“Our men and women will divide into three groups. The first will join me in charging the Ruskalder rear. The second will hold back and observe the results of the charge, then ride to attack the left-hand flank. Once we engage the Ruskalder with the charge, Regan, Imogen, and Darian will make passes at the Ruskalder front with javelins to give our allies a bit of help, then return and engage with sabers; let’s try to drive the bastards in and back. Questions? Then take word to your warriors, and may heaven bless the Kirkellan today.”
Imogen rode back to her company with the two other captains of her formation. Regan was an old friend who’d taught Imogen to throw a javelin; Imogen didn’t know Darian well, but he was a well-respected fighter in his early forties who’d been fighting Ruskalder long before Imogen was born. Now he said, “I think we should break the javelin passes down further, say a troop at a time? That way we’re not stepping on each other’s hooves.”
“I agree,” Regan said. “You, me, then Imogen?”
“I was thinking Imogen should go first.”
“Me?” Imogen exclaimed. “I’ve never led a pass before.”
“No better time to learn,” Darian said. “But in truth the first pass is the easiest. Later passes, you have to judge which way to direct your efforts into a crowd that’s been thrown into confusion by the first pass. And it might turn out we only need five or six javelin passes before we switch to sabers. I’ll signal the switch, then it’s every company for itself, yes?”
Imogen and Regan nodded. Darian held out his hand, and the other two took it in a three-way grip. “Confusion to the enemy,” Darian said with a grin.
Imogen returned to her company and explained the strategies to Rhion and Fionna, who set about separating the troops so they’d be ready for their ride. The warriors around her donned their helmets and their gauntlets, elbow-length gloves with soft, sturdy cloth hands and hardened leather arm guards, worn on the left arm for protection from enemy swords when it came time for the thrust and parry of saber work. Imogen’s gauntlet had been her father’s once, and it fit a little too tightly, but she thought of it as her talisman whenever she went into battle. Behind them, Darian and Regan’s companies formed up into their own troops, four blocks of fifty-five warriors each. Imogen petted Victory, who tossed her head, as ready to ride out as Imogen was. That was the signal—no, just a stray breeze. Surely it was past time to move out. There. Imogen raised her gauntleted left hand and signaled, and behind her, over three hundred Kirkellan warriors and their formidable horses followed where she led.
It took them about ten minutes to cover the distance to the battlefield. They heard the cries of war long before they saw the warriors. A brisk, light wind blew the sounds of battle to them, shouts and shrieks and the dull metallic sounds of swords clashing that faded and then became louder at the wind’s whim. The banner signaled a halt well before the crest of the rise, and the Warleader went forward to survey the ground. He nodded, as if he liked what he saw, then returned, and the banner gave the signal for positions.
Imogen loosened her first javelin in its stirrup. Her palm was damp; she wiped it on Victory’s flank, her own personal battle ritual. The roughened surface of the javelin’s haft would keep it from sliding with sweat, though Imogen knew from experience that once she touched Victory’s broad flank, her nerves disappeared, replaced with a hot passion that would fill her veins with the joy of battle. She gave the signal to assume positions for the first run, and looked back to watch the troops separate and spread in preparation for their run. Then she gave the signal to advance.
They were behind the Ruskalder, probably farther behind than Kernan had wanted, but it was more important they be behind than that they be close. Then she realized being too far behind put her company, and Darian’s and Regan’s, far out of position. Without thinking, she gestured for the companies to move parallel to the rise and south, where they’d be able to strike their assigned position without having to run hard to get there.
Hooves sounded beside her. “What are you doing?” Darian asked. Imogen pointed to the battlefield. Darian said, “Hmm,” then, “Well done. Let’s stop about three hundred feet from here.” Imogen nodded, but her heart was pounding. Her first real order as a captain, and she’d gotten it right.
They stopped at the appointed position and Imogen surveyed the field. She couldn’t tell how the battle was going. All her experience with war had been as a fighter within a tiermatha, or a troop of four tiermathas, against similarly small bands of Ruskalder. But it was obvious even from this distance the Ruskalder far outnumbered the Tremontanans. Imogen grinned with glee. The Ruskalder had no idea they were coming. They were going to sweep down behind them—
—and speaking of sweeping, the banner went over the rise and a wave of Kirkellan war horses followed it, slowly at first, then gaining speed until they were about a hundred paces from the Ruskalder warriors, only a few of whom realized what was happening. A thousand throats roared defiance, and the Kirkellan crashed into the Ruskalder rear line and flowed over it like a boiling river. Riders nearer the rear of the charge turned aside to attack the line in each direction, and the tone of the battle sounded a higher, more terrified note.
Imogen was so enthralled with watching the charge she almost forgot she had a charge of her own to lead. She cried out to Victory, who took the gentle slope eagerly, straining at the bit to have her turn in the battle. Imogen risked a glance over her shoulder; the troop streamed out behind her in perfect order, the spacing between them precise, and she felt that hot flood of joy fill her, the horse beneath her, the wind in her face, the pounding contact that joined her and Victory to the earth. She took the javelin in her hand and leaned to guide Victory in a curve just as if they were on the track, and there was her target, and she threw and saw her javelin take the Ruskalder in the belly. Then she was away, making a long sloping curve that would bring her around again for another run. At the top of the curve, she saw Darian’s second troop, and beyond them a mass of devastation that bristled with Kirkellan javelins. Darian’s first troop had already pushed the Ruskalder back, and as Imogen watched, the line collapsed and fled, pursued by Tremontanan soldiers shouting their own defiance at the foe.
Imogen pulled Victory up and signaled to her troops to do the same. Soon Darian arrived, breathing heavily, and said, “That was quicker than I expected. Split into troops and let’s go for containment. Watch out for the Tremontanans, though, let’s try not to kill our allies.”
Imogen nodded, and looked around for Rhion and Fionna. “Is that normal?” she asked as the two approached. “Four runs, no injuries on our side, and they flee? I hate the Ruskalder, but they’re not cowards.”
“They were being pressed on two sides, and we never came close enough to them for them to strike,” Rhion said. “But if you’re eager to be injured, you can join us in making a drive for the center.”
Imogen surveyed the field. Now that she was closer and had a better idea of what to look for, she could see that even though the Ruskalder western flank had collapsed, the fighting was still strong in the center and on the east. Far on the eastern flank, she saw horsemen. “We’ll circle around and help our brothers and sisters,” she said.
Rhion and Fionna shielded their eyes. “They look like they’re flagging,” Fionna said. “Let’s give them some relief.”
Re-formed into troops, they set out at a canter, making a wide loop around the fighting so as not to interfere with their allies. They passed a company of riflemen and women, their jobs done, who cheered them as they passed. Near the center of the field, a couple of tents were set up far back from the fighting, and the King’s banner flew above one of them. Imogen saw several figures looking out over the field, one of them holding something that glinted in the sunlight. A runner dashed away from the tents only to pull up sharply as Imogen’s company passed between him and the battle. Imogen waved a closed-fist salute at the men, but didn’t have time to see if it was returned, because they were com
ing up on the eastern flank.
The noise of swords clashing and the screams of the dying were almost deafening. There, that woman had to be the captain, shouting orders from a position where she could observe the movement of battle. Imogen reined Victory in next to her. “Let us take your place!” she shouted. “We’ll give you time to rest!”
The woman looked at her with dull, tired eyes. It took Imogen a moment to realize she’d spoken in Kirkellish, and she repeated herself in Tremontanan and watched the eyes glimmer with understanding. “They’re pressing us hard!” she shouted, leaning close to Imogen, “and I’m afraid if we withdraw we’ll just pull them after us.”
“Leave me to take care of it,” Imogen shouted back, and gave the signal to break all the troops into their individual tiermathas. Then she dragged on Victory’s reins until the horse rose heavily on her hind legs, and Imogen drew her saber and brandished it in a narrow circle: the universal sign for the tiermathas to attack independently.
A dozen tiermathas dove at the line, focusing their efforts on the places where the light cavalry were engaged with the enemy. With their longer, straight sabers, they used their superior weight to thrust at the Ruskalder, hitting less frequently than the light cavalry’s curved blades with their slashing attacks, but doing more lethal damage. The cavalry captain’s aide pulled out a horn and blew a short passage of notes, and the Tremontanan cavalry pulled back as the Kirkellan warriors filled the gaps.
Imogen waited only long enough to see the Tremontanans return behind the line to safety before waving her own tiermatha to take position along the furthest eastern flank and let fly with the javelins, then make one last run before their javelins were gone and they could go sword to saber with their long-time enemy.
This was the part Imogen loved. She knew the javelins were crucial, had seen them break a Ruskalder warband in minutes, but there was nothing to compare with feeling steel connect with steel to send a jolt through your bones and teeth into your brain. She thrust, and parried and thrust again, and lost her helmet, and shouted at the Ruskalder, who shouted back at her. Victory screamed fury at them, dancing to keep them away from the foe, snapping at anyone who came to close to her. Then she screamed a different note, and Imogen saw dark blood dripping down her horse’s foreleg, and the battle fury took her. It was tempting, at those times, to leap off Victory’s back and engage the Ruskalder face to face, but she brought Victory around and shoved and kicked her way toward Dorenna, who was covered in blood that was almost certainly not her own, and waved wildly for the tiermatha to form up.
Some of them wouldn’t see her, but enough of them came, Kionnal, Saevonna, Revalan, that they could form a line and push the Ruskalder back, one step at a time. Kionnal, faster than anyone could follow. Revalan, bigger than Imogen and heavier, prone to swinging instead of thrusting but capable of taking off someone’s arm, or head, with that swing. Saevonna, cold and methodical, fond of taking the enemy in the throat. And Dorenna…it was better not to watch Dorenna in battle at all.
Their line stretched as they pushed their way forward, keeping the Ruskalder from reaching them from behind. Imogen, at the eastern end, was surprised to find another cavalryman there, a Tremontanan soldier. “They’re falling back, ma’am,” he shouted, and Imogen wiped sweat and blood from her eyes—when had she been hit in the head?—and realized he was right. She signaled again, and shouted, and her tiermatha grouped up, most of them, anyway. Dorenna dropped the dead Ruskalder whose throat she’d just slit and shouted, “Did they give up, the cowards?”
Imogen shielded her eyes and then wiped more blood off her forehead. Really, this wound was annoying. “The Army’s in pursuit,” she said. “I think we won.”
The cavalryman said, “Ma’am, you’re wounded.” Imogen looked at him and realized he wasn’t much younger than she. What did he see in her that rated a “ma’am”?
“It is nothing,” she said. “I need to gather my people.”
They’d lost a few riders, not many, but the Kirkellan were few enough in number to feel every loss. None of Imogen’s tiermatha had been killed, though most were injured, and it turned out some of the blood on Dorenna was hers; a lucky slash had cut deep into her left shoulder and it required stitches. Imogen’s scalp wound was long and shallow and she couldn’t remember encountering anyone tall enough to have given it to her, but once it was bandaged she didn’t care.
After her wound was tended to, she went about finding the rest of her company, all but the twenty-seven who weren’t coming back and the twelve horses who’d gone down under their riders. She led them to a spot half a mile from the battlefield where they made camp with the rest of the Kirkellan, next to the much larger Tremontanan camp, and built up a fire in the middle of the day and told stories of their lost friends, human and equine alike.
Imogen pillowed her head on her crossed hands, lay back and looked up at the sky. White puffs of clouds drifted past. Her muscles relaxed, leaving her drowsy. They’d won. They hadn’t been destroyed. Mother could have her treaty with the King of Tremontane and Imogen could have…what? Would the Ruskalder come after them next? Hrovald wasn’t going to forget how she’d humiliated him. Oh, how she wished she’d come face to face with him today. Mother was right; she should have killed him. How many Tremontanan soldiers had died today? How many Ruskalder? How many of them were dead by her hand? She thought of Anneke, and suddenly the idea of killing Ruskalder didn’t satisfy her.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Imogen of the Kirkellan,” someone said in Tremontanese. Imogen opened eyes she didn’t remember closing.
“Imogen, she said your name,” Areli said, jabbing her with a sharp finger.
“Ow,” said Imogen. She sat up. “I am Imogen,” she said in Tremontanese.
The speaker was a young woman in what Imogen guessed was royal livery, dark blue and silver with the crest Imogen had seen on the second flag flying over the King’s tent. “Madam, the King requests your presence.”
Imogen cast her eye on her grimy, blood-spattered clothing, felt the bandage wrapped around her head that was probably already dirty, and reflected that the King was going to think scruffiness was her permanent state. She heaved herself to her feet. “All right,” she said, and let the young woman lead her away.
She eyed her escort, who was short and blond, and that reminded her of something. “Where is the Princess Elspeth?” she asked.
“She went south three days ago, madam, she and Owen Hunter. The King married them the day before that.”
“Oh.” They were married? Not that she thought Owen was stupid enough to think less of Elspeth for having been raped, but was she really that emotionally recovered yet? A pang of regret struck her. She hadn’t been able to say goodbye to her friend. Well, she could ask the King to pass along her good wishes, probably. Not that it was the same.
They’d moved the King’s tent away from the battlefield and set it once again in the middle of the Tremontanan camp. This time, he was alone inside, seated at a desk writing on a paper in front of him. He looked up when she entered, and his smile turned to concern. “You’re wounded. Let me call the camp healer for you.”
“It is nothing large. Just much blood. Head wounds bleed.”
“I’ve heard that. Please, sit down.” He shut his inkwell and laid down his pen. “Your company came to the aid of our cavalry today,” he said. “I saw you wave.”
“You know that was I—it is to say, me?”
“No one else looks like you. Thank you. The cavalry commander tells me they were about to let that flank collapse, and we would have shored it up in time, but not without much loss of life. So—thank you.”
Imogen shrugged. “It is what the allies do. Someday it will be you come to our aid.”
“I hope it never comes to that, but I assure you we will.” The King tapped the paper in front of him. “I’m making notes for meeting with your mother later. I know you don’t do the negotiating, but do you think this treaty is something she
wants?”
“I think so. The matrian is…practical. She wants no war with Ruskald. She prefer—prefers we have allies against them than to ally with them again.”
“Not that Hrovald would want an alliance with you now.”
“Hrovald would more like to have my head on a stick, I think.”
The King laughed. “Probably. So, what will you do now?”
Imogen shrugged. “Go home. Train, ride Victory, train again.”
“Is that—excuse me if this is personal—but is that what you always wanted to do?”
“Yes. No. I want to be Warleader. Someday it is what I will do. But that is far in the distance—in the future.”
“I think you’re well suited for it.”
They both fell silent. Imogen wasn’t sure what else to say to a King, especially one who wasn’t a warrior. “Do you not fight?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I am not allowed to fight,” he said. “Endangering myself endangers the Crown. And with just me and Elspeth…the North family has been small for many years now.”
“I hear Owen and Elspeth are married.”
“Yes. Four days ago. Elspeth asked me to say goodbye to you, and thanks. You have been the best of friends to her.”
“I could not protect her from everything. I am sorry.”
“That’s not a guilt you should bear. It’s all on Hesketh’s head, and he’s paid for it with his life.”
“Is Elspeth….” She wasn’t sure how frank Tremontanans were about sex, given Elspeth’s extreme reaction and apparent inability to even say the word. “Is she entirely recovered yet?”
“I don’t know.” He ran his hand through his hair, disordering it somewhat. “When Owen came to me to ask if I’d marry them immediately, I told him I thought it was a bad idea. He said—did Elspeth tell you they were meant to marry at Wintersmeet? So their marriage was already several months delayed. Owen wanted it to be very clear his feelings for her weren’t changed by what happened, as a reassurance to her, and he felt waiting to marry for any reason would make her feel the delay was her fault. He also said they’d discussed things and he’d told Elspeth he wasn’t going to push her into anything she wasn’t ready for—that sex would be her decision. So they’re married, and Elspeth will see the palace healer when they arrive home, and I trust the two of them to work it out. Whatever that ultimately means.”
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