Free The Black God's War by Moses Siregar III Page B

near Rao were outnumbered by at least two to one.
    The Pawelon and Rezzian armies marched closer together. Closer and closer until Pawelon’s forces were commanded to stop. Their infantry extended long spears and held great round shields along the front lines, weaving a tapestry of muscle and iron to punish any Rezzian charge. On a hill near to Rao, a score of sages stood with their arms held rigidly overhead like the branches of tall trees, humming a complex scale of mystical tones.
    The enemy’s legions charged as expected, running ahead in great rectangular formations with their long, curling rectangular shields held in front of their bodies and over their heads. Pawelon’s archers pulled back on their bows, a sinewy and screeching racket, and unleashed their volley.
    Pawelon’s missiles took flight in a black swarm. The sages’ toning deepened. As their humming grew louder and reached a stirring pitch, the arrow swarm expanded before raining down in a supernatural torrent, the density of arrows multiplied by the sages’ powers. Rezzian screams filled the air. Rao observed the horrible noise with detachment, not allowing himself to feel or contemplate its full meaning.
    He breathed deliberately, pulling his consciousness inward, seeking his calm center.
    A high-pitched whine blared from the darkening heavens. A blazing object burned through the sky, aiming at the rear of the Rezzian army. The celestial fireball arced down and exploded with an ear-splitting boom, creating an eruption of high-flying sparks near the center of the Rezzian forces. The valley floor shook, rumbled, and cracked.
    As if responding, the clouds swirled faster, turned pitch-black, and hovered above Pawelon’s forces. A vicious, freezing wind blew down on them.
    And terror filled their veins.

 
    Chapter 11: To Dream of Battle
     
    BY THE TIME LUCIA SET OFF on horseback to meet Strategos Duilio, the Rezzian army had already begun its trek through the valley. The formations inched forward like an army of ants in the basin of Gallea’s most impressive canyon, long-haired infantry clattering with tall shields on their left arms, held throwing spears poking up above right shoulders, fat double-edged stabbing swords still sheathed, wrought iron cuirasses over maroon tunics, and bronze helms with long cheek guards and colorful horsehair plumes.
    Pawelon’s citadel peered mockingly over the edge of the high western rim. The Rezzians anticipated the usual skirmishes with their enemy on the trails leading up to the fortress. Early battles each day typically took place around the mouth of the northern or southern trail, sometimes at both locations. Pawelon would either fortify the wide trailheads with countless rows of long spears, and archers stationed on ledges in the cliffs, or they would spread out their forces with long spearmen placed, at least seven rows deep, at the most narrow points along the two routes to the citadel.
    Whenever the Pawelons left thin resistance below, the Rezzians climbed in tight formations like tortoises, carrying their curved shields at their front, sides, rear, and over their heads to defend against any Pawelon archers able to find purchase among the tall cliffs.
    Throughout the Rezzian army, it was widely believed that the apathy of Lord Galleazzo, King Vieri’s patron god, had blocked them from reaching the citadel over the previous year. The soldiers also noted that the new plague began soon after their martial luck turned sour. But by divine will—whether miraculous or ironic—the plague had spared the army itself; the sickness only afflicted the common people of Rezzia and their neighbors.

    Lucia rode toward the troops on her white mare, flanked by her bald warpriest guards. She’d been told the canyon floor had been beautiful before so many soldiers trampled its vegetation over the course of the war. Still, the desert smelled clean and fresh, noisy insects and birds lived among the land, and the red dirt held a