The Forever Man: Clan War Read online

There was a collective groan from the men as they watched the fireballs coming, helpless to do anything about it.

  But, twenty yards out from the wall they exploded, as if they had struck an invisible barrier.

  Nathaniel punched the air. ‘Oorah!’ He shouted. ‘Gogo and her acolytes rule.’

  A cheer went up from the men as they realized that they were protected from the Fair-Folk magik. Nathaniel only wished that they could have also protected against arrows and spears, but Gogo had said that magik could only protect against magik. Shields and armor would have to do against standard weapons.

  ‘Right, boys,’ said the marine in his magik enhanced voice. ‘Now it’s our turn. Lock and load, missiles ready.’ There was the sound of six thousand wooden clicks as the Free Men loaded their arrows into their woomeras. ‘Fire!’

  Six thousand heavy arrows fluted into the air.

  ‘Reload,’ shouted the marine.

  ‘Fire. Reload…fire. Reload…fire. Reload…fire.’

  By the time the first six thousand arrows struck there were already another eighteen thousand in the air.

  The Orcs raised their shields above their heads and the arrows struck with sound like hail on a tin roof.

  Most of the arrows bounced off shields and helms and armor. But some found flesh. Unprotected necks, faces and feet. Orcs went down but, as they did, the row behind would move up to take their place. Moving forward. Implacable. Emotionless. Like a well oiled machine.

  Then the goblin archers were in range. Ten thousand bows bent and fired. Ten thousand cloth-yard steel tipped arrows flew into the air. Again and again and again.

  ‘Shields!’ Shouted Nathaniel.

  The men grabbed their shields and held them above their heads. Arrows whispered down from the heavens. As thick as a rainstorm. As powerful as a tsunami. The screams of the wounded and dying rent the air as steel tore through flesh and bone.

  And then they were there.

  Ladders thrown up against the wall. Orcs swarming up in their hundreds, climbing onto the wall.

  ‘Repel them,’ shouted Nathaniel. ‘Repel the bastards.’

  A face appeared in front of him. Gray, half covered with a bronze helmet. Piggy eyes. No nose. Nathaniel swung his axe and shattered the thing’s skull. It fell backwards without a sound only to be replaced by another. He swung again, the axe dancing in his grip like a living thing. An extension of his own limbs. A steel bladed extra arm.

  All along the wall men hacked and hewed. Grunting with the effort as they swung their heavy swords, their axes and their spears.

  Next to him Tad was wreaking havoc with his two long knives. One in each hand, he would stab viciously at the eyes of any pig face that breached the wall, jumping back and forth, as graceful as a dancer as he danced the death salsa.

  The sound of steel on steel slowed and then stopped and Nathaniel realized that the Orcs were retreating. Not one had made it on to the top of the wall.

  He heard the sound of whispering death as the ten thousand goblins unleashed their arrows once again.

  ‘Shields!’ He shouted.

  And his men raised their shields above their heads for a second time in order to weather the storm of steel death.

  ‘Return fire,’ commanded the marine. ‘We can outrange them with our woomeras. Get up, get up.’ He stood up and walked along the wall, arrows whispering all around him. One clanged off his chest plate, leaving a bright scratch mark. ‘Come on, boys. Show them what we’re made of.’

  The men stood up and fitted the heavy arrows to their woomeras. Goblin arrows struck human flesh and many men went down. But then the human arrows were in flight and they descended on the goblins like the very wrath of the gods themselves. The heavy oak and steel bolts punching into the lightly armored archers, shattering helms, riveting them to the ground. Sometimes literally splitting them in half as they smashed into them.

  Unable to withstand the onslaught, the goblins withdrew out of range and their weapons lay silent.

  A cheer went up amongst the humans.

  ‘Oorah!’

  ‘Clear the walls,’ commanded Nathaniel. ‘Look to the wounded. Don’t throw the ladders down, pick them up and put them down on our side so they can’t use them again. Come on, boys.’

  Roo came running up, behind him were a bunch of young boys, Papa Dante’s people. Some were carrying stretchers, others mugs and water barrels.

  Nathaniel nodded at the Aussie.

  ‘Thanks, Roo. Good thinking.’

  And all around, the Free Men cleared up and treated their wounded, restocked the supplies of arrows, replaced rent shields and shattered swords and quenched their thirsts.

  An hour later the Orcs came again.

  ***

  Someone handed Nathaniel a chunk of bread and a lump of cheese. He chewed on it mechanically, washing it down with water from a jug.

  The Orcs had come three more times that day and the marine was exhausted beyond belief. But his unbelievable skill with the axe and his ability to move faster than any normal human had motivated his own men to perform at a higher level than would normally have been possible. He was a god of war and they were his disciples.

  On the third attack the Orcs had managed to make it onto the wall, coming over the top in two separate paces. But in both instances The Forever Man had used his freakish speed and strength to beat them back. His massive, two bladed axe cleaving flesh and bone as he hacked them down.

  By the time the sun was setting, men had to spread river sand on the battlements to stop slipping on the congealing blood that the walkways were awash with.

  Nathaniel had overtaxed himself. He had written checks that his body was now unable to cash. Even the act of breathing was proving almost too much for him. Tad had sent for Gogo and the old lady had arrived, taken a quick look at The Forever Man and then brewed up an herbal tisane for him and made him drink the whole pot. Color had returned to his cheeks and now, finally, he was able to eat, albeit without any enjoyment or even acknowledgement of what he was doing.

  Gogo pulled Tad aside.

  ‘Watch him, little big man,’ she had said. ‘Make sure that he sleeps and tomorrow, when they come again, ensure that The Ten are with him. Another day of such expenditure of energy may leech his life force from him. Today he did the work of twenty men. If he does the same tomorrow I doubt that he will survive.’

  ‘But, I thought that he was immortal,’ argued Tad.

  ‘Oh, he will not die,’ said Gogo. ‘But his life force will be extinguished. He will live out eternity as a mere shell. A vegetable. Forever.’

  Tad shuddered at the thought.

  ‘I’ll take care of him, Gogo.’

  She patted Tad on the cheek and walked away.

  That night Nathaniel slept like the dead.

  He woke in the morning before sunrise. Bright and full of energy, no trace of the prior day’s exhaustion.

  Tad breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘So, little big man,’ said Nathaniel. ‘How did we fare yesterday?’

  ‘Lost almost a thousand men dead or injured. I’d say we took out two thousand of them, maybe more,’ said Tad. ‘Another two days like that and it’s all over. We can’t hold the wall with less than three thousand men.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the marine. ‘I’ve been in these extended battles before. I saw it when I fought amongst the Picts. Today we won’t lose nearly as many. The gods of war are annealing us, cutting the fat. The ones that we lost were our weakest, slowest, least lucky. Brave men, make no mistake, but the weakest go first. Harsh but true. You shall see today, we won’t lose more than two or three hundred.’

  Nathaniel felt the surge of static electricity again and a high-pitched roaring in his ears. He pulled in some power and pulsed a thought at Gogo.

  ‘Gogo, can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, child.’ Gog’s reply echoed softly in his skull. ‘No need to shout. Simply think and I shall hear.’

  ‘Something’s
happening,’ thought Nathaniel. ‘Their mages are going to attack. It feels different to yesterday though. Harder, More powerful.’

  ‘We are ready,’ reassured Gogo. ‘Do not worry.’

  The noise in Nathaniel’s ears reached a crescendo, but when he looked around him it was obvious that no one else could hear it. Then, lightening started to march across the open ground towards them. Each blinding detonation getting closer. Pillars of exploding incandescent white light. But, like the fireballs, when they reached the twenty-yard mark they simply skittered and smashed away at the invisible screen and then faded out.

  The men cheered and stuck their fingers up at the enemy, cursing and insulting them.

  Then the war drums started again and thirteen thousand Orcs tramped towards the wall.

  As they had the day before, the men unleashed their heavy arrows and the goblins replied with their cloth-yards. The Orcs reached the wall and threw up their scaling ladders and the battle truly began.

  The marine strode the battlements like a force of nature. His axe swung without pause, hacking, dismembering. Killing. Heat boiled off him in waves and his black armor became red with the dark essence of the Orcs.

  And men died in their hundreds. And orcs died in their thousands.

  Again they came. And again.

  On their forth charge they broached the top of the wall, forming a square on the right hand side. Nathaniel cried out and forged towards them, his axe held high.

  They were as wheat before the scythe. Chaff before the storm.

  Tad stood back and watched in awe. It wasn’t only the marine’s superior speed, or his strength. It was the fact that he deigned not to defend himself. The double bladed axe was all about attack. There was no subtlety in movement. There was grace and skill, a dance was been performed, but it was simple dance. A crude two-step without grace nor rhythm. It was simple momentum. The heartbeat of the storm. The elegance of an avalanche. A poetry of destruction. And it caught others up in its maelstrom, dragging them into its vortex of violence, empowering all around him as they saw their king wreak havoc on the enemy.

  And behind him strode The Ten, their blood red armor glistening in the wan sunlight, their massive broadswords cleaving all before. A combine harvester of death.

  There were many casualties, for the Orcs were bred for battle and they were tough and resilient.

  But they were not human.

  They were not men.

  So, when the sun crept back behind the horizon, leaving the dark to cover the devastation and ruin with its cloak of night, the wall was still under the sole occupancy of the Free Men.

  ***

  Torches guttered and spat on the wall as the sentries peered into the night. Nathaniel had left guards on the wall although he was sure that the Orcs would not attack during the night. It would have held no advantage for them.

  Now he walked amongst the wounded. Rows and rows of them in makeshift tents. He had been wrong when he had told Tad that their losses would be limited to a couple of hundred that day. They had, in fact, lost another five hundred dead or injured. And the cries of the wounded wrung at his heart.

  But none complained to him as he greeted them. Stopping to kneel next to them and holding their hands. Encouraging them. Praising their courage.

  They smiled as best they could. Some winked at him, others saluted from their bloody beds. Others were too gravely injured to move, but their pain-filled eyes followed him as he passed, and in them he saw no blame, only pride, honor.

  Suddenly he felt his hair rise and heard a keening in his ears.

  ‘Gogo,’ he pulsed a mental shout. There was no answer. ‘Gogo!’ He screamed again.

  Finally she answered. Her mental voice quiet and sleep filled.

  ‘Yes, child. What is it?’

  ‘They’re attacking. The Fair-Folk are attacking. Something’s coming.’

  ‘There’s no time for me to wake the acolytes,’ said Gogo. ‘You must throw up a shield. Do it. Now.’

  ‘How?’ Asked the marine.

  But there was no answer and, anyway, it was too late.

  Lightening marched through the camp, stabbing blindly at the earth with large blue-white daggers of explosive heat. The wounded flew into the air, their bedclothes burning, their flesh sloughing off them in slabs. Tents caught alight and men that were struck directly simply exploded.

  Nathaniel drew in power and then pushed back. He had no idea what he was doing. He simply reacted, fighting power with yet more power. The air above the wall literally burst into flame. Gouts of yellow fire poured down onto the wall and the plains beyond, burning men and Orcs alike. Nathaniel had absolutely no control over his power and the firestorm cascaded from side to side. Vast areas of forest burst into flame. Pillars of fire shot high into the atmosphere, lighting up the very clouds themselves with a sickly sodium-yellow glow.

  The Fair-Folk pavilion burst into flame sending its occupants scurrying away in panic.

  Nathaniel collapsed to the floor in a dead faint and the fire storm switched off instantly, leaving only burning grass, smoldering timbers and the rank steaming bodies of fire-killed Orcs and humans alike.

  Gogo appeared out of the smoke and wreckage, blind but all seeing. She walked straight up to the marine and knelt next to him. She slapped his cheeks a few times and he came to, shaking his head groggily.

  ‘Messy,’ she said to him. ‘No control. Still, they appear to have stopped.’

  Tad came running up.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ He shouted.

  ‘The Fair-Folk attacked us,’ replied Gogo. ‘Nathaniel here reacted to stop them.’

  ‘So the fire storm?’ Enquired Tad.

  Gogo nodded. ‘Yes, that was he.’

  ‘Wow!’ Exclaimed the little big man. ‘Talk about collateral damage. Still, I see that he sorted their pavilion out. Now the gray men have got to grovel in the mud like the rest of their troops.’

  Gogo stood up. ‘Get him something to eat, he’ll be fine. Make sure he rests tonight. Tomorrow will be another long day.’

  Gogo left, going back to her vardo while, all around her, Roo and his assistants separated the dead from the dying, put out fires and tried to bring some semblance of order to the chaos.

  The next morning the Orcs came early, appearing out of the fading dark, dragging tendrils of mist with them. Eleven thousand strong with three thousand archers. Their numbers substantially depleted but still they outnumbered the humans more than three to one.

  This day was different to the preceding two. There were no battle cries. No shouted insults. Man and Orc fought in silence save for grunts of effort and the odd dying scream.

  All energy was channeled into killing. Destroying. Ending.

  There was bravery. A man, stabbed through the gut, running into an Orc, grabbing him and forcing him off the wall, taking three others with him as he fell down the scaling ladder. Another man, jumping in front of an Orc’s blade meant for a friend, taking the steel in his chest and smiling, knowing that he had saved his comrade’s life.

  There was cowardice. A man dropping his blade and running from the wall, ignoring the calls for help, leaving his compatriots to die.

  There was sadness. A young man, sitting on the wall, his entrails spilling out of his stomach, falling between his fingers as he cried for his mother.

  There was vengeance. The Forever Man, striding the walls like a colossus. His axe the forbearer of death. And the Orcs shrank back before him and squealed in porcine terror as he bore down on them.

  And, finally, the host broke and retreated once again.

  Nathaniel climbed down from the wall and Roo met him with a jug of water. The marine drank thirstily and then poured the rest over himself, washing the blood from his face and neck, rinsing the deep viscous redness from his hair and beard.

  ‘Chief,’ said Roo. ‘Slight problem.’

  ‘What?’ Asked Nathaniel.

  Roo pointed behind him. Standing there, arrayed
in neat battle formation, were the two thousand men that Nathaniel had sent to guard the villages in case the Orcs got past the wall.

  ‘They said that they would stand no longer. They said that their place is beside their king. So they came. I couldn’t stop them.’

  Nathaniel walked up to one of the captains who stood in the front of the ranks.

  ‘You. Captain Harlow, isn’t it?’

  The man nodded, a slight sheen of nervous sweat on his face.

  ‘So, Harlow,’ continued Nathaniel. ‘You deign to disobey a direct command from me?’

  Harlow shook his head.

  ‘No, sir. Definitely not , sir. Possible misunderstanding, sir.’

  ‘Misunderstanding?’

  Harlow nodded. ‘Yes, sir. We have checked the villages and there is no immediate problem so we returned here, sir.’

  Nathaniel smiled. ‘Fine then, captain. We shall settle for that. A misunderstanding. So, you want to fight?’

  As one, the men all shouted.

  ‘Oorah!’

  ‘Good,’ said the marine. ‘Because I have a plan.’ He drew in a little power and pulsed a command to all of the men on the wall. ‘Come down. Everyone, form up behind the reinforcements. Do it now.’

  There was an instant flurry of activity as captains and sergeants started shouting. Men scurried back and fourth, grabbing helms and shields and spears. Twenty minutes later the Free Men stood in neat ranks. Almost seven thousand of them, waiting for Nathaniel’s command.

  The marine concentrated and then pulsed a thought to Papa Dante.

  ‘Papa.’

  ‘My king. Is that you?’

  ‘None other. Where are you?’

  ‘We have split into two groups of one hundred. Either side of the host, under cover alongside the trenches.’

  ‘Good, on my command I want you to use your woomeras to target the trolls. I need them down, Papa. After the trolls you can concentrate on the Orc officers. Who is in charge of the other group?’

  ‘Tarquin.’

  ‘Fine,’ Nathaniel pulsed the same message to Tarquin who acknowledged.

  Then the marine contacted Brighton and his 2000 cavalry.

  ‘Brighton.’