She looked around her, trying to focus as the noise of battle engulfed her—men’s shouts combined with the screams of horses, some of which were writhing and kicking on the ground; others were riderless, their riders now fighting on foot if they had survived the fall. She could see her soldiers slashing a path towards her. She waited for them to arrive before striking out with them, working as a unit to gain the advantage over the Isharites. One of her men lost the point of his sword, shattered by the hard crystal of an Isharite blade.
Nonetheless, they were forcing the enemy back. Until they came upon a line of Isharite cavalrymen. They had the biggest horses, the most expensive armour. And in the middle of the line sat Rostam, newly appointed member of the Council of Seven, and Arioc’s chief henchman. Until recently they had been on the same side, both working to further Arioc’s ambitions. Now Shira had chosen her own side, but Rostam had remained loyal.
She raised her visor, making sure that he had seen her. He held his sword vertically in front of him, in a kind of salute. Instinctively, the soldiers around them left a space. Shira would fight with Rostam, and the outcome, she knew, was likely to swing the course of the battle.
She pushed her visor down, kneeing her horse so that it circled to the left. Rostam copied her movement.
There are many ways to win a fight, Shira knew, and one of them is to know your enemy. Predict what they will do. She knew Rostam well enough, knew that he would consider himself superior to her in every way: strength, skill, stamina. He believed he could win any number of ways: beat her down with strength, or kill her with a thousand cuts, especially if he had applied poison to his blade. Shira knew that her enemy might have one weakness: over-confidence in himself, and an underestimation of her.
Shira suddenly kneed her horse forwards into a charge. She pulled her sword back and put everything into a massive strike. If Rostam had evaded her, she may have toppled off her horse. But he chose to block. He blocked, thinking he could parry and counter-attack; demonstrate his superiority. He hadn’t realised quite how strong she was. He hadn’t anticipated she would take such a huge risk. Rostam’s block was too weak—Shira’s strike forced through it, her hips, core and arms working together to push him back. The power of her blow pushed his blade back against his body, pushed his body back in his seat so that he lost his balance. Shadow bit at the face of Rostam’s mount, causing it to skitter away.
For a moment, that seemed to linger longer than it really lasted, Rostam tottered back in his seat, arms windmilling to regain his balance. Shira brought back her sword over her left shoulder, then struck down. Her strike was true, connecting with Rostam’s neck and virtually severing his head from his shoulders. His body sprawled to one side, feet still caught in the stirrups.
There was a moment of shock on both sides, at the speed of the outcome as much as anything else. Then the fight resumed.
That one incident changed the course of the contest. Rostam was just one man, but his death boosted the confidence of the Haskans, just as it put doubt in the minds of the Isharites. Slowly at first, then faster, Shira’s soldiers gained the upper hand, pushing the enemy back, until one turned around and fled, then others, then all of them. The Isharite cavalry escaped back the way they had come and the Haskans gave chase, hoping to run them back to their camp and into the woods, making sure that they didn’t regroup.
Shira was with them, a grim smile on her face. Then something, an intuition maybe, made her slow down and stop. Some of her soldiers saw and stopped the chase too, started calling to those ahead. Shira raised a hand for silence.
To her left, she could see that the infantry had stopped fighting. The two sides stood a few feet apart, and an eerie silence had descended over them. And they weren’t looking in her direction. They weren’t reacting to her victory. They were looking in the opposite direction. To the south.
Pentas stood on the roof of the watchtower of Simalek, which rose almost one hundred feet into the air, a marvel of Persaleian engineering. Here the wind battered him, but the position allowed him a unique view of the plain around the tower. He observed the clash of cavalry on the battlefield. He had found two Haskan magi, an older man and his younger and more gifted protege. The younger of the two, Rimmon, could also ride a horse, and so Pentas had sent him with Shira.
Rimmon helped him to see Shira and Rostam circling each other, and when Shira attacked, Pentas and Rimmon were able to suppress the use of magic. He could see Shira strike Rostam down, see the battle turn in the favour of the Haskans.
But he didn’t see the black kite gliding towards the tower, until it was too late. The bird landed on the parapet and only then did Pentas give it his full attention. The bird transformed before him, taking the form of Arioc.
They looked at one another for a short while. Pentas felt a brief feeling of despair. He hadn’t wanted to die, and now that the time had come, he regretted it. And yet, he told himself, this was always going to be the likely outcome.
‘What’s happening?’ Arioc asked him, gesturing at the battle down below.
‘Rostam has fallen.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘He was your son, was he not?’
‘I believe so. But I can always raise another army. It is you I have come for.’
‘I feel honoured that this is all for me,’ Pentas waved his hand at the spectacle before them ironically.
‘Don’t be surprised, Pentas. I have killed Ardashir. Now I will kill you. That only leaves me Siavash, and all my rivals will be gone. Then Diis will join with me.’
‘He has not done so already?’ Pentas asked.
He genuinely wanted to know. He had wanted this Haskan rebellion to be an inconvenience for the Isharites. But their failure to crush it in its early stages had surprised him. If Diis had not intervened, leaving the Isharite leaders to their own devices, that would explain their weakness.
A look of annoyance, maybe even insecurity, flickered across Arioc’s face.
‘He will not join with me until I have proven myself. I would expect nothing less. But the time draws near. And so it is your time, Pentas. I have wasted some of my own time wondering why you engaged in this foolishness. Surely you knew it couldn’t last long.’
‘I am Madria’s servant, Arioc. I always have been.’
A look of surprise now crossed Arioc’s face. He smiled then, and looked at Pentas with a new expression, almost one of respect.
‘Well, I admit at times it had occurred to me. It certainly explains your regular incompetence. Your failures regarding her weapons, of course. You were in Edeleny, then?’
‘Yes. That was me.’
‘And you were behind the attack on Erkindrix?’
‘I helped them,’ said Pentas. ‘But then so did you.’
‘Indeed. We just had very different motives. Well, you have played a good game Pentas, I will give you that.’
Pentas looked past Arioc.
‘You may think this one last game,’ he said, ‘but perhaps you should look behind you.’
‘Really. Now you disappoint me. This is more like the Pentas I thought I knew.’
‘This is no joke, Arioc.’
Arioc turned, and saw what Pentas could see. Seven crows, flying in a V-shape towards them.
‘Not your magi?’ Pentas asked him, already knowing the answer.
‘No.’
Arioc seemed to tear his attention from the birds to the battle below them.
‘See there,’ he said.
Pentas looked where Arioc pointed, to the south of the fighting, and saw nothing. Then he realised what he was seeing. The Isharite fog, creeping towards the two groups of infantry. A third force had arrived, concealing its presence, and was now not far from the two armies. He could see on the battlefield, but he had no way of communicating over such a distance. The twins, Soren and Belwynn, were surely the only ones with that power. But maybe he could send a kind of warning; encourage Shira to notice the trap. He tried but would no
t know whether he had succeeded.
‘Siavash,’ he said to Arioc. ‘And I think now we know who Diis has chosen. And perhaps has chosen for some time.’
‘I have been fooling myself,’ Arioc admitted. ‘Diis has not forgiven my role in Erkindrix’s death.’
‘Maybe you are altogether too human for him, Arioc.’
‘Enough of your silver tongue, Pentas. What do we do?’
‘It’s ‘we’ now, is it?’
‘Of course it is. That’s the only chance we have of survival.’ Arioc looked him in the eyes. ‘My assumption is we can’t beat them, even working together.’
‘I would agree,’ Pentas replied cautiously.
‘Then we flee,’ determined Arioc. ‘Then they must decide whether they chase one or both of us. It may give one of us a chance to escape.’
‘Agreed,’ said Pentas. He paused, not quite believing he was saying it. ‘Good luck.’
But Arioc had already transformed into his kite. The bird took one last look at him then flew away, heading north.
Pentas looked at the approaching crows, no doubt seven masters of magic. Maybe even Siavash himself was amongst them. The truth was, Pentas had never learned to transform into animal form. It was a highly complex piece of magic, generally only mastered by the Isharites.
But he had mastered an alternative means of travel: the teleport. It was equally difficult, and perhaps more dangerous, requiring him to focus on a precise location to send his body. If he got it wrong, he could send himself to his death. He concentrated, focusing on a location he had identified before the battle. It was, after all, always prudent to be prepared. As he felt himself begin to move, as the sensations of blurred vision and stomach churning began to take hold, he was able to spare a brief thought for Arioc.
Good luck escaping from all seven of them, you bastard. You’re going to need it.
Shira trotted her horse back the way they had come, then stopped again, listening.
This time, she knew she heard it. It was a sound she was all too familiar with. Drobax. Thousands upon thousands of Drobax, marching in their direction. She could hear them and, she now thought, even smell them. But she couldn’t see them.
It was magic. Arioc had brought the Drobax with him, somehow circled around their position without them noticing. He had concealed them with magic, the same trick her magi had used in Rotelegen.
Pentas had missed it. Had failed.
But if it was Arioc, she asked herself, why had his soldiers stopped fighting too? She smiled, a mirthless smile, when she understood what was happening. Siavash. He had outwitted the pair of them.
One of Pentas’s pet magi, the one with the red hair, rode up to her.
‘We must flee,’ he said urgently.
But Shira knew deep in her bones that she wasn’t fleeing from this.
‘You go,’ she told him. ‘And rescue my uncle if you can.’
She raised a hand and the Haskan cavalry rallied to her. She took them south, in the direction of the enemy, and the Haskan reserves joined them. They peered ahead, listening to the noise of the Drobax getting closer. She remembered the fears of the Haskans when she had called for this rebellion. They had warned her of the Ishari magi; of the Drobax. And she had not listened, and Pentas had sweet talked them into doing his bidding.
Shira never hid from the truth. She knew this was her doing. But she would ride against the enemy and show them what free Haskans could do. And maybe the rest of her soldiers could make their escape, return to their homes, and live to fight another day, when the odds weren’t so stacked against her country.
The fog was slowly dissipating. The work of Siavash’s magi was done, and now his Drobax could be seen, emerging through the tendrils of smoke like the monsters they were. And not just Drobax, but other creatures too. Shira could see a unit of Isharite infantry, men who had chosen Siavash over Arioc. And small groups of spindly legged creatures had been positioned in between the Drobax, creatures Shira did not recognise at first until she realised she had met one of them before. Dorjan, King of the Shadow Caladri. He had led his people here too. Well done, she silently acknowledged. You chose well. You chose the winner.
Shira raised her arm one last time. Her cavalry gave a shout. Those who still held lances held them to the sky. Most, like her, now had to make do with swords. She pointed hers at the enemy.
‘For Haskany!’
They rode hard, gaining speed, the lancers moving to the front, Shira and the rest positioned behind.
The Drobax came, relentless and unthinking. The Shadow Caladri raised bows. No, Shira thought, but it was too late now.
A hail of missiles rose high into the air, before dropping from the sky towards them, as if they were sentient creatures that could target their victims. They rained down onto the Haskans. Shira had insisted that her cavalry were equipped with the strongest metal armour, many of them covered head to toe in plate, their horses protected with scales. The casualties weren’t therefore as bad as they might have been, but they were bad enough. Horses went down in front of her, to the sides. The riders following behind crashed into them, causing more devastation. The Haskan line was now uneven. But it hardly mattered.
Twenty yards out. Ten. And now they were into the enemy and Shira could swing her sword, Shadow could kick, and the Drobax fell under her fury. Her arm tired from swinging her sword and still she swung it, in a fierce desperation to kill as many of the creatures who had invaded her land as she could.
She mistook it at first for another Drobax. She swung down to her right dismissively, but it blocked her stroke with a shield, then casually stepped inside and shoved a short sword into Shadow’s throat, finding a gap in his armour. The sword came out with a gush of blood and Shira barely had time to get her feet out from the stirrups before her mount collapsed.
She landed on the ground heavily, her armour making it difficult to move well, but she had kept her grip on her sword. A blow landed on her back, nearly knocking her over, but it felt like it skidded off her armour rather than penetrating through.
She struggled to her feet and turned to find a Drobax coming in for a second attempt. She backed off just in time to avoid the thrust, then lunged forward and thrust her own sword into the creature with both hands, skewering through flesh and bone, before tugging the blade out again.
It collapsed, dead.
Shira walked around Shadow, assessing her situation. Fighting raged all about, and she could see more and more Haskans being pulled from horses as her force became overwhelmed. She reached his head, where the soil was drenched in his blood, and there it was, waiting for her.
It was fighting bare-chested, but appeared to have a naturally armoured torso. Then she knew it as a Krykker, but what it was doing here, in this fight, she had no idea.
A couple of Drobax approached her, but the Krykker shouted at them, waving his sword, and they retreated to find some other victim.
The Krykker discarded his shield and took a hand-axe, readying himself to fight with a weapon in each hand. He gave her a smile before walking towards her.
She let him approach, before launching a two-handed strike. But, not weighed down by as much armour as she was, he seemed to move so much faster than she did. He blocked her sword with his own, before going down on one knee and bringing in his axe in a long horizontal slash. The axe blade connected with her knee and her leg was taken from under her, causing her to collapse to the ground.
Excruciating pain erupted from where the blow had landed. She tried to stand back up but she screamed out loud in agony when she tried to put her weight on the injured leg, and had to give up. Instead she knelt, putting her good foot on the ground in front of her.
The Krykker approached, in no rush. She fished her sword in front of her and quick sharp he flicked his sword at her wrist, trying to disarm her. She pulled back just in time, then swung for his legs, trying to repay him in kind, but he managed to skip away just in time.
She knew his
game now. He knew who she was, and he would get a nice reward for capturing her alive. She held her sword out in front of her in one hand, before grabbing a dagger from her belt in the other. She smiled at him now, and he smiled back, pleasantly enough.
She flung her sword at him.
His natural reaction was to move out of the way.
Shira went down on both knees now. She grabbed her dagger in both hands and put the sharp point of the blade to her throat.
‘No!’ he shouted.
Shira held the dagger in place, elbows spread out wide, and let herself fall to the ground.
6
Broken Vows
THEY RETRACED THEIR JOURNEY back to Heractus.
Once they were through the Empire, Szabolcs and the other Caladri said their farewells and returned to their home. Belwynn and the others continued on, through the disputed lands of Grienna and Trevenza, then west, skirting the southern border of Persala.
Slowly, their spirits rose. Most of them had things to look forward to in Kalinth. Belwynn could resume her work with Elana. Gyrmund would see Moneva again. Theron, she could tell, was keen to get back to work. His mind had moved on from the disappointments of diplomacy in Coldeberg. He started talking to her about the Kalinthian army, mainly on the subject of the need to develop an infantry force to complement the Knights. She understood the basic problem he had. It had been the Krykker infantry and the Kalinthian cavalry that together had defeated the Isharites. Neither could have done it alone.
Soren, while not exactly a force of optimism, had also come to terms with the meeting in Coldeberg. He still smouldered with anger at what he saw as a lack of action from others. But he had learned from Szabolcs the locations of the remaining weapons. That had helped him to focus on what he needed to do.
‘Yes,’ he said to her out loud, as their horses clipped along, the deep forest of the Grand Caladri on their left, the ancient kingdom of Persala to their right. ‘The shield is on our doorstep, somewhere there,’ he continued, indicating Persala. ‘But who else is going to travel to the Jalakh Steppe but us?’
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