Fell stared ahead of him, hardly blinking, waiting for the first faint blueing of the black. He was trying to rest his body, for he had not slept. His mind was filled with strategies for surviving the day.
He had no idea what happened to the rest of the Maritime Army. All dead, maybe. Or fled. Perhaps other small groups had survived, defending themselves in a tight formation, like the hundred and four men and women lying around him in the night.
They had not stood a chance. The Blues had been on higher ground when the flood hit. And their commander, their general, whoever it was, had ordered an attack so quickly that the Reds had been swamped as thoroughly as the water had overwhelmed them moments before. Thousands died in the first hour. Thousands turned and fled back towards the City, chased by the triumphant enemy. Fell’s Wildcats had stood their ground on the small eminence of land with the poor defence of two low boulders. They had fought grimly, waiting out the day. By the time the sun fell and the enemy returned to their lines there were one hundred and four Wildcats left: sixteen were not expected to survive the night, thirty-four were beyond fighting, forty-three walking wounded. Just eleven soldiers unhurt.
For the first hour or so of the short night he had considered retreating into the darkness, trying to put a few leagues between them and the enemy. But they were all too exhausted, too shocked by the total disintegration in one day of an army of twenty thousand warriors. And there were too many wounded. So he decided to hold the ground, relying on the boulders to give them limited cover, and see what another day would bring: perhaps reinforcements from the City, perhaps word that another company lay close by, ready to link up with them. Fell realised bleakly that his decision had probably condemned them all to death. But he could not leave so many wounded.
He thought he detected a slight lifting of the blackness. He blinked the grit out of his eyes and peered. Yes, he thought, another day is dawning.
“Garvy.”
“Sir.” The voice was close, a little pained. Garvy had a dislocated shoulder. It had been wrenched back in place and the arm strapped securely against his chest, but he was unlikely to have had any sleep.
“How’s that shoulder?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Give me the numbers.”
He heard Garvy carefully stand. And as if permission had been given, there were suddenly sounds all around, shifting bodies, coughing, spitting and groans as his soldiers awoke and faced the new day. There were some moans and cries of pain. It was a bad day to be already wounded. Only eleven unhurt, he thought. May the Gods of Ice and Fire help us today.
“Sir?”
“Yes.” He couldn’t recognise the voice.
“Jonas J is dead, sir.”
“Tell Garvy. He’s making a count.”
Soon he could make out shapes against the lightening horizon. The sky was velvety blue and he could see lines of pink and red low in the east. He groped around and found the waterskin beside him and took a deep swallow. He found his breastplate, then he stood up, brushing down his mud-caked uniform. Garvy moved alongside him. He could see the white bandage.
“Fourteen died in the night.”
“Move the bodies into the enemy’s path.”
“Sir?”
“The first wave might stumble over them in the dark. Move the remaining wounded close together between the boulders. Any deserters?”
“No, sir.”
Despite everything, pride rose in Fell’s breast. Not one deserter. Every soldier had elected to stay and fight, fight for his friends, rather than slip away into the night.
He nodded curtly, not trusting himself to speak, and Garvy moved away. Soon there was a sense of purpose in the camp as bodies were carried out into the line the enemy would take, and the surviving wounded were moved closer together behind the wall of remaining fighters.
Fell cleared the dust from his throat. “Wildcats. Eat and drink when you can. They’ll be on us soon.”
He had no orders to give them. Survive if you can. Fight to the death if you can’t. No use telling anyone that. He picked up his sword and felt the edge with his thumb. Blunt and chipped.
He heard a woman’s cry behind them, among the wounded, and thought of Indaro. Fell had last seen her defending two wounded soldiers, faithful Doon at her side. She was unhelmed and her red hair shone like molten copper in the sunlight. Her face was calm, focussed, no fear, no doubt. He thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. If I survive this, he thought, I will…
“They’re coming!” cried a voice, tight with fear. And the new day began.
There were no cavalry, at least. Fell was grateful for that. Perhaps the Blueskins lost all their horses or riders in the flood. Or, more likely, the cavalry were busy on a more important mission than wiping out a small band of Red stragglers. Did that mean the rest of the army was still fighting somewhere? Fell hoped so. If the Third Maritime were destroyed the City would be vulnerable to the south and east.
They wasted no time on light infantry either. Now the ground was dry again and hardening quickly under the sun, they sent in heavy infantry, headed by the huge dark-skinned men from the forests of Mulan, armoured in thick metal from head to knees. The Reds knew them well, and called them beetles. The only way to kill them was to hamstring them first, or to get a blade between the two sheets of armour that met under the arm, or slide it down under the high collar. If you could get in close enough and avoid their axes and broadswords. Though they were heavy, they were still fast.
Fell, at the head of his warriors, ran at the first beetle, dodged the flying axe and, with a yell, leaped in the air and slammed his blunt sword on the top of the man’s helm. The sword broke, but the sound inside the metal helm must have been prodigious, and the beetle paused. In that second Fell rammed his knife into the gap at the armpit. He twisted it, seeking the heart. The beetle fell, stone dead, and the Reds cheered.
Someone threw him a new sword, and the battle started.
Fell had killed three more beetles and the sun had risen in the sky before he realised he was injured. It was his left arm, not his sword-arm. He dropped back for a few moments to check the wound, to make sure he was not going to bleed to death. Two Reds stepped forward to cover him. He pulled cotton wadding out of the pouch at his side and stuffed it in the wound, pulling his sleeve down over it to hold it in place.
He looked around, gauging the battle. The enemy were still attacking from front and left. If they had circled Fell’s little army the Wildcats would all be dead by now. Either their commander was stupid, or they were short of soldiers themselves. Nothing he had seen in the last day or so indicated they were led by stupid men, and a small spark of hope ignited in his chest. They were undermanned too.
For one glorious insane moment he considered ordering his troop to attack.
No, he thought. Defend, defend, defend. They had to try and save the wounded. But he needed to know the Blues’ strength. He ran to the nearest of the two boulders and leaped on top. But the rock was too flat to give him a view. He looked around. “Queza.”
“Sir.” She was a short stocky woman, well-muscled but graceful, and agile as a monkey. And lighter than any man. She jogged over to him, eager for an order.
He turned to one of the northlanders, an iron wolf of a man, who was picking through a pile of swords, trying to find a good one. “You.”
“Malachi,” the man said flatly.
“Queza. This soldier and I are going to lift you up. I need to know how many are coming against us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Malachi climbed on the rock and stood beside him. Fell flexed one knee and patted his leg. “Thigh and shoulder.”
Queza swarmed up him, and he felt her balance on his shoulder shift as she put half her weight on Malachi. Her hand on his head slowly released as she stood up. He and Malachi held on to her lower legs.
The moments went by with painful slowness and he wondered how long it would take the enemy to notice such an open ta
rget. He heard a missile of some kind swish overhead, then Queza cried, “Let me down!”
She clambered down with less grace than she’d climbed up, but she was grinning from ear to ear.
“A hundred, sir, hundred and twenty at best.”
“Riders?”
“Half a dozen horses in the rear. Messengers, I expect. No cavalry.”
Fell was grinning too. He nodded and clapped her on the shoulder and Queza ran back to her place. Let’s call it a hundred, he thought. We’ve got forty-five, with four unhurt. All we have to do is kill two more each and we’ll walk away from here.
Chapter 12
Night descended with terrible slowness, and still the enemy came on.
Indaro stole a look to the west, where the sun had fallen in splendour, leaving a sky streaked in yellow and purple like an old bruise. Her body felt like that bruise, sore and aching all over. Her right shoulder was numb and her sword-arm had all the strength and agility of a week-old piece of meat. She wondered how long she could keep on defending. The enemy were suffering too; her opponent was moving like a zombie, and their encounter was merely a dull exchange of blows, each weary beyond words.
Indaro had little time for prayer, but this day she prayed to the Gods of Ice and Fire to intercede with Vashta, the guardian of night, to bring darkness soon. If they survived one more night, maybe reinforcements would come with the dawn. Maybe.
“Daro!” The word crept slowly into her tired brain. She moved back two steps to give herself space and glanced at the speaker.
“We’re retreating to the rocks,” Garret told her. He was covered in blood and looked ready to drop.
She nodded and gazed at her opponent, who had made no attempt to follow her, but just stood there, exhausted, his sword barely raised in defence. She summoned all her remembered strength and speed and darted forward, skewering him in the throat, before backing away.
She had not heard the enemy order to retreat, but after a few moments they started fading back into darkness. She took a deep breath, then walked over to a wounded enemy soldier, lying twitching, his entrails lying in a bloody rope at his side. His eyes were open but unseeing as she stood over him. She slashed his throat, then wiped the blade on his leg. It was a good blade, she thought, the best she’d had in days.
She found the man’s waterskin, and slung it on her shoulder, then turned back to her colleagues, where the wounded were gathered between the rocks. The two flat boulders were a poor defence, but on that empty plain they were the only cover to be had. The most badly wounded lay in lines between them, and Fell had placed less injured soldiers on the tops of the rocks to deter attacks from the flanks.
There were few without wounds now. She looked down at herself. She was covered with blood, but her only injury was grazed knuckles. She thought she should help with the wounded, but there were so many of them and she was so tired. She took a deep breath then walked over to help.
Fell saw her and stepped towards her. His face was grey and his cheeks sunken. His blue eyes were dull. He gazed at her expressionlessly. “I’ll take that water,” he grunted. Then, pointing at the rock where Doon lay, “See to your servant.”
She nodded and clambered up onto the flat boulder. Doon was sitting with six others, most with broken legs or ankles. She was splinting the leg of a friend of hers called Marchetta. It was a bad break and Marchetta had fainted. Indaro helped Doon quickly wrench the bones back in position, and bandage them to a broken sword blade. They both knew it would be impossible to walk on for several weeks, and would probably never heal, even if the enemy were suddenly to vanish away in the night.
When they had finished, Doon rolled over on one side to try and get comfortable, and Indaro saw her face tense as her wound pulled.
“Let me see that,” she said.
“It’s all right. Leave it alone,” the woman replied irritably, moving the leg away.
“You don’t want to survive this, then die of gangrene.”
“If it’s going bad, there’s nothing you can do. You just gave our clean water away.”
“I’ve still got some salve left.” Indaro groped in the pouch at her side and came out with a small corked pot which had survived the flood.
Doon sneered. “You’re the only person who thinks that stuff does any good. I think it’s poison.”
Indaro could not blame her. She’d bought the salve from an old woman in the southern frontier town of Saris, where they’d been camped for more than a year. She was told it was made of oak moss and willow bark, both rare plants in the hot dry southlands. She’d smeared the green stuff on many minor wounds, to some effect she’d thought. Then she used it to try and save the life of Maccus Odarin, a comrade and a great fighter for the Wildcats, who’d suffered a trivial leg injury which turned rotten. She’d used almost all of it, daily applying it to his wound as he grew sicker and the leg blackened. They had to cut the leg off in the end, and he died anyway. Since then no one else would touch the stuff and avoided it as if it were cursed.
“All right. I won’t use it. Just let me see the wound. Remember you’re my servant.” Indaro managed to smile.
Reluctantly Doon let her unbandage the wound, which was deep and wide across the back of her left thigh near the buttock. Indaro could see slashed muscle, but the blade had missed major blood vessels. Nevertheless, it had taken an age to stop bleeding and the previous night Indaro had feared it never would. It was still leaking blood and pale fluid. But, as far as Indaro could tell by the dying light, it looked clean.
Doon, who couldn’t see properly, twisting round, asked, “Well?” There was fear in her eyes. There were many kinds of death, and none of them wanted Maccus Odarin’s.
“It’s good,” Indaro told her. “Better not let Fell Aron Lee see it. He’ll have you back on the front line tomorrow.” She lay back on the warm stone, groaning with painful pleasure as her shoulder muscles started to ease.
“How many are we left?” she asked, knowing Doon would be watching every sword blow, counting every fallen comrade.
“Eighteen on their feet. I don’t know if anyone’s unwounded, except you. And Fell.” She shrugged. Of course Fell was unhurt, she was saying. He was invulnerable. In more than one hundred days of battle he had remained unhurt. He was charmed, they said.
Indaro looked down to where their commander was moving among his battered troops, squatting down to speak to each of the wounded. She knew he would not be telling them how courageous they were, or speak of living to fight another day. It was not his way. Fell’s fighters knew they were the best. He did not need to tell them. No, Fell would be assessing each man or woman, judging if they would live or die, and if they would live, if they could fight again tomorrow.
He looked up and saw her watching him, and she thought she saw some emotion pass across his face. Then she realised she was imagining it. She had never met anyone as guarded as Fell Aron Lee.
And besides, it was getting dark. She looked to the west, where the remaining light was an eerie greenish grey. There were heavy layers of clouds in the sky, and she detected for the first time the slight chill of coming autumn in the air.
“Look!” Doon said. Indaro turned to look where she was pointing.
A figure was jogging towards the besieged camp out of the north. Indaro saw it was one of their own and called down, “Incoming scout.”
Fell stood and walked to meet the woman and the two had a brief discussion. Then he looked around him and said, “Listen.” He had hardly raised his voice, but everyone heard him and silence fell on the camp.
“They’ve pulled back to the river. With no moon, it’s unlikely there’ll be an attack this night. Now, we’re short of water and I want everyone to hand in their waterskins. Garvy will ration it out in the morning, first to the…wounded, then the rest.”
The pause was barely perceptible, but Indaro caught it. She knew what he was saying, as did everyone. Water would be given to those of the wounded expected to survive. Tho
se already in the shadow of death would get no comfort, not the smallest sip of water, as they came to their cruel end. It was hard, but it was understood.
Fell said, “The Blues are no better off than we are. They have no more water or food. They have many dead and injured. And they are using up more energy attacking than we are defending. I’ll not lie to you, our future is in the lap of the gods. The side which gets reinforcements first will win the day. We are only forty leagues from safety and I have sent out a messenger. We could be relieved tonight. If not, and if we receive no aid tomorrow, then we hold on.”
He paused as if finished, then he suddenly spoke again. “We are all veterans here. We have all been through this before and survived.” Indaro saw men and women looking at each other and nodding agreement. “Tomorrow we will be called to fight again. We will answer that call as we always have. There will be blood and there will be death. But that will not stop us. It never stopped us before, and it will not stop us tomorrow. So rest now, and know that tomorrow we will step up again, for the City and for our comrades in arms. We are the Wildcats and we never give in!”
He turned away. There were no cheers from the tired fighters, but Indaro felt the wave of warmth, of unity, sweep through the camp, and men and women went to their rest with their souls burnished by Fell’s words. She knew she was probably destined to die the next day, but she wasn’t afraid. She looked at Doon, who nodded at her. They were both thinking the same.
Garret scrambled up on the boulder beside them. He flopped onto his back and lay breathing heavily. Then he rolled over, and asked Doon, “How’s the leg?”
Doon scowled. “Staying away from the wounded, Garret?”
“You’re injured,” he retorted.
She shrugged. “We’re all injured. That doesn’t make me one of the wounded.”
He rolled over again and sighed. “Do you think they’ll attack in the night?”
Indaro found the fragile feeling of calm inspired by Fell’s words drifting away. “Tonight. Tomorrow. What’s the difference?” she snapped. We won’t last one more attack, she was thinking. And few of them believed reinforcements were on the way.
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