Luther: First of the Fallen, page 5
‘Await the command,’ the seneschal reminded us. I relaxed my finger next to the trigger and remembered to breathe, as the instructors at Aldurukh had taught me. This was not my first battle. Not even my third or fifth. I had fought Great Beasts and I had skirmished with the knights of rival lords. Even so, it was an effort to keep my grip sturdy and my aim true as that nightmare loomed larger and larger before me.
At one hundred paces distance I slipped my finger into the trigger guard again and sighted afresh, choosing the eyes. They were the softer target but it meant staring back into those raging orbs as the Horn of Ruin thundered closer and closer. It seemed as if its baleful gaze were for me alone and it came to my mind that this monster had followed the seven knights of Ardford for many kilometres, tracking them to this fortress. For what reason?
That stare bored into me, as if the creature were trying to remember everything, that it might recognise me again at some future day. There was intelligence there beyond a hound or raptor, perhaps even the sentience of humankind.
At seventy-five paces I breathed out slowly, ready for the fusillade order.
The Great Beast lumbered to a stop, claws digging furrows in the short grass that had reclaimed the scorched ground. It put back its head and let forth that disturbing cry, rearing to its hind legs once more. It thudded back to all fours and stood there, glaring from one part of the wall to the next, its gaze unmistakably moving from tower to tower and then to the gate. Finally it raised its many eyes over the wall and beyond, to the houses and workshops dug into the hillside within the ring of fortifications, then to the squat keep at the top of the mound.
‘What is it doing?’ I remember another knight beside me asked. Herricks her name was, and she was of a similar age to myself. I could hear the fear in her voice. I shared it. Not the violent heart-thumping moment of imminent battle that had gripped me before, but a more spine-stiffening apprehension. The dread before the terror, the apprehension of the most terrible thing that has yet to reveal itself.
‘The Ardford knights,’ I whispered, remembering that they were held within the keep.
And still the full dread was not ready to reveal itself, for the Horn of Ruin did the most remarkable thing: it turned its back to us and returned to the forest’s edge. There we saw it at the uttermost extent of the lights, occasionally glimpsed by the guttering flames of our incendiaries, prowling in the darkness, quieter than a shade panther.
The first watch passed and the chimes rang the middle of the night and still it was there, half seen moving left and right along the periphery of the trees.
‘We cannot wait all night and set out with fresh strength in the morning,’ my gain-mother warned the lord, and he agreed.
‘Stand down the company,’ he said to the serjeants. ‘Quietly, and bring up the standing watch.’
So in twos and threes we left the wall, replaced by serfs and squires with las-lances and arquebusiers. We returned to the garrison house beside the arsenal but did not divest our gear. On benches we sat, armoured for battle, but even as my chin touched my gorget in the first nods of sleep, the muffled call of the Great Beast resounded over Storrock, rousing us immediately.
As we hurried from our hall we expected to hear the crack of the cannons and see the flash of their fire, but the wall top was dim and only the last echoes of the monster’s cry broke the night stillness.
‘No attack,’ the seneschal told us, having been on the hardwire from the armoury to the wall captain.
We groaned and swore, and I voiced the reason.
‘It taunts us,’ I said, astounded by the concept. ‘The beast taunts us!’
And so the night passed, with an almost hourly wakening by the horn-cry of the beast in the woods, until the first touch of dawn on the canopy. With the sun’s coming, the Horn of Ruin vanished, leaving only broken timber and claw marks in the fresh growth to tell of its passage.
Both weary and wary, we gathered for the expedition to Ardford, our complement increased to one hundred and twenty now that we had seen the creature we might encounter. Its size was daunting, but the greybeards smiled and claimed to have slain larger prey in distant days. Always there was a former beast more ferocious or larger or swifter or more malign.
Our large destriers were left in the stables, for the forest was at full growth and the only path they would have been able to follow was the trail of trampled foliage left by the Horn of Ruin, which we had no desire to use. Squires on more nimble mounts forayed ahead, confirming that the monster had turned south and was some distance away.
‘I beg you to forget this errand,’ Forstor asked of the Lord Torchwarden. ‘’Tis clear to us now that travel to Ardford is folly and the monster will waylay us ere we can reach its walls.’
The lord then took us aside, myself, the seneschal, my gain-mother and a few others that were counted leaders among the warrior class.
‘Make all speed for Ardford,’ he bid us. ‘I have a fear that you will find only death there, in which case you are to return immediately. You should be able to make it back before sunfall, the day is yet long in waning and you leave early.’
‘And should Ardford still stand?’ asked my gain-mother. ‘We defend it?’
‘Its walls are not as great as Storrock’s, their guns inferior to ours, I cannot imagine it will hold such a fiend at bay.’ He then gave my gain-father a letter in which the Lord Torchwarden granted sanctuary to Marathol the Lord Waterwatch and all his subjects, without oath or debt. If I had wondered before, I knew at that moment why the Order had sent me to Storrock, for though it was not of great size or power in the wider region, its lord and knights were the embodiment of all that a soldier of the Order represented.
‘He’ll refuse,’ said Tancreth, a knight older even than my gain-father and the lord. ‘Ardford is one of the Old Keeps, and it’s been in Marathol’s family for thirty generations. You’d prise the blade from the grip of a Grand Master before getting him to leave.’
‘It is only for a few days,’ said our lord. ‘We will combine our hosts and, our loved ones safe in Storrock, slay this Great Beast. He is prideful but not stupid.’
Tancreth and my gain-father both looked as though they would disagree, but the lord’s demeanour made it clear that there would be no further discussion.
We took with us trumpeters and banners, though we did not sound the march on leaving lest it attract the attention of the Great Beast. As an army, not vagabonds, we would travel, and the squires made good time cutting passage through the new growth for the knights to follow.
We headed westward and a little north, as direct as the land allowed towards the Briartwist river. Naturally, this being Caliban, the river’s course was not a certain thing, the land about it prone to shifting as much as anywhere else. Settlements like Ardford and Fishwick were built upon the hardest, tallest hills near the banks and from season to season might have a gushing torrent at the foot of their walls or a five-kilometre walk to their fishing boats.
As the sun passed noon, we had the knights from Ardford attend to us in the vanguard, they having most recently passed this area. While they had done so in hasty flight, they recalled enough of their route that by the lead of a few landmarks – particularly large or otherwise notable trees, rocky slopes and mounts impervious to the movements around them – they could guide us with some accuracy, though the sky was hidden for kilometres at a time by the high canopy.
An off-worlder might think that the Great Beast would have left some trail in its pursuit, as it had done in its withdrawal the night before. An off-worlder would not understand that the most menacing of the Great Beasts were not simply large creatures, or even malignly intelligent predators, but of a nature wholly attuned to the environs of Caliban. Their presence stirred the surroundings, sometimes elevating the aggression of nearby predators, often animating the liveliness of the flora. Trails were wont to disappear within days if not hours, even of the heftiest creator.
Our squires and the Ardford knights were no strangers to the woods, however. As summer waned to autumn there could be seen the subtle distinction between the freshest growth and the darkening leaves and stems of the plants older by even a few days.
So it was that before early afternoon we descended into the Briartwist river valley, making good time.
We had pickets out, of course, to keep watch for the Horn of Ruin. Not only behind, but ahead. We thought the creature more than capable of assuming our intent and moving before us to waylay the expedition before it reached Ardford. In fact, the closer we came to the town the more convinced I became that we would find the Great Beast there, squatting in the rubble as it patiently awaited our arrival. I shared this misgiving with nobody, for I did not want my companions to think me a coward or hysterical.
The ground about the Briartwist was fenland, empty of all trees but for a scattering of copses, cut by ancient causeways made of stone that neither frost nor quake could wear down. On leaving the woodland we sent the squires further ahead with scopes and they returned swiftly with the news that Ardford remained, the walls intact, smoke rising from its houses and forges.
With these glad tidings to lighten the mood, knowing that no return would be made that day, we relented in our haste and took our care to pass the marshes without incident. It was still some time before dusk when we came within sight of the citadel beyond the ribbon of the Briartwist and all that remained was to negotiate the river itself.
Though the ground on the western side of the river was solid enough, the fens were not suitable for any foundations and so no permanent bridge could be erected. The old causeways met each other about a kilometre and a half upstream, but the movements of the river meant that for most of the year that junction was quite often some distance from the flow, or beneath it. Still, it was the safest place to navigate available – hence the position of Ardford to guard this crossing. Pontoon bridges provided a more temporary measure when the waters were wide and slow, but the knights of Ardford informed us that such crossings were destroyed as part of the defence of the town, to give the foe no easy passage.
Still suspecting to have the Horn of Ruin at our backs at any time, we went northwards and found that the ford was quite navigable, the river bending through a broad stretch where the causeways met, the footing secure enough.
It was almost anticlimactic when we came to the crossing. We had reached Ardford unmolested, not a sign of the Great Beast for the whole journey.
And then the sky resounded with an ominous hunting cry behind us.
I cannot say why the Horn of Ruin chose then to attack. Was it a tactic to trap us against the water, or just happenstance that it came upon us as the squires set foot into the low river? Had it waited until we were within reach of our destination, granting an illusion of sanctuary that heightened its own excitement? Perhaps it even chose that moment to tempt reinforcements from the township, forcing those within to decide whether to remain behind their defences or sally forth in assistance.
It also presented a dilemma to my gain-father. The Great Beast was still some way behind us and Ardford little more than a kilometre and a half distant.
‘The lord will welcome you into the walls,’ promised Forstor, pointing across the waters to the smudge of grey on the nearby mount. ‘We can make the gates before this fiend catches us.’
‘I would not bring this foe to the door of my neighbour,’ argued the seneschal. ‘A terrible choice we would force upon Marathol.’
‘I would not open a gate with such a monster close at hand,’ said Tancreth.
‘And should it come upon us in line of march we will be ill-formed to meet its attack,’ added my gain-mother. ‘Better to make preparation and gather our strength.’
‘You are fools,’ the leader of the Ardford knights shouted, wading into the ford. His knights followed and several of our company made after them, thinking to restrain them.
‘Let them be,’ commanded the seneschal. ‘Maybe they will bring aid. Either way, we cannot count their arms to our credit. Form up for the battle, we shall hold the far side of the river.’
‘Why such cowardice now? Last night they offered up their lives to save us all,’ I wondered aloud.
‘I think their offer to give themselves to the beast was a ruse,’ declared Tancreth, spitting as he watched the other knights leave. ‘An excuse to get outside the walls and flee, more like.’
As we followed our lord’s order I briefly longed to be back at the wall of Storrock, a feeling that intensified as the Great Beast approached, ploughing through the marshland towards us. Fen that would have sunk an armoured knight to the waist was no obstacle to its powerful legs, though thick mud splashed its dark scales and weed tangled about its limbs like nets.
‘Fire by volley, on my command alone,’ my gain-father told us, holding his bolt-lance at the ready.
A passing thought made me check the batteries of my armour, for I was tired from lack of sleep and the march and wondered how drained was my plate. The reserves were good, fifty per cent and more. Likewise, the squires had brought ammunition by the score, to supplement our own packs, so there would be no cause to relent except death.
The closer the Horn of Ruin came, the larger it seemed, silhouetted against a darkening sky. Yet the new perspective also brought some hope, for I realised that being on the rampart had us at a level with its head, and so an ideal height for attacking. We were as vermin to it, and if we moved smartly enough perhaps its bulk would be its disadvantage.
I clung to such hopes for the minutes it took for the Great Beast to plunge through the marshlands, choosing to ignore the voice in my head that told me the dead knights of the other settlements would have thought the same.
‘Ranging shot… Fire!’
I pulled the trigger of my bolt-lance and the explosive projectile leapt from my weapon, streaking some one hundred and fifty metres to hit the chest of the creature. Too low. The propellant we used then was far less efficient than that of the Legions, but easy to manufacture. The Horn of Ruin was at range, albeit our volley did nothing to impede its advance, and it did not even greet the salvo with a roar or groan.
At one hundred paces we were more sure of our mark and the command came to fire three rounds. I pulled my trigger thrice, aiming higher than before. Sharp metal clattered from its monstrous features, exploding moments later with little effect, but a few detonations seemed to break open scales or darken an eye. I had no idea which had been mine amid the welter of gunshots.
This enraged the Great Beast and it crashed forward now, fountains of mud and water erupting from the fens, a spume of white like a ferry’s bow wave when it hit the river proper.
‘Free fire,’ my gain-father commanded and we needed no further encouragement.
As a massive wave splashed across the ford, droplets filling the air, we opened fire as quickly as we could. This was not a test of marksmanship but discipline, as when in wars of old great blocks of soldiers would exchange volleys until the resolve of one or the other failed.
Ten rounds fired in as many seconds, I swapped the magazine of my bolt-lance and fired again, emptying the second in similar fashion. A gunline of a hundred and twenty knights is no small thing, even for a creature the size of a keephouse. I don’t doubt that much of our fire went astray or expended harmlessly upon its thick scales, but its thrashing through the water became more desperate as it neared the bank upon which we were arrayed.
The water foamed dark with blood in its wake.
On reaching more solid ground it seemed to find fresh vigour, baring its fangs even as bolts exploded over lips and tongue.
Water streaming from its claws, the Great Beast bounded out of the river and across the wet ground between it and the first line, faster than anything that large should move. Three knights perished instantly, pierced or crushed beneath its feet. So determined were the nearby warriors to fire that they held their ground even as the massive jaws snapped down, sweeping up four more.
Body parts joined the stream of blood that flowed from its jaws, which yawned wide again, spilling corpses. A huge foot rose and this time the closest knights evaded, breaking to the left and right to avoid its crushing descent.
I was in the second line, firing over their heads. I saw pieces of my fellow knights wedged between cracked teeth and it sickened me. To this day I swear I saw Erl Irsak still alive though bit in twain, his face a mask of terror and pain as he flailed between two teeth like monoliths. For years after I would wake in a sweat with the memory haunting my dreams.
The front line broke formation with the beast in their midst, lessening our fire considerably. Some dashed beneath its bulk, firing into its underside with little visible effect. It turned, tail swinging with ponderous but terrible grace, smashing aside a handful of men and women, throwing them hard against the blood-puddled dirt of the bank.
I regret that I became so possessed of my duty to continue firing that I took little notice of what else occurred, and to this day remember only the clamour of shouts and screams, the deafening bellows of our foe and the thunderous reports of our weapons. Perhaps the oversight most grievous was that I did not see my gain-father fall. Others later told me he attempted to hurl a handful of grenades into the maw of the enemy, but in doing so was swept into its jaws. The explosives detonated, causing great harm to the beast, but slew him also if he was not already dead on the monster’s fangs. I fully believe that he knew what would happen and chose the act of sacrifice, for that was the measure of him in every experience I had.
Battle is often brief but harsh, or elongated and tension-filled, but the fight with the Horn of Ruin was one of the most intense yet drawn-out affairs I remember. I recall having to exchange my weapon with that of a fallen companion because the breech was too hot and threatened a misfire that would have torn off my arm – as happened to one of the other knights just moments later.
