by Matthew Ward
“Hearthguard! Get your bloody shields up!” roared Kurkas.
Swan-painted shields hitched up another inch along wall and rooftop. Dust sprayed as a kraikon thrust its great sword deep into the packed mud behind the gateway. Then it stooped and set shoulder to the timbers. The second joined it as Kurkas took his place on the wall.
The rightmost grunda gave a mournful, hooting bellow and reared up in sudden spasm. The wagon’s timber spars shattered like matchsticks. The beast pitched sideways, crushing a handful of luckless Hadari. Kurkas cheered with the rest of his soldiers.
“That’s one!” he bellowed. “Now bring the others down!”
Ahead, the wall of shields parted. The Hadari shrank away, and the grundas picked up speed. The ground shook. Kurkas’ teeth rattled in their sockets.
“Come on, you worthless bastards! Bring them down! Now!”
Another volley hissed out. The leftmost grunda stumbled but lumbered on. The creak of the accompanying wagon was almost as loud as the thunder of its three-toed feet. Kurkas couldn’t tear his eyes away from the beast. It was coming straight for him. It cared nothing for the wall and the braced shields in its path.
The first treacherous voice of dismay whispered in Kurkas’ ear. He shouted all the louder to drive it out. “Brace yourselves my lads and lasses! Brace . . . !”
The wall exploded in a shower of dust and fragmented stone. A hearthguard vanished beneath a filthy slab the size of a tomb’s lid. Another died beneath the grunda’s lumbering feet. Kurkas sprawled to his left, thrust clear by the hearthguard to his right. She died in his place, impaled on the massive, curved horn.
The grunda slumped glassy-eyed atop the broken wall, its last strength oozing from its sides.
Kurkas scrambled to his feet. He hawked to clear the dust from his throat. “Hearthguard! To me!”
The line reformed as the Hadari shieldsmen struck the breach. Kurkas parried a spear thrust and lunged to kill his attacker. The space beyond the dead grunda was thick with foes. War horns blared as the Hadari sensed victory. Kurkas leapt onto the ruins of the wall. A sword-thrust took one Hadari in the face. His boot lashed out to send another backwards onto his comrades’ spears.
“This is my bloody farm! Find your own!”
The third grunda struck the gate in a cacophony of breaking timber and mangled bronze. Golden light crackled outwards. A massive, invisible hand hurled Kurkas from the shattered wall.
Armund struck at full gallop. His mailed fist smacked around the phoenix banner’s shaft. Its knightly bearer, faced with the choice of being dragged from his saddle or relinquishing his grip, wisely chose the latter.
The second banner-bearer sought a middle-ground and spurred his horse to motion in a vain attempt to keep pace with Anliss’s steed. The Thrakkian crooked her elbow and reeled him in. Releasing the reins, she slammed a bunched fist into the knight’s visored face. Stunned, he slumped across his saddle’s pommel and the swan banner came free. Voice raised in a melodic, triumphant cry, Anliss hauled her steed to a halt at the head of Lavirn’s knights. She fell into place on Calenne’s right-hand side, mirroring her brother’s position on the left.
Knights pressed forward, voices raised in outrage.
“What is the meaning of this?” spluttered Lavirn.
He let his lance fall and thrust back his spurs. His sword gleamed in the sun.
Calenne held her ground, surprised at her calm. No room for second thoughts now. Nor fear. There was only the path ahead. The opportunity she’d chosen to forge. Her slender blade felt insignificant before the killing weight of Lavirn’s broadsword. Nonetheless, its threat was enough to check him. That fuelled her confidence even further.
“You know what I intend,” she said, striving for the tone that had come so easily at the fireside the night before. “I’m going to help my people.”
“The three of you?” He snorted. “You’re throwing your lives away.”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether the Knights Essamere are prepared to be known as cowards. Cowards who hung back while a cosseted child and a pair of drunken Thrakkians . . .”
“Oi!” shouted Armund.
Anliss grinned. “Fair. Very fair.”
“. . . shamed them all!”
Calenne swept her gaze across the assembled ranks. She glimpsed no eyes beneath the slitted visors, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t about what she saw of their mood, but what they beheld of her.
“You can do as you wish.” Her voice quickened with confidence. With surety. “Stay. Run. Fight. I don’t care. My people – our people – are dying. If I can save even one, then I’ll face the Raven content. How will you live? Choose, and choose quickly!”
Without waiting for a reply, she urged her steed to the gallop.
Forty
No one challenged Josiri’s descent into Maiden’s Hollow. Those few wolf’s-heads who paid heed did so with hooded and disinterested eyes before turning their attention back to campfires and conversation. A far cry from past accusations of traitor.
The air beneath the trees lay thick with sullen expectation. Peculiar, given Crovan’s fervent disavowal of battle. Perhaps it was the drums. The screams. The discordant clash of blades. Perhaps they reverberated through the wolf’s-heads’ souls as accusingly as they did Josiri’s own.
He walked his horse to a standstill at the dell’s heart. Anastacia, her face in shadow beneath the shawl’s hood, shuddered at the statues.
“What is it?” he asked.
[[Old memories,]] she muttered. [[Family squabbles.]]
Divine squabbles, in other words. Josiri still couldn’t quite believe what Anastacia had at last told him of her past. Nor did he disbelieve it. Of all her tales, this fitted far better than the rest. Or did he simply prefer to think of Anastacia as a serathi, rather than the demon Calenne named her?
Calenne. She could already be dead.
“Josiri?” Gavamor appeared at the stairway. Restless eyes and haggard expression lent urgency to unease. “Why are you here?”
“Same as before, Nials,” said Josiri. “Trying to prevent a terrible mistake.”
Gavamor swallowed. “You don’t know how much of a mistake. Crovan’s . . .”
“Crovan is capable of speaking for himself.”
The Wolf King stepped from the shelter of the trees. Silda Drenn came with him, an arrow nocked but the bow undrawn. Others appeared against the grey skyline. The mismatched leathers of Drenn’s brigands. The wolf-pelts of Crovan’s loyalists.
“I told you my protection had limits,” Crovan said wearily. “You shouldn’t have returned.”
“How could I not?” Josiri tried to forget how close he’d come to doing just that. He spread his arms to encompass the distant sounds of battle. “Our people are dying. Our friends are dying! Our families!”
Agreement swept the glade. Drenn’s sidelong glance at Crovan told a tale all its own.
Crovan batted the accusation aside. “They made their choice.”
Gavamor sat on the edge of a dancer’s plinth. His head hung almost to his knees. His weathered fingers toyed with the amulet about his neck. “Why don’t you tell him the rest, Crovan?”
His tone sent ice rushing through Josiri’s veins. Shrugging off Anastacia’s restraining hand, he approached Crovan. “Tell me what?”
Crovan brushed back his silvered wolf-pelt and laid a hand on his sword. Puzzle-pieces locked into position behind Josiri’s eyes. Crovan wore armour beneath his cloak. The wolf’s-heads were geared for battle. But they’d no intention of fighting? Or at least no intention of fighting the Hadari . . .
The day lost the last of its warmth. Revulsion crowded Josiri’s throat. He closed his eyes and waited for the anger to come. It never emerged from the black, choking cloud of despair.
“And you called me a traitor.”
Crovan jabbed a finger. “I won’t be judged by you! I’ve given everything to this cause! W
hile you sat safe and cosy in Branghall, I suffered for our people. I bled for them! The blood in your veins counts for nothing – only the blood you’ve shed!”
“This isn’t about my pride. Or yours. It’s about freeing the Southshires.”
“Yes, it is,” Crovan replied. “If we don’t side with the Hadari, they’ll leave this place a blasted wasteland and take the children for slaves. Is that what you want?”
Now the anger came. Josiri clenched his fists and strove to control it. Unfocused anger had almost destroyed him this past week. He couldn’t give in to it now. “You know it isn’t.”
“We have to earn the Empire’s support.” Crovan’s tone grew pleading. “We need only show willingness to fight. Might be we can even bring a little mercy along the way.”
Anastacia snorted. [[Killing the wounded to spare their accusations?]]
Gavamor’s head sank lower. Drenn scowled. Crovan stared at Anastacia, his expression caught between suspicion and resentment.
Josiri shook his head. “And what happens next time?”
Crovan frowned. “Next time?”
“When taxes go unpaid.” Josiri let his voice carry through the trees.
“When there’s trouble on the Ithna’jîm border, and the emperor wants to shed your blood in his wars. What then, but more threats to keep you in line?”
Agreement rippled beneath the trees, louder than before.
“And what do you offer?” demanded Crovan.
Josiri strode closer until he stood nose to nose with the would-be Wolf King. “I offer nothing. I promise nothing. This is simply how it’s going to be. The Southshires need us. Our comrades need us. We’re not going to let them down.”
Crovan laughed. Not with mockery, but with the bitter tone of a man who saw a tragic joke while all about him remained blind. “And if I refuse?”
“I’m not talking to you, Drakos.”
The Wolf King’s lips hooked into a snarl. “Fine. Drenn? Lock his grace up. He’ll go to the Hadari. That should save a few lives.”
She showed no sign of moving. Expressionless for a moment, her lips curled slowly into a scowl. “He’s right, Crovan. We give Haldrane what he wants, we’ll never be free.”
Crovan pressed a hand to his head. “And you, Nials?”
Gavamor rose, quiet determination in his eyes. “Reckon I’m with them.”
“I didn’t want this.” Crovan shook his head. “I didn’t.”
He struck the longbow from Drenn’s hand and pinned her against a tree. Cries rang out around the hollow as wolves and brigands went for their swords. Josiri started forward. He checked his advance as steel gleamed in Crovan’s hand.
“I’ll gut you for this, Drakos,” hissed Drenn.
“You’ll thank me.” A faraway look entered his eyes. “This is all for the best, so tell your scoundrels to put their weapons down. And as for you, your grace, you’ll go quietly into confinement, or Vorn will slit your lady-friend’s throat.”
Josiri turned. Vorn stood behind Anastacia, an arm across her throat and a dagger ready in his hand. She stood perfectly, unflinchingly still.
Could steel even hurt Anastacia? Josiri wished he’d thought to ask. She didn’t look fearful, but the transformation had only made her mood harder to read. “Are you all right, love?”
[[I don’t know,]] said Anastacia. [[I’ve a great deal of repressed anger. I’m worried I might hurt someone.]]
“Enough jokes!” snapped Crovan.
“I don’t think she’s joking,” said Josiri.
He cast an eye around the hollow and saw more worried faces than eager ones.
“Let Silda go, Crovan.”
“You made this necessary, not me!”
“Maybe that’s true. But what happens next is on you.”
“You’re right,” said Crovan, his eyes dark. “Vorn! Kill her!”
Revekah closed her ears to the pale-witches’ eerie hymn. To the distant hoof-beats. To the screams that marked a race run to a bloody end. She knew she should have died long ago, cut down from behind. But if the bloody aftermath of Zanya had taught her anything, it was that you couldn’t dwell on that. You ran until you were safe, or you were dead.
New notes rose out of the slaughter: crisp, strident and clear. Revekah had lived fifteen years in fear of that sound. The fanfare of buccinas rousing knights to the charge. Now it was the sweetest of music. At last, she understood why she’d lived to flee so far.
The Knights of Essamere were charging.
Cloaks and plumes streaming in the wind, they galloped past the fleeing militia to the north. Swords glinted in the sun. Lances bit home. The leading edge of the Hadari pursuit disintegrated.
Revekah glimpsed Calenne among the knights, sword brandished high. In that moment the daughter was truly the mother reborn.
Cataphracts spurred forward from the east. A second wave responding to Calenne’s charge. Further north, pale-witches’ flickering steeds danced from the broken ground to join the counter-assault . . . And with them, a woman on a rowan horse, a moon-banner snapping behind her.
“Captain!” A breathless Tarn shook her by the shoulder. “We have to keep moving!”
“Go,” Revekah said, her lungs still heaving. “I’m right behind you.”
She looked northward once more, searching for Calenne in the melee. She saw only a mass of striving bodies, half-hidden in clouds of hoof-kicked dust.
“I’m sorry, Katya.”
Tarn screamed, a pale-witch’s spear in his back. The light fled his youthful eyes even as Revekah caught him. The killer galloped past in a rippling thump of hooves. She wheeled about, her steed sidestepping daintily.
Revekah let Tarn’s body drop. Cold fury boiled up from the pit of her stomach. She cursed Akadra for his gamble and herself for embracing it. But she cursed the pale-witch most of all.
The killer watched from atop her steed, in no hurry to finish what she’d begun.
“What’re you waiting for?” shouted Revekah. “Scared of an old woman?”
The witch spurred forward. The moonlight spear flashed. Revekah’s shield disintegrated like rotting parchment. The blade stabbed deep into her shoulder.
Revekah screamed and threw herself clear of the thundering hooves.
The witch’s steed came about. Revekah rode anger through the pain. She ducked beneath the flashing spear and swung hard at the beast’s mouth. Flesh parted in wisps of light and shadow. But the steed’s shoulder was tangible enough. The glancing blow knocked Revekah from her feet and her sword from numbed fingers.
A name from childhood tales flooded back. Chandirin. Ashana’s moon-coursers. Invulnerable to harm save beneath starlight.
The hoof-beats began anew. Revekah stared down into Tarn’s sightless eyes.
How did you fight that?
You couldn’t.
Calenne parried the first spear and jerked sharply in her saddle to avoid the second. What in Lumestra’s name had she been thinking? She’d no place among the rush of hooves and the crash of steel.
Chest heaving in near panic, she checked a sword-thrust. The Hadari leaned into the blow, and the blade scraped down to her hilt. Calenne held firm. Her eyes came within two spans of her enemy’s sallow, thinly bearded face. Their horses circled. She felt the slow, inexorable retreat of her sword. She wasn’t strong enough to check him. He’d force her sword wide, and then . . .
Calenne angled her sword. The outrider’s blade, the weight of its master still behind it, skittered away. The Hadari fell across his horse’s neck. Shouting with all the fear and frustration of preceding moments, Calenne thrust.
A dull tearing sound marked her thrust’s passage through the man’s leather breastplate; a choked pah of expelled air and a welter of blood as it slid between his ribs. The outrider fell from his saddle with a gurgling cry, his dying weight almost dragging Calenne’s sword from her hand.
She urged her horse clear, eyes fixed on the bloody blade. Fear dissipated into excite
ment, and revulsion at having taken a life. She’d known she might have to before the day was done, but in the moment of the deed . . .
She snapped from her reverie at a bellow. An outrider galloped from the north, gore-slicked spear braced in the crook of his elbow.
Calenne hauled on her reins to face the charge. She knew even then that she’d no time to parry. Life or death now lay in the gift of a shield she barely knew how to use.
A blur of black and silver shot in from Calenne’s left. Wild, rough laughter streamed in its wake. The steel-shod butt of the swan banner, levelled like a lance, struck the outrider in the chest. His horse went one way and he the other.
Anliss’ steed circled about. Her long-handled axe swung a lazy arc. The dismounted outrider lost his head before he reached his knees. Then the two women were alone in a ring of dead and dying and the surviving Hadari retreating eastward in a cloud of dust.
Anliss grinned. “No room for conscience here, lady.”
Calenne stared at the stocky woman. She realised for the first time that Anliss used no reins to control her horse, but the goading of her knees. “It’s that obvious?”
“First time’s always a shock.”
Armund drew up alongside. His chainmail was a mass of twisted rings at the left shoulder. His face was bloodied. He grinned. Like his sister, he disdained the need for reins. “No fears. It gets easier.”
Calenne stared across the bloodied field. At the motionless bodies, and those who wailed for aid. “I hope not.”
“Then cast your eyes behind, not ahead,” said Anliss.
Calenne did as bidden. To the west, the trampled expanse between the redoubts was alive with fleeing militia. Men and women who’d now be dead but for her actions. Death served many purposes. Sometimes it served life.
“We should rejoin the others,” she said.
But the Knights Essamere were already on the move. Their scattered formation reformed and spurred east. A motley array of cataphracts and white-robed women cantered to meet them, the latter mounted on horned steeds of light and shadow. And at their head, the moon-banner and the blaze of white flame that had wrought Viktor’s doom.