“Odger.” Wardin cleared his throat to hide his laugh. Arun was right: the boy really was far too fond of dramatics. And oddly obsessed with his own execution. “When have I ever beaten you? Or beheaded anybody at all?”
“Well, when have I ever listened in on one of your war councils?”
“Fair enough.” Wardin tried to look stern, though he doubted the effect was quite as intimidating as he hoped, with his voice still edged with laughter. “I reserve the right to give you a thrashing, but I’ll hear your reasons first.”
“I hid because I knew if I just knocked on the door, you’d tell me to go away. Everyone always tells me that. I’m too young, it’s no place for a boy. But I’m not a boy.”
Wardin sobered, seeing where this was going. He shook his head. “You’re not of age, Odger.”
“I just passed my fifteenth birthday.”
“Which is not of age.”
“And I’m not a student either, am I?” Odger went on. “Pendralyn hasn’t got students anymore. I’m still here because my parents told me to stay and fight for you. And you might remember, my father says he’ll fight for you too, when you call on your men in Narinore. We’re part of your war. My whole family. My mother would fight too, but my father says she has to stay behind to look after my younger brothers and sisters, since she’s not very good with weapons anyway. Trips over her own skirts, he says—”
“It’s late,” Wardin interrupted. “And we’ve had a rather long evening. Perhaps you could skip to your point?”
“I want to go,” Odger said simply. “With you, to cut off Bramwell’s troops and win our first battle. That’s an important one to win, you know. It’ll set the tone for the whole war.”
Arun grinned at his young apprentice, while Eldon and Alaide chuckled and Pate clicked his tongue at the boy’s insolence. Which was in itself funny, coming from Pate.
“I appreciate that bit of instruction,” Wardin said with a slight bow. “But your coming with me is out of the question.” He was already turning away from Odger’s crestfallen face when Arun put a hand on his arm.
“I don’t know that you should be so dismissive, War. The Harths admit soldiers his age.”
“We are not the Harths.”
“No, we’re magicians. It’s not as though you’d be asking him to stand in the thick of it and hack people to bits. Odger’s an unusually fine sage, young or not.” He pointed at Eldon. “Ask his headmagister, if you’d like another opinion.”
“He did fight for Pendralyn last autumn,” Eldon offered. “And as I heard it, he did an excellent job.”
“Confused people just as well as I did,” Arun agreed. “I’d take him on my team, and be grateful to have him.”
“Would you?” Wardin raised a brow. “And if you had to tell his parents they lost their eldest boy because we brought him into battle at the age of fifteen, how grateful would you be then?”
“But my parents want me to fight.” Odger made his argument that he was no child all the more laughable by actually stamping his foot. “I’m as much a patriot as you are, Highness, begging your pardon. You might be the prince, but this is my kingdom too, and my home. I have every bit as much right to fight for it as anyone. It should be my choice to make.”
Wardin huffed, then looked at Arun, who crossed his arms and shrugged. “He’s old enough to know his own heart and mind, War. You may recall making a similar choice to fight for your home, at a younger age than he is now. And if my sister were here, I believe she would say you were no more willing to listen to cautionary advice than he is.”
“Yes,” Wardin said dryly. “And look how well that turned out.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “You’d best make ready then, Odger. All of you. We go to war tomorrow.”
11
Wardin
Though it was dark, Wardin was acutely aware of his surroundings. It seemed he felt every tiny shift in the air, heard every twig that moved, every soft rustle of an insect’s wing. The weather had turned warmer as they found lower ground, the buds on the trees beginning to show. The east wind brought with it the damp, green smell of the rivers Doris and Cilmaras, at whose intersection Mindoral stood.
He was attuned to all of it, as he stood alone at the top of the single watchtower that comprised the entirety of Mindoral’s fortifications, looking out toward the Old South Road. His senses were heightened, his pulse slow.
He’d expected to be anxious on the eve of his first proper battle, as he had been before the clash at Pendralyn. And he was. But at the center of his nervousness was a stillness that would have made the archmagister proud, had she been there.
Erietta had been the one to teach him that lesson, though it was a contriver’s motto and Wardin a battlemage: stillness was the first step to readiness.
It helped ease his fears that thus far, everything had gone according to plan. It had been two weeks since he’d left Pendralyn, riding directly northeast with his own soldiers while Quinn went to muster troops in the south, and Pate in the west.
Pate’s force had joined them before they marched on Mindoral, and seeing the old commander in action, Wardin truly appreciated the wisdom of enlisting his support. Standing at the head of an army, barking orders with authority rather than peevishness, he was transformed from the limping, scarred malcontent into a leader who won men’s loyalty and lifted their morale with apparent ease. Perhaps Wardin was finally seeing the man his uncle had loved, before the last war broke one and killed the other.
The “battle” for Mindoral was as easily won as Dain had promised. The baron himself was not there, but his commander quickly withdrew while the rebels dispatched Tobin’s troops. Fewer than fifty of Heathbire’s men remained behind, conspicuously surrendering. The rest fled north to the moorlands while some of Wardin’s horsemen, as they’d arranged, rode after them in a show of pursuit.
Apart from a few in Tobin’s employ who were quickly dealt with, the townsfolk themselves were delighted to see a Rath—with Pate Forthwind beside him, no less—come to free them from Harthian control. And so Mindoral was won, secured, and flying the flag of Eyrdon in less than three hours.
It was all done without Quinn’s troops. The rebels could not hope for the movement of thousands of soldiers across Eyrdon to go unnoticed, even by as great a fool as Tobin. To avoid the prince sending reinforcements to Mindoral, Wardin sought to camouflage their true target for as long as possible, by having Quinn march toward Narinore before turning north to join the rest of them. When Tobin learned that his enemy was mobilizing, let him think his city was their goal, and focus his defenses there.
But the feint would not work indefinitely, and word of Heathbire’s loss at Mindoral would reach the king soon, if it hadn’t already. This next battle must be won quickly, before Tobin could send more men from Narinore to trap the rebels between two Harthian forces.
Bramwell’s troops had made excellent time, and by preliminary accounts would cross the border tomorrow. Wardin could only hope that Quinn would arrive with the rest of his army in time to meet the King of Harth on the field.
A lantern in the distance flared, was covered, then blinked again. The scouts were back.
Wardin hurried down from the tower and through the quiet streets to the town square, where he found Pate already waiting. Word spread quickly that there was news; Arun arrived shortly thereafter, and then three of the more junior officers. Finally, the two muddy and exhausted scouts came stumbling into the square.
Wardin waved away their bows. “What can you tell us?”
“They’ll definitely be here by tomorrow afternoon, Highness,” one of them said. “At the latest. Midmorning seems more likely. The infantry numbers in the thousands. Perhaps three, at my best guess.”
Not a terrible number. Wardin had anticipated the possibility of more. “And the cavalry?”
The scout shifted from foot to foot, looking down at his hands until his companion heaved an impatient sigh and answered himself. “That
news is a bit worse, Highness. The horses number in the thousands as well. I’d put it at two.”
Two thousand! Wardin had only a tenth as many horsemen. Five thousand Harths in total. Assuming Quinn returned before morning, their own army would be perhaps three thousand strong, including a scant two hundred longbowmen and twice as many magicians. But the latter were their greatest asset, and Bramwell would have none—or at best, one or two. Perhaps he’d brought the old sage who’d caused the tremor at Pendralyn.
The size of the Harthian cavalry would necessitate a more defensive position than they’d originally planned. But it didn’t change the fundamentals. They must hold the road, and keep Bramwell’s force—or as much of it as possible—from marching any farther south.
Wardin turned to Pate, who waited, arms crossed, for his prince to speak rather than giving orders himself. They’d had more than one conversation since the night of the war council about treating Wardin like a child in front of his own people. It seemed to begin having an effect after the fourth or so. “I want the infantry in squares, spread out across the field and road north of town. The archers are to take up position in between the formations. We’ll hold our cavalry, such as it is, in reserve.”
When Pate nodded his approval, Wardin looked next to Arun, who had charge of the magicians. “Teams as discussed. You can put battlemages at the centers of some of the squares, to cast shields. The rest of you keep your distance at the back and edges as much as you can. Your primary goal will be defensive measures—healing, shields—but if the opportunity to confuse, trick, or harm the enemy should present itself, no need to be bashful about it.”
For this battle, at least, it wasn’t necessary to broach the sensitive subject of conduction. Wardin, Corbin, and Pate were thus far the only magicians who could practice it. That would soon change. Wardin had insisted that learning the art be fully voluntary, and Pate wasn’t as influential at Pendralyn as he was in Eyrdon at large. But several of the former students who had joined them on their way east were showing an interest.
“Yes, Highness.” There was a spark in Arun’s eye, of anticipation, almost of amusement. As though he were looking forward to a feast rather than a fight. Funny how many of them—including Wardin himself—were as excited as they were afraid, now that the battle was only hours away. Perhaps it was bloodlust. Or perhaps it was just that the planning and marching and apprehension were so taxing that finally coming to the brink of the thing was a relief.
For better or worse, one way or another, they were about to get it over with.
* * *
Waiting for spring may have made for a warmer war, but it certainly hadn’t made for a drier one. The torrent of rain spilling into their eyes and turning the ground to mud was doing neither side any favors. Wardin considered it an especially bad omen for him personally. Hawkin Ladimore had fallen in battle under a storm so violent it became part of his legend.
And then there was Lional Rath, who had been killed less than a mile from where Wardin now stood with Arun, Pate, and Quinn, resting their horses and taking a few well-earned breaths themselves.
Despite these shadows of the dead, their luck had held thus far. Their archers had been scattered by the enemy’s cavalry charge, but the Harths could not break the battle squares. They crashed again and again against the pikes and spears of Wardin’s infantry, like waves against rock. The rebels held fast.
Pate and Corbin rushed to the fore at the worst of it, unleashing conduction spells to drain those leading the charge, using that life to strengthen themselves and their fellows.
The effect on the Harthian soldiers of seeing their officers fall, not with blood or visible wounds but with their skin crackling and withering, their bodies decaying before their very eyes, was a wonder to behold. Wardin was awestruck as he watched the terror spread, horses and riders alike faltering under the onslaught of a mere two men. If this was what conduction could do, he’d been wise to embrace it.
He was waiting for the right moment to cast any such spells himself; he was still too much of a novice to use conduction more than once or twice, and he certainly could not afford to lose his balance while commanding an army. But he added his own touch of battlemagic, sending panicked whispers of dark magicians and necromancy down the enemy lines. A handful affected by the fear spell was enough for it to take root. Rumors could prove as powerful as magic, when dread already gripped the enemy.
Unable to break through and with the worsening rain turning the ground treacherous, Bramwell’s cavalry had withdrawn. Now both armies were using the opportunity to regroup, tend their wounded, or simply rest.
Wardin flexed his puckered fingers and rolled his shoulders beneath the weight of his hauberk, and tried not to think about a cozy fire and a warm drink and the comforting presence of Rowena curled up in the opposite chair. He suspected that was not where a true warrior’s mind went in the middle of a battle.
“Highness.” A scout splashed Wardin and his officers as he sloshed through the mud. “The king has arrived on the field.”
Arun snorted. “About time he decided to give some attention to his war. What’s he been doing, having a nap?” Bramwell had been so conspicuously absent from the battle that they’d sent the young contriver under a cloaking spell to sneak closer to the enemy lines and see if he could catch a glimpse of the king.
The scout’s earnest face did not change. Rain slid across patches of fuzz on his chin. The boy was younger than Wardin himself. Eighteen, at most. “I can’t say, Magister. But I can tell you his cavalry has all dismounted. I didn’t get a good look at most of the infantry, they’re still behind the horsemen.”
“No doubt they’re resting their mounts, same as we’ve been,” Wardin said. But the time for rest was past. He swung back into Ciril’s saddle. “They’ll regroup soon enough. Quinn, tighten the formations. Gather the archers who haven’t taken wounds or fled.” He nodded at Arun. “Get the magicians back into position as well, all but the sages who are needed for healing. We need to be ready for another charge.”
To his great misfortune, he was wrong on all counts. It was nearly an hour before Bramwell’s next attack came. And it did not come on horseback.
Instead, shortly after the rain passed at last, a shower of arrows thicker than the storm had ever been began to pour down upon them.
Wardin galloped down the edge of the field, closer than his officers would approve of their prince venturing, trying to see the distant enemy line through the lingering mist. He could not tell how many longbowmen were unleashing death upon his infantry. But he could most definitely tell that it was a far greater number than he had planned on—or was prepared to deal with.
How did they have so many? Skilled longbowmen would be part of Harth’s standing army, much of which had already been sent to Narinore or Corghest weeks before. The infantry the king was marching down now were mostly baron’s men and commoners, not career soldiers.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the best way to counter them would be with cavalry—which Wardin didn’t have nearly enough of.
He rushed back to his own side, shouting orders until he was hoarse. What cavalry, archers, and magicians he had, he must gather to take the longbowmen down before his pikemen and spearmen were decimated.
The Eyrdish army was comprised largely of the very commoners Wardin had expected to find among Bramwell’s men. Miners, shepherds, smiths, all coming to war with such equipment as they had. Particularly in the case of armor, that was sometimes very little. The more vulnerable among them were at the centers of the battle squares, where the flails and blades of the enemy’s heavy cavalry could not reach them.
But arrows could. And were. Within moments it seemed, gaps opened in the squares, and the rebel formations began to break apart.
* * *
Think! Remember who you are!
But he was no one. There was nothing. Nothing but aching arms and ringing ears and the smell of blood.
And swinging
. Always swinging. His sword slashed and hacked with indifference, seemingly of its own accord, all finesse gone, all magic forgotten.
I have to think. I have to focus. I’m meant to be leading, I have to help … someone.
He was on his feet. When had that happened? He’d lost Ciril.
Ciril? Yes. The horse. My horse.
Was Ciril dead?
Was Arun? Was Pate?
Think. Focus.
Wardin could not remember. He struggled for some sense of what had happened, what was happening. Some semblance of sanity, or at least awareness beyond the instinct to dodge and parry and cut.
Think.
Details came and went, both past and present, though they jumbled together. He cut down a man in a blue cloak, then drove his sword through the soldier’s neck, just to be sure.
They’d rallied at first. At least a little. The magicians fought especially fiercely. Contrivers cast illusions to confuse the archers, sages windstorms that sent arrows astray. Battlemages shielded their people as best they could.
The dead soldier’s nose was crusted, as though it had been running. The rain, the chill. Perhaps he’d had a cold. War was a miserable thing.
Focus.
Wardin stepped over the body of his fallen enemy, and moved on to the next.
Pate, Corbin, and Wardin himself had done all they could with conduction, stealing the life from any enemy they could get near enough to.
Perhaps that was what was wrong with him. Perhaps he’d lost his balance. Or perhaps this was just what it was like. Battle. War.
As Wardin slashed through one opponent, another slid in the mud to his right. He pivoted and slashed that one apart, too.
In the end, they’d been bested. It was inevitable. The range of a longbow was greater than the range of the average magician’s offensive spells, and in any case, it was too late. The formations had already broken. There was no bringing them back together.
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