The rikanes climbed in the sky, wave after wave, aimed at the exposed orzacs in the center. Being so scattered, the troops weathered the bombardment without heavy losses—but then the slobberings appeared at the base of the hill. They charged with haste, waving their azziles. Obviously, the orzacs couldn’t resist for long, and there was no way of saving them. He had to swiftly defeat Ugo’s left wing and turn on the slobberings before Kizac’s orzacs would be crushed to death, exposing the flank of the grahs.
He moved to the front of his riders, waiting for the enemies to fall into the ambush before launching his charge.
A scout appeared from the bushes.
“Your Greatness, the arcanians are approaching!” the scout yelled from a distance.
“The arcanians!”
The word hit him like an electric shock; he had to use all his strength to fight against the panic because he finally understood what the gray specks were: guvals! Guvals running toward them! The news spelled death, and there was no way of cheating it…
Even though he couldn’t see them from there, he knew that the arcanians—the guval tamers—were marching right behind the monsters.
The arcanians couldn’t be more different from the beasts they handled. They were usually described as tall and extremely thin creatures with little to no muscles in their bodies. According to the legends, they always fought in the same way: they bridled the guvals into battle from a long leash, and as they approached the enemies, they pulled vigorously from a specially crafted metallic wire inserted in the strap. A ring of poisoned thorns85 around the necks of the beasts pierced their flesh, torturing them with the most atrocious pain possible.
It was easy to imagine the slaughter they made in front of them before they died in horrible spasms from overheating. In the highly unlikely situation that someone dared to survive, the arcanians speared them to death with their long spears, called shtitzes.
Needless to say, no army—no matter how large or well prepared—ever withstood such an attack. His cleverly devised plan collapsed like a dome of smoke in front of the abominations lured by Dedris’s hidden aromas!
“Do we have stakes? Something to stop them?” he asked a prodac.
“No, Your Greatness,” he answered.
“Anyway, that wouldn’t help,” he exclaimed. “The guvals would easily jump over them. How do we fight, then?”
“Your Greatness, we’re awaiting your orders!”
He was alone. In the old days, the baitars often relied on the advice of their most experienced soldiers, but here, he was on his own.
Disaster, he thought, shaking his head. If we attack from three sides, the guvals are going to rip us to pieces. They have to release all the monsters in one direction before the dwarves blow their cover.
If the guvals had to run uphill, they would overheat quickly… which could only mean one thing: he, and the orzacs around him, had to attack in haste! Obviously, they wouldn’t stand a chance against the poisoned monsters. But the guvals would die anyway—the essential thing was that their arcanian tamers would fall into what remained of his trap after the threat of the guvals disappeared.
It was almost funny how things connected. He was on a virtual hill, in a virtual world, in the middle of a virtual army, in a fight created for the amusement of the bixanids. Thousands of similar battles happened on the islands floating in Uralia’s skies, thousands of fights with no consequences, save for the pride of the defeated players. Yet, his fight had a deadly stake…
What were the chances of surviving a charge against a pack of guvals? Insignificant, at best, insignificant. That, of course, wouldn’t stop him from doing it, just as it hadn’t stopped him before now, just as it hadn’t stopped any Sigian soldier. For a moment, he felt the absurdity of the situation, the absurdity of playing the secrets of the Sigians in a fantasy, the absurdity of charging poisoned guvals…
Perhaps watched from great heights, things had a logic of their own—but if he dissected them, the logic disappeared. And no real army ever fought over edible grass. He regretted now that he had missed the chance to taste it in the prison meadow. I’m going to fix that, he promised solemnly. If I fall in battle, I’ll take a mouthful before someone beheads me! Then, he would escape through the skylight. And if the Ropolitans tried to stop him, he would show them a poisoned guval…
He turned to his soldiers. Everyone knew what they were up against and that they were going to certain death.
“Courage, my orzacs, courage!” he shouted. “I know you’re afraid, I know we can’t survive this ordeal. Nevertheless, we’ll charge, to give the others a chance to win!”
He pranced his moulan and raised his purple sarpan over his head.
“Our fight will live forever in Antyra’s memory! Follow me, my riders! Charge!” he roared, storming downhill.
The orzacs unleashed a terrifying battle cry. Its thundering echo, carried over the hills and valleys, warmed his kyi. Why not admit that he liked it? He was Huxile, like he dreamed of countless times in his childhood. Anxiety, yes; fright, plenty of it—but he also felt impatient to reach the heat of the battle, despite it being so hopelessly suicidal.
A familiar rumble started to roll on his trail. The moulans also sensed the proximity of the danger, the ubiquitous smell of the cold sweat of fear swinging them out of their usual apathy.
They were galloping downhill like an avalanche of molten metal, their speed increasing with every passing moment.
Less than a hundred yards stood between them and the guvals… Even though Gill kept telling himself that it was a virtual world, his mouth dried out, filling with a bitter taste. He felt his muscles become as tense as the tarcan’s vein; his right hand spasmodically clenched the sarpan while his left clutched the attack reins, ready to open a path through the flesh of the gray beasts in front of him.
A sharp howl burst from the chests of the guvals as they broke free from their leashes. They were poisoned! A gray torrent of monsters sprang forward to tear them into small pieces, their tiny red eyes bulged by the unbearable pain. The last ones ripped apart several arcanians who didn’t move out of the way fast enough, and nothing was standing between them and Gill’s army, nothing to stop them.
He felt the knot of time expanding again. He could see the monsters through a thick fog, eating the space between them… Just a few more jumps and… He squeezed the moulan between his thighs, bracing for impact. Three… two… one… then came the terrible blow. The orzacs, in their suicidal charge, went deep into the pack of monsters. The first rows of both camps fell in disarray, piled in mangled heaps.
Gill pulled the attack reins without picking a target, but considering how many they were, it didn’t really matter. A few moments later, his moulan took a hit, losing its balance. He didn’t fall off the rump, but the shock pressed his face into the fur of a guval. His nostrils were assaulted by the heavy stench of the wild beast, sweating in its death throes.
He let go of the reins and grabbed the long hairs with his left hand; he thrust his sarpan twice, thirsty for blood, before the mad monster howled and grabbed his left hand in its fangs. Luckily, he pulled it out of the glove before it was crushed in the terrifying jaws.
He pierced its neck again, and the warm blood burst in his face, blinding him. Another blow coming from behind finally threw him off the moulan, but his right foot became tangled in the net. His moulan got rid of a guval hanging on its neck and dragged him a few dozen feet before three other monsters jumped on the poor animal and knocked it down, scattering its entrails.
Gill managed to release his foot by cutting the net, landing facedown in the grass. Even though he remembered his promise to taste it, he suddenly lost the urge to do it, seeing it all trampled and soaked in blood.