this was the only open gate. It was the easy option. But the scene before him was contrary to this. It was still hell on l’Unna.
The King had invested in a group of entrepreneurs from the Reach who’d appeared in Triosec with the most fabulous contraption. It was fuelled by black magic, and the great metal throat would spew cast iron at a terrible velocity. The thing coughed almighty plumes of sulphured smoke, a grey-yellow mist which hung about suffocating the onlookers, but it was worth it. When the demonstration had left a modest wall severely damaged, the King was quick with his money. He pledged a hefty reward for the effective neutralisation of the Mandari resistance. The Freemen – with their rich golden skin, piercings, and strange blue markings over their near naked bodies – hungrily accepted the offer, and war was planned.
And the King, with a clear sub-text of retreat in mind, had invited his son along. This was evidently a fabulous day to offer his heir first combat, even if it was at a distance. And because the prince was here, so was he.
As was his Mandari-forged broadsword. He eyed it hungrily.
“What do you see, Kantal?”
Not a bloody lot was the answer. The small pack of cannon had been hauled into place, and the King’s light force – although he still baulked at the numbers – was pulled up behind. The cannons were allowed to spew hell once, twice, three times, and only then did the King begin to believe. He ordered a squadron of cavalry to advance into the cannon-mist, but the fog was all that could be seen. There was only one answer to the prince’s question.
“A grey canvas.”
“What are you? An artist.”
Does an artist carry a weapon like this? Yes.
He turned the blade over, marvelling at the incredible patterns along its length. The sabre he had helped forge was a narrow weapon, single-edged. As such, the heavenly patterns from the Mandari techniques were only discernible on closer inspection. With this beautiful weapon, the artistry was not so subtle. It seemed to burn as the reflection of the light was enriched by the delicate weave of her forging. He rotated the weapon onto its vertex, and watched the patterns swirl once more. It was beautiful.
“Kantal. I fear you may have fallen in love.”
The prince’s amusement was plain, and he stumbled to defend himself. “I have never loved.” Sadly, that was true.
“Well, it appears that you have now.” He ignored the taunts of his superior, and continued to rotate the weapon. His prince continued regardless. “She is a really fine blade. Your father is an excellent blacksmith.”
“And I will do the piece justice.”
The prince’s easy look hardened instantly. “That is unlikely, I fear. I’m afraid retreat is the clear order of the day.”
He nodded, but made sure to add his own perspective. “Of course, retreat is not always a straightforward affair.”
“You will not be rash with your life, Kantal. I rather like to think that you are quite useful, and it would be a shame to lose you to arrogance. You do understand me, don’t you?” His face was serious, but there was also the subtlest shade of suggestion. There was an unspoken understanding between the two men. At least, that’s how he interpreted it.
“Of course, colonel. I will not take undue risk.” He nearly smiled, but he quickly smothered any evidence. The prince saw through it, shrewd as he was.
“And that sword is not insurance.”
Wasn’t that the truth? There was no insurance against a mandahoi. But he suspected that although this was the commonly held truth, there must always be anomalies. And for whatever reason, he was an anomaly. As he thumbed the pommel of his great-sword, that sense flourished in him. His prince looked back to the scene before them.
“The cavalry have made good progress. Perhaps these cannons really are the answer.”
Perhaps. Though it seemed unlikely. The scene before them was matt grey, a deep fog made by the Freemen’s magic. Two hundred cavalry had made their way gingerly into that oblivion, and the King’s spirits were so buoyed that he even ordered a thousand infantry to advance. The mass of men swarmed either side of them and into the fog, and when the rearmost infantry was barely visible, he may have been about to believe. His breath caught.
The Mandari were battered; the gate was open; and the Mandahoi were toothless. Victory was possible and victory was near. Finally. And yet something subtle caught in the back of his throat. It was disappointment. He thumbed his sword. Oh how he longed to use her.
But you couldn’t beat a mandahoi.
The whistling caught the very edge of his hearing, and for the briefest moment he ignored it. But then it triggered as unnatural, and his naturally inquisitive mind set to working it out. Perhaps it was some sort of military instrument? Some form of battlefield communication. But he would know of such a piece. It made no sense, but the falling pitch was strangely foreboding. What was that? It was only when the steel heads started to burst from the lingering cloak that it made sense. It was obvious really. This was the bite of the enemy, archery on a scale unprecedented, and it was remarkable to look upon. If hell hath a fury, then this was it.
The first arrow hit the ground with a brutal thwack, and it blew away all prior misconceptions. His only experience of the drawn projectile had been in the Fields. The act looked impressive – the quivering tail of the stubby arrow protruding from the heart of the target – but in reality, it was nothing more than a village trick. Novelty. This was projectile death, a masterful demonstration of archer authority, and it was so overwhelming that he almost forgot about his sword.
Almost.
The missile that struck just paces ahead of him was nearly three quarters the length of a man, and its shaft was as thick as his wrist. It didn’t quiver spectacularly like the pathetic arrows in the Fields. Instead it burrowed into the ground with a mole-like hunger. The dry earth rebelled, objecting at the penetrating action of the missile, but the arrow did not relent. It dug deeper and deeper. That was fear right there, and he dropped instinctively into a squat. It was the only thing to be done.
Of course, the Mandari resistance was never going to crack that easily. But he had dared to hope, hadn’t he? That hope had been shattered for sure. “The cannons are not the answer, are they?”
The prince looked down at him from his authoritative place on his horse, but he wasn’t expecting a response. It was a rhetorical question. The screams went up, and only then did his prince bother to respond.
“No, they are not. It seems my father was right to be cautious.”
And there it was. Failure. The Delfinian force had been consumed by the fog, and he doubted they would emerge.
But worse than all that, he had been cheated. You couldn’t beat a mandahoi – that is what they said. But on the evidence of this, you didn’t need to. The archers would do the Mandari’s work for them. The Mandahoi could stay at home for all that mattered.
In mere heartbeats, the crazed remnants of a cavalry advance burst through the fog. But the beasts were few in number, and that was numbing. What made the Mandari archers unique was their ability to fire long, fire hard, and fire frequently. The field-archers were freaks: unnaturally strong; unwaveringly persistent; and where a swarm of crossbows could offer up a drizzle of death, the relentless work of the archers brought a storm. The flank of a horse was a comically easy target for an archer, and so the cavalry never stood a chance.
Even tightly packed infantry was next to useless against this barrage. The Delfinian advance was quickly turned to a reverse, and hundreds of veteran soldiers fled back through the fog. There was terror on their faces, but frustration too. Many of them had been here before.
And all the while the rhythmic thud of the arrows struck home with devastating regularity.
“We should leave.”
He stood, tightening and loosening his grip on the great-sword. As he stared into the mist, he saw his future coming. Yet it wasn’t coming f
ast enough. But he couldn’t refuse the word of his master, and there would be a next time, wouldn’t there? There would have to be.
And there would be. You couldn’t beat a mandahoi, but you could keep on trying.
The retreating infantry swarmed past, offering a collective cry of warning – a call to flight – and Kantal turned to his prince. His master offered an almost apologetic smile, but it was still a smile. This man seemed to know him better than anyone. That probably made him lucky.
“Yes, let’s―”
It was just a spearing blur, but then it was chaos. All-consuming chaos. Men were dying around him, their screams blending with the horrifying patter of the onslaught. But it was the scream of the beast that was most startling. The prince’s horse reared up, and his master was in trouble. A black stab was burrowing its way into the flank of the white mount, and it slumped to the ground. As it failed, the poor beast shrieked in agony.
The prince was silenced by the turn of events, but it was only for a moment. He cried in his own pain, scorched as he was by the trapped limb beneath the horse’s bulk. His master needed help. He rushed forward to intervene, and he gripped his sword tighter. He might be needing that.
His moment was coming after all.
“Your highness.” A quick test told him that there was no dragging the man free; at least not quickly. Pockets of fleeing infantry