by P J Berman
‘Is everything ready?’ Silrith asked, placing her horned, silver and gold ridged helmet on her head as Shappa trotted over, carrying a sugarloaf helm under his sword arm.
‘Yes my Queen,’ said Gasbron. ‘Our scouts say they have found a point in the forest from which we can make a cohesive attack.’
‘Then we must move quickly before Jostan’s troops realise what’s going on. We have to hope that the enemy is the only threat,’ Shappa added.
This isn’t a time to be worrying about forest spirits, Silrith thought. She hoped her troops didn’t share Shappa’s unhelpful concerns.
‘Then may the Gods bless our mission,’ said Silrith.
Nothing more needed to be said. All present understood that forest terrain was hardly ideal for a cavalry charge. Riders would be knocked from their saddles by low branches, horses would be sent crashing to the ground by the multitude of tree roots and all before they even reached the enemy. Yet a surprise attack was now their only chance of victory and in any case, light as their numbers were, a cavalry force this size should be enough to ensure that a good proportion of them still got through, so Silrith had decided that the risk was acceptable. Most importantly of all, it was the last thing Jostan would expect.
‘Open that gate!’ she ordered. Slowly the large oak doors were heaved open.
‘Move out!’ Gasbron called and the column began to rumble out of the city, into the wild surroundings of the forest.
Ezrina was impressed by her own authority as she stood at the top of the steps that led up to the temple’s entrance. Joined by the full complement of her priests and priestesses, she surveyed her surroundings. For her newfound ecclesiastical followers, her retrieval of the Amulet of Hazgorata had proven beyond all doubt that she was blessed by Bertakaevey and, among the bodies of the Bennvikan clergymen, each of the Hentani holy leaders who had joined her for their divine mission had fallen to their knees. It was then that she had ordered them to go among their people, telling them that at the full rising of the moon that night they were to congregate outside the temple.
At first only a few had come. For some reason the eastern side of the city was full of horsemen that night, both Bennvikan and Hentani alike. Cursing, Ezrina presumed that on seeing so many armed riders, many civilians had been scared into staying in their houses. Then it happened. As the moon approached its zenith, more and more doors started to open here and there.
Like the earliest trickles of a stream, first a few, then many more Hentani families tentatively exited their homes. Soon great swathes of people were walking up the streets to join those who had been brave enough to go there first. Meanwhile, the Bennvikan families slept in their beds. Only members of the city’s various tribal districts had been told to go. The sudden swell of the crowd from a handful of souls to near a thousand, possibly more, in just a few minutes was awe-inspiring and they looked up at Ezrina and the crowd of holy leaders expectantly. Consciously Ezrina took in a deep breath and began.
‘Gather round, fellow children of Bertakaevey. I have words that you all must hear.’
Up on the ramparts of Rildayorda’s West Gate, a young militiaman stood guard, shivering in the night’s cold, or at the very least, he told himself that it was the cold and nothing else. Manning the gate was a heavy responsibility and he had to show the other troops that he was just as capable as they were. Like Captain Huthron had told him, fear keeps a person vigilant. The strap of his kettle hat still dug into his chin, as each one he had ever worn seemed to and up here with the extra breeze the metal rings of his chain mail felt cold against his skin, though at least the leather jerkin he wore over it provided some level of insulation.
Behind him, he could hear a rising babble from within the city, but outside, the night was almost still, though not quite. Opposite him lay the right flank of King Jostan’s camp, lit by torches and a handful of campfires. In the flickering light, he could see soldiers moving about here and there, though they were probably just guards like himself, at least for the most part. The depression on that side of the city was fairly steep, so the enemy had been forced to pitch their tents some distance away. He kept reminding himself that he was out of arrow range, but he couldn’t quite rid his mind of the fear that some lucky shot might take him in the night. He gripped his spear tightly as if that would be of some defence against such a weapon.
‘Pssst!’
‘Who’s there?’ the militiaman demanded, turning around and pointing his spear at where the noise seemed to have come from. He relaxed as he heard a familiar laugh from down on the ground, inside the city walls.
‘Gods be praised, Calgred! Someone’s on edge tonight,’ said the voice.
It was Uthyann, Calgred’s portly young neighbour and a member of the same unit. Calgred rolled his eyes and turned back to watching the enemy camp.
‘Very funny.’
‘Well, can I come up or what?’ said Uthyann.
‘Why are you asking?’ Calgred laughed, trying to sound at ease.
‘Is the Captain there?’
‘No, just come up.’
Calgred heard the creak of a door followed by footsteps as his friend climbed the spiral staircase of the gate’s enormous towers. The wooden door leading from the gate on to the ramparts opened and, letting it close behind him, Uthyann, with his orange hair and grinning freckly face, walked towards Calgred. He was holding out a bottle in one hand while clutching his spear in the other.
‘Scrounged us a bottle of rum didn’t I? Thought you might wanna share it.’
‘Uthyann, where did you get this?’ said Calgred, feeling slightly uncomfortable.
‘That’d be telling. Want some company and a nice swig?’ Uthyann said, holding out the bottle. Calgred looked at it. Common soldiers like themselves rarely and in many cases never, got to taste the finest wines, but even he knew that this was the polar opposite of that. Yet being cut off from trade meant that Rildayorda’s supplies of any even semi-desirable alcohol had been exhausted long ago. Calgred almost surprised himself as the bottle of Padorak started to look strangely appealing. At least its fiery taste would warm his insides a bit.
Calgred didn’t know what made him do it. Peer pressure? Fear? Or maybe something else. All he knew was that even though a voice in his head was screaming for him not to do it, he reached out and took the bottle. He raised it to his lips, but then at the last moment stopped and handed it back to his friend.
‘No, I don’t want it. I can never seem to get used to that stuff,’ said Calgred.
‘Well, you might have to if this siege carries on. Seems the taverns are all out of everything else. Sure you don’t want some?’
‘No, thank you. We need to stay alert, in case that Captain comes for an inspection if nothing else. You shouldn’t be carrying it.’
‘Can’t a guy even have a bit to take the edge off? I’m not gonna drink loads am I?’
Calgred shook his head and turned back to look out over the walls. He didn’t have the advantage of rank, so he couldn’t order Uthyann to get rid of it. He just hoped there’d be no trouble.
Chapter 24
‘You may feel confused,’ Ezrina said as she addressed the crowd of ragged onlookers. ‘Lost even. Have the children of Bertakaevey been so tamed by the Bennvikans that all their sense of pride is gone; buried beneath layer upon layer of subservience? I hope not. I certainly don’t believe it to be so. In you, I see things that you yourselves may have long forgotten. My mother, holy Bertakaevey herself, will awake the sleeping lions within your hearts.’
She smiled as the crowd audibly drew in breath on hearing those words.
‘Blasphemy,’ she heard one man say. He must have thought she hadn’t spotted him.
‘Blasphemy?’ Ezrina said. ‘It is not blasphemy to spread the word of Bertakaevey. Blessed are those who protect their flock. You are all aware of the Amulet of Hazgorata, the last link between us and the promised land that the Bennvikan followers of Vitrinnolf and Lomatteva displaced
us from the very first time they attacked us all those centuries ago. Our ancestors were children of the north, yet we languish here in the south and even here we are prisoners. But I tell you now that your imprisonment is over. You all know also that as long as the Amulet of Hazgorata is carried by a member of the Hentani, then we all have a future. We have lived at the mercy of the Bennvikans for all the time that the Amulet has been withheld from us. We have been controlled and manipulated by them. Even now our warriors – our warriors – march to fight for a Bennvikan. Yet as we all know, a divine prophecy predicted an end to this oppression. Therefore is it not a divine act that has seen the Amulet’s recovery? My people, I proclaim to you now, that Bertakaevey has spoken.’
She flung her arms out as the crowd cheered in agreement. But then she slowly drew her hands inward, for the first time drawing the crowd’s attention to the chain that hung around her neck. Her emerald robes hid most of it, but she reached in and the crowd gasped as she revealed the jewel for all to see.
‘Yes, you see before you now the Amulet of Hazgorata, held by the girl who recovered it,’ Ezrina declared. ‘The time has come to throw aside Bennvikan rule. Only then can we control our own future and decide our own fate. Bertakaevey herself decreed that I would discover the Amulet and in bearing it, I now bear the destiny of us all.’
She paused to let her words sink in as the crowd cheered. It was wonderful to see such desperate people full of hope. It gave Ezrina a full-blooded belief that, with Bertakaevey’s help, she would find Jezna again. Everything she held dear hung on this.
‘It’s true. The prophecy has come true,’ called a man’s voice from somewhere within the crowd.
‘She has chosen me! I am formed of Bertakaevey’s holy ashes,’ Ezrina declared with a passion fuelled by her aching hunger to save Jezna; the crowd now hanging on her every word. ‘The signal has been given by our Mother in Heaven. My mother. Your mother. Now she sends me to save her children and lead them from the flames of oppression. I declare to you now, that by divine order, the Daughter of Ashes is risen.’
‘Can you hear that?’ said Calgred. ‘Sounds like shouting. Seems to be coming from the city centre.’
He watched as Uthyann turned and listened. Usually, it was fairly quiet up on the walls at night; often too quiet. Sometimes you could hear the odd noise from inside the city, but this was different. This sounded like a whole group of people, yet the voices, while clearly numerous, were only faint.
‘Yeh, I hear it. Can’t see anything though,’ Uthyann said. ‘Seems to be coming from the other side of the arena.’ He strained his neck as if that’d help him see any more easily over the top of the hulking cylinder that was gladiatorial stadium lying not more than a few hundred yards from their position. According to the better-travelled soldiers Calgred had met, this wooden structure was nothing compared to the huge stone stadiums in Kriganheim. This was barely the height of the city walls, but its presence, combined with the large numbers of houses, still meant that part of their view across to the far side of the city was blocked.
‘Could be. I’ll bet it’s further away than that though,’ Calgred said.
‘Maybe the tribal lot have some festival going on at the temple?’
‘Possible I guess. Funny time to be doing it though, don’t you think? I can’t imagine they’ve got much of a feast.’
‘I bet those bastards have loads of food and have been hiding it from us.’
‘They’re not all like that, Uthyann.’
Calgred was going to continue, but a shout made him stop.
‘Open the gate! I demand that you open the gate!’
‘Stop! Who goes there!’ Calgred shouted instinctively, as he saw what looked like a silhouetted young man on a white horse slowing to a canter as he approached the gate.
‘I am Bezekarl Alyredd. Son of your noble Lord! You will open the gate immediately!’ shouted the man, gesticulating violently with his sword drawn. He was clearly out of breath and was desperately looking over his shoulder, though no pursuers were visible.
Nevertheless, Calgred and Uthyann rushed down the steps to the bottom of the wall. There they were joined by two more guards from the ramparts on the other side of the gatehouse.
‘Quickly! Help us open it!’ Calgred told them. Though still enormous, this was the smallest of the city’s entrances and featured only a portcullis, and with an exposed pulley system on either side instead of having a larger one housed in an antechamber above. Between the four of them, they could lift it. They heaved on the pulleys and slowly the steel frame creaked upwards.
Come on! Hurry up you bastards! They’re coming!’ Bezekarl called from outside.
Calgred couldn’t hear hoof beats, maybe that was just because of the heavy groaning of the portcullis. The four of them heaved again and again, inching the metal frame a little higher each time. Finally, the portcullis was in place and Bezekarl kicked his mount forward, but then he stopped once he was through the gate.
‘My Lord, what-’ Calgred’s voice was cut short as Bezekarl’s blade slashed into his neck. In horror, he tried to cover the wound with his hands but he fell to the ground, coughing and spluttering on his own blood, feeling the life drain from him as his three comrades were felled.
In the forest to the east of the city, the night was a deathly stillness. With Gasbron at her side, Silrith led the column of cavalry in complete silence. He may have been born to Gilbayan immigrant parents in Ganust, as he had recently told her, but as a Rildayordan resident of some years, for Silrith, Gasbron was as much a guide as a soldier. She was glad to have a man of such quality that she could trust. Nevertheless, she strained her ears for the slightest rustle, or the snap of a twig and scanned the area wide-eyed looking for movement, or maybe even the flicker of a distant flame.
The trees and the pitch darkness gave a pressing claustrophobic effect, especially as Silrith still wasn’t used to her ridged helmet, with its long nasal guard and its face-enclosing cheek plates.
Soon they reached the edge of a small clearing.
‘This is the place,’ Gasbron whispered, confirming what Silrith already knew. She looked at him, nodded and put her hand up to call a halt. She listened again, looking into the clearing, which was lit just enough by the moonlight. When she was satisfied that they weren’t being watched, she motioned for them to move forward again and turned her mount to face north in the direction of Jostan’s army. They were too deep into the forest to be able to see it from there, however.
She briefly looked around and caught Gasbron’s eye as the riders got into position behind them, though there was nothing more to be said. Both left the other to their private thoughts until the moment was right.
Thankfully it hadn’t rained in some time, so the ground was hard, but there was no getting away from the fact that horses would be tripped by roots and riders would be ripped from their mounts by low branches. Still, there was no way around that either. It seemed to Silrith that the plan was ambitious at best and mad at worst, even though she had thought of it personally, but she reminded herself that this would be the only way to attack Jostan’s army without them being ready. This would be crucial, as the much-weakened Preddaburg Gate almost certainly couldn’t withstand another attack and the defenders would be hard pushed to repel the enemy again once they were inside. Yes, as risky as it was, this was their last chance of victory.
The three-thousand-strong force slowly reformed into a northward-facing column twenty steeds wide with the Divisiomen at the front, then Shappa’s knights, then the Hentani and finally the Bennvikan militia. She knew the formation wasn’t ideal, but it would have to suffice. It was imperative that the experienced troops were at the front if they were to stand a chance of success. Yathrud would be at this very moment over at the Preddaburg Gate with the infantry. He had his orders and she knew he’d obey them to the letter.
Finally, Silrith sensed the level of movement behind her lessen, as the last riders got into formation. Conscious
ly slowing her breathing and focusing her mind, she drew her sword, enjoying the rasping sound that was echoed behind her as her horsemen did the same. She raised the weapon in the air, motioned forwards and three thousand horses were kicked into a trot.
Bezekarl smiled with satisfaction at the sight of the four mutilated bodies around him. He turned his mount and trotted back to the gate to face his oncoming troops, who now cantered forward out of the darkness. The Chief Invicturion, Vinnitar Rhosgyth sat arrogantly astride his horse at the head of the column. These were the cavalry of Divisio One Kriganheim. Moving from the darkness into the light, they almost had a ghostly look as they appeared to materialise out of nothing, as they climbed out of the pitch black of the grassy slope and were lit up by the torches dotted around the gate, as ten horsemen became fifty and these were just the beginning. Bezekarl knew that as more riders approached fifty would become a hundred and a hundred would become a thousand.
‘Loot all you find! It’s yours!’ Bezekarl ordered. ‘Slaughter these traitors in their beds.’
The riders bellowed their war cries and kicked their mounts into a gallop. Bezekarl pulled to the side of the gate as his soldiers rushed past him into the city. As they went past, Bezekarl saw Vinnitar’s Standard Bearer pull out a war horn and blow one long note. There was a second war cry from far behind and, looking into the darkness outside after the last rider had passed, he saw the dark shapes of hundreds of militiamen, as well as some Divisiomen and Defroni warriors charging out from within the densely packed tents of the camp. They charged forward and once they reached the light of the torches, Bezekarl could see that their shields were that strange, uniform white, just as those of the riders had been. Some of their banners showed the black and white trident of Lord Feddilyn Rintta, while others, of course, showed the sapphire and white eagle of King Jostan. He smiled with pleasure, urging them onward as they surged under the gate with the ferocity of a horde intent on victory and high on blood. Every one of them was hungry for plunder; eager to sack the city and engulf it in flame.