Opening Engagement

The massed ranks of Imperial soldiery stood stoically still in the scrubland; shining blue and morbid black glinting in the mid-afternoon sun. There were hundreds of them. Thousands, and all of them united in their purpose.

That purpose being to throw the Iquani horde back into its own accursed land once and for all.

Tal observed their ranks with a critical eye, a scowl etched onto his weathered features.

“A magnificent sight, is it not?”

Tal said nothing as the heir to House Esquith approached to stand beside him. To his own mind, the state of their dress was the only thing about this rabble that could even be considered acceptable. Too many men along the files were slumped and wavering–victims of exhaustion–and Tal would consider it a miracle if even half of them managed to keep themselves from collapsing within the next hour. The only ones who seemed to be in any real shape to fight were the Griffin cavalry, resplendent on their proud mounts, and the Golem Knights. If the Iquani were bringing as many warriors as their scouts had reported, then it would fall to them to keep the rank and file from breaking.

“You didn’t answer me,” Myder Esquith said, turning to face his bodyguard. Tal looked down at his charge. The little lordling was–in true noble fashion–stunningly handsome to behold, with wavy blond hair, a strong, aquiline nose and high cheekbones, a winning smile, and possessed of a set of the purest cerulean blue eyes Tal had ever seen. Rumours abounded among the plebeians of inbred nobles, but such whispers would no doubt have been silenced had any of them looked upon this son of a baron. He was young, having only recently celebrated his twentieth birthday, and, like many among the nobility, was ambitious beyond his years.

By contrast, Tal was dull and ugly; a little less than twice Myder’s age, with short, dark hair that was starting to grey at the edges, a jagged scar that cut vertically across his lips, and a sour expression that did little to compliment his craggy features. A blacksmith’s son, he had grown up in a modest home–never poverty-stricken–but certainly far from comfortably off. Then war had broken out with the Empire’s old foe–the Iquani–and Tal had been drummed up into the ranks like so many other young men. On one blood-slick field he had, in a fit of desperation, taken a fallen Golem and gone on to save the life of Lord Esquith himself from a Behemoth. When the battle was over, the Baron had generously allowed Tal to keep the Golem and, in addition to having it repaired, taken Tal as one of his bodyguards and before assigning him to his young son when he came of age.

“Have you forgotten your manners already?” Myder asked with a pointed look, which faded and gave way to a much shrewder expression. ‘Or are you afraid of lying to me?’

Tal blinked and regarded his charge for a moment.

“A lot of the men are dead on their feet,” Tal said slowly after a moment’s consideration, “it’ll be… difficult for them when battle is joined.”

Myder frowned, turning to peer at the rows of men from up on the hill.

“They seem fine to me.”

“You’ll see it if you get closer I’m sure,” Tal told him.

Myder opened his mouth to speak, and Tal was sure a rebuke was coming, but a sudden interruption stalled the young lordling before he even begun.

“Lord Esquith,” a thin, reedy voice intoned. Tal and his young charge turned to see a tall, slender looking man standing off to one side. He was dressed in a dark tunic and plain, dark grey trousers. A short sword hung loosely at his hip and his long, fair, brown hair waved gently in the morning breeze. He was utterly plain and unremarkable to look at save for a wart above his left eyebrow.

“The Count summons you,” the slim newcomer informed them, his tone bland.

Myder’s lips pressed into a tight, thin line. Tal frowned but said nothing. ‘The Count’ could only be Count Thule, and before he had turned up with an extra thousand men, an entire company of Griffon cavalry, and eight more Golem Knights including himself, Myder had been in command of the force. Tal was secretly relieved at the change, but the sudden, unexpected arrival had almost driven the young heir into a rage at what he firmly believed was a usurpation of his command; his opportunity to prove himself to both his father and his country.

For a moment, Tal thought Myder might snap at the messenger, but was pleased, and not a little surprised, when Myder plastered an amiable smile onto his face and said, “Well then, let us oblige him. Shall we Tal?”

***
They met in a tent erected beneath the feet of Count Thule’s personal Golem. The monstrous machine stood a full three meters taller than either Tal or Myder’s war engines. It was hunched with a dull cream carapace with a deep red trim and covered in what seemed to be battle scars from top to bottom. One thick arm ended in a wickedly sharp claw which Tal heard tell could crack even a giant’s thick skull like a walnut, while in the other was held an ornate mace which had so many combat runes carved into it the head of the weapon literally exploded on contact with an enemy, or so Tal had heard tell.

“Ugly beast, much like its pilot,” Myder murmured to Tal as he took in the sight of the Count’s machine. Tal elected to say nothing, instead giving a noncommittal grunt. Myder gave him a curious look, one eyebrow cocked at his bodyguard. He too, however, said nothing, instead turning his attention back to the Golem as they made their way towards the entrance to Thule’s tent.

“What on earth…” Myder breathed, stopping so suddenly that Tal almost bumped into him.

“What is it?” the thin messenger asked of them, regarding them with some mild curiosity.

“The scars…” Myder said, almost agape, eyes roaming all over the Golem’s body, “I thought they were… but they’re not. They’re… those are all…”

“Names, young Baron,” a deep, rumbling voice finished for him.

Tal found a moderately sized man who appeared to be in his mid-forties at the entrance to the tent. His head was completely shaven, and covered in tattoos that looked to form some sort of script. He was garbed in a silver breastplate that bore the coat-of-arms of House Thule, wearing a simple white tunic underneath and deep purple pantaloons held in place with a thick black belt and rugged boots. The Count was powerfully built with a barrel chest and tree trunk thick forearms, but his thuggish appearance belied a hawkish intellect and a sound mind for tactics, or so Tal had heard.

“Names, Lord?” Tal asked, noticing Myder’s slack-jawed expression was slow to fade.

Smoky grey eyes regarded Tal with a measure of curiosity, as if the noble was trying to gauge him. After a moment, the Count nodded almost imperceptibly, a gesture Tal returned. The Count then turned his steely gaze to Myder, who had managed to tear his own eyes from the Golem looming overhead to its pilot.

“Aye,” the Count confirmed, “all the brave souls who have lost their lives under my service, immortalised forever on the carapace of my steed, so that I never forget that I do not fight alone.”

The Count looked out towards the assembled ranks of Imperial soldiery. He lingered on them for a moment before turning his attention back to Myder, “We have a duty to them, young Baron,” he told him. “The plebeians look to us to inspire them both on the battlefield and off of it. Many of these men have likely never have ventured beyond their homes before now. Many more still will not have seen an Iquani Behemoth, and as I’m sure you’re aware, it is a daunting foe at first sight.”

“Quite,” Myder agreed with a sage nod. Tal fought to keep a deep frown off his face; his charge had yet to so much as glimpse a Behemoth in the flesh.

“We are nobility, Esquith,” the Count continued, “and that means we must act as such, no matter the circumstances. I hope you will remember this, and bear it in mind. Now, if you’ll follow me inside,” Thule said, motioning towards the interior of his tent with an incline of his head, “we have business to discuss.”

“As you wish,” Myder replied in a demure fashion. When the Count had disappeared back into his tent, however, he donned a scowl.

“Oaf,” he muttered darkly.

“He’s giving you advice lad,” Tal cautioned, keeping his expression neutral.

‘If I wanted advice I would have asked for it,’ Myder snapped quietly. “He’s rubbing it in. He’s taken my command and now he lords it over me like he’s my superior.”

“Pardon this old plebeian tongue, young lord, but in a manner of speaking, he is.”

Myder rounded on Tal in a heartbeat, his pure blue eyes ablaze with barely-restrained aggression. Tal held his ground.

“The Count has a good deal of experience in war-making, and I’ve heard tell that he is fair and just in the governance of his territory as well; takes extra steps to appease the Spirits too. Few friends naturally, given his disposition, but if I were in your shoes I doubt I’d find a better figure to learn from than Count Thule. Finally, young lord, is the fact that he is a Count, and you are a Baron.”

Myder opened his mouth to argue, but Tal swiftly cut him off, “The Count awaits, young lord, and it is considered impolite to keep a man of status waiting.”

The aggression on Myder’s face lessened a fraction, and was quickly replaced by surprise.

*He remembers,* Tal thought to himself with some amusement. Many years previous, when Myder’s father had charged him with the duty of guarding his young son of some five years, the precocious boy had said much the same to him then.

Myder worked his jaw around, clenching and unclenching, before nodding stiffly and turning away from Tal to enter the Count’s tent without another word. Tal grunted, amused, and followed the young baron.

The interior of the tent was decidedly Spartan in its décor, or rather, the lack of it. A simple wooden table with a map of the area was laid upon it, and several tokens denoting the various military units amassed under the Count’s command were laid in formation upon it. Three men wearing breastplates whose faces were lined with various stages of fatigue were stood in a loose semi-circle around it, waiting patiently for the Count and Baron Esquith. The men were officers; second or third sons who would never inherit the lands of their fathers while the eldest comfortably drew breath. Tal was pleased to see that they stood up straight, and appeared attentive despite their obvious weariness; these three, he thought, could be trusted with the men under their command.

“Now that we’re all here, we may begin,” Thule intoned. He turned his head towards one of the officers. “Any word from our scouts?”

One of the trio, a man with hooded eyes and a hangdog expression, raised his head a fraction to answer, “They returned not long ago Count Thule, and the news they bear is grim. They speak of a mass of troops that far outnumber our own, and they are led by an Iquani who rides a Behemoth of considerable size and they will be here in a matter of hours.”

“So they would bring us to battle then?” the Count mused, “Unusual for Iquani, but I suppose we must oblige them if it is open war they want.”

“We will repel them,” Myder declared stiffly.

“That we must,” one of the officers muttered, “not a whole lot behind us for at least another day or two, and that’s a lot of time for a host to run rampant.”

The other two murmured their assent in low voices and slow nods.

“Indeed,” Thule agreed. “And I believe I know of a way to do so, but it will require your assistance, young Baron.”

Tal noticed Myder blink, no doubt confused.

“My help, Count?” he asked, sounding almost unsure of himself for a moment, his dislike of the man over his perceived slight struggling against his curiosity.

Eventually though, he relented, just as Tal knew he would.

“But of course,” Myder said, “I will offer you my utmost support. Just tell me what you require of me and I will accomplish it without fail.”

Tal fought to keep the grin off his face. The old bodyguard suspected that Thule now had the measure of his young charge; knowing that he would latch onto any bone thrown by the older, more powerful man like a ravenous hound in his hunger to prove himself.

“Very good,” the Count said. “Now, let me tell you what I have in mind…”
***
The Iquani numbered in the thousands.

Tal could scarcely believe his eyes. Even in the last war, he had scarcely seen such a gargantuan host before, and was convinced that even the mightiest Imperial armies only fielded a fragment of the manpower the invaders now levied against them. They were led by a gargantuan behemoth that seemed to dwarf the five other great beasts that loosely surrounded it. Dozens of feet below, he saw the ranks of Imperial soldiery mill about. Some openly gaped at the approaching horde, while others were more subdued, accepting that this might well be the day of their demise.

Count Thule stood with his Golem at the front of the host, surrounded by his personal guard: four war Golems, one carrying a large halberd hefted in both of its great hands. The second wielded a Golem shield and clutched a short, stabbing sword in its other hand. Another gripped a sword that was almost as tall as the war machine itself, while the fourth lugged a greatbow with three quivers of twenty arrows planted at its feet with a hand axe laid beside them.

Tal watched the soldiers prepare, raising weapons and shields before manoeuvring themselves into formations. It appeared by all accounts to be a standard Imperial defensive formation: a wall of spears and shields up front with archers safely behind. The only exception was the troop that Myder had been assigned by the Count; a cohort of some five-hundred which included the whole contingent of Griffin cavalry; a command the young baron was all too proud to head.

In the end, Count Thule’s request was a simple flanking exercise: the Count and the main body of the army would hold the Iquani while Myder would loop around once battle was joined and search for a weak point in their lines, such as they were. The Count had taken Tal’s charge to one side and told him to await a signal. What that signal was, Thule hadn’t specified, though he had cracked a wry grin when he told the confused lordling that he would know it when he saw it.

The gargantuan Behemoth pawed forward, powerful legs driving its great bulk across the scrubland. Its jaw was painted red while lavish tribal paintings, mostly chalk-white whorls, adorned its head and body. Tal could only just make out a brightly coloured figure standing confidently atop it with what seemed to be a spear in hand. The five beasts clustered around it were similarly decorated, though not nearly to the extent that the larger creature was.

Then the behemoths stopped, the host followed suit. Tal saw the figure atop the lead behemoth pace and shout, though it was too far for him to make out what he might be saying. Eventually, he stopped, and ushered his mount forwards, which took several great plodding steps forward before suddenly rearing up on its hind legs and released a guttural, bellowing roar of such volume that Tal felt the vibrations even through the armoured carapace of his Golem. The Iquani savage was beating his chest like an enraged simian, jabbing his spear at the Count and his guard.

Clearly a challenge then.

“Posturing cretin; I will dispatch this foul invader myself,” a voice–no doubt one of Count Thule’s bodyguards–declared through the communication runes. They had been set shortly after the war council, such as it was, and though such things had been in use for Spirits only knew how long, they made Tal marvel every time; to be able to communicate with another man from such a great distance away in an instant, to relay orders and plans, was nothing short of astounding to his mind.

One of Thule’s guards–the Golem with the Greatsword–stepped forward to accept the Iquani warlord’s challenge.

“Matthias, be still!” Thule commanded, but the count’s Golem made no move to intercept. Tal saw that Thule’s war mace was still planted into the earth, figures scrabbling about the head, no doubt reinforcing the great many runes that enchanted the weapon.

“I apologise lord,” the guard responded, “and I will fully accept any punishment you would bestow upon me… but only once I return with the head of that gaudy monstrosity and its repulsive rider.”

The guard raised his sword, signifying his acceptance of the Iquani’s challenge. A great cheer reverberated from the Imperial lines, matched by the Iquani as the lead behemoth began to stalk towards its intended victim with its body low to the ground, coiled like a bedspring and ready to pounce the instant it saw even the slightest opening.

Thule’s bodyguard, to his credit, advanced cautiously. He held his Greatsword in a two-handed grip with the tip pointed skyward and the blade close to his chest; a basic stance, but one that would allow him to react to an attack from near enough any direction, and one that Tal knew had proven effective when defending against most behemoth riders. Tal offered a silent prayer to the Spirits that the enemy before the brave man fell into the same pitfalls many others hand when fighting Imperial Golems.

Tragically, however, his prayer went unanswered; or perhaps he had uttered it too late, for the ‘duel’ was over almost as soon as it began.

It was like nothing Tal had ever seen. One second, the beast was crouched low, the next it had scuttled inside the range of the bodyguard’s weapon and was moving to pass around it. The guard, startled by the seemingly lumbering creature’s sudden burst of speed, reacted far too late, swinging the great blade down, but met only the earth.

The behemoth turned in a manner not unlike that of a snake, and in an instant, it had leapt up onto the back of the Golem, digging its claws into the carapace, gouging great grooves into the plating as it fought for purchase. Matthias, realising the danger, threw his golem into a sharp spin to dislodge the beast. The behemoth held fast though, and dragged itself further up its bipedal foe. The weight began to tell, as the guard’s war machine fell to its knees, and eventually toppled over on its front, lying prone and vulnerable.

The behemoth, as Tal feared, took full advantage of the opportunity so presented. It clamped its great jaws onto the left arm of the Golem and began to wrench its head. Tal heard a collective groan of dismay among the soldiery below as the beast’s powerful jaws began to tear the arm from its socket. Seconds later, with a scream of tortured metal and the rumble of breaking rock, the limb was ripped free. The behemoth turned to the Imperial lines, brandishing its trophy in its great jaws before tossing the shredded limb away like a child discarding a toy.

It gave each limb the same treatment, until the pilot finally worked himself free of his crippled construct. He held a short sword in one shaking hand and even though facing down the behemoth was certain death, he stood fast. Foolish, but almost certainly braver than Tal felt he could ever manage.

What happened instead was that the Iquani rider hopped down from his steed to face Matthias, spear held in one hand. There was an all-too brief window between the warlord’s landing that the bodyguard exploited in full, and he lunged with his weapon, poised to pierce the Iquani’s heart.

Tal had heard tell that some Iqunai behemoths shared traits with their riders. He had wondered if that was true for many years fighting them, and now, it seemed that he had his answer. The rider seemed to adjust his course in mid-air and avoided the lunge. As soon as he landed, the Warlord spun around Matthias, much akin to the way his great beast had slipped past the Golem, and plunged the blade of his spear into the guard’s back.

The guard dropped, face-down, still and unmoving. The Iquani must have pierced his heart through in that one strike. Chilling though it was to see, Tal couldn’t help but feel a modicum of grudging respect for the foreign warrior. To perform such a dodge and inflict a killing blow in a shockingly brief span of time spoke of either great experience or considerable talent, and there was the fact that he had stepped from his beast to fight the bodyguard personally instead of simply letting his steed devour the man.

No, beneath the bluster and savage tribal exterior lay an honourable warrior of composite skill, and Tal knew it would doom them all to underestimate such a foe.

“I am done,” Thule intoned; his voice deathly cold. “Baron Esquith, ensure your cohort is ready and watch for my signal.”

“As you will, Count,” Myder acknowledged respectfully. The young baron had been unusually quiet since the Iquani had been sighted; mostly, Tal suspected, because every word he breathed would be heard by Thule and his guard.

Thule’s Golem suddenly raised an arm and grasped the handle of the mace, raising the weapon slowly off the ground and hefting it over its shoulder. It waited a few moments to allow the scurrying artificers and runesmiths below to move out of the way of its plodding feet, and then, once sure his path was clear, began to stride towards the Behemoth, which was howling its triumph over the ruined corpse of Matthias’ Golem.

Thule came to a stop just shy of the Imperial battle line, and Tal could only imagine the fury that must be coursing through the Count’s veins at the death of one of his guards, men he was directly responsible for. The fact that Matthias had made his own choice to ignore his liege to fight and die would probably make no difference to a man such as him. The Iquani behemoth, as if realising a fresh challenger had stepped forward, ceased its rattling, and twisted its neck to face the Count, its lips peeled back over its dagger sharp teeth in a snarl.

Slowly, the Count’s machine raised its free hand and beckoned for the Iquani to come forward. There were no further gestures or words exchanged.

The behemoth roared again and leapt off the dead Golem, pawing the ground before charging towards Thule in a lolloping gait, its rider pointing his spear squarely at the cockpit and the heart of the man within. Thule swung the mace off his shoulder and clutched it in two hands like a war hammer, then, he lowered himself and began to race forward to meet the beast.

Like the engagement before, Tal felt sure that this conflict too would end in moments. Tal had heard many stories attesting to the Count’s prowess as a pilot, but the Iquani and mount’s swift dispatching of Thule’s guard told of skill. Victory or defeat would be decided by a single misstep; a mere fraction of a second’s hesitation.

“Watch well, my lord,” breathed Tal. “You do not see clashes of such magnitude often.”

For once, Myder had no snappy response. The old bodyguard very much hoped that it was because he was fixated on the scene unfolding before him.

The combatants closed to within a hundred metres of the other, then seventy. Fifty. When it seemed like they were almost about to collide with each other, Count Thule did the unexpected.

He let go of his weapon.

The mace head thundered against the ground, and the sound, and the sight of the sudden disarmament, caused the behemoth and its rider to falter for but a heartbeat.

This minor, near insignificant act sealed their doom.

With swiftness unnatural for a Golem, Thule lowered the body of his war machine and reached an arm out, snaking the limb underneath the belly of the beast. The other clamped firmly around the snapping jaws of the monstrosity, sealing them for the time being. Then, with a grinding of joints, Thule began to lift, utilising the creature’s own momentum to haul it skyward and overhead. The Iquani rider was pitched, screaming, from his mount, falling dozens of feet to the cold, uncaring earth below.

Thule continued to follow through with the throw, the wildly swinging tail of the war beast arcing through the air even until the moment it slammed against the ground with a thunderous *crash*. The behemoth’s limbs twitched pathetically, and as Thule released its jaws, they opened and closed in a manner Tal found similar to a fish cast out of the water. The Count turned away from the beast and retrieved his mace, turning slowly to the damaged, riderless monster. It hardly seemed much of a threat now, a keening whine of pain and loss escaping its lips.

“Worry not,” Thule said, his voice solemn with intention, “you will join your master soon.”

Then, drawing back, the Count brought his mace up and slammed it down into the behemoth’s exposed belly. Tal found out that day that Count Thule’s mace did, in fact, explode upon contact with the enemy. The behemoth was almost ripped in half from the blast that followed, spattering the battlefield and Thule’s machine with shreds of gore. Mercifully the Iquani beast died quickly, its mewling fading to silent nothingness as its brain registered the grievous damage visited upon its form.

A stunned silence reigned over the site, Iquani staring on with wide, disbelieving eyes; Imperial soldiers with equally shocked expressions. Then, the realisation spread across the Imperial lines: their leader had defeated an Iquani behemoth, moreso; he had defeated it *gloriously*, and thus avenged the fallen Knight. Tal very much doubted there was a single voice among the soldiery that wasn’t hoarse from screaming the Count’s name that day.

“Now, young Esquith,” the Count decreed, his voice hurried, “while they are still in shock. We’ve seen through the easy part, but now comes the *real* fight.”

‘Now comes the real fight’.

Even despite the Count’s grand accomplishment, looking back on that grim, bloody day, Tal would find the Count’s words hard to argue with…