פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ
Chapter Two: The Storm Lord
The Storm Lord stood upon the rise, his gaze sweeping far across the snow-covered plains. The black vermin of spawns dotted the far distance like cancerous growth. He regarded a particularly large cluster of the foul beasts and raised his hand in a fist.
The heavens wept fire and rain of unyielding stone upon them. That cluster was shattered, dying and dead spawns littering the pure whiteness.
"BRAVO!" Lieutenant General Diest Arcanum bellowed, his voice a deep thunderous boom, one reason for his nickname. He was a large man, muscled and cloaked in Band red. He glanced with pride at his assembly of catapults perched on the crest of the hill, spewing burning naphtha and bone-crushing boulders upon the distant spawns. The main body of the Band of Red Hand, nearly two hundred thousand strong, was arrayed around the massive snow-covered hill. His fascination with siege weapons was attested to by the fact that his Thunder Legion was almost entirely composed of Ballistic Banners.
The fleet of ballistic machines at his disposal was the very best. Arcanum had seen to that. Those light-weight tension catapults were, as some would call it, his obsession. Scaled down from the heavier siege catapults, they could keep up with the ever-moving Band, even through snow or sleet. Each crafted by master engineers from the finest Ogier sungwood. They were the shining stars of Manetheren; his shining stars.
The Storm Lord pulled his lips back in a sneer, and made his way through the nearest battery. A team of loaders had just finished cutting out a massive block of ice from the side of the hill. With the convenient amount of ice always present in the north, who needed to carry boulders?
Arcanum gazed at the man-sized mounds behind the catapults. Even covered with leather canvas and buried in snow, they were always a weight on his mind. Each one of those buried clay barrels contained either naphtha or witch's brew. Any stray spark, however rare they were and…
Arcanum shuddered. He had already lost one catapult to a loader's careless mistake dealing with those volatile liquids. He glanced at his hands; both were scarred by fire on the back.
Arcanum shook his head and watched his men again. The ice block was already loaded, and the Observer gave a shout. The boulder of ice arched through the air, diminishing rapidly into the sky. Arcanum followed the frozen missile with a practiced eye, and grunted with satisfaction as it slammed into an enemy siege weapon.
"Good eye, soldier." Arcanum pulled out his watch-glass and set it to his eye. Watch-glasses were indeed rare these days; Arcanum had to pull all his strings as a Lieutenant-General to obtain one. He saw the crushed figure of the spawn rock-thrower and gave a snort of derision. Crude was the kindest word he could say about it. Onagers of bad design always irritated him, no matter which army they were deployed for. The Hordes rarely used any ranged weapons, lacking even basic archers in most of their armies. Onagers were their preferred siege weapon, but most of the time did not work or killed their own crews.
"Thank you, sir." The observer answered, his eyes still casting the distance for viable targets while the loaders heaved on another ice boulder, "I tuned the hoist personally. Cold weather's distorting the wood. But the accuracy should be correct now."
Arcanum recognized the wind-scarred observer as a Captain Cydin Blake, a proud young man, somewhat naïve. Odd at times, but good at his craft. Arcanum considered his words, and nodded.
"You have something there." Arcanum stroked his chin thoughtfully, "the accuracy of the catapults have degraded lately; I will speak to the other cat crews about correcting the windlass."
"If they had any skill, they should've recognized it already," Blake replied disdainfully, "Five slack...half-range...FIRE!"
The whistle announced another projectile leaping toward the enemy lines. Arcanum watched as it slammed into a thick formation of spawns. Captain Blake will go quite far in the Thunder Legion, Arcanum noted to himself.
Finishing with the inspection, he strode through the snow, past those ominous mounds of barrels, and came to his latest machine ordered from HQ. The Ballista was pulled by three large draft horses up towards the edge of the bluff towards the rest of the cats. The giant wheeled crossbow rolled across the snow, its sinuous bolt gleaming.
"About time." Arcanum licked his chapped lips, eyes gleaming.
"Freshly built as ordered. We got stuck in a snowdrift." The Ballista's observer replied, "Major Drov Borsy."
"Diest Arcanum." The two shook with gloved hands.
"The Storm Lord?" Borsy smirked, "should've guessed you would be the one to have it dubbed the Aclare."
"The Thunderbolt." Arcanum said, and watched as it reached its destination and was unhitched.
"You have the honor for its maiden shot." Borsy bowed and grinned.
"Don't mind if I do." The two men strolled over to the machine. Some nearby batteries gave it a curious look, but returned to their own cats.
Arcanum studied the long bolt perched in the carriage. A large sturdy oak javelin with a steel-tipped head, it could completely punch through an armored soldier's plate and body. There were some stories that boasted of ballista bolts slamming through as much as ten bodies, though Arcanum gave those little credit. But looking at that wicked missile, Arcanum pondered if it truly might be possible.
Arcanum scanned the enemy lines with his glass and saw that the spawn assaults were deteriorating and most of their forces had retreated. But his gaze came upon one last wave, this time led by a black-cloaked Myrddraal riding in the midst. The eyeless rider stopped his horse barely out of archer range and raised its black sword in the air. The hulking trollocs streamed around it, attempting to slam through the Band's infantry lines.
"Perfect. Three...four slack...full range...third arc..." The creaking of wood behind Arcanum told him that its crew was moving into action. The Myrddraal still remained in one place, but suddenly its face turned upwards. If the Halfman had possessed eyes, Arcanum would have sworn they were focused on him.
"FIRE!" Arcanum boomed. With a roar of tension being unleashed, the huge bolt flashed across the battlefield. His gaze continued to be fixed upon the shadowy rider, who remained motionless- not even his black cloak stirred.
The bolt flashed through the view circle of the watch-glass, and punched a hole through a Trolloc beside the Myrddraal. The Myrddraal's black stallion reared and he rode out of view.
Arcanum cursed vehemently, "The Dark One's own luck."
"Not terribly accurate for personnel targets." Borsy noted, "But it'll do. It seems better for larger targets, such as ships. We have some designs for water-born ballistas, and they'll sure be handy when Trollocs learn to sail." The engineer chuckled at his own joke.
A cry came rushing through the ranks, interrupting Arcanum's response.
"Victory!"
"Ni'von Ganei!"
"For the Band!"
"The Band of Red Hand!"
Arcanum took a viewing through his glass and saw that the last wave of spawns had been crushed, fleeing like disturbed ants.
"Alright, men! Get some canvas on those engines. Looks like we'll be camping here." Arcanum roared, "If they try again, we'll lick'em again!"
As his men scrambled to cast covers on their cats to protect them from the cold and damp, the sun began to sink. Arcanum eagerly anticipated a warm fire...far away from the naphtha of course.
פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ