Justice

by Ian Irvine

  “What’s to stop them breaking through the way we’ve just come?” said Waysman.

  “Good point,” said Rix. “We’ll leave fifty men here to defend this path. Stay hidden until it’s too late for them to turn back.”

  He took three deep breaths, shook his captains’ hands and turned away. He had trained for this moment all his life. He could do it.

  Even against Grandys?

  Yes, even against him.

  He mounted again and went forward around the edge of the reeds. Ahead, the rise curved around from the right, sloping steadily down until it barely concealed him. The men were fanning out behind him. Rix squared his shoulders, putting on a confidence he did not feel. He raised his sword, swung it down and spurred his horse forward.

  “Charge!”

  The cavalry charged, his infantry followed, and the aches and pains from the previous battle vanished. All eighty riders went with him, racing north for the weakness in the enemy’s lines.

  Rix was aiming to tear through this flank, leaving them isolated and surrounded on three sides, with nowhere to go but into the lake. Hopefully Hork’s force would show enough initiative to drive them the rest of the way. Waysman’s fifty would guard the path along the edge of the marsh and Pomfree would lead another fifty onto the eastern hill to hold it as well.

  Rix got to within fifty yards before the enemy realised they were under attack from the rear. Horns sounded; movement spread through the ranks like ripples from half a dozen points as the soldiers at the rear swung around.

  But again, the warning had come too late for them to form a solid rank before Rix’s charge struck them with terrible force. He cut three men down with successive blows, thumped another in the back of the head with his mailed fist, and skewered a fifth.

  He took stock and moved on, doing his bloody job as efficiently as possible until he was covered with gore and the enemy’s flank had been cut off. Most of them were just boys, younger than his twenty years. They had not known any kind of battle until Grandys recruited them a month or two ago, and they had never experienced defeat.

  Hork’s men, who had been facing death only a minute before, counterattacked ferociously from the other side as if to make up for their shame. Rix could see the dawning panic in the enemy’s eyes.

  But he could not afford to pity them; it was kill or die. He left his third company to finish the grim work and withdrew the first and second companies. They ran north for a couple of hundred yards then plunged into the enemy’s lines again.

  The enemy knew they were coming but they were under attack from the front and rear now and, being at slightly higher elevation here, they could see what had happened to their left flank. The nearshore waters of the lake were tinged with red.

  As he fought, Rix could not help the feeling that he’d had it easy. The enemy weren’t fighting the way Grandys fought—he definitely wasn’t here. But where was he? When would the trap close? And how?

  “The enemy have lost two thousand,” said Jackery, who had blood on either shoulder, the left worse than the right.

  “And Hork’s lost almost as many of ours,” said Rix.

  He had known the cost would be high. Indeed, it could have been far higher.

  “The big question,” said Jackery, “is where Grandys is, and his other three thousand men.”

  “I questioned one of his dying lieutenants,” said Pomfree. “Grandys went racing north with the rest of his army, not long before dawn.”

  Rix stared into the northern distances. “North? Why?”

  “No one knows.”

  “He must have had important news. Let’s hope it was bad news. Did the other Heroes go with him?”

  “They weren’t here in the first place, save for Rufuss.”

  “Then where the hell are they?”

  “No one knows.”

  “That’s bad,” said Rix. “If Syrten, Lirriam and Yulia weren’t here, what are they up to?”

  The question was unanswerable.

  “I know where Rufuss is,” Pomfree said suddenly.

  “Where?”

  “Behind you.”

  Rix turned and five or six hundred enemy were charging. In the middle, a full head taller than everyone else, was Rufuss.

  CHAPTER 33

  Rufuss was brandishing a halberd with an immensely long shaft, urging his men on.

  “Jackery?” yelled Rix.

  “Here!”

  Rix took off his commander’s hat and tossed it across. “Put that on. Take a couple of hundred men and block Rufuss’s path to the north, just in case. If he doesn’t go that way, attack from his rear.”

  Jackery swallowed, then raised the hat high. “Company, this way!” he shouted, and spurred to the north.

  After a second, the men followed him. They would not have known who it was; they were following the hat, not the man. Rix fixed Rufuss’s location in his mind, spurred his weary, blood-spattered horse and fought his way through the enemy ranks towards him.

  “That’s Rixium!” he heard Rufuss shout in his distinctive hard, brittle voice. “Cut him down.”

  Half a dozen of the biggest bravos turned Rix’s way, but many others moved aside, clearly unwilling to take him on. They would all know that Rix had twice fought Grandys to a standstill, and they had seen him in battle. He was a ferocious warrior, almost unbeatable with that enormous sword in his left hand and the mailed glove over his dead right fist.

  They had also seen what had happened to their fellows on the northern flank earlier, and their morale must be faltering. Under Grandys’ command they had become used to winning, but Grandys was not here, Rufuss could never be an inspiring leader, and the enemy were showing unexpected resistance.

  Where had Rufuss gone? There, forty yards away, on horseback in a clear space. Rix raced towards him. Rufuss swung the halberd and Rix heard it sing as its tip passed through the air inches from his face. He felt the sting of magery, too—it was an enchanted blade.

  But an unwieldy one. He rode forward and, as Rufuss swung the halberd back, hacked through the shaft. Magery burst all around him, burning his knuckles and singeing his eyebrows, then vanished.

  Rufuss drew a sword, a black, double-edged blade inches longer than Rix’s. He darted forward and thrust, not at Rix, but at his horse’s chest. Rufuss found a gap in the armour, forced through and Rix’s horse went down.

  Rix leapt free, ducked a savage slash, parried another, then dived beneath Rufuss’s mount and cut the saddle straps. He caught Rufuss’s left boot, heaved and upended him as the saddle slid off.

  Rufuss landed hard but bounced to his feet, his black eyes glittering. He cut at Rix, a surgical stroke that grazed his knuckles. He was a fine swordsman; Rix had seen his bloody handiwork in half a dozen battles. Rufuss might even be his superior, his only weakness being that he enjoyed the killing far more than was decent.

  He did not speak, but Rix could see the bloodlust in the man’s eyes, and the red tinge of his madness. Rufuss had always hated Rix, but unlike Grandys, Rufuss had never seen Rix’s admirable side. Or if he had, he wanted to destroy it the way he longed to destroy all good things.

  Rix fought within himself, deliberately holding back a little, and most times leaving a small area on his right side uncovered. Just a tiny, subtle window of opportunity for a maiming blow to his right arm and shoulder, a blow that would allow Rufuss the opportunity to kill with the next stroke.

  Rix struck at Rufuss and cut him across the chest, a short, shallow wound of no consequence. Rufuss’s eyes hardened and he directed a fusillade of blows against Rix, as though the wound was a personal insult.

  Rix parried each stroke, again leaving that tiny gap in his defences, two strokes out of three. Would his opponent take the bait? Not yet. Rix leapt forward, pricked the tip of Rufuss’s long nose—an insult that could not be ignored—and darted back.

  Blood ran down Rufuss’s mouth and chin. He dashed it away with his left arm and took a wild swing, which missed.
He struck again and again, measured strokes this time. Again Rix left that tiny gap in his defences and this time Rufuss went for it.

  Rix acted in an instant. He slammed his mailed fist upwards, knocking the stroke aside, and brought his sword down with all his strength on Rufuss’s extended right arm, just below the shoulder. The sword sheared through flesh and bone and the severed arm hit the ground with a dull thud.

  Rufuss looked down at it in disbelief, momentarily ignoring the blood spurting from the arteries, then reached down for his arm. Rix, fearing that he would be able to reattach it with magery and fight on, shouldered him aside and kicked the arm away into the mud.

  Rufuss lurched sideways, his face white—not even the Five Heroes were immune to shock and pain. He clamped his left hand over the stump, uttered a word of power and smoke rose between his fingers. His face was twisted in agony as the blistering spell cauterised the wound.

  But he had lost a lot of blood and he was staggering now, struggling to stay on his feet. He looked around at his battered army, at his sword, at Rix, then lurched to the nearest horse and threw himself over the saddle, legs dangling on one side, head and shoulders on the other.

  “Run!” he said shrilly, slapping it hard on the flank.

  The horse bolted north through the ranks and Rix lost sight of it.

  He picked up Rufuss’s severed arm, holding it high and rotating it so the opaline fingers caught the light.

  “Rufuss is defeated!” Rix shouted. “Rufuss of the Five Heroes has run like the cur he is. Hightspallers, the battle is ours to win. Drive the enemy into the mires. Show them no quarter until they surrender.”

  His army surged forward. The Herovians fought for a few more minutes then, as Rix continued to wave Rufuss’s opal arm, and the word of his defeat and flight spread, the heart went out of them. But they were hemmed in to the north and east, and on the south-east.

  They ran the only way they could, into the Lodden Mires, not realising that any step off the faint paths led to bottomless pools and sticky quick-mud which, once in, was impossible to get out of. Rix left Rufuss’s arm where he could find it again and led his troops forward until, with the enemy floundering in the trackless morass and drowning by their hundreds, he called the battle off.

  He lowered his sword and leaned on it, panting, then mounted a riderless horse and rode slowly around the bloody, corpse-littered battlefield, doing the sickening numbers.

  One of the first men he recognised was the once handsome and dashing Hork. His body had been almost cut in two by a ferocious sword blow and he had died screaming in the mud. Hork’s folly had caused this disaster but Rix could only feel pity for the man.

  It was not yet 1 p.m. Halfway across the field he encountered Jackery, who was running the same count. He was drenched in blood and bore several bandaged wounds, but Rix saw a quiet confidence in the sergeant’s eyes—he had been given a leadership role far beyond his experience, and it had transformed him.

  The victory, Rix’s first as commander, had changed him too, though the success was more bitter than sweet.

  “When we left the camp this morning, I had 4400 men. Now I have 2100. It’s a high price for leaving my army for six hours.”

  “You ordered Hork to stay put,” said Jackery. “And you left him in a strong position; a position he could have defended if Grandys had attacked him there. The men are dead because Hork disobeyed his orders.”

  “I know. But if I hadn’t gone haring after Glynnie, on a pursuit a moment’s thought would have told me was hopeless, those 2300 men would all be alive.”

  Jackery said no more.

  “And the enemy?” said Rix.

  “Two thousand dead on the battlefield. At a rough count, another eight hundred drowned in the lake and the mires.”

  “And how many got away?”

  “Around two thousand,” said Jackery.

  “That’s what I thought. Which makes their original numbers only five thousand, as we thought. Grandys took the rest north, but where? And why?”

  “No one I questioned knew.”

  “I’d better find out. Take charge of the men, see that the dying are dispatched as painlessly as possible and have everyone gather the surplus weapons and supplies—we’ll need them—and head back to Bolstir.”

  Rix rode back and forth across the battlefield, searching for an enemy officer who was still alive, and found one not far from where he had fought Rufuss. He bent over the dying man, a thin fellow who had been speared through the middle and was slowly bleeding to death. Nothing could be done for him.

  “Where did Grandys go?” said Rix.

  The man looked at him weakly, struggling to focus. “North. Last night.”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t know. But he’ll be back to cut you to little pieces.”

  “How many men did he take with him?”

  “Not saying—not saying any more.”

  Rix rose, thoughtfully. Grandys had a fortress, a few hours’ ride north. The first fortress he had captured in Hightspall, in fact—Castle Swire. Perhaps he had gone there, but why?

  It wouldn’t take Rix’s scouts long to find out. In this closely settled countryside the movement of an army could not be concealed once you knew where they had started from. He rode wearily back to where he had fought Rufuss, retrieved the severed arm and tied it onto his saddle.

  “I didn’t know you were a trophy-collecting man,” said Jackery.

  “I’m going to preserve it in salt and exhibit it in every town and village we come to. People might struggle to believe that we defeated one of the Five Heroes and sent his army running for their lives, but they can’t argue with Rufuss’s arm.”

  “A mighty victory,” said Jackery, “and all down to you, sir.”

  “Every man who fought today contributed to it,” said Rix, suddenly so exhausted that he could barely stay upright in the saddle.

  “But you led us. You inspired us.”

  The nagging pain in his belly was gone. All things considered, he had done well. Better than he could have hoped. It was a small good feeling in a terrible, bloody day, and for the moment he did not even feel bad about Glynnie. He had done what he could. She had chosen her path and he had taken his.

  In the middle of the afternoon they rode slowly north the few miles to Bolstir. The camp was still in place, along with most of the hundred men Hork had left behind to guard it. But Rix’s heart lurched when he saw the single torn tent and the bodies, fifteen of them, lined up in the shade awaiting burial.

  “What happened here?” he said to Sergeant Binner, who limped across to meet him. A thick bloodstained bandage was wound around his head.

  “Enemy must’ve slipped into cover under the east cliff in the night, sir,” said Binner. “Forty of them. Attacked not long after you left this morning. That’s what drove Hork down off the hill, to retaliate.”

  A shiver inched down the back of Rix’s neck. “They came for something.”

  “Holm, sir,” said Binner. “They went straight for his tent, hacked it down and trapped him inside.”

  “Why Holm? Did—did they kill him?”

  “No, sir. They went to great trouble to keep him alive, and unharmed.”

  “They kidnapped Holm?”

  “Yes, sir. And left you a message.”

  Binner handed Rix a rectangular piece of parchment. On it, in Grandys’ distinctive scrawl, were the following words: Thank you for the use of Master Surgeon Holm.

  “He’s taken Holm to cut the pearl out of Tali,” said Rix.

  CHAPTER 34

  On their second night in Castle Swire, Lirriam came for Tali.

  She was woken by the door bolts being drawn back, then the lock clicking. As she sat up, pain spiked through the backs of her eyes, but faded. Lirriam entered, carrying a lantern and a yellow leather case. She locked the door behind her, set the lantern on the floor and turned to Tali, and the light caught her eyes so that they appeared to flame.

&
nbsp; What was she doing here at this time of night? Was she taking advantage of Grandys’ absence to make her long awaited move against him?

  After days of marching east from Bastion Barr, dogged by Rix’s army, Grandys had secretly taken Tali, escorted by three hundred troops, to Castle Swire in Lakeland. They had smuggled her inside in darkness, blindfolded, and locked her in the top room in the rear tower, where Grandys had sealed the door and window with an enchantment bound to Maloch, to prevent Tali from leaving the room or being carried out of it without his express orders. He had left the three hundred men here to guard her and headed south-east to rejoin his army at Flume, fifteen miles away.

  Lirriam bent over Tali, Incarnate swinging on its chain before her eyes, mesmerising her…

  Tali tore her gaze away. “What do you want?”

  “It’s time.”

  Lirriam pressed her right forefinger to the midpoint between Tali’s eyes and she felt the strength drain out of her, just as it had done when Rufuss touched her forehead. Her head flopped back on the pillow. Why did everyone do it to her the same way?

  The answer was obvious—because of the master pearl.

  “You’re taking the pearl,” Tali said dully.

  “Boys’ toys,” Lirriam sniffed. “What would I want with it?”

  “All five pearls were formed in the women of my family.”

  “A man’s magery caused them to form there. And all the users thus far have also been men.”

  “Save me.”

  “What notable things have you done with your pearl?” Lirriam sneered.

  “I killed my overseer, escaping from Cython, for starters,” Tali said feebly.

  “It’s sickeningly easy to kill someone.”

  “You’d know.”

  Lirriam drew a razor from her leather case. Tali’s heart began to hammer. She tried to roll off the bed but there was no strength in her limbs.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, her voice going squeaky.

  Lirriam took a handful of Tali’s golden hair and cut it off. Then another, and another. When her hair was only the length of stubble, Lirriam heated Tali’s jug of water by putting one finger in it and whispering a word of power.