attaCk deLivered at the
prOper pLaCe aNd time .”
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energy, or at least the will to ignore their fatigue. His plan hinged on hiding the disposition of his troops, and he was well aware of the difficulty of doing that in terrain the Iosans knew better than he. There was one bright spot: as Saikhan had predicted, the area was shrouded by thick fog. Until now, this had largely worked to the defenders’ advantage. Xerxis guided Suruk above the fog level to get a clear look at the enemy, and his retinue followed.
“We’re like reptile hounds going up against an archidon,” Loraak said when they finally saw the Iosans. He had spoken louder than he intended and looked abashed when he realized he’d been overheard.
Xerxis frowned but had to admit the comparison was apt. They had to reach the foe to harm them. The Iosans looked impressive in armor that practically glowed in the early light. Their cavalry, both riders and steeds, were as heavily armored as Cataphracts. Their fighting machines looked like giant suits of armor carved with glowing sigils.
“Even the most fearsome foe is vulnerable to an attack delivered at the proper place and time,” he told his nephew. Saikhan emerged from the fog, jogged over to them, and dropped to a knee. “The beast handlers are having difficulty with the bronzeback. It is high-spirited and they do not wish to dampen its reflexes with drugs. They respectfully request that you commence your attack soon to take advantage of its temper.”
Xerxis searched with his mind and found the fiery point of rage that was the bronzeback. The paingivers had used spiked chains secured to sensitive points on its hide. The pain was meant to control the beast, but the bronzeback was too stubborn. Xerxis applied just enough of his will to tamp back its burning rage.
“The timing of our attack will be at my choosing, not that of a titan. Tell them to remember that, lest I have their tongues removed.” Xerxis turned Suruk back into the fog. It was time to rejoin the army.
Just inside the edge of the fog bank were several rows of shackled figures. These captives were the key to Xerxis’ plan— one that never would have worked against a skorne house. He was about to find out if it would work against the Iosans. At his signal, a runner dashed off into the fog. A moment later a horn sounded. Paingivers cracked their whips, and the prisoners began to move. They were Iosans, captured fighters as well as villagers from every town between here and the border.
As the prisoners emerged from the fog, a cry of dismay arose from the Iosan army. Standards dipped, and a horseman broke away from his unit to gallop along the front line and consult with his commander. Xerxis had read them correctly.
Eventually they would determine they had no choice but to fire on their countrymen—after all, their entire nation was at risk—but he did not intend to let them take any decisive action that was not according to his plan.
When his forces were a quarter of the way up the slope, Xerxis lifted his war standard and thrust it twice overhead. The Cataphracts saw the signal and tightened ranks around the prisoners. One of the captured warriors tried to push past the armored skorne. The blade of a polearm spilled his guts out onto the grass.
The rest of the Cataphracts, following Xerxis’ command, tore into the prisoners savagely. By design, most of their blows were not immediately fatal. Iosans screamed as arms were severed and stomachs opened. A few captives broke free and dashed toward the Iosan line, only to be run down and killed. Xerxis had instructed the Cataphracts to butcher the captives in order to goad the enemy into attacking. Despite the discipline of the Iosan army, several units started to break formation, and their commanding officers had to shout them back. The damage was done, however: the shifting line was in disarray, their soldiers in emotional turmoil. It was not the knights who attacked first. Instead a lightly armored arcanist directed one of the myrmidons behind the front lines—a huge construct with a metal blade on each arm and a single horn, similar to Suruk’s—to step forward and fire. A shimmering field of light manifested around it, then coalesced into a beam of powerful energy that hit one of the Cataphracts and burned through his armor. Some Iosans interpreted this as the signal to attack, and many forward elements broke ranks and charged.
The two lines met in a clash of thunder and steel. The heavy armor of the skorne protected them initially, but the Iosans commanded their myrmidons skillfully. Xerxis watched as one machine closed with a group of Cataphracts, using an arcane field to slow their movement, and then ripped into them with arm-mounted glaives. Another rippled with blue flame, leaving fiery corpses in its wake.
Melee swirled around Xerxis. From atop Suruk he swung his deadly flail. Two huge aradus sentinels stood on either side of him, their scorpion-like tails claiming a victim with every thrust. Any Iosan who managed to close was snatched up by their mandibles. Xerxis empowered these beasts with a burst of speed and sent them against a fiery myrmidon that had seared its way through the surrounding Praetorians. The sheer number of enemy soldiers was too much for his force, and his lines began to give. The myrmidons were exacting a gory toll. With a snarl he focused his power, and a field of jagged rocks erupted from the earth in front of him to send one of the machines toppling to the ground, along with a pair of cavalry. Cataphracts moved in to finish them.
He looked around and spotted Loraak, who had just knocked over an enemy halberdier with his shield and impaled him. “Give the order!” Xerxis bellowed. “Fall back!”
The younger skorne nodded, then lifted an ivory horn to his lips and blew. The skorne began to disengage. Praetorian phalanxes backed slowly down the hill, shields locked. Lines of Venator reivers fired their needle guns to cover the rest of the army as they pulled back. Even the Cataphracts gave ground. A cry of victory arose from the Iosans and they surged forward down the hill, exacting a heavy price on the retreating army. Some among them alternated between firing short-ranged but heavy-hitting firearms and hacking left and right with the attached blades.
Xerxis was among the last to reach the fog bank. He yanked hard on Suruk’s reins. The enormous cerops snarled a protest as he drew up short and turned around. An avalanche of warriors pursued them. Just as Xerxis had hoped, his ploy had enraged the Iosans, and the retreat had them scenting blood. But their lines were spread out, with mounted troops far ahead of the infantry, and their myrmidons even farther back. Behind him skorne were reforming into tight, orderly units.
“Release the titans!” he ordered. A few heart-stopping moments later the Paingivers had urged Tiberion, Xerxis’ personal warbeast and leader of the herd, into combat. More titans rose to their full height behind it—most prominently the bronzeback, which trumpeted a battle cry.
Xerxis focused his arcane power on Tiberion and several of the largest titans, directing them to attack. The beasts smashed into the ranks of the Dawnguard first, snatching up warriors in full armor and tearing them in half. Though the Iosan elite troops rallied as best they could, they were no match for the warbeasts. These fighters were not Xerxis’ primary objective for his warbeasts, however, and he sent the titans against the myrmidons that had so brutally torn through his warriors earlier.
Joined by Tiberion and two more aradus warbeasts, Xerxis advanced. He sensed the enemy commander close by, in the middle of a knot of myrmidons. Saikhan’s captured Iosan had said the general’s name was Pelyth and that he was from a noble house. To Xerxis, the man seemed a small, unassuming creature with a bald head, oversized ears, and tattoos across half his face. Despite his appearance, this arcanist wielded tremendous force. A Cataphract unit
had dared engage a heavy myrmidon nearby, and Pelyth gestured at them almost dismissively. Blue fire leapt into being and spiraled around one arm. With a shout, he threw the vortex at the Cataphracts, sending them spinning into the air like dried leaves.
This was an opponent worthy of single combat.
Xerxis compelled Suruk into a charge, guiding the cerops squarely into a nearby myrmidon’s chest. There was a squeal as the beast’s horn parted steel, and Suruk’s huge neck muscles bulged as he lifted the construct into the air. Blue flame washed over them as the myrmidon’s energy field exploded, but Suruk’s armor and hide were thick, and the flame was no more than an irritant, enraging the beast even more.
One of Xerxis’ aradus attempted to engage another myrmidon, but the white machine flickered and disappeared as the insect’s pincer swept through empty air. A second later the myrmidon reappeared a few feet closer and lashed out with an energy-field-enhanced punch that cracked the beast’s armor. It retaliated, tearing through the hardened steel of the myrmidon’s torso with its powerful mandibles, following with a rake of one of its claws.
Xerxis stood in his stirrups and drove the point of his war standard into the myrmidon’s back with all his might. The weapon pierced the construct and came out the other side. With a touch of his will, flames erupted along the shaft and he heard a wail of metal distorting in the intense heat. As the myrmidon toppled onto its back, the banner was lifted high, unfurling to display the symbol of House Kophar.
That got the attention of the enemy commander. The Iosan warcaster turned his steed and stared up undaunted at eight feet of skorne atop thirteen feet of cerops. Xerxis readied Lamentor. He felt renewed pain in his back and chest but suppressed it, showing no weakness to the foe.
The warcaster reached over his shoulder and drew a disproportionately long two-handed sword, curved and glowing. The Iosan spoke, surprising Xerxis with his command of the skorne language: “I am Pelyth, and this is the sword that felled the eldritch Damonsenes. Dying by this blade is an honor a barbarian like you does not deserve.” “It is an honor I do not seek,” answered Xerxis. “But if it comes, I will accept it. You fought well today. Your descendants will remember your name and mark the place where you fell.”
Pelyth advanced, holding the sword horizontally just above his head. “The captives you killed deserved a better end.” “Perhaps,” said Xerxis. “But a worthy death must be earned. I will grant you the opportunity for such a death.”