Chapter 225: Death upon the Land
Chapter 225: Death upon the Land
When the day was still young, before any mercenaries had marched on the Citadel, the armies of Adalmearc assembled on the southern slopes before Middanhal. In gleaming armour, with great shields and tall banners flying, they arraigned themselves upon the foothills of Valmark, facing an enemy more than twice their numbers.
Furthest to the west, where the terrain became ragged, two thousand Dwarves and their dvalinn had taken position. In front of them rose spiked fences, deterring any cavalry charge. Next to them, making up the main part of the flank, stood the forces of Belvoir under their duke.
Order forces and Red Hawks led by Athelstan of Isarn took the centre; despite holding the main position, they were arrayed in wide ranks only four men deep, trusting in their superior armaments and experience to hold the enemy back. The seven-pointed white star of Adalmearc flew upon their black standards.
The highlanders and the levies conscripted in Adalrik had the eastern flank with William of Tothmor as their lieutenant. As the most vulnerable fighting force, they stood in narrow ranks many lines deep. Behind them, every archer in Middanhal had been placed, led by a pair of Hæthian longbowmen renowned as companions of the king.
Beyond the archers, the knights of Adal could be found upon their war steeds. The horses scraped the ground, throwing their heads around as they sensed the anticipation in the air. Each rider gripped spear and reins, ready for the charge; Richard of Alwood led the host.
Further back on the slope up towards Middanhal, the king of Adalrik sat on his horse, surrounded by thanes. His sergeant held the banner of the golden dragon on blue, same image as upon their surcoats; with grim faces and a view of the hills that rolled down before them, they watched in silence as the enemy marched out to meet them.
Unlike the Mearcians, the outlanders appeared as one force. Standards of a black armoured fist upon red unfolded in the wind. Every soldier wore the crimson robes of the Anausa, wielding weapons of the same make. They spread out to form their own centre and flanks, evenly placed six lines deep. Jenaab Sikandar kept a strong force behind as reinforcement, along with his own cavalry; even so, the battlelines of his army extended further than those of the Mearcians. Next to him, seated on a litter and clad in red steel, the Godking watched his subjects prepare to wage war.
At the foot of the incline, Sikandar had a diminished view of the field compared to his counterpart. Yet the weaknesses among the Mercian lines could not be hidden, and with a satisfied look, he issued his first commands of the day. Trumpets sounded their metallic cry, repeating his orders across the gap to his armies. In response, more than sixty thousand soldiers advanced.
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As ever, the outlanders began their assault with waves of arrows. As expected, they did the most harm to the east among the exposed highlanders and peasant levies. The Mearcian longbowmen retaliated, using their greater bows and higher position, claiming many victims in turn.
More trumpets relayed Sikandar’s next order; while the other positions continued to shoot, the eastern flank gave up exchanging arrows and advanced. With better equipment than the troops opposite, the Anausa went into close combat.
Standing in the front line, William waited until the enemy had almost reached them; rather than let them reform their lines after their advance, he yelled the order to charge. Sprinting forward to close the remaining gap, the Mearcians attacked with spears, axes, clubs, flails, and any other weapon available. Better armed, but disfavoured by the terrain, the Anausa fought back, and neither side seemed to gain ground.
Sikandar gave further signals. The rest of his frontline infantry set aside their bows and advanced as well. Battle roars gave way to the deafening cacophony of steel striking steel. Soldiers wearing a white star or a red hawk held their own; to the west, the deep ranks of the rivermen also proved steadfast, and the duke of Belvoir encouraged his men. Further out, the Anausa outnumbered the Dwarves, but the spiked defences disrupted their formation and robbed them of this advantage.
Spears met shields across the length of the battlelines. The infantry of either side became entrenched, fighting evenly for now. To the north and south, both commanders watched their soldiers die. Sikandar, who had reserves, remained passive; Brand, whose army could not absorb losses for long, gave an order.
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Furthest to the east, Richard watched the banner of the king being waved in signal to him. With a grin, he placed his helmet on his head and picked up his spear from where he had thrust it into the ground. “My lords, our moment has come.”
The knights under his command arranged themselves in staggered formation like the tip of a javelin. With a tight hold on reins and weapons both, they drove their horses forward.
The movement made by such a large mass of riders and steeds could not be hidden. Sikandar gave his own order, relayed to Rostam, leading the Zhayedan. The red-robed horsemen moved out as well, forced to carefully consider their speed. Riding too fast, they would tire their horses going uphill and engage the Mearcians far from their own reinforcements; too slow would allow the knights to simply turn right and charge into the outlanders’ infantry, tearing the flank apart.
Whether from fear of the latter or some other reason, Rostam led the Zhayedan swiftly against the oncoming knights. Both sides spurred their horses on, lowering spears while maintaining formation during the gallop. Only the skill from a lifetime spent practising warfare in the saddle allowed this, and the best warriors from either army could be found in the clash of cavalry.
But Nordsteel armour, great stallions from Korndale, and terrain favoured the knights of Adal. With terrible ferocity, their spears impaled the outlanders even through shields and iron shirts before shattering. The front line drew blades, exchanging blows. Displaying unmatched horsemanship, the knights in the back ranks retreated swiftly, recreating their formation to make another charge. They hammered into the Zhayedan from the side, felling them in great numbers.
Sikandar gave another command. As in the first battle of the war, thousands of spearmen kept in reserve stormed forward to fight the entrenched knights. Yet their path led them within range of the Mearcian longbowmen on the eastern flank, who had saved most of their arrows. As they saw the Anausa move forward towards the engagement, they resumed shooting.
Volley after volley struck the unsuspecting outlanders on their swift march. Hundreds fell from the first barrage before they raised their shields. Suddenly hindered in their movements and forced to protect themselves, their ranks fell apart. Rather than a concentrated blow, the Anausa trickled into the fight – those that made it past the archers.
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Watching his cavalry falter, Sikandar turned his eyes towards the weakness in the Mearcian lines. The centre where the ranks looked vulnerable, only four men deep. Already, the Order soldiers and Red Hawks had lost ground; they seemed forced to defend only, unable to push back or inflict casualties on the outlanders. Sikandar gave another command, and his final reserves set into motion.
This time, the defending archers could not offer any reprieve, having spent their arrows already. Unhindered, the Anausa reached their brethren fighting in the middle. They surged forward, replacing weary troops to attack with renewed force.
Having seen the incoming reinforcements, the Mearcians responded. Led by Athelstan, they yielded further ground. Step by step, they pulled back, using this to likewise replace tired soldiers at the front and allow them to catch their breath. But even with skilled leadership and every other advantage at their disposal, the sheer difference in numbers asserted itself. The Mearcian lines grew thinner; the outlanders roared and pressed forward, sensing victory within their grasp.
Brand released a deep-held breath and gestured for another signal to be given. From the east and the west flanks, the back lines of his army retreated under skilful command and turned towards the middle. So certain of imminent conquest, too eager to push forward, the outlanders had gone too far in the centre. Moving ahead of their brethren on the flanks, they left themselves exposed. As if caught by pincers, they found themselves under pressure from three sides.
Unprepared, the red-clad soldiers stumbled to fight back. Along the edges, they tried to retreat under the sudden onslaught, but the mass of soldiers did not allow any room for the smallest manoeuvre. Unable to form any lines, defence became impossible. A slaughter began.
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From his seat, the Godking watched his army be decimated. Next to him, Sikandar sweated; no reinforcements remained. Already, the Zhayedan had begun to retreat, and although most of the infantry still fought, the situation had become clear; defeat was imminent.
“You have failed me,” the Godking proclaimed with a calm voice. “Your fate will be decided later.” He reached out his hands to both sides. One received a spiked mace, the other a great sword. Rising to stand, the runes on his red armour seemed to glow briefly. He began marching towards the battle, surrounded by his shadow warriors.
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The Anausa died in droves. The flanks could not push; the Dwarves held firm in the west against any attempts to force them back, fighting with unmatched spirit, and under Sir William the Unyielding, so did the levies to the east. The overextended centre, holding most of the outlander forces, was trapped and attacked on three sides. Confident in victory, the Mearcian commanders spurred their troops onwards.
The Godking reached the lines. Immediately, five shadow warriors went to each of the pressed sides, while the remaining ten stayed by their master’s side. Their presence right and left quickly began alleviating the pressure. Throwing themselves into combat with reckless abandon, they scorned steel and barely took wounds, slicing the Mearcian soldiers apart. As the sun passed beyond noon, the outlanders reasserted themselves, ceasing their retreat.
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The sound of thundering hooves met the screaming of steel and shouting of men. Having vanquished the Zhayedan, the knights charged into the outlander infantry from behind. They tore through the ranks, tipping the scales of the battle yet again. “Death!” shouted Sir Richard, swinging his sword with glee. “Kill them all!”
The Godking turned to face the new threat, as did his protectors. Snarling, the shadow warriors leapt forward to face this foe. They felled the horses and stemmed the knights’ charge that moments before had seemed inexorable. After them, the Godking came. When his mace fell or his sword struck, a knight died.
Already unhorsed, Richard fought with his usual fervour, holding his own against even the dark soldiers of the Reach. Although none of the Mearcians had ever seen the Godking and they scarcely knew him, his armour left no doubt as to his importance. Spitting blood, the margrave of Alwood set his eyes on the immortal enemy of Adalmearc. “Die!”
Facing the shadow warriors, Richard evaded one blow, avoided another, and used his shield to push the nearest foe away. He made no retaliation but simply ran forward. One of the dreaded protectors managed to cut him deeply on the sword arm, but the knight would not be deterred and continued.
At last, he stood before the Godking, more than a head taller than him. The great sword came swinging at such length, Richard could only evade without the reach to strike back. As soon as the blade passed him by, the mace followed up, and the knight had to dodge again.
A shadow warrior’s dagger struck him in the back. The armour held, but time had run out. Richard leapt forward, aiming a devastating blow against the Godking’s masked face.
With speed no son of Man could hope to match, the fiend avoided the strike. He brought the pommel of his sword up, hitting Richard in the face to send him stumbling back. The mace fell down, crushing his shoulder.
Losing his sword, the knight lowered his shield. “See you in Hel, you bastard,” he spat as two shadow warriors fell upon him. Under their relentless attacks, the margrave of Alwood and hero of Adalrik died.
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To the north, the developments in the battle was met with rising alarm. Everything had seemed to go according to plan. The infantry had pulled the outlanders into the trap, falling on their centre from both flanks. The cavalry had broken their counterpart and charged into the back of the red-clad ranks, leading to complete envelopment. By now, the enemy should be utterly defeated, yet still they held on.
“I do not understand,” mumbled Alaric.
“I do,” replied the king quietly. He reached out one hand. “My spear.” Geberic placed the weapon in his hand. “It is time we fight.”
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The battle had raged for most of the day, and still the scales seemed to tip back and forth, promising victory to neither. The charge of the knights into the infantry had not proved decisive as assumed, yet their presence remained a strong threat that even the Godking and his fell champions could not simply remove.
On the other hand, the Mearcian footmen could not hold much longer. The archers, having spent their arrows, charged into the middle to help the crumbling lines, but their light armour and short swords proved little aid. The Order soldiers were too spread out, had taken too many losses, and all the other advantages gained in the battle could not outweigh this. The shadow warriors turned towards this vulnerability. Once the line broke, the Mearcian army would be split in twain; the Anausa could escape the death trap and pour out to envelop their enemy in turn.
Seventy men wearing a blue surcoat with a golden dragon rode through their own ranks. The beleaguered soldiers of the Star broke into jubilant cries as the horses stormed past and into the fray. Throwing his shattered spear aside to wield a blade of sea-steel, the Dragonheart led his kingthanes forward, killing an enemy with each blow. And as the soldiers looked to see his banner where the battle was fiercest, they roared and fought with renewed strength.
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A shadow warrior came against Brand. Two kingthanes stepped into his path, but their swords could not keep him back; he ignored their blows to press on and attack the king. Brand caught his strike with the shield and retaliated. Sea-steel would not be denied, and the fell creature sank to the ground.
Another two attacked. “Wrath, rage, storm, and song!” they crowed in the outlander tongue, their yellow eyes trained on Brand’s weapon. The kingthanes surrounded their lord to defend him, but more and more of the dreaded warriors came, and even the stalwart Glaukos became separated from his master. Finally, towering over his soldiers, the Godking appeared.
His eerie eyes stared from beneath his steel mask, made of the same red metal as his armour. As his champions engaged the thanes, he struck with sword and mace to claim another life with every blow. Step by step, he approached the king.
“Today, Sigvard’s line shall end,” the Godking proclaimed in Nordspeech. He raised his weapons and struck with fearsome strength. The king leaned back, avoiding the attack to make his own in return, but he found his reach too short. As thanes and shadow warriors met each other in a whirlwind of iron, the Godking and the Dragon of Adalrik fought.
Repeatedly, the sword and mace passed through the air with the power to kill in a single strike. While men died around him, Brand retreated, always evading.
Taking another step back, his footing seemed to slip, and he almost stumbled. The Godking swiftly advanced, striking with both weapons. As the mace came against Brand’s head, the sword threatened his waist.
Revealing his feint, Brand regained his footing and dropped to the ground. While the mace swung harmlessly past, his shield deflected the Godking’s sword to do the same. At the same time, his own blade struck low against the nearest target.
The sea-steel clashed against the armoured boot covering the Godking’s ankle. The runes on his red steel flared up as if on fire. Although dented, the armour held against Brand’s weapon. The terrible foe took another step forward, towering over the king on the ground. With a swift kick, he sent Brand on his back, all but defenceless.
“Now die,” he spoke, raising his spiked weapon. A thane threw himself in front, striking the Godking with his sword. It did nothing, and the warrior died as the mace tore through his helmet and skull.
Pushing his body aside, the Godking once more loomed over the Dragonheart. The shadow warriors came on both sides, keeping the kingthanes at bay. Brand raised his shield, but the mace fell and tore it apart, reaching all the way to tear his stomach open. He raised his sword. The Godking struck with his own, flinging it aside. Unarmed, alone, Brand awaited death.
A battle cry spoken in a tongue known to few made the Godking whip his head to the side. As the waning sun illuminated the mass of soldiers fighting and dying, the light became reflected in a blade of Elven-forged metal raised in defiant challenge.
Uttering a curse in a forgotten language, the Godking turned his attention back to Brand. It was too late. A shadow warrior lay dead, felled by yet another sword of sea-steel in Elven hand, and the thanes had pulled the king to safety. With a frustrated yell, the Godking faced his new enemies. The Bladesinger and the Dragonslayer had joined the battle.
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“The king is dead!” came the shout among the Mearcians. “The king has fallen!”
Pressing his hand against the wound on his stomach, Brand raised his voice. “Hold,” he spoke between gasps of breath.
“My king, we must get you away!” declared one of the thanes holding Brand by the shoulder.
“Not yet,” he replied. “Help me to stand!” As they did so, he looked around. “Where is my banner? Find me a horse!”
While Glaukos remained to help the king stand, others hurried to fulfil his command. They returned with a riderless horse and Geberic, carrying the royal standard.
With a pale face and eyes lacking focus, Brand’s hand fumbled to take the reins. “Help me get up,” he demanded. With concerned looks, the thanes did so until Brand could sit slumped over on the horse, using its head and neck for support. “The banner,” he breathed, throwing his helmet away before extending one hand while the other clutched the reins.
As Geberic placed the standard into the king’s grasp, the latter spurred his steed towards the battle line. “Fight on!” he called out with surprising vigour. “Fight on, men, your king is with you!”
Pressing his legs against the horse, Brand waved the golden dragon over his head. Around him, the soldiers of the Star rallied, few as they were.
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The Godking let his weapons soar through the air with such fearsome power, even the mightiest of Elven warriors could not hope to withstand. Instead, Alfbrand leapt away. With speed to match the fell enemy, he avoided the mace and used his own sword to steer the Godking’s blade away, never receiving a blow.
Desperately, the shadow warriors threw themselves forward to protect their master, disregarding the attacks made from the remaining kingthanes. Yet they could not stand against Alfmod, he who slew a dragon in ancient times. Wielding the same sea-steel and renowned fury as then, he felled one dread champion after the other. None could interfere in the fated duel between Bladesinger and Godking, meeting on the slopes of Valmark for the second time.
Yet even as his blade sang, Alfbrand could not injure his enemy. The red steel, touched by runes to withstand all blows, took barely a mark each time, and every such attack placed the Bladesinger in mortal danger from the Godking’s ruinous weapons. The Elf moved with a grace gifted to none other, never taking any wounds, but it could not last. Fighting his second battle of the day, the hero faced exhaustion. The Godking, whether innate to his nature or empowered by arcane secrets, showed no sign of weariness. His eyes underneath his mask, no different than those of the Elf, stared with pure malice as he struck again.
Reaching into his belt with his left hand, Alfbrand did not avoid the oncoming blow, but leapt forward to raise the shield swiftly. As the mace struck his ward, he smashed his own sword into the Godking’s helmet, but even here, the red steel held. The hostile blade retaliated, cutting into his shoulder, while the might of the fell mace clove his shield.
His enemy injured and within his grasp, the Godking raised both weapons to finish the fight. The Elf’s sword hung low, and his shield was broken. The dreadful foe struck with haste to rival the wind at his hated enemy, who stood too close that he might hope to evade death. The end had come.
The Bladesinger moved as well. Not in retreat, but forwards. As his shield fell to pieces, it revealed the dagger from his belt in his grasp. Swifter than the storm, he stabbed into the eye slit of the Godking’s mask.
The ancient being roared in agony; he had not known pain in a thousand years and more. Weapons fell from his hands as he gripped the dagger; pulling it back, a spray of dark blood followed.
Alfbrand did not hesitate. Despite broken arm and injured shoulder, he moved again. One hand tore the helmet from the Godking’s head, leaving it exposed. The other struck with the sword against unprotected flesh. At last, the sea-steel drank the blood it had been forged to shed, slicing with ease. As dark liquid erupted from the neck, the head fell to the ground. Around them, the shadow warriors collapsed. The Godking had fallen.
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As the Order soldiers rallied to their king, the outlanders yielded, breaking into a rout. Their god lay dead, and the drakonian lines had held against relentless assaults. Twilight covered the bloody field, where thousands upon thousands of Mearcians lay dead, and most of the remainder had been near breaking point; a few more arrows striking their mark, spears lasting another blow before shattering, reinforcements arriving a moment sooner, and the fray might not have favoured the Mearcians. But it did. The battle of Valmark, the second ever fought upon those foothills, had come to an end, bringing victory to Adalmearc.