Brave Men Die: Part 1 Read online

  Aspring turned to the cheering Kyzantines who were standing over Brak’s body. Rage consumed him instantly and he had threw himself across the front line of the Kyzantine attack and brought his weapon down though the first’s neck, using his shield to batter the others away, hacking them to death.

  Thol watched as the captain moved across and the gap opened in the middle of the tunnel. He stepped across to fill it but realised that they would get around on the left. He could only do what he could.

  He turned and watched the captain charge forward into the throng of Kyzantines, swinging his sword two-handed across their bodies and tearing into armour and flesh, staining the walls with blood. Aspring never saw the blade that killed him; it came from low and struck him underneath the chin. His eyes stared forward as the blade was pulled out and he fell to the bloody floor beneath him.

  Thol saw movement off to his left. He thrust his sword forward taking a man in the neck. Instinctively, he spun on his heel, ducking his shoulder behind his shield and drove a man on the left into the wall, ramming his sword into his gut. He turned, slashing a woman across the breast. Fighters were getting past. The tunnel was just too big for him to defend by himself. With every heartbeat he waited for a blade to plunge into his back. He took another blow on his shield before his next strike caught the enemy’s shield leaving his blade and arm exposed.

  A blade struck out faster than he could twist to defend and it sliced across his exposed thigh. Blood poured out as he fell back to the ground amongst the fallen bodies and Thol swung his sword in a wide arc to keep them at bay as he tried to gain some distance. He swung his legs around his body but they failed to support any weight when he tried to get up. He raised his shield to block the wild blows and wildly struck back until his blade was struck from his hand.

  A soldier with a plumed helmet stood above him in the dark, holding a spear in one hand, the tip poised above his neck. Thol leant back, tried desperately to get out of the point’s reach but it followed and soon he was pressed against the ground.

  ‘What’s your name boy?’

  ‘Thol Dunn, son of Arryn Dunn, Earl of Gravid’s Drift.’

  ‘You fought bravely, Thol. There is no shame in your death.’ The helmeted warrior drove the spear through Thol’s neck. Blood sprayed up the shaft and onto his hand.

  The warrior turned to his men and the pile of dead at the gate. These three had cost him so many. ‘Hang their bodies from the tower above the gate. Let the enemy know we have their dead. Let them come and claim them.’

  Troops raced back from the portcullis, defeated that they couldn’t get it open from the inside, the stench of panic and failure carried on their words and their faces.

  ‘Get the portcullis open and start moving the troops through the Musea Pass. Do it fast, the earl will come to claim his son’s body soon. We must be ready.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The sun was held at its zenith in perfect stillness. From atop of his saddle, Castor marvelled at the green tree-topped mountains looming in the distance, breaking the horizon line with rocky peaks. The dry grass drifted with the gentle breeze in contrast to the rigid darkness of the trees. The end of the field converged into the path leading to the Gorgon Pass through the Callisto Mountains. It was scenic and picturesque. Nature was silent.

  That silence was disrupted as the knights’ armour jingled atop their mounts as they rode over the grassy field. The galloping horses’ hooves crunched the dry grass as their riders gave them their heads. The noise echoed across the field and into the mountains. However, the group rode in silence. These were Castor's brothers. There was no chatter amongst them, no jokes, no stories. Not now. Songs were not sung until the battle was joined. They rode to the steady beat of the musician’s drum, the wooden drumsticks rhythmically tapping the taught stretched leather. It was not an army that rode this day to battle. Just the Nails — two hundred men and their leader.

  Hydrus led the unit along the trail up into the mountains. Castor had been there when the baron had ordered him to take the Nails and assist in the defence of the pass. That had been four days ago and they'd made bloody good time.

  He watched Hydrus rein in his horse as the trail became narrow at the base of the foothills. A map of the terrain had been circulated among the troops before they had left. The pass was west of the central trading route. The path they were on now wound its way through the lower foothills before coming to a fork. The right tangent was the direct route to the bastion of the Gorgon Pass, defended by a regular detachment of the baron’s forces. The left was an old hunting trail leading up high into the mountains that ran almost parallel to the other.

  When Hydrus reached the fork he spurred his horse to the left path, surprising Castor. He glanced back toward him, catching the knowing glint in Hydrus’ hard eyes as his lips curled into a half smile. Castor felt his confusion deepen but his unerring trust did not falter. He knew Hydrus would have something planned, something to give them an edge. It would be worth the wait.

  The Nails made their way, single file, along the old unused hunting trail winding upwards into the mountains. Castor had fallen into line in the middle of the pack, his darkened armour camouflaged well within the trees. The canopy above him blocked out most of the sky, casting deep shadows along the mountain path. The thick foliage made the depths of the forest dark and deadly. He weaved through the shrubbery and low hanging branches, carefully avoiding being hit in the face.

  Castor directed Virtue to follow in the steps of those ahead. The path had become steeper as they had moved higher into the mountains. The path, mainly dirt in the lower foothills, was now much rockier as they climbed higher. He was relying on Virtue’s sure footing to step securely on rock after rock; keeping a steady pace the higher they climbed. Castor thought it would be a good view when they broke from the cover of the trees. The mountain landscape reminded him of his youth when his father had taken Pollux and him to Black Claw.

  Hydrus continued at a quickened pace at the front of the pack, scaling the last of the climb in two bounds. Castor could make him out through the tree line, resting on top of the plateau about halfway up the mountain. He sat high in the saddle as he made his way to the edge and looked over. Castor reached the top of the climb, breaking from the green canopy. Most of the others had moved over to the edge but he paused and watched Hydrus. His cold hard features gave nothing away. His narrowed eyes studied the scene below him and a scowl darkened his features.

  Feeling Castor's scrutiny, Hydrus turned toward him and, as their eyes locked, a cunning smile twisted his lips.

  Suddenly Castor knew. The crazy son of a bitch planned to charge down the side of the mountain straight into the Kyzantine troops. If it worked, this charge would be well remembered. If not it would be a bloody mess. Hydrus directed Castor with a slight nudge of his head to move to the edge. With an answering grin, Castor kicked Virtue toward the edge to survey the field of battle he was about to enter.

  It was a devastating view. It was nothing like he expected. Bleak, miserable, bloody. It was something from a nightmare. The scene of perfection and tranquillity from his boyhood memories was shattered by the gruesome images before him — a flood of black and red smashing against the stone walls of the barricade. Black smoke polluted the sky from small fires purposely scattered in the pass providing cover from archer fire. The steep cliff sides were stripped bare. Arrows rained down through the smoke. The clang of steel upon steel rang out. Painful screams rent the air.

  The siege had already begun.

  Castor blinked in disbelief. It was hell and he was going to ride straight into it. He knew his duty. This battle would end when they rode down there and killed them all or died trying. There was no place for fear. Castor focused and studied the field of battle with critical eyes. The enemy had concentrated their attack around the gate, they had barely spread out along the walls. Arrows bounced harmlessly off the Murukan mage’s shield — possibly the only reason the gate had held against th
e superior numbers — the green energy flashing as the metal tips hit. The horde of foot soldiers battered at the gate and climbed the walls on makeshift ladders. The defenders were positioned well — spaced evenly on the tops of the walls they were easily repelling the attackers. Blood was spilling on both sides. A unit of swordsmen lay in wait behind the gate. Castor blinked and moved on, gathering with the rest of the knights closer to the mountainside.

  Castor looked for his friends. Volans was waiting patiently off to the right of the pack, his left eye twitching, giving away his nervous anticipation. His shield sat high on his arm, his muscles rippling as he tensed and relaxed his fingers. The beaded chain and leather straps around his neck stood out amongst his darkened armour. Argol was beside him, smiling. He scratched his bearded chin, waiting for the others to gather and Hydrus to order the attack. The musty smell of hot sweaty knights and their horses was magnified in the confined area and assaulted Castor’s nostrils. It would be over soon.

  All eyes turned to Hydrus. He was a silent sentinel watching the battle. He swung his horse around and swept his eyes over his troops. For the instant they rested upon him Castor could feel them bore straight into his soul, demanding and receiving his complete unquestioning allegiance. Castor felt he was ready for battle. He closed his eyes and said his prayer to the god of war. Upon opening them he could see everyone’s faces were resolute, determined and prepared for battle. This was their destiny. They would not falter.

  ‘Men, listen to me. What we are about to undertake will change the course of this battle. I will take every step before you, hit the enemy line first and kill the first of these bastards. I will lead you into the lion’s den, into the valley of death, where we will slay the enemy and will emerge victorious on the other side,’ Hydrus’s voice boomed with clarity and authority. His broad chest heaved as he spoke. His knuckles whitened as he clenched the reins.

  A cheer rang out amongst the troops. Castor stared in awe. His blood pumped faster through his body. Instinctively he touched the hilt of his sword, the smooth metal and leather strapped shaft readied him for battle and revved him up. He raised his lance in salute, starting a wave of similar response. Every lance was raised skywards.

  ‘We will not all survive this battle. That is the truth. But the god of war rides with us on his stallion in the sky, and gives us courage and power. We will face the enemy, on this day, on our steeds. We do this for our Kingdom, our homes, for ourselves!’ Hydrus punched the air with his fist, a mix of anger, pride and duty.

  ‘Nails, we ride!’

  His heart was beating faster and faster. It was time. Castor watched as Hydrus dug his heels into his horse's flanks making it rear, pawing at the air and snorting as its head tilted back. Hydrus’ horse leapt into the air and galloped off at full pace to the cliff edge. Within five steps Hydrus clamped his thighs into his horse’s flanks and raised himself from the saddle as his mount jumped into mid air.

  Castor leant forward in the saddle and whispered into Virtue’s ear. He kicked her flanks and directed her to the cliff edge. Castor gripped the pommel of the saddle with his left hand and put his weight in the stirrups as Virtue leapt off the mountainside. Castor landed with a grunt and immediately leaned back to balance himself. Rocks slipped from underneath Virtue’s hooves. The powerful muscles gave the horses blinding speed as Castor and the other two hundred chargers flew down the mountain, kicking up a storm of dust. The shroud of dirt covered the noble charge of the knights down into the deadly ravine.

  Following the others, Castor could hear Hydrus. His voice echoed into the pass, his strong deep tone beginning to sing. The words were taken up by all of them as they charged, the nerves forgotten as their voices carried across the unit.

  We ride to battle

  To the beat of the drum

  Under the flag

  Of our lord

  To war we come.

  We ride to battle

  On magnificent steeds

  With lowered lances

  Gods guide us

  We will proceed.

  We ride to battle

  In every bloody war

  Each strike, each stab

  Kills a man

  And kingdoms fall.

  We will fall in battle

  To the beat of the drum

  Under the flag

  Of our lord

  To death we come.

  Castor could see the Kyzantine soldiers turn toward them and their cloud of dust. Castor sung the song loudly and with pride, sitting upright and taut. Some of the enemy moved into ranks against them, others just stopped and stared as the earth-shaking charge barrelled toward them.

  The blue standard flew high in front of the chaotic storm. The bearer raced down the cliff-side falling into position just behind Hydrus. The knights spread out along the line as their horses flew down the mountainside. It was the skill and the speed of the mounts that saved the riders at neck-breaking speed. After the last leap, the riders had only moments to regain control as they flattened out in the pass.

  Two hundred steel tipped lances were lowered, as the warriors found their targets. Castor lowered his in unison with the rest of the company, his grip tightened around the leather bound shaft as he aimed for the chest of the closest soldier.

  The heavy thundering of horses’ hooves echoed into the pass. The battle cries of the few startled the faces of many. With lances primed in position, the bloody tearing of bone and sinew was ready to begin.

  Hydrus never took his eyes off his intended target as he hurtled toward the man. His lance skewered his chosen victim through the stomach and a spray of blood erupted from the man’s back. He released the lance, allowing the dying soldier to keep it impaled in his chest. He drew his sword as Honour sped onwards, trampling those who did not move out of his way. Hydrus kicked Honour’s flanks and drove him forward as he lashed out and decapitated his foes.

  Castor pinpointed the insignia above the heart of his target with perfect aim. The sharp, steel-tipped point pierced the leather jerkin. In a bloody spray, the lance penetrated his chest and drove straight on, exploding out the man’s back. The soldier’s mouth opened in startled surprise as Castor tightened his grip on the lance and continued its thrust forward, tearing into the man behind the skewered soldier. Finally he drove the point of the lance into the ground and pinned the two men in their death throes.

  Lances spent, each man of the cavalry reached for weapons. The swords and war hammers of the knights shimmered in the polluted haze as they struck out, biting into the flesh of their victims. Castor swung down, cleaving into the shoulder of a tall man with dark hair. He leaned forward and battered his shield into another man’s head. Castor let his body react instinctively to the rhythm of the battle. Slash, stab, block. His arm swept in fluid motion as Virtue ran through the shambling ranks. The precise arcing swings of Castor’s blade killed every man he rode down.

  Volans reached for his war hammer slung across his back. With a quick powerful movement, he clasped it in his right hand, twisted and swung, impacting with a Kyzantine head and breaking it from the spine. Securing his grip in a double handhold, he drove it down on another man’s head, shattering the skull in a bloody mess. His next swing crushed a shield and the arm that held it up; another smashed a man’s leg. Volans knew they didn’t stand a chance. Not against the swing of his arm and the speed of his horse.

  Argol flew through the unorganised ranks. His sword flashed out like lightning, skewering and slashing those men vulnerable in his path. Blood flowed freely. Kyzantine infantry fell around him in a sea of gore. He sped on, leaving a trail of dead and mutilated corpses in his wake.

  The knights’ charge made a large dent on the rear of the assembled sieging force, scattering the outer ranks in panicked confusion before they could plan any type of defence. Dead bodies littered the ground, bloody pools forming around their open wounds. The sounds of the battle, the shouts of the attacking knights, and the screams of the dying were finally e
nough to catch the attention of the main body of Kyzantine soldiers. A ripple of startled awareness swept through the frontline attacking the walls, as seemingly with one accord they turned to discover the carnage at their backs and see the devastating power of the knights reassembling to one side. Some stood in dazed confusion while others sprang into action issuing brusque orders at the surprised men in a vain attempt to stop a second charge.

  Castor pulled Virtue up beside Hydrus as the standard bearer stopped on the other. He watched as the entire amassed army shifted its focus from the walls of the barricade to the formation of knights — some flesh and blood targets. They formed ranks in the pass to oppose them, ordered the front rows to drop and prop behind their shields. Spears emerged from the shield wall. This was no more than he had expected. To charge into a solid formation, organised, unified, prepared to fight them. A grim smile thinned his lips.

  Archers along the walls of the bastion fired as the soldiers of Kyzantium moved with organised precision and regrouped further down the pass. Soldiers from the Empire fell with shafts protruding from their bodies as encouraging shouts ran out along the wall. Bursts of fire seared through the smoke-filled air as the mage retaliated, flames hurling against the ranks of men and women.

  The gates creaked wearily open, the heavy wooden doors swung outwards, and the mounted Murukan swordsmen that were milling around behind it in preparation were ready to charge. The order was given and the men screamed their battle cries as they burst forth from the security of the bastion. Weaving in and out of the smouldering patches of oil in the pass and the heavy smoke they produced, the soldiers hammered across the short distance under the cover of arrows and magic.

  The Kyzantines were split between the two forces, the garrison force hurtling toward them at breakneck speed, weapons lowered ready for the impact. The Kyzantines formed a shell, facing both forces and still the arrows fell amongst them, taking life after life.