Prologue: Exodus (Part 2)

Before every battle, Jodias would walk before his troops, speaking to them, letting them hear his voice. Now he did so again, stepping out from the front line where he stood, and stalking up and down the front of the phalanx. Every eye expectantly followed his passage across their field of vision, but no head turned to follow; such was the discipline of the army that every man remained motionless. Using his spear as a walking staff he moved up the line, hollering as he went.

“Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes and another battle will confront you! Erennin, be strong. Show them no mercy, these who have slaughtered your family and your friends, burnt your villages to the ground! They stand before you a million strong. They outnumber us ten to one. Seven times have they dared to cross our boundaries, and seven times they have been thrown back. Let this the eighth great battle be such a one that they will never return again! Let this rain wash them from our soil forever!” Raising his spear, a cry burst forth from his throat, and he shook his shield in the rain.

“Erennin! ERENNIN!” And with a great roar the Erennin host took up the cry, beating spears on their shields rhythmically, drumbeats of vengeance and doom that sounded across the field through the rain, giving even the most ferocious Ismaransi champion pause. Jodias returned to his place; the din of his countrymen was deafening. He could barely imagine what it was like among the Ismaransi. Turning his attention back to the opposing horde, he could make out, through the now pouring rain, the horsemen spurring to the attack, shaking their spears and swords on high as they recklessly charged to the attack. And behind them, as one, the million warriors of the Ismaransi charged too, an immense tide sweeping across the half a kara separating them from the Erennin shieldwall. This was a tactic Jodias had seen often; the Ismaransi knew only one tactic: the charge. It was a tactic that he took advantage of, using their habit of committing all their forces to the battle at once against them. Covering the five hundred paces took time, and Jodias calmly unslung a horn from his shoulder. It was from a great ram, and its baldric was deep blue in colour. The horn of kings, it had been passed down through the generations of Erennin rulers till it came into his hands.

The archers were ready; the instant Jodias blew the arranged signal—one short blast followed by two long ones—a rustle told him that the already loaded bows, arrows nocked and ready to fire, were being raised to point into the sky. Tipped with poison, the merest scratch would render even the strongest Ismaransi prone and lifeless in an instant. All along the line, the soldiers were in a state of highest tension, and in the back ranks of spearmen the anxious creaking of the stretched bows could be heard. The archers would loose at a hundred and fifty paces, Jodias decided, when the barbarians had reached their maximum speed and were going all out. The front lines collapsing under a rain of arrows would completely destroy the momentum of the barbarians. It was a lesson learnt from four years ago; without archers at the battle of Helumios, the charging barbarians broke into the lines of spearmen, dashing the shieldwall aside from sheer momentum. The battle had almost been lost, then; only the timely return of the horsemen gave the barbarians enough confusion to allow the Erennin to turn the tide.

Two hundred paces. Jodias blew two notes, very familiar ones that every spearman had heard at least once before—the signal to link shields. As one unbroken line they joined their shields, holding their spears underarm to stab the unwary enemy in the guts. The phalanx compressed slightly as men closed the distance between them to form a wall of blue bronze, stretching across the field, a comparatively thin dyke to hold back the sea. The battlecries of the Ismaransi were swelling in volume as they closed the distance, and they seemed to never need to draw breath. They ran at an astonishing pace, their legs covering the paces at an alarming rate.

One hundred and fifty paces. The archers waited, the trained eyes of the observers standing on slightly taller platforms telling them that the range was closed and it was time to fire. For what seemed an eternity there was only silence form the ranks and the shouts of the barbarians coming closer, closer, closer. Then at last, the three notes again, and there was a rippling snap of bows, the soft twanging of bowstrings barely audible. Rising high above their heads the flight of arrows rose, ten thousand shafts of whistling death, a black rain mingling with the water falling onto the Field turning it to mud. With a sickening thud some seconds later that rain crashed into the front of the Ismaransi charge, dashing it to the ground almost as if the weight of the arrows had physically slammed the attackers into the mud. All eight of the chieftains on their horses went down with the first flight, falling off their horses either with an arrow through them, or through their mounts. Tripping on the corpses of the already-dead, those that followed behind fell in a massive stumbling that piled still-living bodies up on those who had fallen to the first arrow flight. In the blink of an eye, those still living bodies joined their dead comrades as the second flight of arrows plowed into the exact same zone, adding yet a few thousand more bodies to the carnage in front of the Erennin lines. And the slaughter continued, those who had fallen trying to get up, only to be cut down by the archers’ deadly missiles. The piles of corpses were eerily still; normally there would be some fatally wounded still thrashing about.

But no; the deadly touch of the arrows ensured that the slightest brush was enough to lay a man low. None moved in that long line of dead. Not a single Ismaransi had yet reached the Erennin line. None had passed that awesome curtain of poisoned death to meet the spears of Erennin fury. Jodias averted his eyes from the carnage being created in front of him. Expanding the number of archers the army brought into battle had been a wonderful idea; it had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Indeed, the shamans who had amassed the huge pools of poison needed to coat every single weapon edge with deadly essences were also to be highly rewarded on his return. But even so, it was almost too much for him to bear; the screaming as men and women alike collapsed before the onslaught of arrows. Jodias turned away, and in doing so, saw beside him a young boy, barely seventeen, dressed in the Royal Guard armour. He was a very skilled swordfighter; that was the main criterion to be chosen a Guard. But holding his spear at the ready, making up part of the hedge of spears extended before the Erennin shieldwall, Jodias could see his knuckles were white and his hand was trembling slightly.

“What is your name, young man?” Jodias looked with some care at the boy. He was youthful; he bore no scars that he could see. Evidently this was his first battle. The boy was tall; he stood almost to Jodias’ height, eighteen spans high. He stood straight, trying to show he was not afraid. But he was; his face, within the helmet, was pale. He did not turn to face Jodias; his discipline told him to remain watching the enemy in any situation because any situation could change in the blink of an eye and soldiers had to react fast. When the boy finally mustered enough composure to speak, it was with a tremulous voice that was neither clearly deep, or sharply high-pitched.

“My name is Talamioros, your majesty.”