by Simon Morden
The flames and the greasy smoke had attracted attention, from both sides. The poor bloody infantry slogged on towards the town – quite why Gerhard hadn’t used the road was lost to her – but the closest Teutons, and the Carinthian cavalry, started to converge on her.
“Are we going to pull back?” asked Büber. He felt for a crossbow bolt and fed it onto the shaft.
“No,” she said. “We’re going to take them on.”
Her horse had seemed entirely unconcerned by the pretty lights above its head, but started to shudder and twitch as a dozen Teutons came at them from one side, and the Carinthians from the other.
The northmen fired their arrows at her as they rode. That not a single one reached her didn’t lessen their accuracy, nor their rate of fire. Each crack and rattle made her horse more wide-eyed and rasp-breathed, and more difficult to control.
Her saddle wasn’t a stable platform any more, and she realised why the Order were wheeled into combat on wagons. She tutted at her mistake and swung her leg out and over, ready to dismount.
“Where are you going?” asked Büber. He raised his crossbow and took aim.
“Forget about that. Hold my horse and don’t let go.” She dropped to the ground and felt it shake under the impact of so many hooves. It was more than just a little frightening; she felt her stomach tighten and grow cold.
But she had been taught to ignore fear. She had managed to cast spells under the most extreme conditions. Will and knowledge. They were the only things that mattered.
The Teutons were charging. They had swapped their bows for swords. They were waving them wildly, and she heard Büber struggling to keep both his and her horses under control.
She fixed the leader with a knowing smile and fire ripped him apart. She didn’t stop there. The flames spread out like a curtain pulled from the ground, and the Teutons at the front were unable to turn. They plunged into it and through it.
Nikoleta knew how hot the air was, how it seared and cooked. She had never before tried it on targets that were so wet, though, so she was unprepared for the result.
On first contact, the water had exploded into steam, ripping into the Teutons’ skin, bursting out between cloth and armour, scalding their lungs. She had boiled them, men and horses, inside and out, and the results were ruinous.
They fell, half-formed, slapping to the ground, momentarily obscured in a coppery-pink fog, but then revealed as the rain beat down and the flames licked their last.
The very rearmost of the Teutons had managed to pull up. He was abruptly alone on his portion of the battlefield, facing a Carinthian hexmaster and ten Carinthian earls. He turned and galloped away as quickly as he could.
She lost her concentration momentarily. Her shield flickered and fell, and the rain pattered against her hat once more.
Büber, the earls, they were all staring at her. She gazed at the gasping, twitching shapes in front of her. One by one, they shuddered and ceased.
What did she expect? For her targets just to disappear in a puff of smoke, clean and neat? These weren’t mercenaries, hired by some lord. These were invaders, and they’d killed already.
She turned around, and took her horse’s reins from an unresisting Büber, and mounted up.
“Sirs, if you don’t have the stomach for the fight, Juvavum is back that way.” She pointed south and east. “The enemy is over there. I suggest we attack them before we lose any more of our men.”
She steered her horse around the line of still-steaming corpses, reintegrated her shield, and rode straight towards the next group of Teutons.
At least the earls knew they were no longer playing at war.
Her presence on the battlefield caused a change in tactics. Clearly, whoever was now in charge of the Teutons wasn’t stupid. He’d been using his archers to keep the Carinthian horse at bay, while sniping at the infantry. Now his right flank was exposed, there was the threat that Nikoleta could simply roll up the line by herself.
He pulled back, melting away before her and leaving her nothing to aim at. Her horse was tiring. She was directly in front of the marching spearmen, a couple of stadia distant. The half a mile into town didn’t seem so daunting now, although the Teutons were regrouping in the distance.
She stopped, and let her shield fall. She was tired too. And now she had to face Gerhard, who was riding towards her.
“You broke ranks,” he said. She saw that he was both angry at her actions, and impressed at the damage she’d caused. Her advantage, then.
“Yes.” She straightened herself and pushed her hat brim up to see him better.
“We conduct this battle according to my orders. Are we clear on that?”
If she killed him now, how many lives would she save? She batted away the thought as if it were a wasp, but it continued to buzz angrily around her as he blustered on.
“You have spent your life closeted away on Goat Mountain, while I have learnt the martial arts. You, Mistress Agana, are a weapon. Not a general. I will deploy you as I see fit. Understood?”
“My lord,” she said.
“If you please, back in line. Just because it ended well this time, doesn’t mean that the next you’ll be so lucky.” He turned away to give orders to his earls, and left Nikoleta purse-lipped next to Büber.
The infantry trudged past. There were slightly fewer of them than before, and Captain Reinhardt gave a grim-faced salute to her. He was grateful for the break in incoming fire, but had to march on nevertheless.
“They might thank you, but the prince won’t,” said Büber.
“I am becoming less concerned by that. Now, tell me what they’re doing.” She nodded in the direction of the Teutons.
Büber shielded his eyes and stood up in the saddle. “They’re massing. It looks like they’re leaving. That can’t be right.”
It was at the edge of how far she could reach out, but she tried it anyway. Points of existence, a couple of hundred humans and the same number of horses. Their blood surged and their hearts beat hot and fast.
“Unless they’re planning to come around the back,” she said. “We have to go towards the town, don’t we? Or we’ll end up trapped out here in the middle of a muddy field at nightfall.”
Büber sat back down. “If they did that, they’d be driving us towards their wagons. That can’t be right either. That is all their horse, isn’t it?”
They were starting to get left behind again, so Nikoleta guided her horse towards the infantry line.
“Am I allowed to say that this is too easy? Gerhard’s right: if we take their baggage train, we leave them with nowhere to go. All their women are there, and they won’t just sacrifice them. Will they? Are they that barbarian?”
Büber scratched at his face, keeping his eyes on the Teuton horse that were riding around their right flank, well out of bow-shot. “What have we missed?”
“If we knew that …” She peered at the town, trying to sense her way around it, but it was just too far.
The Teutons carried on into the distance, but then started to come around, forming two packs. One stayed on the right, and the other started along the back of the Carinthian line.
Again, Gerhard seemed unconcerned, as long as they kept their distance.
“They are afraid,” he said. “They have seen our might, and all they can do is watch us retake the town, destroy their meagre possessions and leave them paupers.”
“My lord,” said Nikoleta, “I don’t think that’s what they’re doing.”
He gave her a look, trying to silence her with thoughts alone. But he wasn’t a hexmaster, and it didn’t work.
“We’re surrounded,” she pointed out. “We have archers at our back, and gods-only-knows-what ahead.”
Allegretti, riding close to Felix, leant towards the boy and muttered something in his ear. Probably getting him to work out how to kill every last Teuton with only a wooden peg.
“We are not surrounded,” said Gerhard. He punctuated each word with a ja
b of his sword. “We will win this, and with few losses.”
She tried one last time. “They still outnumber us.”
“Good,” said Gerhard emphatically. “More heads to display when we’re through.” He deliberately turned away from her and rode down the line, and then in front of it, holding the Sword of Carinthia up high.
All the houses were clustered around the market square on the top of the hill. The slope increased, and the last set of farm buildings – a house, a barn, a byre – marked where the road and the river were, off to their left. They were almost there.
“Master Büber,” asked Nikoleta, “where is everyone?”
“Peter. You may as well call me Peter.” He wiped at the stitches on his cheek. “It’s shorter, if nothing else.”
She looked out at him from under her hat. She’d told Gerhard her name; why not this man?
“Nikoleta. Though it’s longer than ‘witch’.”
Büber coughed. It was an apology of sorts. She accepted it, and carried on.
“Where are the townspeople? Even if they’ve all fled, we should have found some of them on the road.”
“Hiding, if they can.” Büber frowned. “But if they couldn’t? Prisoners?”
“In the town square.”
“They’re going to try and force us to surrender, which the prince will never do.” He looked appalled. “I’m just a huntsman. I’m not supposed to have to worry about things like this. I rely on him to lead.”
“We had the initiative. Then we handed it back to them. We have to pull out, now.” She saw they were blocked in, front and rear, but at least it would be stalemate if they just stopped advancing.
“Are you going to tell him? He won’t listen anyway. And how did Allegretti know it would turn out like this?”
“Because he’s as good a scholar as he is a swordsman. Now, what do we do?”
Then the arrows started to fall again. But not from behind: from the front. Suddenly, the entrance to the town was blocked by men with bows who seemed to rise out of the ground. She should have noticed, but again she hadn’t been concentrating. The first volley was already in the air, and the second was following. Fifty, maybe even a hundred black shafts reached the top of their trajectory and started downwards.
“Shields!” screamed Reinhardt, and yes, that was good advice. She locked hers in place, but some of the others weren’t as quick.
The arrows clattered down. Some buried themselves in the sodden ground. Some bounced off hastily upturned shields or impaled themselves in the wood. Some hit the men behind them, and others still simply struck unprotected flesh, horse and man, and there was chaos. The second volley was already arcing down, and a third was on the way.
“Where did they come from?” yelled Büber. The arrows aimed at him and Nikoleta skittered harmlessly away, but that didn’t stop them from being terrifying.
“Because half those horsemen aren’t what they seem to be. They’ve swapped them with the women.”
The Carinthian line staggered, and, over the grunts and screams, Gerhard’s voice cut through. “Charge! Charge them!” He wheeled about and headed straight for the Teutons.
The attack was ragged. The earls were still trying to avoid the waves of falling arrows, and the infantry were broken. Time to recover was what they needed, and only Nikoleta could provide it.
She whipped her reins and charged with the Prince of Carinthia.
It wasn’t far. A stadia at most. She had to hit them hard, and try not to kill Gerhard at the same time. He was almost there, raising his sword out to his side and getting ready to strike.
No finesse, then. She raised a wall of fire across the Teuton line and let it burn for a moment. The flames scattered those who could still run, while others were ablaze.
Gerhard’s horse went down in a heap, legs splayed, head to one side. It started to roll, and the prince leapt clear. She could save him if she could get close to him, but she had spells to cast and a succession to preserve.
She collapsed the curtain of fire, and turned her attention to the half-dozen Teutons burning like candlewicks. A moment later, it became apparent that the human body contained enough fat to fuel a good-sized explosion, and that someone wearing armour could become a source of lethal shards of red-hot metal, able to scythe down anyone close by.
The solid air in front of her was plastered with red splashes that stuck in splatter patterns like spiders. Her stomach heaved, and she gagged. The gore dropped to the ground as her shield collapsed, and she was suddenly in the middle of a pitched battle, with smoke and fire and the ringing of swords, the shouts and curses of men trying to kill and to avoid being killed.
Büber was at her side. He had his sword, and its edge was already dripping. “Forward. Can’t go back.”
She turned and looked. The Teuton horse had charged the rear of the Carinthian spears. The earls were fighting back, but their colours were few among the barbarian black.
A figure lunged at her, and instinctively her shield came back, tight around her. A sword-point scraped the air in front of her face. Büber kicked the man away and plunged his fist downwards. The steel went all the way through, and he had to drag it back out.
It would be stupid to die now, and to keep on being revolted by the results of her own magic was even more stupid. A deep breath, and concentration: if forward was the only way, then they’d have to cut through the last of the Teutons ahead and go through the town.
Her horse. She didn’t even remember dismounting. It was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Büber’s. Or rather, it seemed there were riderless horses everywhere, and it was futile to try and pick out her own.
Very well, then. The tall buildings around the market square had their backs to her. The gap between them lay up a short cobbled road with wooden houses either side. It was a walk of no distance at all, and at a run, would take mere moments to reach.
She stretched out her arms and fire poured from her palms. Not at anyone in particular, though a Teuton did get in the way and fell before the onslaught, reeling away, wrapped in flame. Despite the relentless rain, she set the side of a house alight. The logs hissed and spat, and the roof of shingles started to smoke.
“Get behind me,” she said to Büber, and, without waiting, she tore the structure apart.
The blizzard of splinters cleared their path, and she set off up the street. Büber grunted with the effort of sprinting uphill.
“Where are we going?”
“Not back.” She took a moment to look. “That would be bad.”
There were two Carinthian infantrymen behind them. Whether they were running towards them, or running away from something, was moot. There was a Teuton rider coming up on them, his sword-arm poised. They could have kept him at bay with their spears, but it was difficult to tell whether they’d even noticed him.
She willed burning light into her palm and hurled it. Death was more or less instantaneous, and of the three men who fell to the cobbles, only two got up.
“Stay with us,” she said, and the bloodied, battered soldiers fell in beside Büber, grateful they didn’t have to think any more.
The town square: the opening to it was narrow, as Büber had seen, and blocked with laden wagons parked across it. Some of the barbarians’ camp followers were at the barricades, women mostly, some boys not old enough to fight, some girls.
Behind them, the residents of Obernberg. Nailed to the timber-framed walls at a variety of angles, suspended by their necks from windows with their own bedsheets, impaled, butchered, every last one of them.
Nikoleta stopped, and Büber, and the two Carinthians, and simply stared.
What separated masters from adepts was a final surrender of pity. If a sorcerer could not put to death that part of them which made them feel sorry for their victims, then they were forever condemned to inhabit the lower orders. Great feats of magic, yes: true mastery of the art, never.
Looking up at the walls of Obernberg and seeing its inhabitan
ts strewn across them in a grotesque display of inhumanity was enough to kill off any remaining shred of sympathy within Nikoleta Agana.
She marked stepping across the divide by shrugging off her heavy leather coat onto the wetly shining stones and throwing her hat to one side. Standing their, the rain beating down on her head, soaking the simple shift that she wore, she had never felt so powerful, so at peace, so certain as to what she should do.
The ground trembled in anticipation.
The women on the wagons, beforehand all catcalls and ululations, were suddenly silent.
Nikoleta’s tattoos shifted in new, unknown ways as she walked towards them and raised her hands.
20
In the end, Büber had to look away.
He’d passed from shock to rage, and then to calling for bloody vengeance for what they’d done to Nadel, nailed upside down and guts hanging out in a long, grey ribbon down the wall. Then it had gone beyond even that. There was an awful beauty about her and the way she went about the destruction of the Teutons. Inventive even, and he watched with a kind of horrid fascination as to quite how she would divide and slaughter.
When she had turned the square into a charnel house, and there were still the children to go; that was when he turned his back. His voice was ruined, his throat raw. Not from the smoke, but from the screaming.
The two infantrymen were huddled together, unselfconsciously crouching on the ground and holding each other. They were men, he and they, and yet they were all weeping like widows.
Büber bent down, dragged them both to their feet, and shoved them in the direction of the field of battle. They’d dropped their spears and shields in order to cover their heads better, and though he’d retrieved their weapons, he’d wondered if he should hand them back, or keep them well away.
He’d decided finally on the latter. They couldn’t kill themselves with them, even though they could swear a pact and kill each other. After what they’d witnessed, it would have been a mercy.