The two sides met with an enormous clatter of wooden hafts as the spearmen shoved, hauled back, and shoved their weapons again, darting eyes searching out a gap or a stumbling man pushed from behind by a comrade. All was a cacophony of yells, grunts of exertion, or cries of pain as each side attempted to force its way through the other. In his eagerness to push forward, Strykar’s horse quickly was out into the front rank of spears. Realizing his exposure, he pulled back on his reins but not before the horse screamed and reared, a spear thrust coming in fast underneath its steel chanfron and taking it in the throat. The beast came down again on its front legs and then sagged forward, crumpling. Strykar swore and pulled his feet out of the stirrups as it fell, rolling out of the saddle and onto the ground. A swordsman grabbed his upper arm and helped lift him as the ranks surged and ebbed around them.
“I’m all right, get back in,” Strykar mumbled as he staggered up, still clutching his sword. His horse, a mount that had seen him across the breadth of the duchy half a dozen times, coughed blood and lay its head down. “Shit!” Strykar stood back as another rank of spearmen passed him, streaming around the dead animal. He swore again and pushed his way forward and into the scrambling mass. He spied a few rondelieri working to give cover to the spearmen with their shields and he waded in to reach them, his sword held high. He saw one of his own jab out with a spear and take a soldier opposite in the mouth, the spear blade ripping his cheek wide open as it continued to pierce throat and neck. The man slumped away only for another to lower his spear and take his place. Two places from where he stood, urging on his men, a sergeant with a pole-arm took a spear thrust in the belly, groaned and collapsed onto his knees.
Strykar reached him, and seeing he was already as good as gone, awkwardly bent down, his gauntleted hands grasping the poor man’s weapon: a six-foot war hammer. Six rondelieri realised that Strykar had now gathered about him in the swirling, clattering press of pole weapons.
“Coronel Strykar!” said one veteran he knew by sight alone. “Stand behind us until we can get you mounted again!”
Strykar looked at them, faces already red-flushed and streaming with sweat even though they had not yet made their dash into the fray. “Come lads, no time for that. We’re going in for the skirmish now.” He hefted the war hammer, spiked at top and rear. “You there! To me, rondelieri!” He gathered a few more of his sword and buckler men as spearmen cursed and filtered around them. “We get in past their spear points and they’re as good as dead where they stand, lads.” He looked forward to see where the heavy mounted men-at-arms of the Scarlet Ring had wheeled after their charge, broken lances lying around the trampled ground, the enemy hedgehog shaken yet still intact. Strykar could see the Scarlets were heading in again to take on the spearmen. That tied up that enemy division he thought. There was a gap of twenty yards between them and the division he faced. If he could run his swordsmen to that flank, he might be able to tear it up from the inside. He would need about forty men.
More rondelieri joined him, the numbers swelling as they massed, still within the spearmen but near the far left edge of the column, ready to make their sprint towards the enemy. Old Gilani pushed his way through, huffing and puffing.
“Coronel, sir, you are doing my work! Should I mount your horse and play the officer?”
“Are you ready to make another run?” asked Strykar, his eyes wide with the lust of battle. “We shall hit them hard in the flank, get inside their spearheads and cut them up nicely until they collapse like dead wood!”
Gilani nodded enthusiastically despite his wheezing chest and Strykar slammed down his visor over his face.
In threes and fours, they ran out. Strykar followed close on his three chosen men. The dash across the field was short but in the time it took them, the Torinians saw what was coming and awkwardly tried to move their spears to protect their flank. Strykar could see glaive men pushing their way through their comrades to move to the flank to defend the formation. There was a crash as the three rondelieri hit the levelled spearpoints with their shields, deflecting them and pushing forward. Strykar was right on their heels and they burst into the midst of the Blue Boar. Swords began to rain down on weapon hafts as the spearmen instinctively drew back, raising their weapons to the vertical to defend themselves. Strykar stepped into a gap and brought down the flat head of his war hammer towards the helm of the spearman before him. The man parried the blow with the haft of his spear but Strykar had already pulled his hammer back and jabbed it forward horizontally, the wicked spike striking the man’s unprotected face. It collapsed inwards like the clay head of a child’s doll. There was a spray of blood and he fell without a sound, stone dead.
From the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of a glaive arcing down and he brought up the studded haft of his war hammer to block it. A rondelieri shield flew up to assist his defence and he deftly used the curved spike on the war hammer to hook the shaft of the glaive and lock it. That gave the rondelieri the opportunity to land an overhead blow upon the man’s head, rending his helm and sending him to the ground, dazed, dying, or dead. Strykar had entered the strange place in his mind when one fought the melee. It was as if time stood still, all energy focussed on what lay beyond the narrow view of his eye slit. Even the sounds around him seemed to diminish as his concentration deepened, his arms moving without conscious effort. Killing what stood in front of him and staying alive was all that mattered. Something he had been long accustomed to.
They had cut their way deep into the formation, more of the rondelieri following them in. The Torinians now found themselves fighting on two fronts and their division was a seething, moving mass, slowly losing its cohesion. The Black Rose spearmen redoubled their efforts, yelling encouragement to each other as they saw their rondelieri comrades cutting through the ranks of the Blue Boar. Strykar now saw a large white standard waving among the halberds a few files beyond; a great charging blue boar was painted upon it. He pushed forward for he would have that ensign and the man’s flag. The thought of slaying Coronel Aretini rushed into his mind even as his war hammer rose and fell. He prayed that the man who above all others he wished to destroy was there, leading the division. A rondelieri next to him let out a cry of pain and groaned, sinking down, a spear thrust in the groin. Strykar lashed out with the top of the hammer, striking the enemy whose blade had done the deed. And then another image flashed into his mind. His wife, Cara. His daughter. Taken from him more than a decade ago by the Blue Boar. Aretini’s men. Maybe Aretini himself.
A sword glanced off his pauldron, sending him off-balance. He recovered, parrying a second blade that came down towards his head. Another blow, this time from behind, brought stars to his eyes, staggering him briefly. But his helm had deflected the blade and he threw himself backwards into his opponent even as he whirled to lash out with the war hammer. A spear shaft shot in towards his belly and he jerked his war hammer to parry the head as it came in. He was exposed now, the other rondelieri having either fallen back or fallen down. For the first time, he scanned the faces in front of him, full of intent, curses on their lips, eyes wide in the excitement of battle; ugly in their rage. Some looked terrified but others had teeth clenched in grim determination. Strykar saw one bearded halberdier smiling.
“Strykar!” It was his sergeant, Gilani, sidling up to him and holding his shield out to defend them both. Behind followed half a dozen swordsmen, shield edge to shield edge. “Where the hell do you think you’re going!” he shouted as a halberd glanced off his shield with a loud ring. “Get behind me!”
Strykar took a deep breath realizing his foolhardiness at his one-man drive to reach the enemy standard. He would be cut down in minutes. He dodged a thrust, lashed out with his hammer spike and fell back behind the rondelieri shields. The banner of the Blue Boar seemed to drift further away, still waving, antagonizing him. They began back-pedalling now, beating off the fall of glaive, halberd and spear as they tried to break free of the enemy formation.
A lo
ud screech like the cry of a great bird of prey, but louder than any bird Strykar had ever heard, rent the air. A second cry followed quickly, just as urgent and shrill. Trumpets sounded from somewhere deep in the enemy formation and instantly Strykar felt the push of spear lessen and become hesitant. Something was happening further back and the Blue Boar was pausing.
Strykar and his band found themselves clear of the throng, between both sides in the churned-up field. He hooked a thumb under his visor and wrenched it up. He was nearly winded though it had been but a few minutes of melee. A screech rolled across the field again, so loud that he flinched. He looked to see the top of some enormous siege engine moving slowly through the army. Then, with disbelief, he realized it was something else entirely. It was not a wooden tower, it was alive. Tall as a house, it was moving through the lines, the Blue Boar giving way to either side as it made its steady progress to the front.
“Sweet God!” said Gilani softly. Strykar saw now what it was that advanced towards the Black Rose. It was a griffon, the royal beast of Valdur. It had the head, wings and front claws of an eagle and the body and tail of a lion. Its proportions were enormous: the length of a merchant’s cog and as high as the mast. The long tail whipped and twitched above the soldiers like that of an irritated cat. Strykar found his feet frozen where he stood. Such a thing had never been seen in his time except in the pages of a manuscript. From behind, a murmur of disquiet floated to his ears from the ranks of the Black Rose. Strykar now saw that a second griffon was following in the path of the first, its head tossing, beak clacking in anticipation. Muscles rippled along its flanks of shaggy, dark brown fur. The lead beast screeched again, wings spreading wide. The Blue Boar soldiers in the path of the creatures now broke and peeled away, some dropping their unwieldy poles, others not sure whether the beasts were friend or foe.
“Quick, back to the lines!” Strykar said, shaking a glaze-eyed Gilani from his stupor. The small band folded back into the ranks of the Black Rose, practically unheeded since every eye was turned upwards to what now faced them. The griffons stood side by side, proud and magnificent as their huge dark eyes scanned the troops arrayed before them. Two figures on horseback slowly made their way forward stopping in between the giant beasts. One was in full white harness, a ducal coronet sitting upon the brow of his polished helm. The other was a woman, her long flowing blonde hair cascading down upon a silver breastplate. She rode as a man, firmly in her high-backed saddle—every inch a soldier in spite of her sex. Strykar knew she could only be Lucinda della Rovera and that the situation was now far, far worse than he could have imagined but a few hours ago.
An unreal silence fell across both armies as the fighting ceased—totally. The front rank of the Black Rose had now folded back on itself, a concave row of spears and glaives. The woman’s voice rose up, clear, confident and commanding.
“You stand in rebellion to the rightful king of Valdur! Ursino, Duke of Torinia!” She raised a gloved hand towards the Duke. “You have seen the Hand of Ursula before you! Now you see the favour of the immortal throne of Valdur itself—these royal beasts!” She raised both arms, gesturing to the creatures that towered over her either side.
Ursino’s horse advanced a few feet. “I am your rightful king!” he shouted “Lay down your arms! Join me and your lives will be spared!”
Strykar’s gauntleted hands tightened on the haft of his war hammer. He was unhorsed, with no way of getting to the rear to bring word to Malvolio or the Scarlet Ring. Around him stood hundreds of infantry—confused, frightened, and liable to break and run at any moment. He could only pray that one of the trumpeters had galloped back to tell what was happening. Delay would be the end of them all. He watched the Lady della Rovera sitting high in the saddle, back bolt upright. Already playing the new queen. Brother Acquel’s warning rang in his ears, a warning he had taken only half seriously. The truth of the monk’s words was now terribly obvious.
Two crossbow bolts flew across the distance between the armies. Fired by the Black Rose. One struck the foreleg of one of the griffons while the other shot past the duke’s shoulder. An instant later the world fell apart as the griffons cried out simultaneously, a horrific deafening screech of rage. They leapt forward into the front ranks of the Black Rose, a hundred yards from where Strykar stood, and swept men away like so much standing straw. Their giant talons raked across half a dozen soldiers in one swipe, while the huge beaks darted down to snatch and crush armoured men and toss them through the air. Long tails, as thick as the chains of Palestro, cleared swathes of soldiers with every lash, sending men and spears sprawling. Strykar felt his mouth gape as he watched in horror. One of the griffons reared up, golden wings spread, talons clawing the air in triumph. It came down again, crushing a dozen men as it hit the ground. Strykar felt the earth tremble under his feet. The men in the ranks further back now turned and ran. Around him, he heard the sound of dropped weapons and yells as men headed for the rear.
He turned at a new sound to see hundreds of horsemen now cantering in towards him from the far left flank. His heart lifted. Surely it was the rearguard of cavalry of the Scarlets making a new attack. The ground thundered with their arrival but as they drew near, he now saw their blue plumed helms and tabards. A large square battle standard whipped furiously from its staff, carried by a man-at-arms in jet plate armour. The flag of the Duke of Milvorna. The first wave swept past him and he raised his war hammer to deflect a lance aimed at his chest. The force of contact as he parried knocked him backwards. A second horseman’s lance missed him by a hair’s breadth, the rider sailing past without slowing. The remains of the Black Rose now bunched up, spears out, a roiling mass. The Milvornan cavalry hit them hard, recoiled, and wheeled away to trot off for another pass. Strykar fended off an axe-wielding horseman, struck him with his hammer and then yanked him from the saddle with the spike.
All around was chaos: screams and the cries of the griffons, the frantic neighing of terrified horses. The Milvornan he had struck was hanging upside down, one foot stuck in his stirrup, and struggling to reach up to his saddle. Strykar hauled back and gave him a tremendous blow to the helm, crushing it and killing the man instantly. He leaned against the neck of the prancing horse, desperate to free the man’s boot from the stirrup. It would not budge. He cursed and then flinched as he felt another cavalryman thunder past him. At last, he freed the dead man’s foot and threw the leg away as he reached up for the reins. Before he could raise his own boot to the stirrup, he felt his whole body lift with a crash. He was hurled to the ground, sharp pain surging through his shoulder. He rolled over onto his chest, armour jangling, and tried to push himself up. As he raised his head, blue sky came into view. At the edge of his vision, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the russet and black griffons rearing high. Pulling himself up onto his knees, he found he could not lift his arm: the last blow had dented his pauldron so badly it had jammed into his breastplate. He watched dumbly—as if in a dream—as a Milvornan nobleman trotted towards him. The swing of the sword was never seen. He felt the shock through his helm—a moment of roaring, ringing pain—and then he knew no more.
Fifteen
DANAMIS LEANED OVER the larboard rail and scanned the wide piazza of Perusia’s harbour. To a new arrival, all might have seemed as it should be: merchants and their goods-laden carts making their way up into the city; seamen congregating at the row of slant-roofed taverns that lined the far side; fishermen stacking their willow baskets near the docks of the quay. Even so, Danamis could tell that a dark, uncertain mood hung over the seafront. It was quieter than at any time he had visited. The boisterous banter and rowdiness had evaporated leaving a flat, sullen stink to the place. Far fewer people and no laughter, no joy. And he had never seen so few vessels sitting at the docks as now. Perusia was a city on the edge of quiet panic, poised for the drop of the axe.
He could hear his men remarking similar thoughts as they hoisted a large triangular sail to serve as an awning over their post at the foot
of the gangplank. Danamis had ordered a dozen swordsmen and archers to guard the ship from the quayside. He wasn’t taking any chances with this visit as the last had proved so memorable. The Royal Grace sat lashed alongside his starboard, a walkway established so that men could cross quickly between the two vessels. And tied just astern of the Vendetta lay the unlucky royal galley they had recaptured from its mutineers. These unfortunate men sat chained and roped to their benches, overseen by a prize crew Danamis had set on-board. Their fate would be in the hands of Cressida’s royal guard. He doubted very much that mercy would be on the cards for them. Captain Alandris’s rotting head had been wrapped in a piece of oilcloth and was bobbing in a small wine cask ready to deliver up to the palace should they wish to give it a proper burial. Bad business all around he thought as he turned to meet Captain Bassinio who had just bounded down to the main deck from across the Royal Grace.
“Hell of a welcome so far, eh Nico? When do you intend to go up to the castle? I’d just as soon be rid of that galley scum as soon as we can.” He wiped the sleeve of his doublet across his brow and burn-scarred cheek and neck, a lasting souvenir of his defeat aboard the Salamander against the mutinous Captain Tetch.
“I go up there today,” Danamis replied. “I’ll take a dozen men as an escort—you choose the sharpest among the soldiers. Skilled with a blade in a tight situation.” He glanced up to the quarterdeck and to Citala who stood by the taffrail looking down at him. He flashed her a smile and nodded. “The merfolk stay here though. At least for now. Until I find out what is happening is Perusia. Until...” He gave Bassinio a knowing look. “Until I find out what Cressida has in mind for me.”
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