Hadir grimaced, but saluted and left him to pass on the orders. Mace lowered himself stiffly to the water trough again, wincing as his foot blared its protest. Dalli sat next to him, a strange look on her face.
‘What?’
‘So that’s what a king looks like,’ she murmured and nudged him. ‘I’ve never seen one close up before.’
CRYS
Mabon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
Pine Lock, northern side of the River Gil, Cattle Lands
The rain was heavy enough to drive all but those who were commanded to be out into shelter. It hissed through the air and roared on the surface of the Gil, reducing visibility to mere strides from the bows of the boats and rafts. It hid Crys and his Krikite army from the sentries huddled into their sodden cloaks in the rickety watchtowers they’d erected along the river.
Pine Lock was a split town, half on the southern side of the Gil in the Western Plain, half on the northern in the Cattle Lands. The river that cut through its heart made for good fishing and excellent trading – and now it bore upon its waters the men and women who would descend on both halves of the town to free it from the mailed fist of the East Rank.
Crys wished the rain had been his doing as the Krikites were whispering, but the truth was it was just raining, as it was wont to do in autumn – a stroke of luck he was taking full advantage of but hadn’t influenced. He was in the lead boat, a fishing skiff packed tight with warriors, Ash at his side. They rode low in the water, as did all the vessels they’d scavenged and built in the last frenzied few days since leaving the Wolf Lands.
He had fifteen hundred proven warriors under his command, half on the water, the rest split to come by land north and south of the town.
The equinox thrummed in his veins, Gilgoras balanced between equal lengths of day and night, as Crys was equal parts human and divine. He was so full of energy he wanted to leap from the bow and swim for shore, swarm up the bank, up the nearest watchtower and in, armed with only a knife and the righteous fury of the night, the downtrodden, the Light. He didn’t. He sat still and composed, eyes flickering between the banks, awaiting the first shout of alarm, as the rain pounded his head and shoulders, soaked through chainmail and gambeson and shirt, trousers and socks and linens until he squelched as he moved.
Somewhere towards the rear of the fleet was the boat containing Dom and Gilda, who’d come to lend her skills in healing and to comfort the townsfolk; they couldn’t be sure any priests of the Gods of Light had been left alive.
Crys couldn’t leave the calestar behind, not when he still had a role to play, but nor would he risk him in the forefront of the battle. Dom could move and run and even fight, but slowly, clumsily, and only as a last resort. If it came to it, it’d be Gilda defending him, not the other way around.
The northern half of Pine Lock was the largest, and they’d guessed that would have the bigger complement of occupying forces, so Crys indicated the boat should turn for that shore. They were running with oars and the current, no sails to creak and flap and draw eyes, but even so the water slapping the hull over the sound of the rain echoed harsh and loud in Crys’s ears.
The first watchtower loomed out of the night, barely there in the darkness but for the wavering blob of orange at the top. Don’t be looking, don’t be looking, don’t be—
‘What’s that? Who goes there?’
Shit.
A second shout of alarm, from the other side of the river, no doubt alerted by the first. Only half a dozen boats were in range of the town so far, not enough to steer for shore. A sudden scuffle, the thud of something heavy hitting planking from both of the watchtowers, and then silence. Crys grinned. A few of the Wolves who’d recovered from their injuries and returned to their summer village had elected to join his army, and he’d given them the task of eliminating the sentries. It’d taken them longer than he’d hoped to get through the town unseen, but with luck they’d kill all the lookouts before a full alarm could be raised.
‘Four more towers to go,’ Ash breathed into his ear, thinking along the same lines.
‘But we’ll only be in the eyeline of the next two; we’ll dock before nearing the last ones. By the time they notice us, it’ll be because we’re standing behind them with swords drawn.’ He caught the glint of Ash’s teeth as he grinned.
Of course, it didn’t work out that way. The initial challenge must have been heard by a foot patrol, because there were pitch torches hissing and spitting along the southern bank, moving fast as men ran to and fro, and then the northern bank lit up too.
‘Archers,’ Crys said, and the word was passed quietly from boat to boat. Stealth was gone, but no point letting the enemy know what they were planning. ‘You’ve got the call,’ he added to Ash, who was braced against the boat’s rail with his war bow at full stretch. The strings wouldn’t last long in this rain, but a dozen volleys would likely give them enough time to reach the shore.
‘Loose,’ Ash roared and shafts flew north and south, arcing through the night towards the torches and the watchtowers, most shooting blind. Tillers were forced across and the boats began to split for each bank. Everyone knew what they were doing; the orders had been given hours before. There was nothing left to do now but execute them.
And avoid getting executed ourselves.
Hilarious, Crys thought, but a smile quirked the side of his mouth. His skiff scraped the dock wall and Crys was up and out, hauling on the bow line to bring it fully alongside. The anchor dropped and the Krikites leapt to shore. Leaving a rearguard to hold their escape route and protect the boats, he led the rest in a dark tide up from the docks, fanning left and right and into the town.
A knot of Easterners pounded through the puddles towards them, and Ash dropped to a knee and took four despite the gloom and wavering orange torchlight. The remaining three came on, bellowing wordless cries of rage and alarm, and Crys surged to meet them, Krikites following and Ash covering the buildings to their left.
‘King Mace,’ Crys bellowed. ‘For the Dancer!’
‘Fox God, Fox God, Fox God,’ came the Krikite chant, as satisfaction coursed through Crys’s limbs.
He spun beneath the first Easterner’s spear, using the thick mud to slide beneath his guard, stabbed upwards and felt a spray of hot liquid across his chin and neck. The man reeled backwards, somehow holding on to his spear and his footing, the weapon rootling in the mud for Crys and he blocked, blocked again, lashed out with his foot and connected with the Ranker’s shin. A solid enough blow that the man shrieked, slipped and went down.
Crys scrambled to his knees, sword hilt slippery with rain and mud, got a two-handed grip and scythed it into the Ranker’s thigh, slicing muscle and tendon. Blood burst from the wound and Crys got to his feet, kicked away the man’s spear and kicked him unconscious.
Guard up, he spun, but the others were dead, the Krikites grinning at him and each other as if that was it, victory assured. Crys’s mouth tasted of mud; he spat, beckoned and set off at a run. They weren’t done yet.
‘Nice shooting,’ he said as Ash caught him up.
The archer blew rain off his nose. ‘You say that like you’re surprised,’ he said; then he clapped him on the back, rested an arrow lightly on the string and took point, leading Crys and his band of Krikites through the black, soaking streets, the squelching of their boots lost in the persistent patter of rain and the grinding churn of a water wheel somewhere in the darkness ahead.
The street leading from the dock on this side of the Gil was wide and looping, following a meandering path that created too many corners and shadowed alleys for Crys’s liking. Ash’s arrow pointed into each for a second before he moved forward, but their progress was slow – too slow. They were to meet up with the overland troops in the cattle market, so Crys tapped Ash on the shoulder and halted him. ‘I’ll lead.’
‘Not a chance,’ Ash began to protest.
Crys gestured with two fingers at his own face. ‘I can see fine. Yo
u’re as liable to shoot an ally as you are an Easterner. No offence.’
It was true and Ash was professional enough to agree. He slung his bow and pulled his hand axe and knife instead, before gesturing for Crys to proceed. ‘Fine. But I’ve got your flank.’
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Crys said. They moved like shadows in the rain down the twisting road, engaging a squad of Rankers who stumbled into them. The fight was brief and savage and one-sided, most of the Rankers unarmoured and bleary with sleep, called from their beds into a rainstorm and a battle. Eventually, the road emptied them out into a wide-open area of churned grass and they paused at the edge, squatting low and peering across the open expanse.
‘Grain stores are opposite,’ Crys breathed. ‘Straight over, no stopping.’ More Krikites poured out of the roads to join them, and they were within sight of the huge looming barns when torches lit up the edge of the green and Rankers charged them, their lines solid and three men deep.
‘Back,’ Crys yelled, but more Rankers appeared from the north, and then from the east too. West and the river – west and that winding, black and treacherous street – was the only way out. It’d slow the enemy advance, break up their numbers, but it’d do the same to Crys’s. West or fight. Run or die.
‘Stand,’ he bellowed as warriors began to shift in a bunching stumble of panic. ‘Stand. Archers, the east is yours. Pin them down and keep them down. Ash, you’re in charge – don’t let them flank us. Move.’
Ash gave him a look, but did as he was bid.
‘Three Hundreds with me. Form line; we’ve got the southern approach. Rest of you, deploy north.’ He could estimate their strength now they were closer. ‘We outnumber them,’ he bellowed, ‘so don’t let them reinforce each other. Keep them separate, defeat them separately, accept surrender if they offer it. Move.’
Though they weren’t Rankers, the Krikites deployed with dizzying swiftness, moving to Crys’s orders as though they’d been under his command for years. The archers disengaged and formed a smaller block of their own between the two lines. Within seconds they were sending shafts through the night into the advancing Rankers, who threw up their shields and kept on coming. A few sent return flights, and more came from south and north, but they were loosed on the move and in the dark, many going wide.
Crys shoved his way out of the line and jogged its length, checking the ground, the tightness of the shield wall, the readiness of his warriors. A bowstring snapped off to his right and a woman cursed its loss, dropped the bow and shoved her way into the northern line instead.
Stop. Here.
Crys came to a halt and faced the onrushing enemy; the southern advance had the biggest numbers and they thundered and squelched and skidded towards them. We playing, Foxy? he asked, rolling his shoulders and flicking rain off his sword.
He felt the smile inside. Oh, we’re playing.
Crys turned his back to the Rankers and looked over the heads of his line and the line behind. The enemy approaching from the north were further away, slower to advance, picking their way across the grass. Avoiding their own traps, maybe.
Break the southern advance, the strongest force, and the rest will falter. Then wheel the line and reinforce east and north, mop up the remains.
He took three more paces forward and began thumping his sword pommel against the inside face of his shield. The Krikites took up the rhythm, and then began stamping too, the sound building and building, and some of the Rankers began to slow, glancing at each other, their war cries faltering, the line beginning to lag and bulge until—
‘South flank,’ Crys roared, ‘wedge formation. On me.’
Crys’s time in the South Rank had seen him fight a few skirmishes against the Krikites he now counted as allies, and he well knew their martial capability, but the speed and ease with which they switched formations appeared to surprise the Easterners. There was a visible ripple of hesitation before they came on again.
Crys pounded through the grass and their line stiffened, soldiers falling into step and shields coming together and he tucked his head and then he was among them, smashing into three men with shield and mailed shoulder, sword bludgeoning like a club and then slicing in, his speed carrying him into the second line and almost the third before the weight of bodies brought him to a halt.
‘Fox God, Fox God, Fox God!’ came the chant again as the wedge drove them forward and he gained a few more steps and he saw the words light fear in the Rankers’ eyes. They’d been in Rilporin; they’d seen what he’d done, who he was. The man who’d fought a god. The man who was a god.
Rankers were squirming back away from him, flailing weapons without skill or speed to keep him away, a primal, religious fear glazing their faces. Crys staved in the closest with his shield boss, swept his sword up beneath a guard and into a thigh, back out, into the back of an arm, out again and then he reversed the swing and hammered the pommel into the screeching mouth so far he felt the man’s teeth against his fingers. Wrenched it out in a spray of enamel and clubbed him again, between shoulder and neck, dropping him to his knees. Kicked him on to his back and jumped over him, the Krikite behind finishing him off as they pressed forward, parting the Rank’s line with the ease of a dog splitting sheep.
He waded on through men and rain and mud and slick grass, moving with a speed born of divinity that the rest of the wedge couldn’t match, his legs and arms and shoulders and back tireless, sights and scents combining to alert him to the next threat, the need to duck, where to step, how to move. Crys was alive in the midst of the death he dealt, awake in a way he’d never been, Rankers dying before and beneath him in swathes until, without warning, without order, they broke.
‘Take them, they’re yours,’ Crys bellowed to the warriors at his back, heard the wave of affirmation rise like a storm and they raced past him, the formation holding and then dropping as it became a race to reach the fleeing soldiers first.
In the east, the archers were pressed hard, though they’d winnowed the numbers advancing on their position. He slid into place on Ash’s left just as the tall archer caught a blade with his hand axe and knocked it aside, knife slicing into his attacker’s wrist and spurting blood into the night.
‘All right?’ Crys asked in the pause before the next one came. Ash swiped at sweat and took his eyes from the enemy to search Crys for wounds. ‘I’m fine. Can you hold a little longer?’
‘Aye, but not too long, mind,’ Ash warned. ‘And watch yourself.’
‘You too.’ Crys protected Ash’s flank through two more short, intense battles, and then slid away during a lull. The East Rank was disciplined and they knew their business, but they were outnumbered and split up, unable to execute a coherent offensive. If the Krikites could break the northern line, they’d have it won.
The rain lessened a little as Crys joined the swaying line shield to shield with the Rankers. They were more evenly matched in strength and the Rank had the impetus of forward movement. He saw a woman go down with a spear in her chest, a man take an axe to the face, and he waited for the silver light to rise, draining him as it healed them. It didn’t come.
Foxy? We doing something about the injured?
Foxy?
His sword arm faltered as his attention moved inward. They were together as always, moving and breathing and stepping as one, but there was a … refusal to heal, a stone sitting in his chest that couldn’t be moved, and beneath it the pool of quicksilver, of life renewed.
A Ranker seized on his instant of inattention and struck hard, so hard Crys’s sword jolted in his grip; he tightened his fingers at the last second, fumbling the hilt, but the man’s backswing was arcing towards him and there was no time to parry, the blade still not set in his fist. His shield began to come across to intercept, too slow and exposing his left side, no one there to defend it, no Ash in place as an extension of him, his second set of arms and eyes and strong legs.
The shield was across his front, defending neither side, when the
blade went in, biting deep beneath his sword arm, the impact through his chainmail rocking him sideways a step – sideways into the blade coming from that direction too, a double impact like a heartbeat, thud-thud.
An animal howl went up, not from him but from them and Crys was on his knees, unable to breathe, feeling as though his ribs had been coated in pitch and set alight. His mouth opened but the air was trapped outside him and his sword weighed more than the world and his shield was just resting, rim on the dirt, top edge against his cheek.
The Krikites faltered. The East Rank screamed.
Foxy? Nothing.
Foxy?
The blades came in again.
DOM
Mabon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
Pine Lock, northern side of the River Gil, Cattle Lands
Left at the back of the battle like a boy with his nursemaid.
Dom stood on the dock with his sword in his right hand. It was unfamiliar, awkward, everything about it wrong, throwing off his balance. Still, he’d insisted that Gilda strap a buckler to the remains of his left arm; at least if he reacted instinctively and swung with his left, there was a chance he could smash an enemy in the face with it.
A score of Krikites were fanned along the dock in front of him, guarding the boats that were their way out if they absolutely had to retreat, and Dom knew that if it came to fighting, they’d be the ones to save the fleet, not him.
He tried, again, to swallow the bitterness, but it seemed he was too full of it to force any more down and it bubbled like acid upon his tongue. Off to his right stood Gilda, hunched beneath the rain, gnarled hands gripping the old spear haft she’d begun using as a walking stick. The top, which she’d sanded down to a comfortable roundness, was just the right height for her to prop her chin upon, and she did so now, for all the world like an old woman watching a flock of goats in a summer field.
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