A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

Borton took the point as center spear, his men forming up to his right and left. They made a wide spearpoint with lines tapering on either side like a wedge.

“Shields!” he bellowed, and the clang of wood rang as the wedge transformed into a sturdy wall of men. “Spears!” Hearty spears leveled upon the front and flanks as the men continued forward. “On the quickstep, men.” He locked his shield and aimed his spear. “May quin guide your arm!”

The Golmere changed direction immediately and headed towards them. Ignoring Ros to the north and clearing a way for us both to assault the prime and his entourage. They charged towards Borton and his men, dropping all the discipline they previously held. They swarmed, like animals, not soldiers, ravenous and savage, thirsty for the chance to spill man-blood. They smashed upon Borton’s formation, and for a moment, the men were lost in a sea of green and gray flesh. I heard shouting, screaming, and the wails of the dying.

A spearpoint flashed in the firelight, then a heavy shield smashed open from the formation, a powerful thrust following behind it. Another shield opened, and a deadly spear followed. There was a frenzy of movement around the shield wall, but as I watched, Golmere after, Golmere fell away to its sting.

A man fell near the center point. “Hold!” Borton shouted as he tried to form the line around the man, but he was dragged away by the Golmere. The line reformed to close the space instead.

The Golmere paused their assault and pulled back to slake their bloodlust. They shouted and hollered with glee as they ripped the fallen man to pieces. More screams followed as the men, seeing their brother torn in front of them, launched a volley of fallen Golmere spears. The spears found their mark, dropping several to the ground. The creatures shouted and raged, then charged the men in a renewed wave.

The wall of men bent and flexed as Golmere crashed upon their shields and spears. Two more men fell, and the line bent inward around the gap. It seemed in danger of collapsing when I saw a push from the center point of the formation where Borton was anchored.

“Woad!” Borton roared as he pressed forward with shield and spear, dropping two and gaining a precious piece of blood-soaked ground. His red beard seemed ablaze in the firelight. “Woad!” he shouted again as he claimed another life and another foot of ground.

“Woad!” the man to his left echoed as he smashed forward with his shield, tightening the formation.

“Woad!”

The chant came in unison, rhythmic like the heavy beat of a drum. Men pushed forward against a mountain of flesh; they stabbed through it, tore into it like the roots of an elder tree breaking through stone. Bolstered by their call, they pressed forward, biting, stabbing, unwavering as several of the Golmere dropped back, away from the men and their deadly spears.

The creatures regrouped to the north and south of the militia in hopes of assaulting the flanks. More Golmere followed to the rallying points, bodies strewn around them.

“Anvil!” Borton shouted.

The men closed the ends of their formation, linking into a tight ring. The Golmere charged, many impaling themselves within the first press. The 3rd was surrounded now on all sides, and every man, boys included, held to a vital piece of ground. They were still outnumbered three to one, and despite the superiority of their tactics, they were still just boys and old men. I knew they would not hold for long.

I moved closer to the blaze. Smoke and ash clouded my vision, but I could see the prime ordering his entourage forward. They moved towards the militia in their own loose shield wall, hoping to finally break the circle of men. The prime leveled his bow at the men and launched a cruel black arrow; I heard the cry of pain that followed. He launched again, and I watched his hand move out in front of him, guiding the arrow to its intended target. Another scream rent the air.

Chapter Fifty

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

I charged into the clearing. The prime turned to engage, and in a single movement, dropped his bow and pulled free his longsword. He met Nahdril with the ringing of steel. I slashed, testing my range as he circled wide. Ros emerged from the alley, Repent in hand; he took a position opposite me, blade held high.

I fell into Tower stance as Ros circled behind in Water. I swung high, but the prime blocked my strike easily with his sword. I smiled as Ros attacked low. My attack was never meant to land. Repent neared the back of the prime’s leg, but the blade turned at the last second, not blocked, or pushed, but nudged ever so slightly by the prime’s outstretched hand. The prime turned on Ros, stabbing forward, hoping to catch him off guard. Ros blocked the first strike but took the second on the shoulder before he managed to leap away.

The prime turned to me, ran his bloody blade across his tongue, and smiled wickedly as he drew Jaeron’s dagger from his belt. I swept Nahdril in a circle then fell into Wind stance, catching the blade of the dagger along the hilt and leveling an elbow across the creature’s face. The prime fell away rolling; as he regained his footing, he took a measured step back, reestablishing his stance. His movements were unusual, not the predictable frenzy that made Golmere poor at individual combat; his moves were as seasoned and practiced as any swordsman. He raised his longsword above his head in what appeared to be a version of Tower, the natural counter to Wind. I moved into Water, the best defense against Tower, then we danced.

I swung, and he countered. He swung, and I countered, testing each other. It was then that I noticed something, something I should have seen at the outset of the battle.