by David Hair
‘Any delay could cost the opportunity,’ Exilium noted.
‘And a false charge could cost us everything,’ the Knight-Commander said curtly. ‘You will await my orders before any attack.’ He threw a salute, then turned away, making it clear the discussion was over.
Exilium nudged his horse back into motion, past the arrayed rankers of Pallacios IX, who looked him over with interest but little liking.
‘It’s that Estellan bastard they say’s better’n Takky hisself,’ he overheard, to which another man said, ‘Nah, Takky rukked him over in the yards, I ’eard.’
There was way too much reverence for Takwyth in their voices for Exilium’s liking.
We need to give them new heroes.
He and Iles Kraal joined Argus Misen at the fore of the Misencourt knights and he filled in the minutes inspecting his knights, learning a few more names and getting a feel for their temper. Mage-knights were notoriously difficult to lead: they generally considered themselves to be both the best warriors on the field and too valuable to lose. Exilium had seen that in the Inquisition and the Kirkegarde and these men were no different. Being members of the Great Houses, they had the added charm of being arrogant, entitled pricks. But he’d whipped most of them on the training fields and there was no one who didn’t accord him grudging respect now.
From across the fields, the first drums rolled, and the Sacrecour legions began to march forward at the walk. The time had come.
Exilium bowed his head and whispered, ‘Kore, I commend my soul to thee.’
*
‘They haven’t got a prayer,’ Brylion Fasterius growled, slapping Duke Garod on the shoulder. Cordan watched the two men exchange a confident handshake, then the hulking knight swaggered off towards his warhorse.
Is it wrong to wish my uncle dead? Cordan wondered.
But regarding the battle, he’d decided that it wasn’t wrong to hope for victory. His side were fighting for the preservation of the empire. My empire. Even he felt betrayed by Lyra – the empire had stood for more than five hundred years; who was she to throw that away? How could a res publica ever work when men were palpably unequal? One mage was worth hundreds of men on the battlefield, so how could anyone say a commoner could be their equal before the law, or worthy of a voice in court?
I’m only fourteen, but even I understand this better than Lyra.
When he was emperor, he would forgive her. She’d treated him fairly, and in truth, she was very pretty for an older woman – but she was being foolish now. Or she’d been misled. It’s that scary Wraith who’s to blame, I’m sure. And Fatty Wurther.
Then the trumpets brayed, the drums hammered and each centurion, pilus and serjant echoed the order: ‘Forward . . . march!’
Cordan gripped the hilt of his sword, his heart beginning to pound. I’m going to see a battle and maybe I’ll have to kill someone. I might even be killed. The thought sucked the air from his lungs, but he gritted his teeth and whispered, Dear Kore, make me brave.
*
It’s too beautiful a day for war, Basia thought. We should be laying trestle tables with food and ale on a day like this. She glanced to her left, where the blonde woman in the crown was fidgeting nervously, her face veiled against the glare. Basia hadn’t wanted her here, but the queen had to be visible, a banner for her men. She wore Pallas blue, like the sky.
Kore, watch over us, she thought, the irony not lost on her. I don’t even believe in Him, so who am I praying to?
The Royal Guard were arrayed a hundred yards in front of them, five ranks deep and bristling with javelins. Officers in crested helms were barking orders and encouragement, reminding the men of who they were, of why they were here. Kore save the Queen, she heard, over and over.
Then her eyes crept to Exilium, mounted at the head of his knights. Be safe, she wished him, knowing he wouldn’t be.
But the enemy were closing in now, in the brisk, business-like manner of the Rondian legion: methodical, inevitable and hard-hearted. Exactly the same orders were being rapped out on both sides: Hoist javelins – shields high – steady.
She scanned the cloudless, serene skies, taking in the lush greens of the spring growth breaking through the greys of winter, marvelling at the beauty of a starling’s song lilting in the trees somewhere behind her and basking in the pallid sunlight. She blinked at the gleam of light on the dew-laden grass in the moments before it was trampled underfoot.
It’s such a lovely day, but it’s going to turn ugly very quickly . . .
In her mind she counted down the seconds before the carnage began as the purple-clad Sacrecour rankers closed in, shields and javelins high, their stance mirrored by the green-cloaked defenders. She focused on one face, a young crossbowman with the beginnings of whiskers, cranking his bow, placing his bolt methodically, sighting over the heads of the rankers in front and below him. When she squinted, she could see that those deft hands were shaking, the crossbow quivering erratically as he peered along the shaft.
Most men aren’t killers, she remembered Dirklan saying once. He was, of course. So am I. She gazed towards Brylion Fasterius’ banners directly opposite her position, thinking that she would give the rest of her legs to see him dead.
Then the orders rang out – ‘Ready . . . arms back . . . and throw’ – and the killing began.
The javelins soared up from both sides, flashing in the morning sunlight like rays kissing the river, and then hammered into the ranks before them, leaving both sides recoiling in shock from the impact. A dozen men had gone down right in front of her; the lines were rippling as replacements stepped in and shields fouled by bent and broken javelins were thrown aside.
The attackers were also reeling, but the cries of the officers were relentless: ‘Swords out – second wave, advance—’
With a roar, more javelins flew, battering the defensive wall again, and now mage-bolts blasted between knots of battle-magi, shafts of pale blue light like rips in the world. Shielding crackled red under stress as the aether filled with soundless concussions. Swords flashed, hacking at the defenders’ pike-shafts and seeking to close in, while trying to fend off the points and blades of their foe’s longer weapons.
The Sacrecour front line hit the Royal Guard and all along the lines identical conflicts broke out as the ranks came together and recoiled, every man probing for weakness. So far, the casualties were light, despite the armies being in touching distance.
The queen made a small sobbing sound, but she remained steady as the war-cries turned into the screams of the maimed and dying. Prayers and bellowed orders melded with the hammering of steel on shields and the belling of blades.
Basia’s eyes flashed about, seeking direct threats.
Windskiffs and venators were now flashing above them, duelling for supremacy of the skies. Bursts of flame and lightning lanced across the top of the embattled lines, magi fighting from behind their own rankers, separated by hundreds of men but still able to reach each other. The crossbowmen kept pumping out bolts, carving rents in the fabric of the lines. Wounded men tried to crawl out of the press, faces contorted in agony and fear. The grass was already reduced to churned blood and mud, a dirty scarlet colour.
Abruptly, the first assault was over. The Sacrecour officers shouted, ‘Retreat at the walk, eyes front—’ and their men broke off in a ragged fashion and started staggering backwards, breathing hard, shields raised if they still had them.
A volley of crossbow bolts instantly slammed into them, hurling any exposed man to the turf, and those remaining lost their nerve, turned and ran.
Paths immediately opened in the defensive lines and Levis sent cavalry streaming through, hunched behind shields as they bore down on the fleeing men. A few went down under a volley of arrows from the distant Sacrecour archers, but most planted their lances in the backs of the fleeing rankers, then their warhorses reared up and came stamping down on the next men. Even from here Basia could hear the sickening crunch of broken bones. She saw Exil
ium’s white and gold tabard at the head of the red-clad Misencourt knights, his gnostic shields flashing as shaft after shaft broke on them or deflected away. For a minute or so the horsemen ran amok, then trumpets blared and they pelted back, shields of gnosis and wood now deployed behind them as they sought shelter behind the lines. The infantry cheered, waving their pikes aloft triumphantly.
We held, she thought dazedly.
But the trumpets blared again, the drums pounded and the next Sacrecour attack began.
*
Exilium pulled off his helmet, accepted a waterskin and drank deeply as sweat ran down his face despite the chilly air. His fellow mage-knights did the same, gasping in relief at another sortie survived. Thrice now he’d led counter-charges as the enemy assaults broke, cutting down running men from the back. It didn’t feel glorious in the least.
Twice, Oryn Levis had sent an aide, reprimanding him for charging without orders. The first he’d screwed up, the second he’d passed to Sir Iles Kraal, who’d read it aloud, making the men laugh. Oddly, that was the moment when he felt things change.
They’re with me now. We’ve shared danger and misdeeds, like boys stealing from an orchard, becoming brothers united by our shared sin. For the first time in his life, he felt a sense of belonging. He’d always kept aloof in the Inquisition and the Kirkegarde, seeing the other men as rivals, and unworthy ones at that.
All war is a sin, he thought, but it’s how legends are made.
He looked towards Oryn Levis and saw the Knight-Commander staring at him across the quarter-mile – but the older man just touched fingers to temple and Exilium returned the salute. There would be no more reprimands. Most of his knights saw the long-distance exchange and remarked on it.
‘Misencourt for the Queen,’ someone growled.
Exilium glanced back to the hillock behind the lines, a couple of hundred yards away. The queen was still on horseback, Basia beside her. Seeing them lifted his heart.
But the trumpets called again and they turned as the front lines readied for yet another attack.
*
‘Are we winning?’ Cordan asked anxiously.
For three hours men had been tramping forward, only to be sent reeling back. The queen’s knights were causing havoc whenever they charged at the retreating soldiers and there had been no breakthrough.
But Duke Garod looked calm enough, his haggard face pinched, but not anxious. He saw everything, from the crumbling of another assault on the right, to the lonely death of a wind-pilot above when his skiff went down in flames.
‘It’s coming,’ he drawled. ‘This is attrition. When they break, we’ll sweep them away.’
‘Why don’t we send in our cavalry?’ Cordan asked.
‘You don’t send cavalry against massed pikemen, boy,’ Garod sneered. ‘The bellies of the horses will be ripped open and the men cut from horseback before they can strike a blow.’
‘But we’ve got mage-knights—’
‘And they’ve got battle-magi among the ranks. A lance wielded in the charge is all but unshieldable – but that same impact-speed can allow an ordinary man to punch his pike through a gnostic shield. We do not charge pikemen. Now be silent, watch and learn.’
Stung, Cordan shut up, feeling resentful: the aides had all heard the exchange, men he’d one day rule. Uncle Garod should have shown me more respect, he thought angrily. But he swallowed his pride, glad to be far enough away that he couldn’t see the blood, though the steady stream of maimed and dying men being hauled past him towards the rear was hideous enough. War had been far more palatable when played with painted lead miniatures across his table.
He resolved to throw those toys away.
*
The stink of blood, metal and glory filled Brylion Fasterius’ nostrils as he walked his horse forward, surrounded by his knights. The hot stench made his nostrils flare and inside him, Abraxas growled hungrily. It was all he could do to not let his eyes go black and turn the daemon inside him loose.
The time had come to take a hand, to catch those damned royal knights – the Misencourt Order or whatever – when they next emerged, and cut them to ribbons. To that end, he’d edged his riders forward under cover of smoke from Fire-gnosis, masking their advance.
‘Send in another wave,’ he growled to the legion commander. ‘I don’t care what happens to them, as long as they lure out the enemy knights.’
The legion commander saluted and hurried away, orders were relayed and another assault began. This one was half-hearted and ineffectual, but Brylion salivated as they began to break, then came pelting back down the slope. The taste of ichor filled his mouth and he lowered his visor.
Rukk it, the daemon can have full reign, he thought. Come one and all: I’m going to eat your souls.
A shrill trumpet called another charge, those annoying knights came galloping through the queen’s lines and out into the field again, ripping into the retreating rankers with fire and steel. Exilium Excelsior was at their head.
‘Forward!’ Brylion roared, jamming his spurs into his mount’s flanks and with his entire force bursting into a gallop behind him, they bore down on the suddenly exposed foe.
Inside him, Abraxas shrilled with ravenous glee.
24
Broken Lines
Cadearvo
Cadearvo, the Angel of Famine, will arise in the wake of the reign of war. With their armies broken, the Unrighteous shall see their peoples decimated by hunger and thirst. Bellies will shrink and the breasts of mothers run dry, until proud kings gnaw upon their thrones and the poor eat their kin.
BOOK OF KORE
Finostarre, near Pallas, Rondelmar
Martrois 936
In the heart of the mêlée, Exilium’s overextended gnostic awareness screamed, his shields pulsing with every threat his subconscious perceived. His immediate foe, a grey-bearded mage-knight, launched a crunching blow with a flanged mace that struck Exilium’s buckler and had him reeling in the saddle, but he lashed back with that same buckler, catching his foe with the steel rim which shattered the man’s nose in a spray of blood – then Exilium’s blade thrust through steel and leather into his chest. When he fell, his horse screamed and reared, flailing iron-shod hooves inches from Exilium’s face.
He hauled on his reins to find space and realised they’d got too far from their own lines – then he saw a phalanx of Sacrecour knights under the Fasterius banner, lances couched at full gallop, come ploughing into the mêlée, crashing a full dozen of his men to the ground – then riding right over them, heading straight for his banner – and him.
‘Misencourt,’ he shouted, ‘fall back—’
—but the first of the Fasterius men had reached him and somehow he managed to flick away the lance-head, a bare moment before the man’s warhorse crashed into his. Exilium kicked clear as both animals went down; he had an instant to see his enemy’s leg was trapped and shattered, but the next mage-knight was already on him. Exilium hurled himself aside as another rider ploughed through the space, staggered against the flank of Iles Kraal’s horse and almost lost his head to a lance that arced past him, missing by an inch—
—but piercing Iles Kraal, impaling him and left there, thrown by Brylion Fasterius himself. The pole broke off inside Kraal’s body, but the Sacrecour Knight-Commander careered on, not even noticing Exilium, on the ground and fighting to draw his own sword.
But Fasterius’ attendants had seen him: they closed in, horses rearing, their blades flashing down . . .
Survival became pure instinct. Only the strength of Exilium’s pure-blood shields kept him alive as he parried a mad flurry of blows from all sides. No sooner had he felt a blade glance off his armour than a steel-shod hoof smashed into his shoulder-plate. He fell, rolled under a horse, rose and stabbed, piercing a Sacrecour man’s groin, found himself beside Kraal’s mount again and this time flung the dead man from his saddle. Blocking a longsword, he used kinesis to get into the saddle. The horse panicked, bucking ma
dly, but somehow he clung on, parrying and riposting until the beast’s training took over and at last they were moving as one.
Only then did he see the extent of the damage. The Sacrecour knights – How did they get so close? – were galloping through the gaps that had been left in the royal lines for Exilium’s charge and all across the centre the supposedly faltering assault was being renewed. And worst of all, Brylion’s banner was being borne by a knot of steel-clad riders who were thundering straight towards the exposed hillock where the queen watched, with only Basia and a few guards around her.
—as a cluster of Sacrecours yelled, ‘There he is – kill him!’
And suddenly Exilium was fighting for his life again.
Basia de Sirou had already seen Brylion Fasterius coming for them when she half-heard a frantic warning from Exilium in the aether, but her awareness was barely here: despite the battle’s bloody clamour, she had been snatched back to another place and time when she’d been that girl, the sparky one who’d been everyone’s friend at the Arcanum, relishing her new life in the giant city of Pallas and wondering if that sweet-looking boy Ril Endarion might be someone she could lose her heart to. She’d been drinking stolen wine and giggling with like-minded girls in the well-garden on the night the Sacrecours took back Pallas.
909.
The children of other rival Houses had opened the gates and joined in as the Sacrecour knights poured in to destroy the flower of young Corani magehood.
As Brylion’s never-forgotten, brutal face bore down on her now, she remembered those Hel-ish moments, being held over the edge of the well while Brylion raped her. On either side of her were her friends, also being raped. Fasterius might have been a young man, but he was already immense, a fearsome sight, and he had singled her out – she had no idea why. Once he’d used her, he’d slashed her throat and pushed her into the well, thinking her dead. When they’d realised she’d survived, although Kore knew how, they hurled spells at her, and rocks, and finally the bodies of her friends . . .