Called to Battle: Volume Two Read online

  “Do you want your shield, Paladin Vilmon?” Saryev asked with disciplined calm.

  I started to shake my head, then thought better of it. “Remove it from my back, Paladin Saryev.” A few moments later he was holding it in his hands, obviously unsure what he was supposed to do now.

  “You once asked to share the responsibility of bearing the Harbinger, Paladin Saryev,” I said to him. “It is time.”

  Saryev nodded once, then lowered my shield to the ground. He slung his sword onto his back and adjusted his shield so he could receive her. I passed her gently to him, carefully placing her over the shoulder of his sword arm, where he could clasp her tight while protecting her with the shield in his other hand.

  I then picked up my own shield, which had seen more battles than many of the soldiers here combined. I looked at the deep gouges it bore from the blades and claws of many enemies of Menoth. Each mark had a history; each told a story. I wouldn’t need this shield today. My companions and my faith would be my aegis. I lifted it high by its sides and then brought it slamming down. A whirl of red dust exploded from the ground, and when it cleared, the bottom edge of my shield was sunk more than a foot into the packed earth, allowing it to stand firm.

  “This shield has anchored me for many years,” I said into the silence. I drew my sword. “I will stand behind it, and Saryev behind me. The Harbinger will be in our protection. No enemy of Menoth will get past this shield and continue living. That is my oath to all of you here. Who will make that oath with me?”

  All raised their weapons in assent. The Testament joined, and then even the Avatar, a sight that filled me with hope.

  “Into battle lines,” I said.

  I personally had never seen a skorne force in action, though Protectorate patrols had clashed with them periodically on our borders since they had arrived in numbers. I had paid close attention to all accounts of these battles, knowing my time against them might come. Still, it was always dangerous fighting a new foe. First Cryx, then Cygnar, and now skorne, I thought. I felt a heat rising in my chest, a familiar anger. The Creator wanted to test us. So be it.

  As a small consolation, I didn’t see anything among their formation that looked like it could reach us from distance. I searched my mind frantically for useful information about what faced us. To the right of their main formation were three skorne riding oversized reptilian cat-like creatures. Those would be a problem. The riders looked to be strong warriors on their own, but atop their feral mounts they would pose a double threat.

  In the middle of the skorne was a tall male in flowing robes. He was obviously the one in charge as he sharply directed his warriors into battle lines. I suspected he was one of the mortitheurges I had heard of, a type of necromancer practicing the dark arts unique to their race. Through the energies of death they could control the minds of beasts and men and break their will. It was said they could also force other skorne to fight on past the normal limits of their flesh and that some could even harvest the souls of the dead. I had no way to know if these reports were true.

  “They don’t look like they were expecting us,” Paladin Raye said.

  Based on the way they were regarding us, I had to agree. Two groups of ten skorne each passed by the mortitheurge, each inclining his head in turn to their leader. I knew them by their distinctive appearance—Praetorian swordsmen. I’d heard description from Idrians who had met them in battle. Their red-lacquered armor was lighter and more form-fitting than that worn by our knights. It gave them less protection but greater range of motion when wielding their slender blades.

  Along with the Praetorians was a group of ten gaunt skorne completely unfamiliar to me. Bare from the waist up, they had multiple blades driven through the exposed skin of their chests but did not appear to be hindered by the gruesome decorations. Each carried a long, wicked-looking great sword. While the Praetorians looked at us with interest and intelligence, these others seemed on the restless brink of madness. I was surprised they hadn’t already charged.

  The skorne line split, and behind them a hulking titan became visible.

  “Creator shelter us,” Henna said quietly.

  Apparently what I had been told of mortitheurges controlling beasts in battle was accurate. I knew little of the capabilities of these titans other than that they were massive and fearsome creatures. This one had four great arms, each fist covered in long, spiked gauntlets, and its massive curved tusks were capped with bronze points. I heard and felt the heavy tread of the Avatar as it came to stand next to me, fixing its gaze on the distant titan. To see such independence from a warjack should have been unnerving, but the Avatar’s holy nature was never more evident to me than on this day.

  One moment the skorne stood there in the distance, and the next they were marching on us. The faces of the Praetorians were calculating as they advanced in ordered lines. The bare-chested, pierced skorne howled in wild fury and bloodlust, looking like skeletons whose skin had been re-stretched over bone. These berserkers screamed in a language I couldn’t understand and quickly rushed ahead of the rest of the infantry. Only the skorne cavalry advanced with similar speed. Those three bounded forward with lethal grace, their mounts roaring and showing their great curved fangs.

  The skorne weren’t fools, but I had to believe their uncertainty about us and our unexpected appearance had made their leader cautious. Had they stuck together and hit us all at once, we would have easily been overwhelmed. Thankfully their leader seemed reluctant to commit fully, and they hit us in weaker, more manageable waves, which gave us a chance to adapt and rally between them.

  By the time the bare-chested skorne approached our front line of bastions, they were almost fifty yards ahead of the next wave of their force. They suddenly parted into two groups and tried splitting around the bastions, but my men were ready for the maneuver. The bastions fanned out, counting on the Knights Exemplar to fill in the gaps. The skorne slammed into the bastions, striking at their heavy armor with curved two-handed swords. My men took the savage blows, and even though they were ready for the attack, the bastions likely would have been overwhelmed if not for the knights at their sides.

  Three of the skorne berserkers fell to bastion glaives, and two more to the relic blades of the knights. But one bastion fell in this exchange, as did two knights. The five remaining skorne broke through and ran straight at me. The front line of our soldiers was already bracing for the Praetorian swordsmen.

  My errants shot their last remaining quarrels into the berserkers as they broke through, slowing them enough to blunt their charge. Raye met them with his shield, feet spread wide, an unconquerable bastion of steel and will. As the skorne neared, he lashed out to deliver death with his holy firebrand. The Daughters of the Flame closed on those already engaged, attacking from behind where possible, stabbing at exposed throats with short swords.

  The first wave of ten Praetorians had now hit the line of bastions and knights, and right behind them came the next. One knight fell to the skorne’s whirling blades, then another. Blood sprayed, and I heard the screams of my brothers in arms.

  I had lost sight of the cavalry amid the chaotic melee, certainly no accident. Suddenly one leapt at me over the shield I had planted in the ground before me. In a flash I saw I would either be impaled on the rider’s lance or pinned beneath the cat and ripped to pieces by its claws and dagger-length fangs. Even as it was descending from its leap, the rider was smashed from his saddle by a brutal swipe of the Avatar’s shield, and the beast was sheared in half by the holy machine’s massive sword.

  Warriors on both sides were falling swiftly, and I saw the skorne mortitheurge grin wickedly. Why would he smile at the deaths of so many of his warriors? Unless, I thought with an inner shudder, he really could feed on the souls of the dead. But his grin quickly gave way to a confused frown, and I felt a surge of satisfaction. These skorne had never fought against the Testament. The Creator surely tested us, but he also showed us the path to victory if we were faithful
. Before the power of the Omegus chained to the Testament, no necromancer could wield his unholy powers—not the iron lich Asphyxious, and certainly not this roaming mortitheurge.

  Nor was the Testament done with his miracles. The slain knights and bastion rose from the ground and staggered to their feet, their wounds closing rapidly as they threw themselves back into the lines of Praetorians. I looked to my left and saw the Testament with his head bowed in silent, fervent prayer. It was his holy entreaty that had allowed the men to rise again. Through Menoth, he could prevent the recently fallen from passing on, forestalling their passage to Urcaen, but only when the need was most dire.

  I blinked, and the Testament was gone—or rather, he had suddenly shifted ten feet to the left. One of the reptilian cats and its rider landed where he had just been standing but found only motes of dust drifting in the air. As the great cat whirled to face him again, the Testament brought down his fiery axe Requiem to bury its blade in the creature’s skull. The cat collapsed, sending its rider tumbling. The Testament yanked his weapon free and angled the spike at the end of its haft to catch the rider through the chest.

  The Praetorians still outnumbered us, and they methodically made their way through or around our battle line. There were no choke points, and our soldiers could spread out only so far. They bogged down as many skorne as they could but were unable to engage them all. The Avatar had suddenly charged off, moving to put down the bellowing titan that had nearly reached our small force. That left a dozen Praetorians approaching with deadly intent.

  The Daughters were helping the Testament deal with a few of the berserkers, some of whom were fighting on despite clearly mortal wounds. The skorne swordsmen cut their way through our remaining errants and charged directly toward us—a dozen strong Praetorians against a pair of trail-worn paladins. Raye stood with blade drawn, his shield immovable on his left arm. He would lock up half of the enemy, I the other half. With the Harbinger in his arms Saryev could not swing a sword, and his charge was too precious to risk in battle. He stood behind us with his shield held in front of his body to protect her from any skorne blades.

  I took my sword in both hands and met the rest of the attackers at my shield, still planted upright in the ground. I had an oath to keep.

  Not long before his tragic death, I overheard Grand Exemplar Baine Hurst tell Kreoss that I was the best swordsman he’d ever seen. I felt uncomfortable at the compliment, though it filled me with pride. I recognize my Creator-given talent with a blade, but I am loath to make any such claim. Our order places a high value on humility. But I know one thing for certain: the many months I’d spent fighting in the Great Crusade had honed my edge, and my skills had grown.

  There was no time for further thought, no time for guilt or grief. As I had counseled Saryev more than two months past, those feelings could be mitigated only through atonement. This seemed an appropriate time to begin.

  My sword spun as I danced between the skorne. There were times for brute force, when the best choice was to batter an enemy with raw strength. While that might work when one-on-one with an inferior opponent, it would be pure stupidity against six skilled swordsmen. My best strategy was to keep moving, never giving the enemy a chance to pin me down.

  In a different situation, with other knights at my side, perhaps I would have maintained the defensive, but not here. Not now. I often felt the Creator direct my blade; he knows where and when it is most needed. I let my faith guide me, making sure that my will and my blade were in harmony with Menoth’s desires. Every swing, every stance, every placement of my feet was a prayer. The Order of the Wall had been founded on the concept of emulating the solid, fortified walls of the City of Man, and a stalwart adherence to that code was to be lauded. Menoth’s will could also be as quick and fluid as fire. I felt myself become the flame, allowing instinct to guide me. This was not a tactic taught by my order, but an insight I had achieved in prayer to the Creator of Man.

  I slipped my blade behind my back, as if to sheath it in a scabbard there, and blocked a blow from a sword that I felt coming. I lunged backward and to the side to avoid a driving blade, and my counterswing took that opponent’s arm off at the shoulder. I kicked hard into another swordsman, giving me time to spin away from a blurring blade aimed at my belly.

  Without actually seeing what my target was or where it would be, I spun and slashed, and my blade took off the head of a skorne warrior just above the jaw. I pivoted back and caught another blow with my sword. My counterthrust hit the Praetorian’s chest so hard it shattered her breastplate and her chest beneath. I turned to narrowly evade the lunge of another swordsman who was now within inches, overextended. I slammed my helmeted head forward and felt the entire front of the warrior’s face cave in. I shoved him away, then cut his ruined head from his shoulders.

  Another swordsman tried to block my overhand swing, but my burning blade sliced though his weapon to carve a line from his collarbone to pelvis. Once my blade slid clear, I brought it around and sent its broad flanged tip to slash the throat of my last opponent.

  In the moment of relative quiet that followed, I heard a grunt of pain behind me. When I turned, I saw Saryev impaled on the lance of the last rider. He had been unable to get his shield between the lance and his body, but he had kept the Harbinger clear. He refused to fall, and as I watched he brought the lip of his shield down with all his strength to snap one of the cat’s muscled legs. Raye saw his plight and turned from the Praetorian engaging him to lash out with his firebrand, killing the rider in a single powerful stroke. Even as he followed with a slash at the giant cat, setting it aflame in a burst of holy fire, his previous adversary came from behind to stab him through his side. The swordsman’s weapon withdrew in a gout of blood. I leapt forward and finished that attacker with a single slash.

  I turned to Saryev, who had pulled free of the cruel skorne lance. He toppled toward me, and I was there to catch his burden. Within his helmet I saw the gratitude in his eyes. The Harbinger remained unsullied. Raye also went to his knees, his side bleeding profusely, and then he too fell, dead by the time I reached him. His armor was rent in multiple places, and I saw ample evidence of the hard-fought battle he and Saryev had waged at my back.

  Looking around, I saw a field of unmoving bodies surrounding my shield. Among the corpses of the skorne were the ruined forms of most of my brothers and sisters in arms. Of the Daughters, only Caylan remained. All the Exemplar errants were dead. One bastion still lived, as did three Exemplar knights. The Testament was walking among the dead to plant slender Menofixes near our slain. The Avatar, its armor freshly marred by steel and tusk, stood near the smoldering and broken form of the titan, now so much burning meat. In the distance I could see the skorne mortitheurge fleeing to the northeast, the sole survivor of his group. None of us were inclined to give chase.

  I knelt carefully at Saryev’s side. He gave me a bloody grin even though his breathing was ragged and shallow. “I knew the Creator had a plan for me,” he said. He coughed, spraying a thin mist of blood. “When Menoth decides your time has come, Paladin Vilmon, I’ll have a spot ready for you on the battlements of the City of Man. It was an honor . . .”

  Saryev’s voice trailed off, and then he was dead. I prayed for him, but the words felt inadequate. I looked to where my shield stood, still set in the ground, and decided I would leave it there and not take up another. It would serve as a marker to honor this battle and those who had been slain.

  Week Eighteen

  We stood outside the gates of Imer, a battered remnant of the force that had thwarted the Cryxians in the Thornwood. In my arms the Harbinger seemed almost weightless. My heart was still heavy with sorrow, but nonetheless I felt free of burdens. Her death had saved the souls of so many Menites, mine included. Even in death she had given me the strength to keep my faith. She had helped me lead my men when I wasn’t sure I deserved to. Even in death the Harbinger continued to inspire the faithful.

  Here in Imer she would receiv
e all the honor and respect she was due. The funerary rites would be attended by untold thousands. Funerary rites, I thought with an incredulous shake of my head. How does one prepare a proper funeral for someone who has directly channeled the will of the Creator?

  My gaze fell from the gates to the face of the prophet I carried. She looked as unspoiled and peaceful as on the day I had taken her up. One last time I adjusted her blindfold and brushed a stray tendril of hair from her cheek, preparing her as I could for her homecoming. Despite the lightness of her form, I could feel my muscles quivering.

  I’d brought the Harbinger home as I’d promised, but the moment was bittersweet. As arduous as the journey had been, I found myself reluctant to give her frail body over to the priests. She had been dead for more than four months, and yet she had remained with us. Reaching our goal underscored the reality of her death. We would now have to face the enormity of what it meant. What would happen to the Great Crusade without its prophet? What would happen to the Protectorate of Menoth?

  I knew the answer to these questions, or at least I had faith that I did. We had persevered through untold hardship and loss to bring the Harbinger home. We had never given up. How could I expect less of the rest of the faithful? Bravery, hope, fidelity—these were revered as much by the men and women who worked the fields as by those who marched to war.

  No, none of us would ever give up, and we would make sure none would fall to despair.

  For my Creator, I would stand as I always had. By my vows, and in memory of the Harbinger, I would be the Wall, for so long as I had strength to bear my armor and wield a sword.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Steven Diamond founded and runs the review site Elitist Book Reviews (www.elitistbookreviews.com), which was nominated for the Hugo Award in 2013 and 2014. He writes for Baen, Privateer Press, Ragnarok Publications, and numerous other small publications. His first novel, Residue, a YA Horror/SF novel, is forthcoming from Ragnarok Publications in 2015. He is also the editor of the Horror anthology Shared Nightmares.