King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  Hinckdan had not been able to learn anything as to the numbers of compelled natives within the Sarikarian fortress. All he knew for certain was that Rogedoth was pleased with what was taking place there and was preparing a trip to claim the throne of Sarikar. King Loran believed there to be as many as one thousand pales within his fortress, and so Wilek relied on those numbers when planning his assault.

  The enemy would have the advantage, defending from a fortress while the Armanians attacked from the plain, but Wilek felt his seasoned force would quickly subdue the untrained natives, compelled or not.

  Wilek had five squadrons of four hundred men each. Sixteen hundred were divided into infantry units. The final four hundred were archers, who had been divided and positioned on each flank.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of New Sarikar, the midday sun hung high overhead. Not a cloud graced the bright blue sky, and the heat of the day combined with the bronze armor Wilek wore had him in a sweat before he had even unsheathed his sword.

  The impressive fortress sat at the top of a large hill. Made of squared, hand-hewn beams, the castle keep was a four-level timber towerhouse surrounded by a palisade of thick hewn logs, sharpened to points on top and anchored at intervals by watchtowers.

  They would use the ladders to scale the palisade and open the doors from the inside. Then they would pour into the fortress like ants and liberate King Loran and his family.

  An envoy rode up to the fortress, carrying a missive demanding the pales surrender. It would likely be ignored, but Wilek preferred to always offer negotiations of peace before engaging in war.

  The envoy had nearly reached the wood plank doors when two pales appeared at the top of the wall and threw down several objects.

  Wilek’s heart sank. “You don’t think . . .”

  “Looked like heads to me,” Rayim said.

  One of the pales raised a bow and fired an arrow at the envoy. He missed completely, but the Armanian soldiers cried out, indignant. Wilek was just about to ask Rayim his opinion when the front squadron of the left wing attacked prematurely.

  “Call them back!” Rayim yelled.

  But it was too late. The palisade doors yawned open, and clusters of pale warriors charged out, screaming and brandishing spears.

  “Go, go!” came Rayim’s order, and the entire Armanian first line rushed forward to meet the enemy.

  Wilek had never experienced a battle like this, watching from a distance. He didn’t like the way it made him feel incompetent. The men had their orders, but clearly men would sometimes do as they pleased.

  The infantry’s bronze blades cut easily through the pales wielding spears. The bowmen were the real danger, though as Hinckdan had said, they were not the best shots. The Armanian army advanced. On the right a ladder went up. Men began to climb.

  The smell of smoke caught Wilek’s attention. “Is something on fire?” he yelled to Rayim.

  “There.” Rayim pointed to a plume of gray smoke rising up on the front right. “The pales are setting the grass on fire. All across the front line.”

  The fire grew swiftly, separating the infantry from the officers and reserves and forcing the latter half back a short distance. The flames devoured the dry grass and left a choking cloud of smoke hanging over the battlefield. This greatly impeded the infantry efforts to enter the fortress. Not only that, it blocked Wilek’s view of his men.

  Rayim growled. “I don’t like this.”

  “I cannot see the head of my own horse,” Wilek said.

  “The men won’t be able to fight in that heat, heavily armored as they are,” Rayim said. “I’m tempted to call a retreat until this smoke dies down.”

  The fire greatly increased the already hot temperature. Wilek was tempted to remove his helmet just to get a clear breath. His health had improved since discovering the poison, but too much physical activity sometimes made breathing difficult.

  “Behind us!” Novan yelled.

  Wilek turned Foxaro to face the distant forest, but Novan’s warning had come too late. An army of giants had hemmed them in from behind and set upon their reserves, the two groups already in combat.

  “Arman, no.” Hinckdan had said only a few giants had been compelled by Fonu, and King Loran had not mentioned giants at all. They must have snuck out of the fortress when the smoke was thickest and launched their counterattack from the rear. “We must retreat,” Wilek said.

  “Retreat!” Rayim screamed.

  Those in between the two battles scattered, but by now the giants had launched a full assault around the perimeter, engaging the Armanian forces in a fierce fight. As the giants surged forward, Kinsman soldiers crumpled like sheep against a herd of fang cats.

  These were the first giants Wilek had seen. Unlike the pales, the giants wielded stone axes that could cut down a Kinsman soldier in one swing.

  “We must go, Your Highness,” Rayim yelled, gesturing for Wilek to ride before him.

  Novan led the way, and Wilek followed. They rode through the calm eye of the storm as two battles raged around them. Giants were pouring out of the fortress now, decimating the infantry on the front lines. Men fled for the trees, but the giants had formed a ring around the battlefield. The Kinsman soldiers were surrounded on all sides, and none of them knew enough about this enemy to fight well.

  They were trapped.

  Rogedoth had tricked them. And now they would all of them die.

  Novan bellowed a war cry and urged his mount into a sprint. Wilek kept on his tail. The giants did not carry shields but stood shoulder to shoulder, swinging their axes like scythes.

  Novan’s horse broke between two giants. He cut his sword into the neck of the giant on his right, holding his shield tight against his left side. The giant on his left hacked his axe into the flank of Novan’s horse, and it fell.

  Foxaro reared up. Wilek held tight to the horse’s mane, but a force struck his left side and knocked him off the animal. He hit the ground hard, losing his breath and his shield. He scrambled to his feet and drew his blade.

  “Go for the legs!” Rayim yelled from somewhere nearby.

  Wilek ducked as an axe whirled overhead. He slashed his sword across a giant’s thick calves. A blade clipped his shoulder from behind, the sharp pain making Wilek stumble. He landed in a crouch and scrambled behind the giant, who wore thick fur boots that protected his ankles. Wilek cut the backs of the giant’s knees, then drew a knife from his belt and stabbed another giant in the lower back, losing the knife as the giant wheeled around.

  Wilek darted out of his attacker’s path but felt pain in his shin as the axe’s blade nicked him. They were so tightly surrounded that there was no room to safely step back. Wilek had three more knives on him, though, and put them to good use as he cut down the enemy with slashes and stabs. All around him men grunted and cursed, swiping and lancing as they were able. The strange rat birds Trevn had told him about soared over the battle like a swarm of gnats, occasionally diving in to nip at the entrails of the dead.

  Only when enough bodies lay motionless on the bloodstained grass did the Kinsman soldiers have a chance to fight back with any effectiveness. Wilek found an abandoned shield and went after the giants with all his skill as a swordsman. His shoulder and shin stung and were bleeding badly, but he ignored them. Over and over his blade pierced through leather and into flesh until the bronze had bent so baldly he discarded the blade and claimed a straighter one from the ground. Hemmed in on all sides, Wilek’s men perished, often in agony. The giants killed the Kinsman soldiers five to one. What a disaster. Heat, fire, dust, and an unknown enemy were too much of an obstacle to surmount.

  The giants were far more brutal and aggressive than the Kinsman soldiers. It reminded Wilek of the stories of troops fighting yeetta warriors during the Centenary War. The only wisdom he could recall in defeating such foes were the sword drills to sever shard clubs in two. The handles on the giant’s axes were twice as thick, however, and would not break under such ta
ctics. The giant’s size, weapons, and numbers were sickeningly effective. Wilek wished for help. Rain. Mercy. A chance to retreat. A moment to catch his breath. But wishing for miracles would do no good.

  Or maybe it would.

  Arman, have mercy on us. Spare Armania. Let my men escape to defend your people another day.

  Wilek crouched as an axe slashed toward his chest. He stabbed the giant in the side, losing his sword. Beyond the collapsing giant, he saw another giant backhand Rayim and send the man sprawling. Wilek retrieved yet another sword from the trampled grass and lunged toward his friend, intent on offering a hand up, when a trilling cry tore through the battle. In the distance another army of giants sprinted toward them.

  Horror washed over Wilek. What remained of his army would be slaughtered now.

  But these new giants did not attack the Kinsman fighters. Instead, they engaged the giants. They were somewhat shorter than the original giants and wore red paint smeared over their faces.

  Rayim was back on his feet, sword in hand. “Get the king out of here!” he bellowed.

  Novan ran up to Wilek from the left, grabbed his arm, and dragged him away. They raced toward the tree line, leaving the bodies of their comrades on the battlefield. How many had died? Wilek’s gaze swept the field ahead, trying to quickly count the number of men fleeing the battle. Seven, twelve, fifteen, twenty-two . . . Far too few.

  Novan somehow found Foxaro. Wilek sheathed his new sword, and Novan hoisted Wilek up into the saddle, then climbed on behind. Foxaro sped away, carrying them over the field and toward the forest.

  It had all gone so very wrong. Rogedoth had tricked them, had likely sent shadir to deceive Loran’s prophets. And this second group of giants fighting alongside Wilek’s men. What did it mean?

  Wilek reached the forest and slowed the animal, weaving around trees and back toward their camp. He caught sight of their blue military tents to his right and steered the horse that way.

  A woman screamed. Wilek slowed the horse to listen. Men laughing, sounds of struggle, the occasional outburst of a tortured woman or a man in pain.

  He stopped Foxaro behind a thick patch of bushes. He and Novan dismounted, and Novan tied the horse to a tree.

  “Anyone who would attack defenseless women and servants deserves to die,” Novan said.

  “We shall take care of that,” Wilek said.

  “You should remain here, Your Highness.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Your safety, of course.”

  “What if someone should come upon me here? No, Novan. We go together.”

  Novan nodded once and crept around the bushes. Wilek went behind, his gaze roving over Novan’s shoulder.

  Their camp was under siege. Giants, pales, and Kinsman pirates were carrying furniture and supplies from the tents and loading it all into massive carts. Wilek caught sight of several dead men upon the ground. By their attire, all were servants. A group of ten or so maids were huddled together, half of them sobbing, nearly all of them wounded. Swollen eyes, cheeks, and lips. He recognized Tulay and Yoana, Miss Onika’s honor maidens. Clearly Wilek and Novan had missed the worst of what had happened here, but where was the prophetess?

  “Get going!” a man screamed.

  There came a clank of metal against wood. A hiss of an animal.

  “Kill the foul critter,” a man yelled.

  “It’s too quick,” said a second.

  “Look there,” Novan whispered, pointing at one of the carts.

  Inside, Miss Onika and Dendrick sat bound and gagged. A pirate stomped around the end, sword swinging wildly after an animal. Rustian, Miss Onika’s dune cat. He sank to his belly and slithered under the cart.

  “Aw, he’s under the cart again,” said the second man.

  “Leave him be and help me with this trunk,” said the first.

  The second pirate kicked the side of the cart. “I hope we run you over, you crazy cat.” He spat on the ground, then circled the cart to join his comrade.

  “I’ll distract the pirates,” Wilek said. “You rescue Miss Onika and Dendrick.”

  “Absolutely not,” Novan said.

  “We can’t leave them.”

  “I don’t intend to. But I will distract the pirates, Your Highness. You get the prisoners back here. If I am killed, ride for Armanguard.”

  “It would be better if we attacked them together,” Wilek said.

  “That will take too long. We have only a moment of surprise. You need to free Miss Onika and Dendrick before reinforcements come.”

  Wilek didn’t like it, but Novan’s plan was the best to ensure that the prisoners would be freed. They waited until the pirates were lugging the trunk toward the cart, then sprinted upon them.

  Novan killed one of the men easily. Wilek rushed past him and leapt into the back of the cart. Dendrick’s eyes widened, and he struggled to his feet as Wilek drew his sword and sliced through the ropes binding Miss Onika’s wrists.

  “Come quietly, Miss Onika,” he said. “Your rescue has arrived.”

  “Rosâr Wilek?” She frowned, as if she’d been expecting someone else.

  Shouts and the clash of weapons behind him increased his speed. He cut Dendrick’s bonds next, then both men helped Miss Onika to her feet and out of the cart. Novan was fighting two other pirates now. The first lay on the ground near the cart.

  “Take her to the other side of those bushes,” Wilek told Dendrick, pointing. “Foxaro is tied there. The two of you ride for Armanguard.”

  “You know I cannot leave you, Your Highness,” Dendrick said.

  “Novan will protect me, Dendrick. You must save Arman’s prophet. We will be right behind you. Now go.”

  Dendrick squeezed Wilek’s shoulder. “Arman be with you.” And he led Miss Onika away.

  Wilek went to help his shield. He and Novan quickly defeated the two pirates, but when they started toward the forest, they ran right into a line of giants, standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way. There were six. All held obsidian axes in their fists and looked eager to fight.

  A man pushed out between the middle two giants and set his hands on his hips. Fonu Edekk.

  “You,” Wilek said.

  “You were expecting someone else?” Fonu asked.

  “I would expect a soldier like yourself to be on the battlefield, not stealing spoils of war.”

  “I came for the prophetess,” Fonu said. “What have you done with her?”

  “She is not your business,” Wilek said.

  “No matter. We don’t need her to win. We are smarter than you. I compelled King Loran, and when he called for help, you came running, just as I knew you would. Now he is dead and Sarikar belongs to its rightful heir. We crippled your army today. Enough that when my king attacks Armanguard, your brother will have no one left to fight us.”

  “Leave my brother out of this.”

  Fonu laughed. “But Trevn will be king now, don’t you see? You will die here.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Novan said.

  “Oh, you can’t.” Fonu waved the giants forward. “Kill them.”

  The giants advanced, swinging their axes. Wilek set his feet and braced himself. He gave all he had, holding nothing in reserve. He did not fight carefully or courteously. He moved as quickly as he could, ignoring his weariness and aching wounds. As he had on the battlefield, he aimed for the legs, slashing wherever he could make purchase.

  The enemy was mercilessly strong but not as fast, so their best strategy was to dodge and outrun them. This left little time to think and no chance to catch their breath. Wilek dodged, ducked, and even rolled a couple times. He cut and sliced any place he could manage to reach. Despite his and Novan’s combined skill, the giants were bigger, stronger, and fresh, while Novan and Wilek had been wearied and bloodied by the first battle.

  Novan slashed across the backs of a giant’s knees. The giant stumbled, and Wilek hacked his blade down over the giant’s neck to end him while Nova
n deflected an attack on Wilek’s back.

  “This one next!” Wilek yelled, voice growing hoarse. He nodded to a giant who was cradling one arm.

  Pairing up in this manner, they managed to kill a second giant, but the giants were smarter than they were fast and used Wilek and Novan’s strategy against them. The remaining four cornered Novan easily. As his shield screamed in agony, Wilek stabbed one of the four through the back. The giant swung around, ripping Wilek’s sword from his grasp.

  Weaponless, he jumped back as an axe arced down toward his head. Another giant stepped into Wilek’s path, axe aimed for Wilek’s chest.

  He lurched to the side, but the sharp stone blade moved with him, cleaved into his bronze breastplate, and cracked it. Sharp pain brought a gasp from his lips. He screamed, soundless, breathless. Heat wrapped his whole body, throbbed. He fell. His eyes rolled back.

  A giant leaned over him and jerked the axe free. The wound in Wilek’s chest pulsed. He made the mistake of glancing at it, saw the blood pooling in the crack that split his breastplate.

  “Zeroah!” Oh, his bride. He had forgotten to send her any update all morning. She would be brokenhearted and lost after all that had—

  “What has happened?” she asked. “Wilek, is something wrong?”

  Her voice in his head shocked him. “Zeroah, my love. The battle. It was a trick. Rogedoth had allied with the giants. We got away, but Fonu had taken over our camp and I think . . . I think I’m dying.”

  “No!”

  “Find the woman, quickly!” Fonu yelled to his giants.

  Two stepped over Wilek’s body on their way toward the woods.

  “Leave her be,” Wilek rasped.

  Fonu leaned over Wilek, eyebrows pinched. “You know I cannot do that. But you might do me a favor, my king. I killed a woman in cold blood. Will you take my confession before Athos’s Bench? Her name was Lebetta.” A slow smile stretched across his face.

  The confession took Wilek off guard. Lebetta’s death seemed so long ago. “Why?” he managed to ask.

  “Because my master bade me. She refused to harm you. She had to die.”