"Hang these." Yuragor wiped his blade on the Isfirian's robes, resembling a skinned deer, and approached the shaking, kneeling infantrymen. "However, I'll deal with them myself."
He plunged his swords into each soldier in turn, and the demons began to writhe voluptuously, protruding from the blades. Demons need to be fed regularly. If they go too long without feeding, they can attack their master when they least expect it. This is very, very unpleasant.
"Ned... was it worth killing them?" Arnot asked timidly. "Maybe we should have taken them into the camp... even as slaves, but they would have lived. They were very young... like us."
"You dare tell me what to do?" Yuragor's face turned stony, his eyes like two wells filled with icy water. "Who are you to give me advice? Or should I report to you?"
Arnot paled but didn't retreat, though he saw his comrade's hand clutch the hilt of his sword, and he knew how quick Ned had become to punish. A sidelong glance, any violation of orders, was enough for the sergeant to descend upon his adversary and literally crush him to dust—mentally and physically. He beat three scouts within an inch of their lives simply for trying to say something contrary to the sergeant's orders. He maimed a soldier from Jostar's army who tried to strike Ned in the tavern, gouging out his eye. And he cut down a scout who refused his order to execute three Isfirians on the spot. Previously, the scouts had feared and adored Ned; now they feared and hated him.
"Ned, you've changed a lot," Arnot said quietly, looking into the darkened, discolored eyes of his former comrade. "You've become cruel, terrible. No one loves you."
"And you?" Yuragor chuckled, watching with interest as the man before him overcame his fear of death to speak his mind. Fool! His thoughts were plain to see.
"Me? I'm hanging on by the remnants of our friendship. But I, too, am about to transfer to the spearmen," Arnot said firmly. "I don't want to see you like this."
"I don't care what you want me to be!" Yuragor said through clenched teeth. "You'll do what I say, or you'll die. You might as well hang yourself right now—I won't let you transfer! You either do what I tell you, or you die."
"For the first time, I regretted not running away with Oydar," Arnot said thoughtfully. "I have to admit now, he was right about you…"
"Right? How dare you, you monster! Remember—if you say a word about me, about what you know, I'll personally cut out your tongue!" Yuragor leaned over Arnot, bringing his face close, and looked into the boy's eyes. "Look, Arnot, as long as you remain silent, you're alive! Understood?"
"What's there not to understand…" Arnot's face took on a dull, emotionless expression, he turned and started to walk away, towards the group of scouts who had been watching their conversation from afar, but he came to his senses and asked:
- May I be free, Sergeant?
Yuragor paused and replied:
– For now, yes. We're ready to cross, heading back to the city.
Ten minutes later, all thirty people were walking along the path, carefully watching what was happening around them.
This was the location of one of Isfir's armies, shifted from the capital to Estkar, which had become the stronghold of Zamar's defenders. From either side, the two armies slowly but surely converged on Estkar, encircling it in a pincer movement. Everyone understood perfectly well: General Heverad and his army were the only real adversary capable of driving the invaders out of the country. The capital would come later. It would fall into their hands, like an overripe fruit, when there was no one left to defend it.
A month had passed since Yuragor had seized Ned's body. What had changed in the former shepherd's life? Nothing, really. Service, reconnaissance, rest.
"Ned" was well-regarded by his superiors—he delivered intelligence on time, his unit was one of the most combat-ready, but how they obtained it was of no interest to anyone. And who cared that the sergeant had no friends, that everyone quietly and openly hated him? That's what a sergeant is for—to be hated by his subordinates. He wasn't the first, and he won't be the last.
Yes, everyone noticed Ned's behavior had changed. He suddenly withdrew from his friends, avoided conversations, and preferred to spend time alone. Even Zheresar, who had always treated Ned like a son, was cold and dispassionate with him. Especially after Ned broke the jaw of a soldier at dinner for daring to take the sergeant's mug. The boy had to be taken to a mage-healer to save his life, and when Zheresar tried to talk to his friend Ned about it, the latter was arrogant and simply told Zheresar to mind his own business. Had the healer been someone more humble, Yuragor might have responded much more harshly, but the healer was an old friend of Heverad's and could have harmed the mage's career. So he had to restrain himself.
In short, everyone who was close to "Ned" turned away from him, and he was finally left alone, which did not stop him from doing what he wanted in his free time - remembering magic spells, practicing martial arts, going to the tavern (Yuragor was an excellent connoisseur of good wine) and buying young whores.
A bubble of alienation had formed around "Ned," untroubled by it. He was enjoying life, enjoying what a young, healthy body afforded, and making plans for the future. There had been two more attempts on his life that month, which added a certain spice, a piquancy, a vitality to Yuragor's existence.
It was the shatriyas again—two pairs—two men and a man and woman. Yuragor killed them all, and even had fun with the last couple, killing them slowly, skillfully, and painfully.
Alas, they couldn't give the mage anything new, except the pleasure of reprisal. They knew nothing beyond what they were allowed to know. Silena—she knew everything, but... she was far from it. Still far. It was a shame, of course, to destroy the Shatriyas who could have served him, but... Shatriyas can be trained, nurtured. But he only has one body. Let them go alive—tomorrow they'll try again.
Yuragor's saving grace was his ability to read minds—a gift from a demon of the highest order. Anyone who came within fifty steps of the mage inevitably revealed their true identity, detailing how they intended to kill their victim. Incidentally, this was another reason why Yuragor desired solitude. How could he hear the killers amid the deafening chorus of thoughts around him? Yes, sleeping with his mind reader on was tiring. But what could he do? Life was more precious.
Who could have hired Shirduan to eliminate the target? This person must have been extremely rich and powerful. A mere citizen of the kingdom of Zamar could not afford Shirduan's services. And Yuragor knew that as long as the target was alive, or as long as all the Shirduan were alive, the attempts to eliminate "Ned" would continue.
* * *
"We're setting out tomorrow. Intelligence has confirmed the location of the southern army. It's twenty li away. It's a large force—seventy thousand. Forty thousand elite heavy cavalry. The finest, the choicest warriors. Thirty thousand infantry—ten thousand archers, five thousand heavy men-at-arms, and fifteen thousand light infantry—slingers, swordsmen. The army has set up camp, apparently waiting for the second, northern army to arrive so they can attack us en masse. The northern army is fifty thousand strong. Cavalry—twenty thousand, infantry—thirty thousand. They're five days away. Our task is to defeat them individually before the armies converge. Then it will be more difficult."
Heverad glanced around at his comrades and sat down at his desk, in a deep, soft chair decorated with gold embossing on black leather.
- Any questions? General Zhostar?
"Why are you asking me?" the general grumbled. "I'm a nobody here. You're in command of the army now. I just want to ask—where did you get this information about the enemy armies? How can you estimate the size of Isfir's army with such certainty?"
"I have excellent intelligence, General," Heverad nodded, "I trust it. A reconnaissance team returned from the southern army today."
"Is that the sergeant? The Black One?" asked Brogan, the cavalry commander. "They say such terrible things about him... they say he kidnapped an officer right from the Northern Army's camp and cut him to pieces until he told them everything he needed to know. The poor fellow died in agony. Everyone fears him like the plague. A beast is a beast."
"Hmm... for some reason I always thought Ned was too soft," Heverad shrugged. "Well, war changes everyone. The main thing is, his information can be trusted, I'm sure. Let's get down to business, we haven't gathered here to discuss some sergeant. We have more important matters to attend to. So, Colonel Brogan, is the cavalry ready to march?"
– Ready. Ready in one hour. Waiting for the signal.
- Zayd, Evor?
- Ready. Ready. Ready in an hour.
"Good. So, here's the battle plan, look here!" The colonel approached the table and pulled the cover off the map. "Gentlemen, attention! Let's look..."
* * *
"Fire the volleys! Begin!" Heverad commanded the signalman, who began waving his arms, relaying the order to another signalman standing on the hill. Seven thousand archers drew their bowstrings, and the arrows buzzed into the air like a cloud of deadly bumblebees.
The enemy army stood several hundred paces ahead, ready for battle. That night, both sides advanced onto a wide field bordered on the right by a small river, formed battle lines, and prepared for battle. There were no negotiations—what was there to talk about?
The enemy outnumbered Zamara's army two to one, more than two to one. They gathered all the forces they could, everyone who was marching on the capital.
The morning was sunny, bright, and fresh; the sky seemed washed with soap and shone with a brilliant blue. It's hard to die on a day like this. And many, many thousands of people will die today.
The backbone of Heverad's army consisted of the Corps and heavy cavalry under the command of Colonel Brogan. From the cadre of Zamar cavalrymen, mercenaries, and noble cavalry conscripted into the militia, Brogan created a mighty force of thirty thousand horsemen, capable of sweeping away everything in their path. They were to be the first to enter the fray.
The Zamar army's infantry was divided between two colonels: Zaid and Evor took command of the right and left wings. The corps remained under Heverad's command and stood in reserve, hidden behind the hill where the commander's command post was located.
The number of archers in Heverad's army increased to seven thousand—captured Isphyrian bows were given to the infantry, who began receiving accelerated archery training. However, no special skill was required, except one—not to send an arrow into the back of the head of the comrades in front. The main thing was to aim the arrow toward the enemy, where it would find its target. In a tight formation of cavalry or infantry, it was virtually impossible to miss. The arrow would find its victim.
Isfir's horsemen were the first to move. Their mighty ironclad steeds easily carried their equally mighty riders, trained from childhood to the rigors of war. A mounted warrior could not be weak. Just try wielding a spear several meters long and swinging a heavy axe or a sword as tall as a man! With a blow from such a sword, a rider could cut a lightly armored infantryman in half, striking him from the saddle and rising in his stirrups. Heavy armor protected against sabers, daggers, and shear arrows, and only heavy, sharp bolts and arrows with armor-piercing tips could penetrate steel armor, and even then only at a short range. Arrows simply bounced off the polished armor plates.
These steel monsters on enormous horses scattered light infantry like a sweeper sweeps fallen leaves with his crooked broom. Only specially trained heavy armored soldiers, like the Corps soldiers, could withstand the brunt of the heavy cavalry. Or similarly trained horsemen, respectively.
Zamar's cavalry differed little from Isfir's. They had the same armor, the same weapons, the same battle tactics—forming several hundred abreast and, urging their horses on with the heels of their steel boots, charging toward the enemy, choosing with the tip of their steel spears a victim ready to die on this sunny day. But who was ever ready to die? On a sunny day or on a cloudy one…
Heverad deliberately held back the cavalry, not giving the command to attack, even though the enemy mounted men-at-arms were already gathering speed, accelerating for the attack—the faster the speed, the more powerful the blow. Heverad was taking a risk, but… he knew what he was doing.
But the enemy hadn't expected such a large number of arrows from the Zamars. Their powerful bows struck at a range of several hundred paces, and even if they didn't pierce the heavy armor, they still caused damage—piercing horses, shields, and lodged in the armor of the men-at-arms, so they had their deadly harvest. Hundreds of men-at-arms were knocked from their horses, wounded, and killed. When the cavalry galloped within point-blank range of their crossbows, steel bolts knocked out several hundred more horsemen and disrupted the Isfirians' precise and organized formation.
Only when the distance became critical did Heverad give the signal for the cavalry to charge. And the steel avalanche rolled on, slowly gaining speed, slower than desired. But to eliminate fifteen hundred horsemen, it was worth the wait. Archers and crossbowmen stopped firing for fear of hitting their own. Now it was the cavalry's turn.
The colossal steel masses collided with such a roar that flocks of birds in the nearby forest rose up, circling above the battlefield. How did the birds know there would be plenty of food here? That the ground would be fertilized with human blood, and that tasty morsels of flesh would be scattered everywhere, enough to satisfy a vulture's stomach? The birds seemed to understand that humans were preparing a feast for them, and they flocked from all over the area, as if someone had rung a silver bell, calling for dinner.
Some of the spears broke, piercing the steel-bound shields, others were deflected by skillful shield movements, but many struck where they should, tearing and piercing human flesh, impaling men on the long shafts, like a wicked child impaling a hapless bug caught on a porch. Horses struck chest to chest, and a deadly whirlwind of steel blades spun and swirled.
The horses pressed forward, the riders, abandoning their now useless spears, grabbed the axes and huge swords strapped to their saddles—a battle began, where force clashed against force, and there was no tactics or strategy, only resilience and the ability to kill the enemy before he kills you. Strong armor and a strong arm—that's the key to success.
What happens if you strike the bottom of an upside-down metal bucket with a crowbar? What if the crowbar is flat and the edge is sharp? The "buckets" crushed the warriors' heads, blood spurted, and wounded and dead men-at-arms fell at the feet of their furiously wheezing horses. The horses, too, were not immune to the fray—they tore at the enemy's mounts with their teeth, like guard dogs, trying to grab the enemy rider's knees and thighs, rearing and kicking with their steel-shod front hooves.
The horses suffered too – they were stunned, hacked, their legs hacked by wounded riders who fell to the ground, their unarmored bellies ripped open, and their leg tendons severed. The noise, clanking, neighing, and groans of wounded men and animals echoed across the battlefield for miles around. The vast field, specially chosen for the battle, became a semi-liquid swamp, formed from blood and mud churned up by the horses' hooves.
While the horsemen were "settling scores" with axes and swords, the Isfirian infantry advanced to outflank the battlefield and strike Zamar's horsemen from the rear, stationing their archers there and calmly shooting them from the flanks and rear. After all, the Isfirian army outnumbered Zamar's by a factor of one to two. Naturally, they weren't allowed to pass. Two wings of Zamar's infantry were already at the ready, and the two armies became mired in bloody carnage. The heavy armored warriors locked lances against each other, knocking out the front ranks, and then the real slaughter began.
Over the course of that month, Heverad had conducted numerous training sessions, attempting to raise the combat effectiveness of the united Zamar army to the level of the Corps. Of course, this was difficult, practically impossible—time was short, and the men were completely different. The mercenaries, for all their daring and skill, were not as disciplined as the Corps soldiers. And Heverad was certain that if they realized the battle was lost, they would flee. The Corps was accustomed to fighting surrounded, against an enemy several times its numerical superiority. Mercenaries were a different matter. Attack, loot the enemy's corpses, and retreat—the tactic of a desperate predator, nothing more. Behind them came a wave of girlfriends, wives, and daughters, finishing off wounded enemies and collecting trophies, like army ants devouring everything in their path.
The Zamars couldn't get drawn into a mindless massacre. They were outnumbered by half. That meant tactics, skill, and cunning were needed.
Heverad gave the command, and the Corps moved off, moving at a quick walk, half-run, toward the enemy's rear. Cavalry wouldn't make it there—the soft, flooded meadows would sink even heavy horses up to their bellies, while the men trudged along, their boots only slightly muddy.
Heverad himself took command of the corps, placing majors and deputy regimental commanders in the regiments. Leadership changes were necessary because he had to appoint those he trusted to command army units.
He couldn't trust Zhostar's commanders. Kheverad relieved General Zhostar of command, suggesting he remain in the city and await the army's return. He agreed with relief—what else could he do? Kheverad was now commander-in-chief of Zamara's armed forces, and besides, Zhostar was tired of the war. Better to sit it out in the city—there was plenty of good wine, delicious food, and a soft bed that was a far cry from a camp bed.
In the infantry battle, Heverad employed the standard Corps tactics: the front ranks, the heavy men-at-arms holding back the advancing infantry with spears, the swordsmen striking down those brave enough to break through the spearmen's ranks, and the crossbowmen slaughtering every enemy in sight, drenching the Isfirians with a rain of steel. The situation changed dramatically after the infantry clashed, and although to an outside observer it seemed like nothing more than a bloody brawl, now, with the infantry engaged, the scales tipped in favor of the Zamarans. The Isfirian army melted away much faster. The Zamarans were more skilled, better prepared, and the crossbowmen turned the tide of the battle once and for all. The enemy's rout was only a matter of time.