by David Hair
Gyle nodded approvingly. ‘It sounds good. I’m taking our skiffs up to prevent Elena’s magi from overflying us and spotting Adi’s men.’
And that has the added advantage of me being in the air already if this goes badly.
‘I love this moment, when everything’s still perfect,’ Rykjard said with a relaxed smile. ‘From now on, it all gets messy.’ He approximated a salute and walked back to the cluster of magi and tribunes, already beginning to gesticulate. Orders were scrawled and signed, messengers scattered. In the distance, the village bell in Jekuar chimed thrice: the third hour of daylight.
It was time go to war.
*
Cera Nesti wondered if she was going to be sick. Every man who marched past her was going into mortal danger: many would be crippled for life, or lie buried in an unmarked grave after a few hours of savagery. They’d hack at other men with sharpened metal until something vital was hurt beyond bearing, then collapse, only to be stabbed or trampled or simply ignored while they bled to death.
Dead, like Timori.
It was what she’d seen on the streets of Forensa and she was trying to steady herself to go through the same ordeal here. She’d thought she would be burning for vengeance, but instead she just felt ill. Is anything worth this? she asked herself for the hundredth time.
Everyone around her seemed to think it was. Even those who’d been through it before looked eager to get started, as if this were an unpleasant but necessary task, like digging a ditch or burning out a roach nest. Scouts and runners were coming in all the time, clamouring for attention if their news was urgent, or waiting patiently in line until Piero Inveglio was free. She had made the comte her battlefield commander, over the heads of Stefan di Aranio and Justiano di Kestria: the old Rimoni nobleman was the highest-ranked man with any expertise in battle left to the Nesti family. Justiano and Stefan hadn’t been happy about it, but she’d told them to do their duty and win glory by contributing to victory.
Glory . . . what is it anyway? Isn’t it enough to win?
‘They’ve put what’s left of Frikter’s men on our left,’ Justiano’s messenger was explaining. ‘We can cut through them – it’s where they’re weakest.’
Piero Inveglio was nodding, his sharp face taut with anxiety. He clearly didn’t relish the role of commander, but no one else in Nesti colours had his experience. Thankfully, Theo Vernio-Nesti was still days away from joining them, something she was beginning to think might be deliberate. That line had always been a nest of cowards the only members of the family who hadn’t risen against the Dorobon, during either occupation.
‘I agree,’ Stefan di Aranio announced. ‘Let the Kestrians attack on the left.’ He’d been chipping in nonstop all morning, suggesting anything that didn’t involve his people taking risks. Cera trusted him less and less as battle approached.
Inveglio looked skywards. It was still early morning; the third bell had just chimed. He could delay a decision no longer. ‘They are dug in. It will likely not be so easy as you believe.’
Cera turned to Odessa D’Ark. ‘Odessa, is there some way we can end this swiftly?’
The expectant mother was plainly in discomfort, which only emphasised their desperate straits – Kazim had not regained consciousness and Elena could barely stand without him, so there was no way they could spare her.
Odessa grimaced. ‘Of course. Kill Gurvon Gyle.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘Anything’s possible. But he’ll not be making himself obvious.’
‘The stories say that in the early times, disputes between villages would be settled by heroes fighting on behalf of everyone, so that fewer people would suffer,’ Cera suggested. ‘Is there any such tradition in Yuros?’
‘Not among magi,’ Odessa replied drily. ‘We’ve never been shy about letting others die in our stead. Anyway, Gyle would laugh in our faces.’
‘What about this question of where to attack?’
‘I’m not a general. Elena knows war, not me. I’m just here to keep you alive.’
‘Attacking on the left is a stupid rukking idea,’ rasped an unexpected voice, and Cera’s heart leapt to her throat as she whirled.
‘Elena?’
Her champion looked awful: sickly-faced, grey about the temples and not even clad in armour. Her breathing was laboured and she was using a wooden staff to compensate for her left knee; she couldn’t put weight on it. But she was here. Cera choked up. At last she managed, ‘You should be in bed!’
‘I’ll rest afterwards,’ Elena croaked.
Cera swallowed. ‘Is Kazim—?’
Elena’s wounded eyes focused briefly on her. ‘Asleep.’ She looked away. Her lover hadn’t regained consciousness since Timori’s assassination, and Elena had quietly confided one night that without him, she had very little gnosis energy: all she had was going into keeping Kazim alive.
‘You look like shit,’ Odessa snapped. ‘Go back to the healers’ tent.’
‘I can’t.’ Elena scowled at the clump of arguing men. ‘We shouldn’t attack on the left. The key advantage to the attacker in battle is the choice of where and how to strike; the art of the defender is to direct the attackers towards a point that is stronger than it looks.’ She jabbed a finger at the Rondian right. ‘Given we know that Frikter’s men were mauled a month ago, they should be hiding them, not waving banners to help us find them.’
‘So you’re saying Gyle wants us to attack his right?’
‘Exactly. But Aranio and Kestria seem to think otherwise and Inveglio doesn’t have a clue. Who am I to say: I don’t have a cock. But I had better try.’ She grimaced at Cera, then hobbled into the argument.
‘Send her to the rear,’ Odessa muttered. ‘She’s going to get herself killed.’
*
From the air, it all looked different. Gurvon rejoiced to be above, detached by distance. His windskiff went whisking along the lines, flanked by two others piloted by Brossian and Veritia, as he got the shape of the battle from above. From up here, the units stopped being people, instead resembling tabula pieces, their individuality subsumed into the greater whole.
He pictured Elena in the lines opposite, giving terse advice and snapping at the knights and officers, cutting off their half-baked ideas with a withering comment. She’d always been more at home in such scenes: a player, not an observer.
But Endus is playing my pieces, and he’s better versed than either of us.
He conjured a face in the air and reached out to make contact, to reassure himself. Gabrien Gorgio-Sintro appeared, Ricardo’s older brother.
Ricardo had been left in Hytel to secure the city – and, of course, Portia Tolidi. I’m not sure I’d trust any brother of mine with her.
Gabrien was a swarthier man than Ricardo, with a cold, hard face.
‘Inside two hours,’ Gabrien responded, speaking aloud. ‘My men are jogging.’
‘This is not heat, Rondian,’ Gabrien replied. ‘You will see, in summer.’
‘We’ll be ready, Magister Gyle. The Gorgio and the Nesti have a long history.’
He broke the contact and took his skiff on another circuit of the lines, quietly pleased with Gabrien Gorgio-Sintro’s demeanour. He looked like a fighting man. He was equally pleased when he saw the Nesti massing to the south: the Kestrian knights were preparing to attack right where he wanted them to.
They’re falling for it . . . I think they’re falling for it.
His optimism grew as the pieces began to move exactly as Endus had foreseen.
*
Tabula. That’s what we’re playing here. Cera tried to tell herself that she had to be dispassionate about all this. Victories required sacrifices to achieve victory, they’d lose. She’d read the books, learned the lessons.
But it still made her belly churn
to look to the south, her army’s left: the Kestrian knights and their levies were marching forward, walking their mounts to the edge of arrow- and crossbow bolt-range, so they wouldn’t blow the horses before they hit the enemy lines. She wondered how all those young men felt. Were they frightened rigid, or did their eyes shine with faith? Did they believe in their cause, or were they simply doing their duty? Or was it still just a game to them?
Pawns advance! Knights go forth!
The army was like a great organism, an anthill of movement, a confusion of motion that had an acrid smell of sweat and sickness and the tang of adrenalin and fear. The noise was constant: shouted orders, calls of encouragement, banter between men as they passed each other. Messengers, riders and runners came and went in a blur, men marched by, towards the rise where the Rondians were positioned. She caught her breath at the first volleys of arrows, but they were hers, flying from the Jhafi militia into a clump of distant Harkun horsemen on the left.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked Elena, who was slumped beside her on a young mare, hunched over in the saddle, looking pale and sweaty.
‘I couldn’t persuade Inveglio not to attack on the left,’ she growled. ‘The Kestrians are moving forward, with Jhafi skirmishers screening their left to deter the Harkun from attacking their flank. The main body are marching towards Frikter’s legionaries: see his banners? I don’t know who’s in charge of them now.
‘Meanwhile we’ll hold ground here in the middle, while Aranio pretends to attack on the right, to give Gurvon something else to worry about, so perhaps he won’t reinforce Frikter in time.’
Cera peered northwards, almost a mile away, but it was all a blur, nothing more than dark stains on the dun sand. Knights take mercenaries . . . Please, Pater Sol!
‘The Harkun nomads are returning fire,’ Elena reported. ‘They’re massed to the south of our flank and they’re shooting back at the skirmishers. But we’ve still got a clear run at Frikter’s Argies.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Only if Gyle’s an idiot. Or if his men aren’t obeying him.’
‘That could happen,’ Cera said hopefully. ‘Why don’t we attack with everyone?’
‘Stick to law books, Cera. If we over-commit, we’ve got nothing in reserve if anyone breaks. It’s all about holding your line and not getting flanked, even when attacking. If you get flanked, you start losing men at three or four to one. If your line gets broken, same thing, and then it gets ugly, fast.’
The dark smudge of Kestrian footmen went forward first, advancing at a walk as the arrows began to fall among them. They recoiled at a line of undefended trenches, then poured through, while the men coming in behind began ripping out the stakes the Rondians had laid. It looked all very professional, but it was horribly slow when they were under fire.
‘Why are they only walking?’ Cera asked, appalled.
‘You’ve got to move in a line if you don’t want the lead men to be hacked apart before the rest arrive. So you move in an orderly fashion,’ Elena replied matter-of-factly. ‘Those obstacles slow the advance, give more time for the archers. They’ll reform on the other side of the trenches then you’ll see them charging at speed. But first – oh, shit!’
A blast of flames had erupted from a line of secondary trenches, and even across the distance and above the noise all round them, they could hear the screams of the tiny human torches lurching about blindly. A dismayed cry erupted and the advance stalled, until more men poured through: plumed officers, shouting orders. A robed battle-mage, an Ordo Costruo man, appeared and started dousing a ten-yard-wide area of trench before coming under mage-bolt fire himself. Taking heart, the Rimoni advanced again up the slope, finally reaching the Argundian lines.
The noise rose as Cera jiggled with frightened excitement. For several minutes all she could see was a thick press at the base of the low ridge, slowly bulging at three or four points as the enemy lines gave way and the Rimoni pushed forward, and the Argundians wavered. But the cheers of her men were stifled as the enemy counter-surged, reserves pouring to the breach from behind the ridge the Argundians defended. The distant noise grew more shrill, and then the Kestrians began to retreat down the slope, back to where the next wave were gathering. Further south, a large line of mounted men wheeled towards the Harkun, pennants fluttering on lances.
‘Justiano’s ordered his knights to drive off the Harkun horse-archers,’ Elena reported. She shook her head. ‘They won’t get near them. And he’s making another push against the Argundians.’
More minutes crawled by that must have been hellish in the middle of that press, but from her vantage Cera could only imagine. Every few minutes the front line boiled back or forth as a weak spot was made or found, then it would close. Little waves of momentum built then dissipated, breaking down in the morass of men. Above, six Rondian skiffs were now engaging five Ordo Costruo windcraft – one of the Rondian ones almost immediately burst into flame, and the whole army cheered.
It was almost a half an hour since the engagement began, and it was going well, Cera thought. The Kestrian knights had driven off the Harkun, and the footmen were steadily pushing to the old front line and driving the Rondians back. ‘Are we winning?’
‘It’s too early to say,’ Elena replied. ‘Frikter’s lot aren’t breaking, just getting pushed. It’s almost got to the point where reinforcements might break them.’ She didn’t sound like she thought that would happen, though.
Cera glanced to the north and saw that the Aranio were milling well short of the enemy lines. Clouds of arrows were flying. ‘What’s happening up there?’
‘Not enough,’ Elena muttered. ‘Just archery practise. Aranio is supposed to be advancing, not trading shots.’
Enemy trumpets droned into life, a haunting wail emanating from the southwest, behind the Argundians, and suddenly new banners rose from a point behind the ridgeline, a forest of black and yellow, which poured forward onto Justiano’s left flank. Bursts of lightning shot across the gap between the forces, and gouts of flame.
Elena cursed aloud. ‘Rukka! It’s Adi Paavus’ boys! See the yellow serpent? Gyle’s brought Adi’s boys up from the Krak!’ She swore furiously. ‘And look at the Harkun— They’re wheeling back onto the Kestrian knights – they’ve been hiding their full numbers too.’
Cera clutched at her heart. ‘What’s Justiano doing?’
‘He’s deployed footmen at a fallback position, while trying to counter-charge Adi’s lads. It’s rukking suicide.’ Elena broke off into a coughing fit and almost fell out of the saddle.
The Kestrian knights were indeed on the move: they suddenly kicked into motion, and the ground rippled as the heavy horses lumbered forward, building in momentum as they plunged towards the line of yellow banners. It looked irresistible, until fire and crossbow bolts flew all at once, ripping apart the front riders and cutting deep into those beyond. Cera cried and clutched her stomach as the whole force wavered. Then with a howl, the Harkun blades flashed in the sun and the nomads poured towards the stricken assault. The two forces careered into each other and the Kestrians dissolved.
‘I knew this would rukking happen,’ Elena muttered, then raised her voice. ‘Piero, reinforce the left!’
Piero Inveglio looked increasingly distressed, capering about snapping commands as another flock of runners shot in different directions. One of his aides ran towards her. ‘Please, Lady! Retire to the baggage area!’
Cera glared at the boy until he fled.
Queen to the rear. Never!
Her reserve infantry came to life as the army struggled to respond to the unfolding crisis. This was more frightening even than Forensa, where you couldn’t see more than a few dozen yards. This was panoramic and all the worse for it.
Pater Sol, be with us. Mater Lune, bring confusion to our enemies! It can’t end here – not after all we’ve been through: it can’t!
35
The Last Betrayal
Gods and Daemons
It is intriguing that many of the daemons of the aether have names that can be equated with the names of pagan deities in both continents. The questions raised are obvious.
SAKITA MUBARAK, ORDO COSTRUO, HEBUSALIM, 916
Jekuar, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 930
22nd month of the Moontide
Cera Nesti sipped from her water-flask, trying to quench her parched throat and settle her stomach. Beside her, Elena Anborn was hunched in the saddle, sweating and haggard. A few yards away Comte Piero Inveglio looked little better as he issued orders and missives to the runners, all the while keeping one eye on what was before him. He was forming a new defensive line on the left, sending in reserves to anchor it, to give the Kestrians something to retreat to as they came streaming back from the Rondian lines – they were not quite fleeing, but they were being heavily pursued. The initiative was now clearly held by Gyle’s men.
‘What about the north?’ Cera asked anxiously.
Elena was glaring across the battlefield. ‘Aranio was supposed to attack, but he’s clearly not going to. All he’s done is form a defensive line and let the Harkun pepper him with arrows. Did Piero change his orders, or did he ignore them?’ Her rasping voice couldn’t conceal her tension. ‘The next half hour will decide this.’
A blast of trumpets to the west, in the middle of the Rondian lines, drew their attention back to the centre as the Rondians began to pour over their own barricades in ordered ranks, banners flying. ‘Are they attacking our centre?’
Elena’s expression grew grimmer. ‘Yes, they’re attacking here too.’
Cera’s mind raced. ‘They know something . . . they must do, to feel so confident.’ The sick feeling in her belly congealed. She strained her eyes first north, then south, could see nothing, but still the Rondians came forward, leaving their ridge and fortifications and setting up the charge in full view.