by Tad Williams
The Xixian giant grinned as he stood over him, showing teeth and also the places teeth were not. He kicked Barrick’s shield out of the way, almost wrenching his arm out of its socket, then lifted his spear up over Barrick’s chest.
Things changed so abruptly that for a moment Barrick couldn’t tell what was different. Only when blood fountained out of the ruin of the man’s neck and splashed down onto him did Barrick realize that the giant’s head was gone. Someone had cut it off—no, knocked it off and sent it flying as a child might decapitate a daisy with a stick.
“Time to get up, young master,” growled Hammerfoot. “You will miss seeing the Elementals at work, otherwise.” The massive lower lip jutted like a granite cliff as he looked Barrick up and down where he lay. “You are covered with blood. Well done.”
“Most of it just sprayed on me when you took his head off.” Barrick got up slowly, aching as though he had fallen down two flights of stairs. “But I thank you.”
Hammerfoot nodded and licked at the red smeared on his fingers. His eyes glinted deep in the black pits on either side of his flat nose. “It was my pleasure.”
Briony could not fail to be impressed. All of the Syannese nobles had been given a chance to speak their hearts. Many had felt it was too soon to be going anywhere near the autarch’s legions, that it must almost certainly be a trap, however bizarre its methods. Then, when they all had finished, Eneas gave his decision; they would ride. After that they had readied themselves for battle as calmly as if they had not argued against it.
“Nothing can be harmed by listening,” her father had always said, and here was proof: the prince’s soldiers, especially the sons of proud old Syannese families, wished to be heard. Briony decided there was nothing for a good king (or queen) to fear in letting their subjects speak and even object to the ruler’s desire as long as they would join in wholeheartedly afterward, as the Temple Dogs were doing despite not winning the point. Briony sometimes felt that despite all the wisdom her father had shared with her, she had learned more about governing people in the days since she had left Southmarch Castle than in all the years she had lived as a princess of the ruling family.
The sun was just past noon and they were already high up into the coastal hills, making good time. The day was warm and dry, the dust rising around the horses’ hooves, and the larks were singing. It seemed unthinkable to Briony that so fair a world could have so much dread in it.
“Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve,” she told Eneas as they watered the horses. “My father said the autarch planned to raise a god. What do you think he meant? What will happen two days from now? The autarch must believe in it, at least. He hasn’t even conquered Hierosol, yet he left his siege and sailed all this way.”
Eneas was listening to her, but he was also watching every rider who went by, every foot soldier. The prince of Syan had been born to command men, she decided, in a way her father had not been, for all his virtues. Some things about the task of leadership had always filled Olin with dismay or sadness. Kendrick had often teased that, “Father is too kind to be king. He should be in a cave out in the Kracian hills with the other hermits and oracles.” Barrick had never thought this was funny, though the idea had sent Briony and Kendrick into gales of laughter, but only now did she understand why. How could that man I spoke to in the dark be the same monster Barrick hates and fears? How was it that after all the years of kindness their father had shown him, her twin only remembered his moments of cruelty, his madness . . . ?
“I cannot tell you what the autarch thinks,” said Eneas, breaking her reverie. “But I am afraid.”
At first she thought she hadn’t heard him correctly. “You are what, Highness?”
“I fear the Autarch of Xis as I fear no other man—as I fear nothing but the ultimate judgment of Heaven.” He solemnly made the sign of the Three. “I have fought against him, you remember—or at least his men—and I have heard of his deeds all these last two years as the flotsam of the armies that tried to stand against him landed on the shores of Eion. He is mad as a wounded snake but as clever as Kupilas himself, and has an entire terrified and terrifying empire struggling to fulfill his every whim.” He still watched his men file past, but now his handsome face was troubled. “But what are his whims? No one can say, Briony. We can only guess, and wait, and . . . and fear.”
Before she could think of anything to say, Lord Helkis came racing toward them down the forested slope, swinging his charger back and forth between the trees, clearly bearing some kind of important news.
“My good Miron, is all well?” Eneas asked. “No, do not bow, speak to me! Why such haste?”
“Highness, you must come. The forward scouts are calling that the camp is under attack!”
“What camp?” demanded the prince even as Briony’s heart leaped into a swifter rhythm.
“The Xixian camp, Highness. The autarch’s men! They’re under attack!”
“By whom? From where?”
“Come and talk to Weasel and the other scouts,” Helkis urged.
Eneas was already clambering into his saddle, not even waiting for help from his groom, as though his coat of chain armor were no more substantial than linen. Briony realized she was staring and hastened to get back into the saddle herself; unlike the prince, she was grateful for the groom who sprang to aid her. “The scouts can talk as we ride,” Eneas declared as he pulled on his helmet. “I wish to see this for myself!”
They found a place where they could see down past the last curve of the foothills to the vast Xixian encampment sprawling beside the bay and throughout the city itself, the round tents seeming as numerous as grains of sand. The autarch’s men were fighting, that was clear, but with whom seemed considerably less so. After staring through it himself for a few moments, Eneas passed his silver spyglass to Briony. She had to push and pull at the tube for a moment, then suddenly, as if she had flown down upon the scene as swiftly as a hawk, she could clearly see the camp and the fighting.
“Zoria’s mercy—some of those are giants!” It was like a dream, seeing what happened so clearly but soundlessly. “That one—I swear it is a monster! Is it some devilry of the autarch that has rebounded on him?”
“I think those are Qar,” said Eneas. “We know the fairy folk were here at Southmarch. Those who attacked the merchant wagons had to come from somewhere.”
“But where? I thought they had retreated.” Briony could make no sense of this unexpected fairy army, their shields and armor a hundred different colors, their shapes almost as varied. She swung the glass toward the place where the fighting was thickest, along the edge of the camp nearest the rocky hills that came down almost to the shore of Brenn’s Bay. “They’re coming out of the rocks,” she announced. “No, out of the caves! The fairies are coming out of the caves and they’re trying to get into the autarch’s camp. Some of them have, but most of them can’t get past the fighting along the wall.” She winced and handed the spyglass back to Eneas. “The fighting is terrible. They are dying by scores at the wall of the camp.”
The prince had a strange look in his eyes, a gleam she had not seen before. “Then let us try to give them a moment’s help. I suppose it is pointless to ask you to stay behind?”
She laughed despite sudden, breath-stealing fear and nodded her head vigorously because it was taking her a moment to speak. “Pointless!”
Eneas frowned. “So be it. Come, then, and may the gods watch over us all. We chose the wrong side once. Not again!”
At the prince’s signal the horns called the assembly. The Temple Dogs who had dismounted scrambled back into their saddles; those who were drinking took a last swallow and wiped their mouths. The horses stamped and capered as Eneas stood in his stirrups.
“Anglin came to save my ancestors!” he shouted, holding his sword high. “Now we will pay back a little of that blood debt! Drive these southern dogs into the sea!” He waved and spurred his horse along the crest, following the scouts down the hill toward the cam
p. “For Syan and Southmarch!” he cried. “For King Enander and King Olin!”
All Briony had time for was the briefest of prayers . . .
Kind Zoria, bring us through this danger safely . . .
. . . And then she was riding too; they were all riding, plunging down the dry hills with a noise like summer thunder.
The Xixians had been arrogant, Barrick decided: they had not truly expected an attack, and certainly not out of the very depths where the autarch had been using his own huge army like a hammer, pounding away on his outnumbered enemies. His generals had made mistakes and they had also been profligate with the blood of their soldiers, confident they had the numbers to shrug off most mistakes . . . and they were right. The Xixians were fierce, stubborn foes who still had the fairies grossly outnumbered. The Qar had not reached the surface in their initial surge, and now it was beginning to look like they might never reach it.
Saqri’s troops had managed to break through the first wall of Naked infantry—spearmen with shields, their sheer numbers and weight meant to force the Qar backward—and had also managed to destroy two of the autarch’s war-fire wagons before they could be used against them: even now the wreckage burned so hot that no one could come within a dozen yards.
A pitched battle up the slope had followed, which finally gave the Trickster archers a chance to work, and Xixian bodies were soon tumbling from the heights. When the Qar reached the top of the passage at last they slowly fought their way up the ramps that spiraled around the high-ceilinged rock chamber, then up onto the rocky beach. A cannonball exploded near them and killed three of the Ettins and a score of smaller Qar. The autarch’s men had not been as stupid as Barrick had first thought. Instead of assuming they would hold the smaller Qar force in the tunnels, the Xixians had brought up reinforcements . . . and more: they had killed several of their own horses in the hurry, but had succeeded in turning around one of their own half-cannons. The first cannonball had missed the fairies but had dug a huge hole into the hillside; they were loading now to fire again.
A squadron of Xixian archers hurried down the beach to help defend the camp, still buckling on their gear and stopping to pull strings onto their bows: others were firing arrows of their own even as they ran toward the massive cannon, clearly intent on setting up a new main line of defense. The Tricksters clambered up into the rocks beside the cave mouth, trying to reach a vantage point where they did not have to shoot past their own allies.
Barrick, for the moment in the relative safety of Hammerfoot’s massive shadow, could only stare helplessly out at this scene of madness. We will be trapped here in the caves, he thought. Then, if the autarch sends troops back out of the tunnels, we will be caught and broken like a walnut in a blacksmith’s tongs.
Another thunderous blast and a cannonball struck beside the mouth of the cavern, sending large stones bouncing away in all directions. As the echoes died away, Saqri inclined her head and a squadron of Changing tribe warriors rushed out of the cave mouth, shrilling a war cry, their bodies dropping to all fours and blurring into metamorphosis even as they raced across the uneven, rocky hillside down toward the cannoneers. Some of the Xixian archers simply turned and fled from this horrifying sight, but the swiftest of the Changing tribe veered aside from the main emplacement and quickly caught up to them, singing as they shed mortal blood again.
Xixian arrows flew toward them from all directions. Three of the Changing tribe fell like dropped grain sacks, and another beast-man arched his back and stumbled with a shriek of agony—a cry like something wild having its heart ripped out that made Barrick flinch badly, though he was nowhere close.
Suddenly the world broke apart around him, or seemed to, as if it had been smashed like a plate thrown against the hearth. Barrick’s ears seemed to have been pierced by white-hot needles; when he could think again he could hear nothing but a high-pitched hum and the faint murmur of Hammerfoot. The giant crouched only a short distance away, but to Barrick’s ears the creature’s powerful voice seemed as small as a mouse’s, scarcely to be heard above the thumping of the cannons.
Hammerfoot brushed dirt and chips of stone from his skin. “Earth’s blood—the Xixy-men are bringing up two more of their cursed guns.” The Deep Ettin seemed more annoyed by this than fearful. “They will just keep setting sparks to them until they smash us into powder. . . .”
Another huge thump of sound and the cavern shook again, hard. Debris rained down from the ceiling, and rocks rattled harshly on Barrick’s helmet as though a bullying hand smacked him over and over. Dizzy, spitting blood and wet dust, he shoved himself back against the cavern wall and watched the last stones patter down onto the ground in front of him. He was frightened but not much surprised by this world of ringing silence. Every song the People sang was about defeat and honorable death; now they had earned what they sought, what they believed in. And whether he was one of them or not, he seemed to have earned the same thing.
The world convulsed again. This time, darkness followed.
In all the years that her father and Shaso had talked about it, in all the courtly tales she had read about of bravery and daring, nothing had prepared Briony Eddon for the truth of war. All was chaos—shouting, flying arrows, blood splashing like water—and if both armies had been human, there would have been no way to pick out friend from foe. As it was, even before she struck a blow, Briony was already struggling to remember that the creatures who appeared to be the stuff of nightmares were her allies, or at least were fighting against the same enemy, the warriors of Xis. Things that crouched and snarled like apes or bears but wore armor, others that leaped like insects, crossing a dozen yards in a single bound to strike with slender, needle-sharp spears, some creatures wrapped so thoroughly in flapping, dark cloth that she could see nothing of them but a glint like fire where their faces should be—it was as though the painted margins of Father Timoid’s ancient prayer books had come to life, spilling demons and monstrosities out into the air of the world.
The Temple Dogs’ initial charge had cut deep into the Xixians as they rushed to keep the rest of the invading Qar trapped in the cave just south of the camp. Shortly, though, their resistance had stiffened and now Briony could see that Eneas’ troops would have to fight their way back out of a crowd of southerners, who surrounded them almost completely. More Xixians were on their way as well, fumbling themselves into their battle gear as they hurried to the fight. Three of the Xixian cannons had now been turned away from the walls of Southmarch and trained instead on the cavern entrance where the Qar had emerged. The big guns boomed and spat fire, each shot smashing more of the base of the hill around that cavern entrance into rubble and smoke and dust.
At the moment, Briony was in comparatively less danger, as long as she kept her head down—in the center of Eneas’ men, surrounded on all sides by able riders who had fallen back into close formation and with their spears and shields were contesting the Xixians, who were mostly on foot. Only Eneas and a few others at the outer edge of the fighting had discarded spears in favor of their swords or axes. Briony watched Eneas defeat two foot soldiers in a matter of moments, using his shield to deflect the spear thrust of one before staving in the man’s helmet with a sword blow, then stabbing the second in his gorge. As the man fell, blood already sheeting onto his chest, Briony had to look away—not because of the Xixian, but because watching Eneas risking his life was almost as painful as finding her father and being helpless to free him.
One of the Temple Dogs near her was in trouble. His foot had slipped from the stirrup; as he struggled to stay in the saddle, a pair of Xixians were trying to pull him down. Briony spurred forward. Growing up, she had tilted more than a few times at the quintain—it was one of the first times her father took her side in a dispute with Shaso over what she should be allowed to do—but the short spear that the Syannese armorer had given her was nothing like a tilting-lance. It was so light that she almost felt she should swing it like one of the bulrush swords of her childhood
duels with Barrick; as she reached the struggle, she jabbed it hard at the nearest man and caught him just at the juncture of his armpit and chest. It sank in several inches, mostly because of the power of her horse, and the screaming man spun away from her Syannese ally. An instant later, the horse of another mounted Temple Dog trampled the wounded Xixian into silence.
The second southerner had been distracted by the screamer’s fate; when Briony reined her horse up and then spurred back toward him, his eyes widened. He let go of the Syannese knight’s arm and mail shirt, flung up his shield to take Briony’s spear, and narrowly missed stabbing her in turn as she went past him. The knight she had come to help found his stirrup and, once righted, was soon belaboring the man with heavy sword blows. Another Temple Dog rode up and hacked at the base of the Xixian’s neck before he even saw the new threat. The man fell heavily to the ground in a pool of blood and mud, his head only partially attached to his body.
It was fighting. Real fighting, bloody, dreadful fighting, the kind that Shaso had taught her about but she had never actually known. It was terrifying. It was astounding, too, but mostly it was terrifying. She had been a fool to join in, and now she could not escape it. This was not a song, not a poem; it was blood and shit and shrieking men and screaming horses.
