Age of War

Chapter 51

The Atlantians began to rally. Though they weren’t particularly formidable individually, it was in their discipline and training that they shone. Jatharik had never seen enemies recover so quickly from one of his attacks before – normally they started running and didn’t come back. He laughed. He wasn’t mocking them; quite the opposite. He admired their tenacity, their courage, and he honoured it as he slaughtered his way through them. They’d formed a tight block of spears, but he was able to dodge past the gleaming spikes, carving left and right with his sword. He hacked spear shafts, mail and flesh alike, and slowly the formation collapsed around him. Arrows were falling from the sky, but the volleys were undisciplined and he paid them no heed. The forces he had led were running rampant, and more were joining them all the time, fighting their way through the now lightly-held gap in the walls. Saffrey’s engines continued to pound the city too. He knew victory would be theirs and exulted in it. Blood flew in all directions. He was faster than any of these armoured soldiers, and turned aside their weapons with his curved blade, then shouldered through the crush, using his brute strength against them. He bore tall, dark-skinned warriors to the ground and dispatched them with swift slashes that he followed through into his next stance so that he seemed to move in one continuous motion, a twisting bolt of lightning, cutting through the ranks of men. And women too. It was so strange to see their faces peering out from beneath their helms. Even the men looked effete to his eyes, but at least they belonged here. The women ‘soldiers’ were an insult to the gods, and it soured his otherwise joyous mood when he was forced to hack them down. He wasted no time finishing them off: just moved on to the next real warrior.

Soon, they were running again. He hadn’t done it alone – some of his allies had been by his side – but he had led the charge, and been in the heart of the maelstrom of combat. He stood over the bodies of the slain, holding his arms out again, bellowing for them to send out Albrihn; to send out their champion. There were few enemies left now. Some fought desperately at the walls, and others were streaming in one direction or another, trying to contain the invaders. Their efforts were futile. One of his Atlantian allies garbled some nonsense at him and pointed. New troops were entering the fray, another group of infantry, marching smartly with their spears levelled. Jatharik charged them without hesitation, bounding over the bodies that were scattered across the street. They seemed shocked by his sudden advance and scrambled to defend themselves. Too slow. He crashed into them and hacked one soldier’s head right off with one swing. Blood spurted. A spear was thrust towards him. He grabbed the shaft and tore it from the wielder’s hand with a roar. As she lurched forward, he drove a fist into her face and knocked her to the ground. He trampled over her and continued on to the next fool who stood against him, even as his men joined the fray.

He was dimly aware, as he hurled a short man into the side of a building, hearing the satisfying crunch of bone, that something was happening behind him. He turned, instinctively ducking a sword thrust that would have taken him through the throat and backhanded the assailant casually. He batted aside attacks as he returned to the street. There he saw Saffrey’s armies had begun to mount the walls, finally entering the city in numbers, and many were coming through the gap. Soldiers ran everywhere, forming into units, waving banners, blowing horns. But there were horses too, charging from the south. Not so many – perhaps a dozen? – but as they hit they seemed to swing the fight in the Atlasians’ favour. The defenders of the gap rallied again, and the whole street was rapidly consumed in a swirling battle. By the gods, he’d found the challenge he sought. Even on the brink of defeat, these warriors were determined. Saffrey would have to kill every single one of them if he wanted to take this city. So be it. Jatharik son of Dhenarik of the Fired Bones Clan would play his part. He saw the new arrivals firing arrows, manoeuvring on their nimble steeds, flowing around the fighters. Their grace stirred something in him; an appreciation for the art of warfare that he had never known before. They were as fine in the saddle as Ankhari. That’s when he knew who they were. The only unit that could have killed his brother. This was Albrihn’s warband. Now, at last, he would get what he came here for.