The Blasted Lands by James A. Moore Page A

strapped across his back, but otherwise there was no armor.
    The guards were a different matter. They always wore their armor; it was a part of their duty. They stepped with him, falling into loose formation. At another time he might have demanded a closer step, a better pacing, but that was not a consideration. They would fight.
    Fires lighted the paved road leading toward the shoreline, and as he progressed, the mercenaries he had hired to bolster his soldiers came forward, most of them riding horses. He hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t considered having the horses readied.
    Marsfel shook his head and swallowed harshly, his throat a tight, dry lump. He hadn’t thought of so many things. He’d known this was coming and yet he was ill prepared.
    The leader of the mercenaries stared at him. He couldn’t think of the man’s name. Turrae mumbled, “Jepphers” under his breath and Marsfel could have kissed him.
    “Captain Jepphers. It is time.”
    “Do you lead this fight yourself, Majesty? Or do I lead with my soldiers?”
    A damned good question. The mercenaries were there to fight for him.
    “Lead the way, Captain, and we shall follow.” He shook his head. “I have no horses.”
    Jepphers nodded his head. He could see the man was well aware of the situation and that he was also keeping his tongue. The captain had brought a good number of mercenaries with him. Turrae could have said exactly how many, but Marsfel couldn’t hope to guess.
    Jepphers blew a loud whistling note between two fingers and his hired men turned their attention to him and followed as he led them in a charge toward the beach and the ships that had settled near the shore.
    The winds were harsh and hot and the clouds over the waters were as dark as a sinner’s thoughts. The ships that had seemed large before were enormous as he and his troops marched up the road toward the beach. The waves crashed against the vessels, which rocked in the waters and occasionally groaned a soft protest.
    He saw the mercenaries riding hard and felt a grim satisfaction in his choice to hire them. He’d hoped for help from the Empire, but prepared for whatever might come his way. The sword felt good in his hand and despite his fears, he believed he was prepared to defend his people and his kingdom.
    How many people could the ships hold? Marsfel had no notion. The boats his people used were much smaller and even the largest would be dwarfed by the black shapes. They seemed nearly impossible and he couldn’t see them well enough in the rough weather to determine much beyond their size.
    Turrae coughed into his hand and shivered as the winds picked up. The air was warm and his condition had nothing to do with the breeze. “They are so damned large….” It was the only time Marsfel had ever heard the man curse.
    He was trying to find the right encouraging words when the flurry of arrows rose from the ships and plummeted toward the approaching riders. Had he wondered how many people could hide on the vast structures? It was hard to say with any certainty but most definitely enough to kill fifty men with the first volley. The arrows rose silently and dropped in graceful arcs. They stopped in the bodies of mercenaries and horses alike, some peppering the shoreline, but most landing in flesh and crippling or killing.
    The soldiers were far enough ahead that it took a moment to hear their screams. But he could see them as they fell, some dropping to the ground and others clinging to their horses even as their mounts collapsed or bucked and tried to escape the unexpected pain.
    A second volley of arrows rose and fell, missing more targets as the animals bolted and took a number of fighters with them. But the respite was brief. When Marsfel looked to the ships he saw silhouettes in the shape of archers moving to the edges of the vessels, bracing themselves and taking careful aim. Several riders tried to break away, but the assault seemed nearly endless and most died