Senerad walked along the cobblestones, leaning heavily on his cane. He stopped at a vendor selling fried octopuses, bought one, a small one, and began to eat it with a fresh flatbread, blowing on his dirty fingers. The octopus had just come off the grill, and was very hot.
Between the houses, in the distance, the sea was shining under the sun's rays, blinding the traveler's eyes with its brilliance, and on the sea surface, like white clouds, the sails of ships were slowly moving... beauty! However, Senerad winced, turning his back to the sea.
A sea voyage a few months ago had not caused the slightest delight in Senerad. The doctor did not like the sea at all and preferred never to see it, especially since even a slight pitching of the sea made him seasick. But what can you do if the capital is on the seashore, and besides, you can't drag yourself across half the country on horses or oxen? After all, of course, a sea voyage is the most comfortable and safe way to travel around the world. And fast. After the Ard pirates were reined in, sea routes became safe, traffic became more active, and more and more people began to travel by ship.
Having remembered the Ards, the healer immediately remembered the one who had occupied his thoughts for the last months. The one for whom he had spent weeks of his time – alas, without success. However, he had not forgotten him.
How many times Senerad cursed himself with the last words - he should have grabbed the guy and not let him go a step away from him! After all, he knew, he knew that this inconspicuous boy, the most insignificant, offended and downtrodden resident of the village, a shepherd boy, practically a slave - was a black magician! And as it turned out later - WHAT A MAGICIAN! A demonologist! A magician who can summon demons, using them to harm people. And not only people. And he, stupid Senerad, left the boy in a village consisting of dull villagers who wanted to assert themselves at the expense of humiliating the boy.
And what was it worth to guess that the lad, Ned, would no longer tolerate humiliation, insults? That he would kill his persecutors and disappear in an unknown direction? Where was Senerad's head? He had grown stupid, yes, he had grown stupid, sitting in this village. If the doctor had lived in the capital as before, moving in the circle of intelligent people, he would never have made such a mistake.
And where did he live for ten years? In a remote place! Next to pearl divers, fishermen and goatherds! Well, or cattle herders... oh, damn them, idiots. Now there are eleven of them less. Or rather, there are four more real idiots - Ned bewitched four offenders, depriving them of reason - and there are eleven less residents - the guy just killed them. And why do you spit in the cup of a black magician? Why do you come with a crowd of people to beat up an unfortunate guy? Well, they deserve what they deserve.
Senerad deserved a good kick for his stupidity. For Ned, he would have received a good jackpot from the community of magicians and the state. Such that he would have had enough to open a practice in the capital. Now he had to look for funds, take a loan from the imperial bank, ask moneylenders. And due to the war, finding money has become much more difficult. Bankers and moneylenders do not want to lend to anyone in troubled times. What if tomorrow the debtor's head is cut off? And who will pay off the debt then? There was one hope - collateral - a house in the capital that Senerad had left ten years ago, hiding from the pursuit of enraged relatives of a nobleman poisoned by his potion. He, Senerad, traded in some means that could either bewitch or send a husband or lover to the next world. So he paid. Money is money, but everything came to light. Had to run practically to the ends of the earth, to the filthy village of Black Ravine. And there was a treasure there - Ned! And the doctor so stupidly let the guy go...
Two weeks. For two whole weeks Senerad ran around the town and asked everyone in a row - had they seen such a guy - tall, with a gloomy face? Ned - hadn't they seen him?
Ned's tracks were lost in the port. How many ships were there at the time? What kind? Where could he have gone? It is unknown.
Well, after two weeks of useless searching, I had to give up trying to find the guy and go where I wanted to go – to the capital.
Ned will show up one day anyway – a demonologist is something you can't hide. He will still want to cast a spell, use his power to harm his enemies. And then… well, what then? Then they will either kill him, or capture him and deliver him to the agar of mages. But Senerad won't benefit from this. Alas.
Ned, Ned… where are you now? What are you doing? Do you remember your village and a certain healer named Senerad? Will we ever see each other again in this life? The ways that the gods give us are inscrutable…
Chapter One
Ned watched his company dig. The Marines, cursing and grunting, crushed the hard earth, digging in for the night's camp. There was half a day's march left to the front line, and there was no time to relax. They had to prepare a safe camp.
Yesterday morning they landed on the shore – before lunch they transported the entire mass of paratroopers, in an organized and fast manner. Of course, it was not without incidents – about thirty people fell into the water, but were rescued by people specially assigned for this purpose. Guides were waiting on the shore, and the five-thousand-strong corps set off on the road.
Months of training had taken their toll, so they moved quickly, despite the fact that each of the paratroopers carried at least fifty zusan weights. Food, fence posts, weapons and armor – the weight was very serious. But what could they do? They couldn't fight without all of this.
The senior officers rode horses, some of the cargo was also carried on horses - tents, for example - but the soldiers carried the main stuff. You can't take many horses on ships, horses are only for senior officers.
The sergeants, like the soldiers, walked on their own feet, and also carried a lot of junk, the only difference from the soldiers was that they were exempt from carrying the general corps' cargo and food. Only their own. But even their own was enough for twenty zusans. However, everyone only had enough food for a week. The rest the Corps must either get on the spot - buy from local residents, or take from the enemy. Or it will be put on the main army's payroll.
Being a thorough man, Heverad never left things to chance, and each soldier could live autonomously for at least a week. And then... then, as the dice fall - if lucky, they will be put on rations, if unlucky - the soldiers will rob the inhabitants.
The colonel looked at the world realistically and knew that if a soldier was not fed, he would either rebel or go on a rampage – rob and steal. Of course, soldiers would not be allowed to rebel, but it was better to lead the robbery and call it "buying food from the population." A soldier must be well-fed. That was the rule. And the Corps command adhered to it always and everywhere.
They had traveled twenty li in a day. The enemy was about ten li ahead, and the colonel had sent out scouts to find out what was going on there. Meanwhile, the soldiers were pitching tents, lining them up in neat rows, lighting fires, preparing to cook. Cereals, dried meat, fat, salt – all of this was in their sacks.
Each squad cooked separately, and each soldier allocated a portion from his supplies. The corporals strictly monitored the process and did not allow ratting. However, there was no urge to hide your food. Today you will not share with your comrade, and tomorrow, when you are dying, waiting for help, he will remember how you "squeezed" a handful of cereal, and ... who knows what will happen. The front is the front. Everything is in plain sight, and all in one day - today you are alive, and tomorrow you are gone.
Separate tents were set up for sergeants, for lieutenants too, senior officers also spent the night separately. There was always a division by rank. Food for sergeants and officers up to and including majors came from "one pot", for colonels it was cooked separately.
* * *
Ned got his portion of meat porridge with a flatbread, a mug of water flavored with red wine, which kills the infection (the water was from the stream where the Corps was stationed), and, sitting down on a stump from a felled tree, began to slowly, with pleasure, absorb the hearty, hot food. The last time he ate was in the morning, when they were fed on the ship, and a "walk" in the fresh air with a load on your shoulders is very conducive to a good appetite. Especially if you are under twenty years old...
"Can I sit next to you?" a voice was heard, Ned turned around and saw Oydar hesitantly settling down on a nearby block of wood.
- Of course you can't! - Ned answered grumpily. - I'll pounce on you with my sword and chop off your head for such impudence! Oida, are you a fool? Sit down and eat! What are you asking? Like a stranger...
- Well... you're so important now, an officer... and who am I? A simple corporal. You're a tournament winner, a duel winner, a master... will you condescend to talk to a simple soldier?
"You're a pig," Ned said, licking his spoon, "what are you being sarcastic about? Have you forgotten how we used to sleep on bunks next to each other? How we used to tell each other about our dreams?"
- I was the one telling the story... you were listening more, - Oydar grinned, sticking a spoon into his bowl and scooping up a delicious mound of porridge. - I remember everything, but haven't you forgotten? After all, you've distanced yourself from Arnot and me. Now we're on our own, and you're on your own.
The guy noisily sucked in the porridge and breathed, burning himself:
- Hot! Oh, how hungry I am! I wish I had a shank of lamb roasted over coals! And some wine! And a girl! Where have we ended up?! We can't even eat properly. What news of military action?
"I don't know any more than you do," Ned answered sullenly. "If they order us, we'll go forward. If they order us, we'll sit here until the end. All I know is that it's too hot up there. We'll probably go forward tomorrow, leaving our things here. Tomorrow, straight into battle. That's all."
- Are you angry? Because I said something about you? - Oydar asked unexpectedly. - Forgive me. I envy you, of course. You were just like us. A simple guy. And suddenly - already an officer. Got a star on your chest... Everyone knows you, you are so... so... famous. You're even married already. And your wife is such a beauty that it takes your breath away. And me? Who am I? Just a corporal who still doesn't know whether he will live through the week or not. I'm sad.
- Why are you bothering our sergeant? - Arnot smiled, looking at Ned. - It's hard enough for him. He needs to think for all of us. Congratulations, Ned - on your star, on your victory, and on staying alive. Just think - to kill thirty people! With a sword! And who - slave traders, desperate guys! You were defending your wife. I would kill everyone for such a beauty too! Was she crying, seeing you off?
"I cried," Ned smiled wryly, remembering Sanda wiping away her tears: "Forgive me… I'll wait for you, but just… let's think about how we'll live on, okay? It was all so scary, so unexpected… I won't tell anyone about you. Don't worry about anyone. But for now we'll live separately…"
- There you go. I envy you, - Arnot said sincerely, - I also want a beauty to see me off, wiping away tears and throwing herself on your neck! And also, for...
- We've heard already, - muttered Oydar, - kids, house, blah, blah, blah and all that other stuff. You've had enough of your house and kids. Is there no other topic? Whatever you talk about - house - kids, house - kids!
- You're evil, Oydar, - Arnot spat, - you have nothing sacred! What would you like from life, besides money, wine, women and... the title of master? Well, is there at least something useful in your dreams?
- What, all of the above is useless, or what? And in general, do you even understand what the status of a master is? It gives you everything! Money, women, wine... and a home. Yes. You try to achieve it first, and then you can make faces! Fat faces!
- Hmm... and not so fat! - Arnot felt his face and glanced sideways at Ned. - By the way, I lost a lot of weight. Someone drove me so hard that even my belly disappeared.
- Oh, come on... I got more workload during training, - Oydar waved it off, - I just had to relearn here, but otherwise it's not that bad. It was harder for the "old men". The guys are already forty years old, and they have to run like young people. It's hard for them, of course. Nedu has it easier than us. Now he doesn't carry anything except two pieces of iron!
Ned sat and looked at his two friends... or ex-friends? It's very difficult to be friends when you know what your comrades are thinking. Their thoughts beat against your brain, and it reminds you of some kind of exposure of the soul. It can't be like that. It's not for nothing that the gods did not give people the ability to hear the thoughts of others. If people cannot hide what they are thinking, how can you live? There sits Oydar. A great guy, a master of martial arts, who won the tournament so easily, as if in front of him were not skilled, experienced fighters, but children who had barely risen from the cradle. It would seem that everything is fine with him, everything is wonderful. And still - he is jealous. So jealous that this very envy eats him alive.
"Why, why all the benefits to this country bumpkin? He became a sergeant and was given a star... and what kind of girl does he have?! I am forced to go to whores for sale, and this guy, uneducated, stupid, who can't even drink wine, reads syllable by syllable - and here you go! A beauty, the sight of whom takes your breath away and your legs ache! Gods, for what? Did you give him all this to punish me? Well, yes, apparently I am guilty of something... but why so cruelly? Unfair. This is unfair! I am more worthy! He is a good guy... but still. I wonder where he learned the ancient martial art of shantso... I wonder, if one of the magicians finds out that he knows this martial art, will he be interested in this circumstance? And he doesn't want to teach me... Conceited demon! You'll live to see me hand you over to the magicians!" "No, I won't, of course... you can't turn in your friends. Well, I am a bitch after all. But he brought it on himself! He abandoned his friends, forgot, became great, or something?"
"Why is Oydar bothering him? He's talking nonsense. And his girlfriend really is beautiful. I'd give anything to have a wife like her. I couldn't get enough of her, I'd blow dust off her. Ned doesn't understand his happiness… I wonder if she could love me? They say the girl worked in a pastry shop. That's where he met her. One of the guys said so. What if Ned dies? A stray arrow or something… and I'm right there, and I'm to her. Allow me to express my condolences… She'll cry on my shoulder, and then… phew… what am I saying! Gods, don't listen to me! It's not the head that thinks, it's… Anyway, forget what I thought up here. Let Ned live, may he live long! But the beauty… oh, the all-beautiful goddess Selera! Why didn't you give me such a beauty?! Her hips… her breasts… and what a butt!" No – throw it out of my head! Throw it out! Sorry, Ned, I didn't mean to… He-he – I certainly didn't mean to mean you, but your wife…"
Ned listened sadly to the thoughts of his comrades, then turned off the "mind-hearing". Why did he need to hear that? Shouldn't he make it a rule for himself to NEVER listen to the thoughts of his friends? Gods, maybe you'll remove this gift altogether? Or rather, this curse... It only brings troubles, only problems. If he hadn't overheard Shusard's thoughts back then, at the tournament, he wouldn't have learned that he killed Colonel Ivarron. There would have been no duel. Zadara and her friends would have been alive. Sanda would not have left.
But, on the other hand, if he hadn't learned about the lieutenant's plans to kill Ned at the first opportunity or to have him brought to justice, then in the near future… he would have no future.
People do not know the plans of the gods, who play with human destinies, like people with dice. How the numbers will fall to someone - no one knows. For one - an empty face with one dot, called "The Curse of Destiny." And for another - six numbers - "The Gift of the Gods." Now he curses his gift, but it once saved his life, so is it necessary to anger the gods by giving up this skill? No, but still - you need to stop listening to thoughts. Unless, of course, there is a threat.
- So, screw him... Ned, are you even listening? - Arnot peered into his comrade's face, and he smiled sheepishly:
- I'm listening, Arnie, I'm listening. Oh, how I'm listening... Don't give a damn about this foreign sergeant - you have your own. If he forces you, say that you're following the orders of your immediate commander, and that's it.
"Okay, immediate commander," Arnot smiled, "now the signal to stand down is coming… do you think the losses will be big tomorrow?"
- Ask me something easier, - Ned frowned, - there will be losses, yes. You know. The main thing is to hold the line and cover your comrade. Remember what Drancon said at the very beginning? That's it. Okay, friends, let's go to the tents. Rest. If anything happens, come in, I'm always glad. I'm bored without you.
- And we are like comedians for you, right? Amusing? - Oydar grinned.
Ned's face darkened, he stood up silently, without answering, took his bowl and went to the sergeants' tent. Arnot looked at Oydar and asked sharply:
- For what?
- Why what? - Oydar made a face.
- You're a bitch, Oyda. - Arnot waved his hand in anger, turned around and went to the tent where they were supposed to spend the night. Oydar stayed where he was and when Arnot left, he raised his head to the starry, shining, twinkling sky and quietly said:
- Gods, why?
* * *
The night passed quietly and calmly. The sergeants were snoring in the tent, each on his own mattress. Folding beds were only for senior officers on the march. No one tied up their sleeping bags – the night was hot. And in general, the closer to the capital, the warmer it became. If the heat had already subsided at the corps base, then here summer was in full swing.
When the sky began to turn grey and the stars dimmed, the scouts returned – sweaty, hot. They were the last ones to run. The camp guards pushed aside the log shields blocking the exit from the perimeter, and three scouts immediately headed for Colonel Heverad's tent. He was sleeping, but when the guard said in a low voice: "Mr. Colonel! Reconnaissance!" he immediately jumped up, pulled on his socks, trousers and shoved his feet into soft boots. He did not put on his tunic, remaining in his shirt, and went out to the scouts standing at the entrance:
- Report. Sit down here. Adjutant, more light! Bring two lanterns!
They sat down at the table, on which a map of the area was laid out. The colonel waited patiently for Sergeant Hassel to rub his eyes, slightly blinded by the bright light, and calmly asked:
- Ready? Report.
- The enemy has dug in around the city. As we know, this is the city of Estkar, with a population of fifty thousand people. The highway leading to the border passes through it. Previously, when there was no war, cargo was transported along it to Isfir. This is a key point...
- Enough! Why are you lecturing me? Don't I know this?! I didn't get up at dawn for this! - the colonel stopped me sharply. - Get to the point!
- Excuse me, Colonel, - the sergeant was embarrassed, a man of about thirty-five, thin, short, strong and nimble, - I am trained to report in detail. So, there was no way to determine the number of invaders. But... judging by everything, there are at least twenty thousand of them. Four corps.
- Where did you get this data? - Heverad raised his eyebrows in bewilderment. - If you couldn't count, and suddenly such accuracy?
- I managed to get into the city. I took one of Isfir's soldiers and interrogated him. That's what he gave me.
- What is the composition of the army? Who is in command now?
- General Kheragh, a relative of King Isfir. The prisoner said he was a capable commander. Composition: ten thousand men-at-arms, light infantry - about eight thousand, and archers. They have practically no crossbowmen. This is Isfir! - the sergeant pouted dismissively. - They don't respect crossbowmen. As I already said, it was not possible to verify the data.
- Mages? How many magnes do they have?
- The soldier didn't know that. There are magicians, that's for sure. And quite a few. But he couldn't know the exact number - like ours, magicians live separately and almost never show themselves in public. However - maybe they do show themselves, just not in their army magician uniform. They are not known by sight. Everything is like ours.
"Everything is just like ours…" the colonel repeated thoughtfully. "What kind of fortifications?"
- Serious. The city walls are reinforced, there is a ditch around the city - they forced the residents to dig. By the way, they are now enslaved. Those who did not manage to escape were caught. They work as servants, dig, carry - slaves. The women, of course, serve the soldiers. Like whores, - the sergeant calmly shrugged his shoulders. - The whole area was robbed, there is nothing to eat. It was like locusts all around. No grass, no fields - everything was trampled, the peasants' houses were plundered and burned.
"Stupid…" the colonel muttered, looking at the map.
- What, Colonel? - the scout did not understand.
- It's stupid to treat the inhabitants of those territories that you want to turn into your property like that. A sure way to provoke violent opposition. So - this General Kheragh is not so smart.
"Or maybe they don't need the locals?" the sergeant shrugged again. "They'll drive their own peasants and send the locals deep into the country, into slavery."
- Maybe so, - the colonel admitted reluctantly. - Did you find any weak points? How did you enter the city? Is there an underground passage?
– A river flows into the city. Right under the wall. And flows out, respectively. Blocked with a grate. I dived, managed to squeeze through the grate in one place – I'm thin, small, squeezed through, but with great difficulty. Scratched my side. Someone bigger than me – wouldn't squeeze through. There's a wall above the grate – with guards on top. Torches. Shooters. I'm a good diver, I can hold my breath for a long time – so I got through. I left through the second grate, downstream – same thing. Blocked. The grates are strong, nothing can take them. The wall will sooner collapse than the grates will give in. If only the magicians do something…
- They won't. They have to be two steps away from the bars to cast a spell on them. Is this the first time you've heard of magicians? Don't talk nonsense. Anything else? What weak points are there? There can't be any!
- No, Colonel. There are no weak points. They have fortified themselves well. And there is no trace of our troops nearby.
- How come? - Heverad frowned. - There should have been three infantry corps upriver! Where did they go? What did the prisoner say?
- He said it badly. Ours were completely routed three days ago, - the sergeant said hoarsely and coughed, as if knocking a tight cork out of his throat, - several thousand killed, the rest fled, abandoning their equipment. Now it, this equipment, is all in the city. As far as I understand, this city is being used as a stronghold and will be like that forever. Or rather, they plan to leave it forever. The garrison will soon change, more soldiers will come, and these ones will go forward again. They are like ants, devouring everything in their path. And there are four such strongholds. Each group has twenty to thirty thousand. We can't do it without support, Colonel! We have no cavalry, no slingers. Five thousand men, and that's it! And if they manage to send for reinforcements, then it's definitely the end. All the strongholds are a day's march away from each other, this one is the one furthest from the sea. And they are waiting for us. Moreover, they come out here at dawn. Their intelligence has already reported on us.
- That's to be expected. - The colonel closed his eyes tiredly. - Lieutenant, wake up the colonels. Have them come here. Wake up the majors, then have them wake everyone up - general wake-up call. The chief magician to me. Urgently! Sergeant - free. Rest. It's going to be hot today. Very hot...
Everyone, including the adjutant, stood up and quietly walked out of the tent, leaving the colonel sitting in the folding chair. His eyes were closed, and Heverad seemed to be asleep. But it was a seeming calm. His brain was intensively processing the information received. Heverad tried to find at least some way to avoid the destruction of the Corps and saw only one way - maneuver. You can't let yourself be driven into the perimeter. Come out and give battle on level ground, where the discipline and skill of the paratroopers will overcome the skill of ordinary soldiers. Drive the enemy back into the city. Or ... or run. Run before the Corps gets caught in pincers.
The colonel had counted very much on the help of the infantry corps, which he was supposed to take command of. But they were now unknown where, or rather, what was left of them was now unknown where.
No, the colonel did not panic. He had seen a lot during his service. The Corps had been dealt a hard blow, and often half of its fighters remained. But… they had never been in such a difficult situation. In fact, the Corps had simply abandoned the task of plugging a hole. And not just a hole, but a huge tear in the mattress, from which feathers were pouring out like a stream.
Only now did the colonel truly understand the magnitude of the catastrophe that had befallen the country. It was definitely under threat of capture by Isfir, for the first time in decades, perhaps even hundreds of years. The King of Isfir, Sholokar the Third, had prepared well for the war and had done everything to win it. Before that, Sholokar had brought order to the country, cutting off the heads of all those who were dissatisfied with his rule, strengthened the army, squeezed money out of the people, and now the results of his reforms were visible.
Zamar is bursting at the seams, torn apart by powerful army groups. And how this will end is unknown.
* * *
Ned gradually emerged from the embrace of sleep, and when he opened his eyes, he could not understand where he was for several seconds. People were sleeping around him – snoring, farting, whistling, stinking of socks – Ned would remember this smell of socks for the rest of his life. Sour, tart, turning you inside out. And try walking around in boots for days, in the heat, and twenty li a day! You will stink even worse. There was nowhere to wash – the stream was used only for drinking. However – if they had stayed in this place longer, they would have dug a pond downstream, and everyone would have washed there. But today there was no strength for that.
Ned blinked his eyes - what the hell had he woken up so early, before reveille? And then, as if answering his thoughts, the sound of a trumpet blared menacingly and loudly: "Doooo! Doooo! Doooo!" - rise!
There was a stir in the tent, people began to dress, pull on clothes, boots, urgently attach armor and weapons. There was a strictly limited time for everything, and many sticks were smashed on the soldiers' backs, accustoming them to quick packing. Or, more accurately, their backs were smashed with sticks.
- Doo-doo-doo! Doo-doo-doo! - "Formation."
The soldiers jumped out of their tents, looked for their place in the line, and in a few minutes a square of soldiers in full combat armor was lined up on the camp square. Spearmen in front, swordsmen in the back, crossbowmen behind them. Sergeants slightly ahead of their company, in front of the line, a lieutenant of a full company next to them, the rest of the officers in front, near the colonels. Three regiments are separated by small gaps, and in front of them all is Colonel Heverad, in steel armor and a helmet with a raised visor. His face is sullen and concentrated, and there are black shadows under his eyes. The colonel looks at the orderly ranks of paratroopers, is silent for a short time, then says loudly:
– Soldiers! We have a difficult task ahead of us. As always, though. We have an enemy before us. He knows we are coming and has prepared for the attack properly. Our salvation lies in our training, in our ability to fight in formation, in our tactics. For every soldier in the Corps, there are four enemy soldiers. That's nothing! Each one of ours is stronger than ten of the enemy! Let's show these idiots what the Marine Corps is! Glory to the Corps! Glory to the Corps! Glory to the Corps! Glory to the Marine Corps!
– Aaaah! Aaaah! Aaaah! – the soldiers roared, banging their spears and swords on their shields. The veterans looked gloomily at the sky – is there any rain? It is harder to fight in the rain. The sky was clear, dark blue, almost black. The last stars sank into the sky, became small, dim and invisible. Today many see these stars for the last time…
- Duuuu! Duu! Duu! - "To the right! March!" - The phalanx turned around in unison and, in the same formation, resembling a long snake, stomped towards the exit of the camp, which was already opened by the guards. Only the Security guards, guarding the property of the Corps, and the doctors, preparing to receive the many crippled soldiers, remained in the camp. Today they will have to work hard...
The camp was almost unprotected, and there was no guarantee that the Corps would return here at all. There were such cases in history. In order to save the main staff, all property was abandoned and they retreated, maneuvering until they led the Corps out of the danger zone.
What was done after the defeat with the abandoned property, guards and doctors? Anything happened. Sometimes the Corps managed to return and recapture the camp from the enemy, putting it to flight, but more often the guards died, besieged by the enemy.
As for the healers, the unwritten law of war was: "Do not kill healers!" However, this only applied to those healers who did not take up arms. It goes without saying that if a healer was seen with a weapon, he was killed in the same way as the guards, the same way as the other soldiers. Or taken into slavery. Which is also death. The rest, the "peaceful" healers, were temporarily detained - they treated their own, treated strangers, but in the end they were released. When? And when they got tired of keeping them. When the need for it disappeared. Thank you for not killing at all...
In one day it became clear that they were expected. The wide field, previously planted with rye, was filled with an army - in front stood horsemen, bristling with long spears with sharp tips that shone dully in the morning gloom, behind stood rows of men-at-arms, and behind them - archers and slingers.
"Dueeeee! Dueeeee! Duh! Duh! Duh!" the trumpets blared. "Close ranks! Battle formation! Shields!"
The corps, as a single organism, worked precisely as it had been trained to do all these months. Covered with shields, it resembled a strange creature like a turtle. The large shields looked like the plates of a turtle's shell.
- "Du-duut!" - "Halt!" The corps froze, bristling with long spears. From the enemy ranks three horsemen advanced, with a red shield on a pole, and Colonel Heverad, making a sign to Zayd and Evor, rode slowly towards them.
The Isfirians stopped right in the middle and began to wait for the Zamarians, who were in no hurry to negotiate. Heverad rode leisurely, looking at the sky, with an absolutely carefree look, as if he was not going to negotiate with an enemy four times his size, but for a walk with his mistress, Mrs. Burogas, the young widow of the merchant Edmond Burogas, who had disappeared somewhere on a long voyage five years ago.
Judging by the insignia, similar to those of Zamar, the chief Isfirian was a general, and, as one might assume, the same Kherag that the scout had spoken of.
Kheragu looked to be about fifty years old – an old warrior, somewhat reminiscent of Kheverad himself, tough, strong, a real commander, a military man. Kheverad would have liked him if he had not been an enemy who threatened his future and his very life. Professional soldiers, not court sycophants, easily recognize each other even in a crowd – that expression in the eyes, always wary, looking for hidden danger, that readiness to strike, jump back, kill if necessary – only years of mortal danger can develop the bearing of a real warrior. Kheragu would have liked the colonel too… but fate separated them on opposite sides of the shields.
- Greetings. I am listening to you, General Herag, - the colonel immediately made it clear that he knew a lot, if not everything, and that talking to him as if he were a stupid child would be a mistake. Herag smiled slightly, instantly grasping the essence, and in a hoarse, sonorous voice, accustomed to giving commands, and not to paying compliments to ladies, said:
- Greetings, Colonel Heverad. I have heard a lot about you. It is a pity that we did not meet earlier... no, no - I do not mean this "meeting". - Herag smiled broadly, which caused the wrinkles around his eyes to close, become deep, and his eyes looked at the colonel as if through a slit in a shield-bearer's shield. - You and I are professional soldiers, and I would be happy to drink a glass of good wine in your company!
"Likewise…" Heverad said cautiously, sitting with an impassive face and not reacting to the general's smile. "What are you proposing, General? You didn't just call us to negotiations, did you?"
- Of course, - Kheragh smiled again, - I want to drink this very glass of wine with you. You surrender the corps, no one dies, and we sit together, drink wine, talk about the war, about the army, about lovely girls and ungrateful rulers who are ruining the army, and then - you accept the citizenship of King Isfir. All officers and soldiers who wish to accept the citizenship of Isfir and serve in our army will be accepted on the same terms on which they served in the army of Zamara. The rest will become slaves. Or, if they raise their sword against the legitimate king of the continent, they will die. This is my appeal to you. What do you say?
- The king of the continent, you say? - Heverad asked with a slight grin. - Isn't it too early? Very far-reaching plans. And as for surrender - tell me, General - would you surrender?
Kheraad looked closely into Kheverad's eyes and said carefully:
– Under certain circumstances – yes… if I were in your place. But… I'm not in your place, I'm in my place, am I not? You know that you have no chance. And I know that in a clash my army will lose many fighters that I need for the march on the capital of Zamara. We will take it anyway, the capital, but why should I lose trained warriors? We must take good care of our army. We are not court idiots, but professionals. And you, as a professional, must understand – there is no chance. Why ruin your fighters? You and your corps, about which we have heard so much, can also serve the king of Isfir, a worthy man, a real king, a military bone, not like your fat pig, who cares only about his stomach. So what? Do you accept our offer?
- You are very eloquent, General, - Colonel Heverad chuckled, - but there is one thing. I do not give up. Never. Under any circumstances. And the fact that we have no chance is your conclusion, not mine. And also - yes, I am a professional. But I keep my word. An officer's word. And I do not take it back. Because it is worth a lot. If we have to die, we will die. We chose this service ourselves. We serve the country.
- Well then... I respect you, - the general nodded, - then you will have to die. But in any case - here is my military salute to you, Colonel! I hope that in the halls of Kualtuk we will sit next to each other when we go to heaven. It will be an honor for me to feast next to you.
The general raised his hand to his eyebrow and threw it diagonally upward. Heverad gave his salute, and they parted. There was nothing more to say. Everything had already been said.
The riders returned to the ranks of their troops, silence fell again. A painful expectation descended on the ranks of soldiers. Some were trembling in anticipation of the fight, some suddenly fell into a kind of sleepy detachment and watched the morning clouds turning pink in the sky, some calmly calculated whether they would survive the upcoming battle, and some said goodbye to this world, remembering the best moments of life and cursing themselves for getting involved in such an adventure. Getting a lifting allowance, two gold coins, of course, is good, but being impaled on a long sharp "shaft" for them is definitely not the dream of a healthy, sexually mature man.
Finally, a signal rang out across the field – the Isfirians were preparing to attack. The spears in the riders' hands dropped, and the horses began their heavy run.
The Isfirian cavalry – heavy, steel-clad men-at-arms, horses like mobile steel towers – what can stand against them? Clods fly from under their hooves, the earth shakes as if in a fever, and groans under steel horseshoes… is there anyone who can withstand the attacking power of this armada?
Zzzzzzz... a cloud of arrows over the heads of the horsemen, like a cloud of midges, descended from the sky onto the ranks of soldiers. The arrows slammed into shields, dug into the ground, pierced legs, arms, and heads that had carelessly stuck out from behind the shield.
Finally the flow of arrows stopped - it was dangerous, you could hit your own people.
– Spears down! Rest them on the ground! Crossbowmen – forward! In command… Fire! Reload! Fire!
The first rows of heavy horsemen seemed to have been mown down by a scythe – steel bolts pierced the armor as if it were cardboard. Powerful crossbows hit so hard that the riders flinched from the hit, as if they had been hit with a huge club, and fell from their horses, unable to overcome the pain shock.
The crossbowmen ran up to the first row, released their bolts, and ran back, giving space to new shooters. They managed to fire three volleys before the cavalry charged.
The long spears, thrust into the ground, rose up like a terrible, deadly palisade, and several horses immediately ran into the points, tore the spears stuck in their bodies from the hands of the spearmen and now fought in front of the line in their final convulsions, filling the surrounding area with wild neighing and watering the ground with fountains of blood. The remaining horses categorically refused to go to the spear points and danced in front of the line, rearing up and throwing off their owners. Other horses pressed on from behind, and such a mess resulted that there was no trace of any line in it. One horse fell on the front row of spearmen - two were immediately crushed by the heavy draft horse and lay, crushed by its corpse, with an expression of torment and surprise on their faces.
"Step back!" came the command.
The ranks took a step back, keeping a distance between the riders and the formation, leaving dead and wounded comrades on the ground - the wounded tried to crawl away so as not to be trampled by steel hooves, but not all succeeded. Spiked horseshoes crushed soft human bodies, and the soldiers screamed, groaned, cried like children in their last desire to live - to live at any cost.
The horsemen, crowded near the line, did not dare to rush at the palisade of spears, with which the defenders from time to time knocked one or another man-at-arms off their horses or crippled horses, and froze in place - an excellent target for the crossbowmen.
A whistling stream of bolts knocked out the riders as if they were targets on an army parade ground, and they began to retreat, turning their horses back.
- Stay closer! Closer to the horses! - roared Heverad, covered by the shield-bearer. - Run after them! March!
The horsemen turned back to their positions, and from the outside it looked quite funny - footmen chasing horsemen, as if they hoped to catch up with them!
But the paratroopers didn't need to catch up with them. The main thing was to get in touch with the enemy so as not to fall under the blow of the Isfirian archers, famous for their skill and powerful, long-range bows.
Literally at the tails of the enemy horses, the paratroopers, out of breath from running, reached the enemy ranks that had let the ingloriously put to flight horsemen pass, and now the real battle began. Shields against shields, spears against spears. Now – skill against skill. And here the number did not matter much – after all, only one warrior stood against one warrior.
The swordsmen standing behind the rows of spearmen holding back the enemy's onslaught took several darts hanging behind their backs and began throwing them at the enemy with great speed and force, not caring where they hit - if they hit a shield, then they hit a shield, if they hit a person's body, then that's good.
The darts had a soft iron tip, no less than four spans long. This tip would stick into the shields, bend into a hook, pierce the hard wood, get stuck, and the dart would hang on the shield, preventing the owner from using it to its full potential. It was impossible to cut off the darts - the long tip did not allow this.
The Isfirians did not have such darts, they considered crossbows and darts unworthy, barbaric weapons, preferring to use bows, the highest achievement of throwing technology of this world. And now General Herag bit his lips, seeing what was happening. It was impossible to use bows, but these same vile darts and vile crossbows were shooting his best fighters, the backbone of the Isfirian army, point-blank.
Having exhausted their supply of darts, the swordsmen rushed forward on command and began stabbing the enemy with short double-edged swords, covering themselves with large shields. This was easier to do now - Isfir's men-at-arms had partly abandoned their shields, and partly were trying with difficulty to cover themselves with useless, dart-studded half-cylinders, now good only for blocking arrows.
The swordsman easily parried such a shield and plunged the sword into the enemy's body. Neither chain mail nor heavy armor saved him - the blade, sharp as a wasp's sting, pierced the armor and reached the body. The blade, sharply expanding into a span from the tip, did not allow the sword to get stuck, and the bloody harvest was in full swing.
Isfir's men-at-arms wavered and, before the eyes of the surprised and indignant Kheragh, began to retreat step by step. A little more and they would run, he realized.
Having given the order, Kheraug sent the rest of the cavalry from the flank to strike the Corps from the rear, and he also sent archers and slingers there. Several thousand infantrymen ran after the horsemen, preparing for battle on the move - putting lead balls into slings and putting arrows on bows.
Seeing this, Heverad ordered part of the Corps to turn back. The spearmen raised their spears and went into deep defense. The advance stopped.
Kheverad looked with fury at the archers turning to shoot - if they were not stopped - there would be trouble. Little by little, from afar, they would simply knock out his fighters, just as today the crossbowmen had effectively destroyed seventy percent of Isfir's heavy cavalry, the enemy's main striking force.
- Mages - forward! Shield bearers - cover! Stand firm, everyone! Don't retreat! We have nowhere to retreat, guys! Mages, fry these creatures! In general - do something, at least throw shit at the scum!
Thirty men in dark clothes with a sign of fire on their shoulders jumped out from the middle of the square. Each mage was covered by four shield bearers - a mage was too rare and valuable to be killed by a random arrow. Heverad took all the mages from the camp - even the healers. The healers could also perform combat magic, and in battle, every blade is worth its weight in gold.
Among the magicians there were young and not so young, and even one gray-haired man of about fifty, bearded, tall, with sharp features. On his shoulder the "flame of the magician" was not golden, but black, blackened silver - a black magician.
The magicians rushed towards the enemy at a run, and the huge shield-bearers, carrying shields as tall as a man, tried to protect them from the enemy's arrows.
The archers noticed the danger, and clouds of arrows pierced the shields and the ground, turning the half-cylinders into something like a clothes brush - so many arrows stuck out of the hard wood, bound with iron. Then the tall magician ordered a stop, the shield-bearers built something like a square, several people raised their shields up - an impenetrable turtle was formed, perfected during training on the agara training ground. It was time to show what a black magician is.
The mages lined up like an arrow, clinging to each other with their hands, closed their eyes, and the one who was at the tip of this "arrow" began to chant a spell. Two defense mages stood next to each other and also began to cast a spell - all their strength, all their skill was used only for defense - physical and, most importantly, anti-magic. The enemy also had mages, and it was quite obvious that they could appear soon.
Finally, the defense was set up, and the shield-bearers in front ran to the sides, as if clearing the way for the battle spell. The black magician waved his arms, shouted the last words of the spell, and suddenly hail fell from the sky. Large, like a chicken egg.
There is always a lot of moisture in the air, especially in coastal areas. This moisture, under the influence of the black magician's magic, concentrated into ice grains, which quickly became covered with frozen water. In a matter of seconds, under the influence of powerful forces set in motion by ancient spells, the small ice floes formed the strongest ice projectiles, leaving dents even in strong shields. And if shields have a hard time, what can we say about people? Bruises, contusions, and even fatal injuries - that's what the Isfirians received.
The whole point was that such a mass of people could not be destroyed by one spell. For this, apocalypse spells are needed, and these are very, very dangerous spells. These spells do not discriminate - they hit both their own and others. Creating a hail in a circle in one li is also not an easy task - it was necessary to combine the efforts of more than two dozen strong magicians, but the effect was very good - try shooting from bows when you are hit on the head with ice projectiles! Or throw lead nuts if you just got your eye knocked out by an ice cube!
Heverad saved the power of the mages for the most critical moment. And it came. Now he needed time. The crossbowmen knock out the men-at-arms and horsemen, and the swordsmen and spearmen slowly but surely move forward, grinding the enemy army.
The Isphirians were suffering horrific losses, the likes of which General Herag had never seen before. He had never encountered the Marine Corps, only heard of them, and now he was seeing first-hand what excellent training and proper tactics could do.
The Corps suffered losses, but for every one of Zamar's fighters killed, there were at least fifteen to twenty Isfirians killed. It was a disaster. In a few hours, the Corps would simply crush Isfirian's army, make mincemeat out of it.
Herag glanced at the group of mages watching their colleagues from Zamara 'work' and cursed:
- What are you standing there for?! Do you see what they're doing to the archers?! Do something!
"They're under the dome," the senior mage explained haughtily, "we need to get closer to try to remove the protection. We can't do anything from here. And if we create something similar to their spell, it will hit ours too."
Kheragh gritted his teeth helplessly - the hail and rain washed over the archers like autumn leaves, they were already soaking wet, but it didn't matter - the main thing was that their bowstrings were wet, and it was impossible to shoot from bows now!
He suddenly remembered again that the crossbows had steel bowstrings, twisted from wire, and cursed again - damned colonel! It wasn't for nothing that Heverad talked about chances!
And then Kheragh gave the order to retreat. We need to hide in the city and wait for reinforcements. And also think about how to destroy this demon colonel.