Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (30 page)

Two men picked up the stretcher as the gerent shouted curses and protests and carried him from the main square. Corlas immediately sought out the officers in the crowd.

‘Phalanx commanders, cerepans – I want all troops assembled at the portcullis before the next Graka strike.’ He glanced around at the tense faces. ‘We’re abandoning the fort.’

•

Phalanx commanders and cerepans rode up and down the lines trying to organise troops of bows, blades and riders. The fort had only one phalanx of riders – that was, six troops – and besides this there were only horses for the officers. Corlas secured his own broad-backed war horse to cover ground more quickly. Armourers towed carts to distribute shields, armour and weapons, while soldiers at the gate stood ready to raise the portcullis. Corlas didn’t want to give the enemy any early warning that they intended to leave the fort, so the portcullis would be left shut until the last moment possible. Behind them, fireballs thundered down on the nearly deserted town. Corlas glanced anxiously at the sky, knowing the Graka would be above them any minute. If soldiers were caught grouped together in the same place, the casualties would be devastating.

He reached a decision. The time was now.

‘Raise the portcullis!’ he commanded. ‘Move out the troops!’

Taskmasters around him took up the call.

‘Commander!’ came a voice behind him, and he turned to see a burly man with a rough beard and dirty clothes. He rested a pickaxe over his shoulder, and behind him stood a hundred similar-looking men. Corlas recognised him as Brindle, the head miner.

‘What is it, Brindle?’

‘We will not continue in the mine while the very fort falls around us. Today we hew flesh, not rock.’

Corlas nodded. ‘Very well. Find an armourer, or use your pickaxes if you will. Move it out, Brindle.’

‘Right y’are, sir!’ said Brindle fiercely.

At the gate, troops were streaming out and down the hill. Corlas glanced at the sky. The Graka should have been above them by now, but for some reason they seemed to be holding back. Then he saw why – the clear blue sky was no longer clear. High above, small pinpricks had appeared above the fort. As Corlas watched he saw them expanding outwards and his dread of magic grew strong. They were dark blue vortexes and, though small and distant, were as ominous as a knife glinting in the dark.

‘Move it out!’ he bellowed. ‘Move it out!’ The horse beneath him whinnied as he gave it a kick in the ribs, driving it along the lines of waiting soldiers. ‘Move it out, soldiers! Magic they may have, but even a mage can learn the pain of steel! Target their mages! Make them
pay
for this! Make them learn what Kainordan soldiers are made of! Move it out!’

He raised his sword to the air, hollering war cries and driving soldiers before him. They spilled out through both the gate and the breach, heartened by the righteous rage of their commander.

Above, Corlas heard the warning crackle of magic approaching. Looking up, he saw lines of blue energy streaming down from the vortexes, straight and fast. As they slammed into the fort’s centre, the ground shook. Where they hit, they obliterated, leaving deep craters in the ground and sending out shock waves that knocked flying anything in their path.

In the sky above, the vortexes faded. Corlas breathed out thanks to Arkus. The mages had obviously targeted the area where the Graka would have last reported the majority of soldiers to be gathered. As it turned out, the energy streams had destroyed a now mostly unpopulated section of the town. Corlas shuddered at how devastating the attack would have been had they not moved. He didn’t know much about magic, but he knew that what he’d just seen would require a large amount of power, possibly many mages working together to create just one of those vortex things; and cloaking their army as they’d approached would have taken its toll as well. If Battu was tiring his mages, perhaps they had a chance.

As he rode from the fort, he saw the Graka flapping slowly towards his army, which was assembling again at the bottom of the hill. Corlas urged his mare down the slope and found more order than he had hoped for. In the distance he could see the Fenvarrow army milling about, preparing for a ground attack they hadn’t expected. He came to a halt in front of the officers, many of whom met his gaze with fearful eyes. Glancing at the sky, he guessed they had about a minute until the Graka could bomb their present position.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I want to drive pronged attacks into their lines. If we are all mixed in together, their air attacks will be useless and their mages won’t be able to target groups of us as easily. If you see a chance to take out a mage, take it, but not at too high a cost. We have to maintain our numbers.’

‘The bows, commander?’

‘They cannot attack from afar, they will only be killed from the air. They will be the heart of every prong we drive into their territory. Get them in and defend them.’ He met each of his officers in the eye. ‘There is no time for anything further. May the light be with us all. Do not despair . . .’ He seemed to fumble for words, but then his eyes shone with strength. ‘Do
not
despair,’ he said.

He waited until the officers had returned to their troops, then drew his sword and spun it in his grip.

‘Charge!’

•

Across grey, flat land the soldiers charged, roaring defiance at the black mass before them. Blades ran in groups around the bows, while the riders moved ahead with long spears lowered. The Graka let their acid fall, but most of the army passed under it unscathed, with only a few of the stragglers falling. Corlas found himself galloping past the miners, their grimy faces grim.

As they drew closer, arrows began to fall around them, but the dark lord had been complacent. Wrapped up in his plans for assassinations, aerial and magical assaults, he had failed to give proper thought to an unexpected ground war. While he had the numbers, his soldiers were not particularly well organised, and his archers were only now arriving behind the front lines. Kainordan bows returned fire as they ran, and screams rang out on both sides. Then came a clash of steel as blades drove attacks against the frontlines, wedging themselves into enemy territory. Within a few minutes, the Kainordan army was entrenched amongst those of the shadow.

Corlas rode tall, his eyes blazing with battle fury. Blood pumped hot in his veins and he whooped as he hacked and hewed from his horse. A joyous rage filled his heart and the very air around him seemed charged with energy. A Vortharg leaped at him only to fall away howling, guts spilling from its stomach. A dagger clattered against his shield and a moment later the Arabodedas who’d thrown it added his blood to the river that flowed from Corlas’s sword. A Graka swooped out of the sky with claws extended, straight into Corlas’s outstretched blade. The commander’s arms bulged as he lifted the impaled Graka in the air, ignoring its scrabbling claws as it tried to free itself. He gave a roar as he flung it into a mass of Arabodedas, knocking some from their feet.

The display of strength lifted the spirits of those around him and they fought on with new ferocity. Corlas roared again and galloped through the Arabodedas, his war horse crushing skulls beneath its heavy hooves. He shouted encouragement as he passed his soldiers, stirring up his troops wherever he found them. Time seemed to slow, and he was able to avoid attacks on him easily with adrenaline-fuelled perception.

Scattered mages caught in the fray sent magic bolts at Kainordan soldiers, but fell as bows fired arrows in return. Other mages hung back from the fighting, but were unable to effectively target the enemy while it was so mixed up with their own forces. The bows turned their attention to the Graka, who had abandoned their cauldrons to fly low over the battle with spears. Their stony skin deflected most arrows, but well-placed ones sent the creatures wheeling towards the ground. Corlas ripped a crossbow from a dying Arabodedas and shot it at a Graka, which left behind a red mist in the air. Corlas put the crossbow, which still had one bolt left, onto his belt.

‘See how easily cowards die!’ he bellowed, and soldiers around him echoed the chant.

He spotted a group of Black Goblins surrounding a troop of his soldiers, closing in quickly and viciously. He hadn’t seen many goblins up to this point – they seemed to be blessedly scarce – but now his soldiers fell screaming before their formidably fast blades.

‘Trample the goblins!’ he hollered at a nearby group of riders.

He himself bore down on them too, and many fell beneath hooves and blades. Soon the ground was rich with mashed black flesh.

Despite the tenacity with which his soldiers fought, Corlas could see they were failing in many places. Vorthargs spat poison into the faces of defending blades, then leaped over them to gore the bows they protected. Riders made easy targets for them too, standing taller than the rest, and Corlas had seen more than one go down screaming with a Vortharg on their back. The Arabodedas were skilled sword-wielders, but fortunately the blades had an advantage over their pale counterparts – many carried weapons or armour that contained shine. While the material was too precious to make entire suits on such a scale, a thin strip of shine reinforcing the right places could save a life again and again.

Corlas continued to stampede and stir his troops, but though they fought with all their hearts, his soldiers were being felled too quickly. With a snarl of rage he wheeled around, searching for some way to turn the battle. What he saw heading towards him made him throw himself off his horse with all his might. He heard a wet explosion, and chunks of steaming horse meat thudded down around him. He rolled to his feet, staring in the direction from which the huge bolt of energy had come.

On a slight rise, barely fifty paces away, stood the cause of all this bloodshed. Clothed in black, the folds of his cloak swirling about him, his recessed eyes turning this way and that over the battlefield, was the Shadowdreamer himself. Corlas hadn’t realised how deeply they had driven into the shadow army. Too far, it seemed, which was why the tide was turning against them. He saw Battu gesture at him while speaking to a group of Black Goblins – an elite guard, by the look of them. Corlas had managed to bring himself to the Shadowdreamer’s attention and the goblins would be coming for him.

‘To me!’ he shouted as the Blacks began to slip towards him through the battle. ‘To me!’ Nearby soldiers hacked their way towards him.

‘Commander!’ came the voice of a tall man on horseback. ‘Troop Leader Murcoh at your service!’

‘How many in your troop?’ asked Corlas.

‘Six remaining, sir! I think!’

‘Black Goblins are coming this way,’ said Corlas. ‘Let’s go and greet them.’

The troop leader smiled grimly and ordered his riders to drive a path ahead. They were veterans by the look of them, alive only for their great skill. The commander followed the horses on foot, towards the advancing goblins. About thirty paces from Battu, the two groups met with a clash of steel. One of the goblins sprang at a rider, bringing him to the ground in a struggling tangle of limbs. Another darted in at Corlas, but a rider sent his head spinning into the air. A third goblin appeared before Corlas and he swiped at it. The creature leaped backwards with a snarl, then darted forward again. Corlas swung again and again, but the goblin weaved and ducked and none of Corlas’s blows found their mark. As he staggered from a mistimed swing, it lunged and he felt steel plunge deep into his side. He roared in fury and dropped his sword, grabbing the creature’s neck as it tried to pull its sword free. With a sharp crack he broke its neck, then almost fell forward from the stabbing pain. He yanked out the goblin’s sword and sent it spinning into another.

On the hill, the Shadowdreamer was looking agitated, shouting for more of his minions to attend him. Finding himself suddenly free of foes, Corlas stormed towards the dark lord. He forgot the fire that flared in his side, driven by the fire that blazed in his blood. On seeing Corlas approach, the Shadowdreamer narrowed his eyes and raised a hand to the sky. His face strained in effort as he conjured and Corlas looked upwards. Blue energy swirled as one of the vortexes opened above him. It hung lower in the sky than those over the fort, close enough for Corlas to hear its magic crackling murderously. Battu’s intention was clear. He wanted Corlas dead, whatever the cost to his own troops. Corlas redoubled his efforts to reach the dark lord.

An Arabodedas leaped in front of him, punching him viciously in the face with the hilt of a sword. Blood spurted from his nose and his vision spun, but he managed to return the blow with a force that sent the man flying. He staggered onwards, glancing up at the spinning vortex. It was
following
him as it expanded, floating along in the air above. There was no question that it was locked onto him.

He broke into a run. Blood poured from his nose freely but was ignored, and any in his way were quickly felled. Putting on one final burst of speed, he found himself at the base of the rise, just ten paces from the Shadowdreamer himself.

Something smacked him across the back of his head and he pitched forward onto the rise. His assailant, a huge Arabodedas with a club, fell atop him. The weapon had only glanced him, but his head still spun as he grappled with the sweaty man. Above them, the vortex continued to expand. He managed to lock an arm under the attacker’s throat and began to drag himself up the rise with his other, strangling the struggling man as he went. As he died, Corlas released him and continued crawling up the slope, breaking fingernails on the hard ground. At the top, the Shadowdreamer’s face was writ plain with fear, but it was not directed at Corlas’s approach. The dark lord was staring up at the vortex – having followed its target, it now boiled in the sky above both of them and Battu began to weave his hands frantically, trying to reverse the spell.

Corlas glanced around. He didn’t have his sword, he realised, and couldn’t remember when he’d lost it. His hand went to his belt and his fingers touched the crossbow that still hung there. Above them the vortex made a noise like thunder and suddenly blue energy streamed down from the heavens. Battu gritted his teeth, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead as he worked to undo his own magic. Grunting, Corlas slid his only bolt into the crossbow . . .