Sword Saint

by Michael Wallace

  He sat down at the crowlord’s table and shifted through maps and dispatches until he found some blank sheets. He dipped the quill and began to scrawl out orders, which he signed as Miklos, Field Commander of the Zoltan Army. A small embellishment, but the crowlord would have passed along word of Miklos’s command before setting out.

  He blotted each letter and handed them to Davian in turn. He stopped midway through and waved one of them for emphasis. “Deliver this one first. I need the spear phalanxes moving before the other dispatches are delivered. If the lieutenants don’t have their men in motion already, the others might balk.”

  “Balk when they see the flaws in your battle orders, you mean?”

  “Exactly. Flaws or no, once the phalanxes are in motion, they’ll have no choice but to support the attack or the whole center of the army will collapse.”

  Davian read the dispatch in question while Miklos continued to work. “Captain Rokus will have strong words all the same,” he said.

  “I know. This one is for him.” Miklos signed with a flourish, sprinkled sand across the wet ink to dry it, and shook it off. He handed it to Davian, whose eyebrows rose as he read it.

  “He’ll be furious.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on. Wait while he reads it, then tell him to come see me here if he has doubts.”

  A pain flared in Miklos’s chest, and he stopped to rub at it. Yesterday it had awakened him with a sensation like a cold hand around his heart. Now it was hot, like a cinder of fire. He took a deep breath and waited for it to subside.

  “Sir?” Davian said. “Is it the same pain from the mountains?”

  “It’s nothing.” Miklos smoothed out his expression. “Go now, hurry. If you’re right, and Zoltan returns, we might only have a few hours.”

  A few hours to work mischief, to fatally weaken the center of the crowlord’s armies. And even should everything go according to plan, and Lord Zoltan fell, there would be others to worry about. Zoltan had a half-brother who would lay claim to the crowlord title, and there was the lord’s wife and three children to think about as well. The oldest of Zoltan’s children was a son of thirteen, old enough to be propped up by others until he came of age.

  Time enough to worry about that later.

  Miklos emerged from the tent with Davian and watched until the old soldier had hurried off with the dispatches before he turned his attention to the battlefield. Lady Damanja’s forces had spread into a shape much like a bowed horn bulging toward Lord Zoltan’s lines. It was thicker on one end than the other, but it was hard to tell if this was a screen for what looked like archers setting up on that side, or if it meant she would sweep up with the left side of the horn to try to flank Zoltan’s lines.

  Most likely she was screening archers, Miklos decided. Damanja’s force of female archers were respected and feared, but that same value made them a tempting target. She wouldn’t leave them dangling on the flank, vulnerable. In any event, there was another enemy force of several hundred footmen being held back from the horn, and dust and noise from farther east suggested cavalry, or perhaps additional reinforcements on their way.

  How many troops did Damanja have in all? Seven thousand, perhaps? She was planning a major pitched battle, that much was certain. She was far into Zoltan’s lands with many men, and her position was aggressive.

  Against this force, Lord Zoltan’s army numbered roughly five thousand. Another eight thousand loyal men were to the north, warring outside Riverrun, a town they’d seemed likely to overrun just a few weeks ago. Then Balint’s forces had stiffened their lines, and Damanja reacted to Miklos’s provocation and invaded from the south. The northern front had been weakened with the withdrawal of these troops.

  Although Zoltan’s men were fewer in number than Damanja’s, they currently held the high ground. Such as it was. It was only a slight swelling that led to this small hill, but enough of a climb to tire horses and armored spearmen as they trudged up to do battle. With Zoltan’s army maintaining a solid defensive posture, the enemy’s victory was far from assured. In fact, if Miklos’s master managed to return with temple weapons to harden his forces, the tide would turn in his favor.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Davian must have already delivered the first dispatch, as the first battalion of Zoltan’s spearmen hastily formed ranks and began to march slowly down the hillside to meet the enemy. The other two battalions of spearmen Miklos intended to send forward had been out front digging trenches and throwing down caltrops. These spiked iron triangles were covered in dirt and grass to conceal them, and were designed to slow enemy cavalry.

  The men looked up from their work to watch their fellows marching, but soon got orders of their own. They threw down spades and picks, took up spears, and formed their own lines.

  Soon there were close to a thousand men in motion, but it was a ragged, poorly organized advance. Had Zoltan been here, he’d have been riding in front of his battalions, organizing them into ranks and controlling their march. Forward a few hundred yards, then reform the lines. Hold position while he maneuvered the rest of the army into action.

  Instead, they continued advancing. Other troops trudged into motion. Miklos was a relative newcomer to the plains, but he’d seen enough in the north to know at a glance that the army was in disarray. And all before the first arrows had been loosed from enemy bows.

  Captain Rokus came stomping up the hillside a few minutes later, his face a mask of anger. There were three other men with him, a staff lieutenant and a pair of the captain’s personal guards. He snarled at Zoltan’s own guards to stand aside. These men had been standing uneasily since their master rode off, but now stiffened in irritation at the command.

  “Go on,” Miklos told them, his tone conciliatory. “Give us some space. Fall back to the perimeter and hold there.”

  Rokus grunted at this, looking anything but appeased as Zoltan’s guards quit the scene, leaving him and his small entourage alone with the self-proclaimed field commander.

  The captain was barely past his mid-twenties, and a cousin of Lord Zoltan’s. It wasn’t the relationship, however, that had elevated Rokus, but his skill with a sword, a cool head in battle, and an ability to lead men. From the look on his face, it was clear he had a firm grasp of battlefield tactics and had set off at once when he caught wind of Miklos’s intentions.

  “Dammit, Miklos, what are you playing at?”

  “Trying to hit the enemy before she hits us.”

  “We had our orders! Hold the line until our lord returns. Don’t risk battle unless we’re attacked.”

  “I have different information,” Miklos said. “Reports from scouts that you could not possibly have seen, and so you do not understand. We have to move now. It’s an opportunity to scatter her troops before she brings up her big weapons.”

  Captain Rokus gave him a hard stare, as if disbelieving and trying to suss out his real intentions. Miklos had already been firmly established in Zoltan’s forces by the time the pair met in Belingus a few months ago, but the captain had seemed suspicious of the older man’s ability to bend Lord Zoltan’s will from their first encounter. It was the reason Miklos needed to deal with him now.

  Suspicion continued to harden on Rokus’s face. “I can see the blasted enemy forces from here,” he said at last. “There’s no imminent attack. It’s a maneuver for position, nothing more. That villain is waiting for something, and she can keep waiting until our lord returns from whatever has taken him from the battlefield.”

  “That is exactly my point. She’s waiting for something. When it arrives, we’ll be in a terrible position. Lord Zoltan’s arrival will be too late. But if we move first, we’ll cut her off from this new threat.”

  He kept his words perfectly vague, and the sneer in Rokus’s expression was his reward. Meanwhile, the troops Miklos had set in motion continued their slow, irregular march down the hill. Soon it would be too late to alter events. Already, Damanja’s side had begun to stir. First, the ends o
f the horn-like formation bent inward, and there was more movement to the rear.

  “Fire demons take you,” Rokus said. “I don’t believe it. I’m calling them back.”

  “Wait! Come into the tent, I’ll show you what the scouts reported. You’ll agree, I swear to it. Bring your men, too. This is no trick.”

  Rokus took another glance at the developing situation. “Make it quick.”

  “It will only take a moment.”

  Miklos stepped into the tent, and Rokus and his companions followed. Rokus had a wary posture as they entered the dim light of the interior. The two bodyguards were tense, hands near sword hilts, as any good man would be when his master entered an unknown situation, even among supposedly friendly forces. Rokus’s lieutenant had a more relaxed posture, but he, too, was armed.

  Miklos had set his sheathed sword propped against the crowlord’s table. It was a falchion, made in the warbrand temple, as Narina had seemed to notice that day when he’d confronted her at the bladedancer temple. He’d bent its aura to conceal its true nature from her. No need for that today; these men would be blind to such things.

  He moved to the table as if to reach for a dispatch from the reports and maps still strewn about. Instead, he bent for his weapon and drew the falchion in one swift motion. It was a two-handed sword, and as he brought it around, it nearly scraped the side of the tent.

  One of the bodyguards cried a warning, and the captain grabbed for his sword. He didn’t get his weapon clear of the sheath before Miklos’s blade completed its arc. It struck the captain at the waist and nearly cut the man in two. Rokus died without so much as a whimper.

  Miklos brought the falchion around to strike one of the bodyguards, who got his sword free and lifted it in time to make a weak parry. The falchion struck it with a clang, and the lesser weapon shattered. The bodyguard fell to his knees under the blow. The other two had their swords out, and darted at Miklos.

  But even in the tent, facing a weapon that should have been unwieldy in such an enclosed space, the remaining two were no match for Miklos. They moved in slow, exaggerated movements with their smaller, supposedly more maneuverable blades. He ducked and parried and cut them down, one after another. When they were dead, he finished off the first bodyguard, who was still trying to regain his feet.

  Miklos looked at the four dead men, his blood singing in his ears. It had been over in an instant. Too soon, in fact. If only he had more men to fight. Or better still, Narina. His weapon begged to be tested against the woman and her twinned blades.

  Some day.

  After carefully cleaning his sword and returning it to its sheath, Miklos stepped outside. As short as the fight had been, there was still a chance that one of Zoltan’s guards had heard the commotion and come running back up the hillside, perhaps even suspecting treachery and calling for reinforcements. But the men were a good distance off, watching the situation playing out on the plains below.

  Half of Lord Zoltan’s army was now in motion, as was the bulk of Lady Damanja’s. She had clearly spotted the opportunity Miklos offered, and had tossed aside whatever plan she’d been developing. A large part of Zoltan’s forces was dangling in front of her, ready to be destroyed piecemeal before it could organize or receive reinforcements.

  Even so, Damanja was moving cautiously, no doubt afraid of a trick. It was a trick, just not the kind she was expecting.

  Soon, now. No more than fifteen minutes, and the two armies would begin a clash that would determine the fate of the fiefdoms of the central plains.

  And more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Narina circled the farmhouse compound from above, using the roof like it was the wall walk of a small keep or fortress. Below her, Zoltan’s men rose in their saddles, grabbed hold of the tiles, and hoisted themselves up with the help of their companions.

  Or rather, tried to. They didn’t have the same strength and flexibility as Narina, who had pulled herself up in a single, effortless gesture. Weapons and armor weighed them down further.

  As they struggled to gain the roof, she stomped on hands, kicked men in the face, and once, when one of them got up top long enough to draw his sword, slid past him and shouldered him off the roof. He landed on top of several dismounted men, who all fell in a heap as horses scattered, snorting.

  Crossbow bolts whizzed her way whenever someone thought he could take a shot while her back was turned. She felt them bending auras. First, a surge of violent intent from the men themselves as they fired, followed by a tearing sensation through the air. It gave her time to respond.

  Narina’s experience with arrows was fighting off attacks during temple training sessions. Her father had mastered the longbow as an act of mental and physical rigor, and he’d had better aim than those targeting her now. But the heavier arrows at the temple traveled more slowly than crossbow bolts, so there was no room to be careless.

  Most of the time, she sensed the movement of the bolts and knew they would travel wide, but the occasional skilled or lucky shot made her duck and weave, and occasionally use her swords to cut them from the sky.

  She had just dodged two of these bolts when movement on the far side of the compound gate drew her attention. A man had reached the roof, a strong fellow with a heavy war maul, which he lowered to one of his companions, who used it to hoist himself up. By the time Narina raced around the perimeter to knock them off, they were in the process of hauling up a third man.

  Narina slashed her demon sword at the first two men and cut their arms deeply enough to force them to drop the third, who fell back to the ground outside with a cry. She planted the sole of her foot in the chest of the second man and kicked him backward off the roof. The final man bent, cursing, to retrieve his maul. She lowered her shoulder, leveraged it against his chest, and flipped him off.

  He’d left the maul behind, and she tossed it inside the compound, where it couldn’t be used against her. Kozmer, leaning against his walking staff, looked up and shook his head with a weary expression. No sign of the swords she’d told him to carry. Gyorgy was armed, at least, and stood in position near the gates, where men were banging away ineffectively, trying to knock them down.

  “Are you planning to carry on like that all day?” the elder said.

  Narina ran a few paces to stomp the hands of two men trying to scramble up. “It’s working so far.”

  “Let a few gain the roof. Their fate will serve as a warning for the rest.”

  “Or I could just keep knocking them down until they get discouraged.” She dodged another crossbow bolt. “Same result, but I won’t be decapitating some poor kid who only wants to return to his family in time for the harvest.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. These are hardened crowlord troops. The only farms they’ve seen are the ones they’ve burned and pillaged. How many peasants have died under their horses’ hooves? How many villages have they sacked?”

  “How do you know that? You can’t even see them from down there.” Narina shouldered off another man who’d gained the roof.

  She had her hands full for the next few minutes, but at the back of her mind kept wondering about Kozmer’s words. Why was he so determined to show Zoltan her strength? The temple was too involved as it was; what good would come of throwing themselves into the war?

  During a lull, Narina glanced out to see that only a portion of Zoltan’s men were trying to scale the roof. Others were forming a wedge that looked set to attack the door with hammers and axes, while still others were lighting torches and gathering brush. Push it against the walls and light it on fire, and it might prove to be trouble. If it came to that, she’d need to jump down outside the compound to disrupt matters.

  She’d just knocked another man off the roof when a shift in the auras warned of several crossbow bolts all streaking toward her at the same time. She whirled, swords in hand, and cut down two while dodging two others.

  Another stream came in at the same time, but from a different angle. She ducked, jumped,
rolled, and slashed. And then one got past her defenses.

  It buried itself into her thigh. She winced in pain and fell back. Other bolts were flying in, and it was all she could do to crab walk backward until she fell off the wall into the farmhouse compound. She rolled when she hit the ground, then stood wincing with the bolt still buried in her flesh. Outside, men cheered in triumph.

  Kozmer came up, his face a mask of concern. “Blast it, what happened?”

  “Coordinated attack,” she said between clenched teeth. “Too many at once. Get Gyorgy on the wall. Hurry.”

  But Gyorgy didn’t need to be told. He was already hoisting himself up. Kozmer called to him not to mess around, to defend himself as best he could. Narina could only nod her assent. The boy was only a student—there could be no half-measures in defending himself.

  “Get it out, quickly,” she told Kozmer. Sweat stood out on her forehead, and she felt faint.

  Kozmer lowered himself to the ground and felt for the bolt. Narina closed her eyes and drew in her sowen. In response, the pain faded from a sharp point to a dull, diffused ache. She felt the blood pooling around the shaft, and even the filth from the unclean crossbow point, as well as slivers of wood that had come off when the shaft entered her flesh.

  The elder sohn wrapped both hands around the bolt and yanked. Another sharp point of pain, but she broke it apart in an instant. And then, eyes closed, she used her sowen to gather the broken tissue, to draw the severed vessels of her leg together. She rose unsteadily to her feet. The white dragon blade was still in hand, but she seemed to have dropped the black demon. It must be still on top of the roof.

  A man fell silently into the compound. His hands clenched at his throat, which was opened from ear to ear. Gyorgy stood above her, blood on his blades, his expression grim. Narina’s pupil had killed his first man.

  There was no time for the boy to stand gawking at the result of his actions. A second man threw himself forward with a spear aimed right at Gyorgy’s chest. The boy’s sowen was dangerously scattered, but even caught in the terrifying moment of a real life-and-death struggle, he was stronger than his opponent and drove him to the edge of the wall.