by Anthony Ryan
She nodded. “Lord Adal, join with the Nilsaelin horse. You will guard the causeway whilst the lancers shield the northern bank.”
The North Guard commander gave a reluctant nod. “And the assault, Highness? I would still beg the honour of leading it.”
Lyrna scanned the army, the Realm Guard and Nilsaelin infantry drawn up in good order, Antesh’s archers forming up at their rear. The cavalry patrolled the flanks in a wide arc sweeping around as far as the river to block all avenues of escape. All done with but a few orders and no formal plan. What a deadly instrument we built, she thought. Scarred and dented enough for one day.
“That won’t be necessary, my lord,” she told Adal before turning to Al Hestian. “The army will hold in place. Send word to bring up the ballistae.”
The Arisai continued to make small-scale sorties as the ballistae were hauled into place, a few having retained enough horses to mount a charge to the west, attempting to break through the cavalry screen only to be met by Renfaelin knights and cut down to a man. Lyrna also received reports of others attempting to swim the river, the few making it to the far bank providing welcome sport for the waiting Nilsaelin lancers.
Alornis reported the ballistae ready by late afternoon. As ever, working with her devices seemed to bring some animation to her features and she stood by, watching with a faintly prideful expression as the last engine was trundled into place alongside its fellows. The small corps of artisans who served the ballistae worked their various levers and windlasses until every one was armed and ready, the crossed bowstaves all drawn back, waiting.
“At your discretion, my lord,” Lyrna said to Antesh. The Lord of Archers nodded and lifted his bow above his head. The archers, arrayed immediately behind the line of ballistae, all raised their bows to a high elevation, strings drawn back behind the ear for maximum range. Antesh lowered his arm and the arrow storm began. The sky was still light enough to follow the dark mass of arrows as they rose and fell onto the temple, a black rain continuing unabated as Lyrna had ordered every possible shaft scavenged from the battlefield. She could see the blood still glistening on many of the arrowheads launched by the longbows. The archers seemed tireless, many grunting with the effort of drawing and loosing at such a rate, but their faces all set in determined hatred. Apparently slaughtering so many Free Swords hadn’t been enough to sate their vengeance.
Lyrna used her spyglass to scan the temple, seeing an Arisai fall as he attempted to run for one of the pyramidal god-houses, pierced by three arrows a foot short of shelter, two of his comrades falling onto his body a heartbeat later. They are already mad, she thought, the spyglass settling on an Arisai who shook his head in amused resignation as he regarded the two shafts protruding from his breastplate. Can they be maddened further?
The answer was not long in coming, a great shout of joyous abandon rising from the temple before they came streaming forth. All cohesion had been forgotten now and they simply charged at the line of ballistae in a disordered red tide. Lyrna waited until the leaders had cleared the steps before giving the order for the ballistae to loose, the range having been narrowed to less than fifty paces. The effect was remarkable, the leading Arisai cut down by an invisible scythe, those following tumbling over the bodies or spinning from the impact of the second volley. In some cases a bolt would pierce an Arisai with enough force to continue on through to claim one of his comrades. Despite the losses however, the Arisai’s charge retained sufficient momentum to come within twenty paces of the ballistae, at which point Antesh’s archers moved forward, lowering their aim and unleashing another arrow storm that halted the red host completely.
“Highness,” Al Hestian said, “I believe the time is right.”
She nodded and he gestured to the cluster of buglers nearby, sending them running towards the opposite flanks of the army, the call for a charge of cavalry pealing forth. Antesh walked the line of archers barking orders to cease, though some continued to loose with frenzied disregard for orders and had to be forcibly restrained. Fortunately, both archers and ballistae had stopped by the time Fief Lord Arendil led his knights from the left flank and Brother Sollis the Sixth Order and the Realm Guard cavalry from the right. The surviving Arisai met them with what could only be described as matchless valour, leaping to bring riders down, cutting the legs from under the horses, fighting to the last, voicing their joyous mirth to the end.
Count Marven drifted in and out of wakefulness as she sat with him, holding a damp cloth to his burning brow when his distress blossomed into weeping panic. Brother Kehlan had been free with redflower in treating the Battle Lord, his face grim when Lyrna questioned the wisdom of giving him so much.
“His spine is shattered below the neck, Highness,” the healer replied. “If he were to live, he wouldn’t walk again. And he won’t live.”
“I…” Marven coughed, eyes suddenly wide as they found her face, “I killed a Kuritai, Kerisha. Did they tell you?”
Kerisha, she knew, was the name of Countess Marven. “Yes, my love,” she said, working the cloth over his brow and along his cheek. “They told me.”
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, suddenly wary. “Why are you angry?”
“I’m not angry,” she said. “I am proud. Very proud.”
“You’re … only kind when you’re angry,” he muttered, easing a little. “A tongue that could cut silk, the Fief Lord always said … The queen, though.” He paused to smile in fond reflection. “You might have met your match in her. However, I think she’ll be amenable now … That castle you always wanted…”
“Yes,” Lyrna assured him. “I’m sure she will.”
“The boys…” His voice grew softer, eyes dimming as his head sank farther into the pillow. “You were right … No soldiering for them … There’s gold in the Reaches, lots of it … We’ll send them there…”
He slept for a time, untroubled by the whimpers and cries of the wounded crowding the tent. Messengers and captains came to her throughout the night, all turned away by Murel and Iltis. She stayed and watched Count Marven until the swell of his chest had stopped and all colour faded from his face.
“Murel,” she said, the lady moving to crouch at her side. The flesh around her left eye was a deep shade of purple and she bore a three-inch row of stitches across her cheek. “Make a note. A grant of land for Countess Kerisha Marven of Nilsael and sufficient funds for the construction of a castle.”
“Yes, Highness.” Murel hesitated, gaze intent on Lyrna’s face. “You must sleep, my queen.”
She shook her head. Sleep meant dreams, and she knew what they would show her. “Ask Brother Kehlan for something to keep me awake. And tell Brother Hollun I require a full account of our losses.”
The blond sister named herself as Cresia, standing with head lowered as the body of her Aspect burned behind her. Lyrna had watched them say their words, these few survivors of a greatly diminished Order, each stepping forward with a story of kindness, wisdom or courage. Lord Nortah was also there, along with Brother Sollis and many of the Sixth Order. The Lord Marshal had faltered during his words, a tale of their time in the Martishe Forest, left unfinished as he fell silent, staring at the body on the pyre as if in incomprehension. “He never got to meet his nieces and nephews,” he said finally, voice faint and empty of feeling. “For he was my brother, and I know they would have loved him.”
“By any measure Aspect Caenis was a great man,” Lyrna had said. “A greatness revealed only recently, but bright enough to outshine us all. It will be known forever more that this man never faltered in his course, never shied from the hardest duty and gave everything in service to Realm and Faith.”
There were other fires to light of course, more words to say. Murel, Iltis and Davoka waited at Benten’s pyre and the plain was liberally dotted with more. In accordance with tradition soldiers from the same regiment were being committed to the flames together, meaning there were dozens of fires, rather than thousands.
“Your Order
has made its choice then?” she asked Sister Cresia.
The young woman hugged herself tight, hair covering her lowered face like a veil. “Yes, Highness. Though I begged them to choose another.” Her hair parted as she lifted her face to regard the pyre, Aspect Caenis now just a dark shape amidst the flames. “I can never be him. He was … great, as you said.”
“War has a tendency to rob us of choices, Aspect. Get some rest. Tomorrow I shall require an accounting of your numbers.”
“There are twenty-three of us left, Highness,” Cresia told her. “The Seventh Order was never overly numerous, perhaps four hundred souls at its strongest.”
“You will rebuild, in time.”
Cresia lowered her gaze once more and Lyrna had little difficulty discerning her thoughts. Another battle like this and there will be nothing left to rebuild.
The early-morning sun played over the river’s churning current, raising a fine mist from the waters. Aspect Arlyn stood alone on the bank, his red armour gone now, a tall figure in a blue cloak no doubt taken from the body of a fallen brother. Brother Ivern stood nearby, bowing with a weary smile as she approached. Lyrna wondered if he was there as guard or gaoler.
“Has he spoken?” she asked.
“A little, Highness. He asked after Aspect Grealin, and Lord Vaelin.”
“What did you tell him?”
Ivern seemed puzzled by the question. “Everything. He is our Aspect.”
She nodded and moved to the Aspect’s side, Brother Verin keeping within ten feet of her as ordered. Arlyn turned to her, dipping his head in the shallow bow he had always offered to her father and brother. His expression was sorrowful, as might be expected, but she also discerned a judgemental cast to his gaze, one she knew he had never been shy in showing to Janus.
“Highness,” he said. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of King Malcius.”
“Thank you, Aspect. Though we have all suffered losses.”
His eyes flicked to Brother Verin. The young Gifted had seen much since taking ship with her and was less inclined towards displays of nerves, though he still squirmed a little under the Aspect’s gaze.
“I have learned caution in dealing with those who have met the Empress,” Lyrna said.
The Aspect nodded in placid acceptance and turned back to the river. They were parallel with the point where the Arisai had made their crossing, the current more disturbed here than elsewhere, churning white where it met the bank. “How was it made?” Lyrna asked. “The causeway. Lady Alornis considers it quite the feat of engineering.”
“With brick, bone and blood,” he replied. “Three thousand slaves labouring for ten days at my command. The river is swift, as you see, and the Arisai found much amusement in the whip. By the end there were barely five hundred slaves left.”
“The Empress’s stratagems are clever, but costly, it seems.”
He gave a faint shake of his head. “This was my stratagem, Highness. Conceived at her command, naturally. But the whole notion of attacking you here was mine.”
“I know you were not responsible for your actions. Our enemy employs many vile devices.”
“Indeed. A compulsion towards unreasoning vengeance being chief among them.”
“I make no apology for securing the future of the Realm.”
“Is that your intent, Highness? If so, the Empress would be greatly surprised.”
Lyrna folded her hands into her gown, unwilling to let him see how they clenched in suppressed anger. “If you have intelligence on the enemy’s designs, I would hear it.”
“She would come to me sometimes, down in that cavern of horrors where they carved their binding into my flesh. She asked questions mostly, testing my knowledge of history, my experience of command. I expected her to force from me every secret I held regarding the Faith and the Realm, but it soon became apparent she knew more than I did. It also became apparent that she is quite mad, an inevitable consequence of centuries spent in service to the Ally.” He lowered his head for a moment, eyes closed and breathing suddenly shallow. “Even a brief exposure is the harshest trial.”
“What will she do next?”
“Formulate another plan to kill you, I expect. She seems to find you greatly irksome. ‘I have birthed a thousand vengeful souls, but none so troublesome as this fire-breathing bitch.’”
“How many more Arisai does she have?”
“Perhaps seven thousand. Plus another eighty thousand Varitai and Free Swords.”
Lyrna glanced at Verin’s hands, confirming he gave the sign for truth. Though she has hidden lies in truth before, and I failed to see it. She said, “I had assumed there would be more.”
“The war in the Realm swallowed the bulk of their best troops and discord grows in every corner of the empire. New Kethia has fallen to a slave rebellion, inspiring revolts across the provinces. She also seemed preoccupied with some mission to the north. She had me execute a senior general for questioning the wisdom of sending more troops there.”
A mission to the north … Vaelin. He made it across the ice. A small smile played over her lips. Of course he did.
“Tell me more,” she said, “of this discord.”
CHAPTER THREE
Vaelin
The tribesman’s name was either Hirkran or Red Axe; they seemed to be interchangeable given the frequency with which Erlin used them. “He’s lost three sons to the Volarians,” he reported. “One taken as a slave years ago, the other two in the last week.”
“He’s chieftain of these … Othra?” Vaelin asked.
Erlin shook his head. “Red Axe is an honorific, a title given to the tribe’s principal warrior. ‘Champion’ would be a better translation. And the Othra are but one of six tribes sheltering here. Every chieftain died in the fighting. He doesn’t speak for all.”
“Does he know if the others will fight with us?”
Erlin related the question to Hirkran, who cast a stern glance back at the cave where the gathered tribesfolk lurked in the shadows, all eyes apparently intent on this meeting.
“He isn’t sure,” Erlin translated. “Some won’t simply because the Othra will. Some will stay here and piss themselves forever.”
“Can he guide us to the Volarians?”
Hirkran gave a long pause before answering, his gaze fixed on Vaelin. “He will but first he insists on being named leader of the army.”
Lorkan, who stood nearby with his cat, gave a derisive snort provoking the tribesman to a snarl, starting forward with an upraised axe. Vaelin stepped deliberately between them as the cat crouched, teeth bared in a hiss. He had noticed Lorkan’s courage had increased considerably since acquiring the beast.
“He has a reason for asking this, I assume?” he asked Erlin as Hirkran continued to glower.
“These people respect only strength. If he is not named leader, they will see him as merely vassal to a foreigner, meaning he’ll face an instant challenge from a younger rival. You could call it a ceremonial title if you like. These are their lands, Vaelin. Diminished as they are, they still deserve your respect.”
Vaelin looked at the ragged figures shifting in the gloom of the cave, younger folk clutching weapons whilst the children gathered around the elderly. Each half-shadowed face bore the dirt and grime of days spent fighting for life; many were plainly exhausted and slumped by the pain of recent wounds. But he saw there was still a defiance in their eyes, even the youngsters. They might have been beaten, but were hardly defeated.
“Tell me what to say,” he told Erlin.
Hirkran tracked a winding course southward along a tall ridge, six of his warriors scouting ahead. Vaelin followed with Erlin, Kiral and Astorek. The scouting mission could have been avoided if he had agreed to let Dahrena fly once again but one look at her still-wan features caused him to voice a stern refusal.
“I would remind you, my lord,” she grated, “I hold no formal rank in this army and am, in fact, free to do as I wish.”
“And I am
free to employ any one of the several methods at my disposal to render you unconscious without injury,” Vaelin replied. “You will stay here and rest, my lady.”
She had scowled and walked away, Mishara providing clear illustration of her feelings with a brief hiss before bounding off to pad alongside.
They had covered perhaps eight miles when Hirkran called a halt, Vaelin noting how Astorek’s wolves had taken on a more cautious gait, keeping low among the craggy spine of the ridge and pausing frequently to sniff the air. They were clearly a disconcerting presence for Hirkran and his people, though from their carefully observed indifference, he discerned outward displays of fear were seen as a great disgrace.
Hirkran lowered himself to a crouch and made for the edge of the ridge, Vaelin crawling alongside. Below them the ridge fell away in a steep cliff, affording a fine view of the valley ahead. It was broad with a flat plain in the centre perhaps a half mile wide, divided by a shallow river. The Volarian host was encamped in a circular perimeter of dense pickets and neatly arranged tents. It seemed the Witch’s Bastard was an efficient general.
Hirkran said something in a terse murmur which Erlin translated as an obscene curse involving the invocation of various ethereal entities as well as an inventive and cannibalistic form of genital mutilation.
“Why would they eat those?” Kiral asked with a distasteful grimace.
“To absorb the strength of an enemy,” Erlin said. “And symbolise the end of his line. The tribes put great stock in having children. An infertile man or woman is seen as a curse and subject to exile, or worse if they’re unwise enough to linger.”
The huntress cast a disgusted glance at the surrounding warriors, muttering, “Savages.”
Hirkran spoke again, gesturing at the Volarian encampment.
“Our leader demands the army be brought here for an immediate attack,” Erlin said. “One he will lead personally. This must be done quickly or the spirits will judge us weak and refuse to help.”