crowd of soldiers raced out from the trees into the Chetse’s other flank. The Narkang Watchmen had arrived.
Finally the Chetse stopped and prepared to defend themselves. The reserve pikemen were advancing towards their short front rank and the mass of Watchmen, bolstered by some of those archers who’d just fled into the trees, slammed into the side of the Chetse, attacking furiously.
Osh took a moment to look back along the ditch and saw they were holding - but only barely.
‘Sen, get that messenger to summon more troops from the reserve, as many as he can!’ Osh yelled, grabbing his former pupil by the arm and shoving him towards a horseman stationed behind the advancing pikemen. ‘Is the ditch breached?’
‘No, sir,’ answered another aide, looking down the defensive line, ‘only one bridge has gained ground and there’s a company already surrounding the incursion.’
The Mystic of Karkarn turned back to the Chetse. They may have been under assault on three sides, but they were by far the most ferocious of the troops involved. Making a decision, he yelled at a squad of pikemen standing ready to see off the next bridging attempt and beckoned to include his own small command staff too, ‘All of you; come with me!’ With that, Osh started limping towards Daken’s small group attacking the left flank of the Chetse, but before they arrived he could see the Chetse line had relaxed and lost its tight formation, the better to surround and slaughter their attackers.
‘But, sir, look!’ said his young lieutenant, the fear evident in his voice as he pointed to a second block of troops following in the path of the Chetse.
‘I know that,’ Osh growled, grabbing the youth by the arm and dragging him a few steps along, ‘but you don’t get to choose every fight — the longer we hold ’em, the better chance the rest have.’ He released the lieutenant and drew his scimitar. ‘Form up on me, you coddled girlies! It’s time to see if any o’ you had a teacher worth a damn!’ And he headed straight for the few dozen Chetse who’d broken away from their line, intent on surrounding and destroying Daken’s men. Under his breath he muttered a prayer, one he’d never spoken before; it was reserved for moments such as this: ‘Karkarn aid me, for these offerings with my blade. Karkarn welcome me, for this day I die.’
Lord Styrax watched the second wave march within bowshot of the fort and raised his own sword. All around him the heavy infantry roared with one voice, thumping the butts of their spears against the ground. The beat of the war drums behind cut through the noise and they set off, marching in time towards the open stretch of ground between the wooden fort and the defensive ditch. With only seventy yards of ground to work with he’d stood two legions side by side, fifty men in each tight rank, and he’d placed himself in the centre.
Since the Cheme Third Legion had been decimated, the Second was on his right, the Arohat Fourth on his left and the more manoeuvrable Cheme First in front, already closing on the defensive ditch. The archers there started firing as soon as they were past the marker, but Styrax’s attention was on the solid line of defenders ahead. There were at least three legions packed into one solid line - it was impossible to judge how many, but it looked like the commander had pushed as many troops as he could into that gap. No doubt there were several legions of archers behind.
‘My Lord?’ said a cultured voice behind him, ‘my coterie-brother has contacted me.’ Mage Esetar sounded animated for a change, the prospect of marching into battle and being surrounded by death apparently exciting the Adept of Larat. It didn’t surprise Styrax; Esetar epitomised everything that folk hated about his kind: he was sadistically cruel, and dispassionate about almost everything. Only power and death could spark some life in his washed-out, almost reptilian face.
‘He reports Duke Vrill has breached the line, but they are defending it vigorously.’
‘Hear that, Hain? The enemy are vigorous,’ Styrax said, not taking his eyes off the enemy for a moment.
Captain Hain glanced at his lord. ‘Aye, sir.’ His face was grave behind his half-helm; his humour had died with the bulk of his legion.
‘Have the men step lively, then,’ the Lord of the Menin ordered, ‘Vrill will be insufferable if he wins this battle - I may have to