1 Prologue
Garviel should have never trusted Dogman to dig a decent latrine. Now here he was, knee-deep in frozen filth, shaking cold, chipping hardened earth with a rusted pick and cursing under his breath.
He never could be trusted with anything, Dogman. Him and Fleabait and Old Morrey were as useless as nuns in a whore house out here in the back-ass of the ends of the world. The only saving grace was they did a right proper job of hacking wildmen and greenskins when they so felt the inclination. If not for their knack for violence, Garviel thought, he and the rest of the Iron Sons would have seen the three of them flogged and sent naked into no man's land weeks ago.
He dropped the pick and lifted his hands to his face, blowing on them and rubbing them together to thaw. The snow and freezing rain stopped two days ago, thank the All-Mother. Now basic tasks outside the encampment, like patrols, shit-digging, and guard duty were less acts of suicidal bravery and instead descents into boredom and frigid misery. The camp magister, Septimus Docyle, was of the opinion that such acts, performed in environments of tedium and suffering, strengthened the mettl in the hearts of men.
Garviel was of the opinion that the old man could go fuck himself.
Magisters from Anzwert were the Duchy's way of ensuring the gold they spent on hiring mercenaries actually went to protecting their outlying territories, rather than to drinking and whoring in the safer parts of the world. The magisters, being some of the few remaining denizens of the sphere capable of the arcane arts, commanded great respect for their power and prowess. This effect was somewhat lessened when one encountered one in person, only to discover they were soft, fat old men who recited the spartan virtues of old while being fed fruit by eunuchs on silk-lined pillows.
Garviel lifted the pick again, grunting and spitting a mouthful of phlegm into the ditch. The doughy fucker was probably in his fire-warmed tent right now, having his rod polished by one of the perfumed harem boys he brought from the capital.
And here you are, Garviel, second-in-command of the Iron Sons, standing three feet deep in the middle of nowhere, too afraid to piss for fear of your cock freezing off. Your mother always did warn you to stay in the academy instead of joining a mercenary guild. Delusions of grandeur, bedding fair maidens and amassing piles of gold. Those were the bylines offered to recruit young boys into being swordhands and field surgeons. Having spent this past twenty-something years crypt-diving and subhuman-slaying for a living, the best Garviel'd managed to do was drink to excess and throw out his back.
The crunch of ground beneath boots in the distance behind him broke the silence, and he stopped digging, swinging the pick up onto his shoulder as he watched in the direction of the sound, waiting for the source of the noise to make itself visible. The morning being early, the forest glen still sat blanketed by rags of fog that clung damply to the earth. Past twenty paces or so, the world was a wall of shifting greys and whites, dense with moisture and cold.
The bootsteps drew closer until a dark shape emerged from the mist. It stopped just inside his line of vision, and appraised him for a moment, its arms crossed.
"Oh please, don't stop digging on my account." Harken said.
"Captain Harken." Garviel nodded with a grunt.
Harken crossed the space between them, and stood at the edge of the latrine pit.
"Glad to know someone in this damn company knows what they're doing." Harken said, inspecting the ditch. "Terribly sorry you're having to do this, Garvy. I know it's miserable work."
"I've had worse." Garviel said, slamming the pick into the dirt. He dusted his hands off and climbed up out of the hole. "There's something you need from me, I imagine."
"Good to know I'm predictable." Harken smirked, picking at the edge of his beard.
"If I don't know your way of being after 20 years, I'm afraid that'd make me a shit lieutenant." Garviel said.
"You're still a shit lieutenant." Harken said, laughing. "But you're right, I do need something."
"I'm listening." Garviel said, blowing into his hands again.
"Word came a couple hours ago that the Duchy intends to move their main force up towards Shattershin Pass to rendezvous with Strousbourg and Mavaria. Scouts say that a well-organized force is working its way southward, burning as they go. They expect this force to be crossing into the Hinterlands within a week if they aren't intercepted." Harken said.
"Sounds about right. Been quiet for long enough." Garviel said. "Greenskins? Or Northmen?"
"Sounds like something else. Well-ordered regiments doesn't fit for tribesmen or orckin. I suspect it might be a foreign power making its move through no man's land in search of manifest destiny or some other noblesse horseshit."
"And the Duchies intend to inform them of their error, I imagine." Garviel said.
Harken nodded, sliding his gloves back over his fingers.
"The Duchy has ordered the Iron Sons to march with the rest of the detachment when it moves north to rendezvous with the main force. Problem is, our beloved Magister has deemed my company essential to the execution of what he declares to be "long-term strategy", and has insisted I remain back at camp with him and his group of soft-hands. I want to tell the doughy fucker to piss off, but knowing the influence he has in the Duke's court, we'd be out a commission in two days time if I did so."
Garviel pulled the pick from the ground and shifted his weight so he leaned on it like a prop.
"And you need me to take command in your absence and lead the men north." He said grimly.
"Afraid so." Harken said, pursing his lips. "Not much choice, really."
"What time for departure? Dawn?" Garviel asked, folding his arms and sticking his fingers in his armpits.
"Within the hour, from the sounds of it." Harken said, pulling off his gloves and blowing on his hands. "The main force left several hours ago."
Garviel's eyebrow shot up.
"So soon? What's the hurry, I wonder."
"Probably spooked by having to face something besides savages and mongrels. Everything new seems threatening when the closest you've come to combat is cutting steak." Harken said with a snort.
"What do you think, Captain?" Garviel asked.
Harken shrugged.
"I think they're offering to double our contract if we do it. And another two thousand gilders as a bonus if the approaching force is turned away. Under those circumstances, I don't know that it much matters what I think, no matter how fishy it seems." Harken said.
Garviel stared in to the middle distance in silence for a moment, spit into the ditch, and leaned on his pick.
"I'll do what needs to be done." He said, his boots crunching the frozen ground as he shifted his weight. He dropped back down into the latrine trench. "Soon as I'm done here."
"I know you will." Harken said, turning to head back. "The men will know you are in charge and will be ready to depart by the time you arrive back to camp."
He took several long strides into the fog, before turning back and adding "Oh, and Garviel... try not to kill any of them, if you can."
Garviel snorted, driving his pick into the frozen mud again.
"No promises, captain."
-------
In the intervening days between departure and arrival at Shattershin Pass, Garviel lost three men.
Harwick got caught by a wildcat while he squatted bare-ass against an old pine outside camp. Micken slipped and tumbled into the Icewash River while filling his waterskin, and got pulled under the icepack by the current. Tolbert, well, Tolbert just fucking froze to death. They'd found him this morning, face-down in his bedroll, his body ice-white and stiff as a virgin's pecker.
A man a day. At this rate they'd not make it to spring.
The rendezvous was arranged to take place on a high level rise on the south end of Shattershin Pass, perhaps half a mile from the southern entrance. The rise lay perhaps three-quarters of a mile square, devoid of life save some stubborn strawgrass that clung brown and brittle to the dirt in little patches. It served as a common stopping point for anything that needed stopping. It was ugly, and bitter cold, but it offered a commanding view of both the lands to the south, and the far entrance to the pass to the north, and what was what mattered. This wouldn't be the first time they'd traveled there, and probably wouldn't be the last, as long as the godforsaken kept working their way southwards.
When they finally caught view of the southern mouth of the pass about a mile out, Garviel expected to see garish-colored tents on the hilltop in the far distance, with men and horses milling, and greater numbers arriving in front of them. He saw the first, but none of the others. Instead, in their place, columns of smoke rose from both the encampment in the distance, and further into the pass. White smoke, and black, coiled into the sky over the canyon, mixing with the grey blanket of clouds overhead.
Garviel drew short and whistled. The company's lone elf, Moonsap, trotted up beside him. The elf's willowy form dwarfed Garviel by nearly a foot.
"You're our best eyes, Sap. What do you see?" Garviel asked.
The elf squinted and scanned.
"There's activity in the camp. Friendly activity. But hurried. Urgent. Armor is being donned and weapons readied." He said, watching the distant hilltop.
"So, either the scouts were wrong about the distance, or the approaching force marched straight through the night." Garviel said grimly.
He turned towards the men filing up behind him.
"Camp's under attack, or about to be. We're paid for fighting by the people on that hill. They die, we don't get paid. Hope you've all taken a piss, because you won't be taking one again for a long time today." He called out to the group. "Now, form up and let's get to work!"
There were some cheers, and some groans. But to a man, each of the Sons readied their arms and followed him.
When the company arrived to the camp, Fletcher Magnussen left his tent and grabbed Garviel by the hand.
"Good to see you, Garvy. We were wondering if the Sons were going to make it in time." The blonde man said, shaking the lieutenant's hand. He was a handsome man, Magnus. Always popular with the women. Even more so for being the youngest mercenary captain in the Duchy. The Baron's Bastards weren't the best company in the Dukedom, but Garviel would be damned if they hadn't made themselves the most famous.
Magnussen glanced around.
"Where's Harken?" He asked.
"Kept back at the fort. Our magister deemed it necessary that he stay." Garviel said flatly.
Magnussen rolled his eyes and snorted.
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Same shit, different latrine." Garviel said. He looked around the camp at the activity. "Our visitors arrived early than expected, I take it."
Magnussen nodded. "They did. And there are more of them than was reported. Take a look for yourself."
Garviel walked in the direction the captain pointed a dozen or so paces until he found an unobstructed view of the north. Casting his eyes to the far end of the pass, he felt a faint chill creep up his spine.
There, perhaps a mile or so northward, spread across the plain in base of the pass below them was an army. An actual army, not a raiding band, or even a large rabble. There had to be at least five thousand footmen, as well as several hundred cavalry and several lines of skirmishers, all assembled into separate units in proper strategic formation. The faint rays of sunlight that managed to break the cloud cover overhead glinted off the golden sheen of their armor.
"Who are they?" Garviel asked Magnussen when the younger man walked up to join him.
"Devil knows, I'm afraid. They've no banners or sigils to speak of. The Strousbourg magister has attempted several message spells, but has received no reply. Then Mavaria sent an envoy by foot. That dark spot in field in front of their force should tell you what happened to him." Magnussen said.
"I see." Garviel said, crossing his arms. "So what are the Duchies planning?"
"Current plan is to hold the high ground and make them come to us. They're outside of bow range, we've no cavalry to speak of. So we wait for the first move." Magnussen said. "They'[ll either send a talker, or give us the high ground."
"Good. Glad to know not everyone in the Duchies is a fool."
"There's a first time for everything. Even the impossible." Magnussen said wryly as he clapped Garviel on the shoulder and turned to walk back to his tent. "I'll see you on the field or in the mess tent, whichever comes first."
------------
No messenger arrived in the course of the day, and the encamped army in the pass never moved from their positions. Garviel had to admire their discipline.
The attack finally came at night, suddenly, under the pale glow of moonlight. It was the elven spotters who noticed the movement first, and drew the attention of the camp officers. Within minutes, all were roused and armed, and orders were given on plans of defense.
The approaching force lit no lanterns, and carried no torches, but held perfect formation as they marched slowly and methodically towards the base of the hill, their armor knocking and rattling in deadful unison with each approaching step.
At 200 paces away, the first archers nocked and drew, sending a sustained shower of bodkins into the approaching mass. Shields and plate rang from the blows as the arrows found their marks amongst the targets. But the mass persisted on, unrelenting.
"There are no screams." Garviel said to himself, almost under his breath.
The firing line, as well as the men around him, seemed to be having similar thoughts, but none voiced them that he could hear. The best-trained soldier on the sphere could march in armored formation in blazing heat for a full day straight without food or rest, only to be forced to sleep standing in his gear, and spend the next fortnight in perpetual combat. Stamina, discipline, combat skills, These things you could train a soldier in. But every man, no matter how frail or fearsome, would cry out in pain when mortally wounded. It was an animal instinct that no amount of training could or would remove.
But then, why were there no screams? Could it be possible that not a single arrow had managed to find its mark?
As if challenging this thought, the oncoming horde broke from a half-march to a full march, and the firing line loosed a second time at 100 paces. Garviel watched as several arrows punched straight through chainmail and chestplates, one even going so far as to sink to the fletching in its target.
But not a body dropped from the incoming line.
And there were no screams.
"Something's not right here." Magnussen said quietly next to him. Garviel notice the knuckles around the pommel of the young man's sword turning white.
As if on cue, whistles came out from spotters.
"Incoming!"
On cue, hundreds of projectiles flew from the skirmishers in front of the rapidly approaching mass, arcing up from the base of the hill and into the shieldwall and barricades at its peak in a cacophony of collisions and cries. Dogman caught one in the face as it punched past the top rim of his shield and knocked him flat on his back. Several more of the Sons were equally unlucky, though most managed to avoid or absorb the incoming weapons.
Looking at one of the projectiles, Garviel whistled involuntarily. It was nearly the size of a spear, but with nearly third of the shaft, as well as the head, made of a single piece of iron. It easily weighed twice his sword, if not more. The strength to throw it with the force and distance it had traveled was beyond any man he knew.
Garviel drew his sword, and turned back to face the oncoming numbers. They were within fifty paces now, skirmishers having withdrawn behind the main line for the final approach. The closest to the front carried massive wooden shields nearly as tall as they were, bound together in tight formation. Behind them, a row carried vicious-looking bladed pikes. Then another row of shields, and another row of pikes. And so on. Each and every one of the soldiers wore the same matching brass-colored armor with plates and joints formed and linked like the carapace of a beetle. Matching crested helmets with iron masks concealed the heads of the horde, giving them instead carved metal faces like those of old statues. There was no sound but that of moving armor and the clink of arrows.
And then, all at once, they were upon them.
The front line with tower shields revealed short, broad-bladed swords, pressing into the Duchy frontline and thrusting into the opposing mass with mechanical precision. Behind the shieldwall, the pikes following, driving and piercing into any momentary gap in the defenses like striking adders. The first line of defenders, made of two other mercenary companies, buckled, then fled as their numbers quickly fell to the onslaught. Filling in the gaps behind them, Duchy regulars stepped in, the united shieldwalls of the three powers stopping the advance of the enemy further up the hill. Mavaria, being the largest of the three, took the center. Anzwert, and the Sons, took the left flank.
With more competent, coordinated fighters in the vanguard, the advance was stopped, though not for long. The center held, but before long, the front lines of both flanks began to give, and the Iron Sons were forced into the melee as the advance pushed onto the hilltop.
Forced face to face with the enemy for the first time, Garviel regretted carrying a sword. He couldn't break the tower shields in front of him, and in the brief moments he could manage to get his blade past the shieldwall and strike one of the bodies behind it, the sword would ring harmlessly off their brass-colored armor.
Thiessen, the youngest member of the Sons fought near him with a warpick, and when the boy was felled by a pike blade, Garviel scooped up the boy's weapon and left his longsword in the mud. Its reach was less, but at least he'd hurt something when he hit it. Turning back to the shieldwall, he grabbed ahold of the tower shield in front of him with his free hand and swung the pick blindly behind it as he dodged a pike blade.
The iron spike of the pick bit hard into the armor of the soldier behind the shield, and Garviel instinctively anticipated the soft give of flesh underneath. But there was nothing. He jerked the pick back and pulled away from the shield just as the soldier carrying it thrust out with its blade, skewering the air where he'd stood only a moment before.
Seizing the moment, Garviel knocked the soldier's blade to the side, and in one fluid motion, spun forward and slammed the hammer side of the warpick against the side of the soldier's helmet. With a clang and the sound of rending metal, the soldier's helmet and facemask buckled, before the blow tore the helmet entirely off of its head.
There, in the place where a mangled face should have been, was a bare skull.
Seemingly unperturbed, the eyeless skeleton turned its head, and locked its eyeless sockets with Garviel's gaze. The skeleton reached its sword-hand up, and with a shove, clicked its newly-displaced jawbone back into socket. Garviel's breath froze in his lungs, and his eyes widened in terror as he stumbled backwards. All at once, he felt a presence inside his head as a voice that rasped like old stone spoke within his mind.
"Gllooorryyy tooo theee Emmmperorrrr...."
The skeleton advanced, its blade driving at Garviel as he struggled to maintain his footing. Finally, his luck ran out as his foot caught on something and he tumbled backwards, landing flat on his back and losing the hammer from his hands in his effort to catch himself.
"Deeaath too thhee Uuuusssurrppeerrrsss.... "
The skeleton's blade felt cold and hard as it pierced his shoulder and pinned him into the dirt. There was no pain. There would be no pain. The fear would make sure of that. Garviel knew that much as he felt the weapon twist inside the groove of his armor. The blood was hot, and wet. But there was no pain.
No pain. Just hot, and cold.
And darkness.
