The Deepcombers

Chapter Forty Eight

Bristling with steel, hundreds of Crols stepped from the woods on both sides of the port road. These expert swordfeigors marched in rhythm and Lon knew from his time in Remolin their formation was called a battalia; their battled-hardened front was six dozen warriors wide and was followed by a long line of soldiers that would curl around walled cities and suffocate them into submission. The foremost fighters had heavy tower shields and short pig-sticker swords while the second line shouldered long pikes and poleaxes. Behind them were a jumble of javelineers who were the bare-armed rowers from the galleys. Everyone could hear them march; a cacophony of boots and carts rumbled in the dust behind the fighters in the front.

The flag of Crol hung limp beside the battle standard of the Crolean Seventh which was Horne's own commission. That meant these frontline feigors were his personal guard and his most experienced veterans. Lon couldn't see their faces, but he imagined how they must drool with excitement and nurse blood-thirsty thoughts at the sight of this wealthy settlement. The marching horde smashed everything in their path as they rolled over the crops. Small trees were uprooted and stone fences dissolved. Bountiful fields became paste under the invaders' boots. Here again was the terrible cruelty that he'd known first-hand on the Annabelle and their foul scent wafted on the wind. The enemy stank of rancid sweat and rotten meat.

"Oh no. This is a disaster," Saeya bit her bottom lip and watched the pillagers trample the tomatoes.

"There's hundreds of them," Melcart said. He gave up trying to calculate the whole array. There were countless more Crols behind the front ranks who didn't march in ordered rows.

"Fifteen hundred," Lon said. "Atar had a scout..."

"We're easy prey," Saeya turned to plan their escape. They were a quarter mile away from the encroaching enemy and the same distance from the small door in the south west embrasure.

"We could make it," Mel traced the route to the front gate from their crook in the creek. "We'll run along the river to south bridge. Take the road up..."

"They haven't spotted us yet," Valari said. "Their eyes are on the walls. The waterspout."

"Okay," Saeya decided, but only took one step.

Trumpets blared and the Crols halted with a thundering stomp. The invasion was allayed just beyond the range of any bow shot from the archers. The enemy line filled the eastern fields from the north ridge to the bottom of the clearing.

Brass horns played uplifting toots to announce the commander's approach through the troops. The same gilded-wood palanquin that was stowed sideways on the landing craft a week ago was now carried upright through the ranks. The sedan chair seemed to float above the soldiers' heads. Its white canvas shade protected its plush interior while its gilt-sides blazed with golden light in the noonday sun. The ornate liter was coated in glittering precious metals and its ostentatious appearance focused all eyes on its single occupant.

Grand High Minister Surilus Horne retracted the white canopy and stood tall above all his soldiers. He rested his jeweled hands on an attendant's shoulder and climbed down from the conveyance. Lon knew it was him, even at this distance. He recognized the evil priest's saffron-dyed silk robe by its particular shade of yellow.

With hundreds of swordfeigors on display, Horne presented himself at the head of his array. He stood flanked by the nunceos on the left and by high ranking officers in blue coats on the right. These aquamarine lieutenants were ship captains and their galleys were anchored in the port. Lon couldn't hear the words they spoke but he watched the great conqueror converse with these officers first. The line shivered as the subordinates swayed and messages were relayed along the ranks in a metallic rattle and that probably meant they prepared for battle.