by Louis Emery
“Don’t get any delusions.” She continued to chew on her food. “It doesn’t work on anyone else. Believe me. A few have tried. I caught them, naturally, and punished them accordingly.”
“You don’t think I know about blood magic? I know what’s in that vial, that it only works for whom the spell was cast.”
“Well, well. An educated Kingsguard. How do you do it?”
Malcolm shot her an annoyed look. “What made you and that cousin of yours lucky enough to receive these gifts from a wizard?”
“A great house, that’s what. House Reed always had good relations with this particular wizard. My father made an effort to maintain that relationship by offering the wizard protection, especially since he was well advanced in years. As a token of his appreciation, we were given our powers. Varick received a potion and is now a skilled general. I acquired that necklace, and you know the rest. Don’t even try breaking it. It’s covered in dragonscale.”
Malcolm leaned back. “I might’ve heard a tale—that even dragonscale can break.”
Leora laughed. “That’s all you Backlanders are good for. Tales. Here’s a tale for you, Ser Malcolm. Your King Greenvale tries to bargain with my father using me as leverage, and a war rains down on your kingdom, flooding everything and everyone.”
“Save your breath.” Malcolm, done with his food, threw his stick in the fire. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.” He turned to Artemis. “I’ll take first watch. Get some rest.”
His friend nodded and laid down in a position where he could still see their captive. The fire continued its soothing crackle, and Leora remained quiet, much to Malcolm’s relief.
14
Gav dismounted from his horse, giving the reigns to Sergeant Trammell. He looked around at the skirmish line of all the green-clad soldiers in helms and plate. Men and women marched forward in service of the Backlands. Gav felt honored to lead his majesty’s best. In all his time in the military, he’d never seen a camp pack up so quickly and follow orders with such discipline. And that’s why they were here—to capture the rebel leaders and quash this insurrection once and for all.
Walking now on foot, he could see how further up ahead would have been difficult for any horse to get through. A forest of mid-sized shrub trees full of brambles lay before them, just open enough to let infantry pass through in between. Occasional lava rock poked through the ground, at times so uneven a few of the soldiers tripped and ended up with bloodied knees and palms.
The skirmish line of hundreds of soldiers advanced. Scouting parties informed Gav that a sizable force of Konteran troops camped within ten miles, and he thought it a good day for a fight. Let them try to stop us, he thought.
The area was eerily quiet, save for the occasional yawp of an island parrot and steady hum of buzzing cicadas in trees, harmonizing with the soft patter of marching boots.
Sergeant Trammell returned from escorting their horses to the reserves in back. “Sir, I just spoke with Sergeant League on our right flank, and he says he can hear movement to our east.”
“It figures,” Gav said, squinting ahead. “I knew we’d reach them soon.”
“Would you like your bow, sir?”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Gav unslung the bow from the man’s shoulder. He preferred taking down as many enemy he could at long range first, especially since it appeared he and his force were outnumbered. And the ground on this side of the island sloped slightly upward toward the volcanic peak of Mount Kintleera, which gave the Konterans advantage. Yes, he needed to sniper with arrow as many as he could to match the edge the rebels had.
His force advanced steadily through the cluttered shrub trees until they came to an area where the vegetation was sparse.
“Hold!” Gav ordered. Turning to Trammell, he said, “Pass the order to hold.”
“Here, sir?” Trammel asked, puzzled.
Gav nodded, and his sergeant went towards the right then left flanks half shouting, half whispering the order to stop to the other sergeants.
Returning, Trammell approached Gav, “Sir, we haven’t heard any movement for quite some time. Perhaps they…”
“Shhh,” Gav held a finger to his mouth. The parrots and cicadas ceased their cries. A soft wind rustled the branches. He peered ahead. Trammell followed his gaze. Almost blending in with the woodgrain of the trees, tan and brown-clad soldiers approached. The closer they inched forward, the more Gav could make out the sigil of island redwoods on their tunics and the gleam of armor.
“Form up,” Gav yelled, and the echoes of the cry ran up all along the formation of his infantry.
The skirmish line straightened, pulling bows to ready, while the front ranks kneeled with their crossbows held at a forty-five-degree angle. The enemy, having heard the orders of their foe, marched forward, the sounds of their boots becoming more evident up the slight incline. A mass of sandy and tree-bark colored troops with brown and grey trousers approached. Gav noticed the Konteran lines were just as long as those of his force. The view from the front can be deceiving, he thought. Knowing the enemy to have superior numbers, by a couple hundred, the ranks could be filed several lines deep, meaning they may use their reserves to spread out on the sides and attempt to outflank his forces.
Gav could see a few of his rival officers, standing out either by the trim of their tunics being a different color, the sashes around their wastes, or the shinier polish of their plate and mail. Likely, there’d be a Cylarnti among them, possibly someone he’d trained with when young or might have witnessed in passing at the compound in Hilontera. If there was one, he or she might be hidden amongst the ordinary infantry, to avoid the attention of arrow snipers or a focused attack. Cylarnti like him were a prized asset and good at staying inconspicuous, but it never hurt to take further precautions. Which is why Gav did not wear much in the way of distinguishing his own rank, aside from small patches on the side of his tunic.
The Konteran troops halted just under a hundred feet before them. “Bows!” Gav ordered, and he heard the same order reverberate in front of him. Hundreds of bowstrings drew back in unison. “Aim!” The force was a working symphony, presenting bows of death, the swift movement of God’s Burden about to be unleashed.
Gav raised his longsword. “Loose!”
The volley flew, echoing in the wood, arrow shafts whistling through the gap of enemies, eager to pierce plate and take lives. Nearly the first full line of Konteran tunics turned from browns to crimson, and a hundred of them fell in a heap, the marksmanship of Gav’s troops on display. Bolts protruded from the shields of those still standing in the front line.
“Second line! Loose!”
Another whistling series of arrows plunged forward, and more soldiers fell dead or wounded.
Just after Gav gave the order to reload bows, the enemy’s volley ensued. Two men near to his left fell and one to his right was hit, but still stood with arrow protruding through his shoulder. Gav raised his bow. He found what appeared to be an officer ready to shout a second order. He loosed and the man fell onto his comrades. The second round of arrows launched by the Konterans had a weaker effect, the aim of their infantry not as adept as his.
He quickly re-knocked his bow, spotted what he thought was another captain, or possibly a sergeant. He loosed the string, its whipping motion a rapid hum to his ears. The sergeant or captain hit the ground after the bolt struck and didn’t move.
By now Gav’s sergeants were in control of their own divisions of soldiers, and synchronized archery was replaced with haphazard bowstring whips of carefully aimed arrows. Gav lost the most troops on his left flank, and he saw one of his women sergeants motioning for second ranks to move forward and loose from a kneeling position to replace the casualties. She nearly had her front rank refilled when an arrow took her in the chest. Two soldiers carried her to the back in hopes the army surgeon could save her. Gav drew his attention forward and saw Konteran archers slow their pace, quickly replaced with them drawing swords and shie
lds.
“Swords!” he bellowed.
Razor steel gleamed up and down the lines. This time their foe beat them to the punch, launching the charge the next instant. Gav, his sergeants and soldiers answered back. Drawing his sword in one hand and handbow in the other, Gav rushed ahead with the rest of his women and men Burdeneers. The lines collided, pointed blades meeting flesh on both sides. Cries and grunts and moans rose up to the trees, creating a new dark song, foreign to the island birds.
Gav unloaded his handbow into a soldier charging at him, and as the woman dropped, another man took her place. He holstered his handbow and pulled the second from his belt, while using his sword to deflect the attacker’s blade aimed to puncture his sternum. He didn’t need to fire—Sergeant Trammell used his own handbow to inflict a headshot through the attacker. Gav spun around the lifeless body, weaving his sword in and out of men before they even saw the blade coming. Blood spattered all around, baby cardinals flitting from soldier to soldier, leaving agony in their wake.
The all too familiar sound of men and women in combat deafened Gav’s ears. He rushed forward, firing his second handbow, bringing down another officer. To his right he could see Sergeant League wreaking havoc with a spear bloodied on both ends, using the shaft as a club and front end as a skewer. Up ahead, a Konteran captain cut down two of his soldiers. Quickly. Moving to the third, the defender barely had time to counter before the tan-clad woman put her blade through his heart. Three more Backlanders swooped in to her front, and two moved in from behind. She pulled something free from her back. A pang hit Gav.
Cylarnti.
He did not recognize her. But he knew the art, and the craft tool she carried.
The staff-spear she held, tipped with serrated blade, twirled like dragonfly wings, causing the surrounding soldiers to hesitate and take a step back. One launched an assault. The spear flicked once, around his shield, and the soldier clutched the blood-spurting wound at his chest, falling to the side. The remaining four charged at once. Sensing this, the Konteran officer used the spear as leverage to swing sideways through the air, delivering a spin kick to the jaws of two soldiers. Using her momentum, she swung the staff of the spear low to the ground, sweeping the other two off their feet, which gave her time to deliver the death blow to one, more red painting the blade.
The three soldiers regained their footing, thrusting swords and spears. She dipped her head back, avoiding a close call, her ponytail whipping through the air beneath her helm followed by her spear, slicing through an attacker’s neck. More jabs came at her, and she pirouetted and backflipped, her kick knocking the spear out of one’s hand. Unarmed, the soldier hesitated, his shield drooping. In the next instant, the spear flew through his heart, and he hit the ground, a stump to a thin, branchless tree. The remaining soldier twirled his sword, and she pulled a dagger from her boot and hurled it into the man’s eye.
By now, Gav had made his way through the embattled throng. He stood and faced her, noticing her sword still sheathed at her side. Pointing his blade at her, he moved slowly forward and she drew hers.
A Konteran soldier attempted to interrupt the fight, charging at him, but Gav grabbed the spear-shaft with his offhand, and diverted its direction. Throwing the soldier off balance, he spun delivering two kicks to the man’s gut and a third roundhouse that finished with the crunch of boot to broken nose. Gav regained his balance just in time to deflect the slash from the Cylarnti’s sword. She cut left then right and left again, and he parried each swing, backing up as he did. They came in close, their blades clinging and scraping. The woman was strong and fast, and Gav broke away his push. Their blades once again came in close, and she used her free hand to grab at his neck with a Cylarnti death grip, catching Gav off-guard.
He struggled to breath, twisting his back, while the woman pulled trying to get a better hold on his jugular. Gav changed the angle of his sword and it glazed her arm, slicing leathers and flesh. The pinch at his throat relaxed and air flowed in. He had a brief moment before she closed in again, hacking with renewed energy. She thrust forward and her blade caught his leg, and he felt blood drip down. She tried for his other leg and he spun around her, landing a kick that glazed the back of her head, knocking her helm off her ponytail. She stumbled for a second and went for him, twirling her blade in dizzyingly rapid figure eights that created a confusing whooshing sound.
Gav braced for the attack and when it came, her blade appeared close enough to trim his left eyebrow. He parried the next slash and their blades slid together once more, the woman throwing punches with her offhand that Gav tried to evade. Her movements became too quick, and she ducked low and rose with an uppercut that caught his nose with force and he fell, his back hitting the ground, his sword leaving his hand. On instinct he rolled and heard the sword sink into the earth where his body had been but an instant prior. Blood streamed down his lips and he wiped crimson on his tunic, then sprinted forward delivering a kick to the woman’s back before she could pull her sword from the dirt.
She faltered but regained a defensive stance. Gav launched a Cylarnti sequence of punches, jabs, short and long kicks. She deflected them with blocks of one expertly trained in hand-to-hand arts. Gav landed two punches to her midsection, but it felt like hitting a taut spring. She sprang back, replying with a series of roundhouse kicks he evaded by retreating. There was now a gap between them.
“Cylarnti, huh?” She said, her face unfazed.
“And you.” Gav replied, to which one of her eyebrows arched ever so slightly, followed by a renewed fury. He blocked kicks at his groin, kicks at his head, and leapt above a spin kick aimed to trip him.
The fighting around them intensified, and Gav began to notice the Konterans fleeing from battle. The woman paused, privy to her wavering force. She launched more kicks, then swooped down pulling a sword from the grip of a slain soldier. Gav maneuvered away from the whizzing blade as she swung it at him, slicing his tunic. He ducked and landed a heavy blow to her face. Seeing her falter, he grabbed her arm mid-swing and wrenched the sword free from her grip by twisting her wrist. She grunted and he picked up the blade, quickly, and held it to her neck while locking her left arm behind her back.
“Don’t move,” Gav said. “Or it’s over for you.” He pushed the blade closer to emphasize the point.
More of her troops retreated further into the shrub woods. Gav glanced to his right when he heard movement. Sergeant League and a few of his men sped to him, while other Burden soldiers prodded prisoners with swords and spears, leading them to be tied up behind the supply train.
“Glad to see you’re in one piece, sir,” League said, wiping the gleaming sweat from his brow. Dust and mud caked his armor, wet with blood and perspiration. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a prisoner.”
“A fellow Cylarnti,” Gav replied.
League’s brows shot up. He turned to three of his soldiers. “Watch her,” he said to them.
“Binding, if you please,” Gav said.
The sergeant handed him rope from a pouch at his belt. He released the blade from her throat while the other guards surrounded her with spears and swords. Gav tied her hands behind her back, saying, “You know things we can use. And we will get that information.”
Gav turned to his sergeant, “I want four guards on her at all times. When one leaves, I want another to stand in his or her place.”
Sergeant League nodded and motioned for another soldier to stand near the prisoner.
“Take her back with the other prisoners, but keep her separated from her comrades,” Gav ordered.
The woman said nothing as she was led away.
“We need to get her to talk.”
15
The breeze swept her hair about her shoulders. She heard the flaps of sails on surrounding cargo ships, their masts as tall as the warehouses that touched the quays. Vessels came and went through the harbor this sunny morning, and laborers moved imports and exports to and from large buildings that housed them
. From the looks of things, the rebellion hadn’t negatively affected trade, at least on the Prestonpan Isle of Monterim.
At the onset there’d been blockades by the Isles’ navy, but with the military victories of the Backland army including aid from Lord Staverly’s Prestonpan loyalist bannermen, both on land and sea, the cessation of trade hadn’t lasted long. Passage was restored to merchants and their sponsored voyagers, as well as to merchants from Dastoria, Alakysburg, Panoricant, and even Phozanti, a kingdom that often had embargos and sanctions placed on them by King Greenvale and his noble council. Yet, Sho recognized the flags of all four of those kingdoms adorning the ships laden with incoming cargo.
Over to her left, beyond the activity of commerce, dotted mid-size and massive palms along Bramble Shoals, a beach skirting Quinlander Fortress. Built with four sides, each with guard towers and massive turrets, the fortress had never been taken from the beaches, the shoals and rocky coast being too treacherous for amphibious landing. A few months prior, the only way the Backland and Prestonpan loyalist forces managed to defeat the rebels inside was by attacking from the direction of the city proper. The joint forces had captured the inland outposts, stripped the city of guerrilla fighters, and maneuvered its siege on the last remaining obstacle: the fortress. Only lasting a few days, the rebels who sought refuge in its confines realized they could not hold out long from trebuchet and siege towers.
Sho knew the area well from the few years she’d previously lived here. Thanks to the clear weather she made out the distant outline of Kontera, the last island to have advantage in the rebellion. True, rebel forces still evaded surrender on Monterim, but they were few in comparison to the numbers on the larger island across the waters. The majority of Redwoodian Rebellion leaders were protected over there, though many had been captured already. In the mind of the Backlands, that was the head that needed to be detached from the squirming snake of rebellion. If their leaders, a band of rebel lords, were gone, the uprising Redwoodian nobles and vassals would see the futility in pursuing notions of establishing a kingdom free of their liege lord’s rule.