7 Red Riders

In the frigid sky flew red doom. A wingless dragon wreathed around a red sword is threaded with gold and silver on a red flag, and around its borders were the usual paraphernalia of their faith. The arrows of divine thunder, the symbol of doves and lambs, and a single lidless eye. It was fixed to a black shaft and held aloft by a proud knight.

Richly dressed in furs and gilded armour, and his horse girdled with gold and silver, he seemed like a king among the surrounding mass of humanity. Behind him emerged more of his order, tall and noble, yet cold and distant. Fierce beasts and birds of prey adorn their livery, and the symbols of their order cover their armour in lacquer work and filigree. Such luxury they wore that Amygdal believes that to the common levy, these men must have the same authority as some heavenly host. He believes this is not the first time he has faced such creatures, though he hopes dearly that his instinct is wrong. As he lowers the mask on his helm, he hopes it will not be his last.

The knights drew their horses into a straight line. In one hand they grasped their bridle, and in the other a bronze javelin. Stubby and overworked, layered with devotional effigies made of gemstones and other precious material. Overworked to such a degree that those inexperienced legionaries laughed at what they thought was a ridiculous display. They had survived arrows and hellfire in the siege to take this fortress, what could a javelin like that do?

Yet Amygdal saw them and despair wormed its way into his mind. He ordered all his crossbowmen to draw up between the squares of pikes and to train their aim on the knights.

"Is this necessary, vice-captain?" One of the soldiers called out amidst shuffling feet, "There's only around twenty of them knights, surely you don't need all of us to shoot at once?"

His comrade quickly nudged him. "They are cleric-knights," He corrected him, "I've heard they can use lightning and thunder with those things they're holding, you'd better listen to the vice-captain." His friend shook his head and asked no more.

They stepped between the squares and waited. Faces drawn tight like their drawstrings. Amygdal shouted behind them, and the centurions repeated his every word.

Crossbows at the ready. Pick your marks. With a thud and a crash the marksmen knelt and shouldered their machines. Three rows in front with their crossbows ready to kill at a moment's notice. Another three behind, standing and waiting.

They looked to their left; their centurion stood stoic in their midst. The lines on his gaunt face are lined by sweat and snow-melt equal part. He does not shake. The lines drawn from his eyes fall away in streams from his marble face. His sword drew his courage.

In the rays of a cloud-wrapped sun, he stood like a statue with his grimace carved into the soft stone of forty years' life. And waited with his men.

Then the rolling drums came back. Steady and unchanging in their rhythm of two, four, six, and eight. Accompanying them was the beat of hooves. The neigh and whinny of horses as they paced in place. Clatter of chains and steel plates. Slowly the cleric-knights began their ride towards the Elemeri line.

At first a trot as the Elemeri waited. And the drums rolled on in their steady beat, regular like the crash of sea-tides or thunder in a distant storm. And so did the horsemen, each step throwing up fresh blood-soaked snow. The first company braced in terse silence. And waited. Pikes held aloft in the air waved and shimmered like scales of sea-fish as the legionaries shook to fight off the crawling cold. Locks and plates creaked and groaned inside the crossbows. Frozen steel teeth gnawed at one another behind their triggers. Struggling to keep the weight of the drawn shot from destroying itself. Behind them stood a black banner carrying the company standard. Fluttering in the white sky like the wings of a crow in mid-flight.

Forward rode the cleric knights, now treading forwards with pace. Amygdal steps forward and shouted out. "Rhuni! Aim! Shoot when they're within a hundred paces, aim for the head and shoulders!"

The centurions repeated his orders, and at once the wait ended in a cascade of trampling feet. Legionaries snapped to attention as they shuffled to adjust their aim. Eyes stared down the slender bodies of the bows, and hands adjusted an iron bit to align with the heads and shoulders of the knights. A finger rested on each trigger, waiting for the word to kill.

Forward rode the Arvendi, spears raised as the trot turned into a full gallop. Crack flew a hundred arrows. Released from the restraints of steel arms and sinew strings. Forward they flew with the single-mindedness to kill and maim. And with a shrill whistle they fell upon their prey.

Yet on rode the Arvendi, besides whom the arrows fell harmlessly. As if a divine wind or unseen hand had guided them all away. Ninety paces.

Clink sounded the levers on the machines. A new arrow fell into place. Seventy paces.

Stamp fell heavy boots on the stirrups. Whip the legionaries' hands grasped the winch, hastily grinding the teeth of the bow together. Pulling back the stiff bowstrings so it can kill again. Fifty paces.

Crash the pikemen readied their weapons. The first row leaned back and drew its shaft behind. Pressing their strength into their legs. Waiting to lunge and strike. Thirty paces.

On rode the Arvendi, flinging corpse-parts skywards with each striding step. On rode the Arvendi, over the bodies of their countrymen. On rode the Arvendi, with ten paces left.

They wheeled left just out of reach of Elemeri pikes. Straining their bridles back to tame the strength of the beasts beneath them. Then back they leaned and drew their arms back as would a bow. Lifting their javelins as they turned back on their steeds, muscles and sinew strung like branches of gentle yew or willow. Graceful, immortal, as if carved from white marble.

Yet terrible.

With a sharp shriek flashes of white light coalesced beneath dull bronze. And pooled together into bolts of lightning. All eyes turned away from them, bright like the seeds of a fire stolen from the heavens.

And like the crack of thunder they fell. The Elemeri lines thinned. Straight through flesh and steel flew the white arrows. Leaving in their wake dead and dying men, burnt corpses, and molten iron flowing like blood between them. The air was filled with smoke and blood.

Over the death-cries of the legionaries came rushing the trample of boots and guttural calls. The Arvendi foot soldiers mustered their courage and returned to battle. Seeing them, the centurions gathered what men could still stand and hastily reordered the front line. But there were too few. Almost half of the legionaries were wounded. All were exhausted.

They were quickly pushed back.

Tripping over dead friends. Forced to leave behind wounded ones. Too few to halt the advancing mass of tooth and claw. But on fought the first company. With every chance to breathe they reformed their scattered ranks. They struggled on through more than desperation. Every advance made by the Arvendi were driven back at spear-point by fewer and fewer fighting men. Yet soon they would be broken down by the lumbering tide of flesh and blood.

Struggling to hold their pikes in place. Crack, broke many of the crossbows keeping the monsters at bay. Pushed too far by their masters in the bitter cold, frozen teeth and clasps shattered under the strain of repeated shots. But on fought the first company. Until only broken men and broken weapons are left.

Then came the blare of sombre horns. Relieved, the Arvendi fell back. Grateful to be alive, they slunk back like shifting dunes in the wind. Each man exhausted. Each red like a beating, bleeding heart. And behind them emerged the masks of a hundred executioners.

Heavily armoured in plates of black and gold. Clad in the icons of their faith. Clutched tight to their hearts the divine spark and the words of their prophets hung on a silver pendant. Silent. Behind their masks hid the ravenous bloodlust of hungry wolves. In their hands their fangs and claws, a pair of axes painted blood red. Behind their masks were hungry eyes, unmoving and unblinking. Staring straight ahead as a wild beast would stalk its prey.

On, fought the first company.