Book 6: Chapter 14 |
Bergonia
The Old Imperial Track
A nameless hill
ANDRÉ DE CHÂTILLON WAS IN THE CENTER of the formation, watching with a frozen heart as the enemy cavalry moved like a lava flow across the open ground in front of him and his comrades. Gaston Laforte, his commander (with whom he had become fast friends over the preceding few months) was right. The hot-headed Atalian nobles under the Marquis di Spinola didn’t seem to consider the Vestonian force much of a threat, and so they were hurrying into battle just before evening, hoping to wipe out the motley assemblage of infantry in front of them. They obviously didn’t think the footmen could do much to oppose a formation of heavily-armored cavalry.
Most likely, they were especially happy to see “Bruno the Hangman” flapping in the wind in front of them. Always distinctive, the banner of the “Last Chances” bore a skeleton hanging in a noose. The gentlemen-aristocrats assumed, reasonably enough, that they would be facing off against a bunch of common criminals condemned to die, and so they decided to wipe out the “Last Chances” first. And to be fair, Viscount de Châtillon would have made the same assumption prior to meeting Gaston.
Now, however, after several months of serving under Captain Laforte’s command, the Viscount’s opinion was completely different. Laforte’s cohort wasn’t like the other cohorts in the “Legion of Last Chances,” which recruited all sorts of condemned criminals and murderers who had never participated in a battle before.
He only recruited men who already had fighting experience. Mainly, they were veterans of the legions, who had slipped up and broken the law in some way or other after their service. Actually, many of them weren’t murderers at all — a good number were simple swindlers, or people who had ended up in debt and were particularly bitter about it. In other words, Laforte’s cohort wasn’t really any less professional than Samuel Kroner’s was. Even in terms of arms and equipment; sure, the men may not have had the very best of the best, but they definitely weren’t using junk from the scrapheap either. And the rumors about Laforte’s iron discipline... Well, the Viscount had managed to verify the truth of those rumors for himself.
“Stay in line, you bastards!” One of the sergeants shouted menacingly. “Whoever flinches, I’ll come and pull your guts out through your throat myself when this is all over!”
The Viscount snickered viciously. It was obvious why the captain had chosen to promote these sergeants: every one of them was an absolute beast. Even as he watched, the Viscount couldn’t say who the men were more terrified of: the Atalians thundering toward them, or their own sergeants.
Without meaning to, Viscount de Châtillon quickly glanced back at the unit of strykers and saw a man standing among them who had played a very central role in deciding his fate.
The bastard Max Renard... Recently created Margrave de Valier. A combat mage of terrifying power...
A shadow fell over the Viscount’s face. What the hell had moved him to challenge Renard to a duel on that accursed day? O, Gods! How disgracefully he had lost that duel... Well, it wasn’t even a duel. It was the talk of the entire capital. And de Châtillon was the laughingstock...
At first, the Viscount thought it was Renard who spread news of the duel, which naturally increased the intensity of his hatred for the man. Soon enough, however, he learned that it was Olivier de Hangest and Gaspard Craonne, men who André had considered to be true friends.
The Viscount also discovered (alas, far too late to be of any use) that these two men had orchestrated the whole ugly affair, deliberately whipping André into a fury against Renard. Furthermore, Renard could have crushed the Viscount like a bug — that much had become abundantly clear right in front of André’s eyes when he watched the Baron von Neumark die in the ring.
This strange young man could easily have killed André de Châtillon on any one of three separate occasions. When they first met, then at the Duchess du Bellay’s ball, and finally during their morning duel that had ended in such disgrace for the Viscount. But for some reason, Renard hadn’t killed André.
Poor Charles, his old servant, later told him that on that fateful morning after the reception, when their duel was scheduled and the Viscount shamefully lost consciousness from his head wound right before the fight, Renard conducted himself like a true noble and a man of honor. Despite the urgings of the crowd, who were all shouting that Viscount de Châtillon had shown up drunk to the duel. It was then that André finally realized that these and other rumors were spread by his former friends (whom he never had a chance to settle scores with).
Between that day and the day when he finally saw Renard in the camp at Bresmont, riding his majestic mistral and wearing outlandish stryker armor, their paths hadn’t crossed once. Nevertheless, André had (albeit unintentionally) remained well-informed about practically every move Renard made. Partially, of course, this was because his exploits were the talk of every tavern in the country. Even within the “Gray Tower,” de Châtillon heard one of the jailors whistling a tune about the “Bastard.” Renard had slowly been turning into a living legend.
By the way — after the duel where the bastard killed Neumark, a little bit of his fame bled over onto André. Gaston Laforte, who had won a significant sum betting on Renard’s victory, spread word among his men that the Viscount de Châtillon had stood against the Margrave de Valier no less than three times.
He left the details of those confrontations out, of course; they didn’t matter anymore anyway. The story quickly spread among the men of the “Last Chances,” and for a while, André became a figure of some renown.
That annoyed the Viscount to no end, but there was nothing he could do about it. At first, he tried to tell people what actually happened, but as so frequently happens, people ended up hearing what they wanted to hear.
They were interested only in the fact that de Châtillon had gone out to face this monster on three separate occasions and come back alive every time. Most importantly, it seemed like good fortune to have such a fortunate man in their cohort with them. After all, some of his luck might end up extending to his comrades. And even the parts of the story that told of de Châtillon’s own misadventures soon transformed into further proof of his good fortune.
Eventually, André made peace with the fact that his fate was tied in some inexplicable way to the mysterious man who had turned from a nameless bastard into the most famous aristocrat in Vestonia in the space of less than two years...
“Stay in line, you sons of bitches!” Another sergeant snarled off to the right. “Not a step back!”
The Atalian cavalry had almost reached that magical point where the Mertonians would unleash their first volley onto them. André and his comrades were frozen in suspense and anticipation.
The Viscount watched as the knights moved like a gray-brown wave, galloping up the hill with frightening power and decisiveness. The horses, decked out with sigils and feathers, were picking up speed despite the uphill slope and closing the distance alarmingly fast as their hooves kicked up clouds of dust.
Sunlight glinted off their armor and created the illusion of thousands of glittering stars that seemed ready to swallow the entire hill, along with the audacious people atop it who had dared to offer battle to the horsemen. The first row of Atalian cavalry was clad in heavy armor and armed with long lances. They looked utterly invincible as they bore down on the infantry in front of them.
Their battle cries merged into one loud roar that eventually sounded like echoing thunder. Time seemed to slow down in André’s mind.
At that exact moment, the Mertonians’ commanders gave the order to shoot. The Viscount had heard a lot about these soldiers, but this campaign was his first time actually seeing them for himself.
There were a lot of different rumors about the Mertonians. Each one was more contradictory than the last. One thing that André knew for sure, though, was that these men grew up with bows in their hands, and there was no group of archers in Mainland that could match the Mertonians..
Gaston Laforte had told André in confidence that Baron Reese himself, along with many of his Mertonians, was actually true gifted; specifically, they were Glenns. If that was true, it would certainly explain a lot. The Viscount, by the way, had seen for himself how the archers would quietly speak to their bows, and whisper things to their individual arrows.
A sudden, multitudinous twang of bowstrings echoed through the air, and thousands of arrows filled the sky. For just a moment, they blocked out the sun. An instant later, with an ominous rustling sound, a murderous rain began to fall onto the heads of the Atalians as they raced toward the Vestonian infantry.
Despite all their protection and power, the Atalian cavalry found itself under an accurate, devastating, and totally unexpected bombardment. Their front ranks, wearing the heaviest armor, barely took any losses at all, but the riders coming behind them literally started dropping by the dozen.
A second volley from the archers coincided almost perfectly with the moment when the first row of riders reached the immediate base of the hill — the last short section of the charge. Like his comrades, the Viscount had spent the entire night digging, but he was about to have a chance to see their hard work pay off.
The slope of the hill, filled as it was with pit traps and sharpened stakes, didn’t give the enemy a very warm welcome at all. At a full gallop, the Atalian horses bounded right into the sharp little surprises, or else swerved suddenly to avoid the spikes and slammed their hooves into the sides of the pits, breaking their powerful legs. They fell, crushing their riders beneath them and sowing absolute chaos in their ranks. Horrible as it was by most standards, the deafening sound of heavily-armored animals collapsing shrieking and screaming along with their riders was music to de Châtillon’s ears.
The Atalian attack that had seemed so powerful, even invincible, began to lose its cohesion and power at a frightening pace. Many of the best knights, whose armor and horses had cost dizzying sums of money, had been taken out by simple, underhanded little pit traps, and were no longer in a state to continue fighting. Meanwhile, the archers continued their murderous downpour — every one of their arrows inflicted a wound, or killed its target outright.
At that moment, the Viscount could feel a palpable wave of confidence rush through the ranks of his comrades. Just a day before, they were all facing the prospect of a battle in the open field against the Atalian heavy cavalry — a prospect that seemed utterly suicidal. But their commanders had managed to squeeze every possible drop of advantage out of their precarious position. And André already knew who was to thank for it all.
Still, it was too early to start celebrating. Despite the hail of Mertonian arrows and the forest of traps along the slope, most of the heavily-armored riders still made it to the crest of the hill.
André de Châtillon’s heart was pounding evenly and heavily. His eyes were wide. Involuntarily, his brain was recording every movement, every hue of the horrifying, grandiose scene of life and death unfolding in front of him.
The Atalian knights, majestic and intimidating on their war horses, looked like steel monsters as they pressed inexorably on against the Vestonian lines of stakes, which they brushed aside as though they were nothing but piles of matchsticks.
Finally, the long-anticipated collision occurred. The screeching metal, mixed with the pitiful cries of wounded animals and the desperate screams of the soldiers, was utterly deafening. The unfortunate horses, who had essentially been led to the slaughter, were screaming in pain and terror. They kept falling, washed off their feet by wave after wave of bloody chaos and smashing their riders into bloody pulp beneath their hooves.
Taking losses and suffering through a vicious rain of arrows the entire time, some of the riders nevertheless managed to move through breaches that opened in the Vestonian defenses and slam into the ranks of their enemies at a gallop.
The attack wasn’t coordinated, and it was much slower than it could have been, so the collision wasn’t as terrifying as it would have been in the open field.
Steel clashed against steel as screams of pain and rage merged into a general roar. The “Last Chances” who bore the brunt of the initial impact were buoyed by the loud shouts of their sergeants, and their formation held.
In the very center of the fray, where the Atalian riders and Vestonian infantry had first made contact, a horrible pileup was taking shape. The Atalians, who had ridden their huge chargers through several lines of spikes already, were trying to ride straight over the Vestonian ranks. Every one of the cavalrymen was whirling a sword or mace around in an attempt to smash through the defensive line in front of them, but Laforte’s soldiers stood like rocks. They struck back with blows from spears and halberds, aimed at weak points in the knights’ armor and at the horses. They were also trying to snare the riders and pull them down onto the ground.
The battle was intense and incredibly suspenseful. But the knights’ specially-trained war horses, each of which cost a small fortune, were continuously being wounded, and eventually they stopped obeying their masters’ commands, which gave a cardinal advantage to the infantry opposite them.
Dead and wounded soldiers from both sides were lying everywhere, while the sound of crashing metal, screams, and groans continued to fill the air. Despite the Atalians’ desperate attempts to overcome the defense, the Vestonians miraculously managed to maintain their positions, displaying remarkable endurance and teamwork in the process. The results of hundreds of exhausting hours of mustering and training.
Finally, André’s turn came. A massive Atalian, encased in armor and riding a charger the size and color of a huge iceberg, surged through the Vestonian position right in front of the Viscount de Châtillon.
The Atalian’s sword was flashing deftly and accurately through the air, looking for all the world as if it were some kind of feather instead of a heavy piece of steel. Every blow he landed knocked his opponents off their feet. One by one, the soldiers facing the knight in his red plumage were falling to the ground beneath his blade, where the charger’s enormous hooves crushed their bones into a bloody pulp.
Every step he took brought the Atalian deeper into the Vestonian ranks. And a few more riders were hot on his heels, each of them likewise clad in unique armor with colorful sigils. One of them, who was particularly well-built and agile, proceeded to flit from opponent to opponent, dealing pinpoint thrusts with a short spear as he moved. His armor shone dully in the rays of the setting sun, and his helmet was topped by a fluffy white feather.
Another rider, shorter than the others and armed with a ridged mace, was covering the main knight’s right flank and dealing horrifying damage with every blow of his savage weapon.
Immediately behind him came another knight, in notably elegant armor. The distinctive shape of the cuirass made it clear that this was a woman. She had a sword in each hand, and she was using both of them to parry Vestonian attacks and reply with instant and merciless counterattacks.
It didn’t take a genius to see that these riders were all strykers. Every one of them had a unique style, calculated to complement each other on the field and create the powerful, cohesive force that was moving like a steamroller through the Vestonian ranks, leaving destruction and chaos in its wake.
André de Châtillon was already mentally prepared to die (and sell his life as dearly as possible before doing so), but suddenly the whole picture of the battle changed abruptly.
The four riders came under attack by several blurry silhouettes. In a few seconds, the enemy strykers found themselves knocked out of the saddle and left with no choice but to fight on their feet.
Shouts of joy echoed out from the Vestonians around them.
“Savages!”
“Savages!”
“There’s a Heretic with them!”
André already knew that these silhouettes were Renard’s strykers joining the battle. Once again, he glanced behind him to see where the Margrave de Valier was standing.
Maximillian was right where he had been prior to the battle. He was standing there calmly, arms folded across his chest, watching nonchalantly as his warriors plunged into the fray. A white-haired woman stood next to him — his bodyguard, who was the subject of all sorts of terrifying rumors. But his loyal hound, the Heretic Northerner, was nowhere to be seen.
André turned back to the stryker battle in front of him and saw that Sigurd was just a few steps away from him. The northern giant was forcing back the gigantic knight with the red feather, who didn’t look nearly as fearsome when facing off against Renard’s bodyguard.
The stryker battle was over quickly. The “Savages” took care of their opponents without too much difficulty.
Two of the Atalians fell almost immediately. De Chatillon, who had some insider knowledge of the secrets of how strykers operated, realized that they must have run out of mana in their bruts. Attacking under the hail of Mertonian arrows, followed by their collision with the Vestonian infantry, must have cost a huge amount of energy. And apparently, none of the Atalians had factored in the possibility of all that being followed immediately by an assault from ten experienced strykers.
The woman with the two swords held out a little longer than the others. Her mana supply wasn’t exhausted yet. And that wasn’t surprising, given that she had ridden into the battle after her comrades.
Last to fall was the big knight with the red-plumed helmet. With a lightning-quick blow, the big northerner chopped him down with a blow that sank into his shoulder and cut through his torso almost down to his waist. The two-handed sword’s long blade was filled with lilac mana, and it cut through the muscular body of the Atalian knight like a warm knife through butter.
An instant later, another joyful roar erupted from hundreds of throats and filled the air above the Vestonians. The Atalians had taken enormous losses, and now they were retreating as fast as their horses (or legs) could carry them. Their silhouettes could be seen in the gathering twilight, racing back down the hill.