Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  The army was silent behind them. The road was silent ahead. Khenria was deeply silent. Her gaze lingered upon the ditch at the side of the road, now filled with bloated black shapes. Khenria squared her narrow shoulders, filling out her dark battle-leathers, sitting straight in the saddle. Reining her horse in, she seemed to look down on her mother the Vhinesse beneath the disappearing moon, as if she’d somehow grown tall.

  “Ride on!”

  Khenria’s bark was piercing in the midnight chill, as she turned to command the column. As one, four thousand Red Valor heeled their horses, stepping forward upon the stony road. As the moon disappeared behind the clouds, Khenria clucked her horse into the lead next to the Vhinesse – a princess of Valenghia beside her Vine, leading an army to war.

  The column was deathly silent as they progressed, the smell of dawn rising in the air as the sky at last began to change. All around, the road was subtly visible in the lifting light, a white stripe in the deep grey. But as they rounded a line of felled cyprus trees that had been piled in a barricade, that barricade subsequently dismantled for Lhaurent’s army to pass through, Dherran saw the vast ruin of Vennet.

  It was hardly recognizable. Everything had been razed. Every building loomed in the pre-dawn, stove-in, rooflines collapsed, foundations blackened. The scent of char was thick and heavy despite the slurried mud of recent rain the horses trod through. As a thin drizzle began to claim the air, then deepened into a steady downpour, the column moved forward through the decimated town. Here and there lay a body, and more livestock, charred. The trail toward Arlen’s contingency location was not hard to find. Just past Vennet’s blackened plaza, a swath of destruction headed off down a cart-track and deep into the forest to the west.

  Delennia pointed and Khenria nodded. Without any chatter in the greying light, they led the column toward the broken swath of an army’s passage. Lhaurent’s forces had been as callous with the land here as they’d been with Vennet, all the underbrush hacked down and trampled in a swath a hundred feet wide. Bits of detritus had been left behind. A broken wagon-wheel; a set of busted leather straps for a baldric. Another dead cow, this one butchered for its meat, the bones and hooves left behind. A worn-out pair of boots.

  Delennia’s forces rode the trail in a tense silence. They’d only traveled into the forest an hour when a big black horse came galloping toward them out of the deep shadows, Emeris’ strong mount returning with its master riding tall upon it in his Red Valor gear. To the north, Dherran could see a glow on the horizon, red like fire. The scent of char filled the wind despite the steady rain, and as Emeris hauled his stallion to a stop, his words confirmed everything Dherran already knew.

  “Conflict ahead, my Vine!” Emeris gasped. “The Vicoute’s forces are safe in the Vault, but someone’s made a push from the fortress into the river-valley. It’s chaos. Something’s blasted up a good half of the Menderian camp, but there’s still a hell of a lot of them left. Our approach is clear, though. I’ve alerted Arlen to our position and he promises his men will be ready to push when we arrive. With this chaos happening in the Menderian camp, we should be able to pin Lhaurent’s forces between us and Arlen, drive hard with the cavalry.”

  The man spoke with utter confidence about the location of the battle, and Dherran raised his brows at that. Delennia was likewise unfazed, and Dherran surmised that they had been here before and knew the terrain.

  “Thank you, Emeris,” Delennia spoke, and her liege-man nodded. The slick night had lightened, the black-on-black succumbing to a grisly dawn of grey shadows with crimson fire illuminating the underbelly of the clouds directly north. Delennia was motionless upon her mount for a moment, deep in thought. At last, she gave a sharp whistle through her teeth. Her Red Valor captains moved their horses up into a huddle around her, Dherran, Khenria, Grump, and Emeris among them.

  “This will be a straight drive,” Delennia spoke succinctly. “Emeris, lead your lancers up the western flank and take out any trebuchets up on the ridge—”

  “Forgive me, Vhinesse,” Emeris interrupted, wiping rain from his crimson-tattooed pate. “But the catapults on the western and eastern ridges have already been taken out. Keshari-work.”

  Delennia’s eyebrows rose and she glanced to Grump. “You didn’t tell me Arlen had keshari.”

  “I didn’t know he did.” Grump looked nearly as astounded as Delennia before his brows pinched in a thoughtful frown. “But it’s to our distinct advantage. Keshar-cats and Elsthemi riders will fight harder when inspired by our drive.”

  “Indeed.” Delennia took in the group again. “Emeris, hem in the western flank, then. Captain Rhoric, take the right. My drive will go up the middle, with you three,” her gaze pinned Dherran, Grump, and Khenria. “No one breaks the line. We push as a group and fill in any gaps from fallen cavalry. I will have this tight and coordinated, gentlemen. We are the anvil, and Arlen is the hammer. He’ll know what to do once we arrive. Our goal is surrender for the Menderian forces. Captain Thorvel, have your archers target any Kreth-Hakir you see. They are to be taken out at all costs. Gentlemen. Prepare your companies for battle.”

  Delennia’s captains heeled their horses with a salute of two fingers to their brow and trotted back to their companies, relaying orders. Emeris glowered at no one in particular as he checked his weapons. Dherran did the same, though it was going to be tricky fighting in the driving rain and bloody slurry that was sure have engulfed the camp already from whatever chaos was occurring.

  They marched forward as a unit, companies organized to the right and left. The trees soon opened out into a broad river-valley seething with fire and uproar. No one was watching their rear. Dherran had been in battle numerous times, but had never seen anything like this. He sat tall upon his horse, seeing a tight valley surrounded by ridge-cliffs. Bounded by a river to the north stood the most incredible fortress he’d ever seen. Stark red in the grey morning, it looked like pinnacles of blood piercing the sky. Like massive talons ripped through the clouds, it was more than a fortress, this citadel of vaulted arches and impossible height.

  And before it, hemmed-in upon river-plain to the west, was chaos. Swaths of land had been scorched black, tents and wains afire and blistered with holes. An acrid scent seared the morning wind, bitter with the tang of blood and death. As they approached, they saw a mass of keshar-cats lining up at the archways of the fortress, wooden ramps being winched down to splash into the flooding river below as lines of archers with enormous silver-white warbows lined up on the heights before a row of trebuchets.

  As promised, Arlen’s fighters were ready for them.

  Delennia’s cavalry were formed. Lines were ready, swords were out, her Red Valor eager in their stirrups as the dawn lifted in the stark grey morning. Khenria snarled with weapons bared, Grump the same. New alarms were rising in the Menderian camp, the harried clangs of bronze bells smiting the chaos as Dherran drew his sword from over his shoulder and blew out a steady breath, his ears ringing with rage and a shudder thrumming through his body.

  “Charge!”

  Delennia’s roar was lost to the thunder of hoofbeats, even as a ringing blast came from an Elsthemi war-horn at the fortress. Dherran was at the front of the line, his sword already swiping down as the Red Valor cavalry galloped into the Menderian forces, hamming them hard. Horses reared and kicked as Red Valor stabbed with their silver lances, their precise Valenghian battle-maneuvers cracking skulls and spines while keshar-cats flowed down from the fortress into the river to pound the northern camp.

  Somewhere through his red rage Dherran saw Grump and Khenria holding their own, fire surging up Khenria’s blade, as Delennia fought like a blistering star in the bleak dawn at her daughter’s side.

  And a vicious smile lifted Dherran’s lips, as soldiers cowered back before his raging sword.

  CHAPTER 36 – ELESHEN

  Eleshen woke just before dawn to find the Vault a beehive of activity. She sat up in bed, blinking awake to noise and bustle. Glanc
ing through the filigree of her bower to the hall beyond, she clutched the blanket to her bare chest. Through the partition, she could see hard-eyed Bog-archers in moss garb readying baskets of arrows. Keshari riders in fur and leather strode through, cinching on ancient armor as they thrust swords home over their shoulders – many of them now without cats, but not without ferocity.

  Kingsmen in their Greys strode past, checking longknives. Ihbram approached, his russet mane pulled back, his green eyes shining with battle-fever as he ducked beneath the woven door-cover, carrying a plate of food. Eleshen could tell by the low braziers and chill air that it was barely dawn, rain drumming a steady counterpoint upon the dome to accompany the bustle.

  “What’s going on?” Hauling on her silken undergarments and battle-halter without caring about Ihbram’s presence, Eleshen began to eat hastily from the plate; roasted goat, fresh apples, and a cold peach chutney with a sharp white cheese.

  “We’re staging an attack.” Ihbram sat on the bed, stretching out his legs and crossing his boots as he watched her eat. “Within the half-hour. Arlen said to let those affected by Devil’s Breath recover as long as possible before we saddle up.”

  “Didn’t most of the cats die?” Eleshen spoke through mouthfuls, ravenous after her poisoning.

  “Just a turn of phrase,” Ihbram smiled ruefully. “Your cat made it, actually. Someone got a rag over her nose and mouth in time, and someone also saved mine. Khouren’s cat perished, but he can ride behind you.” Ihbram frowned, glancing around the filigreed bower. “Where is he, by the way? I’ve looked all over, but I thought he was with you.”

  “I thought he was with you.” Eleshen slurped down the peach chutney. “He was with me last night. Anyway, why attack now? Aren’t there seven thousand soldiers out there?”

  “There’s been some sort of accident in the Menderian camp,” Ihbram’s eyes shone with violent satisfaction. “They managed to catch their stores of Pythian Resin and Devil’s Breath on fire somehow. It’s still going on, and their camp is in chaos – everything’s going up in flames.”

  “How many have been killed?” Eleshen set her meat down.

  “Arlen estimates at least a sixth of their forces so far, mostly their support-tents and horse lines on the western flank. But he received word early this morning that we have Valenghian Longriders on the way to support us. Red Valor cavalry lancers, some four thousand of them. We’ll never have a better opportunity to hit the Menderians, and General Merra and Arlen are mustering all hands. Hurry and get dressed.”

  Eleshen was already tumbling out of bed, hauling on her Kingsman Greys over her silken undergarments. Smooth as doeskin, the lightweight leather cinched close to her lean curves. Flipping her hair out of the way of the high collar, she plaited her sable locks into a long braid and pinned it up tight. Buckling on her weapons-harness, she hauled the sword out from over her shoulder and checked the edge with the back of her thumbnail. Thrusting the sword home, she checked her longknives. They were sharp – honed to perfection and ready for throats.

  “Fast as Lenuria ever was.” Ihbram murmured with a mystic smile upon his lips. “You’ve got a fair amount of her traits in you with this new body. Khouren and I have both noticed it.”

  Eleshen was about to reply, when her dream from the night came roaring back. In it, she had seen Khouren, burning with fire, his blue-black hair a wreath of flames. His body had been a living torch, regenerating beneath a searing resin as fast as it could eat him away. He’d been hallowed by fire – a beast of darkness and power. But that darkness had held screams. Soldiers running; burning tents. The horror of countless lives being taken rang in Eleshen’s ears. And yet, it stirred her, something fierce inside her resonating with the destruction.

  “Are you alright?” Ihbram cocked his head, watching her.

  “It’s nothing. Just fever-dreams from the Devil’s Breath.”

  “Can you fight?” Ihbram moved closer, smoothing back a strand of her hair with his fingertips, his eyes concerned.

  “I’m fine.” Eleshen slapped his hand away, peeved. “Let’s go.”

  “As milady wishes.” Ihbram’s smile was renegade, but also somber. With a crisp military bow and a clack of bootheels, Ihbram led the way. They strode fast through the commotion. Joining the bustle, they moved from the dome into the lifting grey dawn and over the vaulted bridge to the fortress. Torches burned in brackets, illuminating the fierce tension of riders preparing the surviving cats in the courtyards. Bog-archers jogged past with baskets of arrows and their hardy silver-white longbows.

  Threading through the commotion and finding their cats already prepared, Eleshen and Ihbram took their reins and led their cats toward the main archways at the southern side of the fortress. Gazing down upon the valley, Eleshen saw that fires raged below, fully a third of the camp burning with green-gold flames twisting up into the dawn and devouring the western flank. Screams of men and horses could be heard everywhere. Whatever accident that had occurred had taken the destruction far. Splattering Pythian resin had devoured holes in men and beasts, tents and barrels, wains and winches. The western side of the Menderian camp looked less like an army and more like a burning tar-vat. A red eagerness for battle rose in Eleshen, as Ihbram moved to her side with his big roan cat.

  “We survive today,” Ihbram spoke as he mounted up. “Stay by me. I always did fight better with a woman of spit and vinegar nearby.”

  Eleshen butted heads briefly with her dappled grey Moonshadow, then slung up into the saddle. “I’m surviving. You have to make that decision for yourself. Will Khouren find us?”

  Ihbram gave a laugh, his eyes alight in the burning grey dawn. “I think he’d find you at the end of the world, milady. He’ll find us. Trust me.”

  Their interlude was interrupted by a pouring of moss-clad men and women out from the fortress and up to the vaulted egresses above. Purloch’s archers lined up in their moss-green garb at every archway, ready with their enormous white warbows. Keshari forces swarmed the causeway behind Eleshen and Ihbram, many of the cats carrying double riders. Ramps were lowered from huge winches rolled into the archways, settling into the river with a deep splash in the driving rain, lodged in the boulders of the rising water below. Wide enough for five keshar-cats to storm down, niches in the sides of the ramps accommodated the Kingsmen and other foot-soldiers – who now set hands to long ropes with grapples, setting the grapples and heaving the ropes over the edge.

  Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir strode to the front near Eleshen’s arch, clad in Kingsmen Greys without a scrap of heavy armor to weigh him down. With a glance at General Merra upon her snow-white cat, who had ambled up to the front of the keshari, he evaluated their press of hide extending down the long thoroughfare behind Eleshen and Ihbram. Across the way, Menderians rushed to the river – pikes at the front with archers and swordsmen behind, desperately trying to form up in time to meet the charge they could see coming from the citadel.

  Looking out over the Menderian camp, Arlen’s steel-blue eyes narrowed. Following his intensity, Eleshen looked to the far south of the valley, to the treeline. And there, she saw a line of cavalry push through the trees, a solid wall of horse and men in crimson, their drawing of cold steel shining in the morning’s grey light. As they formed up, horses prancing eagerly as bronze bells pealed with frantic urgency in the Menderian camp, Arlen’s lips twisted up into a cold, immensely pleased smile.

  “To war!!” Arlen roared down over the citadel’s edge.

  A tremendous roar went up, as General Merra thundered out three sharp blasts from her battle-horn. Like liquid energy, the keshari forces went pouring down the ramps from the fortress. Led by a roar from Merra’s great white cat, Eleshen’s cat was in motion, Ihbram on her flank. Behind them, Kingsmen flooded down their ropes into the shallow river. Soon down with a splash into the water, Eleshen’s cat waded fast across through the swift current.

  Eleshen’s sword was out as they gained the far side of the river, clashing int
o the melee. The keshar-cats were vicious, destroying pikemen and archers quickly. Eleshen and Ihbram dashed in, pressing hard to create space upon the river’s bank for the swordsmen on foot behind. Under an arching volley of arrows, Arlen’s and the Abbey’s Kingsmen rushed to battle behind them, preceded by fang and muscle that barreled into the Menderian lines and sent them scattering like mice.

  Eleshen slashed and pivoted on her cat, whirling and roaring as men came at her on foot and horse. The Menderian pikemen had broken to the keshari’s charge, and now it was a melee, with no time to coordinate their attack, especially with the rear of the camp getting hammered by the Valenghian cavalry. A battle-grin slit Eleshen’s face as blood spattered her. It was not she who was afraid as she sliced her sword with a roar and barreled into a forming line of Menderians. It was they whose eyes showed fear.

  Blood and battle filled Eleshen. Her dappled grey cat was a menace in the burning grey morning, biting heads, raking horses, barreling into foot soldiers. Atop it, Eleshen moved like the breath of death, fast as darkwater’s flow. Cutting, parrying, slipping, striking. Her blood boiled with death; her body screamed for it. Blood washed her as a throat opened to her blade, the hot metallic taste filling her mouth as she struck again, roaring into the faces of her enemies.

  Menderian soldiers began to scramble back in droves, breaking their line at the river’s edge, cats and keshari riders and knots of accomplished Kingsmen hammering them back. Eleshen took a shallow slash upon her shoulder, but spun her dappled cat in fast, slicing up under her adversary’s armpit. Another took his place, and Eleshen stabbed him through the eye with her longknife, then kicked him in the face with her boot.

  Eleshen’s spirit soared, a vicious energy taking her as she fought. Blissful, her body flowed with her breath through cut after cut. Ihbram fought upon his big roan cat to her right. Like they had been born to battle together, they kept a tight formation that left room for each to pivot as bodies piled up around them. Eleshen and Ihbram pushed their cats to a more open area, taking on a cadre of Menderian cavalry lancers.