‘I really, really hope you know what you are doing,’ she said to him, licking her dry lips.
‘I do not. I may have committed a terrible folly. If I have, then may I ask a favour of you?’
She nodded, trying but failing to keep the concern from her eyes.
‘Ask.’
‘If it goes badly, ride to the Grand Duke, tell him we have been betrayed, that the Arshumans have many more men than they have led us to believe and that he should retreat to Grest to continue the war from there.’
‘I will,’ she said quietly. ‘Do not die on me, Morgan.’
Morgan looked gloomy. ‘I may not have that choice. But you have. Make sure for your people’s sake that you stay alive. In the meantime, when I give the signal, send their weedy light cavalry to the furnace.’
‘If you mean kill them, it will be a pleasure. And you will see me fight at last. It is not before time.’
They clasped hands firmly and smiled at each other; no more words were required.
He returned to his position among the cavalry. ‘Dominic, may I suggest an unconventional tactic?’
Dominic laughed. ‘If there ever was a time to be unconventional, then this is it.’
‘I agree. Now their cavalry outnumber us, as we can both see, but there is one even more important difference between us, is there not?’
‘There is?’ asked Esric.
‘Oh yes. Now, we command a force of experienced horsemen toughened by a hundred battles whereas they, coming from the south, look pretty but do not know one end of a lance from another. Why not teach them about soldiering the hard way, and while we are at it let us show them how useless golden armour really is.’
Esric laughed. ‘A frontal cavalry charge? You have read too much of the wrong type of fiction, my friend. It would be foolhardy in the extreme to...’
‘Let’s do it,’ said Dominic emphatically. ‘You were not at Wolf Plain, Esric; I have been desperate for revenge for a long time, especially against their king. Also, it will be the perfect diversion. I cannot explain fully but we need them to focus on us so they cannot see whatever may be happening elsewhere. Can you get the mage to help us somehow?’
Esric nodded and sent a messenger back to the infantry where Mikel was waiting surrounded by a circle of knights between the road and the lake. That done, Dominic rode up and down the line exhorting his knights to put everything into their charge. ‘Today is the day that your bravery shall be judged, that your prowess in battle be fully tested, for today this war shall end and its outcome stands or falls on your shoulders; you have seen Artorus is with us – we are the army of the Gods and the Gods shall deliver us victory. Death to Arshuma!’
‘Death to Arshuma!’ came the call from the knights. ‘Death to Arshuma’ they repeated again and again. Morgan finally drew his blade, a shard of blue ice across whose surface seemed to play a thin white mist. He held the blade aloft where it flared like a torch when it caught the sun. Every horseman could see it and held their mounts in check, champing as they were to get going.
And then, finally, Morgan lowered his blade again.
The horns blared, visors were lowered, lances were readied and nearly two thousand horses were urged forward. A trot became a canter, which became a gallop and then the charge truly began. The ground trembled as they surged forward, aiming for the heart of the Arshuman horse and the man in gold. Morgan hung back a little, he was no rider and was just happy to keep up with proceedings, but it did give him time to look around. He could just see Itheya and her elves scattering the enemy archers and light horse; he even caught a glimpse of the lady herself, loosing her bow at some poor unfortunate in her way – at last he had seen her fight! He looked ahead again and, as expected, the Arshuman horse had responded in kind. The heavy cavalry on both sides were going at full pelt against each other.
General Terze was perturbed. He could not understand why a force so outnumbered would be so keen to force a conflict and, even more foolhardy, send all its cavalry forward in a charge of outstanding recklessness. Still, if slaughter was what they wanted, that is what they would get. He urged his men forward, determined to build up enough speed to meet the enemy on equal terms. Inside his armour his sweat stung his eyes and tasted salty on his tongue; he felt it running in rivers down his back. He was finding it difficult to see; the sun, though nearly overhead, seemed to be shining directly into his eyes. Where were the enemy? He could hear them certainly – they were close now. he did not doubt it – but all he could see was a blanket of white light, directly ahead, obscuring everything. Then it finally dawned on him.
The enemy had a mage.
He had to bellow out a warning to those around him, get them to ready their lances even if they thought it too soon. ‘It is a mage!’ he was going to call. ‘They are closer than you all realise!’
But before he could the enemy charge struck home.
It was like a clap of thunder, the impact of their meeting. Against the rock of the lower mountain and the city itself the crack of metal against shield echoed again and again, rolling over the city like a roar from the Gods. Lances shivered against armour; men were toppled, their armour crashing against the soft ground. Horses reared and screamed, blood fountained and splashed on to mail and grass. But it was the knights of Tanaren that held the field. A wedge had been driven through the heart of the Arshumans, though, brave men that they were, they were attempting to rally and counter. The impact of the charge had been reduced by the enemy ranks, but Dominic still advanced at the head of his men and Morgan had almost caught him up. Behind the apex of the charge he had not yet needed to use his sword in anger, but that was about to change, for just ahead, protected by a ring of veteran knights sitting under the banner of the red sun, a man clad in armour of pure gold awaited them.
She had never seen a pitched battle like this before, except of course for the idealised versions depicted on tapestries in Edgecliff Castle. Even here, perched on a rocky promontory over the pass leading from Roshythe to its marble quarry, the people and horses engaging in desperate hand-to-hand fighting far below looked so small, so remote, it was hard to empathise with the horrific slaughter taking place. It reminded her of watching two rival ant colonies, as she had used to in the sandy earth close to the beach. The beach where she found the stone – was it really less than a year ago? How much had changed since then.
She looked down at her ragged sleeves and her filthy torn dress. It would not be long before it disintegrated completely. What on earth would she wear then? Nothing obviously. Her history tutor, a kindly bearded old man, had told her of truly ancient times when men and women lived in caves or huts of mud and wore furs if they wore anything at all. She had reverted to that time, it seemed; she was little more than a savage.
As a savage she had spent the last four or five months in the underground city, wandering the dusty empty streets, washing in its river, and eating whatever cave creature the wyverns had caught for her, She had been naked, as her back ached and her belly swelled in front of her. But none of that she had minded too much. Being without the trappings and comforts she had taken for granted all her life had been a stimulating change, though not always a pleasant one. No, it was not that that had bothered her. The fact was that from the time she had spoken to the ostler in Thakholm up until the birth of her child and her meeting the pretty elf and then her brother in the mountain glade, she had spoken to not one living soul. Not one. And it was this lack of human contact, this all-consuming loneliness, that had crushed her most of all. She had started talking to herself as she wandered around, discussing the strange statues, the wall carvings, the artefacts she had found, her own small voice echoing around the vaulted cave where only cold stone could hear her.
This had not been her plan. What she had intended originally was to summon the creature and extract justice for her husband and, as she had thought then, her father. But, as soon as she had seen the majestic creature, felt it breathing, heard the colossal heart b
eating, she knew that separation between the two of them would be all but impossible. There was a bond, some intangible connection between the two of them; they knew each other’s thoughts, felt the other’s emotions (for a dragon had them just as sure as she had). The dragon had grown to understand her, had become more human if that were possible, knew what it was like to be a woman alone, isolated and lost.
In turn, Ceriana’s changes were more obvious – the way her skin shone and changed like a jungle chameleon or fire salamander, the way her eyes would glow yellow when she needed to see with clarity in the darkness – these were the most apparent differences. But there were other things, too. Her cold endurance for one – how else could she stand on this peak as she was doing now without a cloak and gloves? Another was her increased physical toughness and, in the last week or two, she had never needed it more. For she had not told her brother and Morgan the general everything, not everything at all.
Her contractions had started as she washed her face in the great plunge pool close to the waterfall. She was alone and her terror hit her like a spiked club. The dragon sensed this immediately and came to her. She lay next to its great stomach and had no choice other than to let nature take its course.
She did not know how long the whole thing took. To her it had been for ever; she saw the moon rise over the great fissures in the rock high above and then saw it vanish again and the dawn rise. And as she watched she screamed. Again and again she screamed as she felt her body being ripped apart. It was an eternity of agony, a torture like she could not imagine; she thought she would die a hundred times over. But the dragon never left her; she felt her great warm bulk trying to provide what comfort she could. Without that, Ceriana did not know what would have happened to her.
And then, as the dust stuck to the sweat that covered her entire body, it had finally ended. Even as she stood watching the battle, thinking back to the birth, the emotional kick she had felt on realising she was not alone, that there was another tiny little life in the cave with her, brought fresh tears to her eyes. Exhausted as she had been, she had held the little girl close, hearing her cry, feeling her heart, her healthy heart. Then she remembered frantically looking her over, trying to find any sign of difference, of mutation and then hearing her own relieved sobs when she saw nothing. She had had nearly five days with her, five precious days. She had fed her, sung to her softly, carried her around and talked to her, telling her of who she was. Every gurgle, every screwed-up smile had caused her heart to soar skywards with happiness; she had barely noticed the protests from her own torn and damaged body.
For she had lied to Dominic. She was sure that without the dragon’s strength both she and her child would not have lived. Even now she felt sore and terribly, terribly weak. For she had only rested for a day or two before flying with the dragon again, even if it was only for a brief time. And this was how she saw the soldiers, hatched her plan and spoke to the elf girl. For the elf had heard her timorous call as she trotted past on her fine white horse and had climbed the path to find her. And they had talked. Talked for longer than Ceriana had wanted, for she was desperate to go back to Sofie, but the elf had understood her intent. It was she that had suggested the meeting and between them they had finalised Ceriana’s plan. It was a plan she had toyed with, for she wanted the Grand Duke punished for his machinations and she wanted glory for her brother, but it had one huge factor that she had ignored up until now. When she was to meet her brother she would have to part with her child. She had gone over it again and again in her head, justifying her intent with reason and cold hard logic, but, on returning to the cave after the meeting, her desolation had been overwhelming. She had screamed her lungs out at the Gods as her skin shone like a torch – what right had they to do this to her? To take the only thing she had left, the best thing she had ever done in her life, after such a brief time together? But the Gods did not answer her and by the following morning she was calm again. Calm, brittle and cold, for there was nothing left for her now but to complete the plan she had discussed. Only then might she be able to find peace.
Only she knew all of the plan, for part of it none but her had to know. But so far it was happening as she had hoped. Her brother had been true to his word; she thought she could see him at the head of the army riding through the Arshuman knights. Her part in this war would soon need to be played. She left the edge of the ledge and walked towards the mountain side where her mount waited patiently for her.
He had been spotted at last. One of the King’s bodyguards bellowed out a challenge to him. Obviously the knight knew who he was. Maybe they had fought each other before. It was a very strong possibility; he had lost count of the battles he had been involved in and this knight, too, was in all likelihood a veteran. He wore no visor, his head being shaved, so that it was little more than a close-cropped silver stubble. He sported a beard and moustache Arshuman style, though again both had more grey in them than anything else. Spurring his horse, he left the King’s side and made straight for Morgan, obviously seeing a chance for glory. He wielded a great chained flail, good for unhorsing knights, and as he drew close he swung it, aiming at Morgan’s head.
Keeping a tight grip on his shield, Morgan blocked the blow, though the impact sent pain shooting up his arm. His lack of ability on a horse would find him out, he thought, as he saw the speed with which the knight checked his charge and swerved his steed to come at Morgan again. Still keeping his shield held high, he readied his sword. This time, though, the flail caught a glancing blow on his helmet, making his head sing like a bird. He rolled in his saddle and only kept himself upright by the skin of his fingernails. He felt the bruises on his head rise immediately – if he lived through this, it would take weeks before they subsided.
The knight readied another blow, but this time, almost reflexively, Morgan swung his sword. It was not a great aim, for his original idea was to strike the man’s face. Instead, it caught the man on his wrist where he held the flail high. Though clad in full plate, the sword bit deep. It sheared through the armour and sliced into flesh, and then bone. The flail fell to the ground as the knight looked in horror at his ruined hand, for it swung loose, only remaining connected to the arm by sinews and a thin strip of flesh. The blood that shot from the stump hit Morgan in the face, for he wore no visor like the other knights. He spat it out of his mouth, as the knight lost control of his horse and it carried him forward as at last he started to scream.
Morgan looked at his strange sword. The blood on it had solidified and, as he watched, fell from it on to the ground. What exactly, by Mytha and all the Gods, was he wielding?
‘Morgan!’ he heard the call – it was Dominic. ‘Morgan, to me! We have him at bay!’
And Morgan saw he was right. The King, or his imposter, was almost exposed to them. Much of his bodyguard had fallen or was engaged in battle with other foes and, seeing this, the King turned to flee.
Morgan spurred his horse forward; Dominic, too. A knight went to block Dominic but he grabbed his assailant around the throat and, not even using his sword, wrestled the man off his horse on to the ground where it stamped on the prostrate fellow in its panic before haring off. Dominic used his own horse to try to finish the man off, riding him down like a dog. Morgan, though, made the killing blow, a sweep from his sword taking the man’s head clean off. As he rode past the dead man, he saw that there was no one between him and the King, whose attempt to flee had been baulked by the press of fighting men behind him.
The King, or at least the man in the King’s armour, turned his horse at bay, and Morgan trotted slowly towards him, sword in hand. The King’s blade was a magnificent weapon. Morgan wondered how many times the steel had been folded and how many hours had gone into fashioning the snake patterns that ran along the blade’s length. It was a piece of art but he guessed it was not the match of his own.
The King swung at him. Morgan blocked it with his shield, then returned the blow, but with the same result. They rode around each ot
her trading tentative blows, chipping pieces off their shields, Morgan became suddenly aware that much of the fighting around him had stopped and they were all watching his duel – King against Baron, General against Commander.
The King struck again, this time getting partially past Morgan’s defence. He sliced at the mail rings on the Baron’s torso, pushing some of them through his woollen undershirt and into his flesh, breaking the skin. Morgan winced as he felt blood trickling from the wound; the man was skilled, indeed. He lowered his shield into its correct position again – skilled he might be but he was not as skilled as Morgan.
Morgan sliced downward, carving a chunk from the King’s shield. It fell to the ground and the King swung his horse around, trying to get past Morgan’s defence and to land a killing blow through his ribs. Morgan swung his mount around in turn and, as he did so, the King lowered his shield, so determined was he to get this crucial strike at his foe. His over-eagerness was a mistake, just the mistake Morgan was waiting for. With the King’s shield lowered, he could get a blow in at his head; he meant to bring his blade down in a great slicing arc, splitting the King’s head in two and killing him instantly, but the distance was a little too great. Instead, the great blue sword chopped through the front part of the helmet, severing it, the great pointed visor, mouth guard and the King’s face from his body, the excised items falling limply on to the bruised ground.
Morgan beheld the remains of the King – the dark jellied pits of the eyes, the opened nose cavity, the fragments of teeth that still held to the shattered jaw, the pulpy bloodied brain and the severed blood vessels spitting their contents on to his breastplate. Through the mouth cavity the man gurgled and choked, he was still conscious, still aware. For mercy, if no other reason, Morgan ended it driving the sword into the man’s heart cutting through the armour as though it were silk. After he twisted and withdrew the steaming blade, the King, or his decoy, clattered off the saddle and fell dead on to the grass.
The Forgotten War Page 142
