Prologue: Exodus (Part 3)

“Talamioros, is it. A good name. ‘Ever-Vigilant,’ is that what it means?” At the nod from Talamioros, Jodias went on, keeping one eye on the battle while speaking. “When were you accepted into the Royal Guards?”

“Some three months ago, sir, at the beginning of winter. An officer saw me at midautumn in one of the villages he was passing by and tried me. The next day I was headed for the capital at top speed, as fast as that officer’s horse could gallop.”

Jodias paused to think for a moment. If an officer saw fit to bring him into the Royal Guard before the actual tests in midsummer, it had to mean that Talamioros was an exceptional swordfighter. Especially if the officer had ‘tried’ him, meaning he had taken him on singly in combat. There was more to this seventeen-year-old than met the eye. “Tell me, Talamioros. How did you get chosen? Why did this officer notice you?”

“It was midautumn games. One of the games involved fighting with wooden swords, and I entered on a dare. I beat every opponent and somehow I ended up facing five men, all older than me, at once. I defeated all five of them, and that was when I saw him sitting on his horse looking at me. He…challenged me to fight him. So I did. And when it ended—I don’t know how—he was sprawled on the ground with my swordpoint at his throat. And the next thing he said to me when he got up was, ‘You are going to be a Guard.’ That’s how I came to be here.”

“Talamioros…who was this officer you defeated?” The arrows were still falling from on high, but it was thinning. The archers were running out of arrows, and it would take some time before the archers sent back on horses to fetch more arrows could arrive. The second phase of the battle would commence soon. Jodias prepared himself mentally to fight as the first few barbarians broke free of the killing zone, rushing headlong at the line of spearmen. Swinging their swords, they rushed at other sectors of the line, to the left and right of Jodias and Talamioros. The combats were short and sharp, and soon they were down on the ground, motionless.

“He gave his name as Bordesio, your majesty.” Jodias started a little at that; Bordesio was one of the finest swordsmen the kingdom had, and possibly the best warrior as well in any weapon. Jodias himself had sustained quite a few hard knocks from Bordesio’s wooden sword during Guard training in his youth. Bordesio was still alive and somewhere in the ranks; his shield was razor-edged so as to provide the officer an alternative method of killing. He looked Talamioros from head to toe again before turning his attention back to the developing fray. The youth had forgotten his trembling and now held his spear steady.

“You are definitely one of the finest swordsmen in the kingdom, then, to have beaten Bordesio. I am honoured to fight beside you, for only two others I know of have beaten old Bordesio in single combat, and I am neither of those.” Jodias paused for a while, turning back to face the front. A small knot of some one hundred men had broken free of the arrow curtain The men were running straight for his section of line. Jodias picked out the man who would meet him head-on, and readied his spear.

The first swordslash passed through the air where Jodias’ head should have been; but Jodias recovered from his dodge and started forward, catching the man in the chest with his shield. Temporarily losing his balance, he created the perfect opportunity for Jodias to stab him in the chest. Another immediately took his place, screaming his rage and defiance as his swordblows rained onto Jodias’ upraised shield, making it impossible for the Erennin king to thrust his spear into the man. Just a scratch…just one…

The spear thrust that took the barbarian in the throat came from his right; from Talamioros. Shooting a startled glance at Talamioros, he saw the boy stabbing and parrying blows from three fighters in succession, then could see no more as looming before him, a gigantic fellow raised his sword overhead in a blow that would surely cleave his helmet in twain. Jodias’ spear took him in the throat before the stroke fell, and he shoved the Ismaransi backwards into those following behind. As the arrow-clouds diminished, so larger and larger units won free of the mountains of corpses, and very quickly, the combat became general up and down the line, the Ismaransi breaking into the lines at parts and slashing madly with their swords. They were in a bloodlust, and they fought without method or strategy; it was the only thing that allowed the numerically inferior Erennin to withstand the onslaught. The arrows had done their work, though, and the shouts of the Ismaransi horde were now noticeably lower in volume.

Jodias had his spear broken; drawing the second one from where it was sheathed in his shield he continued stabbing, even slashing a few times with the blade. Thanks to the poison on the blades there were soon a pile of bodies at the feet of every Erennin soldier. Sadly, those bodies were not all Ismaransi. A clash of weapons from the left and right indicated that the cavalry had begun their charge against the Ismaransi flank; the battle was now becoming confused. All around him, barbarian and Erennin were becoming mixed into one homogenous mass; yet all this while Talamioros was at his side, coolly despatching the enemies he faced as if his bout of fear had never come about. But if the battle was going well for Jodias and Talamioros, it was not for the whole of the army in general: huge gaps and salients were torn into the originally unbroken Erennin phalanx. With cohesion destroyed, the Erennin were left to fight as individuals and groups as best as they could. It was time.

“Draw swords! Charge!” Almost as one, the scraping of swords being drawn from scabbard followed the cloud of spears that arced above the heads of the spearmen as they hurled them at the enemy. In an instant, spearmen had become swordsmen, and in far looser formation than the packed ranks of the phalanx they moved to the attack. But yet, remaining behind while the swordsmen charged into the sea of barbarians, the rear half of the phalanx yet engaged the enemy, advancing one ponderous step at a time, forcing Ismaransi off-balance where they were easy prey. The slaughter was terrible; crows already circled above the field waiting to descend and feast. The ground was made slick with red and in some places it formed puddles, the soil being too waterlogged to absorb any more.

Feet churning up the bloodied mud, Jodias advanced, despatching anyone who appeared before him with ease. As individuals the Royal Guardsmen more than held their own against the Ismaransi, darting under the barbarians’ guard, their shields holding off the longswords while their own blades found nesting places in abdomen or chest or throat. From time to time, when Jodias could see Talamioros, what he saw was a blur of death, a dancing man seemingly swinging his shield and sword around him in wild abandon, the barbarians falling away from him like wheat cut by a scythe. That youth would have to be well-rewarded for valour and skill, Jodias noted.

The rain stopped sometime in the melee, and the sun came out—was it afternoon already? For the sun was already on its way down from its zenith. Deeper and deeper into the formation the swordsmen carved their way, many falling in the fighting taking another five or six with them. Some engaged the barbarians in combat; others simply ran through the packed thousands and scratched each person within reach, letting the poison do its work while avoiding single combat where possible. But yet no matter how many Ismaransi were killed, still more took their place, and yet deeper the swordsmen advanced, the Guardsmen individual harbingers of death while the ordinary veterans clustered together in knots of three or five, watching one anothers’ backs.
Jodias was surrounded by the swirling tides of barbarian fury, but none were able to stand before his calmly swinging blade and remain alive. It was afternoon; Jodias’ arms were tiring. Here and there an Erennin horseman would sweep past, his spear or sword doing its deadly work as he passed along, his horse riding down Ismaransi that did not get out of the way; the cavalry, too, was inflicting horrific casualties on the invaders. But yet, Jodias could not hold on much longer. His sword felt like it was made of lead; it swung ponderously from his bloodied arm. Yet he fought on, until he came upon a group of five Guards, facing together a huge bear of a man, dressed all over in furs, wielding a huge axe as tall as his person with a cruel, gigantic half-moon blade already dripping with blood. The battle swirled around these men; none dared come close to that wildly swinging axe. Looking closer Jodias saw on the ground six Guards, their lifeblood spilled out by this one man. As Jodias looked on, a man leapt at that Ismaransi, to be caught hard on the side of his head by the flat of the axe. Crumpling to the ground the axe split him in half with an overhead stroke.

The king charged in, dodging the man’s wild strokes, trying to distract his attention enough for the remaining four Guards to kill him. But to his horror he felt a huge impact on his head, and he was sent flying, losing his sword in the process, the blade skittering away into the masses of Ismaransi. Dazed, he watched haplessly as the remaining four were cut to shreds by the berserker. Then that barbarian was on Jodias, one foot on his chest and the axe raised ready to strike. Jodias closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to fall.

A wind. And the blow never came. Jodias opened his eyes in surprise. The berserker was gone from his vision. Getting up, he saw a familiar figure darting here and there around the man, his sword probing and stabbing, hoping to get through to flesh. Talamioros danced his dance as he and the man fought closely, each one trying to destroy the other. Jodias watched on, amazed, as he picked up a sword from one of the Guards’ corpses. For several seconds they battered at one another’s defences. Then it was suddenly over; Talamioros’ sword swept through the man’s arm, severing it at the wrist, swung again, biting deeply into the man’s throat, and buried itself into the man’s side. The man crumpled.

“Your majesty, are you alright?” Talamioros came to Jodias’ side, almost relaxedly despatching the sole barbarian who dared challenge the youth.

“I am…alright. You fight well. I give you my word that you will be well rewarded for coming to my aid. Thank you, Talamioros.’

“It is nothing, your majesty. Let us begin returning to the lines.” Talamioros pointed up into the air, where into the now blue sky, another angry black cloud of arrows was rising. The archers had been resupplied and were continuing their constant shower of darts. Acquiescing, Jodias blew the horn signal that called for a return of all swordsmen to the phalanx still fighting on to the southeast. On the flanks, the horsemen would also be retreating—none wanted to be caught in the arrow storm since one scratch meant death.

Talamioros danced a path clear for Jodias to walk through. His blade flickered through the barbarians, punctuated with an occasional kick or a punch with his shield, opening a gap in the Ismaransi such that Jodias rarely, if at all, needed to move his sword arm. It was from Talamioros that the first barbarians threw down their weapons and ran from. Singlehandedly the youth broke the spirit of the Ismaransi as the panic of a few spread to more and soon the whole of the survivors were racing away, back northwest where they came from, screaming the whole time, this time in fear rather than fury. Suddenly finding themselves in the midst of a rout, Talamioros randomly reached out and stabbed several barbarians as they passed while Jodias hacked away with what was left of his strength. The battle was most clearly won. Stumbling out into the open, Jodias found himself in the killing zone where so many barbarians had fallen at the opening of the battle, still a hundred paces from the phalanx which had advanced one step by one, leaving bodies in its wake. Raising the horn to his lips, Jodias commanded the archers to stop their firing, and unleashed the cavalry pursuit. As the horsemen poured forth in victory to harry the defeated foe all the way back across the distant border, Jodias raised his bloodstained sword to the roaring cry of the remnants still left alive in the aftermath of the bloodbath. Beside him, Talamioros stood quietly, his dripping sword by his side, gazing in awe at his king whose life he had saved. Into the sunset the horsemen rode, herding before them the scattered horde.
“Victory! VICTORY!” The cry resounded into the darkening hills.