The Day of Judgement

Lord Marshal West stood in the shadow of an abandoned barn, up on a rise above the fertile plains of Midderland, his eye-glass clutched tightly in one gloved hand. There was still a trace of morning mist clinging to the flat autumn fields—patchworks of brown, green, yellow, stabbed with trees, slashed with bare hedgerows. In the distance West could see the outermost walls of Adua, a stern grey line pimpled with towers. Behind, in a lighter grey, the vague shapes of buildings jutted skywards. Above them loomed the towering ghost of the House of the Maker, stark and unrepentant. All in all, it was a grim homecoming.

There was not so much as a breath of wind. The crisp air was strangely still. Just as if there was no war, no rival armies drawing up, no bloody battles scheduled to begin. West swept his eye-glass back and forth, but he could scarcely see any hint of the Gurkish. Perhaps he imagined a tiny fence, down there before the walls, perhaps the outlines of pinprick spears, but at this distance, in this light, he could be sure of nothing.

“They must be expecting us. They must be.”

“Maybe they’re sleeping late,” said Jalenhorm, ever the optimist.

Pike was more direct. “What difference if they are?”

“Not much,” West admitted. King Jezal’s orders had been specific. The city was infested with Gurkish troops and the defences were close to complete collapse. There was no time for clever stratagems, for careful approaches, for probing the enemy for weak spots. Prince Ladisla, ironically, would probably have been as good a commander for this particular situation as anyone else. For once, circumstances called for a magnificent charge, followed closely by death or glory. The only thing under West’s control was the timing.

Brint pulled up his horse nearby, sending a shower of grit into the cold air. He swung down from the saddle and gave a smart salute. “General Kroy’s cavalry is in position on the right wing, Lord Marshal, and ready to charge at your order.”

“Thank you, Captain. His foot?”

“Perhaps halfway to deploying. Some companies are still spread out down the roads.”

“Still?”

“Muddy-going, sir.”

“Huh.” Armies left mud behind them like a slug left a trail. “What about Poulder?”

“A similar position, as far as I can tell,” said Brint. “No messages?”

Jalenhorm shook his head. “General Poulder has not been forthcoming this morning.”

West stared towards the city, that distant grey line beyond the fields. “Soon.” He chewed at his lip, already raw from his constant worrying. “Very soon. Mustn’t let fly half-drawn. When a little more of the foot comes up…”

Brint was frowning off to the south. “Sir, is that…” West followed his pointing finger. Over on the left wing, where Poulder had been gathering his division, the cavalry were already moving smartly forward.

West stared as the riders gathered pace. “What the…”

Two full regiments of heavy horse broke into a majestic gallop. Thousands of them, streaming forwards across the open farmland, surging round the trees and the scattered farmhouses, throwing up a wake of dusty earth. West could hear the hammering of their hooves now, like distant thunder, could almost feel the vibration of it through his boots. The sun glinted on raised sword and lance, on shield and full armour. Banners streamed and snapped in the wind. It was quite the display of martial grandeur. A scene from a lurid storybook with a muscular hero in which meaningless words like honour and righteousness were often repeated.

“Shit,” growled West through gritted teeth, feeling the familiar pulsing coming up behind his eyes. General Poulder had been itching to mount one of his fabled cavalry charges all across the North and back. There the harsh terrain, or the harsh weather, or the harsh circumstances had all prevented it. Now, with the perfect conditions, it seemed he had been unable to resist the opportunity.

Jalenhorm slowly shook his head. “Bloody Poulder.”

West gave a snarl of frustration, raised up his eye-glass to dash it on the ground. He managed to stop himself at the last moment, forced in a heavy breath, and slapped the thing angrily closed. He could not afford to indulge himself today. “Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? Order the charge, all across the line!”

“Sound the charge!” roared Pike. “The charge!”

The sharp bugle call rang out, blaringly loud on the chill morning air, doing nothing to ease West’s throbbing headache. He stuck one muddy boot in his stirrup and dragged himself reluctantly up into his saddle, already sore from riding all night. “I suppose we must follow General Poulder to glory. At a less honourable distance, though, perhaps. Someone still needs to co-ordinate this shambles.” The sounds of answering bugles further down the line floated up to them, and on the right Kroy’s horsemen began to trot forwards.

“Major Jalenhorm, order the foot forward in support as soon as they come up.” West worked his mouth. “Piecemeal if need be.”

“Of course, Lord Marshal.” The big man was already turning his horse to give the orders.

“War,” muttered West. “A noble business.”

“Sir?” asked Pike.

“Nothing.”

Jezal took the last few steps two at a time, Gorst and a dozen of his Knights clattering after him, sticking to his heels as tightly as his shadow. He swept imperiously past the guard and into the bright morning light at the top of the Tower of Chains, high above the stricken city. Lord Marshal Varuz was already at the parapet, surrounded by a gaggle of his staff, all glaring out across Adua. The old soldier stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind him, just the way he had always done at fencing practice, long ago. Jezal had never noticed his hands shake in the old days, however. They shook now, and badly. High Justice Marovia stood beside him, black robes stirred by the gentle breeze.

“The news?” demanded Jezal.

The Lord Marshal’s tongue darted nervously over his lips. “The Gurkish mounted an assault before dawn. The defenders of Arnault’s wall were overwhelmed. Not long afterwards they managed to land men at the docks. A great number of men. We have been fighting a rearguard action with the greatest courage, but… well…”

There was really no need to say more. As Jezal moved closer to the parapet, and wounded Adua came into view, he could plainly see the Gurkish flooding down the Middleway, the tiny golden standards of the Emperor’s legions bobbing above the mass of humanity like flotsam on a glittering tide. Like seeing one ant on the carpet, then gradually becoming aware of hundreds all across his living room, Jezal began to notice movement elsewhere, then everywhere. The very centre of the city was infested with Gurkish soldiers.

“Fighting a rearguard action with… mixed success,” finished Varuz lamely.

Down below, a few men burst out from the buildings near the western gate of the Agriont, ran across the cobbled square before the moat, heading for the bridge.

“Gurkish?” someone squealed.

“No,” muttered the Lord Marshal. “Those are ours.” Men doing their very best to escape the slaughter that was no doubt taking place down in the ruined city. Jezal had faced death often enough to guess at how they felt.

“Have those men brought to safety,” he said, voice cracking slightly.

“I am afraid… the gates have been sealed, your Majesty.”

“Then unseal them!”

Varuz’ dewy eyes wandered nervously to Marovia. “That would… not be wise.”

A dozen or more had made it to the bridge now, were shouting and waving their arms. Their words were lost over the distance, but the tone of helpless, abject terror was impossible to miss.

“We should do something.” Jezal’s hands gripped tight to the parapet. “We must do something! There will be others out there, many more!”