פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ
Chapter Thirty-Five: Lieutenant-General Diest Arcanum"The center has fallen!" Someone shouted.
Arcanum had plenty of choice words for that. But the spotter was right. The entire center van of the Band was buried under a wave of shadowspawn. Resistance was broken, and the outer vans were nearly gone as well.
"Blake, get the cats circled up!" Arcanum shouted, wiping sweat from his face. Like the rest of the soldiers perched by the catapults, he was stripped to the waist and nearly melting with sweat. Men all heaved catapults away into a circle of fortification in a near panic. And for a good reason. In less than five minutes, they would be swarmed by an endless tide of enemies.
The only calm person in the ring coolly eyed the distance, and in her soft, commanding voice, the Queen's Handmaiden called out, "Dreadlord. Raise…Turn to the right…There. You may fire when ready, General." It was as if ice flowed through her veins and misted out every time she spoke. She reminded him of an Aes Sedai, except treachery was not mixed with the ice. Personally trained by Eldrene from childhood, these Maidens held only loyalty to Realm and Queen. They were Eldrene's secret check against Tar Valon treachery.
Arcanum snapped the firing brace on the new ballista and the bolt hewed through the air to disappear somewhere in the thickness that was pouring towards them. But, he knew the aim would be true, and a Dreadlord would be snapped from his horse by a deadly ten-feet spike. The Handmaiden's guide using the One Power was never wrong, and she had already steered the death of five fades and two Dreadlords. But, there was no more time to waste on the ballista.
Arcanum leaped towards the nearest catapult and heaved with the men to close the last open gap in their makeshift wall. He shook the sweat from his hair and shouted, "Commodore, how long?"
The commodore of the attached company replied back immediately, "Now! Get your men back!"
Arcanum waved his men away as the Bookkeeper Commdore led his men to the defense at the circled catapults. The general and the cat crews quickly delved into the stash of newly engineered Arbalests Mark Two. Lighter and easier to handle, they still packed a comparable stopping power and range. With the last of the engineering corps, they bunched the naphtha barrels into the middle.
Trollocs broke upon the catapults, clambering over to be pushed back by Disol's men. Arcanum immediately gave the signal to the Handmaiden, and she stretched out both arms. Instantly, the catapults burst into flames, carving a fiery barricade around the men. The Trollocs still perched on the catapults crisped aflame.
Arcanum lit his last torch on the wall of flames and placed the torch on a pole in the center of the naphtha-barrel hill. "If we fall, you know your duty!"
He stared around at the men in the burning circle. His bare-chested crews perched on the makeshift fortress with cocked Ardeuces. Captain Leis Nosi and his engineers were likewise armed with the last products of their intellects. And finally, Commodore Disol led his group of ragtag volunteers mixed with Thunder Legion's last footmen. It was the very picture of a last stand.
"How long will it burn, Nosi?" Arcanum asked, snapping on his armor and donned his cloak. If he would go, he would go with dignity.
"Less than an hour." The engineer clutched his ardeuce so hard that his knuckles were white.
Trollocs still rushed through the gaps between burning catapults, but none could break through Disol's ring. And with the straight-eyed cat crews handling their newest weapon, no Trolloc stepped one foot through the barricade before being stopped cold by a bolt.
Then the ring of fire spilled inwards, figures leaping through the flames or rolling under the catapults. Bolts tore into the ground, kicking up sand. Some hit their target, but these creatures were far wilier than Trollocs. They were humans. Soldiers that once called themselves part of the Band of Red Hand. The Lost Company.
Tossing away the burning cloaks used to shield themselves, they dodged through the hail of fatal bolts and engaged close Disol's men.
It was like a hawk tearing into a pigeon. Oh, the pigeon was brave and it had a beak and talons that could tear, but the fight was clearly not in its favor. Given a year—or even a month- in the Band, Disol's reservists could have been molded into something that could be feared. But, now, with barely one day of fighting experience, they were hopelessly outmatched and dissolved almost instantly at the first moment of engagement. The commodore was one of the first to fall—one traitor ducked below the bookeeper's sword and casually stabbed him through the chest in one motion.
"FIRE THROUGH THE SCREEN!" Arcanum commanded. Bolts scattered through the ring of men while the Lost Company was still occupied by the fledgling resistance of Disol's volunteers. Some of the traitors fell to the hail as well as some of the volunteers, but not enough, and the screen disintegrated. Arcanum's footmen lasted longer, but they were not enough to keep the enemy from charging the center.
The Handmaiden met them with arms stretched. Darkfriends flew into the air, grasped in invisible arms of air. Two men burst spontaneously into flames, rolling flailing onto the earth. But the soldiers were too quick to respond.
"No!" Arcanum shouted, as a crossbow buried itself into the handmaiden's torso, its point stabbed through the back. The pure white dress soaked with blood. She raised her gloved-hand to her wound, but she did not scream or fall. Instead, the soldiers trapped in the air were suddenly flung shrieking into the sky. Another man was engulfed in ravenous fire. Arrows crossed the air, stitching through the channeler. Under the relentless barrage, she finally fell silently.
Arcanum dropped his ardeuce and quickdrew his sword, but many of his men were not as fast and died with close-arms sheathed. Lost Company swarmed across the engineers and crews with deadly speed, almost as easily as with the reservists.
Lieutenant-General Arcanum was a different matter. Though he preferred the catapult, he still possessed most of the sword skills of a Lord of Manetheren. He was a wily commander and he knew the capabilities of the soldiers. He saw instantly that there would be no win from this, but he could still make them pay a bitter price. The traitors' styles were nearly identical to their brethrens, swarming their prey in squads like a pack of steel-fanged wolves. Arcanum knew that he could not fight any one-on-one, unless he wanted to be stabbed in the back. There would be no clean fighting today.
Arcanum swept his broadsword around him, keeping the squads at bay, ducking through naph barrels to break up his assailants. Clay vessels smashed all around him, and shimmering dark liquid sprayed everywhere.
Two men jumped onto barrels, slashing down at Arcanum's head, while three more came at him from behind. Arcanum ducked and rolled, feeling shards of clay and gravel dig into his shoulders. His upswing took one through the arm, but quickly swept around to ward off his back. He never spent more than one stroke on any one fighter, instead weaving through the squad with his larger blade and longer range driving them back.
They were faster and better equipped for melee. Well, almost. Arcanum still had his cloak, while they had lost theirs in the fire. The tough fabric in the hands of a seasoned soldier or general can turn the tide in a battle. Arcanum tugged his cloak with his left hand, exaggerating and feinting his motion. Blades slashed through cloth and air, and then Arcanum twisted the strong cloth to trap an extended sword and snatched it free. He deflected some close strikes, pulled his cloak free and threw it at the nearest combatants to obscure their vision and buy him some time.
He bumped into the familiar person of Captain Blake. A quick look passed between the two, and they stood back-to-back against the Lost Company under the burning sun. A ring of cloakless traitors surrounded them. Arcanum breathed hard, his lungs burning. He glanced down at the fallen body of Engineer Nosi, his weapon clenched in his dead hands.
"Not one step back, Captain."
"Quite right, General. Quite right." Blake agreed.
The Lost Company gathered around the last two men, swords held confidently in hand. They stood hard over the corpses of brothers and brothers alike, crunching over the shards of clay floating in the puddles of naphtha. The burning catapults flickered behind them.
"We got a lord here." A soldier wearing the stripes of a commodore spoke with a metropolitan Manetheren clip. Soot stained his face, but his eyes met Arcanum's cooly. "First Lord Vanigan wants him. The other is game."
Arcanum automatically ducked as a blur skimmed by him, but the gasp behind him spoke of the true target. Clutching at the arrow in his throat, Blake tumbled back in the coil of death. Silent rage burned through like acid through Arcanum's veins and he tugged free the captain's sword from his slack hands, with a grim salute to Blake's still open eyes.
The traitors charged in one, converging on the general with breathtaking speed, and Arcanum turned with a broadsword in each hand. Swords hammered against his, but he hewed across them as if they were not there, depositing their bodies almost a yard away. He felt gashes of cold cutting against his skin, but they were like bee pricks in his trance. The opposite, unfortunately, was not true for the men of Lost Company.
There were too many, even for the Thunder Lord. They swarmed all around him, in a pulse waving of swords, striking at any uncovered flesh. Scores of hits ate through his arms, culminating in a severed tendon that forced him to give up a sword to the torso of one assailant. With his remaining sword, he carved a circle around him, keeping them at a standstill. He would fall eventually, but he would leave a heavy mark.
They must have realized the same, for the swarm retreated from him. An arrow cut through the air, stabbing into his knees with an agonizing white flash of pain. A second arrow slashed into Arcanum's shoulder, piercing his armor and grinding against his bone. Arcanum swayed in the wind, sword unwavering. With his fist, he snapped through the shafts in the arrows, leaving the arrowheads embedded in his flesh.
Once more, the commodore strolled forward. "That was the last warning, general. Come or die."
The Thunder Lord gazed at the ash-darkened faces of the Lost Company surrounding him. There was no way out except surrender or death. Here he stood alone upon the wreckage of clay and barrels, the pool of naphtha spreading across the circle, mixing with the blood of the fallen. Smoke stuck heavily to the air and the acrid smell of witches' brew stung the general's nose. Blood leaked in rivulets around his arms and canvassed from his face. But just as much dripped from his sword.
He glanced beside him, and smiled. It was a terrible grin.
"Not one step back." Arcanum threw the sword into the traitor commodore's chest. Before the rest of the foes could react, he pulled the burning torch from its stand. "Not one."
He let it fall.
פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ