“We will handle them with or without you.” A rare smile appeared on Indrajit’s face, and he yelled louder so that more men could hear him. “It’s a shame the rajah’s only living son is afraid to fight a girl. If your brothers had lived, perhaps your father could have been proud of one of them. Our enemies killed the wrong ones.”
Indrajit’s taunting felt like an icy blade cutting Rao’s heart. The general obviously knew more about Rao’s family history than he did.
Rao moved outside the formation and let the waves of soldiers march past him. He scanned the determined faces of the rows of men marching toward the battle.
If I can do anything about it, these men will not die today.
He followed the troops into the valley, and climbed atop the highest rise overlooking what was to be the battlefield. Only parched shrubs, noisy insects, and black birds seemed to live at the valley floor. Hills and ditches made much of the canyon land uneven, but the armies were converging on a plain. Another great mass of Pawelon troops approached from the southern trail, but they wouldn’t be able to join the battle for some time. Because of this, the Pawelon troops near Rao were outnumbered by at least two to one.
The Pawelon and Rezzian armies marched closer together. Closer and closer until Pawelon’s forces were commanded to stop. Their infantry extended long spears and held great round shields along the front lines, weaving a tapestry of muscle and iron to punish any Rezzian charge. On a hill near to Rao, a score of sages stood with their arms held rigidly overhead like the branches of tall trees, humming a complex scale of mystical tones.
The enemy’s legions charged as expected, running ahead in great rectangular formations with their long, curling rectangular shields held in front of their bodies and over their heads. Pawelon’s archers pulled back on their bows, a sinewy and screeching racket, and unleashed their volley.
Pawelon’s missiles took flight in a black swarm. The sages’ toning deepened. As their humming grew louder and reached a stirring pitch, the arrow swarm expanded before raining down in a supernatural torrent, the density of arrows multiplied by the sages’ powers. Rezzian screams filled the air. Rao observed the horrible noise with detachment, not allowing himself to feel or contemplate its full meaning.
He breathed deliberately, pulling his consciousness inward, seeking his calm center.
A high-pitched whine blared from the darkening heavens. A blazing object burned through the sky, aiming at the rear of the Rezzian army. The celestial fireball arced down and exploded with an ear-splitting boom, creating an eruption of high-flying sparks near the center of the Rezzian forces. The valley floor shook, rumbled, and cracked.
As if responding, the clouds swirled faster, turned pitch-black, and hovered above Pawelon’s forces. A vicious, freezing wind blew down on them.
And terror filled their veins.
Chapter 11: To Dream of Battle
BY THE TIME LUCIA SET OFF on horseback to meet Strategos Duilio, the Rezzian army had already begun its trek through the valley. The formations inched forward like an army of ants in the basin of Gallea’s most impressive canyon, long-haired infantry clattering with tall shields on their left arms, held throwing spears poking up above right shoulders, fat double-edged stabbing swords still sheathed, wrought iron cuirasses over maroon tunics, and bronze helms with long cheek guards and colorful horsehair plumes.
Pawelon’s citadel peered mockingly over the edge of the high western rim. The Rezzians anticipated the usual skirmishes with their enemy on the trails leading up to the fortress. Early battles each day typically took place around the mouth of the northern or southern trail, sometimes at both locations. Pawelon would either fortify the wide trailheads with countless rows of long spears, and archers stationed on ledges in the cliffs, or they would spread out their forces with long spearmen placed, at least seven rows deep, at the most narrow points along the two routes to the citadel.
Whenever the Pawelons left thin resistance below, the Rezzians climbed in tight formations like tortoises, carrying their curved shields at their front, sides, rear, and over their heads to defend against any Pawelon archers able to find purchase among the tall cliffs.
Throughout the Rezzian army, it was widely believed that the apathy of Lord Galleazzo, King Vieri’s patron god, had blocked them from reaching the citadel over the previous year. The soldiers also noted that the new plague began soon after their martial luck turned sour. But by divine will—whether miraculous or ironic—the plague had spared the army itself; the sickness only afflicted the common people of Rezzia and their neighbors.
Lucia rode toward the troops on her white mare, flanked by her bald warpriest guards. She’d been told the canyon floor had been beautiful before so many soldiers trampled its vegetation over the course of the war. Still, the desert smelled clean and fresh, noisy insects and birds lived among the land, and the red dirt held a hint of magic, despite its bloody history.
To distract her thoughts from the impending carnage, she mused on Ilario’s arrival. There would be no other women around the camp besides the harlots, so he would have no more excuses. If he loved her, this would be his chance to say it. She’d waited long enough.
Up ahead, a standard-bearer held the round, tasseled, crimson and gold imperial flag, a proud rendering of the sun. Normally the standard would follow the king in battle, but for now it signaled the Strategos’s position at the rear of the army’s dust cloud. After a pull on Albina’s reins and a firm kick, Lucia soon approached the old man whom her father had entrusted with his legions.
The Strategos was nearly seventy now, with curly white hair hanging down to his shoulders. Duilio’s kind disposition shone from his rosy face, a countenance Lucia found amusingly ill-fitting on the commander of Rezzia’s feared army.
“Tell me, how does Your Grace fare on this glorious day?”
Lucia surprised herself with a smile brought on by Duilio’s charm. She wondered how he managed to remain so cheerful in this soul-crushing place.
“It’s the most recent worst day of my life,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”
“I hope you will continue to let me know every way I can make you feel more comfortable. Your father and brother come closer to us every day now—we expect them in merely two days.”
“I don’t suppose we could call all of this off then? Take a holiday to celebrate our new Dux Spiritus?”
“If you would prefer it, Your Grace.”
So very tempting, she thought. “It hardly seems practical, Strategos.”
They rode on in silence. She knew Duilio was giving her the chance to agree to his offer, but her father’s instructions were clear: Engage the enemy at every opportunity, just as he would. Maintain pressure and do not let the Pawelons rest, so that victory will follow soon after Caio’s arrival.
“Your Grace, do you know much about Lord Cosimo?”
“Strategos, you asked me the same question when I was a girl.”
Duilio reached behind his breastplate and gathered his ragged necklace, pulling up the hanging symbol of his god, a curved letter in the ancient script indicating the vast totality of all possibilities. “Few understand The Lord of Miracles. Most take miracles to be gifts that come freely to the lucky. If you would like to join me in praying to him today, pray not for powerful wonders to rescue us, but for the dedication to noble values and endeavors which make us worthy of receiving such grace—”
“Duilio, why are our soldiers stopping?” Odd, because they were far from the trails that climbed to Pawelon’s citadel.
“A very good question, Your Grace.”
Soon every soldier stopped and looked around for an answer. A messenger on horseback brought shocking news. The Pawelons had marched, early in the morning, perhaps all of their forces into the valley, half of them down the northern passage, half down the southern one. Two rectangular formations would soon approach, one from the northwest and one from the southwest, so that in the worst event Rezzia’s army could be outflank
ed by a monstrous pincer.
From Danato’s nightmare hell to this one, Lucia thought.
She waited with Duilio for Rezzia’s commanders to join them to discuss their strategy. The rest of the army sat and chattered in hushed but excited voices.
Lucia watched the sky filling with dark clouds and felt humidity moistening her face. What madness is this?
I’m dreaming. She looked high and low for signs of Lord Danato. No, I woke up this morning. But these black clouds! And this unbelievable challenge from Pawelon. This cannot be reality. They wouldn’t change their tactics and throw their entire army at us.
“What now, Danato?” she mumbled without intending to. You want me to experience all of our soldiers dying this time? “Wake me up now, bastard.” She meant to speak the second time.
“What is that, Your Grace?”
“Duilio, they wouldn’t leave their citadel, would they?”
“I apologize. I did not foresee this possibility.”
“The bulk of their forces have remained close to their citadel the entire war.” Lucia pointed up to the west. “Isn’t this absurd?”
“It is indeed a drastic departure for General Indrajit.”
“And the clouds. How often do you see clouds like these in the valley?”
“Never before, Your Grace.” Duilio searched the sky, contemplating. “We must hope it is not an ill omen for us. Perhaps the omen is for Pawelon. They are acting out of character.”
Show your foul face to me, Black One.
Lord Danato did not appear. Instead, a veteran council of long-haired Rezzians quickly formed around Duilio and Lucia.
First came young Tirso, from the far eastern coastal villages, believed by his men to be the son of the god Sansone. Heavy Manto, from the sparse forests south of Remaes, rode to them on a fat, dull horse. Fair Raf, long-bearded and moustached, from the wide nomadic plains, carried the historic great sword of his tribe across his back. Noble Alimene, known throughout the army for his captivating tales of the sea, represented the great port city of Peraece.
The brothers Fulvio and Forese, sons of the wealthiest family in Rezzia, from the Lympia province made fertile by the goddess Jacopa. Giunto, the protector of windy Petrus’s walled cities, so feared by the scavenging clans who were Petrus’s enemies. Wandering Belincion, leader of a mysterious order of men and women devoted to the goddess Vani. And from the empty, lifeless region of Satrina came Pexaro, slovenly cousin to Lucia’s father, who brought with him a constant stream of deadly spear throwers.
“Is it possible they outnumber us?” said a voice from the chorus.
“It is possible. Yes,” Duilio answered. “Their numbers are a mystery, but our scouts estimate their forces to be relatively equal to our own.”
Mighty Tirso barked from beneath his red-plumed helm, “It wouldn’t matter if they outnumbered us three to one. Once we close with them, their spearmen will be no match for our swords.”
Giunto slammed the butt of his throwing spear into the ground. “Our Haizzem ascends to Dux Spiritus and, look, our prayers have been answered. We have a chance to fight the pigs on a real battlefield, as if they were not cowards for just one day.”
“But our position is a disadvantage,” Belincion said in placid tones. “They come from the north and the south.”
“No,” Giunto answered, “we still have strategic options if we act quickly.”
Tirso explained, “Move the bulk of our troops either directly north or south, being sure to keep the Pawelons in front of us. They will not dance with us all day. When they close in, we will not find ourselves caught between them.”
“And that would be suicide for our camp,” Vani countered. “Our food and water. Our tents and supplies. The wounded and the servants could all be killed.”
Tirso stepped toward Belincion and leaned his spear forward. “Only if they keep their forces split, giving us an overwhelming advantage against whatever they send against us. We still have reserve men and warpriests at the camp.”
“And that could mean total victory for Rezzia.” Giunto’s expressive face shone with courage. “Praises to the gods of Lux Lucis!”
Bearded Raf raised one hand. “Be cautious, brothers! The pigs’ sages must have surprises in store for us. We have an obligation to our Haizzem not to risk his army.”
“Indeed.” Fulvio looked like a king in his exquisite, brightly polished armor. “We may not be ready for their dark trickery. And the gods only seem to ignore us. Soon our Haizzem will come. We should behave guardedly until he arrives.”
“Your Grace,” The old Strategos turned his soft eyes to Lucia, “I regret that you are in the middle of this predicament, in which we find ourselves unprepared. Is there anything you wish to say?”
Lucia dismounted and stood amongst the men. She removed Ysa’s helm and tossed her dark red hair behind her shoulders. “I find all of this hard to believe.” She looked around and behind them, finding nothing of Danato. Fine, I’ll play your awful game. “Their sudden desperation could be to our advantage, but it seems they’re looking for a wild melee. Why play into their hands? There is still time to fall back and protect our camp.”
“We are not cowards.” Tirso did not move as he spoke.
“We did not come to retreat from an inferior enemy,” Giunto said.
Alimene bowed before he spoke. “Your Grace, my men left their families to join your father. They came to glorify their souls, their gods, and their king in battle. Now they can finally prove their worth as warriors on even ground.”
Lucia held Ysa’s helm to one side and placed her other hand on her opposite shoulder. “I admit if my father were here, he would engage them. But now this army belongs to my brother. We cannot be reckless. We’ll be stronger once my brother is here.”
Tirso crossed his spear in front of his shield as he leaned his head back. “Duilio, will you see my warriors commanded to flee by a woman?”
Lucia fired back. “I do not command this army, Tirso, the Strategos does, and he will decide our course. I am only here to carry the relics of Ysa to protect our warriors.” Lucia unsheathed Ysa’s white sword, pointed its tip at Tirso’s feet, and rotated the blade. Duilio bowed while astride his horse and the others bowed from their standing positions. She lifted Ysa’s bejeweled shield, miraculously light on her gloved arm, and slammed the flat of her blade against it, producing a rousing hum that silenced the assembly.
I dare you, Danato, to torture me with your sister’s relics in my hands.
Unseen by all, the petite, blond goddess Ysa rode her enormous bone-white horse around the council. The beast stepped around the assembly with godlike patience, a perfect reflection of its rider. Ysa’s stoical face pointed away, to the Pawelons in the west, as the goddess absorbed the council’s words.
“Do you believe Ysa will protect our men this day?” Alimene asked.
“How long have our ancestors fought under the spiritual protection of Ysa's sword and shield? For centuries. Yet I can only pray to my goddess with her instruments in my hands. I can’t make any promises about what gods will do.” I don’t understand their logic at all.
“My brothers,” said a voice from the chorus, “look at the coming storm! Perhaps the goddess Ysa is with us already.”
Lucia hadn’t considered that. It might be true, although the sky was also dark enough to indicate another deceit from Lord Danato.
“He is right!” Giunto said. “Look, how swiftly they move. They must be from Ysa!”
“Brothers, it is time for a decision,” Duilio said in his easy voice, astride his decorated horse. “I can only believe what Tirso and Giunto have suggested. Look at how the clouds come from the west, casting a dark shadow over Pawelon’s army. I believe Ysa is with us today—all praises to The Protector of Man—and that she is prepared to defend us with her storm and fury. I feel this in my heart, men, do you not? Are we not in the right?”
Fulvio and Forese nodded vehemently. Their nodding grew conta
gious and a consensus formed with cheering followed by raised throwing spears.
“Then we shall do as our king has instructed us,” Duilio continued. “We must engage and pressure our enemy, and weaken them for his return and for the coming of our Haizzem. We will grant our royal daughter her wishes, as well. Manto, I must send you and your men back to our camp. Remain there, no matter what occurs in the valley, and ready our defenses in case they are needed. The rest of us will immediately march north. Raf, lead your cavalry quickly ahead and prepare to slip around their right flank when we rush forward.
“Should they move their entire force toward our camp as we move aside, we will allow it, block their retreat, and trap them in the valley. We will defeat all they send against us, and with the gods’ good fortune we may win this war today. I ask you humbly to pray with me to Lord Cosimo, not for an easy victory, nor for anything we do not deserve. Pray for the miracle of utter devotion to our chosen path, so that we may attract the gods’ aid, like a determined flower calling to the sun from a rocky field.”
Lucia mounted her mare again and listened to the proliferating commands directing the bulk of the Rezzian army to move north and leave their camp exposed to their enemy. She looked about for signs of Danato’s presence but found none. Whether dreaming or awake, she was perfectly confused.
Ysa rode directly in front of Lucia, anticipating her devotee’s every movement. The goddess kept her cool gaze upon the distant Pawelon army, and willed the sky to fill with darkness.
Chapter 12: The Wrath of Athena
THE REZZIANS gave rise to a percussive din: rhythmic crunching of boots, hearts pounding against metal, out-breaths exploding in unison, tens of thousands racing as one, muscling to live another hour beneath the goddess’s baleful sky.
Lucia watched as Duilio ensured the legions advanced in ideal formations. His corps of commanders rode on horseback, giving commands and receiving information, relaying to the Strategos detailed accounts of their movements.
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