Evred grimaced. To Sindan he could risk speaking on this matter: “Any report of pirate attacks?”
Sindan lifted a shoulder as he peered between the gnarled, wind-bent tree branches. Strings of clouds drifted across the sky, low, shadow-gray, and thick, the ocean black, the intermittent blue starlight making it difficult to see. Moonlight was increasing slowly; he hoped it would be enough.
The Olarans shifted, a couple of them asking unanswerable questions of Sholf, who squatted uncomfortably below Evred, wishing he hadn’t eaten those two extra nut-cakes at dinner. It had seemed a fine idea at the time.
A dozen of his own cronies waited with him, most armed with building implements, a couple with old cutlasses that had newly honed edges.
The Marlovans stationed paces away on either side and above ignored them. They had no semblance of discipline and would be worthless as allies. But the prince wanted them to think themselves allies, so no one could order them out of the way.
The Marlovans watched northward: nothing more than pinpricks of light on the far horizon, impossible for land men to interpret.
“Too soon to know,” Sindan said. “I’ll expect a Runner in three days at the least.”
Sholf sent a look over his shoulder; despite the crowd around him, he was listening. He got to his feet and raised his glass.
Sindan thought about the locket at his neck and the king’s words, written the week before and transferred instantly by magic: They are coming from the east. Rec’d report from Adranis. It had been difficult not to reassure Evred, but word had to arrive either by the usual method or through the Olarans. It was the king’s will that the existence of the lockets never be revealed.
Out loud he said, “Even if smaller pirate forces have razed the northern ports on their way here, the damage will have been diminished by our foresight. And if we win a great battle here today, it will make next year easier. You know what Adamas Dei wrote about great battles.”
Evred’s lips quirked, though he did not take his eyes away from the horizon. It’s people’s belief that great battles decide something that makes them decisive. Evred and his father had discussed it until Evred comprehended that battles themselves decided little; it was what people decided about them that gave them meaning. How they were written down for history, how they were regarded as they faded into history. A battle could be regarded differently from either side.
So . . . how would this impending battle be viewed if the Marlovans won? Would they cease to be the enemy in the eyes of the locals at last?
Sholf was watching him—the brief pause had become a silence. Evred peered through the darkness, then said, “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen ships. More behind, I think. It’s hard to see them—you have to watch where the stars are blocked.”
Sholf put his glass to his eye. “I make out twenty-three, not counting the big Venn squares’ls. They’ll stand off and fend off any aid to us from seaward.”
And watch how we fight, Evred thought, holding out his hand. “May I look?”
A glass was seldom useful for land war as cavalry did not fight on hills, nor could the best spyglass see over trees, hills, shrubs, fences, or dust; Marlovans relied on scouts, both human and canine. Evred peered at a strangely flattened world, the ships large, as if pressed onto a wall carving. He saw no difference between those ships, other than some were bigger than others and that might itself be an effect of relative distance. Except the Venn had white sails, all the others black. No, red.
He handed the glass back, blinking away vertigo.
Flash Arveas appeared, crouching down beside Evred. His breath was visible in the frigid air. “D’you want to signal it or should Hawkeye?”
Flash was a friend from their academy days, sent by his father and older brother as reinforcement while they themselves held the north end of the Pass. Hawkeye Yvana-Vayir had been one of Evred’s brother’s inner circle who had bullied the boys on the Sierlaef’s orders during their first year at the academy; distrust from those scrub days lingered, though Flash and Evred tried to pretend otherwise.
“I will,” Evred said.
Flash grinned, fist to heart.
Evred mentally dismissed the familiar annoyance with his uncle for favoring political over military expedience by sending the wild-riding, hard-drinking cousin Hawkeye as Tanrid’s replacement. He’d ridden north directly after the funeral fires for the death of his mother from a riding accident on ice. It had not taken five days in Hawkeye’s company to see that the reasons Hawkeye would have made a superlative dragoon-scout captain were same the reasons he would not command an army well.
Those who knew ships saw the sails loosened to spill wind.
“They’re sending boats,” Sholf said.
Evred raised his hand. Flash Arveas reappeared. “Shift the fire teams for close attack.” The ships were apparently not going to come close themselves.
Flash saluted then slid his way down the hillside; cavalry boots were not made for rock climbing.
“They know we’re here,” an Olaran said to Sholf, sending a glance up Evred’s way.
Evred wanted to say, “Of course they do! Someone in your own town probably made certain of it.” But he kept silent.
Below, Flash ran the last few steps to where Hawkeye sat on a flat rock above a stream that broke the seawall. Hawkeye figured the main attack would concentrate on these streams where the seawall broke, so here he was, more than ready, his bannermen and bugler behind him. Flash recognized some of the bannermen from their boyhood days at the academy. They were shifting about, keeping their hands busy, some smoothing triangular signal guidons and the big First Wing banner, others running their fingers in short, sharp swipes up and down wooden shafts as they cracked ever more obscene jokes about the pirates and the Venn. Their snickers did not quite hide their nervousness.
Flash jerked his thumb up toward the hill and said to Hawkeye, “Says he’ll sound the attack.”
Hawkeye did not react to the lack of title or protocol, but beckoned Flash, who followed him to where they couldn’t be overheard. Hawkeye’s question surprised him: “Can he command?”
Flash’s first reaction was resentment. But Hawkeye’s tone wasn’t derisive as in He can’t possibly command; it was a genuine question.
Flash rubbed his gloved fingers over his mouth, thinking. Hawkeye had been in the Battle of Ghael Hills. He’d seen action, and so far Flash and Evred hadn’t.
So he said, “I think so. He was really good the last year or so at the academy.”
Hawkeye let out his breath with a whoosh, looked around, then said, “The other one couldn’t.”
The other one—the Sierlaef. The battle—Ghael Hills. A real battle. Flash was glad he hadn’t returned a sarcastic answer: whatever had happened in their boyhood days, here was the truth.
Flash stared at Hawkeye, frustrated at not being able to see his expression in the dim light. The rising murmur behind them meant the boats were drawing near; it was almost time for battle.
So he said quickly, “He’s not like—” Inda, he almost said. But they’d stopped using Inda’s name with anyone outside their class years ago. Covering that lapse, he whispered, “He’s learned from people. Tried his ideas in the games. He’s got a cool head.”
Although the answer didn’t mean much, Hawkeye turned up his thumb in the old academy gesture of agreement as he studied the coastline. He waved Flash back to the hill and returned to his rock.
His job before an attack was to advise. During an attack he was to make certain that Evred’s commands were carried out, and if any mass charge was ordered, to lead. He’d also lead his own wing—the First Wing—which was gathered around him now. His stomach tightened; he wished he was on the hill, but would he be able to make sense of everything from there, especially in the dark? His mind raced backward through memory as he watched those boats: he never commanded a war game as the Sierlaef and Buck had always had precedence—maybe he couldn’t— Yes, I know I can lead a fight e
ven if I can’t plan one. Command—lead—boats near the breakers—ready, ready— Evred, if you don’t signal I will—
Evred stared out at the dark water crammed with bobbing silhouettes. He motioned to the harbormaster. “Are those Venn or pirates?”
“Pirates,” the harbormaster stated. “Venn use their oars in a pattern. Them pirates might have drilled Venn landings. If so, we’ll see shields come up right as they hit the breakers.”
Anyone could see that the best moment to attack the incoming boats was when they were fighting through the rolling breakers. Apparently the Venn drilled to overcome that weakness; they might have trained their allies.
Evred wiped his hands down his battle tunic, then glanced at his bugler. “Ready?”
Four longboats surged up and down, now riding the blue-white waves—
“Prepare arrows.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat so hard it burned.
One sharp blast on the horn, and all up and down the palisade fire teams whipped up their bows. Arrows sparked with flame. Another blast, and the air filled with the rushing sound of arrows flying, pinpoints of glowing gold arcing toward the breakers. Evred cleared his throat again, as softly as possible, against the tickle of oil smoke at the back of his throat. No sneezes—
Some of the pirate silhouettes raised shields, some didn’t. Most let out a roar and their shadow-shapes dove into the almost equally dark water, emerging with weapons raised, the edges of their steel glinting in the soft light of the humming canopy of fire arrows. No Venn training, then. Allies or hirelings?
“Better get ready.” Sindan touched his shoulder, and Evred reached for the wrist guards worked with the Montrei-Vayir crimson and gold that his betrothed, Kialen, had sent him. He knew the thought had been Hadand’s as Kialen, poor little soul, would never think of such a thing. He buckled them, pulled his gloves back on, and checked that his sword was loose in its baldric before he slid his left arm into the shield strap. It felt strange to wear a sword instead of carrying it on his saddle.
Reaching the shore, fifty, maybe sixty men leaped out of each longboat, some of them carrying bucket-shrouded lamps, which cast odd jiggling light pools as they ran with a roar for the walls.
“Defense,” Evred shouted at the bugler, ashamed at how high, how sharp his voice sounded, as the first men dashed to the wall. Already locals were leaping over, wild, without any discipline. Three fell, hacked viciously by bawling pirates.
The bugler raised his horn. Evred saw his eyes widen, reflecting the torchlight, as he drew in a deep breath. His fingers trembled, but his blast was pure, the racing triplets blood-stirring, and below Hawkeye shouted, “Line!”
Smooth, drilled, assured, the First Wing’s dragoons rose in a line, not leaping forward but staying back, holding ground; as the pirates clambered over the wall, the trumpet called the attack, and the dragoons’ spear points glinted as they struck. Shouts, screams, guttural moans smothered the rhythmic hiss and thump of the breakers.
Evred clenched his fists, fingers sweaty inside his gloves. For a short time nothing was visible in the fitful torchlight but a mass of struggling figures. Cries and clashes of steel reverberated through the cold air. More torches flared here and there, and fires kindled, painting the skirmish with a ruddy, beating glow. The pirates shouted, then launched forward in groups to break through the line, which held; fewer from each group were thrown back. Most fell.
Some locals, seeing the line hold, joined, to be thrust aside. They pressed too close, hampering the warriors.
One of them yelled something in Olaran. Evred made out the word for boat. Perhaps they were going to launch into the water and . . . do what? He dismissed them from his attention—the locals couldn’t be trusted or controlled because no one was in command. They ran to and fro, many of them retreating toward the buildings.
This battle was his to win or lose.
A great shout rose farther along the rocky shore: a breakthrough. “Defense. Second line,” Evred said hard, to keep his voice steady. “Third in attack formation.”
The bugler sounded the signal for the second line to emerge, and then the three-short-three-long for the third line to reform into wedges.
“South!” the harbormaster cried. “I count five, six boats, coming up from the south side—”
But Evred had been watching.
“Southern fire line,” he said to the bugler.
Longboats ghosted in toward the shore, no lights, the sails barely visible. “Arrows,” Evred said, and again the fire arrows rained on the boats.
This pirate group was better disciplined. Shields rose overhead as the boats shot in, straight up to the beach, the arrows clattering harmlessly on the shields sounding like a distant hailstorm. Masses of figures, their steel gleaming cold blue in the starlight, swarmed up the beach—
“South lines defense,” Evred said, and this time the bugler was too quick.
“What do you see?” Sindan asked.
“The dragoons are holding line . . .” Evred tried to find the words for what he was seeing, then gave up, after a time forgetting that he’d been speaking. The jumble of images was fast, too fast, sometimes meshing into a whole but more often breaking his attention just as he seemed to make sense of what he saw: a scream near the point drew his attention that way. A flare of fire snapped his eyes to the west. Pirates running into a building—the crash and shatter of wood smashing through windows.
A breaker surged up, more boats riding its crest.
“Signal to the third fire line,” Evred called to his bugler. He was surprised his voice was hoarse. He wasn’t fighting— except his muscles bunched, his insides cramped, sweat ran inside the quilting under his mail coat.
Yip! Yip! Yip! The academy cry flared up, high, harsh, feral. Evred turned his focus downward, saw reflected in the firelight the crimson and gold banner with the big black bar across it: First Wing. Hawkeye’s bright yellow head at the lead of a wedge of riders racing along the shore to—ah! Another load of boats, almost out of sight around a bluff.
That meant the scouts were dead. Evred signaled his last line of reinforcements to swarm down the mountainside to ward the flank attack. He could no longer identify specific wings, much less flights. Here and there three-cornered guidons fluttered, some of them jabbed up and down, others waving in a circle.
Guidons—never thought they were worth carrying— night battle—
Fire—reflection—see mass movement in the fire—
Keep order—
He clamped down on galloping thoughts because they were galloping away from the truth: his force was now fully committed and he had lost his grasp on the battle’s shape. If indeed he’d ever had it.
A pang of self-loathing burned through him. He said in a hard voice, “Signal command to wing captains.”
Two rippling chords of five notes apiece, and it was done, not that Evred could see any change—
Clang! He spun around. Sindan’s sword whirled, blocking one, two assailants. Another ran up from behind. In a single much-drilled move Evred gripped his sword, stepped to Sindan’s left without fouling his shield, and brought his heavy cavalry sword down on the bobbing enemy before him. Full strength. Full strength for the very first time; excitement drove his arm hard, but his blade did not cleave flesh, it thudded hard against mail and glanced off, causing him to stagger back a step.
But only for a heartbeat. His body, drilled over years, knew what to do. His hand shifted its grip, his arm whipped round into a tight side-cut. The pirate turned his head to see where the hiss came from and for a moment Evred saw a young face, open mouth, dry lips, the gleam of torchlight in open eyes, then his blade chunked into the fellow’s neck and stuck. Blood spurted, smelling hot and salty sweet, and Evred yanked the blade free as the pirate fell, hand clutching weakly at his neck, his body spasming helplessly.
Sindan gasped over his shoulder, “Finish him. Don’t let them suffer.” Clunk! Clang! He raised his shield against the ax-blow of an
older man who wore jewel-encrusted silks over his battle gear, the stones a red glimmer reflecting the light of the city on fire.
Evred drew his breath, used both hands to drive his blade down, cutting through the fallen pirate’s fingers as well as his neck, and the body went limp, the head mostly cut free, but not altogether. The mess, sidelit from the roaring house fires, made Evred reel, pinpoints of light sparkling across his vision.
Step behind. His arms jerked: up came blade, shield ready.
This time it was easier. The pirate wielded an ax, already in its downstroke. Evred’s blade snapped upward so fast, so hard, he nearly took the man’s arm off. Thud. He ripped the blade free to whirl it around from the other side below the fellow’s ear, cutting free a dangling golden hoop. Chunk. A sound he had never heard in the academy, the sound of steel burying itself in living flesh.
He did not look at the fallen but whirled to scan the area, saw several pirates retreating rapidly back into the dark. Before him stood Sindan, the bugler, and Uncle Anderle’s Runner, dark-smeared swords at the ready. What now?
Sindan motioned the others into a protective circle. Oh. Around him. Yes, I’m in command.
Evred stumped back up to his old position, his breath harsh in his throat. His wrists felt like water and he fought to regain control, holding his breath and letting it out in gasps as he looked back and forth, trying to make sense of the battle.
He couldn’t get rid of the image of the wide eyes, the severed neck—a howling roar just beyond the fishing dock—a line of dragoons falling back, overcome by a mob of pirates——he looked away—yes! On the other side the ordered ranks of an entire flight—whose? Whose banner was that? Captain Senelayec—
He smacked the bugler on the arm with his sword hilt. “Senelayec to the left, reinforce.”
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