Sword of Empire

By Richard Dawes

While carving out an empire on the steppes above the Black Sea, Valka the Wolf Slayer receives an urgent message from an old flame, now a queen, asking him to come to her aide against an evil witch plotting to usurp her throne. Valka moves his army northward to rescue the queen, only to find himself confronted by an overwhelming force. In the exciting climax he faces the witch herself in a battle of power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Aug 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781680466669

Richard Dawes

Richard Dawes was born and raised in California and now resides in a small town in Texas. After a tour of duty in the Marine Corps, he spent fifteen years in management in the Moving and Storage, Computer and Credit Union industries. He began writing short stories as a boy, and has written several historical novels. A long time student of Native American traditions, he includes positive references to those traditions throughout the Tucson Kid series. Other sub-themes explored in the series are authentic masculinity, relationships and power — what are they and how do they manifest.

Book preview

1

Valka reined his black stallion to a rearing halt on the crest of a rocky crag and looked out over the steppes. A blustering wind driving up from the Black Sea transmuted the vast plain of tall grass into an emerald ocean that undulated from one horizon to the other. Grey-rimmed storm clouds scudded across the sky. Streaks of lightning scorched the grass and tinted the air a ghastly yellow.

Lifting a scarred hand from the double-bladed axe laying across his saddle bow, Valka brushed his shoulder length black hair out of his face and instinctively touched the leather-bound hilt of the long curved sword that hung by a strap down his back. The piercing grey eyes with which he swept the plain smoldered with a deep, indomitable fire, like flames flickering beneath a layer of ice. The lightning highlighted the diagonal scar that ran from the right side of his broad forehead, across the bridge of his aquiline nose and ended on his left cheek beside his wide, thin-lipped mouth. The scar gave his bronzed features a sinister, even demonic cast. The choker of interspersed bear claws and fangs strung on a thick gold chain encircling his corded neck heightened the impression of barbaric power. A shirt of black chain mail extended from his neck to his thighs, and bronze greaves girded his shins.

Harking to the thunder that rumbled across the sky, he commented in a deep, clear voice, The Sky God has seen fit to honor us with his presence today.

Aye, Wolf Slayer, grunted Alaric, the yellow-haired giant sitting his charger beside him. I doubt not that we will need his help this day.

Alaric’s hair cascaded in golden waves over massive shoulders. His thick beard was red, and his eyes were the deep blue of northern seas. As with Valka, black chain mail covered his muscular chest, shoulders and arms, and a war axe hung from his thick wrist by a leather thong. Unlike Valka, however, who only used the axe in massed combat where the sword was easily broken, the double-bladed axe was Alaric’s preferred weapon, and he wielded it with uncanny skill.

Valka grinned at his second-in-command, then glanced beyond him to the standard bearer sitting his horse to their rear. It always thrilled Valka to see the Black Dragon rampant on a field of crimson fluttering in the wind. The Black Dragon was his personal totem, his power and, by extension, the totem of the Black Guard.

Look there, Wolf Slayer…

Valka pulled his gaze away from the standard and shifted his attention to where Alaric was pointing.

Turanian forces were materializing out of the billowing clouds of dust roiling the eastern horizon and rising in a vast grey curtain to the clouds. Although he had disciplined himself to show nothing but what he wanted others to see, Valka drew in a sharp breath and shifted uneasily in the saddle.

By the gods! he muttered. There must be seventy-five to a hundred thousand men out there!

To the strident blare of trumpets and the deep rumble of kettledrums, the Turanians shifted into battle formation. Dominating the center was a squadron of war chariots, each drawn by a brace of magnificent steeds. The sprays of osprey feathers tufting their harness ruffled bravely in the wind. A leather-clad driver stood in each chariot to handle the horses. Beside him stood a proud Turanian nobleman in black flowing robes and crimson turban, carrying a long, curved bow. Raised from infancy to war and the hunt, these tall, lean, black-eyed warriors could shoot a stream of arrows and hit a target no larger than a man’s fist from fifty yards.

Behind the chariots marched three divisions of heavy infantry. Each man was encased in a bronze helmet and corselet, carried a long rectangular shield and wielded a ten-foot, bronze-tipped spear. Their close-packed ranks resembled a stream of molten bronze flowing across the steppe. Behind them marched two divisions of light infantry, carrying small round shields and shorter lances.

Valka’s eyes shifted to the flanks guarded by auxiliary archers and slingers. The archers were Kipchaks and Tatars garbed in tufted leather caps and padded felt jerkins, mounted on the small, sturdy ponies of the steppes. Their short, re-curved bows, constructed of yew wood reinforced with buffalo horn, could drive an iron-tipped arrow through an inch of oak at forty yards. The slingers were tall, lean Assyrians who could throw a stone or a lead pellet almost as far as a bow could shoot an arrow and with equal accuracy.

A flash of lightning illuminated a golden, canopied chariot cutting diagonally to the north toward a grass-covered knoll and coming to rest in a stand of beech and maple trees.

King Juguruth getting into position, observed Valka.

Aye, responded Alaric, running a thumb along the blade of his axe.

Pulling his attention away from the enemy, Valka glanced at his own force of fifty thousand men. At the base of the crag where he and Alaric sat their horses was the Black Guard. The Guard was an elite band of chosen fighters, a thousand strong, who answered only to Valka. Clad in black chain mail and black leather trousers, the Guardsmen sat their horses in three columns, awaiting Valka’s orders.

Beyond the Guard, spread out in a long line from north to south, facing east, was the rest of Valka’s forces. They were made up almost exclusively of cavalry—heavy cavalry in the center and light cavalry guarding the wings. The cavalrymen were massive yellow-haired warriors from the northern steppes—Scythians, Sarmatians, Alans and Mitanni. Having lived their lives in the saddle, they were gifted horsemen, so it was natural that they would fight as cavalrymen. Their predilection for horses fit well with Valka’s battle tactics. He favored the mobility of cavalry over the slower-moving infantry.

Mounted on long-haired steppe ponies, Valka’s archers and slingers ranged impatiently back and forth behind the lines. Tatars and Turks, they wore animal skins and steel helmets and wielded the same re-curved bows as the Turanians. Their task was to support the flanks and to act as trouble-shooters. Throughout the ranks, standards of the various divisions fluttered in the wind—eagles, bears, wolves, panthers and stags. Each totem carried the power or spirit of that division.

Well… Valka glanced bleakly at Alaric. At least we positioned our troops before dawn. They are rested and ready.

Aye.

The strident blast of trumpets, the deep rumble of kettledrums and the shouted commands of the generals shattered the air. The charioteers lashed their horses into a gallop, and like rolling thunder, the Turanian chariots charged across the plain. The cavalry spread out along the flanks. The heavy infantry moved out at a trot behind the chariots, raining arrows over their heads and into Valka’s forces as they came. The earth shook as from an earthquake beneath the pounding of thousands of feet and hooves. The roar of battle cries and the beating of swords and lances against shields rose to the sky.

Except to raise their bronze shields to protect themselves and their mounts from that deadly sleet of shafts, Valka’s army remained motionless and watched the glittering wave roll across the plain. Recklessly prideful, the noblemen in the chariots outdistanced the infantry and made it difficult for the auxiliary cavalry to protect them from a counter flanking movement.

Curbing his skittish mount with a tight rein, Alaric glanced nervously at Valka.

With level gaze, Valka stared at the forces charging toward them in a cloud of dust so vast it blotted out the sky. As he watched them come, his eyes shaded to the color of chilled steel, and his mouth stretched to a grim line.

The trumpeter kicked his horse forward, eying Valka anxiously and waiting for the command to sound the attack.

Valka waited.

He wanted the Turanians to be as exhausted as possible before they came to grips with his rested forces. The noblemen in the chariots were so close he could make out their features—lips pulled back in wolfish grins, teeth flashing against black beards, black eyes glaring as they notched arrows to bowstrings.

It was a tribute to the discipline Valka imposed upon his troops and to their absolute trust in his judgment, that they sat their mounts watching death pound toward them at breakneck speed…and not one of them broke ranks. Valka had instructed his generals before dawn when he brought his troops into position, and each knew what he was supposed to do.

Finally, when the chariots were in danger of crashing into his horsemen, he nodded to the trumpeter.

The shrill blast sliced through the deep rumble of chariot wheels and the pounding of feet and hooves like a blade. Before the sound faded on the wind, Valka’s entire force split down the middle and wheeled away to the north and south. As Valka’s cavalry melted before them, the charioteers, unable to pull up their chargers, sped helplessly into the space just vacated by the horsemen.

A cohort of spearmen had been kneeling to the rear of the cavalry, hidden by the horses. They sprang to their feet and ran toward the chariots, thrusting their spears into the chests and necks of the horses. They reared in pain and panic, causing confusion. Animals fell dead in their traces. Charioteers and noblemen catapulted over their bodies and sprawled at the feet of the spearmen. Chariots racing from behind collided with those in the lead. It became a shambles of shattered chariots, spinning wheels and splintered cross-trees. Horses reared, screamed, pawed the air. Men flew over the wreckage in a flurry of black robes and landed on the ground in bloody, disjointed heaps.

Spurring their ponies forward, the Tatars and Turks surrounded the Turanians and slaughtered the drivers and noblemen still alive. The stench of blood clogged the nostrils. The terror-filled screams of horses, shrieks of pain and anguish from the men and the sinister hiss of barbed shafts driven to the feathers in human flesh filled the air.

To the shouted commands of the generals, Valka’s cavalry wheeled back, re-formed into a long battle line, then galloped forward to engage the Turanian infantry. The light infantry still rained arrows onto Valka’s horsemen. But they pounded into that sleet of feathered death and exploded like an avalanche against the shield wall hastily thrown up by the heavy infantry. The front line bent, then buckled under the irresistible impact. Turanian soldiers went down in red shambles beneath slashing hooves, hacking swords, pounding maces and whirling axes.

What had been an undulating emerald ocean became a crimson sea eddying back and forth across the steppe with the shifting tide of battle. Valka sat his stallion atop the crag. He kept track of the action and calmly gave orders to the trumpeter. Because of the cacophony of battle, the man had set aside his horn and used colored flags to convey Valka’s directions to his generals.

All the while, the Black Guard sat their horses at the foot of the cliff, silently watching the carnage taking place before them.

In order to flank the Turanians, Valka gave the command to thin the line out to north and south. The wings of his horsemen were met by the Turanian auxiliary cavalry who shot withering barrages of arrows into their ranks. Caught in that hail of death, horses reared and screamed. Men catapulted from their saddles, only to be chopped into red chunks of flesh by the hooves of their own mounts.

Valka’s sharp eyes caught it at its inception. At first, it was only a slight ripple in the ranks of the cavalry fighting on the right flank. Under the stunning impact of Turanian arrows, Valka’s horsemen hesitated, then faltered. Finally, they began to mill about in confusion. It was the crucial instant when their general needed to instill discipline, stop any spread of panic and regain momentum.

Feathered with arrows, the division’s standard bearer toppled from his saddle and landed with a splash in the red bog. The banner fell with him, to be pounded into the mud and shredded by horses’ hooves. That broke the nerve of the division. As one man, they wheeled their panic-stricken mounts around and galloped to the rear—with their general in the lead.

By the gods! ejaculated Valka.

General Sarus! muttered Alaric disgustedly.

Gripping his battle axe, Valka shouted to the yellow-haired giant, Ride to the left flank, and make certain the same thing does not happen there. I will take the right flank and repair the damage. The end game is to bring the troops around and surround the Turanians.

With a quick nod to his standard bearer, Valka kicked his charger into a gallop and pounded down the steep slope of the crag. Alaric followed close behind. At the bottom, the giant reined his horse to the north and raced away. Pulling his stallion back on its hind legs, Valka raised his axe above his head and called to the Black Guard.

Your moment is now, brothers. Follow me to victory and glory!

Holding their shields before them as protection against the storm of arrows, Valka and the Black Guard hit the right flank with the force of an avalanche. They flew into the space created by the fleeing cavalry and confronted the Turanian auxiliaries just as they were spurring their mounts in pursuit. Shield struck shield, and horses reared and screamed as Valka and the Guard laid about them with dripping swords, maces and axes. Even as he cleaved skulls, shattered chests and split spines, Valka was aware that his presence had strengthened the morale of the whole line.

Black clouds rolled across the heavens. Lightning flashed, and thunder roared. It was as if