Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [177]
It wasn’t long until bad news came. Brynd had waited for it long enough. First, a private had gone missing beyond the town of Portastam, which lay at the center of the island’s eastern plains. His riderless horse trotted to a troop of Dragoon soldiers out on a scout. Three followed the horse’s hoof prints to investigate. Only one returned, caked in blood and slumped in his saddle. Finally his unit managed to persuade the shivering man to dismount, revealing that his breastplate had been severed cleanly by something phenomenally sharp.
He did not speak for an hour.
When the words came they were initially incoherent, like the mad incantations of a disturbed beggar on the streets of Villjamur. He juddered. Then he managed to gibber about carnage and slaughter.
Brynd quickly organized his remaining troops and readied them for combat.
Blavat spent a moment enhancing the metal armor of the Night Guard with a vald, but she could only strengthen Brynd’s saber in such a short space of time. He hoped that the technology of the Ancients would last long enough.
The plan would be to stay as one staggered unit, with the two flanks moving forward, the center slightly behind to form a pincer. The soldiers adjusted their armor and withdrew their weapons while the snow came and went in assiduous gusts.
Brynd shouted some final orders and the Jamur forces rode on.
Cresting a hill, they were presented with a small group of unknown creatures. In the thick of the snow it was impossible to determine what they were, but they were massed there like a regimental unit at the base of the slope, about fifty of them in all, and nothing else as far as the horizon. Brynd had to make a snap decision to either retreat or to charge, because his men were clearly visible now—and Nelum gave a nod to confirm what Brynd himself was thinking, so the call was given, and the Imperial troops, who outnumbered the creatures heavily, rode headlong into combat, hooves pounding against the snow.
Brynd’s flank spread out along the side with Apium’s waiting briefly then following suit, forming the classic pattern of a pincer attack.
The creatures stood their ground, tilting forward in a uniform movement.
Fifty of them versus over two hundred of the best Jamur soldiers.
Brynd’s horse closed the distance to pull ahead of the opposite flank, instinct leading at this pace of combat. He brought down his cultist-enhanced saber flaring purple through the falling snow and cleaved the first creature’s skull. It buckled to its knees, but still was taller than any human. The other flanks connected, driving their horses over the enemy. The black armor of their enemy was now distinct against the snow as they lashed out with their claws when the Jamur forces were within range. Brynd could hear his troops howling and grunting all around him as he hacked his way through the enemy. Their shells cracked open and buckled under the ferocious impact of his blows. At first they seemed surprised more than anything, presenting not so tough a challenge, but his soldiers began dropping too. From the corner of his eye he spotted the head of a woman Dragoon getting caught in a giant claw and then her skull exploding as it clamped shut. These weren’t the usual tribesmen armed with a few arrows.
Soon horses were collapsing around him in spectacular numbers, slamming their riders to the ground, where they continued to fight desperately. Brynd’s flank was now severely diminished. In the end the sheer number of Jamur troops began to prevail, and the last of the horrific creatures were slashed down.
As Brynd dragged his horse out of the bloody scrimmage, a quick head count told him there were only around a hundred Jamur fighters left in all. A hundred of his soldiers had died against just fifty enemy troops.
The survivors, men and women, were pulled from the pulpy mass of the dead and dying, and it wouldn’t be long until the snow covered this dark stain on the landscape. Brynd was greatly