by Robert Brady
Not a bad plan, Xinto thought, although they’d lose their own warriors in the process. Better to keep them out on the plains, however it was too late to build an embankment to fight behind, and their foot moved too slow to outpace the riders.
They’d already lost hundreds. Confluni healers were dragging warriors back from the front where they’d been skewered by lancers. It’d be a bloody day, no matter what else.
“Our wizards?” Effecate demanded.
“Holding back, per your orders.”
Xinto’s eyebrows rose. Raven had been engaged from the start of the battle. She had, in fact, warned them all. Vedeen was nowhere to be found, but Glynn and Zarshar were certainly fighting, and Karl and Jahunga had taken places among the infantry.
The Ymir saw the look on Xinto’s face and answered him, “My husband nearly defeated the Daff Kanaar when he held back his magic until needed. I will do the same now.”
Xinto nodded. He had no plans to fight himself. He’d make more of a contribution right where he was.
“Those reinforcements you were waiting for, then, gracious lady?” he asked.
She smiled and looked away from him.
Under Effecate’s leadership, Xinto watched the Confluni line firm up while the archers took up a position to the north. Like waves of gray over an ocean of green spring grass, the Therans flew across the plains, slashed at their lines, pressing through and digging deep into their center, to retreat and be relieved by another wave.
The strategy left their dead on the ground by scores. It also allowed Theran Lancers to break and rest while other waves struck, so only one third to one half of them were ever really in motion.
That seemed odd to Xinto—why break ten thousand warriors, as their spies assured them they had, into parts of six?
The wave with the Wolf’s Head standard had begun another run at the center, the young Vulpe leading it, his captains at his sides. Effecate gave the order to draw them into the middle, the bowmen ready now. They’d spring their trap and see how this army ran with no one in charge of it.
The thousand horse swept into the center. The ranks of Conflu back-pedaled before them, many falling to the lances, into a second rank that stood firm in their face.
The thousand turned south to peel off and faced another wall of Confluni spearmen while, behind them, the gap they had pushed through closed.
“To the archers!” Effecate raised her voice in imperious command. She’d been successful, Xinto knew. There’d be no escape. The Theran horse was in turmoil.
Bugles blew to their north and south. Xinto turned to see two thousand more from either direction, a ripple of lances across the plains, one of them headed right for the backs of their archers.
“My lady, to the East! The East!” the commander who’d been routing her orders shouted. They all turned to see a wide swath of lancers thundering toward them in their impossibly heavy armor, mere moments from engaging—not Therans but Angadorian Knights.
No one stood between them and the center of the army, other than their own wounded. In one fell swoop, they were surrounded.
“My lady,” Xinto began. Even with their superior numbers, they were undone.
A wave of fire tore the sky. Liquid magma dripped down between the Angadorians and the Confluni. Horses reared and warriors screamed out in fear at both sides.
At the mouth of Effecate’s tent, four Uman-Chi stepped out onto the plains.
Chapter Twelve
Sons of the Emperor
Fire dripped from the sky between the Angadorians and the Confluni infantry, buying time for their commanders to form up a defensive line to their east.
Lightening hammered their western front, reopening the line that had trapped the thousand with the Mordetur prince. Another wave of Theran Lancers slashed their defenses, opening the breach wider, letting most of the thousand escape. Zarshar ripped the neck and head from a fallen horse and heaved it after them, having spent his magic.
To their north, the Therans swept across the edges of the Confluni ranks defending their archers. Runners sprinted to their commander to change his orders, to tell him to focus on the riders to the north, rather than the retreating Lancers.
Zarshar shook his head. Say what you wanted about the Eldadorian Empire, they could change their whole strategy on a moment’s notice. One spoke to few, who spoke to many and, when a commander became isolated as they had done with this prince, another filled his place.
With this kind of training, his Swamp Devils would rule Fovea, however Zarshar knew no Swamp Devil, by its nature, would be a part of such an army.
They would never match the Empire. They might harm it, but they would never be more than a thorn in its largest toe.
The dog that had been their companion ran by him, behind the lines where he’d been ready to wade in and kill this prince himself. To his left he saw Raven, mounted bareback now on an Eldadorian stallion. The dog had clearly earned its keep this morning.
Karl Henekhson rode after her, a crossbow in his hand and a slack expression on his face. The Slee slipped behind them, unseen to those who didn’t know how to look for him. In fact, Zarshar had barely caught him. Even among his own kind, he was slippery.
Karl reined in next to Zarshar, the look in his eyes unmistakable.
“You saw him, too, didn’t you?” Karl asked.
“The gaffer, next to the prince?” Zarshar asked.
Karl nodded.
“Difficult to miss,” the Swamp Devil said. “And not just a companion, an advisor, it seems. I wish I’d known the old Man had this sort of talent. They fight well.”
“They fought well before the old man came,” Karl said. The horse bobbed its head and snorted. Not fifty yards from them, the battle raged, mounted warriors clashing with their foot troops.
To the west, the fire in the sky subsided. Burned men and horses lay at the edges of a charred field, where the rest of the Angadorians waited for another chance.
To the south, their mounted warriors on shaggy ponies were trying to match their arrows for the swords and lances of the Therans. Hard to tell how that was going.
The ground shook beneath them, cracking in places. The enemy had discovered their Raven and were either attacking where she couldn’t be, or using attacks like these, which focused away from her and affected them indirectly.
Men at the line stumbled and fell, lancers skewering them and trampling them. Their losses increased with every pass, and they’d taken few of their enemies. They couldn’t overcome the reach of the lances.
Glynn slid up alongside of them, four more Uman-Chi at her side. “Sirrahs,” she said, and indicated the others with a sweep of her hand. “Let me introduce the Caster Aniquen Demoran, his Grace, Haldan Evoprosee, his Excellence, Lelden Faire and his Highness Avek Noir, heir to the throne of Trenbon.”
“A Swamp Devil, no less,” Demoran said, looking him up and down. “I’ve not seen your like in over one hundred years. I think you’re taller than they.”
“I think you talk too much,” Zarshar answered him. They all smiled like Uman-Chi could be expected to at some insolent subordinate. He’d pledged not to take Glynn’s life—he had no such agreement with these others.
“Right now their Lancers are tearing up our lines,” Karl said, moving his horse next to Zarshar. The Swamp Devil wasn’t fooled. He knew that the Volkhydran sensed his next action and wanted to keep him from taking it.
“We’ve seen to the west,” Evoprosee told them. “We’ll let that quiet until they come again, and then take the rest of them. I believe our Glynn can handle the north, and young Aniquen the south, leaving the threat of Shela Mordetur to Lelden Faire and I.”
“You’d do well to keep Raven close at hand then,” Karl informed them. Again, the self-satisfied smile.
“Glynn’s acolyte?” Aniquen didn’t hide the disdain in his voice. “Admirable skills, but against the Empress?”
“She’s been against the Empress while you’ve been
hiding,” Zarshar informed them, not because they didn’t know it, but to throw it in their faces.
“She is endowed with an ability,” Glynn said, as mousey as Zarshar had ever seen her. While they bantered, Confluni died in every direction. Their screams, which would have entertained him less than a year ago, actually irritated him now.
“We’ve heard she reflects magic,” Aniquen said. “Or absorbs it in some way.”
“Those who attack her with magic are struck powerless, not just their magical reserves but almost all of their life’s energy,” Glynn informed them.
Evoprosee nodded. Zarshar growled low in his throat, waiting to sneer at them if they hid behind the girl.
“Leave her to protect the Confluni Ymir,” he said, finally. “I think we will be best protecting her person.”
“Two of you against the Empress?” Zarshar scoffed. “I always wondered what the inside of an Uman-Chi looked like. I think today I’ll know.”
All five of them stiffened, shared a look, then glided away, moving in that way where they seemed to float. Zarshar had tried to master that once and failed.
It was a stupid trick.
“Well, you’ve made yourself some brand new friends,” Karl informed him, as they left.
Zarshar turned to look him right in the eye. “What of it?”
Karl shrugged. “Nothing,” he said, the scar on his face twitching once. He turned his head, spat and looked back into the Devil’s eyes.
“Wish it had been me,” Karl said, finally.
* * *
Tartan Stowe watched the field burning between him and the Confluni subsiding, smoldering remains of almost one hundred men and horses all that remained of his forward elements.
The Emperor had told him, “Don’t attack in a mass, attack in waves. Minimize your losses if you’re in over your head.” He’d saved the bulk of his army that way.
Now he had to find a way to get his men across a burning field, against completely unexpected Confluni magical resistance, and engage an enemy that was ready for him.
“They aren’t Confluni,” Jean told him, as he spoke with J’lek.
“What?” Tartan gave her his attention, still at his stirrup.
“That was Lava Rain,” Jean told him, her green eyes turned up to his. “An Uman-Chi spell. It’s taxing, so they only use it from far away. By the time it burns down, they’re ready to attack again.”
“So no help there,” J’lek said.
“No,” Tartan corrected him. “A lot of help. They aren’t ready to engage us—they’re penned in on all sides. They want to hold us at bay until they’ve dealt with the Lancers.”
Jean nodded. “You could sacrifice some warriors,” she began.
Tartan shook his head. He didn’t do that. Men could run in at the fore, to break ground, maybe die, that was a part of being a soldier. To be spent like coin for a tactical advantage—Lupus had looked him in the eye once and told him, “If you ever think you have to do that, look into your change purse, and ask yourself which coin in there will stand up and die for you, if the time should come.”
But that’s what an Uman-Chi would do.
“We have bugles?” he asked one of his subordinates, an Eldadorian of the race of Men, named Gheer.
“Um, well, yes, your Grace, I believe—”
“Sound them,” Tartan said. “Ready the attack.”
The man nodded and left for the buglers, whoever they might be. Tartan had always considered the bugles silly, but he saw a purpose for them now.
“Your Grace,” J’lek said, his face as bland as ever, “if you mean to charge down the Lava Rain and take your losses…”
Tartan just smiled to himself. No, this would be better than that.
* * *
Shela climbed to the top of the ridge, two of her acolytes beside her. She’d left a guard on the one struck down by Raven.
Raven—such a betrayal. At her side, Raven and she would have remade the art of magic on Fovea. Now, the young girl would have to die.
Shela could spot her easily enough from atop the ridge, running back and forth on an Eldadorian charger. She even recognized the horse, one of their Andaran/Angadorian hybrids, a messenger’s horse, built for stamina over speed.
One of Yonega Waya’s dogs ran behind her. She’d warned him that those things were a bad idea, but he hadn’t listened. He had this vision of a surprise for the next cavalry he faced, as if being skewered on his lances weren’t a big enough surprise.
How she’d befriended the dog was anyone’s guess. The children had kept one for a while, but it drooled and left a mess, and they never remembered to walk or feed it. The lives of princes and princesses are too full for such pets.
The flavor of the magic used against them had changed, which is why she’d climbed the ridge. Some things needed to be seen with actual eyes. Now she understood as she picked out the white-robed Uman-Chi Casters. They’d been betrayed, of course. Undone. The Silent Isle had made a fatal mistake, no matter how this battle went.
If they lost, then at worst Thera would fall. Her husband had been warned and could retake it.
“You both see her?” she asked her acolytes. She sensed their nod without turning. She felt her power coursing through her veins now, and employed it with less effort, much as a teakettle already hot comes to boil more quickly.
“The Uman-Chi will be attacking,” she said. “They’ll want to hit us on all fronts simultaneously. Expect one to come after us while the other attacks our warriors.”
The Uman wizards sputtered. “We, my lady, not to be a coward, but should we—”
She raised a hand. “We’re as safe here as anywhere, Beltrum, they are Uman-Chi and their reach and their site is long. I want to see them as they attack, so I can defend us.”
“Your will, mistress,” the other said. So ridiculously formal. Either one had three times her years and a fraction of her abilities.
They never commit themselves, these Uman. They always keep a part of themselves outside of the battle. Not so, Shela Mordetur, Empress of Eldador. She, as her husband liked to say, wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty, right up to the elbows.
The Angadorians to the east charged, their bugles blaring. Foolish pup, Tartan—he’d lose his whole command. However it signaled the response from the Uman-Chi. The one to the east had to strike now, so the others did. Black energy in a wave pulsed out from the white-robed Uman right behind the center of their front line, straight at them on the rise. The other Uman-Chi, fifty feet from him, cast fire at the wave of Theran Lancers charging forward. To the north a flight of arrows flew toward their two Millennia, to split and multiply in mid air, and again, becoming a swarm of barbs to skewer their troops. To the south, the ground erupted before the lancers’ charge, breaking them up into squads and single riders, leaving them divided for their own horsemen on their shaggy ponies to conquer.
Too many fronts for her, one woman, to fight. In her mind, she instructed Nina of the Aschire, as if she had to. The girl was already acting.
“Beltrum, the south,” she commanded. “Cenyail, the north, Hell’s Fire.” Beltrum, for an Uman, had a creative mind and would assess the situation on his own. Cenyail still needed things pointed out to him.
She raised her left hand and met the black pulse from the Uman-Chi Wizard, then raised her right to drive out the air behind it. She didn’t understand fully how this worked, but she’d discussed with her husband the ‘is not,’ the vacuum left when all of everything is removed from anywhere. He’d tried to explain to her how Water and Earth embraced in a void of space with no air, which struck her as gibberish because she breathed air every day; however he’d gotten her to experiment with solid objects and vacuum.
Move an arrow through the air and create a vacuum before it, and the arrow will stick in it like glue. Create the vacuum right behind, and it stops in mid flight.
Find a great mass in motion, and move a vacuum behind it, and do more than just stop it.
As with a teleportation spell, she removed all of the air in a great cone from behind the black pulse, not pointing it toward the Uman-Chi who’d cast the spell, but the other.
With a thunderous explosion, what her husband called “sonic boom”, the black pulse swung around like a bird in flight and hammered into the unsuspecting Uman-Chi. The boom extinguished the fire directed at her own troops, and the detonation had horses rearing, warriors screaming and the Uman-Chi who’d cast the spell flying backwards across the ground.
Nina of the Aschire was already after him.
* * *
From out of nowhere, a sound louder than a thunderclap erupted from above the heads of their own soldiers. Duke Haldan Evoprosee watched his own spell annihilate Earl Lelden Faire before he could even raise a hand to defend himself, his skin melting from his bones under the black pulse.
‘How very prophetic of the Swamp Devil,’ he couldn’t help thinking, even as he flew backwards and crashed ignominiously into a crowd of terrified Confluni.
Before him, sprinting as he’d seen those of her race do, an Aschire was putting arrow to bow and placing herself in sight of him.
He shook his head and righted himself with a small portion of his magic. ‘No,’ he thought. ‘It would not do to be dead now, having so outrageously slain his fellow, even if the poor man was just an Earl.’ He raised a hand to stop the arrow in mid flight.
It passed his ward easily and pierced his hand, the point mere inches from his own eye. The pain was nothing for the utter shock that so simple a spell had failed.
“To me!” he shouted, leaping quite uncouth to the protection of a dead horse’s body. Another shaft embedded itself in his thigh almost immediately, and he reminded himself that the Aschire were second to none on Fovea in their marksmanship.
Well, second to one. The third shaft bound for his breast met another in mid air and was deflected. He dared to raise his head to see Nina of the Aschire facing Xinto of the Woods, the famous Ambassador between all nations.
“We keep meeting like this,” Xinto said, the rakish hat on his head bobbing a ridiculous orange feather as he spoke.