One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  She was through the glass and a hand took her wrist. Aile forced her mind to swing the blade in her other hand at whatever had taken hold of her. She felt soft and then bone and then soft and bone again. A face with one less eye now. The wrist fell and a woman screamed shrill. Aile fell onto the roof, rolling. Her mind was slipping. The ground found her a half moment later and the wind was knocked from her lungs. The last sight she saw was her horse, bloody and dying, doing all it could to snap at the men who meant to kill it. It was a good animal.

  Part Fourteen U

  Z

  Socair

  Práta was still with the healers. They would tell Socair nothing, only that there was much work still to do when one would tire and another would take their place. She had not slept, her eyes were red, and standing still was impossible. There was a battle. She knew it. Scouts came to her regularly at the healing tent where Práta had been taken. The sun was in the sky now, and by noon the hippocamps would be upon them, the hordes having joined fully toward the back side of their lines along the route. Their full force was near what the elves had, though the terrain advantage would at least count for something, provided the militia could hold against the front of the charge. Whatever Práta’s state, if the horsefolk broke through and found their way into the city, it would not matter. The healers would be slaughtered and she would be taken with them.

  The last healer she would see came out and another moved in. The woman was old and calm. Socair came to her immediately and the healer held up a patient hand.

  “You have heard this before, Binseman. I will say it plain. We may yet save her, but there is much work to be done. Made no easier once the fighting begins. Please… you have your work as we do. I pray of you, do it.”

  She said no more and walked away, leaving Socair alone with only the large field tent to stare at. She wished there were more sounds than the mumbled words of healers and the groans of others. She had not heard a familiar tone from the place in all the time there. The healer was not wrong in her words, however. There must have been many gathered awaiting her order. She looked to the dirt at her feet and with no more left to complain over, she turned, head down, and walked as quickly as she could toward the forward command platform.

  The platform had been constructed just outside the walls and was filled with flags and maps, stairs at either end to allow the scouts to keep from shouting when they arrived. There would be enough noise. Socair came to it, surprised to find Deifir atop the thing, with what would be the front lines only a few hundred yards away. She climbed the stairs, her mind a mess but a question on her tongue.

  “Deifir, this place is not safe. Why are you here?”

  Deifir turned to her and took Socair’s hands in her own. “I am sorry for what has happened.” She placed a soft kiss on Socair’s cheek and looked at her, eyes wet and face solemn. “I know your suffering is great now, but you have still come. I thank you.”

  The words pained Socair to hear but there was little she could do about it. The fire in her blood had begun to rise, seeing the field before her full of elves prepared to fight. The sight of it had shifted her thoughts, as though two minds lay inside her and the one which moved at the sight of war did not allow the pain to come to the fore.

  “I thank you, Deifir. But I must ask again. Why are you at this place?”

  She turned, gracefully, and looked out over the field before her. Many faces watched her as she did. “There is no other place I could be. So many have come through no oath to duty. If I were to hear only words about their sacrifice, I do not believe I could bear it.”

  “But—”

  She turned back to Socair briskly. “I do apologize, Socair. I do. But I cannot be anywhere else. This is the place I belong.”

  What could she say? Nothing would move the Treorai from the place on that platform, she could feel it.

  Only one of the Binse had come. The Binse of Lands. It had been suggested that she inform him of troop movements in the absence of Práta, but she’d scoffed at that and then been rather rude to the soldier sent to suggest it. She was not herself then, but at least she had been sent another. A man of the First Company. He was decorated, not yet promoted to life in a chair. His name was Cró. She had spoken to him a time or two in camps, but he was younger than her, inexperienced, and more interested in engineering than battle. The place suited him and he would act well as her second, even without the full of her planning explained to him. She spent the few hours before scout horns began to sound explaining what she could but soon enough they did. The hippocamps would be upon them within the half hour. A breathless girl, Socair’s age, she thought, came running up the stairs. She was dressed in shabby armor armed with something in the shape of a sword that would do half the job.

  “Please… please…” She struggled for breath. “There is none to lead the Van.”

  “The militia?” She looked to Cró.

  He shook his head, confused. “Dian was meant to lead it. I’ve known him years. Are you saying he’s not come?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not a soul has seen him.”

  “Deserted.” A look of pure disgust came over Socair’s face. She pulled her sword. “Go, girl. Tell them that I will lead them.”

  Cró stepped forward as the girl nodded and left. “Bearer…” His eyes looked to Deifir for only a second. “Binseman, this… you cannot. I do not…”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “You must believe, Cró. Believe in us. In what you know. Remember, shift the archers. We have only a few. They must take the platforms to the flanks when we advance the front.” She looked at Deifir. “Keep her safe, Cró. With your life if you must.”

  Socair turned to leave and made the steps when Deifir called to her.

  “Socair.” She did not turn to see Deifir speak. “Protect us.”

  The stairs went in a blur and Socair walked with purpose as the masses of poorly armored, poorly armed militia parted to allow her to pass. The hush followed her forward to the front lines. She came to the front of them, sword still at the ready and looked. She could just see the edge of the horde’s advance. A cloud of dust, unmistakable. She turned to a sea of faces, terrified and curious. They would not stand the front. Not like this.

  “Grand speeches are pretty lies for foolish ears.” Heads snapped to her, almost in disbelief at her shouted words. “You are scared. You are unsure you will live. Those will not serve you here! If you wish to live, do as I say. Fill yourself with hate. Picture all that you love. All that you have that you hold dear. Now picture it dead. Torn apart by that.” She pointed to the dust cloud. “That is the cost. There is no time to teach you bravery or clever tactics. Only hate will see you through. Your swords are dull, but they will cut. The horsefolk will bleed and they will die by them. Use them.”

  She turned then and watched the cloud. She heard a roar behind her and felt the energy as it passed through the masses, spreading to the sides. Swords came against shields and helmets and battle cries came in waves. The din only grew as the dust came closer. The rhythm of war was pounding all around her. She saw the first of them. Satyr at the front. Good. They fared poorly in such a clash. The energy at the outset would carry through.

  Socair raised her sword overhead and turned. She screamed, deep and loud and was answered back by thousands more. She spun and pointed her weapon, screaming again and charging. The deafening sound of ten thousand hooves was matched at her back by the clatter of her people wearing their desperate wills in the form of studded leather and dented plate.

  She met the first of them. A satyr woman, thin and nearly frothing in her rage. She had not known of Socair’s power. A shoulder to the gut flattened the creature, loosing her of an awkward length of spear. Socair stomped her throat and slashed ahead at the next as the press met to each side of her. The satyr seemed as unprepared as she expected the militia would. They carried long weapons and only a
few dozen used them across the line. Most met her front with the tips low and raised them far too late. They were easily brushed aside, but a close fight with a satyr was no easy thing. She heard screams at her sides as she shouldered and struck her way deep into the line. A brief respite gave her a moment to turn to the militia behind her.

  “Turn! Flank!” She barked the words and they acted with wild eyes as though their minds were driven by her words and nothing else. They flailed wildly and took satyr with them as they forced the press into the horsefolk sides. In the distance she heard another horn. The hippocamp line must have compressed enough. She struck away blows from a satyr who was hobbled in the run, pushing her sword into his legs. A second later, the sound of clashes from the flanks told her what the horns had called out. Arrows began to arc overhead from new angles, falling closer than those at the head of the battle.

  A few moments had passed and there was movement of the line. They pressed well into the satyr, making heavy ground. She heard it then, as the spirits of those around her had come to a peak. Screams. Not of war but of terror. Familiar heavy thuds. The centaur had come. They were to her flank.

  “Press forward!” she shouted, bolting for the sound of the centaur.

  She found him at a beaten out circle of militia. They’d given him room foolishly and were taking pains for it from the flanks as the satyr closed on them. Fear had come into their eyes. There was nothing for it. Those eyes came before the end. She rushed the centaur from his flank, plunging her sword into his ribs and causing him to stagger as her weight fell against his unprepared side.

  “Come! Now!”

  She screamed the order without being able to see the militia, but she heard their shouts. They charged the centaur and hacked at the screaming beast. The satyr beyond stood a moment, staring as the work was done. Socair wasted no time. The sword was pulled from the great creature and she was over him, charging the centaur flank. More than one turned to flee, toppling those beside. She put swords to two, the militia following her in. Their front was in chaos and the centaur had been forced to pay attention to the well-trained, well-armed flanks. The arrows did not stop raining, farther back now. She heard the cackled screams of satyr from a distance. Still, the line did not move yet. There were many and they meant to beat a battle of attrition into the elves with an unceasing front. The horsefolk were greedy. They wished their beachhead to be so far north as they could make it. It was bold, fitting for them, she thought.

  The battle had quieted around her as the front shifted, satyr repositioning away, possibly hoping to survive. They did not fight as so many she’d known. There was another horn and noise from the right flank. Not an elf horn. She looked to it hoping the sky above would tell her something. She could only cut her way toward the flank. An elf war horn sounded emergency and the arrows shifted. She could just see them, flitting toward the wood where the flank had moved to meet the hippocamp column. She pushed her way through militia and satyr, ordering her people forward, telling them to let none live. They were as dangerous wounded and unwatched as alive. She heard a noise she had not heard the whole of the battle as they came to the column’s edge. The hard thunk of wood. Bolts. The satyr were at the flank. And heavy hoof. Centaur. They’d pressed in behind her experienced soldiers. She pierced the neck of a satyr who had mounted a Second Company soldier at the loss of his weapon but the boy was dead. A pair ahead of her finished putting down another of the screeching creatures and she shouted at the first.

  “How many?”

  “Not sure yet. Enough to hurt us, at least.” He answered her quick, hopping in place, and ran off to find more battle.

  Socair rushed behind him, swinging her blade high as others went low. One elf against a standing satyr, ones trained as these were, would not last. Cró had kept to her plans, keeping the archers agile. Her blade slapped at a satyr crossbow and she pulled it down again, through the bone of a shoulder and past a few ribs. Even for her it was a reach, pulling it free brought her enemy close enough. She cleaved the blade into a terrified face and kicked it free nearly as quickly.

  The sound of charging pulled her away from her kill. An armored Warlord. He clattered over the elves before him, swinging axes as he went. There was space and his eyes were not on her. She rushed forward, sliding to a stop just away from his foreleg. The centaur was unpleased, swinging his near axe down. She rolled as it came and the flat of it clapped against her back, pulling the breath from her. She planted her feet against the weight of it and pulled back her sword, giving as heavy a swing as she could. The leather at the muscles split and the sword found purchase. It lodged somewhere deep in the bone and the Warlord screamed out in pain. A horrifying roar. Socair tried to yank the sword free but could not. He began to regain himself and pulled back to swing again. She charged into his side and the far leg buckled rather than finding ground again. She clambered on top of the beast as quickly as she could manage, catching his muscled arm has he tried again to strike with the near axe. It was all she could do to hold it with her other arm. She had no weapon, but she had restrained his. There was only a single device left to her. She pulled her fist back, steadying herself against the writhing horse body beneath. She struck him in the temple and the centaur roared in rage. His muscles gave just the least bit and she wrenched the arm she held. The ripping of meat and sinew came before the great bellowed scream. She struck him again and again. A divot formed in the Warlord’s cheek. She beat again, Práta’s face in her mind. And again. And again. The divot split and her foe’s eyes rolled white. She rained down fist after first, ignoring it. A rattled wheeze came from the soft meat that had given way from the bone and the axe fell and the writhing stopped. The top body slouched.

  She rolled off to dirt softer than she’d expected. Socair was back to her feet quickly, the fight still roaring around her, a few soldiers staring at her in awe. She whipped her hand toward the fight.

  “Go!”

  The soldiers came to their senses and rushed away to continue the attack. She looked up, arrows still flew through the air. The column had not broken and turned. Her hands were slick with blood so she wiped them clean and took a sturdy grip on the hilt of her blade. She pulled it from the bone and turned to find her next task. From behind came a sound that raised a deep concern in her. Creaking, loud and with too familiar a cadence. No, she thought. No. Not now.

  A great ball of flame woofed over her head. The trebuchets. There was no need for them. No horn had sounded a rout nor a broken flank. Another came, to her left, flying toward the rear of the hippocamp column.

  She must stop it. The city was as apt to burn as the horsefolk and they would have no place from which to repel a further attack. Socair turned, running through a field of bodies and limping wounded toward the command platform. She made it no more than a few hundred yards before she saw a sight that she near didn’t believe.

  Deifir stood among the field with Meirge and a few others. Socair ran to her.

  “Deifir, this is no—”

  Her Treorai’s face was pale, covered with tears. She wiped them away, seeming almost embarrassed. “Socair, I… I am afraid I must apologize to you.” Her voice cracked, almost a desperate laugh. She had seen it before among this sort of death. “I… heh… I fear I could not bear to watch anymore. My heart…” She looked back at the walls as a volley of fire was loosed. “I ordered them fired. Cró… he has no blame in this. He tried to refuse me.” Her eyes were hollow.

  Socair came in front of Deifir and held her by the shoulders. “I understand. I do. I know your heart, Deifir. You should not have come.”

  “I had to come…” She sobbed, trying to choke them down but unable.

  “You must…” She looked to Meirge whose face was devoid of all emotion. “Meirge, you must take her from here.” She let Deifir go and turned. “You must evacuate the city of any who do not mean to fight. And have any who can walk bring water.” His eyes tracked
past her, following along. She narrowed her eyes in confusion.

  “Little girl?” Deifir spoke, but not from where she had been. Socair whipped around.

  It was a girl. Young, bleeding from her face and her crotch. Most of the hair torn from her head and dried semen across what was left of her clothes. She dragged a broken leg, black and ruined. It was three scratches across her face that took the whole of Socair’s attention.

  “Nath?” She whispered the words.

  The girl stood dead still as Deifir came closer to her. Her eyes came up, wild and unfocused.

  “Mine.” Nath croaked the word from broken lungs.

  She pulled her arm from behind her back. Socair recognized the shape and moved as fast as her spent muscles could bear. She threw a hand in front of Deifir but it would not be enough.

  The chunky clack of the bow firing weighed heavy in her ears. A short noise but it echoed, somehow, in the empty of the field. The satyr-made bolt punched through Socair’s forearm as though it had not even been there and lodged deep in Deifir’s chest. The noblewoman reeled, coming upright and falling backward, only sadness on her face.

  Meirge and his retinue were past her before Socair could so much as turn her head. Nath screamed as the swords pierced every part of her. Meirge answered, the sound of a broken man, full with rage.

  Socair was the first to Deifir’s side. She shivered and jerked. The bolt had entered her chest high and the blood from her mouth told of the damage it had done. She coughed, calling for Meirge weakly. He came, eyes bloodshot and desperate, kneeling beside her.

  “I am here, love. I am here.” He took her hand, looking over her body as though seeking a way to fix it.