Fear's Union

Chapter Forty-Five

—Felip—

The weight of the west marched on. Fifty thousand armed men. Fifty thousand men, and Felip smiled. Oh, how he smiled. The sky darkened, and the killing began. The sight was wondrous.

The irony was that they were hugely outnumbered, but none of that mattered. Fifty thousand men approached, but only a small portion would face his army. The weight was behind the West, but in the narrow valley of Aperta, this would be an even fight.

No, that wasn't true. The archers continued their relentless onslaught, and he beamed. The numbers were on his side.

"Fools." And that was the truth. They were fools. His gut still tickled with nerves, but that was good. He was on edge. He needed to be the strong head of his army and he needed to ensure confidence. 'A confident army is a victorious army': one of the many proverbs attributed to his father. He exhaled that confidence. "Fools!"

He stabbed an arm into the air and gritted his teeth. He growled, and his infantry grunted with him. The grunt turned into a cry. A war cry. The message rolled through the files and ranks of men, and he shivered, smiling. The noise died down and it was replaced with the shrill whistle of projectile death. The archers plied their trade.

The arrows swept overhead in waves, an astonishing spectacle, and behind that artistry lay a depth of strength and training; a point of distinct pride. He was a strong man, capable of wielding mighty blades with poise and delicacy. But he'd once flexed a longbow in competition, and he'd been shown up. Badly.

His men loved to challenge him, and he loved to reciprocate. Even when he was left looking silly. It helped break down barriers, and it forged a bond between him and his men. One day, a few years back, he was challenged by a boy. What was there to do? He accepted.

The youngster was all wiry arms and skin wrapped around bones. It was a lean hungry body in a ragged and oversized uniform. No challenge at all. He'd been more inclined to feed the boy than compete with him, but the offer was there, and he took it. The pair were presented with field-bows, and the furthest arrow would be declared victorious. He'd been confident of victory, but his men rarely presented an easy challenge.

His own arrow skidded to a halt some fifty paces up the field. The emaciated boy hauled back greedily on the chord, and his missile sailed true and long. Very long. The arrow was never found. It was only when the young boy removed his ragged top, that he understood. The boy revealed a body of entwined and knotted muscle, the mass necessary to wield that mighty weapon.

He was strong, but not strong enough. But short-term embarrassment was replaced with long term gratitude and pride. Now there were two thousand such boys, all full-grown men, firing a constant rain of death into the enemy ranks. Oh so satisfying. He smirked.

"Sir, they are still coming."

It was a measure of his men's nerve that his standard bearer even spoke up. His standard bearer was a brave man. But these were exceptional circumstances. He needed to be the father his men could stand behind.

"And they will continue to do so. But think on this: would you rather be standing here with the sun warming your back, or would you be in their mass, death just a neighbour away?"

And that was the truth of the archers. They instilled a fear in Ahan's enemies. They served as a stick with which to beat the opposition; a tool that could be exercised from afar. The rain of steel would yield many casualties, but its greatest contribution would be to embed a forward momentum in the enemy ranks. The enemy would push forward, away from the deadly squall, and the front line would be driven against the second key component of the Mandari war machine. The enemy rushed forward, escaping the bite of the arrows, but that was no use. They would impale themselves on the steel of Mandahoi. It was a sensational and proven combination.