There were but ten, not twelve, and they were turning off the road into rough country. Clapping spurs to his horse, the prince waved for the gallop he had already begun. The Thesians were out of sight behind a grove of trees below, and he was sure none had looked back. His horse thundered down the Jong hill before his followers reached its summit.
As he neared the spot where the foe had turned, Eltorn saw that the other two had not ridden ahead as he’d feared; they lay dead at the point of turnoff, and his knight’s eyes told him even in passing that their wounds had not been made by a broadsword. He reined rightward in pursuit of their fellows. In doing so and urging his excellent mount to all its effort, he ignored prudence and the shouting voices behind him. He was well ahead of the others. But he’d not slow now; a second’s delay might well cost the kingdom. Obviously the Thesians had come upon him they sought, and he’d slain two ere he fled into this rocky country.
Eltorn rounded the grove. Ahead rose a rock-strewn hill, and on it, six enemy afoot, clustered about a rockbound pocket partway up. It was the perfect place for a warrior at bay; his foes must attack one at a time. Charging now like a hound with the fox in sight, Eltorn bucketed past four arrow-pierced Thesian corpses. It must be one man alone, he thought, and with six of a dozen to his credit, he is worth fearing! Lokieto you filthy crawling snake — we have what you fear!
Eltorn loosed a wild yell to distract the Thesians from their attempted death-dealing to the cornered quarry. And Eltorn rode, his warhorse gathering itself, hurtling forward, great muscles leaping and rippling.
The first Thesian fell prey to a racing, trained warhorse. The other’s head went flying and rolling ere he’d got his sword around at the mounted newcomer. And then Eltorn’s horse stumbled on that ill-suited terrain, and the prince of Collada went flying headlong.
Eltorn’s helm struck sparks off a small stone as he crashed to earth. Bright lights danced before his eyes, and he shook his head desperately to retain consciousness. Two Thesians came rushing, well separated.
The prince rolled leftward. His mail-shirt screamed across stone. Thus he only just evaded the axe stroke of the man on his right. The other aborted his stroke in his sudden need to avoid Eltorn’s vicious kick. In a trice the prince was on his feet, facing his enemies. Long and hard training had seen to it that he retained his sword. The two men separated but slightly to attack him again.
The Thesian invaders were overhasty. They should have taken their clue from Eltorn’s obvious confidence and the fact that he’d clung to his sword and gained his feet without being touched, rather than from his being a prince of the contemptible Colladans. The axe-man’s over-eager stroke left him open and Eltorn slit him from belly to thigh. He spun away, dodging a stroke from the other foeman. His sword tore that Thesian buckler like paper, wrenching the man’s left arm nigh out of joint. When the soldier sought to parry Eltorn’s vicious back-swing with his own blade, the Colladan’s edge carried away both the sword and the hand that wielded it. The prince was merciful; a quick slash opened the man’s throat that he might die the swifter.
His follower’s horses were thundering closer as Eltorn swung from two dead enemies.
Having engaged the trapped quarry, the last Thesian staggered back from the rocks with blood streaming from both a slash and a thrust precisely in the hollow of the throat. He collapsed, wide eyes fixed on the sun. Of all the dozen enemy, but one remained. This was a motionless man in a long, ungirt black robe that must have been hot in the sun; Eltorn was sweltering within his chain and its padding.
The robed man was swiftly surrounded by mounted Colladans. They looked to their prince, who held up a restraining hand.
Relief was like the removal of a great weight from Prince Eltorn’s chest. He had won whatever it was Lokieto feared enough to spend a special boat and so many men in acquiring. Now the invader had failed. Eltorn had… whatever it was. What? And how did one use it? Who was within those rocks, aside from an excellent warrior?
Narthur reined up on a belly-grunting horse. The burly, slabby general was boiling in anger he obviously wanted seen.
“May it please Your Highness, and though it does not, you are our liege and leader, with your father pent in the city. You must not hazard your person in riding ahead of us into minor battles that I and these men could easily handle. As matters stand, we have had a long ride to do naught save capture one unarmed civilian.”
“General: your horse was slow as your wits. Sirrah: your tongue is sharper than your sword.”
A new voice broke into that tension between the general who had been publicly chastised by the royalty he had publicly chastised.
“Be careful of that creature in the robe — he’s worse than deadly.”
The warning came from the rocks. Every eye fixed there, to see the unknown warrior the Thesians had waylaid at such great cost. And every eye widened.
A genuinely beautiful young woman stepped from the rocks. Her hair was flame and gold in the sunlight. Though she whipped a long black cloak about herself, no man’s eyes missed the perfection of her form. The prince gazed into deep green eyes and felt that he could fall in, with ease. Under other circumstances, he’d have been captivated by the exquisite face that smiled at him.
Narthur broke the silence of astonishment. “The hellcat’s beauty matches her fighting, but how can this girl be what Lokieto fears?”
She seemed on the point of making an angry retort, but the robed man stepped forward as calmly as if he were here by invitation.
“If I may be of service. I am Ter-Gon, acolyte of the mighty Pyre. I gather that thou art obeying some oracle to learn what my lord Duke Lokieto fears. What he fears is not this small girl, but the power that compelled him to send his soldiers in quest of her. That power is my master, Pyre. If Pyre commands, Lokieto will grant thee favourable terms. His army will withdraw on payment of a modest ransom for the city. In exchange for such an obvious gift, I ask only that thou dost cut this meddling wench’s throat.”
Though General Narthur was visibly excited by the offer, his prince’s voice was cold. “There are many who ask crowned heads to do evil in exchange for promises of good to come. Ter-Gon, you seem anxious. Explain your case.”
“This girl — ”
“My name is Captain Tiana Highrider of Reme and I am no more girl than you are a man, Ter-Gon. Surely was no girl or wench who slew your gruesome brothers.”
The robed man did not take his eyes from Eltorn’s face. “This woman serves an evil sorcerer. If she is permitted to continue, she will loose a monstrous danger upon the world.”
Again she interrupted. “I serve none but myself. None.”
Ter-Gon wheeled on her. “Then why seek ye to serve Derramal? Know thou not what will happen if he returns to the world?”
“Certainly,” Tiana said. “I shall kill him. Permanently.”
“Little fool, thou dares challenge him even Pyre doth fear?”
“I have the courage to fight my enemies, and without means arcane. Pyre does not, and sends you, foul creature. Pyre is thus branded coward.”
That was too much for Ter-Gon. Soldiers guarded him on both sides; without visible movement on his part, both men turned green, sagged, and fell dead. With the ear-splitting scree of a hunting hawk, Ter-Gon threw himself at Tiana — feet-first.
Her rapier was out, but it was Eltorn’s yard-long broadsword that flashed out to skewer Ter-Gon. The dead acolyte’s body seemed to shrivel. Then it burst into flame.
On a table far to the north rest three little figurines in the shape of hawks. Two are charred ruins; the third is burning.
“Very fast, my Lord Prince,” Tiana said. “And nicely done — though I was of course ready for him and perfectly capable of slaying the beast — as I have both his fell brothers.” A slight exaggeration; Tiana realised that she had not personally touched any of the three man-hawks.
General Narthur was staring gloomily at the charred remains of Ter-Gon. “This man offer
ed generous terms — which Your Highness has irrevocably rejected.”
“I’d call slaying the creature an irrevocable rejection, yes,” the prince said coldly.
“By the Great Cow’s Cud, my Prince! Think you this trollop is some mighty sorceress who’s going to blast the army of Lokieto for us? She —”
The general was interrupted by the tip of Tiana’s rapier, which flashed beneath his thick, broad-flanged nose. Though no blood was drawn, a considerable portion of his pride vanished — with much of his bushy red moustache. Narthur stared; the steely point of the slender sword danced before his eyes.
“My name is Tiana, not trollop, soldier. I have said that — are you hard of hearing?” For a moment she stared into his astonished and affronted eyes. Then she turned to the prince. “Your Highness, I gather you seek aid in some grave emergency. Lieden is indeed in the hands of this Thesian conqueror?”
Eltorn nodded with a sigh. “It is.”
“Then though I have no magic I will help — I have business in Lieden. Nor do I care to treat with conquering invaders.”
Thoughts of Lokieto’s obvious fear of this woman, combined with her incredible confidence — and the effect on him of those level green eyes of hers — prompted Prince Eltorn to explain the military situation. She asked several questions, now and again looking over at the lake and up at the sky. Then she considered, nodding, her teeth in her lip.
“My Prince — ” Narthur began.
“I take it you are prepared to take desperate chances?” Tiana asked of the prince, without so much as a glance in Narthur’s direction. “Even — commit an act of apparent madness?”
“It has long been apparent that there is no sane way to save the city.” Eltorn said, with a sideward glance Narthur might have taken as reproval.
Tiana nodded and spoke with confident purposefulness. “We must ride swiftly to your camp. It looks as if a storm is brewing on the lake. Time is short and we have preparations to make.” With a slight smile, she added, “I see I have a wide choice of mounts… Thesian horses.”
Night was heavy on the land when they reached the Colladan army. Prince Eltorn gave immediate orders. “A few men must perform certain tasks. Let all others sleep well this night, for it is our last in this place. Tomorrow night we shall sleep either in the ground — or in our beloved Lieden!”
*
All were of more cheer in the morning. The long agony of waiting was over; Generals Narthur and Fersen knew they would die this day. Theirs was the responsibility for the preparations for battle. With no hope of surprising the enemy, all was public, almost a parade. Certainly watchers from Lieden must have been puzzled, and hopefully made nervous by the activity in the Colladan camp. As for the Colladans, they were glad to move at last, and enjoyed knowledge that they were confusing the enemy.
Despite the storm out on the sprawling lake that divided Collada from Thesia, the sun drenched the camp with brightness that reflected in dazzling rays from newly polished armour and shields. Though such a formation was surely tactically useless under present circumstances, the generals nevertheless assembled the knights in a long rank of glittering steel. Brightly coloured banners flapped in the wind that came constantly off the lake. Thunderous cheers greeted the addition of each proud pennon to the growing line. No man but was proud to be in this noble company on this day of days. Though few men held illusions of victory, they welcomed the action and knew there would be glory in their deaths.
Behind the three thousand mounted knights were less than a thousand foot — or men the generals were willing to call foot. Behind them milled a motley sea of folk, a vast disorganized rabble. The people of the surrounding villages and countryside had come to fight and, if necessary, die: farmers in homespun and armed with hoes or scythes, afoot or mounted on plow horses or mules; blacksmiths with hammers in hearth-darkened hands; millers and bakers, artisans and craftsmen, old men and young boys; aye and some of their womenfolk as well, and the lame and halt.
In this strange land of beloved royalty whose people had a sense of what could be called nationalism, all had brought their lives to the altar of battle. Only in the peasantish company was there expectation of victory; of course twelve thousands of the ancient tribe of Colla Long-Arm could best four thousand mounted knights and eight thousand foot, mainly archers — they were after all not of Collada! The citizens saw themselves not as rabble, disorganised, undisciplined, armed only with a jumbled array of makeshift weapons… against an enemy of battle-hardened troops, professional soldiers of the very highest skill, and half in full armour at that.
Yesterday Narthur had publicly chastised the son of his liege and been publicly rebuked; today both affected not to remember. The burly general surveyed the assembled host of the Sons of Colla.
“Today, to be Colladan is the proudest, noblest estate a man can achieve.”
General Fersen nodded. “It’s true. Like her or not, yon wench has wrought some sort of miracle already. We must be shaking the enemy’s nerves badly.” He grinned, shooting a glance at the walls, where Thesian heads could be seen. “No harm can come of our making this showy display, Narth. It need mean nothing, to worry the enemy.”
“The prince and that madwoman have already seen to that!” Narthur gestured lakeward.
Down at the lake’s edge, Tiana Highrider was carrying a sack and an enormous kite out to the prince’s racing galley. She was a strange sight indeed; helmeted she was, swathed in hard shining leather with silken streamers attached to her legs, all of Colladan blue and gold. The rowers shoved off the moment she was aboard. Swallow swiftly reached deep water, turned laboriously into the wind, and headed toward the storm that darkened the entire lake.
A cry rose from shore on the launching of the tent-sized kite. Every eye watched it rise rapidly aloft — with the foreign woman hanging from its tail like a plummet!
Great lengths of silk rope played out as the kite soared into the sky. As the ship approached the glowering, grumbling storm, the dangling pirate vanished from view into the blackness of restless clouds. On through storm-wild waters raced the slim craft. After several minutes another cry rose; the cord dropped from the indigo underbelly of a roiling cloud. Slowing, the racing galley began its long, laborious coming about.
At the head of his army, Eltorn was mounted as should be so handsome a royal scion: on a white stallion. His scintillant, blued armour was chased with gold and the scarlet lion of his family’s house rampaged on his blazing shield. Strong and clear, his voice quieted every other and carried to the farthest man in the host.
“Sons of Colla! I make no pretence that our situation is not desperate. Indeed, my generals say that it is hopeless —” He had to pause then, for a great roaring shout of No rolled across the land. His helmet flashed fire as he nodded. “— But there are some things they do not consider. They forget that the gods are just and visit their wrath upon the wicked with sudden fury. They forget that we are SONS OF COLLA!” Another great roar; a cheer. “Nor do they fully appreciate the love of home and hearth that fills our breasts. The ground to which we offer our blood is OUR soil, the beloved land that gave us birth, anciently ours. The enemy are aliens, Colladans none who are far from their homes and fight for greed and gold. We fight for what we hold dear: COLLADA!” Pause; cheer. “Our ancestors look down upon what we do this day — Colla watches! Whether our children breathe free air depends on what we do this day. Forward… to freedom or death. FORWARD!”
Shining trumpets blared and tympani rattled and rumbled. Prince Eltorn himself led the advance of the Colladan host. His public reason for leading was that he might inspire his people; hidden perhaps even from himself was his private reason: that since they could not prevail, he would die early in this battle. The direct descendant of Colla of old had no desire to look upon the defeat of his army and the fall of his land. His white stallion curveted and pranced, anxious to enter battle; the prince’s blue cloak whipped out to flaunt its lining of cloth-of-gold.
“The hammer of the gods raised above the earth to smite evildoers!”
Perhaps; the menacing sable cloud did move with clear intent toward the Thesian position.
Just as the Colladan cavalry charged within arrow range, the heavens opened above the Thesians. The prince and his men rode in sunlight on dry ground; the enemy archers were deluged with torrential rain. Though they tried to drive their shafts through the veil of water, the arrows were pelted astray, slowed. Their effect was minimal on the river of mounted men that surged beneath the ramparts. From that narrow path, Eltorn emerged onto a wide, upward sloping plane. Poised above him, wet but with perfect formation unbroken, was the steelclad might of the host of Lokieto; four thousand knights in heavy armour. They waited grimly, lances ready, each man seeking totally to relax the muscles of his legs against the time when he must grip the beast in charge and clash. When enough Colladans had assembled to justify a charge, it would be launched; the enemy would descend to slay Eltorn and his pitiful squadron.
Prince Eltorn, drunk with the elation of initial success, did that which no sane man would dare.
With but a few hundred of his knights gathered, he ordered an uphill charge against many times their number. Nor did they hold back, Narthur on his great black horse actually galloping past his royal commander.
That charge of madness was scarcely begun when the sky split and lightning slashed down into the Thesian host.
Bolt after bolt smashed into their wet ranks, shattering horses and men. Flames leapt up to dance above writhing bodies. Horses screamed and reared and fell and stepped on fallen men. The very earth seemed to reel from the rapid sizzling, crashing blows from the sky. Lokieto’s knights were smashed in broad groups like china figures beneath the sledgehammer of a vengeful god. Desperately, riders fought their own terror and sought to control horses that lurched into mad panic. They availed naught. In waves, armoured men were thrown from their mounts and trampled beneath heedless hooves.
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