Mounds of silvery nokula bodies built up in discrete piles along the muddy earthworks. The beasts were attacking at three points that Metyein could see, and likely several more around the other side of palisade. In doing so, they divided the strength of the men on the walls. Soon arrows and spears wouldn’t be enough to withstand the constant flow of nokulas, who clambered up the bodies of their fallen like stepping stools. Sooner or later, the beasts would be able to leap from the mounded bodies over the top of the palisades. If Raven didn’t run out of weapons first. If the rest of Honor didn’t come to the rescue.
Metyein’s fingers flexed, unrolling and knotting around his reins. His eyes skimmed the ranks as the men jostled into place. The archers lined up in double rows, the first kneeling, the second standing. They busily adjusted strings and readied arrows. Twenty feet behind them, the cavalry massed, the horses snorting and pawing, eyes rolling white at the smell of blood. Their skins twitched and their ears flattened at the shrieking cries of the nokulas. Metyein hoped they’d hold together. Most of the horses had never seen a battle. Most were broken for the ordinary labors of travel, hauling wagons, or drawing plows. Behind the horses was a thin forest of footspears.
Metyein reined his horse to the side, cantering along the ring between the archers and the jittery cavalry. He was followed by his Guidon bearing the new colors for the Lord Marshal of Honor, and the Relay bearing a brass horn to signal Metyein’s orders. Both wore yellow tunics with green stripes over armor made of boiled hide. They each had bucklers slung on their arms. Metyein pulled up opposite the gates at the intersection of his complement of men, and those who’d come around with Wolf.
“Sound the ready,” he ordered.
The Relay blew a sharp blast that rose to the mountain peaks and tumbled back down, filling the valley with brassy command. The nokulas clawing at the walls took no notice.
Metyein’s eyes narrowed. The lack of response meant that they had suddenly gone deaf, or they were too involved to notice their danger, or . . . He rubbed a hand across his mouth and drew a deep breath, his heart against his breastbone. Or they didn’t care because they had little reason to fear the gathered men of Honor. Metyein spit, forcing himself to relax tense stomach muscles. Tonight they’d learn a little fear. “Sound the release.”
The Relay blew two short blasts and one long one. Shouts rounded the ring of archers as captains ordered the archers to launch their volley. Strings snapped and arrows whistled. There was a sound like a hail of ripe plums, and then the nokulas screamed in fury and pain. The men on the walls gave a ragged cheer. Metyein smiled, his nostrils flaring. The nokulas were paying attention now.
Then something hit him in the head. Inside his head. He rocked back in his saddle, yanking hard on the reins as his eyes blurred and his ears thundered. His warhorse gave a startled snort and obediently backed several paces. Blood trickled from Metyein’s nose. He struggled to draw air through his swollen throat, listing wide to the left as his right foot slipped loose. His stallion sidestepped beneath him, helping Metyein to regain his balance and pull himself back upright. Metyein stamped his foot back into the stirrup and shook his head to clear it, dashing at the blood running down over his lips with his fist.
“Sir! Are you all right?” It was his Guidon. The man was hardly more than a boy, with bird down for a beard and a soft curve to his jaw. He reached out his hand to steady Metyein. Metyein shrugged off the aid.
“I’m fine.”
“What happened, sir?”
Metyein rubbed his forehead where it throbbed. His eyes felt too big for his skull, and he heard the Guidon’s words as if from far away. “Nokulas, I think.” His voice came out raspy and reedy, his throat raw. What had they done to him? Struck him with some kind of magic bolt. They’d been paying more attention than he thought. They knew who was commanding the attack. He turned to the Relay, who waited on his left, horn half raised.
“Should I fall, immediately ride to Captain Lides. He’ll take command.”
He waited until the Relay nodded.
Bowstrings continued to twang and arrows struck again and again with a staccato pelting sound. The nokulas at the walls turned, finding themselves being chewed up in the cross fire. Even their armored hides and vast strength could not stand against the unceasing hail of arrows.
But the supply of arrows was not infinite. It dwindled far too quickly. The nokulas bunched against the walls and behind their dead to make more difficult targets of themselves. Now they stirred. It seemed to Metyein that they glowed as they crawled out of hiding, heads dropped in menacing fury.
“Call the archers to retreat,” Metyein said.
The Relay blew two short blasts. The archers whipped their bows over their shoulders and scrambled back through the horses to the rear to act as the vanguard. They dropped their bows and snatched up spears from piles dumped by the supply wagons that had trundled around the perimeter. The exhausted men passed the wooden weapons from hand to hand in a bucket brigade and readied themselves for battle.
The nokulas bounded forward as the archers scurried away. The lines of riders broke into a ragged, milling mob. The men on the walls shouted, able to do nothing but watch, their arrow supply also depleted.
“Sound the charge!”
As the Relay blasted the notes, Metyein clapped his heels to the warhorse’s flanks. The horse erupted, thrusting ahead of the loose line of cavalry. It was stupid. He was the Lord Marshal. He should stay behind and give the orders. He was too valuable to risk. He knew it. But there were too few men to fight and too many nokulas. Trained swords were especially needed. Metyein drew his sword and dropped the reins, guiding the animal with his knees and weight.
The first and last coherent thought he had for a while was that the nokulas leaped absurdly high, higher than the head of his horse. They slashed and bit as they flew overhead. Their eyes glowed jewel-bright—ruby, emerald, sapphire, tourmaline, jasper. Four converged on Metyein. He swung his sword, slicing through the paw of the first. The warhorse deliberately collided with another. A blade of fire ran across Metyein’s left shoulder. He grunted, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain, and whipped his sword up and down, chopping at the next beast. His sword barely bit into the tough armored plates on the nokula ’s back. The impact jolted up his arm and through his chest. Then he was through, on the other side of the line of nokulas.
The warhorse wheeled. Metyein found himself face-to-face with his Guidon and Relay. Both wore scrapes and deeper lacerations, blood dampening their tunics. The Relay had blood running down his scalp and over his right ear. He clutched his horn close to his chest, fear turning him pale as a rashani. Metyein swore.
“What in the blighted demon-pits are you doing here?” Then he shook his head. “Never mind. Stay behind me here. Sound the ready.”
The relay hesitated for a bare second; then he raised his horn with shaking hands and blew the call.
The officers were shouting orders and the riders were already reestablishing lines as the nokulas flung headlong into the footspears. Metyein bared his teeth.
“Sound the charge. Crush the skraa-eating bastards.”
The horn blared out and the charge began. This time Metyein remained behind as the riders plowed into the nokulas. His horse snorted and lifted his feet, but remained in place.
The cavalry pushed the nokulas back through the footspears to where the archers waited with their spears. Metyein held his breath. The cavalry pushed them through and beyond, leaving behind hundreds of silver carcasses and far too many fallen men. In the darkness came a ragged cheer, and those on the walls responded in kind as the nokulas retreated back toward Mysane Kosk.
“That’s it then. They’ve routed. Sound recall.”
The relay blew the blasts. The cavalry riders came cantering back in no order, and with them came the footspears and archers jogging and limping, grins on their faces.
“Send for tarks. Check the nokulas and kill any still alive. Captain Lides!�
�
The captain galloped across the muddy field, pulling up with a sharp salute. “Lord Marshal, sir!”
“Set up a perimeter and get the wounded inside Raven.”
“Not Fox, sir?”
“No. Not until we can be sure the nokulas won’t be back tonight.”
The captain accepted the explanation, touching his fist to the orange hawk on his green chest patch, and cantered away. Pretty soon men from Raven appeared carrying hide slings. Spears were slid into the sleeved edges to create stretchers.
Metyein toured the battleground, followed by the Relay and the Guidon. Honor had lost forty-eight men, with another ten severely wounded. Many bore lighter wounds, but a merriment permeated the troops. It was relief and joy that they’d won, and they knew Reisiltark had come at last.
“Sir!”
The sergeant from Hawk squelched through the mud as Metyein approached. “What do you want done with the dead nokulas, sir?”
Metyein’s head felt muzzy; his arms and legs felt sodden. His vision went blurry and he swayed in the saddle. When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow and far away. “Burn them, I suppose.”
The sergeant nodded and stepped away. Metyein clutched at his pommel as a sudden wave of vertigo struck him. He blinked, clenching his hands tight, but his muscles didn’t want to obey. He tried to draw a deep breath to steady himself, but could only gasp shallowly, like a fish flopping on the shore of a lake.
“Ho, Metyein! Well played, and just in time. Nurema sent me to tell you—Chodha! Grab him!”
Metyein felt himself falling. His face felt hot and his chest was cold. Hands caught him and lowered him to the ground. Numbness spread through him, and he began to shiver.
“What’s this? Lady’s eyes! He’s been wounded. You! Bring a stretcher! Now! Hurry it up!”
Metyein felt himself turned onto his stomach and lifted on a stretcher. Wounded? Ah, he remembered. The fire down his shoulder.
“Blighted fool. Get him to a tark as fast as you can. Hurry!”
Then Metyein felt the ground roll. He jolted, and now a fire burned in the numbness. He convulsed and vomited weakly. Then he slid into a stupor. Voices sounded, and a whirl of sounds and smells he couldn’t identify.
“I don’t care what your orders are. If the Lord Marshal wasn’t busy bleeding to death—” Juhrnus glared accusingly at the bristling sergeant from Hawk. The man was smeared with mud and blood, and his clothing had been torn in the fighting. The sergeant glowered back, his jaw jutting as he squared his shoulders and pushed his chest out menacingly.
“He didn’t say nothing about bein’ wounded—”
“Maybe if you opened your blighted eyes, you could have seen it for yourself. Did you think he’d complain and take himself from the field? It’s our job to make sure he takes care of himself. If he dies, where will we be then? Who’ll lead Honor against his highness the Regent?”
The sergeant sucked his teeth and spit, just barely avoiding Juhrnus’s foot.
“Well,” Juhrnus said softly. “So long as you have someone in mind, that’s all well and good. It’s always good to see such loyalty.”
The sergeant’s nostrils flared and he sneered. “Ain’t you one to talk. After chasing off Reisiltark? And she the only ahalad-kaaslane what cares about us.”
Juhrnus’s hand shot out and he snatched the sergeant’s collar at the neck. He yanked the other man close, his fist twisting as he lifted the beefy man up on tiptoe. Juhrnus’s lips brushed the other man’s bristled cheek.
“Reisil. Is. My. Friend. And so is Metyein. I would die for them, for you, for Kodu Riik. I am ahalad-kaaslane. And I’ll thank you not to forget it.”
He shoved the sergeant away, fury churning in his stomach. It wasn’t directed at the other man, but at Sodur and Upsakes. If it hadn’t been for their lies and machinations . . . Now the people hated the ahalad-kaaslane . Didn’t trust them even to drive a midden wagon. Only Reisil.
The sergeant was watching him warily. Juhrnus grimaced inwardly. One day the ahalad-kaaslane would win back the trust of Kodu Riik. He’d make sure of it. But not today. He swallowed his fury and spoke slowly, without inflection.
“The nokula bodies cannot be burned. They have to be returned to Mysane Kosk.”
As soon as he began, the sergeant began shaking his head stubbornly. “My orders is from the Lord Marshal himself. He said to burn ’em.”
“And I say take them back to Mysane Kosk.” Juhrnus’s eyes narrowed. “I am the Lady’s hands and eyes in Kodu Riik. Do you refuse my authority?”
The sergeant hesitated. The men piling the nokulas in the back of the wagon had come to range themselves behind him. They eyed Juhrnus with no little malice. Juhrnus ignored them, his gaze drilling into the sergeant.
Finally the other man nodded. “As ye wish.”
He stalked away without another word. Juhrnus let out a sigh.
“Your balls must be half-shriveled from the heat,” came Soka’s sardonic voice from behind.
Juhrnus spun around. Soka stood twenty paces away. He was on foot, leading his mount. The horse held its right foreleg in the air.
“You’d know, if you had a pair,” Juhrnus returned. “I see you survived. I’d have thought you’d be with Metyein.”
Soka shrugged, his long hair loose around his shoulders. “When the call came, I was . . . busy. Had to argue over a horse and arrived late for the festivities.”
“He’s wounded.”
Soka stiffened. “What? How bad?”
“Lost blood. Can’t be too bad. Went touring around after it was over, not telling anyone he’d been hurt. Fell off his horse. I sent him to the tarks.”
“How did he get hurt?”
“Decided to join the attack, the blighted fool.”
“Did his brain dribble out his ears?” Soka asked incredulously. “Why didn’t Kebonsat stop him? He, at least, should’ve known better.”
Soka had begun striding toward the gates, where the wounded were being carried on stretchers or staggering along under their own wind. His horse hobbled behind, making pathetic whistling noises. Juhrnus kept pace beside him.
“Kebonsat wasn’t there. I was watching from the walls. I never saw him.”
Soka slowed. “I don’t like the sound of that. Where is he?”
“Lady knows.”
“This could be bad. On a night like tonight, it would be all too easy to slit his throat and drop him into a ravine without anyone noticing. There’s been a lot of talk about him being too close to Metyein and Emelovi. He’s a Pease ganyik, is how most have it. I wouldn’t put it past someone to stick a dagger in his back if they got a chance. And Aare has to have spies here. One of them could have done something to him.”
“So I thought too. But where to begin looking? And who do we trust to send?”
“We’ll ask Metyein. If I don’t kill him first.”
Soka’s lips tightened in what might have been a smile. Juhrnus heard the click of the poison bead against the other’s man’s teeth. A shudder rippled down his back. If it had broken, if Soka had accidently bitten through it in the battle—there would be another dead man on the field.
“And if he doesn’t know? Or is unconscious?”
“Then I’ll go to Emelovi. She’s the only other possible reason Kebonsat would desert Metyein in a fight. And if she doesn’t know, then I’ll scour the valley until I find him.”
Metyein had been carried into the Raven captain’s quarters. Juhrnus and Soka passed down through the outer rack-room where the other injured were being laid on the rope bunks. The wounded men moaned and cried out pitiably. Other soldiers pressed makeshift bandages to their wounds and comforted them in low, urgent voices.
“Anybody sent to Fox for the tarks?” Juhrnus asked.
Soka pushed back his hair with an annoyed hand. “I would say our Lord Marshal had done so, but apparently he has gone witless.” He glanced around, scowling when he didn’t find what he was looking for. “There
should be one stationed in Raven. Where is she?”
“He,” Juhrnus corrected. “Gamulstark. He was with Reisil and Yohuac.”
Soka nodded. “So they did make it. I thought as much. Are they . . . well?”
Juhrnus shrugged, shaking his head. “They barely made the gates. Dragged ’em in unconcious.”
~How are they now? he sent to Esper.
~Restless. Especially her. But they sleep.
Juhrnus hesitated, torn. Metyein needed care, and if there was nothing more to be done for Reisil and Yohuac . . .
~The tark is needed for the wounded, he told Esper at last.
Long moments ticked past with no reply.
~Esper?
~Saljane will not permit him to leave. She guards the door.
Juhrnus stopped walking, closing his eyes and rubbing his hand over his face. “Damn.”
~All right. I’m coming.
“Chodha,” he muttered, and met Soka’s impatient gaze. “Saljane’s trapped the tark. Go on without me. I’ll be back soon as I can. Make sure someone’s sent to Fox.”
Soka nodded, and Juhrnus hurried back up the corridor and across the muddy compound. He jogged down the packed-dirt corridors, pausing outside the door of his room. He could hear the Gamulstark’s frantic and furious tones, then the sounds of flapping wings and Saljane’s high-pitched shriek. Gamulstark hollered inarticulately, the sound like a bull caught in the mud.
Juhrnus shoved inside. The tark was crouched in a corner, his hands raised to ward off Saljane, who was circling around to perch opposite the terrified tark on the footboard of Juhrnus’s bed.
Seeing Juhrnus, Gamulstark pushed himself upright against the wall, his long, droopy cheeks blotched red. “Thank the Lady!” He made to step from the corner to join Juhrnus, but Saljane leaped at him again with a shriek, beating at his head with her wings.
Path of Blood Page 10