8 White Wolf

"Antegard! What's going on?" Inhelbeld shouted over the clamour around him. He heard the drums, and the trample of horseshoes, and by instinct knew something was about to go terribly wrong. He looked to his standard-bearer, who stayed behind waiting for him.

His subordinate opened his mouth to answer. No reply came. A bolt of lightning tore through the frozen sky and ripped through the ranks of the first company. Antegard dropped on both knees, then like a lifeless puppet fell.

There was no blood, the heat of the lightning bolt seared blood vessels like a metal pipe that has been welded shut. It only left behind a body that was missing half its head, its jaw dislodged and hung from a yellow joint like a loose door. The deep wound was staunched by fire so that the exposed human machinery was left indistinguishable from the molten iron around it. For a second that stretched into eternity, an agonising silence fell over the battlefield.

Then came the screams. Not by the dead. But by those that were soon to join them. Horrible cries of pain, some called out for their family, others thrashed their limbs about them desperate for any help. A handful struggled to gargle out one last prayer as they joined their ancestors. Inhelbeld could say or do nothing in the jaws of that terrible second, but watch amidst the acrid smoke.

His eyes glazed over the corpse of his friend lying in front of him. His eyes distant and weary. He cannot remember how many times he has seen this exact scene, in his memory each had blended and shifted and changed until they were inseparable from one another. In the corpse lying before him, in the mass of molten steel and burnt flesh, Inhelbeld does not see one friend, but all the dozens that he will never see again.

It made for miserable nostalgia. But he had no time to mourn.

His men began to waver around him, he could see the youngest among them prepared to flee. One dropped his crossbow, turned, and ran. Inhelbeld raised his left hand and easily caught the deserter by the arm, his eyes turned to his captain in fear.

Inhelbeld said nothing as he drew his sword with his free hand. The other legionaries looked on stunned in horror. The deserter struggled, desperate to loosen himself from the vice-grip, and dared not to look his captain in the eyes.

"Rhuni." He said, clumsily at first, but solemnly throughout "The iron in our swords are the symbol of our people. The iron in our blood is our right to live."

"Whether that means we live to fight, or fight to live, is a question meant for philosophers in peaceful times. However today we are forced to choose an answer here and now and make peace with it should we die."

He pressed his ceremonial sword into the deserter's free hand.

"Behind us are our sick and wounded. And behind them, beyond these frozen ruins are our families, our brothers and sisters. Our wives and children, our fathers and mothers. Before us are the enemy, and they have come to kill them all."

His men tightened the grasp on their weapons as they looked on.

"Do we live to fight, or fight to live? That is a stupid question meant for old men who have never see bloodshed! We know why we fight don't we Rhuni?"

He turned towards the soldier.

"For Erissa." He said quietly.

"For Liassira!" Roared another.

"For my brothers in the tenth legion! For vengeance, for Gol Doron and my sisters!" The clamour grew and grew until all the survivors of the first company around him had said their piece. Inhelbeld look on, stoic amidst the angry chorus.

"Rhuni. Why do we fight?! We fight for those we love; we fight for those who cannot, and we fight for our right to live! To arms warriors! Antaeir Lia Infaeli!"

"Antaeir Lia Infaeli!" They chanted as they gathered their courage and returned to battle, to meet their enemies with a wall of spears and iron resolve.

But courage and steel were not enough to turn the tides of a losing battle so easily. At a terrible cost to their numbers they held off the seemingly endless waves of conscripts and militiamen. But now comes the rolling drums, and with them out rode a pale horse. Upon it was a man clad in frock and gown, over it was a coat of ceremonial armour. The general of the Arvendi has come to claim victory.

And around him were a hundred axemen. They stood with their weapons drawn, muscles tensed, eyes staring and unblinking. Amygal, exhausted from battle, glanced upon them knew what they were instantly. And his exhaustion was replaced by rage.

Chamber militants, bodyguards of the blasphemous Arvendi priests and clergy. Executioners in times of peace, murderers in times of war. He knows them all too well from his years spent as a prisoner to one of their masters. He clutched his weapons tightly in anger, his mind was caught in a spell and travelled back to a dark day nearly a decade ago.

Then the rider called out and pointed his sword at the first company. And he commanded his wild beasts of the earth to kill. But Amygdal did not hear his prophecies of ruin and victory. He travelled back to a night of sword and fire, he does not see the black wolves charging towards him, only the faces of dead friends and family. He hears nothing but the cries of his beloved as she is torn away from him. And an old and terrible fire burned again inside him.

Amgydal rushed out from the ranks of his soldiers as they met their foe again. One hand fixed to an old dagger and another to his sword. His two weapons outstretched like the jaws of a hungry beast. And fell upon a militant as would a white wolf. The warrior monk swung rapidly in defence. Amygdal leapt away from each blow, thrusting his sword at every chance. Prodding. Testing his quarry with every half-hearted strike. Seeing the reach of the axe, the limits of his armour, and the speed of his reflexes. Frustrated, the monk swung wildly in a vain attempt to catch him. Eventually, he caught Amygdal, forcing him to block the heavy blow with the old dagger. He was thrown aside by the force of the strike.

Quickly he sprung to his feet, but with a sideways glance he noticed a chip on the blade. He lost his composure. Amygdal dashed towards him. His body pressed as low against the ground as his balance would allow. The militant tightly grasped his axe and took up a defensive stance. Then Amygdal pounced on his prey, forcing him to block a sweeping blow of the sword with the axe-blade. Amygdal stepped behind him and pried away the weapon with his dagger. But the monk threw a punch that caught him in mid-air. Amygdal reeled and rolled back to his feet.

The warrior monk took a moment to breathe and to taunt him. But soon Amygdal fell upon him again with dizzying speed, sword raised, and eyes fixed on the prey. He tried to block the strike with his sheathed sword. With a clink a weak point in his chainmail gave way, and the blade sunk its fangs in. The monk grasped it with both hands, struggling desperately to pry it from his wound. Amygdal would not be moved. He then tried to kick Amygdal aside as the sword sunk deeper and deeper into his shoulder. But he eventually kicked too far. Amygdal swiped his feet from under him, bringing him to the ground with a thud. And drove the sword deep into the ground like a stake. Pinning him against the frozen earth.

He drew his dagger and stared the warrior monk in the eyes. A pair of blue flames, watching, judging with a distant gaze. Impersonal and lofty like a statue of the divine. Devoid of pity. His dagger sunk into the warrior's neck, through a narrow crevice between his heavy helm and gorget. And it drank deep from the oozing blood.

Around him the battle raged on. Swords clashed against heavy axes as the swordsmen of the first company gave battle in a maddening whirl of sparks and shattered steel. Around him men fell in droves to the axe-bite and sword-stroke. It had become a battle of attrition. The elites of the first company were evenly matched with their foe, and neither side could move forwards or back. But the first company was drained of fighting men. Soon they will be spent.

In its hilt the dagger slowly digested its feed, the coagulant blood passed through arcane imitations of a human form. It woke, rocked gently, and sang an old song, Amygdal felt his anger pass. He surveyed the battle around him as he retrieved his weapons. It cannot go on.

His mind raced quickly as his men surged around him and fought and died. They needed to fall back, and quickly.

"Arrain, are you still alive?" He called out amidst the carnage. A short man shuffled towards him between the rows of swords pressing forwards.

"Unfortunately," Arrain replied. "Any plans lieutenant? We're in real deep shit I reckon."

"I thought you'd say that. How many do we have in reserve?" He asked.

"None." Arrain said. Amygdal felt his heart sink. "I've ordered what we had left to charge up with you. Can't have our acting commander die can I?"

"What about the main battle-line? Have they organised themselves?"

"At least a third of them are dead, I reckon," Arrain answered, nonchalantly. "So, no. I'd reckon they need more time. I'm more surprised they haven't run off."

"What about-" Amygdal paused. "The wounded, then. Have we pulled them back?"

"We don't have time," Arrain said. "Nor the men to spare. Most of them won't make it through today anyways."

Amygdal grimaced and could say nothing in return. He looked at the battle raging on around him like an infernal storm, threatening to consume them at any moment. Looking behind sat confusion and panic, where his men tumbled and crawled over one another like thrashing fish caught on hooks and nets of spears and swords. He needed to buy them time, but how? He could think of nothing.

Then he looked back at Arrain, standing unfazed, face taut like a bowstring, muscles tensed in a disappointed scowl.

"It's hell we've walked into, Amygdal," Arrain said as he drew his sword. "I assume retreat isn't possible, is that right lieutenant?"

Amygdal nodded.

"Chin up young man," Arrain said. "Not much else anyone could have done. We got an order, we followed it. And now? We all get to go home to our wives and kids."

Amygdal shot him a dirty look.

"Right, you two never-" Arrain said quickly, half-heartedly. "My bad."

"Is that all, orderly sergeant?" Amygdal scowled.

"That is all, lieutenant captain." Arrain shot back. "One last thing, sir?"

"Proceed."

"Your daughter is still waiting for you in Antewyr. Don't be rash, hear?" He tapped Amygdal on the shoulder, before returning to his platoon, barking orders as he went.

Amygdal could say nothing in return but looked on for a brief moment at the back of the lonely soldier. He wondered how much of what he said was meant for him, and how much was for Arrain himself.

His thought was cut short by a sharp shriek reverberating through the sky. By instinct, he dropped to the ground and stayed still. The madness of battle ground to a sudden stop, the sword and axe sat still in the masters' hands, and no living soul spoke.

Then like thunder they fell. A barrage of lightning arrows covered the carnage like raindrops or snow. The ground was blown apart and rose in confusion, blanketing Amygdal and all around him. And all around him remained silent.

When he could hear the howling winds billow down the silent street he rose. Cautiously. Slowly. He could not see far in the snow and dust, nor hear past the furious roar of the wind. For a moment he stood in a place between confusion and perfect clarity. And he wondered if he was finally dead.

Then he heard the clop of hooves, and the breath of an angry beast before him. A silhouette emerged before him of a monster tall and dark. He reached for his dagger, but it was too late. He heard another bolt of lightning being conjured from the electrified air, the hum of static, then the shriek of currents, amperes, volts dance in arcs between a copper coil.

He leapt to his right. His gamble paid off, he lives another second as the spear misses him, striking frozen dirt and cobble and dissipating into the airy skies again. He pushed his hands against the ground to stand but felt something soft press back against him. Then it deflates. He turned to look. Arrain was dead, his blood covered Amygdal's gloves like molasses, thick and sickly as it dripped down from them. He looked, no words of horror could escape his throat.

It was then he was reminded, that he was alive, and hell had followed him.

The shadow trotted forwards, nudged by a pull on its rein that it responded to in one-part impatience as it whinnied. It emerged from the mist as a knife cutting through a silk veil, and Amygdal beheld a pale horse. He scrambled to his feet and drew his dagger in a deft motion. But no use, he was surrounded. Cleric knights flanked the archdeacon leading the Arvendi host. Red dragons around a false prophet. Amygdal looked up at the white-clad figure and spat; muscles tensed and ready to spring.

The knights pointed their weapons at him, ready to strike him down. Their master lazily raised a hand, they paused.

"Rhuni." He said in contempt. "Tell the rest of your men to surrender. Can't you see that you have no hope against His faithful servants?"

"And then what?" Amygdal barked. Dagger planted firmly in his hands. "Then let you line us up in a town square, trotted off to our deaths like pigs in a slaughterhouse?"

"I promise you mercy, for our Lord is-"

"You promised my family mercy." Amygdal shot him down. "Your emissaries promised that our city would be spared."

"A survivor of-"

"Of Ulpia Marciana," Amygdal shouted again. "Your words are empty, priest. I shall not shame the dead by kneeling to you."

"I see. Then we shall speak no more." The archdeacon said loftily "May you find enlightenment in your final moments, and may Our Lord grant you mercy in death." His hands fell down slowly, drifting amidst the snow.

The cleric knights raised their weapons and prepared to kill. Amygdal was ready to leap at their general in a final fit of rage.

Then he heard the flutter of a black bird in mid-flight. The beat of porcelain wings accompanying the whistle of a javelin throw. Then a dull thud and yelp. The mist briefly parted; the company standard had struck down the archdeacon. An almighty throw had thrust its spearhead through the rider, thrown him from the pale horse and pinned the carcass against the walls of a dilapidated house.

Amidst the confusion, a thunderous voice called out from behind him.

"Amygdal! Pull back at once! We're going to hold them all here a little longer."

He looked back and saw the remnants of the first company gather behind a lion knight. Wolves and wild beasts with fangs bared and hungry. And he was one of them.