“It’s a war, girl. Men die… Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a battle to win.” He flicked his reigns and advanced to a trot. His retinue shifted to match his pace, as if the entire party was somehow connected to the long-lived ruler by strings, leaving Kareen alone, unmoving, like a stone breaking a river’s flow.
Kareen gave a prayer then, something she hadn’t done in a long time. Not since Livran’s battle with the monstrous Jixxus. It felt like an eternity ago. She prayed to Tirrak, to the sun and the sky, for protection. She prayed for him to reach down a sheltering hand, and to spirit Oranhur and his soldiers out of danger, soldiers that she had had a hand in damning. If she hadn’t given him Hadan that suggestion, that damned suggestion that this was all some clever trap, they might be saved, they might all be saved.
As if in opposition to her prayer, Cutarans roared up the rise like a storm off the Eye of Tirrak. They gave a single long battle cry, thousands of voices becoming a single deafening wave of sound. Kareen knew it well—the Battle Speech. There would be no mercy today.
The Cutaran warriors reached out like the horns of a bull, spreading to the right and left of the fleeing Corrossans. But their center, where their strength should have been greatest, had yet to appear. Something was holding them back.
That something came into view a moment later. Still atop his horse, Oranhur stood at the center of a band of a few hundred soldiers, who still miraculously held their own. Many had lost their pikes and had resorted to the use of short swords, axes, and small hammers. They would be horribly ineffective weapons against the Cutarans, and as she watched, half a dozen men fell, defeated by axes, swords, and spears that provided better reach.
Oranhur had no hope of escape, she knew. He had provided enough time for a handful of his men to slip the closing horns of the Cutaran bull, but had damned himself in the process. It was a noble sacrifice, the kind that Kareen might have expected to hear in a ballad, but Tirrak! His heroics were about to cost him his life.
The General, damned by his overconfidence, the Emperor, damned by his caution, and the Noble Girl, damned by her stupidity. The trio would see thousands dead in their blind desire for victory.
Oranhur swung his sword about his head and shouted, the words lost to the sounds of battle. His men began a fighting retreat, backing away towards the tips of the bull’s horns, now only a few hundred paces from closing. They might have made it, if they weren’t taking such heavy losses. Stragglers, either too wounded or too tired to keep up, were carelessly cut down by the Cutarans as they advanced.
Yet still, deep in her heart, Kareen knew Oranhur could be saved. If Hadan deployed his cavalry now, the Cutarans that had encircled Oranhur’s suicidal band of soldiers could be crushed. But still, the Emperor held back, held back because of advice she had given him…
The knowledge ate at her insides. She had to find something, some hook to draw Hadan’s attention, as she had used weeks ago upon her first meeting with the man.
There was only one option left to Kareen. She searched among the attackers, looking for what she hoped might force the Emperor’s hand. There were at least five thousand Cutarans on top of the rise now, nearly half of their amassed strength.
She found who she was looking form among the press of sandy half-naked bodies, a single woman amongst a sea of men. She was short only because she stood amongst the warriors, yet still she was unmistakable. A jolt of fear and cold rage shot through Kareen as she laid eyes on the woman who had killed Livran. She could still see that gaze as he died, as clear as if it had happened yesterday.
I won’t run this time. I will make sure she dies! Even if I have to put the dagger in myself!
She was shaking, she realized, the nails of her right hand biting painfully into her palm. Hadan glanced her way, interest writ on the lines of his face. She wiped the tears from her eyes, tears of rage and impotence, and forced her gaze on Xisa. The woman fought with abandon, cutting down man after man effortlessly, moving inexorably towards Oranhur. Her sword flashed like lightning, cutting at exposed faces, the backs of legs, anywhere not protected by armor. The soldiers could no more defend themselves than Livran had. The second she laid eyes on them, they were as good as dead.
“Do you see her, Your Highness?” Kareen asked, trying to keep her voice controlled, professional, as would be expected of an advisor to the Emperor. Xisa led a small group of hardy looking veterans forward even as Kareen spoke, cutting closer and closer to the heart of the retreating soldiers, to Oranhur.
“Yes, I remember her,” Hadan said, rubbing at his lip with an outstretched finger. “Although to see the young woman I met in Akiv lead an army against me… it is still surprising.”
“You can still save Oranhur, Your Highness,” Kareen pleaded. “Send out your cavalry.”
Hadan held up a hand to silence her, seeming more intrigued than worried at his foe’s sudden appearance. “I have a better idea. Tell me, Kareen, if I kill this woman, what would become of this army of hers? Would it collapse, fall into its constituent pieces to be destroyed?”
Dammit all! They didn’t have time for this! “Yes,” she said quickly, even if it was only a half truth. She hadn’t the foggiest idea what would happen if Xisa died, but it was a decent enough assertion. “She is the glue that holds the tribes together. Kill her, and they go back to being just that: tribes.”
Hadan nodded slowly and let a single unspoken word pass his lips.
“Thank you,” he said.
Six figures broke from the front of the lead pike squads, sprinting towards the Cutarans at incredible speed, coving two hundred yards in a matter of seconds and crashing into the exposed rear of the bull’s horns.
They each wore the same coverings, the same robes as the Delver who had rescued Kareen out on the savanna. She had guessed there were more than one of the strange warriors, but six? Hadan had called them his “Weapons.” Now she saw why…
Two rushed forward, tearing into the Cutarans with bronze greatswords. Limbs flew and blood sprayed. By the time the Cutaran warriors knew what was happening, the Delvers had cut through to Oranhur’s men, opening and then widening an avenue for their escape.
The other four Delvers peppered the enemy with projectiles. Two seemed to be throwing sprays of white-hot metal, while the others tossed men this way and that with incredible power, like invisible hands reaching out to swat at flies. Within less than a minute, the Cutaran warriors were in full retreat. Even Xisa herself reluctantly pulled back, dragged away by a man Kareen recognized as one of her mates, leaving the top of the rise to the Corrossans.
It was only when the fighting was done that Kareen realized her mouth had been hanging agape for most of the slaughter. She closed it with some effort and stared like a fool at Hadan. He had allowed the slightest grin onto his stony face. “No matter how long I live, my eyes never grow weary of that sight.”
“What. Are. They?” Kareen asked, almost breathless.
“One day… one day, I might tell you.” The six Delvers made their stuttering way back, all of their speed and power gone now that the battle was over.
The pikemen made way for the warriors as they passed through the lines and back to somewhere in the baggage train. Their swords were caked with blood and gore, their bodies crossed with nasty wounds. Where their robes had been torn, she could see through to their withered skin. The wounds didn’t bleed, and strangely it seemed, were already healing. She had heard that Delvers—especially Enforcers—were known for their natural restorative abilities, but this was something different entirely—more potent by far.
Oranhur rode back to the safety of friendly lines just behind Hadan’s Weapons, passing between two pike squads that each bore his colors. The men let out a cheer for their commander. Oranhur held up a fist, and they roared again, even louder than before. Soon, the whole army was in a ruckus of shouting and the clapping of hands.
Kareen fixed her gaze back on Hadan. The Emperor’s face had once again returned to its placid stillness. He viewed the field before them, littered with Cutaran and Corrossan alike, dispassionately, as if he were little more than a farmer appraising the growth of his crop. Kareen followed his gaze towards the horizon. Down there, at the Divide, was victory. A victory that now seemed just within reach.
Thirty:
Xisa
Xisa let herself be dragged from the battle. Most of her warriors had already broken. “Cowards!” Xisa shouted over her shoulder in the Low tongue. They didn’t deserve the respect of Battle Speech, not after their flight.
Only her most loyal warriors stayed at her side. They had held longer than even she would have expected, fighting on even when they knew victory was an impossibility. And they had paid dearly for their bravery. Only when half their number had been slaughtered by those strange Delvers had Xisa finally ordered the retreat.
When they were outside of bowshot, the warriors behind lowered their shields and turned, increasing their pace to a jog. She glanced back again. Hadan held his horsemen back. Strange that he didn’t let them loose. Facing down cavalry… it was one of the few things she couldn’t prepare her warriors for. The sheer terror of standing against a galloping horse with a steel-clad man atop its back… it was something that had to be experienced.
“There was no dishonor in what you did,” Matta said, coming up beside her. Her mate still wore his bronze armor, dented and nicked in places where he had taken heavy blows from Corrossan hammers and axes.
“The honor of it doesn’t matter,” said Xisa, letting dejection enter her voice for that first time. “We lost.”
“Then we will fight them at the Divide itself. The horns sound our way. Do you hear them?”
Xisa did. Above the moaning of those who had taken wounds, above the sound of her feet on dirt and the heavy beat of her heart, she could hear the clear call of the horns throbbing in the searing winds. Each was the token of a sacred agreement between the Corrossan tribes and the peoples of Sarierran. Each time the two peoples had met to enact a trade agreement, the Pasha would bring a conch from the far away sea, born on a pillow of silk. The Corrossan chieftain would then take the shell and carve into it with a special knife, shaping and molding the stony material into the shape of one the horns that now hung along each side of the bridge.
It was said that by counting each shell, you could follow the history of the relationship between her people and the Fanalkiri. They were sacred agreements, laid down at a sacred place. The Corrossans would violate it no longer.
“Yes… yes, I hear them.” But whether those shells blew their mournful songs for victory or defeat, she didn’t know.
* * *
They reached the edge of the Divide minutes later, stopping to survey the carnage before them. Despite deploying over a thousand of her best warriors to break the bridge’s defenses, still it held. Dozens of her people had died, perhaps hundreds. Halflight had come and gone hours ago and it wouldn’t be long before nightfall made fighting nearly impossible. They had to take the bridge before then.
Two men still held at a stone barrier erected half way across the bridge. One was tall and dark, with the fiery hair of a Fanalkiri. She wondered what had made him decide to fight against men and women his people had once called allies. He carried a steel sword in one hand, cutting down man after man that came his way with… Xisa wouldn’t have called it skill. Ferocity—perhaps that was the operative term.
The other was shorter, light of skin and hair, wearing clothes that might have once been fine had they not been soiled with blood. He carried a sword as long as any one of her people might wield, though not quite as thick and with long quillons to protect his hands.
The bastards had turned the bridge into an inaccessible killing field. They were Delvers, like her, strong and quick as the most powerful lion. Worthy opponents then, when she finally took to the bridge.
But for the time being, Xisa turned her attention back to the top of the rise behind her. The first of the Demon Hadan’s men had started their slow decent towards the Divide. They were formed into tight blocks and armed with long spears, weapons that, like horses, her people had difficulty countering. Still, they wouldn’t stand in the face of her women and their arrows. Such large projectiles—the size of human spears—would tear apart their tightly packed formations.
Still, the soldiers would make it down the hill to where her army waited, Xisa didn’t doubt that. They were too numerous to be stopped by simple arrows. But she would make them pay for every inch along the way. Make them pay the price in blood.
Thirty-One:
Grith
It wasn’t the constant killing, the cries of the dying, or the multitude of wounds that crisscrossed his body that got to Grith. It was the damned smell.
When blood and piss and shit combined, it formed an odor so strong, so repugnant, that it made him feel close to vomiting whenever he stopped to dwell on the scent. So he didn’t. This was war. This was life. For the time being, this was all he knew.
Grith let himself be absorbed in the fighting, obsessing over every movement of his body, and every twitch of his opponent’s. Each came forward and took their turn, like cattle to the slaughter, and each fell.
He lashed out with his sword, slicing into an arm here, hamstringing a leg there, all from the calm of the Deepening. It enveloped him in a blanket of secure confidence. He couldn’t die, couldn’t even imagine anything that could kill him.
It had been an hour—at least he was fairly sure it had been an hour—since the main Cutaran force had arrived. In reality, it could have been a minute, or even a day. It didn’t matter. His only concerns were the swing of the sword, the rush of bodies ready for the meat grinder, and the spaces in between, when they would eat and steal a few moments rest, dazed after so long in the Deepening. Then they would be out on the barrier again, fighting.
The entire process took on a strange regularity. To the common men, it must have seemed like chaos, a constant scramble to stay alive, but not to Grith. If there was an inner peace in battle, perhaps he had found it.
After what felt like an eternity, the Cutarans finally drew back for what must have been the tenth time, leaving another pile of dead on the bridge. Antis and his soldiers chased their retreat with a volley of bolts from their crossbows, sending off any stragglers.
The Deepening fell away like a rope pulled by an anchor, opening Grith to a flood of emotions that assaulted his body and senses. At once he felt weak, vulnerable.
“Get off the barrier!” Tain shouted to his left, descending onto the boards below just as the first Cutaran arrows began to clatter off the stone. Grith followed suit, leaning down so that his whole body was protected
“How’s your reserve?” Tain asked. He leaned against the wall and let out a sigh. He was covered in wounds, most of them only superficial. Still, a few wept rivulets of blood that soaked into his ruined coat. Even to a Delver, those seemingly minor cuts would eventually take their toll.
“Fine,” Grith replied. He could feel every one of his own wounds now. His powers might have strengthened his skin, but with blows as strong as those delivered by the Cutarans, it could only do so much. Still, there was nothing serious. No broken bones, no cuts or punctures to important arteries. With his enhanced healing, most of the lacerations had stopped bleeding almost as soon as they had been made.
“The next one’s gonna be bad,” one of the younger soldiers said. Grith recognized the nervous voice, but couldn’t make out a face behind the boy’s sallet helm. “They’ve got men with shields coming up.”
“Dammit!” Tain growled. They’d faced the occasional shield, and they were nightmarish things to stop. Cutaran shields were constructed from the hides of some great gray-skinned plains beast, and as they had quickly found, were nearly impenetrable, even with blows backed up by Delving.
Suddenly, his teacher was laughing. Grith glanced over with a frown, thinking for a moment that the battle might have finally stretched Tain’s mind to the breaking point. “Look!” He held up his sword. The two handed blade was bent at a worrying angle and the dual edges looked like they had been chewed on by an iron-toothed dog.
“Don’t look like it’ll be much good against shields now,” Antis commented, grimacing. “The real question is, how do we stop ‘em?”
Grith spared a glance at his own blade. It was caked with blood and gore along its pitted edges, but at least it didn’t have any structural damage—not yet. “I think I have a plan.”
“Eh?” Antis leaned closer. “You gonna run ‘round behind them?” He nodded towards the edges of the bridge. “Because I think I’d advise against that line of thinking.”
Grith grinned and patted the man on the shoulder. Somehow, having a mission, even one so simple, lightened his heart. “In a fashion, I’ll do just that.”
* * *
The next wave came in the same as the others, flooding the bridge with fresh Cutarans warriors. But this time there was no rush, no scramble to reach the barrier erected by the Corrossans. Instead, the Cutarans advanced behind their ovular shields, plowing the dead off the sides of the bridge as they went. The boards beneath the bodies were soaked through with blood and gore, painting the bridge ahead a deep crimson. Wind whipped at Grith’s hair as he jumped onto the barrier to meet them. He fell into the Deepening, and listened as the songs played by the conch shells began to slow. They formed a bizarre orchestra of alien tones in his ears. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable sound, but the hair on his arms stood on end regardless.
Grith and Tain shared a look as the first rank of shields approached. There were only two such ranks this time, thank the Spirits. Behind them, the Cutarans were armed much the same as before, with big two handed weapons that left them easy prey to the speed of Enforcers.
The Argument of Empires Page 38