by Lucy Hounsom
‘I think we can manage that,’ Mikael said, the mask lending his voice a slight echo. He fingered one of the phials on his belt. ‘But don’t take too long, James. Our ammunition isn’t limitless.’
Hagdon turned to Sesh. ‘With a small enough group, we may be able to slip through the bulk of the Fist while it’s distracted. You will need to keep the cannon off us and the Alchemists.’
Sesh cracked her knuckles. ‘I understand. But you, Commander, have given yourself the most dangerous task. Is it not prudent for you to remain outside the battle?’
‘So I told him,’ Irilin muttered.
‘This is the only way to avoid a slaughter,’ Hagdon said firmly. ‘If we wish to preserve lives on both sides, we must cut off the head of the serpent. Yes, it’s dangerous. And that is why I cannot trust it to anyone else.’
To his relief, Sesh nodded.
‘So you made it, Hagdon.’
The voice boomed across the landscape, words almost drowned by their own thunder. Several among their group jumped, but Hagdon knew the trick, had used it himself. A smaller version of the Sartyan horn that amplified speech.
‘We need not fight this day.’
Beside him, Kait snorted. ‘She must think you very stupid.’
‘Her words aren’t meant for me,’ Hagdon said, ‘but for our forces, the Sartyans who now fight for us, the Republic who know they cannot match the Fist in battle. She’s seeking to break their confidence.’
‘It is not too late. Surrender and the city will be spared. Your soldiers will have their lives.’
‘At what price?’ Mercia murmured.
‘I am even willing to spare your life, Hagdon, if you swear allegiance to me.’
It was Hagdon’s turn to snort. ‘My head will roll the first chance she gets.’ Amon Taske had come to stand at his side. ‘Spread the word,’ he told him, ‘that Iresonté will show us no mercy, whether we surrender or not.’
The former commandant nodded. He put a hand on Hagdon’s shoulder before silently moving away.
‘We’ve unsettled her,’ Hagdon told them all. ‘That’s what this talk is about. The Lleu-yelin showing up must have been a blow.’
Sesh gave him a sharp smile.
‘You have an hour. After that, no quarter will be given.’
‘Two can play at this game,’ Kait said. ‘Want me to reply?’
‘No.’ Hagdon narrowed his eyes at the distant figure on the hill. ‘I’d prefer to give Iresonté the reply her words deserve: none.’
As the promised hour dragged on, however, Hagdon began to feel an increasing panic. Cannon weren’t the only things they had to worry about, not with thirty thousand soldiers to their ten. Only Solar Wielders could fight at the moment, which meant leaving a good half outside the fray. They needed Kul’Gareth.
‘It’s taken us all night,’ came Astra’s voice as Hagdon paced outside his command tent, ‘but we’ve scraped together five hundred militia.’
‘It’s not safe for you here,’ he told her. ‘The attack is imminent. Why didn’t you evacuate with—’
‘With the elderly and the children?’ Astra said scathingly.
‘Return to the city, at least. It offers some shelter.’
‘Certainly not. This is my home. I will not hide behind walls while strangers defend it. The least I can do is bear witness. Many of my people may lose their lives today.’
Hagdon glanced at a group currently filtering in among the Republic, white surcoats emblazoned with the Assembly’s heraldry. They looked like what they were: city guards more used to dealing with the drunk and disorderly than armed soldiers. But they couldn’t afford to turn away aid, no matter what form it took.
‘Thank you,’ he said to Astra, hoping he hid his doubt.
Iresonté gave no warning. The cannon spat blue and the next instant a flaming ball fell among the hills to the west. Hagdon hoped Taske’s forces weren’t too tightly bunched. He’d given orders that they were to move in quickly once the attack began, close with Iresonté’s soldiers – she wouldn’t drop projectiles among her own men.
With a growl, Sesh leapt onto her partner’s back, positioning herself just behind his horns. The other Lleu-yelin followed her lead and the battle-flight of the dragons was a wonder to behold. Hagdon clearly heard the Sartyan cries of dismay as the glittering phalanx raced overhead. Once the cannon were neutralized, Argat could begin an aerial bombardment of his own.
Another cannon fired, this shot aimed at the city. It fell short, but only just, leaving a smoking crater in the road. ‘Come on,’ Hagdon said under his breath, but the dragons were having a hard time reaching the artillery; he saw one dive and then swerve to avoid a hail of arrows. The Lleu-yelin weren’t immune to conventional weapons, it seemed.
A boom sounded; the ground shook beneath Hagdon’s feet as a column of azure fire rushed into the sky. Screams reached him and he smiled. One cannon down.
The victory cost them. Hagdon saw an emerald form spiral to earth, an ugly hole torn in its wing. The rider kept their feet as they landed in a shower of dirt, crushing Sartyans. But their greatest advantage was lost. Hagdon caught a last glimpse before they disappeared under a swarm of red figures.
A rage-filled roar echoed across the battlefield. Two more Lleu-yelin dived to their comrade’s aid, ripping and tearing with talons, the raw ambertrix that crackled from their throats deadly as lightning.
‘The cannon,’ Hagdon said under his breath. ‘Don’t get distracted.’
A sixth sense honed through years of conflict made his skin prickle. He looked to his left in time to see the cannon fire. ‘Run,’ he yelled, dragging Irilin with him. He flung them both off the low hill’s summit, rolling over and over in the long grass while above them the ground exploded.
‘Are you all right?’ he gasped when his ears stopped ringing. Irilin had a graze on her cheek, but seemed otherwise unhurt. She nodded and the fear inside him eased.
Kait and Mercia were picking themselves up nearby. A golden shield popped out of existence and Kait dusted down her hands. ‘Shields do have their uses, I’ll admit.’ She slipped an arm around Mercia’s waist and pulled the soldier to her feet.
Mercia grinned. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’
‘I wasn’t planning to.’
There was no immediate sign of Astra, or Mikael. But only scant moments passed before his brother appeared, nursing a broken phial in his hands. When he pushed his mask back, he looked furious. ‘That took me months to perfect.’ He hurled the broken bottle to the grass. ‘Months. Iresonté will pay for this.’
‘We can’t wait longer,’ Hagdon said, rubbing a bruised elbow. ‘We need to get our forces out of the long-range cannon.’
Mercia drew a silver-chased horn from her belt and gave two short blasts. Soaring above, the Lleu-yelin echoed it.
Hagdon took hold of Irilin’s shoulders. ‘Make for the city. It’s too dangerous for you to remain out here exposed.’
She shook her head. ‘How can I hide when my friends are here fighting? When you are—’
‘Irilin.’ He almost shook her in his vehemence. ‘You cannot come with me. How will I fight when I know you’re in constant danger?’
She closed her mouth on her retort. It was, he thought, the only argument that might sway her.
‘All right,’ she said after a long moment. ‘But James. Please be careful.’
Before he could think better of it, Hagdon pulled her to him, kissed her fiercely. ‘I will,’ he promised, his voice husky, ‘if you are.’
They broke apart. With a last look at her, Hagdon joined his forces. They closed up around him, hiding Irilin from view. He hoped she would do as he asked.
They advanced in a black phalanx, the Sartyans on the outside, their first and strongest line of defence. Then the Republic, crows’ feathers rippling; finally the Alchemists, sinister and silver. Wielders protected their flanks on either side, hidden by the low curl of the land, but the wind carried sounds of fierce fi
ghting. Another voice called out, magnified by ambertrix, and though Hagdon couldn’t discern the order, his forces soon came under a barrage of arrows.
The Wielders blocked the worst. Brégenne had positioned herself and Nediah at the front, Kait in the middle, and three others at the rear, including the young man called Janus. Hagdon watched her exchange one charged glance with Kait before they wove their shields together. Some arrows inevitably hit their marks and Hagdon found himself stepping over the corpses of those on the fringes of the shield. ‘Pick up the pace!’ he yelled.
They endured two more barrages before they reached the Sartyan shield wall. Hagdon’s heart quailed when he saw it. He knew how effective a technique it was, especially against an inferior force. It seemed to loom over him, tower shields slotted neatly atop one another, an impenetrable barricade.
‘Allow me, brother,’ Mikael murmured. He gave a whistle and drew a red phial from the belt at his waist. It looked remarkably like the one he’d longed to use in the hoarlands. Mikael gave it a sharp tap and the blood-like liquid inside began to boil. Hagdon knew it wasn’t magic, but it could have been for all he understood it.
‘Keep back.’ Mikael hurled the phial over the heads of their soldiers. Alchemists along the line copied him, some throwing blue or green bottles, all of which shattered against the shields, splattering their contents over the metal.
Which ignited. Hagdon wasn’t the only one who drew in a breath at the sheer power of those flames. The Sartyans hidden by their shields dropped them, trying to stamp out the fire licking over armour and flesh. Whatever substances the Alchemists used did not behave like normal fire, eating into the metal like acid, leaping from soldier to solder.
The wall broke. With a ragged cheer, Hagdon’s combined forces surged forward, taking advantage of the weakened line. The ambertrix greatsword felt lighter in his hands, as if the air no longer offered resistance. He swung it with deadly force and neither blade nor armour could withstand it. The battlefury was just beginning to build in his veins when he heard a series of screeches. ‘Down!’ Hagdon shouted and flung himself lengthwise just before a terrible whistling whipped overhead. He heard thuds as stone hit flesh and screams, the sounds of bodies thudding to earth.
Swearing, he looked up. They’d concealed the triple-headed cannon behind their lines until the right moment. Sartyans had peeled off to either side, leaving the soldiers who manned it a clear shot. Before he could stop her, Kait rose, shining stilettos in her hands. With a cold shock, Hagdon saw Mercia sprawled at her feet, blood running freely down her face. Kait gave a furious cry and flung her knives – not at the cannon but at the soldiers behind it. The golden blades took down five of them, but the next shot was already primed and Kait was still standing.
She raised a shield, but it shattered under the force of a dozen stone balls, roughly half of which struck, hurling her to the ground. Kait lay there, gasping and bloodied, blinking up at the sky. Mikael seized the chance to throw a phial at the remaining soldiers. Fire exploded, scattered them from their posts. On the heels of the explosion, a dragon swooped down and melted the cannon in a blast of pure ambertrix.
It was all happening too fast for Hagdon. He spared another look at Kait, unsure how bad her wounds were. Mercia had crawled over to her. ‘Bloody stupid,’ he heard her say. ‘Why’d you do a thing like that?’
‘I thought they’d killed you, that’s why,’ Kait retorted, the words costing her a wracking cough. Blood flecked her lips.
‘Sorry, Hagdon,’ Mercia said. ‘I have to stay and look after my friend.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Mercia. The commander here needs you far more than I do.’
‘I’d be less than useless. If you haven’t noticed, I’m dying too.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ Nediah said, appearing through the smoke. ‘Either of you.’
He worked quickly, teeth gritted in concentration. ‘It’s temporary,’ Hagdon heard the healer shout over the roar and clatter of fighting. ‘Try not to overexert yourself.’ His eyes flicked to Kait. ‘You too. You’ve cracked a few ribs. We don’t have the time for me to heal them up properly, so be careful.’
‘Thanks for getting me on my feet,’ Kait told him tersely. A golden scimitar shimmered to life in her hand. ‘If I’m going to die, I want to do it standing.’ Ignoring Nediah’s grimace, she gave her other hand to Mercia. ‘Let’s go, Hagdon. Let’s see this through.’
Hagdon nodded. Flanked by Mikael and the remnants of his forces, he pushed on towards the hill.
Did he imagine it, or were there fewer cannon blasts now? When a shadow passed over him, Hagdon looked up, expecting a dragon, but it was the airship, flying just out of arrow range. Dark shapes tumbled from its decks: barrels falling to earth with a crash, spilling tar and fire everywhere. It would be a miracle if they didn’t hit some of their own forces. And still the Sartyans came: a red tide that could not be held off. Kait and Mercia fought back to back, guarding his back and Hagdon knew he’d have fallen without them. Brégenne and Nediah moved across the battlefield as a unit, Nediah healing where he could, Brégenne covering him. Hagdon carried his own share of wounds, all minor, but taken together they were slowly whittling him down. And he needed his strength to face Iresonté.
He was dimly aware that several Lleu-yelin riders had joined him on the ground, fighting with breath and talon, enveloped by a blue nimbus. But the carpet of dead was growing thicker now and some wore faces he recognized. Eyes stared blindly up, and though he knew they saw nothing, his fevered brain told him they gazed at him, at the blood that covered him like a second skin. With a roar dredged up from somewhere inside, Hagdon ploughed on, slipping on bodies and outflung limbs, the hill fixed in his vision. No more cannon blasts came; the Lleu-yelin had held up their end of the bargain.
They had almost reached the slopes when a hundred black figures stepped out of the air, throwing off blue-limned cloaks. Hagdon stopped short, wrenched from his trance by the sight of so many stealth force. Behind him, Mercia swore.
At the summit of the hill, a figure dismounted. ‘It ends here,’ Iresonté called, her voice echoing oddly inside the general’s helm – that twisted visage Hagdon knew so well. ‘There’s nowhere left to go.’
He turned, cursed. Sartyans flowed in to bar the way back. Even with the Lleu-yelin’s help, even with the Wielders, it seemed they’d barely made a dent in the Fist. Or if they had, their numbers were so great that it did not matter.
‘Been fun, Commander,’ Mercia said through gritted teeth. She was bleeding again, as she looked from the stealth force to the Fist, her face pale, but set. ‘We’ll take a share of these bastards with us.’
The hilt of his sword had become hard to grip. Hagdon sheathed it, drew his handaxes instead. His fists tightened around them; so close – he could not bear to be so close and fail. Mikael had lost a fair portion of Alchemists. Perhaps fifty remained. Against the stealth force and their poisoned blades. Against the innumerable legions of the Fist.
‘Your army is routed,’ Iresonté called, ‘such as it was.’
He was out of time. The Fist began to advance, forcing them back onto the points of stealth-force blades. Hagdon steeled himself, knowing he could not defend against so many at once. They were closing in on him, scything through his circles of protection until he could not bear to watch his people die.
With a furious cry, he pushed one of his soldiers aside, deflecting the blow meant for him, and shoving the Sartyan backwards. He turned to meet another strike, heard Mercia shout something and ducked in time to avoid a hurled stiletto. The woman who’d thrown it staggered back, one of Kait’s own glowing knives in her neck.
There were too many of them and too many gaps in his armour through which a poisoned blade could slip. Hagdon whirled and slashed, each swing draining more of his stamina.
The Sartyan attacking him faltered. Hagdon took the chance to slam the pommel of his axe into the man’s temple and he dropped. He turned to meet his n
ext opponent, but there wasn’t one; everything had stopped.
A moment later, he heard it too: the ululating cry of a hunting horn. And more than one, tumbling over each other in a brash cacophony that raised the hairs on his neck. The nearest Sartyans turned to look.
Through the rain that had begun to sheet over them, he saw a host pouring down the sides of the valley. They were on foot and there was something odd about their gait. The sky was so dark as to be almost night, but a brief flash of lightning revealed their drawn weapons, already bloody. When the next arrived and he saw them clearly, Hagdon’s hand slipped on his axe.
They wore Sartyan armour.
The new host crashed into the ranks of the Fist, who were utterly unprepared for them. Amidst cries of pain were cries of confusion and horror. Unable to comprehend what he was seeing, Hagdon realized another host followed in the wake of the first – a much larger host, all on foot and bellowing a chant that was faintly recognizable. A moment later, Hagdon remembered where he’d heard it: the warriors of the Yrmfast Territory. Relief coursed through him, bringing with it new energy. Kul’Gareth had arrived at last.
Hagdon saw him then: a broad-shouldered figure, glowing with eldritch light. If he looked closely, he saw the same light in the eyes of the first force and realized, with a thrill of dread, what they were. No wonder the Fist was in disarray: they faced their own slain comrades.
‘Hagdon, what do you think you’re doing?’ Mercia yelled. ‘Get up there.’
He didn’t need telling twice. They broke through the Sartyan line, fighting shoulder to shoulder with dead men; the Republic, Wielders and Alchemists fell on the stealth force and Hagdon lost himself in the melee.
He fought his way up the shallow incline. His body seemed to move on its own, as if some master puppeteer had tied strings to each joint. Hagdon felt a growing sense of inevitability, rather like the fate he so scorned. There was no such thing, he’d told Irilin. Fate absolved men of responsibility, and that idea was more dangerous than any empire, than any magic.