Shouts suddenly rang out from the front rank of troops. Osh scanned the ground, at first thinking the Menin were advancing already, but he could see nothing. When he listened more carefully he realised it was anger, not alarm, that he was hearing.
He sent one of the young officers attending him to investigate while he checked behind him: an old man’s battlefield paranoia never died. Troops behind stood in neat blocks; a division of five hundred spearmen was heading over to bolster his numbers. Companies of fifty were stationed all around, watching for surprises from the rear. They’d had to deal with a second pair of minotaurs, but now all was quiet; it appeared they’d weathered the worst of the flanking attack. He doubted they’d try to surprise them again from the forest - it was impossible to maintain any form of order there, and a piecemeal assault wasn’t going to be enough.
‘Sir,’ called the lieutenant as he returned, face pale, ‘sir, they’ve got captives out on their line - they’re torturing them.’ The young man was barely old enough to join the army - seventeen winters if that, and most likely a year into some commission promised before his parents had known what was coming.
‘Tell our archers to fire on them,’ Osh ordered.
‘But they’re women and children, sir!’ the youth exclaimed in dismay.
Osh lurched forward and grabbed him by the throat with one powerful hand. ‘Sonny, they’re going to die, no matter what - so you’d wish them something slow and agonising, or the peace of a swift death?’
‘No, sir - yes, sir,’ the lieutenant spluttered.
Osh released him. ‘Exactly. So give the order.’
He watched, his teeth gritted, as the first few arrows were fired. Despite the deaths they’d just seen, the slaughter of hundreds whose blood now stained their boots, shooting at captives was clearly a reminder of things they’d pushed to the back of their minds. Osh knew men faced battle in different ways, but none wanted to dwell on thoughts of family and loved ones: that sucked the fire from a man’s belly, and sure as anything would see him face-down in the mud before long.
And now I’m at it, Osh chided himself, Gods, man - you are getting old!
‘No time for all that,’ he said aloud, ignoring the questioning looks he got from his remaining aides, ‘what are the bastards going to try next?’
‘Ah, Reavers, sir?’ opined the boldest of his aides, a tall olive-skinned youth who has been one of Osh’s pupils until war had broken out, when he had begged to join his teacher’s staff.
‘Let’s hope not,’ Osh laughed. ‘Last thing we need’s more bloody white-eyes here! But you’re right - it’ll be something to disrupt us. Maybe mages, something to give them a step forward, at least. They won’t win the ground easily, there’s too many of us to push back, so they’ll need to chop a path through.’
‘Shall I send another division to support? Increase the number of ranks?’
Osh frowned at the lines of fresh infantry, their pike-heads glinting in a rare shaft of sunlight. The men were eight ranks deep and tightly packed. He shook his head. ‘No, it’s sufficient. Bring the reserves up in regiment blocks with free ground around them. I want them to be able to react when the unexpected is thrown at us.’
‘Tachrenn Lecha,’ General Vrill said slowly, as he watched the last of the captives discarded after having their throats cut.
The Chetse commander turned to face the white-eye, screwing his eyes up slightly as the Menin’s enchanted armour fluttered in a breeze that Lecha could not feel, the air around it appearing to constantly dance and twist.
‘General,’ Lecha said dully, letting the head of his axe fall to the ground. The tall Chetse’s skin had turned almost bronze in the summer sun, a similar hue to his polished armour. He tugged his helm from his head and tucked it under his arm as he waited for Vrill to speak. He had little time for most Menin officers, despite acknowledging Lord Styrax as a man capable of leading them all to glory.
‘Your troops are ready?’
‘For what?’ Lecha spat. ‘Another suicide mission? It looks to me as though most of the Flamestone Legion aren’t coming back out of that damn forest.’
‘For the decisive action,’ Vrill growled, swinging abruptly around towards Lecha and forcing the smaller man to step back. ‘Your legion is the Caraper Guard, is it not? And is that not a powerful, armoured predator?’