by Matthew Ward
“Nowhere to run this time, my prince,” he snarled.
Saran bellowed in the Hadari tongue and closed the gap.
A swipe of the shield drove Viktor’s claymore aside. A thrust of his sword stopped short of disembowelment only because Viktor twisted away.
Viktor drove his elbow into the sculpted helm. His vambrace clanged against gilded steel. Emeralds scattered. Saran stepped drunkenly back, arms wide. Viktor pressed forward. The claymore blurred as it sought Saran’s head.
The golden buckler blocked the first blow. It split under the second. Saran hurled it away. Viktor ducked too slowly. The heavy rim gashed his brow. His shadow screamed for release. Dark spots danced behind his eyes. When they cleared, Saran was on him once more. With a shriek of tortured metal, the sword-point punched clean through Viktor’s lower breastplate.
Hot, searing fire crackled through his veins. A bellow of pain choked off as Saran’s free hand closed around his throat and forced him to his knees.
The prince grunted and twisted his sword free. “My thanks, Lord Akadra, for your head,” he said, the words rendered all the more mocking by his hallowsider’s accent. “It will make quite the gift for the Golden Court.”
The sword came about. Teeth gleamed beneath the battered helm. Viktor’s shadow screamed to be freed.
With death the only alternative, he complied.
Saran grunted as the shadow flooded beneath his eyes. His fingers slipped from Viktor’s throat and he staggered back, lurching as if caught in the teeth of a gale.
Roaring to numb the pain, Viktor rose up and smote him in the face.
Saran’s heel caught on a body. He fell backwards, helmet and sword shuddering free as he hit the ground.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Viktor reclaimed his claymore. He set the point against the prince’s chest.
“Your head will burn with the rest of you,” he said. “We’re not barbarians.”
“No,” spat Saran. “You’re a monster, a herald of the Dark.”
“Only today,” said Viktor wearily. “Tomorrow, I’ll be a man once more.”
He tightened his grip on the blade, bracing for the thrust that would take the prince’s life.
The northern skies exploded in fire and song.
Thirty-Nine
“A shanael Brigantim!”
The battle cry rose out of song, its harsh notes riding high over steel and strife.
And everything changed.
Revekah vied shield-to-shield with an Immortal half her age. She felt the man’s desperate blows grow strong as confidence returned. She saw a kraikon seize to a sudden, impossible halt.
Then came the pale-witches. Horned steeds darted nimbly through the melee. Moonlight spears gleamed in their hands. Each slash or stab was answered by a scream and a spray of blood. And then the newcomers were behind the line of shields. The slaughter began.
“Raven’s Eyes!”
Revekah rammed her shoulder against her shield. Her thrust bit through scale and flesh, and she kicked the body away.
Tarn ran past, his eyes wide with terror and his shield abandoned. Revekah dragged him to a halt. “Pull yourself together, lad!”
“What for?” he demanded. “It’s lost!”
Militia shoved and clawed at one another in their hurry to flee.
“Shield ring!” Revekah bellowed. “Shield ring!”
A handful of voices took up the cry. Most kept running. Some westward to the distant shelter of the redoubts. Others fled south, and the hoped-for safety of the trees. Of Akadra, Revekah saw no sign. A battle in the balance only moments before had blossomed to bitter defeat.
Revekah stared bleakly at the handful of faces who’d heeded her cry. First Zanya. Now this. It was all happening again, and she was helpless to prevent it. The witches were everywhere. The Immortals came forward anew.
To stay was to die.
“Go!” she shoved Tarn. “All of you! Get out of here!”
With heavy heart, Revekah joined the rout.
Warned by his shadow’s scream, Viktor threw himself aside. White fire cleaved the space he’d occupied a heartbeat before. It whirled about, driving him back from Saran’s prone form.
“You will not take my father!”
Desperation tinged the woman’s voice. Determination gave her blows shattering force. Viktor’s claymore shuddered beneath each parry. His shadow curled deep in his soul, away from the blinding flame.
She spurred close. Viktor struck her lunge aside. Sparks flared. Molten metal splashed at his skin and hissed against his surcoat.
An Immortal rushed at him, sword swinging. Viktor hurled the man into the horsewoman’s path. The rowan horse vaulted the flailing unfortunate and the white fire surged for Viktor’s throat once more.
Again he parried, eyes slitted against the hissing, sparking metal. The woman’s sword scraped free and she passed away behind, carried clear by the momentum of her charge.
Viktor pinched his eyes shut. He clasped a hand to his head to block his shadow’s scream. The shriek reverberated through his skull. He could no longer tell where the shadow’s pain ended and his began. He’d never known it react thus. His whole life it had been wilful, predatory. Terror was new.
His shoulder struck unyielding metal – a kraikon, its colossal sword frozen in arcing descent. Viktor set a hand against the kraikon’s leg and steadied himself.
“Ashanael Brigantim!”
Hooves gouged dirt. The woman came again, fire billowing before her and the moon-banner streaming behind.
Viktor threw himself aside. The blazing sword bit deep into bronze with a tortured, squealing hiss. Molten metal oozed from the wound. Wheat-stalks blazed at Viktor’s feet.
The falling kraikon blotted out the sun.
A cold fist closed around Calenne’s heart. She felt a stranger in her own skin, trapped in a waking nightmare. And as had ever been the case, the Black Knight was at the heart of her fears . . . Though this time for very different reasons.
A twitch of reins sent her horse trotting forward past the nervous block of infantry of the tiny reserve. She reached the serried ranks of the Knights Essamere, resplendent in hunter’s green. Captain Tavor Lavirn alone had his visor up. His eyes bore a worry as great as her own.
In the distance, the leading outriders caught up to the fleeing militia. Spears thrust. Calenne swallowed hard and glanced away.
“We have to help them.”
Lavirn shook his head. “We can’t.”
She flung a hand across the waiting ranks. “Do I imagine this host of knights at our back?”
“What host? I have fifty lances, no more.” His expression darkened. “It’s not enough. Their outriders alone outnumber us, and what infantry we have cannot keep pace.”
“So we abandon them?”
“There’s no choice.”
“I don’t agree.”
“With respect, Lady Trelan, it doesn’t matter. The command is mine. The responsibility is mine. Whatever regard you command in the South-shires – even with Lord Akadra? It doesn’t matter. You’ve no authority over a Knight of Essamere.”
“And what does this Knight of Essamere intend?” she bit out. “To cower beneath the redoubts?”
“Not cower.” Lavirn spoke with strained patience. “We’ll ride out to cover any who get this far. When the pursuit’s fury is spent, maybe we can forge a ceasefire, recover the wounded. But I won’t risk what strength we have over a few . . .”
He broke off too late, the scowl confirming Calenne’s rising suspicions.
“A few what?” she demanded. “A few southwealders?”
Lavirn’s scowl deepened. “That’s not how I meant it.”
Calenne stared across the field. At the hundreds of her countrymen and women in desperate flight. “No. What you meant was that if they were northwealders – if they were your brothers and sisters of Essamere – you’d already have ridden out.”
Lavirn drew himself up in
his saddle. “I’ll not sacrifice lives to rescue a prize beyond our grasp. Most certainly not at the demand of a cosseted child.”
The insult challenged Calenne’s inexperience. It stung for the truth locked deep within.
“I’m talking about saving lives,” snapped Calenne. “Lord Akadra would agree with me.”
“Lord Akadra is likely dead.” Lavirn spoke too quiet for the words to carry. “And with him all assurances as to your future. You are Calenne Trelan, daughter to the greatest traitor of a generation. Should you prove difficult, I’d be well within my authority to have you locked up . . . or executed.”
Calenne’s rising anger dissipated like a shadow before the sun. She strove for a rebuttal, but the words fell ashen on her tongue.
For the first time since agreeing to bear her mother’s mantle, she felt alone. No Viktor. No Josiri. She’d have been glad even to see Anastacia. The demon would have known the words to put Captain Lavirn in his place.
“The field is lost,” said Lavirn. “You’re free to leave. I’ll give you an escort back to Branghall. But you will not interfere with my command.”
Even now, there was no triumph in his voice. No joy. There was even a note of pleading. A reasonable man faced with events beyond his ability. But even reasonable men lashed out when their meagre authority was threatened.
“I’m staying,” growled Calenne. “And if Viktor lives, he’ll hear of our conversation, and your threats.”
She hauled on her reins and rode away, seething with fear and impotent rage. And not just at Captain Lavirn, for in that last moment she’d invoked Viktor’s name, not her own. Proof that she was the spoilt, whimsical child Lavirn thought her. She wasn’t a soldier. She knew that. But it didn’t alter the burning, irrevocable belief that Lavirn was wrong to do nothing.
And if Viktor was dead? She didn’t know how to process that tangle of emotions.
Calenne brought the horse to a halt in the shadow of the Katya Redoubt. High above her head, pavissionaires lined the crude rampart. Crossbows sat levelled but silent, waiting for the order to loose.
She stared out across the battlefield, unable to look away as Hadari spears overtook fleeing militia. Lost in the distant screams and the churn of hooves, she barely noticed the Thrakkian twins draw their horses up to either side.
“Take it that didn’t go well?” said Armund.
“It did not.” She made no attempt to keep bitterness hidden. “In the opinion of the high and mighty Knight-Captain of Essamere, my options are as follows. Flee to Branghall. Stay quiet as a dutiful figurehead should. Or face execution. He accused me of being a child. And he’s right. I’ve been trapped behind glass for so long. What do I know of the world, or of battle?”
Anliss spat. “Bugger’s scared.”
“Likely the case,” her brother agreed. He unstoppered a water skin and took a swig. No. Not a water skin, not if the bitter scent were to be believed. “No offence, lady, but you Tressians set too much stock in personal glory, and not enough in the greater good.”
Anliss nodded. “It’s the one thing you and the Hadari have in common. It’s not enough to know that songs’ll be written of your deeds. You want to hear them too.”
“And I suppose it’s different for Thrakkians, is it?” In her frustration Calenne forgot that either twin could have snapped her in half without effort.
“Only a fool speaks for all.” Armund thumped his substantial chest. “But for myself? I’d like to drag Ardothan off our father’s throne and cut off his head. It’s the only thing to do with serpents. But if I can’t have that? I mean my life to amount to something, and my death to amount to more. There’ll be songs, even if I don’t get to hear them this side of Astor’s forge and the halls of Skanandra. Brenæ af Brenæ, yr Væga af væga.”
“Fire from fire, and death from death?” Anliss glared at him. “You won’t hear a word in Skanandra. You’ll be drunk.”
He laughed. “And you won’t?”
Calenne shook her head, unable to contain a smile. The Thrakkian afterlife appealed more than cold bones in the ground until the light of Third Dawn. Better an eternal revel among friends and family, glimpsing the world through mirrors and forge-fires. Even if you’d no family left to celebrate. Even if your legacy – such as it was – had soured to failure.
“Who’s Ardothan?” she asked.
“Our brother,” said Anliss, “and more’s the pity. He has his lies, his army and our throne. The Wolf King promised to help us set things right, though I imagine he’s changed his mind now. Family. No greater curse ever sprung from the flame.”
“Oh, thank you, dear sister,” said Armund.
“I know what you mean,” said Calenne. “I’ve spent my life hating my mother. And here I am, repeating her mistakes. I don’t even know how I came to be here. I look at who I was even a month ago, and I don’t recognise her. And I doubt she’d recognise me.”
She wondered why she shared so much of herself. Truth was, however intimidating she found them, the twins were the friendliest faces in a sea of strangers. They were also the only souls to whom the name Katya Trelan meant little.
Anliss grunted. “It’s only a mistake if naught good comes of it. We’re all born from the sparks of Astor’s forge. He never meant for us to bob heads and bend knees to sun and moon, as you lot do. But do you hear me complaining? Without the straying, we’d have no one to fight but ourselves, and where’s the joy in that?”
Calenne gripped her saddle’s pommel. “Viktor told me that the secret to making a difference lies in recognising the moment for what it is, and seizing it. But what if that moment never comes?”
Armund gave a low, rumbling chuckle. “Just like a Tressian.”
Anliss set her axe across her shoulders. “A warrior makes her own chances. She doesn’t wait for them.”
“I’m not a warrior. I’m not a soldier. This . . .” Calenne ran her fingers across her breastplate. “This is a costume. It’s a lie.”
“Then make it the truth.”
Calenne snorted. “Just like that?”
“Why not?” Armund tugged at his plaited beard. “No one else can do it for you. I hear tell that your mother fled when the battle was lost. Who knows what might have happened had she stayed? If she’d forged opportunity?”
Calenne stared back at the gathered ranks of knights. At the phoenix banner that was hers by right of birth, and at the swan that was hers by bond of betrothal. Hers. Not the Republic’s. Not the Council’s. And most certainly not Tavor Lavirn’s.
Hers.
When the Hadari came again for Blackridge Farm, they did so not from the forest, but from the open plains to the south-east. A line of shields spilled up the slope, spanning the dusty wain track and its low walls.
“Looks like mischief to me,” said Kurkas.
“How so?” Keldrov frowned her confusion.
He took a final bite from the apple and tossed the core over the crumbling wall. It bounced once in the muddy dust and came to rest beside a wide-eyed corpse. One of many serving as a secondary rampart of flesh at the wall’s foot.
“Tell the pavissionaires to hold their fire.”
“But, if we . . .”
“Just . . . !” Kurkas broke off. With heroic effort, he choked back the worry and frustration awoken by the collapse of Akadra’s line. “Just do it, major. Pouches are light enough as it is. We can’t be wasting shot on shields.”
Keldrov nodded and scurried away. Kurkas swore to himself and stared north. To the flood of fugitives streaming away from leaping white flame. He liked none of what he saw, least of all the motionless, frozen kraikons. The Raven only knew what had made them react so. If nothing else, it meant he couldn’t rely on the pair attached to his own beleaguered garrison.
“You daft bastard,” he muttered. “If you’ve gone and got yourself killed . . . ? If you’ve left me in charge of this mess . . . ?”
The thought of Akadra being gone? Unthinkable. The man had the L
ord of Fellhallow’s own luck. Kurkas scratched at his eyepatch. But luck ran out, didn’t it? And battle seldom went the way you expected. He couldn’t even find solace in the thought that Revekah Halvor was likely already dead on the field. Serve the harridan right.
“Grunda!”
Yesterday’s battles scattered at the sentry’s bellow. Hand steadied against the barn, Kurkas vaulted onto the wall and stared southwards. Lumbering beasts crested the rise. One on the road, another to either side. Each pulled a heavy wagon whose axles shrieked like souls in torment.
“Doesn’t this keep getting better and better?” Kurkas let his voice blossom to a roar. “Crossbows to the southern wall! Bring those grey bastards down! Sergeant Brass! I want your company at the gate! And someone wake up Proctor Gillart!”
The courtyard filled with running feet and the bellow of repeated orders. Kurkas jumped down from the wall. He missed his footing, righted himself, and found a very much awake Gillart staring at him with disdain.
“You had a request?”
What was it with proctors and their delicate pride? Fussy as a serene in a barracks. “I want our kraikons at the gate, braced and ready.”
“They can’t stop a charging grunda!” Gillart couldn’t have looked more appalled if he’d been asked to set his infant child in the grundas’ path. “They’ll be crushed.”
“They stand a damn sight more of a chance than the rest of us.” Kurkas grabbed a handful of the proctor’s golden robes and shoved him towards the gate. “Bloody do it, or I’ll have you staked down in their stead.”
Gillart scurried away towards the nearest kraikon. Kurkas shook his head. “Raven’s Eyes! Major Keldrov! I want those brutes in the dust! Now!”
The rush and clack of crossbows hastened as Kurkas made his way to the gate. His fingers itched with inactivity. He longed to snatch up a crossbow and join the volleys himself, but while a one-armed man could load and shoot – just about – he’d been a terrible shot long before he’d lost his eye.
Arrows hissed out from behind the approaching shields. A pavissionaire to Kurkas’ left collapsed without a sound, a black shaft buried in her throat. Another pitched from the stable roof with a thin cry.