“MON!” Mair screamed above the clamor, and Rani heard the frantic note, the sudden, sharp despair.
By the time Rani looked back to the city walls, she felt as if a lifetime had beat away. A figure stood on the western tower, mounted on a stone merlon, silhouetted against the bloody dawn. Rani could just make out a bow, arched against the bright sky.
For one horrible moment, Rani remembered another bow, another battle fought, when she had been nothing but a naive apprentice, staring up at her guild’s handiwork in the cathedral. Then, a bow had brought disaster, had brought murder and treachery and the destruction of all the family Rani had ever known.
Now, sick and desperate, Rani turned toward Hal, saw that the king was studying the scene through a spyglass. Without thinking, she snatched the lens from his hands, raising it to her own eye. What she saw froze the prayer she’d been about to breathe.
The archer was Al-Marai. Sin Hazar’s lion brother.
Monny must have seen the threat as well. The boy pumped his wings harder than before, forcing the machine to rise higher. His feet sawed back and forth, but somehow he had lost his rhythm, lost the careful balance that let him move forward. Rani saw the clutch of panic on Monny’s freckled face, and she caught herself breathing, “Higher. Higher.”
For even as Monny fought to control the flying machine, Al-Marai nocked an arrow to his bow. The warrior sighted down the shaft as Rani struggled to follow the line of the arrow, but her vision blurred. Swearing, she shook the spyglass and then returned it to her eye. The end of the arrow was still blurred, wavering in the dawn.
It took Rani another moment to realize what she was seeing. Al-Marai’s arrow was alight, the flame bleached out against the morning sky.
As Rani watched, the lion made a slight adjustment in alignment. He pulled the bowstring to his ear, held it for a moment, and then released the burning arrow.
The bolt shot true. Monny’s arms were stretched above his shoulders, the moth wings at their apex. The arrow landed at a critical join in the upwind wing, kindling a tight knot of the glued framework. Orange flames blossomed from the glue, leaping across the stretched membrane and exploding up the dried willow bindings. As Rani screamed in horror, the fire raced across Monny’s back, chewing into the other wing.
“Mon!” Mair cried again, the single syllable breaking like the flying machine.
Then, the flaming wings began to fold, twisted with the heat of their own burning. Rani watched as the child-soldier kicked once more, sending the moth leaping forward through the air. For a moment, she thought that Monny was trying to clear the wall, trying to land outside the city so that there was a chance, a prayer, that Hal’s army could reach him, could save him. As she watched the winged machine arc down, though, she realized that salvation had never been Monny’s goal.
Instead, the child swooped low, over the western tower. Al-Marai did not see the danger until too late; he must not have realized the searing pain that a child could endure. He must not have realized how well he had trained the Little Army, how well he had crafted a brave, strong soldier.
Monny caught the lion across the man’s back, assaulting him with the full weight of the burning flying machine. The pair of warriors, child and man, toppled over the tower wall and fell atop the oaken city gates. The fighters’ thrashing only served to fan the wings’ final flames, and the gates themselves began to kindle.
Al-Marai and Monny were tangled in the flying machine, caught up in an inferno of burning leather and willow and rope. The gates had firmly caught fire by the time both man and boy were reduced to charred flesh. The flying machine crashed to the ground at the foot of the tower beside the gates, and the fire continued to chew its way into the wooden barrier.
Rani’s belly twisted inside her, and she swallowed acid at the back of her throat. Before she could turn away, though, Mair was fighting to cross the plain, to run within range of Sin Hazar’s archers.
“Mon!” she sobbed.
“No!” Rani tugged her arm free from where Hal still gripped her. She launched herself at her Touched companion. “Mair! No! You can’t help him now! It’s too late!” Mair twisted like a dragon on a pike, spitting and clawing at Rani. “Mair! Stop it! There’s nothing you can do!”
Even as she fought with her friend, Rani was aware of orders issued behind her. The flames on the city gates were beginning to die down. Rani could see that the blackened oak planks still stood, but she knew they must be weakened, ready to tear from their iron hinges. As Rani gathered Mair closer, she heard Duke Puladarati issue orders for a battering ram to be brought forward.
Through the chaos, Crestman stood at attention. He did not lift a hand to help the soldiers behind him, to maneuver their massive tree trunk into position. He did not kneel beside Rani, help her to gather up the shivering Mair. He stood like a soldier, staring blankly at the city gates and the charred, blackened pile that had been two fighters.
Once the battering ram was in position, Hal strode beside the weapon, tossing his crimson cloak over his shoulders to display his gold-washed mail. Rani noted mechanically that dozens of men had taken up positions beside the ram. Hal began to exhort them to victory, telling them that they must make the most of a child’s death, that they must cement the glory of Morenia.
Before Rani could bring herself to look again on Monny’s blackened remains, on the one soldier from the Little Army who had offered up all to his king, a clarion call rang out. For just an instant, Rani was confused, thinking that the horn had blown in Hal’s camp, to summon the men, to begin the battering ram’s inevitable march.
Then, even as she realized that the metallic clangor came from atop Amanth’s walls, she saw that the city gates were cranking open. They moved slowly, ponderously, as if the soldiers who operated the winches were afraid that the iron hinges would not hold. Nevertheless, the gates swung out, scraping aside the charred remains of boy and man and machine, until six men could ride abreast onto the plain.
It took Rani a moment to distinguish the company that did ride through that gap. She expected to see azure uniforms and Sin Hazar’s dragon crawling atop the soldiers’ helms. She expected to see the sprawl of lion tattoos across high cheekbones.
Instead, she could only make out black-scarred slashes across warriors’ brows and glimmering cloaks of darkest midnight. Yrathi mercenaries – a dozen of them. They rode with their double-hooked pikes at the ready, bristling skyward like a deadly thicket. Each man had his sword bared as well, slung in Yrathi fashion from the pommel of his high saddle, ready to drive forward in an instant. The mercenaries’ faces were implacable beneath their high helms, staring directly ahead, as if they did not see the battering ram, as if they were unaware of the Morenian soldiers who scurried away from their approach.
Sin Hazar’s dragon banner floated in the middle of the company, rich cobalt blue making a mockery of the bleached winter sky. Rani, by craning her neck, could make out the standard bearer in the midst of the Yrathis, and she gasped as she recognized Bashanorandi.
So. The prince was reduced to a squire’s job, wrestling with the long dragon banner to keep the standard firmly planted in his stirrup. He stared at the snapping silk with a concentration that bordered on religious devotion. The swan tattoo across his cheek stood out against his pale skin, accenting his ginger hair. His eyes watered in the stiffening breeze.
Behind Bashanorandi rode Sin Hazar, sitting tall and straight on his ebony stallion.
Without thinking, Rani strode to the front of the battering ram. She took her place beside Halaravilli as if she were destined to be there. For one fleeting instant, she longed for a horse, for anything to bring her on a level with Sin Hazar. But she had no mount. She had no shield, no sword. Nevertheless, she raised her chin in defiance.
Rani was vaguely aware of a barked order, and then she saw a company of soldiers fall into place around her. The armed men formed a semi-circle about Hal and Rani, flexing their ranks to let Mair and Crestman pass throug
h, and then Duke Puladarati.
Rani did not permit herself to think of how pitiful the Morenian troops looked, how insignificant the common southern soldiers were against Sin Hazar’s splendid Yrathi contingent. At a hand signal from Puladarati, the Morenian guards bared their swords, turning their wicked blades toward the mounted mercenaries.
The two groups of warriors stood in stasis for only a moment, and then Bashanorandi kicked his mount through the Yrathian line. “Hail, Morenian scum!” Rani heard a lifetime of bitterness in the unchivalrous greeting, and she was not surprised to see Bashi’s hateful glare directed at her before he turned his attention to his royal brother. “His Majesty, King Sin Hazar, King of all Amanthia, lord of the Iron March, and overlord of Aristine, orders you from this plain and commands you to return to your Morenian hovels. If you have taken leave of this plain by noon, he will show you mercy and not hunt you down like dogs.”
Hal started to step forward, angry words patent on his face, but Duke Puladarati edged to the front of the group. He did not advance far, though, so that he would not have to look up too sharply at Bashi’s mounted height. “So, boy. Do you lick your king’s boots, as well as hurl insults on his behalf?”
“My name is Bashanorandi, and you’ll address me as the prince I am!”
“I know your name. I know you’re Felicianda’s bastard, and I’ll address you as a turncoat and a traitor.”
Bashi’s face paled to whey, and he gripped the Amanthian flag so tightly that the dragon swooped forward. “I am loyal to my true liege! I am loyal to King Sin Hazar!”
“Are you certain that’s a wise choice, boy? Your Sin Hazar shoots down children as if they were geese!”
“Your child cost us our proudest general. Your child brought down Al-Marai, the bravest lion of the Amanthian house!”
“Al –” Puladarati started to retort, but Hal laid a hand upon his arm.
“Aye,” Hal said, taking a single step closer to his brother and raising his voice so that it rang out clearly across the plain. “Bashanorandi, we cut down one your liege held dear. Well might your king mourn the loss of his brother, of Al-Marai. I, however, would not stop to spit on the grave of the traitor I called my own brother.”
Bashi reacted faster than Rani would have thought possible. Bellowing his rage, he tossed his leg over his horse’s back, shifting his grip on the dragon standard so that he brandished it like a pike, in fragile mockery of the still-silent Yrathi mercenaries. He had already crossed half the distance to Hal, was already within a sword’s length of the Morenian troops, when a cry rang out.
“Hold!” Sin Hazar’s eyes flashed as he bellowed his command, and his lips disappeared within his beard. The king’s left hand was stretched toward Bashanorandi, fingers rigid, as if he would cast a spell to freeze the boy. “Hold, I say!”
“Your Majesty,” Bashi spluttered, spittle flying from his lips as he turned back toward his liege.
“I’ll not command you again!”
Bashi opened his mouth to protest, but then he took in the Yrathi mercenaries, noted that the three front riders had lowered their pikes toward him. He suddenly seemed to realize that he was unhorsed, and on the edge of enemy troops. The tail of the dragon banner trailed across the ground, drifting close enough that Rani could have stomped it with her booted foot. With a convulsive shudder, Bashi uprighted the standard and planted it beside his own foot, as if he had intended, all along, to stake claim to this territory for his king.
If Sin Hazar appreciated the gesture, he gave no sign. Rather, he switched his attention from the trembling bastard prince to Hal. “Halaravilli ben-Jair, you trespass on our lands. We will grant you until noon to begin your retreat. We do not wish to shed blood between your house and ours, in honor of our blessed sister, who has gone to walk among the Thousand Gods. For Felicianda’s memory, we will let you retreat to your borders.”
“Felicianda was a traitor,” Hal spat. Rani could not help but think his words would carry more weight if he were mounted on a horse, if he could look Sin Hazar in the eye. The Amanthian king evidently thought the same; he let his stallion jangle forward a few steps, forcing his Yrathi guards to edge up their own mounts. The motion only underscored Hal’s danger.
“Felicianda was our sister, a swan, and a princess of the house of Amanthia!” Sin Hazar tugged on his ebony steed’s reins. “I repeat, Halaravilli. You trespass on our land. We have ridden out to treat with you, so that you understand our men will never yield. Ride now and save yourself, or you will regret your decision when the fighting is done.”
Hal’s voice tightened. “Your army has already yielded. One boy in our ranks was able to take down your greatest general, your Al-Marai.”
“Do not speak his name!” Sin Hazar’s face twisted into a mask of fury, and Rani began to understand why the king had ridden from the safety of his palace, why he had passed through his city gates to the vulnerable plain. Sin Hazar was maddened by his loss. He spat, “Do not speak the name of our brother, of the lion of Amanthia. You could not have touched him if you had not used our weapons. You stole our engine! Now, with your own weapons, you have no hope of winning any battle!”
“Nor can you, Sin Hazar.” Hal’s voice was deadly quiet in the freezing air. “Nor can you hope to win, or you would not have ridden out here. Al-Marai would be ashamed.”
“By Jair, you try our patience, upstart prince!” Even as Sin Hazar’s face darkened with rage, Rani’s gaze was pulled toward his Yrathi escort. She could not be certain, but she thought a handful of the men had started at their employer’s oath. Before she could be sure, Sin Hazar continued, “If you wish to speak of shame, Halaravilli, look at the dogs that trail behind you. Ranita Glasswright!” Sin Hazar pinned Rani with his ebony eyes. “Have you told your king that you feasted by our side? Have you told him that you danced with us in the darkest hours after midnight?”
Rani refused to acknowledge the blush that leaped to her cheeks. With all the prepossession she’d gathered in her years at court, she forced her voice to a steady treble. “I’ve told him that you sent me to a prison camp, my lord. I’ve told him that you meant to sell me as a slave. Me, and Mair, and Crestman. And Monny who lies dead, yonder. I’ve spoken the truth to His Majesty, in the name of First Pilgrim Jair.”
There. She was certain that she glimpsed movement this time. It was nothing much, probably would not have been visible if she’d been on a level with the mounted men. But from her compromising angle, she could just glimpse the Yrathis’ fists tighten on their reins. For a single instant, several of the mounts tensed, ready to move forward. Then, almost as soon as Rani recognized the motion, the mercenaries lapsed back into their vigilant formation.
Rani darted a glance at Hal, to see if he had also noticed. She thought that he had; she thought that he ducked his chin just a bit in her direction. But she was not certain until she heard his next challenge. “And by Jair, Sin Hazar, I believed my vassal. I believed every word that Lady Rani told me, when she said that you were craven enough to enslave an army of boys, to procure your kingdom’s girls for the Liantines.”
On the third voicing of the Pilgrim’s name, Rani was certain. The Yrathis were reacting to Jair, responding to the holy name.
Oblivious, Sin Hazar threw back his head to laugh. “Enslave boys? Procure girls? You’re a child yourself, Halaravilli ben-Jair! You’re a child, if you believe that wars can only be won with honor and glory and sacred prayers to the Thousand Gods.”
Hal shot a glance at Rani, sparing her one tight nod as she shifted her grip to the dagger thrust through her belt. Then Hal raised his chin in defiance and called out, “Not to the Thousand Gods, Sin Hazar. To First Pilgrim Jair!” Hal shouted his challenge: “To me, Yrathis, in the name of Jair!”
Chaos.
Eight of the Yrathis reversed their pikes, driving them into their brothers’ mounts. Horses screamed. Men cursed. Sin Hazar swore in the name of all the Thousand Gods, wasting breath in a helpless explosion
of rage.
Hal unsheathed his sword and plunged into the maelstrom, burying his weapon in the chest of Sin Hazar’s stallion. The beast crashed to the ground, scarcely giving its master time to leap free.
Even as the Amanthian king fought his way clear of his own stirrups, he fumbled for his scimitar, screaming for the Yrathis he had purchased to protect him. Those mercenaries, though, were engaged in a deadly battle with their own brethren, two Fellowship-bought men battling every one who stayed loyal to Sin Hazar.
Rani saw the instant that Sin Hazar recognized his danger, the precise heartbeat when he knew that he was trapped. Swearing viciously, he jerked his curved sword free from its sheath, brandishing the weapon high above his head. He threw back his head and screamed out an Amanthian battle cry, a ululation that echoed off his city walls.
As Sin Hazar tore his gaze from the dispassionate sky, he pinned Hal with his depthless midnight eyes. Rani could read the madness in his features, the death-knowledge on his face. He knew he was surrounded by traitors. He knew that battle was futile.
Rani watched as the morning breeze stiffened, catching the edges of Hal’s crimson cloak. The king of all Morenia raised his dripping sword, as if he would consecrate this encounter to all the Thousand Gods. Then, with a wordless cry, Hal swung his blade in a perfect arc.
Sin Hazar folded over the Morenian steel, barely managing to twist around and stare up at his rival. His eyes grew wide with shock, melted into stained pools above his twin swan-wing tattoos. The fingers of his free hand convulsed, clutching at the dreams that flowed away with his crimson blood – dreams of conquering Morenia and Liantine and more. His throat worked as if even now he would give orders to his men, issue commands to the sham of his Little Army. When he opened his mouth to speak, though, blood slicked his lips, and he fell hard to his knees.
Hal stepped back, tugging his sword free from the tangle of Sin Hazar’s blood-drenched cloak. The rough motion brought Sin Hazar halfway up, and his arms rose as if to ward off further injury, jerking like broken wings. He collapsed back to the ground, managing a single convulsive breath as he swivelled his gaze up to Rani. He tried again to speak, but before he could form words, a horrible shudder overtook his limbs, trembling his arms and legs as if he were no more than a rag doll. He fell forward at last, and his blood poured onto the churned Amanthian soil.
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