The Sword Of Angels

30

Aric was napping when the commotion awoke him. He had been dreaming of a woman he had once met in Calon, a town in southeren Liiria known for its prostitutes. When he heard the shouts of men around him, he opened his eyes with a groan. Around him, the soldiers with whom he shared the tent were pulling on boots and hurriedly dressing themselves. The pleasant memory of Aric’s harlot quickly fled as he sat up, looking around in dazed confusion. The Reecian soldiers were talking loudly but he could not understand their words. Most were fleeing the tent. Aric tossed his naked feet over the side of his cot and tried to get their attention.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

A young man who Aric recognized looked over at him as he was buttoning up his jacket. His eyes were wild as he said, ‘They’re coming!’

‘Coming? Who. .’

But then Aric understood. His mind wrapped slowly around the happenings. Prince Roland had gone to his father to talk. Was is it over? Aric wondered how long he’d been asleep.

‘Don’t just sit there. Get your boots on!’ cried the young soldier. And then he was out of the tent, following his brethren in to the night.

Aric jumped to his feet. Outside he heard the crescendo of men making ready for battle. He found his boots beneath his cot, pulling them on to his feet, then grabbed his coat from the edge of his mattress and ran outside. As he pulled his arms through his coat’s leather sleeves, he looked about in disbelief. The camp had erupted into activity. All around him men were shouting, galloping past on horses or running in aimless directions. Officers called out orders over the din, directing the chaos while dogs barked and squires stumbled past with arm-loads of arrows. A full moon lit the camp, and through its silvery haze Aric could see men marching toward the Kryss. Colonel Craiglen sat atop a grey charger, his face red with effort as he yelled to his officers. Overwhelmed by the scene, Aric stumbled forward, unsure what to do or even what was happening. Craiglen saw his confusion and galloped toward him.

‘Aric Glass!’ he called. He jerked his grey horse to a halt. ‘Protect yourself, boy.’

‘Protect myself?’ Aric sputtered. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Your father is attacking,’ sneered Craiglen. ‘Under the very truce of peace! His men are making for the bridges. We have to form our lines. Find yourself cover!’

‘No!’ Aric cried. ‘I’m not going to hide!’

‘Look at you! You’re not ready for this. You-’ Craiglen stopped himself with a growl. ‘Oh, fine!’ He stretched down his hand. ‘Come on.’

Aric took his hand and let the old soldier pull him onto horseback. Wrapping his arm about Craiglen’s chest, he held tight as the colonel galloped away.

‘Where are we going?’ Aric asked.

‘To Raxor,’ said Craiglen over his shoulder, and soon the two were darting through the camp, dodging men and machinery as they headed toward the front. Aric strained to see the distant river. In the moonlight and glow of torches he could see the horizon swarming with movement as his father’s forces gathered into position. Flags and flashing spears punctured the night sky. Barely visible, the main bridge stood over the river, still abandoned by either side, though Aric’s father’s mercenaries were nearer to it and quickly closing the gap.

‘What happened to the talks?’ Aric asked in Craiglen’s ear. ‘What about Prince Roland?’

‘I don’t know,’ snapped Craiglen. ‘Dead I think.’

‘Dead? How?’

‘Stop talking to me, boy!’

As Craiglen raced through the crowds Aric pondered his words. Roland was dead? It made no sense, but he asked no more questions of the busy colonel, instead holding on as the horse bounded across the camp. At last they spotted Raxor through the disorder, atop his charger and surrounded by men. The king had fixed his crown to his head and wore a full regalia of battle garb. The most disquieting look suffused his face. He turned toward them as he noticed Craiglen coming forward. The old colonel skidded to a stop and took measure of the horizon.

‘They’ve sent men toward the north and south bridges,’ Raxor informed him. ‘Looks like the bulk of them are coming straight for the main bridge.’

Craiglen nodded, but even Aric knew the news was grave. There were three bridges nearby, and his father planned to overwhelm them all. The main bridge, as Raxor called it, was the largest of the three. And the nearest. Days earlier, he had met on that bridge with the Norvan colonel.

‘Darltin took a troop north,’ Raxor continued. ‘Craiglen, you join them. Take Karik’s company with you. I’ll send Jakel to the south bridge.’

‘And the main bridge, my lord?’ asked Craiglen with dread. ‘What of it?’

‘I have the dogs, Craiglen, don’t worry,’ said Raxor.

‘This is where Baron Glass will come through,’ said Craiglen. ‘Let me stay with you.’

‘Do as I ask, and hurry,’ ordered Raxor. His eyes met Aric’s. ‘And you. Get down.’

Aric hurried off the back of Craiglen’s horse. He looked up expectantly at Raxor. ‘My lord, tell me what to do.’

‘Just keep yourself safe. Stay with me.’

‘But I can fight!’

‘I’m sure you can,’ agreed Raxor. He turned toward a group of squires, calling for a horse. ‘You’ll ride,’ he told Aric. ‘And you’ll keep back with me. Your father’s a snake, boy. I want to know what other tricks he might have for us.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, my lord,’ said Aric. ‘Just let me fight-’

But Raxor was already ignoring him, berating Craiglen for still being there. He ordered his old friend away, and with a reluctant nod Colonel Craiglen galloped off, toward the northern bridge. Raxor shot orders to the other officers, sending most of them scurrying. Around them the catapults screamed like twisting metal as the crews began getting them into position.

‘There wasn’t time,’ Raxor growled. His eyes grew distant. Aric could tell he was thinking of his son. ‘They come like wolves.’

‘My lord?’ Aric probed. ‘Prince Roland?’

Raxor shook his head. ‘They just started coming, Aric.’ The old man looked lost. ‘There was nothing. No word, no warning.’

The words were horrible, made more so from a father’s lips. Aric stood frozen even as a squire hurried up to him with a horse.

‘My lord, I’m sorry,’ he offered. ‘But maybe-’

‘He’s dead,’ said Raxor, cutting him off. ‘Get on your horse, boy.’

The horse that had appeared was not Aric’s own but a larger, brown gelding already outfitted for battle, with iron plating along its flanks and hammered metal covering its snout. It chewed anxiously on its bit as Aric mounted then wheeled it about, wondering where they were headed.

‘What now?’ he asked the king.

Raxor was already on the move. Flanked by lieutenants, the old man was quickly giving orders, pointing out different regions of the battleground as he rode. They were woefully unprepared for the attack, that much was plain. Aric could see the trepidation on Raxor’s face.

‘The dogs,’ the king called back to him. ‘They’ll be first.’

Up ahead, the dog handlers waited, each of them holding a leash of ten snarling mastiffs. At least two-hundred of the beasts barked at the horizon, eager to race toward the bridge. The handlers looked at Raxor anxiously. Cavalry men still gathered near the line. Aric imagined Raxor’s strategy. The dogs, he knew, would buy them time.

‘Let them go,’ Raxor ordered.

The handlers released the beasts. One by one they twisted the chains from their stout collars, sending the mastiffs snarling into the night. The air filled with their angry barks. Soon the field was flooded with them, their powerful bodies bounding toward the bridge.

Aric watched them go, sure that on the other side of the river, his father awaited them.

Baron Glass charged for the bridge, his body encased in his magical armour. Through the eyeslits of his helmet, night had become day, and he did not need the feeble moon to light his way. Like his enchanted, missing arm, his entire frame became one with the armour, animated by Kahldris and his powerful magic, and Baron Glass did not feel the weight of its metal or the constriction of its binds. As light as a robe, the Devil’s Armour danced on him, forming to him like a second skin. His fingers articulated perfectly in his spiked gauntlets, and the Akari sword he carried into battle felt like a twig, feather light as it whistled through the wind. Behind him, an army followed, straining to keep up with the baron as he hurried toward the river. Among them were the only Liirians in the battle, a company of loyalists to Thorin led by a man named Siagan. Siagan had answered Thorin’s call to arms, gathering Kothans to his banner with the promise of gold. Unlike Liiria’s Royal Chargers, they were outlaws and farmers, mostly, but they were Liirians still and so rode with their new king into battle.

Beside Thorin, the mercenary Rase fought to keep up with the baron. Like Siagan, he too had soldiers with him, nearly a thousand Norvan mercenaries. Rase, a friend of Rodrik Varl, had replaced Varl as Thorin’s top mercenary. Rase kept low in the saddle as he rode, his eyes fixed on the coming river and the men beyond. They had surprised their enemies, clearly. Across the Kryss the Reecian soldiers hurried to arrange their defenses. Thorin watched as the catapults screeched into place and the horsemen circled in confusion. In the centre of the Reecian army, the banner of King Raxor wavered in the breeze, lit by smoky torchlight. His army of ten-thousand moved like a wave on the horizon, undulating into action. They were more numerous than Thorin’s forces and better equipped, and yet Thorin had no fear at all.

No fear, Kahldris whispered in his ear.

And Thorin knew the truth of Kahldris’ words, and did not fear the giant army on the river’s other side. He could not be nicked by a Reecian sword or felled by a Reecian arrow or overwhelmed by their great numbers. And when he saw the Reecian dogs, he simply nodded.

‘Look at that!’ cried Rase.

Swarming over the bridge came the mastiffs, spreading out like a screaming tide. Racing across the field, their necks encircled with steel collars, their bodies mailed and thickly muscled, the war dogs darted through the darkness, their open jaws snapping toward Thorin’s army. Siagan called back to his men, ordering them to ready themselves. Rase and his mercenaries tucked down on their mounts. Mastiffs choked the bridge as they fought to reach the field. Those already on the field made ready to pounce.

Baron Glass saw the dark eyes of the dogs and braced himself. At the point of his army, he raised his sword and commanded his men into the fray.

‘To the bridge!’ he cried.

Then like a hammer the first mastiff struck him. Leaping through the air, the great dog launched himself up and over Thorin’s horse, catching the baron square in the chest. Thorin’s ears rang with the scraping of nails and the slobbering snarl of a snapping jaw. Surprised, he caught the beast by the throat and hurled it aside, only to have two more swarm him. His armoured legs easily parried their insistent jaws as the beasts tried vainly to take hold. Thorin yelled out in anger, used his sword to dislodge the first, then wheeled his horse to face the second. Instantly other mastiffs joined the me?le?e. Thorin found himself surrounded. Already Rase and Siagan were in battles of their own. The field filled with cries.

‘Come!’ Thorin taunted, waving his sword.

The mastiffs stalked closer, then leapt. Thorin felt their blows as the armour deflected them all. He had but to turn to and they were off him, sliding like water off his black metal skin. Around him, Rase and his mercenaries fought off the worst of them, their advance cut down by the wall of dog flesh. The monstrous dogs easily pulled the mercenaries down from their horses, dragging them screaming through the night. Siagan and his Liirians hurried to aid them, slashing a path through the mastiffs.

Thorin turned, then felt another of the dogs tearing at his boot. The fangs should have easily pierced the leather, but the magic of the Devil’s Armour surrounded every bit of Thorin, and as the dog hopelessly tried getting hold of him Thorin reached down and took hold of the mastiff’s metal collar. The dog growled and thrashed its huge body, fighting like a fish as Thorin lifted it from the ground. It snapped its jaws in Thorin’s face, trying to reach him. Bringing down his helmeted head, Thorin crushed its skull. As the mastiff went limp, Thorin tossed it aside, determined to make for the bridge.

There, he saw a hundred more mastiffs waiting to fight him. Undaunted, he slogged his way across the bloodied field.

*

Colonel Craiglen arrived at the north bridge just as the mercenaries reached the river. His own forces, led by a young officer named Darltin, had arrived only minutes earlier, and were gathering to meet the mercenaries in battle. Craiglen found Darltin in the chaos and quickly took command, ordering his own company to the bridge. He could see the wave of Norvans cresting on the other side, disappointed that they had not reached their destination sooner. Amazingly, Baron Glass had sent a larger part of his army to the north bridge than he had the main one, where Raxor was battling. Counting up their numbers in the darkness made Craiglen blanche. Along with the companies of Darltin and Tom, he had perhaps a thousand men under his command, but it seemed to Craiglen that the Norvans had at least that many, a ragtag army of enraged mercenaries without any cause to fight for save their own enrichment.

Craiglen had no dogs or war machines to stem the tide. The catapults, which weren’t ready anyway, had all been stationed further south to hold the central bridge. It would be man to man here, Craiglen knew.

‘The way things ought to be,’ he muttered.

Colonel Craiglen could remember his every battle. He had been charmed since birth at the art of fighting, gifted with a sword and touched by heaven so that he’d never once been wounded. And yet, seeing the mercenary army made him afraid. At the bridge, he watched as the first of Darltin’s men forded the river, the Norvan mercenaries quick to meet them. On the other side of the Kryss waited the rest of the motley force, some trying to come across on horseback and being swept away by the fast-moving tide. The Reecians picked at them with arrows. Others sent volleys skyward, reaching across the Kryss to strike the enemy. Craiglen thought for a moment, wondering how best to direct his forces. It was simply a fight for the bridge, he determined quickly. On the bridge, the battle would be won. Or lost.

Craiglen took out his sword and thundered forward. At the top of his voice he called his men to follow, rallying them to war. With his company in tow, he raced for the bridge, and when he reached it fought his way to the front of the me?le?e, slashing past the Norvan blades, face to face with his foes. Yards away he saw the dark-skinned man. Craiglen recognized him at once. He had come with the Norvan colonel that day to talk peace at the bridge. Enraged, Craiglen brandished his blade high.

‘You, desert man!’ he cried. ‘Scum!’

They were fine fighters, all of them, these men who the dark man commanded. Like their leader, many of them had the same sun-baked skin and wild, colourful garb. With their curved swords and leather-wrapped spears, they clashed against Craiglen’s armoured cavalry, smashing together with a thunderous din. Craiglen muscled his horse across the bridge, step by agonizing step toward the dark-skinned leader. One by one he fought through the mercenaries, bringing up his sword against the attacks. His soldiers bolstered him, surrounding him as men and horses tumbled from the bridge. Craiglen fought for every inch, screaming at his quarry, who at last caught a glimpse of him through the battle. Craiglen spat in his direction.

The desert man spun off from his fellows and headed for Craiglen. The old Reecian colonel obliged, using his shield like a battering ram to pass the throng of fighters. With his sword at the ready, Craiglen brought it windmilling overhead just as his foe came in range. Instantly the dark man had up his defense. The two circled, exchanging blows, Craiglen blocking with his shield while the other used only his expert sword arm. Ignoring everything around them the men were like dancers locked in a deadly waltz. Craiglen renewed his attack, driving the mercenary to the edge of the bridge.

‘Is this how you talk peace?’ he raged. ‘By murdering the prince?’

The desert man grunted, fighting off the big man’s blows. Nearby, his men saw his predicament and cried out to him.

‘Kaj! The edge!’

Too late, the desert man saw the stone rail. Forced into it by Craiglen’s horse, he leaned back too far to avoid the Reecian sword. Craiglen pressed his attack, but the other mercenaries had charged forward now, pushing and unbalancing him. Now both close to tumbling, the two men grabbed for each other. The desert man was going over. Craiglen could see it in his eyes. Too close for swords, they grappled with each other until the pressure from the battle drove them over the edge.

Only blackness filled Craiglen’s eyes. He felt the sensation of the world whipping by, then the stunning cold of the river.

King Raxor ordered his cavalry to the bridge.

It had taken almost an hour for Baron Glass’ forces to deal with the mastiffs, more than enough time for his men to make ready. Lines of archers had filled the air with arrows, softening up the mercenaries and the complicit Liirians while the dogs slowed their advance. Behind Raxor, the catapults were finally ready to launch. Each one had a brazier filled with hot coals, burning wood and flammable liquid, ready to send the potent mixture skyward. Along the river, handfuls of Norvans had fought their way onto Reecian soil, making human chains and using ropes to pull themselves though the Kryss. Skirmishes had broken out all along the bank, but on the bridge, barely visible to Raxor, a small number of mastiffs still held back the bulk of Glass’ forces. Reports were coming in from the north and south. Raxor listened to them all keenly. Craiglen’s men had so far held the bridge, but in the south the mercenaries had already broken through.

‘How the hell can that be?’ Raxor shouted, glaring at his young lieutenant.

‘They have more men, my lord, and they reached the bridge before us.’

‘Darltin?’

‘Still alive,’ the officer reported. ‘He requests more troops.’

Raxor quickly dispatched another company, this one a reserve unit he’d hoped to use himself against the baron. The young lieutenant thanked his king and galloped off, guiding the new troops south. But Raxor knew that the south was already lost. Once the bridge was breached, stemming the tide would be impossible.

‘My lord, let me go with them,’ pleaded Aric Glass. So far, he stayed true to the king’s order, never wandering far. Together they had watched the battle unfolding in the moonlight.

‘Stay,’ the king commanded.

‘My lord, I’m useless to you here. Let me fight, please!’

‘Useless? You are useless?’ King Raxor at last took the time to look at Aric. Despite the battle raging around them, he spoke in a soft, kindly voice. ‘When this over, you might be the most important person in the world to my kingdom.’

Aric shook his head. ‘I have to see my father. At least let me do this.’

‘Rubbish. You’ll stay here, boy. Stay safe. You have a mission to accomplish.’

Aric smouldered as Raxor turned aside. At the bridge the Reecian cavalry met the first of Glass’ men.

Overhead, Thorin heard the roar of fire. Streaking skyward came the hot missiles from the Reecian catapults, firing one by one in rapid succession, lowering their deadly payload among his troops. Behind him he saw the impact as the first load of coals and liquid exploded, splaying out like a fiery hand amidst the unprepared Liirians. Siagan had fallen back, his men pushed to the rear by the onslaught of the mastiffs. Among his men he still fought the last of the dogs, but when the payload crashed around him his horse reared up with a cry. For a moment the night turned to daylight as the flames engulfed the soldiers, dazzling Thorin with its terrible light. He wheeled on the bridge to see the result as another missile crashed, this time closer than the first. By the time the third one hit Thorin could not see Siagan at all.

The baron spun around to face the coming cavalry. A rain of arrows continued to fall, heralding their arrival. Rase and a few dozen of his men had reached the bridge, ducking the deadly shafts. Thorin raised his sword to rally his mercenaries.

‘No retreat!’ he cried. ‘The bridge is ours! Don’t give it up!’

But as the Reecian horsemen thundered closer, the baron’s boast seemed hollow. Thorin braced himself as the lead riders lowered their lances. More of his men were fast approaching, but the Reecians made a tidal wave as they approached, shaking the bridge with their attack. The first of the horsemen galloped across, aiming straight for Baron Glass. Without a shield to parry the lances, Thorin let his armour take the blow. The horseman aimed his weapon. Thorin steeled himself, then felt the lance smash against his breastplate. Splinters flew as the weapon buckled. Stunned, the rider kept on going, straight ahead toward Thorin’s blade. The sword whistled and the head tumbled, and the Devil’s Armour drank the blood that fell like rain.

Now the Reecians swarmed the bridge. Thorin felt the madness descend. His blade was everywhere, finding every mark, shattering his enemies as his magic armour glowed with life. It writhed on him, its metal hot with blood, its black spikes moving like snakes. Against the hurricane of Reecian lances Baron Glass withstood the storm, not giving back an inch as the Reecians came to challenge him. His sword arm swung without tiring, cutting down the cavalry and littering the bridge with corpses. Amazed, Race and his mercenaries pressed onward, shielded by the miraculous killing machine.

‘Let them come all night!’ bellowed Baron Glass, sure that somewhere across the bridge Raxor watched with dread. He ignored the arrows pelting his hide, and paid no heed to the sky filled with fire. He forged on, meeting every lance and sword, easily besting the Reecian barrage.

You see! Kahldris laughed. How beautiful you are! How indestructible!

‘Yes!’ Thorin cried, loving the sweet madness. ‘I’m alive again!’

Undaunted, the Reecians came across the bridge, and one by one Baron Glass slaughtered them. And while he fought his Devil’s Armour fused to him, taking every blow like a gentle kiss.

Colonel Craiglen exploded up out of the water. Around him he heard the roar of the river and the screams of men. He gulped for breath, groping for anything that would get him to shore. Next to him, the mercenary who’d tumbled with him over the bridge was swimming for shore. The dark-skinned man had survived.

Exhausted, Craiglen went after him. His aching arms stroked quickly through the river, fighting the current to reach the rocky bank. The mercenary glanced over his shoulder.

‘Don’t follow me!’ he cried.

Determined to catch him, Craiglen kicked and pinwheeled his arms, forcing himself to breathe. His body ached from the concussion of the fall. His head pounded with agony. Still he swam, and just as the mercenary clawed his way ashore he caught hold of the man’s boot.

‘No way you live!’ he growled, pulling him back into the river. The man kicked out, catching Craiglen’s jaw and sending teeth and blood flying. But the old colonel kept hold, and with his other hand freed the dagger from his belt.

‘Dog!’ he spat. ‘Dog for hire! That’s what you are!’

Colonel Craiglen raised his dagger, and in that moment saw the stranger on the bank, lowering a crossbow. With an awful, split-second calculation he realized he was dead. He cried out, leaping from the river like a shark, plunging his dagger into the dark man’s back. The man called Kaj cried out, his head falling hard against the rocks. Then came the twang of the crossbow.

As the bolt struck his neck, Colonel Craiglen released his dagger. He felt his legs go slack and the current take him. His eyes fluttered, but for an instant he watched his enemy on the rock, sagging with death.

Unable to stay alive, Craiglen stopped trying. He let the river carry him away.

Aric waited helplessly at Raxor’s side. While the moon swept overhead, he counted the hours going by as the battle continued. King Raxor had refused to fall back, even as the mercenaries forded the river and the battle for the central bridge raged on. Wave after wave of cavalrymen had been sent to the bridge, but so far they had been unable to secure it or beat back their outnumbered enemy. Aric chaffed atop his horse, eager to get into the fight. Mostly ignored by Raxor, he listened as the king took council from his lieutenants and listened gravely to reports from the north and south, where the fighting continued. Raxor had already sent most of his reserves to the main bridge. He had come to the Kryss with nearly ten-thousand men, but throughout the night that number had dwindled. Raxor’s face glistened with sweat and twisted with a kind of disbelief. Aric, however, was stoic, and could easily believe the carnage his father was causing.

Reports from the main bridge told of the slaughter. Baron Glass and his mercenaries had somehow held out against the Reecian onslaught. A handful of men had so far returned, running messages to and from the bridge. Each of them told of Baron Glass in his armour and how he was holding the bridge nearly single-handedly. Raxor scoffed at the reports, refusing to look at Aric. Instead he sent more of his men into the fight, even as the Norvan free-lances forded the river and threatened their southern flank.

The catapults had fallen silent. The only light came from the torches and the waning moon. In the darkness, the noise of battle seemed louder, deafening Aric, driving him to ride in impatient circles. Despite the king’s bravado, he knew that only retreat could save the day. Dreadfully he watched as the reserves dwindled, slowly drained by his father’s ragtag army.

‘My lord,’ he said at last. ‘Will you listen to me now? Is it not as I have told you?’

Old King Raxor refused to hear him. ‘I have lieutenants, Aric Glass.’

‘And what do they tell you? They’re being slaughtered! Craiglen’s dead, my lord. The north bridge is already lost.’

‘We can retake it,’ said Raxor foolishly.

‘They’re coming across the river!’

‘They are out-numbered!’ Raxor raged. He looked possessed suddenly, staring blankly at Aric through the torchlight. ‘This can’t be.’

‘My lord, it is,’ said Aric, his heart breaking for this old man. ‘If-’

A soldier galloped up between them, jerking back his horse to face the king. Like most of Raxor’s army he was young, and the fight had given him a wild, untamed look. Dirt and blood soiled his armour. Lather flowed from the mouth of his depleted horse. He got the king’s attention at once.

Through laboured breath, he said, ‘Word from the north. The line has broken. The baron’s men have regrouped and overrun us. Jakel asks for your orders.’

Jakel, who had taken over for the dead Craiglen, had been a tent-mate of Aric’s, a surly major with a chest-full of medals. To hear him asking for permission to retreat chilled Aric.

‘Hold the line,’ Raxor ordered. He glanced at Aric, then added, ‘As long as you can.’

‘My lord, Major Jakel says it won’t be much longer.’

‘As long as you can!’ Raxor railed, dismissing the soldier with a wave.

Aric watched the trooper ride off, back toward the carnage up north. It would not be long now until the battle was over. Unbelievably, it had only taken hours. He looked toward the main bridge, toward his father. Shrouded in darkness, he could barely see the outskirts of the battle.

‘I have to go,’ he said suddenly. He looked at King Raxor. ‘My lord, I have to go.’

Raxor took his meaning and frowned. ‘Stay,’ he ordered.

‘I have to see my father, my lord. I have to try and talk to him.’

‘Stay!’

‘No! If you won’t call retreat, it’s the only way!’

Ignoring Raxor’s calls to stop, Aric bolted off, driving through the darkness toward the bridge. He passed the catapults and the frightened page boys, and then the archers dug into their makeshift trenches, most of whom had already stopped firing. The battle was thick for both sides now, too close for arrows or catapults now. As he galloped toward the me?le?e, Aric wondered what he would find at the bridge and what possible thing he could say to his father. There was a man inside the Devil’s Armour still, he was sure of it. If he could reach him. .

The bridge came into view. Aric slowed his horse. Along the river bank men clashed with swords and axes as the chain of mercenaries continued pulling themselves ashore. Bodies and fallen horses polluted the field. The maddening sound of screams and clanging metal boomed in Aric’s skull. He drew his sword and forced his horse into the thick of it, muscling past the Reecians gathered near the bridge. Some had yet to find an enemy, though hordes of Norvans and handfuls of Liirians had come across the river. To Aric, it seemed that the bridge was already lost, for the Reecians had been shattered into pockets, their discipline destroyed as they vainly fought to hold their line. Confused, Aric craned his neck to see the bridge, to find his father in all the chaos. Bit by bit he drew closer to the bridge, taking cover behind the Reecian cavalry. At last the crown of the bridge came into view. Choked with fighting men, one man in particular stood out from the rest.

Aric froze. He stared at the man, aghast but unable to look away. There was his father, giant and fierce, with dark armour glowing and writhing on his body, slick with gore and madly wielding his massive sword. Around him lay the dead, piled high, oozing blood that flowed down the bridge like water. There was no face to the man, just the deathmask of a helmet, jeering as its two horns jutted up like knives. The spikes of his armour moved with life, as did the tiny figures carved within its breastplate. Joyously the armoured man cut down those who came against him, effortlessly slaughtering them as their weapons slid harmlessly off his person.

Not a man, thought Aric in horror. A monster.

The bridge had become a slaughterhouse. His father, the butcher. And suddenly Aric’s mission seemed the worst of folly. There could be no talking to his father now. His father was gone.

‘Fall back!’ he cried. ‘Retreat! Retreat, now!’

But the soldiers ignored him. Frustrated, Aric hurried his horse about and galloped back the way he’d come, toward King Raxor and the safety of the reserves. In his mind burned the image of his father on the bridge, and as he rode hot tears stung his eyes. He had seen war before, but this was different. This was hell itself.

He found Raxor where he’d left him, still huddled with advisors beneath his royal banner. The king looked up anxiously as Aric rode toward him. An air of defeat hung over them all. Aric brought his horse to a stop and flung himself off its back and strode quickly to Raxor. Wiping the tears from his face he dropped to his knees.

‘Retreat, my lord,’ he pleaded. ‘Retreat before it’s too late.’

Raxor lost his steely expression. His advisors gaped.

‘What of your father, boy?’ the king queried.

‘My father’s dead,’ Aric spat. ‘There’s a monster that calls himself my father and that’s all.’ He pointed toward the bridge. ‘Go and see for yourself!’

‘Get on your feet,’ Raxor told him. His face began to collapse. ‘Please. .’

Aric was nearly sobbing now. He rose unsteadily, never taking his eyes off the king.

‘My lord, please,’ he begged. ‘There’s no chance. My father is a horror. Let him have the bloody bridges! Give him the whole damn river. Just go!’

Raxor’s aides watched in silence, but their faces told the old king their feelings. The north bridge was already lost, and word from the south was little better. The truth slowly dawned on Raxor’s face.

‘My lord? Will you call retreat? For the sake of everything, will you?’

King Raxor looked vacantly at the horizon. His son had died today, and his closest friend, too. To Aric, he looked far older than he ever had before.

‘Give the order,’ he told his aides. ‘Baron Glass has won.’