by Matthew Ward
They gave him a damn cheer.
It echoed across the plain, vying for dominion with the thunder of the charge. The fire of defiance caught and blood roused to the boil.
“But you’re right, corporal.” Viktor laid a hand on his claymore’s pommel and toyed with the trailing end of Calenne’s ribbon. She’d never forgive him for this. “I’ve no place on the line without a shield. So close up.”
A frown. “Beg pardon, my lord?”
“Close up!” snapped Viktor. “Must I repeat myself?”
A woman in the second rank shuffled forward. Her shield thudded into place alongside Zhastov’s. The rippling, churning rumble of hooves reached a crescendo. The shadow seethed within Viktor’s soul, sensing it would soon be loosed.
He counted to three. And then to another three, until the clamour of hooves drowned out all else save his thoughts. Then, with a cheer of his own, he wrenched the claymore from the ground and faced the golden thunderbolt.
Kurkas had a perfect view of the battle from atop the barn’s tiles. Not so much as a single shadowthorn had strayed south of the Kevor redoubt, though he knew that wouldn’t last. Or he hoped so, anyway. Danger ranked low amid his concerns. Boredom perched right at the very top.
He whistled through his teeth and stared down at Blackridge Farm’s uneven courtyard. Timber-framed buildings and a low stone wall didn’t make for much of a bastion. But it beat raven feathers out of standing in the open. And if some aspiring shadowthorn had a mind to slip between the farm and its neighbouring redoubt? Well, Kurkas had fifty pavissionaires of the 14th who’d make them sorry for the attempt, and two hundred Swanholt hearthguard to back them up. He’d have preferred to be in the centre, but understood that his position on the flank betrayed Lord Akadra’s unspoken nervousness about the battle to come. The hearthguard could be trusted to stand to the last, and the centre would hold longer if inexperienced soldiers weren’t worried over endangered flanks.
Quarrels and ballista-shot raked the killing ground. Golden corpses littered the cataphracts’ wake. There was even a dead grunda, its caparisoned hide peppered with bolts. Kurkas reckoned that was just as well. Though not a squeamish man, he’d no enthusiasm for seeing what happened when an enraged grunda struck a shield wall.
The Hadari charge gathered speed. Kurkas shook his head at the lone dark figure standing in the teeth of the charge. “Daft grandstanding bastard. Always have to do it showy, don’t you?”
“What was that, captain?” asked a nervous-looking Major Keldrov.
“Never you mind.”
He’d marked Keldrov out as a pampered brat from the first moment. So far, she’d done nothing to dispel the idea. He suspected she was every bit as unimpressed by him. No “real” soldier liked taking orders from one she outranked. Especially not a tattered ruffian who’d left too many parts and pieces on old battlefields.
“What in Lumestra’s name is he doing?” breathed Keldrov, her wide-eyed gaze directed north.
“What he always does,” Kurkas sighed. “Making the rest of us look useless.”
“But . . . he’ll be killed.”
“Will he though?” Kurkas grinned. “Care to make a wager of it?”
She hesitated. “No.”
So much for easy coin. “Then get yourself down to the courtyard. Make sure we’re ready.”
“Are we moving out?”
He snorted. “Blessed Lumestra, no. You think I want to go traipsing all the way up there to die? Our turn will come soon enough.”
An arrow skittered off a tile at Kurkas’ feet. Others thudded into the gable wall. He fell prone, feet skidding as he grabbed at the moss-caked ridgeline. Keldrov collapsed beside him. A tile shattered beneath her hip and fell into the barn. Dark shapes flitted through the woods to the south-east.
“Look alive!” Kurkas bellowed down at the courtyard. “We’ve shad-owthorns in the trees! And someone wake that dozy proctor! We’ve sport for the simarka!”
Even as Kurkas slid towards the ladder, dark trails appeared in the crops. A dozen unseen simarka converged on the tree line.
The cataphract dug back his spurs and dipped his spear. Viktor’s shadow slithered free without urging, unseen in the murk of morning. The cavalryman shrieked as it smothered the light in his eyes. He clawed uselessly at his face, the spear falling from his hand.
Then Viktor was moving. The point of his claymore thrust up through the cataphract’s exposed belly scales. Blade scraped against bone. Weight shifted. The lifeless body toppled from the saddle. Viktor ripped the claymore free. Its bloody arc split the shaft of another spear.
Cataphracts thundered past in a spray of trampled wheat and churned sod. Soil spattered Viktor’s armour. Simarka sprang from the crops, tearing riders from their saddles. Screams and the crash of shields rent the air. A kraikon swept three cataphracts from their saddles in a single swipe. A grunda ploughed headlong into its armoured bulk with a booming, clanging thud. The construct toppled. Lightning arced from its ravaged chest and crackled about armour and spear-tip.
Viktor had eyes only for the emerald-studded armour of the would-be emperor. He’d be there. No man who sought to rule the Golden Court could leave the first assault to another’s command.
A guttural shout sounded. A cataphract galloped in, spear levelled at Viktor’s belly.
The shadow took him without a sound. The man jerked backwards out of his saddle as if a hangman’s noose had closed about his neck.
The horse thundered on. Its rider spun into the path of yet another cataphract. The steed came crashing down in a flurry of limbs. The newly come cataphract rose from the ruin, sword scraping from his scabbard.
Viktor’s first whirling stroke swept the lesser blade aside. The second struck the shadowthorn’s head from his shoulders.
High on the sparsely wooded slope, Melanna saw the first charge strike home. Her father had blooded his sword. She was now free to do the same.
“The men are ready,” announced Warleader Aedrun. “They await only your command. I await only your command.”
His voice held the same reverence as it had after Charren Gorge, when he’d asked her to lead the ritual of his son’s Last Ride. His wasn’t the only familiar face among the gathered shields. Most were survivors of that unhappy skirmish.
Melanna shared a glance with Sera. The handmaiden’s chandirin was as sure-footed as a goat on the uneven slope, and the improvised altar-cloth banner sat furled in her hand. The lunassera nodded. Melanna took her thoughts as a mirror of her own. The moment was come. She, though a mere princessa, had an army of her own to command and duty to meet.
Rising tall in her stirrups, she stared at the coiling serpent that was the northern end of the Tressian line. Two hundred ragged souls and barely a score of shields. Not that shields offered unswerving advantage on the hillside. The ground was too broken to support a sturdy line. Moreover, the cleft-and stream-riddled slopes were fertile fields for ambush. And there would be ambush aplenty. Melanna knew the drab leathers of Jesver Merrik’s Free Kellin band from her time in Maiden’s Hollow.
Still, she had near five hundred warriors, and her fifty lunassera could have taken the slope without them. But there were rituals of battle that even an Ashanal was wise to follow.
“Warleader, the honour of the first charge is yours.”
Aedrun squared proud shoulders. “As you command, Ashanal.”
The shuddering ground. The rumble of galloping hooves. The chill of fear and the fire of defiance mingling in the blood. The oppressive, claustrophobic closeness of comrades. The hardness of the sword-hilt Revekah knew she gripped too tight. The sawing, chafing pressure about her left forearm from the shield-slings.
The final hours of Zanya crashed back; unstoppable, implacable.
That too had been unwinnable. Didn’t mean you didn’t fight.
“Brace!” bellowed Revekah. “Brace!”
She leaned into her shield, felt the press of bodies at her back. A whimper. A
prayer. A curse to shiver the soul. To her right, Tarn closed his eyes, his lips moving wordlessly. Revekah thought only of Katya, and what her long dead friend would ask of her this day.
The cataphracts struck the line. Screams rang out from men and horses. A spear shattered against Revekah’s shield. Her boots skidded on trampled crops. The press of bodies held her upright.
Above her, a faceless cataphract abandoned the wreckage of his spear and drew his sword. Revekah bent her knees and scraped her shield higher against its neighbours. The cataphract’s sword clanged off the steel rim. A heavy spear took him in the throat. Blood rushed golden armour red, and he slid from the saddle with a gurgling cry.
Another took his place, but the charge’s impetus had passed. With it went the cataphracts’ chief advantage. The shadowthorn’s hooked spear hissed over Revekah’s head. A choking scream sounded behind.
The spear did not withdraw. The cataphract lurched forward as unseen hands hauled on the shaft. He released his grip too late and fell against Revekah’s shield. She thrust.
A scream. A wet, rasping breath. The weight on her shield vanished.
A horn rang out. Cheers rippled along the line. Revekah blinked sweat from her eyes. The space to her front filled with riderless horses. She felt, more than saw, the phoenix-line start forward.
“Hold!” she roared. “Hold! See to the wounded! They’ll be back!”
Moans of the dead and dying overtook retreating hoof-beats. The press of bodies thinned. Injured comrades were dragged back to the physicians. Whimpers danced on the air as Hadari throats were cut, speeding them to whatever reward Ashana offered.
A dry cough overtook a parched throat. Revekah hawked, spat and reached gratefully for Tarn’s proffered canteen. The lad was pale, and no wonder. It was one thing to launch an ambush from the shelter of the trees. Even to scramble away into the night after a raid gone wrong. Standing the line was different.
She returned the canteen. “You all right?”
He nodded a mite too hastily. “I think so.”
“First time’s the worst. Keep your shield locked, and don’t strike unless you mean to kill.”
He clamped his lips. His head bobbed. “I won’t let you down.”
Revekah glanced north, to the banners flying free between the redoubts. “Not me, lad. The Phoenix.”
A nervous grin. “I thought we were all phoenixes.”
“That we are. So let’s make her proud, shall we?”
Horns came again. Drums quickened to match the thunder of hooves. “Shields up!” Revekah bellowed. “They’re coming back for more. Let’s not disappoint!”
Melanna heard the winding of the horns. She knew its meaning even before her father’s charge fell back in disarray.
He’d struck deep. Broken bodies lay scattered across a bloodied field. But it wasn’t enough. The twin banners still flew.
Sera drew level. “The battle goes well.”
Melanna supposed she was right, but there was too much bloody gold amid the wheat. Too many fathers and sons who’d return home only as treasured rings and honoured memories. She only hoped her own sire was not among them.
“There’s no victory if my father falls.”
“Then go to him.” Sera gestured at the lunassera and chandirin scattered through the rocks. “We will follow wherever you lead, Ashanal.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve been given a task. I will see it done.”
A clash of steel rang out across the slope, followed by a sharp scream. Aedrun’s ragged line of shields shrank inwards. A band of leather-clad figures ran headlong for the Tressian lines, pausing only to trade arrows with longbowmen scattered throughout Aedrun’s line.
Melanna scowled in frustration. “This is going too slowly.”
“Then set a new pace, Ashanal,” said Sera. “If men cannot carry the day, then women must.”
Viktor welcomed the fire in his limbs, the rising sweat that spoke to labours well-pursued. So much better than arguing. So much more direct. And directness had been the order of the day. If ever he’d doubted that Kai Saran sought spectacle in victory, he did not do so now.
The militia line had buckled, but it had held, if at terrible cost. Too many of the dead wore blue tabards. The old soldiers upon whom he’d relied to hold the line together. They’d not disappointed him, and they’d paid a heavy price.
The horns sounded again. The Hadari were returning. The line wasn’t ready.
They needed time.
“Lady Trelan!” he shouted. “Re-form the line!”
“Why? Where are you going?”
He caught the tinge of dread. “I have business with the Hadari!”
Offering a low bow, he rested the flat of his claymore against his shoulder and strode across the tideline of dead.
“Raven’s Eyes! What is he doing?”
Calenne watched Viktor go, scarcely able to believe her eyes. He was already two-score paces from the shield wall. Much further, and a galloping cataphract would run him down long before he’d hope of reaching safety.
“He’s offering a challenge,” Armund af Garna rumbled from the level of her booted knee. “It’s a canny move. Saran’s prized Immortals just bounced off a wall of farmers. His pride’s got to be hurting.”
She stared down at the rust-haired Thrakkian. Like his sister, he’d not left her side since Viktor had joined the line. Another subtle attempt at keeping her safe. But gruff as the twins were, she was grateful for their presence. Calenne knew enough of Thrakkian honour to know it for a tangle of incomprehensible and contradictory rules. But Thrakkian loyalty, once given, was unbreakable.
“You mean the prince might actually fight Viktor?”
“Doubt it.” Anliss set her axe spinning about its haft like a wheel on its axle. The intricate knot-work of wood and metal blurred. “Saran’ll send a champion. Hadari carp about honour, but they don’t really understand it. It’s one thing to fight for someone else, it’s another to let someone else fight for you.”
“As I’m letting Viktor fight for me?”
Armund laughed and slapped his generous belly. Chainmail jostled the ridged leather of his breastplate. “From the look on your face, you didn’t ask him to.”
“And you’re Tressian,” said Anliss dourly. “No one expects honour from you.”
Calenne bristled. She’d nothing to prove. But the fluttering phoenix-banner – her mother’s symbol – made lie of her unspoken claim.
What if Viktor lost? If he died? The army would look to her for guidance. More than ever, Calenne knew she’d none to give. Horrible as that realisation was, it was nothing to the sick emptiness at the prospect of Viktor’s death.
With an effort, she pulled herself back from the brink of panic. That wasn’t how the Phoenix comported herself, nor a lady – whether she bore the name Akadra or Trelan. “What can I do?”
“What his lordship asks,” said Armund. “Get the line into shape. Win or lose, they’ll be coming back.”
Viktor halted two hundred paces distant of the Hadari shield wall. He thrust his claymore into the ground and folded his arms. He offered no words. He’d done this enough to know none were necessary.
Sure enough, the line parted. A black-cloaked Immortal rode clear. He cantered closer, his face hidden beneath a crested helm.
Viktor’s shadow seethed in eagerness. He sucked down a deep breath and dragged the recalcitrant magic into his soul. Too many eyes were on him. It was one thing to set the shadow loose in the chaos of battle, and another entirely to do so on an open field.
He made no move to approach the oncoming rider. Every passing moment increased Calenne’s chances of bringing order to the buckled line. He didn’t dare look behind, for fear that his motive would stand revealed. Instead, he spared a glance to the south, where black uniforms fought for the shallow rampart of the farmhouse walls, and to the north where white flame burned bright among the trees. Distractions, both. This battle had begun with the Ph
oenix. It would end with her.
The black-cloaked Immortal dropped from his saddle. Leaving his twin swords in their scabbards, he offered a deep bow. Viktor grunted. Strange how you could meet politely with an enemy even as you planned his death. Maybe war was like politics after all.
“Lord Akadra. Hard to believe we’ve not met before.”
Like most Hadari of Viktor’s acquaintance, the man’s Tressian was oddly accented, but otherwise fluent. He’d often wondered at the curiosity of learning an enemy’s tongue, but never enough to adopt anything of the shadowthorns’ fluid speech. Screams sounded much the same in any language.
“And you are?”
“Hal Drannic. Son of Harvald Drannic, and champion to his glorious majesty Kai Saran.”
“His majesty isn’t glorious enough to fight his own challenges?”
“Only when the opponent is worthy.”
“Worthy enough to fight his majesty’s champion.”
“Someone has to sweep filth from the doorstep.”
The last was spoken without rancour. Drannic was playing a role. Much like Viktor himself. A loyal servant to the crown prince. War killed more good men than bad.
Viktor scraped his claymore clear of the soil. Under cover of the motion, he glanced over his shoulder. A row of unbroken shields stared back. Good. No reason for further delay.
He brought the claymore up in a two-handed high guard, the blade angled downward. “Sweep away.”
Drannic’s swords whispered free of their scabbards.
Viktor circled right. Drannic matched the motion and extended his right-hand blade. A tempting target. Sweep that sword aside and take the champion’s heart before the other could land. Viktor knew it for a trap. Instead, he kept moving and waited for his foe to make a mistake.
Drannic sprang. The confinement of his golden helm muffled his battle cry. His right-hand sword hacked at Viktor’s head. Viktor checked the blow with a banshee screech of scraping steel. Even as his right was struck wide, Drannic’s left sword speared for Viktor’s belly.