by S E Wendel
“Brought their whole damn fleet!” Kenna said, blood oozing from her cheek where an arrow had grazed her.
When she looked at the river, Ennis saw ships cluttering the Morroley, so many they bridged the shores.
“How many is that?” she asked.
“At least thirty ships.”
Cursing, Ennis ground her heel into the wood, ignoring the ache in her shoulders and sting in her fingers. She was only a series of movements, nock, draw, aim, fire. Nock, draw, aim, fire. Again, again.
“Milady!” caught her ear from down the line, and Ennis stepped back after firing. A woman hurried up to her. “They’re coming through the trees to the southwestern flank.”
“Oltaraani from the south, Midlanders from the north,” Kenna said.
“Boxing us in,” Essa growled.
Ennis made herself think. They had the advantage for now, but it wouldn’t be long before the Oltaraani took to the trees. Even from where she stood along the southeastern face, she was in range from the nearest grove. If the Oltaraani pressed, they could come up to meet them, maybe even force Rising’s reserves to amass along the southwest, leaving the rest vulnerable. And she couldn’t afford to let the north and the gate be weakened.
“It’s all well and good to shoot at them like ducks from here,” Essa said, “but how long can we hold?”
“I certainly don’t mind it,” said Kenna, hitting an Oltaraan trying to scale a tree to her right.
“They’ll stretch us too thin,” said Ennis, mostly to herself. Looking down at the sea of Oltaraani, their hair shorn close to their scalp, the upper half of their faces painted black, she wondered if Rick was here himself.
He’d seen an opportunity to eliminate his northern enemies and took it, though he couldn’t have known what exactly he’d be leading his men into. If Ennis had had the stomach to, she would’ve admired his gusto.
Admired, but would never forgive.
“They’re stretched too,” Essa said while she retrieved a fresh quiver, “along the whole southern face.”
Yes, and almost double our number. “It’s just a matter to see who breaks first.”
“Volley!”
The three women ducked and pressed their backs to the battlements, arrows arching overhead.
“DOWN!” Ennis yelled to the teams below.
She heard thunks as arrows found shields and flesh. When the last of the Oltaraani arrows had struck the ground or a target, Ennis ordered the archers back up.
Kenna caught her eye and gave Ennis a grim look as they began their own volley. “Should we light the tar?”
“No,” Ennis said. She wasn’t quite that desperate yet. “Though…” Fire wouldn’t be so bad.
With a whistle, a bucket of tar was sent up, and a woman came by with a torch. Dunking an arrow into the tar then touching it to the torch, Ennis aimed for the grove of trees the Oltaraani were trying to claim, despite bodies cluttered around the trunks. A branch caught fire, the flittering green leaves bursting into flame.
“Tell them to set fire to the nearest trees,” Ennis instructed the woman carrying the torch.
The woman hurried off, but Kenna frowned. “Burn the forest?”
“Not all. And it’ll grow back.”
“Will it be enough?”
Ennis gritted her teeth. That, she didn’t know. It would certainly distract them for a time. But deter them?
Watching the flames lick up the tree, a thought struck Ennis. She turned her gaze to the river, to all those fine Oltaraani ships bobbing in the river.
“They do love their ships,” she said.
Kenna shook her head. “We can’t hit them from here.”
“No, but—”
“I’ll go,” Essa said, beginning to sling her bow across her back before Ennis could protest. “We owe them for burning ours.”
“No, it was my idea. I’ll go.”
“Don’t be daft. You said you’d protect Rising—”
“Essa—”
“—so protect it.”
Ennis huffed, knowing they hadn’t time to argue. “Fine. But take a dozen with you. And horses—you’ll never make it on foot.”
Essa turned, but before she left, Ennis grabbed her arm and said, “And so help me, wildling, you’d better get back quick. Else you’ll never hear the end of it.”
Essa winked. “I know you aren’t one for idle threats.” And then was gone.
Ennis took up her post again, losing herself in the movements of firing her bow, letting it consume her. She wasn’t anything other than an arm and an arrow. Nock, draw, aim, fire.
The grove of trees to the southwest flickered with orange flame, the heat scorching their cheeks even here. As she took a moment to shake out her cramping wrists, Ennis glanced over her shoulder. Trees to the south and west were alight too. Good.
Before long, movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention, and Ennis turned her head to see the first Oltaraani ship engulfed in flame. The air around the ships was riddled with arrows aflame, aimed at sails and decks. Essa and her unit rode along the shore like hellions, their horses moving as fast as their arrows.
And the Oltaraani saw, too.
A great howl went up from them, and those at the rear began falling back to the river. Without their ships, there was no easy escape from Rising.
“Retreat now. Retreat,” Ennis told Essa under her breath.
And she did—but not before setting thirteen ships ablaze. Riding atop a bay gelding, Essa looked like Adelaide the Great, first wife of Dunstan Gilcriss. She and her women fled the lion’s share of the Oltaraani army, which fell back to try and make safe the remaining ships.
Ennis let herself have a triumphant shout.
Kenna clapped her shoulder, and the women shared a smile.
“Should teach those bastards to—”
Kenna frowned, her mouth falling slack, as an arrow embedded deep into her chest. She staggered back, eyes wide, and Ennis grabbed for her. But didn’t catch. Kenna reeled back, over the rail, off the catwalk, onto the ground below with a crack that reverberated in Ennis’s skull long afterward.
“No, no, no!”
She didn’t realize it was her screaming until hands came around her, drawing her away from the edge of the catwalk.
“Milady, please—”
“It’s no use, she’s—”
“They need more archers at the south wall—”
“Two healing houses are already full—”
Noise, noise, noise.
Ennis closed her eyes but only saw Kenna’s eyes looking at her, open wide in surprise. Her knees threatened to buckle.
She reached out a hand and at least three others grasped at it, helping her up.
Ennis took up her bow again. Looked at the women around her. Called for a volley to drive those whoresons back. And they did. Again and again, they drove them from the wall, back to their ships.
On their third retreat to the river, the Oltaraani remained there, licking their wounds. Less than two hours after it’d begun, the Oltaraani siege had been routed.
Fifty-Six
There is nothing so beautifully final, so chaotically pleasing as war.
—Eldric Farlan, instigator of the Second Farlan Revolt
Sweat glistened on Oren’s shivering flanks as Manek whirled him about, avoiding collision with a Midland rider. The clang of steel set his ears ringing as their swords clashed instead. The Midlander was bigger, but Manek was the better horseman. Guiding Oren with his legs, Manek outmaneuvered the Midlander, caught him mid-strike underneath the arm.
He turned to his next opponent. Struck. Rode. Struck again.
Soon he saw the problem; their line was broken.
He pulled a horn from the saddle, calling to reform the line. The infantry had the easiest time; the cavalry was too entrenched within Midland lines to reconnect.
When he had some semblance of a line at his back once again, Manek gave the order and they marched, shie
ld-bearers at the front, archers and pikemen behind. They advanced on the Midlanders, horses bucking and whinnying.
The armies ebbed and surged like the tide, pushing, retreating, crashing. Somewhere on the third advance, Manek lost his helmet. His sword arm shook with fatigue, and sweat dripped down his back, making the tunic beneath his armor cling to his skin.
No matter how hard they struck, the Midland army wouldn’t be split, instead retreating until they could reform their own line, always just outpacing the Lowlanders on foot. Already the meadow lay strewn with bodies of men and horses, making each advance and repel slower, more difficult. And there was little worse for morale than summiting piles of the dead.
They hadn’t broken the army, but Manek couldn’t wait any longer. Finding the nearest bannerman, he took up Rising’s gold standard and waved it overhead at the forest.
Lowlanders came running from the trees with a great cry. As soon as his men saw them coming, Manek’s troops gave a cry of their own and pushed forward again.
The Midland army had just time enough to swing its right flank to meet the incoming force. Manek caught sight of Waurin’s ruddy blond head before he disappeared amongst the horseflesh.
He’d played all his cards now. Nothing left to do but hack their way through.
Manek switched sword hands, turned Oren towards the heart of the Midland army, and rode.
The air was thick with smoke and sweat and blood, and Manek could feel the cold winter sun prickling across the back of his neck. Oren nearly lost his footing more than once in the sloppy, bloody mud pits bubbling across the meadow.
He tried not to feel, tried to reduce himself to a series of motions. The carnage made Manek never want to see again, men reduced to nothing more than lumps of red flesh, their bodies gouged, disemboweled, desecrated. But the noise was worse. Hacking, splashing, clanging, shouting, groaning, sobbing.
Manek’s head snapped around in time to see Taryn stagger back, his body curling around the spear driven deep into his chest. A howl filled his ears, and as Taryn slumped to his knees, Manek realized it was him making that tortured sound, as if it were his own chest impaled.
“Taryn!”
The swordsmith’s eyes were distant as they looked up, but Manek caught them, turned Oren in Taryn’s direction. Taryn shook his head before the battle swallowed him, hiding him from Manek.
His body was going cold. The battle fury that overtook him in the beginning, making his vision red and hands strong as iron, was seeping out, like Taryn’s lifeblood.
He didn’t need a survey of the battlefield to know where they stood.
The battle had fractured, no distinguishable lines anymore. Midland riders corralled Lowland foot soldiers, bunching them together for easy slaughter. Larn’s right flank had almost completely surrounded Waurin’s troops, leaving them nowhere to go but forward.
Manek’s gaze flicked to the heart of the Midland army where that red banner flapped gently in the breeze. The black eagle emblazoned across the center looked poised to strike, yet the standard, and the lord beneath, remained still, watching rather than participating.
Manek cursed to see that Larn just sat there, atop his horse, watching the battle like he might a court ball.
Something beyond rage knotted at the base of his stomach. Damn him. If he was going to slaughter them all, Manek would make damn sure Larn at least got his own hands bloody doing it.
In the fray, Manek caught his father’s eye and jerked his chin in Larn’s direction.
Kierum nodded and began calling out to those around him. Manek did likewise, finding one of his captains on horseback and a dozen pikemen.
They couldn’t crack the Midland army. They’d have to settle for Larn instead.
For a moment, Manek thought perhaps there was some luck left; their momentum gained in the push forward, Lowlanders falling in behind him or to his flank. He and Kierum’s small forces met near the center, falling upon the front lines of Larn’s guard.
He saw Larn’s eyes glitter from behind the solid wall of horses and men. With a nod, Larn sent his guard to meet them, and before Manek could warn his men, they were encircled by Midland riders, spears up, drawing inward, pushing them together.
Manek squeezed his legs, trying to get Oren under control before he trampled the Lowlander next to him. As Oren pranced, Manek saw how completely they were trapped. The battle beyond was lost to the black-clad bodies pressing forward, but Manek didn’t have to see to know no help could come.
He caught sight of Larn’s head, without a helmet as always, his shorn scalp gleaming with sweat in the afternoon sun.
Manek sucked in a breath. Held it.
And kicked Oren so hard he sprang forward, charging, galloping.
Bodies moved to intercept him. He ducked to avoid a spear. Parried a sword.
But he couldn’t get away from the last man. He rushed Manek’s flank, sending Oren skittering to the side.
Another body jumped between the two of them, and a shrill whinny erupted. Blood spattered across Oren’s neck, a lance protruding from the head of the white horse beside him. The dead horse shuddered, the body giving, but not before another blow landed on the rider.
Manek swung Oren about in time to see Kierum grunt as a sword arced above him and drove deep into his shoulder. A bright splash of red gushed from Kierum’s neck, his teeth painfully white against his grime-splattered face, bared in a growl.
Kierum tumbled to the ground, his dead horse giving out beneath him, but he dragged the Midlander down with him. They landed with a shout of metal and breaking bones, but through the noise he heard Kierum shout, “Go, Manek!”
Burying all the pain and grief into a place just below his fifth rib, Manek wheeled Oren again. They bound over his father, Kierum’s dead horse, and the Midlander, too. They landed in a small, nearly unblemished circle of meadow, Larn at its center.
Larn’s face broke into something between a smile and a sneer. “This is all very noble, what you’ve done here today,” Larn said, unsheathing his sword with an unnecessary flourish. Even here, he needed to be a showman.
Manek didn’t need the display; his own tired body told him he’d have to fight smart, not rely on strength.
“What do you suppose will happen when Verian—”
Manek drove his heels into Oren and they rushed Larn and his smaller mount.
Larn let out a hiss as their swords met above them. Manek dropped the reins, pulled the dagger from his boot, and jabbed at Larn all in one swift motion. Larn deflected it just in time, and the dagger cut across his breastplate with a terrible screech instead.
Manek’s dagger flew from his hand, but he used the momentum, grabbed Larn’s arm, almost pulled him out of the saddle. Larn swiped his sword at Manek, forcing him back.
Cursing, Manek gulped in air, the effort of trying to heave the large, armored Larn leaving him worse than winded.
It was Larn’s turn to charge, and Manek guided Oren with his legs, the reins dangling uselessly from Oren’s bridle. The horses danced around that circle of grass, kicking up dirt. Smaller weapons clattered to the ground, another of Manek’s daggers, one of Larn’s, and an axe Larn pulled from the back of his saddle, before Manek finally found a square of Larn’s chest with his boot and threw all his strength behind the kick.
Larn tumbled to the ground, his mail crunching in the dirt. He let out an outraged howl and was on his feet again before Manek could turn Oren, his face so red it verged on purple.
Oren bucked when Larn caught hold of one of the reins, his hooves striking out but missing Larn. Manek gripped the saddle’s horn as tight as he could with his free hand, his other holding his sword aloft, anticipating the blow.
And it came. But he couldn’t deflect it well enough, felt it slice into his left arm.
Having the blade wrenched back out felt worse than the initial slash. The cold air stung his fresh wound almost as badly as the sword had, and Manek felt his hold on the horn loosening.
He saw only that purple face. Not Larn’s sword. But he felt it, slicing across the left side of his face. Manek cried out, his eye on fire, blinded with blood. He staggered back, got his sword up, just managed to keep from being run through.
The ground spun for an awful moment. He pressed a hand to his face, wondering if the eye would fall free should he let go. Everything spun worse at the thought.
He drew in a breath, let go of his face. For now, his eye stayed put, but he couldn’t see out of it.
And Larn knew it. He rushed Manek from his left, sending him staggering again. Another moment and dirt flew into his face, blinding him.
Manek slashed unseeing, felt his sword connect with Larn’s, and his body moved from memory. He twisted their swords up, swiveled, planted his feet, forced Larn back. Just long enough to swipe a hand across his face.
The edge of his vision was rimmed in tears as he blinked out dirt and blood, but he could see the murky form of Larn stalking not far off. He was doing something, pulling something away from a dead man on the ground, but Manek couldn’t quite make it out.
Larn came at him hard, wielding his sword in one hand and an iron pike in the other. Manek knew he was being forced back, but there wasn’t time to look.
His strength was failing, blood running down his arm into his glove, making his grip slippery. Blood and sweat stung his eye and ran into his mouth, making him choke.
His heel scraped against something as he stepped back, and Manek knew the trap was sprung. Damn it all, if he could see what it—
Larn swung his sword wide, and when Manek threw up his own to catch it, the shaft of the pike caught him viciously against the side, sending him stumbling. He couldn’t catch his balance, knew it, tried to make the most of it. He struck at Larn’s undefended gut, felt a twinge of triumph when Larn hissed in pain.
