a small group of Krune, distant from the main Tarukaveri force, gathered around a single rider who was recognisable by his armour as one of the Duke's elite guard. In his hands was a small urn-like object and although at that distance Chalos could not make out any specific details he knew instantly that it was the ancient relic he had seen on the Duke's desk back in the shadow of Hulker's Crag so many moons ago.

The beam was being drawn to the urn-like object which sucked it up with such greed that Samine was pulled along with it. She was dragged from the saddle, her magery cutting off instantly as she vanished over the side of the shadamar. The beast skipped awkwardly as it wheeled away from the Tarukaveri lines, trying not to trample its fallen rider.

'Samine!' Chalos screamed raggedly, clambering over the rock. 'Samine!'

It was not a cry meant for her ears, not entirely. He wanted someone, anyone from Jolm's host to see her plight and rush to her aid. The riderless shadamar was now peeling westward, a diminishing slender shape. The Dread Spear herself was invisible, lying prone somewhere in the muddy field.

Suddenly without care for his own safety Chalos bolted from the pit and plunged into the battle. He was now surrounded by grunting, shouting Tarukataru, the spine of the easternmost detachment. Calling out the Dread Spear's name like a battlecry, Chalos forced himself through the detachment, the Krune stepping aside for him with irritated grimaces and muttered curses. One of them tramped on his foot, sending pain lancing up his leg. Gasping, Chalos forced himself to continue and then emerged into the vortex between the two detachments, the gap where the Riln were still pouring through in their hundreds

'A slinger!' one of the Riln cried as he emerged from amongst the ranks of Krune. 'A slinger!'

A path parted for him as the Riln backed away, trepidation in their eyes. Gritting his teeth, Chalos made claws of his pale, thin-fingered hands, mimicking the movements he had seen Samine make prior to unleashing volcanic death on her enemies. It worked. The Riln mistook him for a master of offensive magery and he saw them recoil from him, providing him a path into the space between Jolm's host and the western end of Agryce's line.

Here Chalos discovered an odd calm with noise to the left and right and chaos in the periphery of his vision. Ahead of him, the western mountains loomed and a lone shadamar receded into near invisibility. And there, in the mud ahead, a body lay wreathed in black robes, auburn hair matted with dirt.

'Samine!' he called again, but only a dry croak emerged from his throat. Dropping to his knees, he cradled her, wiping mud from her face. She seemed younger, more frail. Blood was soaked into her hair and the healer realised that Samine had been struck in the skull by a hoof. Tears ran down his cheeks. He pulled her close, turning his ear to her mouth.

A breath! A breath! She lives!

Chalos placed a hand on her head and found his mirror, not caring for the two tribes of Krune threatening to converge on his position. As he closed his eyes, concentrating his magery, a black shape circled above.

'Move, you fool!' Mysa called, her voice small but insistent behind his eyes.

As he began to channel his energy, a terrible undertow rose to envelop the healer. He felt as if his entire body, his soul too, was being brutally dredged. His hand, which he had pressed to Samine's fractured skull, was whipped away as if caught on a line. The pain was immense as magical energy flowed through him in an uncontrolled torrent only to be dragged away before he could use it.

The urn!

He could not scream. There was no shutting off the link he had to the world of magic. Ironically, the hoof to the skull had saved Samine, as it had cut off her connection to the world of magic and thus freed her from the terrible thirst of the urn. Chalos could only hope that he was crushed between Jolm's Tarukataru and Agryce's Tarukaveribefore the accursed ancient object devoured him utterly.

'Mysa!' he hissed in a hoarse whisper. 'Mysa!'

Could she hear him?

He couldn't open his eyes to see but he hoped and prayed that the bird was wheeling her way towards the elite guardsman to the west, her claws reaching out for the urn, ready to snatch it from the Krune soldier's hands and dash it against a rock. He pictured the scene in his mind, willing the crow to see the images, to do his bidding.

The sound of his heart thundering in his chest alarmed him. Was this the approach of death? Then, he realised that the drumming was out of sync with his heartbeat, which was slowing as his life ebbed away. With a groan, he managed to open his eyes, letting in a crack of light.

Not my heart... but boots... huge boots...

The massive creature grabbed him, stowed him under one arm and then grabbed Samine before doubling back towards Jolm's detachment. Chalos felt the grip of the urn's mysterious power diminish until the cord was finally snapped. His eyes opened and he drew a deep, desperate breath.

'Bad sorcery, eh, little Rovann?' Dolga chuckled. 'I've seen nothing like it in all my campaigns!'

'You saved us,' Chalos muttered, still weak. His head was throbbing. Sweat poured from him.

'My men owe you a debt for the work of your healing hands,' the Dauwark replied as they were swallowed up by Jolm's detachment. All around them were bustling bodies, some clad in black Baldaw mesh, others in the curving, golden armour of the Gilt Plates. All reeked of toil and shone with blood.

'I can't work my magic,' Chalos said sadly. 'That urn thing, it consumes energy.' His headache was subsiding, but he now felt nauseous. His shoulder and foot pulsed with pain. They were now in the centre of the detachment which had become a hollow square, the sides three ranks deep. In the middle were the wounded and there were more than Chalos had expected. Some Dauwarks, many Krune. They looked to him imploringly, their eyes roving, lips pale. He averted his gaze.

A shout went up behind them, in the south-facing ranks.

'We're moving!' Dolga said. 'Help the wounded manoeuvre.'

As the detachment started to trudge westward, away from the Tarukaveri and the bulk of the Riln horde, Chalos joined with those wounded that could stand on their own and helped move the other injured soldiers. A Krune beside him cradled Samine, holding her as one might hold a newborn. They kept pace with the ranks somehow and the healer was impressed by the way the Black Talon kept their shape as they shifted away from the heart of the battle. More Riln poured through the widening gap between the two detachments of Tarukataru and as the ranks moved, Chalos stole a glance southward, and could see nothing but the backs of hundreds of Riln, all facing the direction of the Dallian Woodland. Beyond them would be Agryce.

The Riln think we're routed,
he realised.
They've completely lost coherence. They can either see us, or the Corporal's detachment, but never both. So half of them think we're all that's left, and the other think the same of the Corporal's force.

This was Jolm's desperate tactical masterstroke. Splitting the line had cost lives, and weakened the Tarukataru as an offensive machine, but had also saved them from utter annihilation in the press between the Riln and the Tarukaveri.

Now it was Agryce who bore the brunt of the Riln assault as the two Tarukataru forces slowly but surely spread eastward and westward, moving apart stride by stride, allowing the Riln to storm southwards.

'Hold!' Jolm's voice cried, and the movement stopped.

Now, only the ranks that faced east were taking a beating, as Riln continued to drive into them. Grunting and growling, the ranks adjusted to allow the Gilt Plates to focus their might in that direction and soon the Riln were driven back. But the Black Talon detachment did not follow them, instead allowing the fleeing Riln to rejoin the mob that was now crashing against Agryce's lines like a surging wave.

In the centre of the hollow square, Chalos crouched next to the Krune that was holding Samine. The purple-skinned warrior had suffered a blow to the torso, and the glint of a broken blade caught the healer's eye. Instinctively he reached out but then he remembered the urn and lowered his hand. The Krune glanced at him and curled his lip.

'I'm sorry,' Chalos shouted over the noise of war, which all seemed to be coming from one direction now, as the Riln and the Tarukaveri clashed to the immediate south. 'My magic's not working.'

The Krune looked away as if he hadn't heard, or didn't care.

Chalos stared down at Samine, sadness welling within him.
This is grief. She is going to die in the midst of this, and already I am grieving. Ahead of time, yes, but the heart is often the surest clairvoyant.
He brushed a lock of auburn hair from her face. In the fall, the fastenings of her severe bun had been knocked loose.

'Get ready,' the Krune soldier said, suddenly tensing. 'We're about to charge.'

'What?' asked Chalos, certain he had misheard.

The soldier placed Samine down gently, motioned to two of the wounded Krune to watch over her, and drew a wide-bladed sword from his belt, which he hefted in two hands.