by David Hair
Then the Keshi drums rolled again before his position and he turned away from the distant struggle to prepare for the next assault.
‘Here they come again!’
*
Baltus tacked away from the battle, soaring over the river. The far bank was just a dark line in the hazy west, like a mythic island that could only be seen on certain days. Brevian myth was full of such islands, places of sunshine and warmth. Probably because Brevis is such a mucky hole.
‘Bring it round!’ Hugh shouted; the Andressan mage-archer had been shaken out of his habitual reserve by the taste of battle. ‘I’m ready for the next run!’ They’d made seven passes now and had one bundle of arrows left. Below them the battle had been raging for over an hour. The Argundians had not ceded an inch, and the fighting around Kippenegger’s section of the line had stabilised, despite a palisade collapsing and the Keshi almost spilling into the perimeter. He turned his craft for the next sweep across the enemy when Hugh pointed southwards, shouting, ‘Ware! Enemy skiff!’
The Keshi skiff’s triangular sail billowed as it caught the wind, half a mile south and to windward. They generally worked in pairs, so Baltus scanned the sky until he found the other, lurking to the east. Their next run would take him between the two of them, leaving them vulnerable. But Jelaska was counting on them . . . He thought for a moment, then turned the rudder, gracefully ducked the boom as the sail swept from left to right, and swept back towards the fight.
From up here, the Riverdown camp was tiny and the enemy forces vast, but the desert was even greater, sweeping on beyond them and far into the shifting mirages, as if to say that all men were insignificant, just fleeting stains on the land. Every time he took to the air there was an almost overwhelming temptation to simply fly away. Up here, everything was softened by distance into perfection; the earthbound world only ever let him down.
Take Jelaska, for example: from his vantage in the sky her grey hair shone like a banner, and her lean and stately form could have been that of a young beauty. But up close she was wrinkled and acerbic, so enamoured of her gnosis and her legion that there was no room in her life for anything more than a casual coming together of bodies. Her emotions were so numb from loss that she was just a mask of irony and cutting words. The half-serious joke about being cursed irritated him. I’m not cursed. I’m going to live through this, like I always do. And she smelled old, and her flesh sagged. She wasn’t perfect.
Baltus had never met the perfect woman, the one who would change everything. Young women were so naïve; older ones so jaded. The magi-women all played games and the non-magi were either awestruck or sly. No one truly moved him, and relationships were so fleeting he sometimes wondered why he bothered at all. But they were also addictive, and he was never quite settled in his own skin unless there was a woman in his bed, even one he fancied only in passing, like Jelaska.
‘Baltus—?’ Hugh snapped. ‘Angle right!’
He waved a hand in apology and corrected, with one eye on the Keshi craft angling into an intercept course. The triangular Keshi sail interested him; it was smaller, but it made the craft more nimble; the Keshi skiffs were all faster than Rondian ones, all else being equal, which wasn’t right. We’ve been doing this for centuries – we should be better at it than them.
He set his prow towards Jelaska’s position, where the Keshi were pressing again, trying to break the lines by sheer weight of bodies. But the Argundian legion was a mincing machine, unrelentingly hacking the Ahmedhassans apart. All along the southern front the attack was building though, and he could see it would take only one breakthrough – and these were Keshi regulars, trained soldiers, not the conscripted battle fodder they’d been using until now. They were proving tenacious.
They went in, the Keshi skiff ahead correcting to intercept, the southern one sweeping in from high above. There were two black-robed bowmen in the fore-deck of each craft, and he could see gnosis-fire on their arrow tips. ‘Ware the archers, Hugh,’ he sang out, adding, ‘They’re magi!’
Hugh nodded to show he’d heard, but his focus was the bundle of arrows, which he’d split into two.
Baltus read his intention and focused on the oncoming Keshi skiff. The roar of the battlefield grew as the sea of Keshi beneath them started hurling spears that fell pitifully short; the odd arrow whistled past in their wake. The enemy skiff ahead sheared elegantly through the air, apparently on a collision course, and the archers bent their bows.
He pushed a little more Air-gnosis into the keel, then with a cry he engaged it, sending his craft on a rapid spiralling climb, cutting across the tip of their foe’s mast. Hugh stood and, shouting triumphantly, hurling the arrow bundle downwards with a kinetic blast, even as two shafts slammed into his shields. The impact almost threw him overboard, but he held on. Baltus glanced back and saw the Keshi craft stall in the air, its sail shredded. The pilot and two archers were each nailed to the hull by arrows, the rest having shattered on their shields and left them open. The pilotless skiff slewed sideways and began to drop, slowly, then faster as the gnosis in the keel, now undirected, leaked out uselessly. It fell into a crowd of Keshi, crushing them, and Hugh, normally the most imperturbable of men, whooped aloud.
Baltus poured more into the keel and lifted even higher as the second skiff came at them. In the past few months he had practically rewritten the rules of skiff-to-skiff fighting. He was usually the only Rondian windcraft in the skies, and having to evade an enemy who was usually more numerous, usually faster and generally had more crew. But he was a half-blood mage, while most of these Keshi were low-bloods who preferred archery to gnostic duels. He’d had to adjust the normal rules – a Rondian might even say cheat– but it was all rather fun.
Lift was vital for getting above the enemy unexpectedly, so he poured his energies into climbing above the trajectory of the incoming second skiff. They were adjusting too, coming at him hard, their archers predictably aiming at his sails, trying to disable him, but he and Hugh swatted the projectiles away and he swept past as they turned in his wake. Both craft were now travelling south, away from the battle, cutting across the westerly wind; his craft higher, but theirs was gaining.
Sorry, no way. Baltus leaned right, hauling the tiller with him, and the skiff swung, keeping the Keshi craft lined up: his bowsprit was reinforced shaped steel formed with Earth- and sylvan-gnosis to grip the hull and strengthen it. It made the craft slower and heavier, but made up for that in other ways.
They struck the Keshi craft just above the hull, ripping off their sail and breaking the mast, sending the craft rolling in the air, and Baltus heard at least two wails of terror as they ploughed through the enemy rigging, tearing it apart. His craft lost some momentum, but he kept filling the sails, looking behind to see the enemy skiff dropping and the furious Keshi soldiers below staring open-mouthed and pointing. His prow was draped in torn sail and tangled ropes and they were slewing wildly, but they were whole.
Cop that, lads! He grinned fiercely, revelling in the moment. This, he thought, is why I’m alive!
‘Clear that wreckage,’ he called to Hugh. ‘Let’s get her home!’
Hugh slashed at the tangle of rope from the broken Keshi skiff and the last
of the wreck fell away, but to Baltus’ surprise, the performance of the craft didn’t change much – it still felt heavy.
‘Something’s snagged below!’ he shouted.
Hugh gave him another laconic thumbs-up and leaned over the edge of the hull.
An arm came out of nowhere and buried a dagger in his left eye, right to the hilt; barely a second later the Andressan was flipped from the craft and fell away as a black-robed shape swarmed aboard with frightening agility.
Though shocked at the unexpected loss of his comrade, Baltus reacted just in time to shield as blue fire blazed from the man’s right hand. The Hadishah had a mild face and grey-flecked hair, but he moved like a trained fighting man.
The bastard must’ve grabbed on as we hit them.
Now Baltus was the vulnerable one. He tried to counter with mage-fire, but the Hadishah shielded well. Baltus set the craft’s trajectory for his own lines, guessing the perimeter was around a minute away . . . if only this bastard let him sail.
He won’t, of course; he’ll—
He’d not even finished shaping the thought before the Keshi mage did just as he’d feared, plunging his blade, that same knife that had taken out Hugh Gerant and was still slimy with his blood, into the canvas sail and ripping; the cut instantly billowing top to bottom from the force of the wind, and the skiff bucked as it lost speed. Baltus groaned and drew his shortsword.
I can fix that . . . but only when he’s dead.
He stood, placed a hand on a keel-sprite so he could manipulate the stored gnosis, and lunged at the Keshi. Steel clattered weakly, their blows hindered by lost balance and uncertain footing as the craft wobbled onwards, but still they thrust at each other through the hole in the torn sail and around the mast as the skiff continued to follow the trajectory he’d set, slowly drifting north towards his lines, but now losing altitude.
This is going to be touch and go, Baltus thought as he thrust at the man’s arm; their blades clashed, the curved and the straight, then disengaged. He threw a mage-bolt and followed up with a blow, but the Keshi parried both and fired back. To his chagrin, he had no discernible advantage over the other man.
I hate fair fights.
*
Jelaska lifted her eyes from the clamour below her, unconsciously deflecting a spear thrown her way from some optimist among the Keshi, and fixed her gaze on the windskiff that was slewing drunkenly towards her lines. There were two men in it, fighting, and the craft was beginning to stall and drop.
It’s not going to make it.
She cursed her Earth-bound gnosis, but there was no point wishing for what wasn’t. If Baltus couldn’t reach the lines, then the lines had to reach him. She turned to Gylf, her legion’s tribune, the senior non-mage officer. ‘Bring up the reserves, and form a wedge! We punch through, there!’ She jabbed her finger to where Baltus’ skiff looked like it would be landing.
There were no questions, no hesitation; after all, she’d been with these men most of her life. Jelaska, a pure-blood female mage, had fallen in love with army life and death during the incessant Argundian border wars, and now obedience was instant. Gylf raised a blade, trumpets blared and they surged forward, enveloping her as they formed up. She reached for her Death-light, the necromantic-gnosis that was her most deadly affinity. Shadows formed, her eyes turned violet and her skin grey and she strode through the press, her men opening a sudden path to the front line for her. The Keshi staggered and fell forward as the men they were shoving gave way, the first few dead on their feet – literally, having died minutes ago but unable to fall through the sheer press of bodies. Now they collapsed to the ground and those behind poured towards the Argundians, trying to swamp the breach. The barricade came down with a crack and they spilled into the perimeter – and into her path.
The death-light bloomed about her.
Purple lightning jagged from her hands, gripped the Keshi soldiers and leeched them, turning them to desiccated corpses before they hit the ground. The men around her thrust two-handed with their war-spears and the Keshi assault died stillborn. Then her wedge slammed into them, pouring through the broken barricade and beyond, scattering the Keshi with cold ferocity. The rest of her legion bellowed their battle-cries and followed.
Then the shadow of the skiff fell over the press and it ploughed into their midst, cutting down the Keshi before her and crashing to earth amidst the front line, splintering spears and breaking bones of men on both sides.
A man rose from the wreckage, bloodied and staggering.
*
Baltus Prenton jabbed again, keeping up the attack, forcing the Keshi mage back. The man was a fine fighter, better than he was, in truth, but Baltus had one advantage: he controlled the tiller. With each thrust he nudged it with kinesis, making the craft pitch in his chosen direction, throwing the other man off-balance, until the Hadishah snagged his heel on a brace and fell sprawling to the deck. Baltus stabbed at the man’s exposed left thigh; the shortsword went into the man’s leg and hit bone.
The Keshi gasped and his grip loosened on his scimitar, which spun away.
Gotcha!
Then the Hadishah grabbed Baltus’ sword-arm. Their eyes locked; the look of agonised concentration on the assassin’s face was terrifying. He pulled at Baltus’ wrist, almost breaking it, not allowing him to withdraw the blade, while with his right hand he fished inside his robes until he came up with a curved dagger which he thrust at Baltus’ chest.
He caught the man’s arm in his left hand, planted his feet and tried to wrench his sword-arm free – then the ground came up and they struck, pancaking into the ground and slewing prow-first through the packed Keshi, crushing them. The jolt made the blade in the Hadishah’s leg wrench to one side, causing fresh agony to bloom and breaking his strength. At last Baltus’ blade came free; he staggered as he lost hold of the man’s right arm but he concentrated on his quarry and rammed the shortsword into the man’s chest, piercing his chainmail into flesh, even as something punched into his belly. He gasped, panting, as the light went out of his enemy’s eyes.
Holy Kore! Thank you thank you thank you . . . He thought wryly of Kippenegger, who promised animal sacrifices to his war-god. Perhaps I should send Kore a bull . . .
Then he looked down and saw the dagger in his stomach, and the damage that the gnosis-fire on its blade had wrought. Numbness spread, and his legs started to feel like they belonged to someone else. He looked about dazedly, saw Jelaska, only some twenty yards away in the press, and tried to tell her that—
*
The Keshi around the skiff reacted before she could as Baltus fell on his face. They swarmed in, blades rising, and her lover was buried beneath a dozen or more. She blasted at them with mage-fire and terror and the closest to her died of fear while others burned and broke. But the Keshi counter-attack was coming in from all sides.
She screamed Baltus’ name as her commanders bellowed orders, demanding another surge from her exhausted men, and they swept forward, launching themselves at the skiff and those around it, and she was borne along by the throng. The Keshi fought tooth and nail, but the Argundian war-spears chewed them up, stabbing from out of reach then trampling the fallen as they continued their advance until the enemy broke and fled, leaving her men in control of the field.
Jelaska didn’t need to shove through her men, for they parted silently, respectfully, before her. Their eyes told her all she needed to know.
Baltus’ torso lay amidst a pile of severed limbs. His head was gone, a trophy for some bloody-handed Keshi, and his intestines had been blasted to charred meat. He was lying on top of a dead Hadishah in the bottom of the hull.
Life is a dark joke, love is a lie and curses are real. She spat a bitter curse on all Keshi, knowing such magic to be real now.
I am cursed, and Baltus paid the price.
*
Sultan Salim sat on his throne in his pavilion, the front wall opened so that he could watch the sun fall amidst the smoke and ruin of the day.
Pashil was dead, slain while killing the enemy skiff-pilot, and eight other Hadishah had also fallen. Thousands of their best footmen had been slaughtered too, the losses horrific, and for no reward. The Rondians still held.
Another day like today and the men will begin to doubt . . . if they do not already.
He glowered at the Godspeakers, who earned their reputation for wisdom by staying well away. There was no one he wished to speak to; no one whose words could bring comfort, except perhaps his impersonators, whose role it was to share his burdens and his pain.
Great Ahm, is this truly what you wish of us? When we die for you, do you truly rejoice at our devotion? When we offer you our suffering, do you even want it? What possible good can you derive from so much loss?
There were no answers to such prayers.
Finally, Dashimel, Emir of Baraka, made his way up and prostrated himself – with some difficulty; he had become paunchy of late – before the throne. Dashimel was a gentle man, a poet, but he was also a soldier of long experience.
‘Dash, my friend, tell me what we should do,’ Salim said.
Dashimel glanced over his shoulder at the Godspeakers and at the Hadishah Qanaroz, Pashil’s second; they’d been posturing for the last hour, making loud speeches to each other about avenging all this tomorrow. ‘The battle remains to be won, Lord,’ he started. ‘The enemy must surely be weakened—’
‘In all honesty? Please! Don’t give me the same words as them, Dash. It’s a strip of land where nothing grows and no one lives! Remind me why we should die over it.
Dashimel bowed his head, then spoke quietly. ‘Great Sultan, it is true that we could break this camp open, but it will come only at even greater cost. Our losses will mount, because the Rondians are masters of close-packed combat. They have the armour, the weaponry – and the discipline. Their men are not conscripts but highly trained soldiers. And their magi know how to fight in such formations.’ He scowled, but he went on. ‘Our strength is in archery and numbers. Moreover, we have open supply lines and they do not. Let time do what assault cannot: pen them here and starve them out. Let disease take hold in their camp. And when they break cover, rain all the arrows in Kesh upon them. But save your men, Majesty, for there are other, far more vital battles to fight elsewhere.’