by S E Wendel
His impact with the ground was hard and knocked the air from his lungs. Black dots swam at the edge of his limited vision.
A swift kick had him on his back before he could think, and then something narrow and sharp caught him under the shoulder plate, driving down just below the right collarbone. His eyes opened wide in pained astonishment, saw the pike standing straight up, anchored by his flesh. He tried to roll away, but the pike had gone all the way through, was caught in the ground beneath him, pinning him.
He cried out in rage. It couldn’t end like this! Yes, he knew he’d die today, had felt it deep in some core part of himself upon waking. He’d wondered if it was the gods’ way of readying a man for death, to send such premonitions. So he’d done the only thing he could—made love to and married his bride, his heart, and made peace with it. But damn it all, it couldn’t be like this!
Yes, he was to die. But he had to take Larn with him. He’d promised her.
When he felt his sword kicked from his hand, he wrapped his other around the pike to pull it out and use it instead.
A heavy foot stomped on his chest. Manek gasped in pain when, rather than pull out the pike, Larn dug it in deeper.
A thundering laugh crashed over Manek, and when he looked up, he saw triumph written in the lines of Larn’s face.
Hopelessly pinned, he tried to steady himself when he realized this would be a slow death.
The battle craze had left Larn, his eyes clear and smug as he leaned over Manek, his hand on the pike, pushing it further, further down.
Manek kicked, trying to unseat him, but Larn only laughed and moved out of range.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, Manek,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. “You’ll be gone soon enough, but I’d like you to know that whatever happens to you, it’ll be tenfold worse for her.”
Manek’s stomach lurched.
Outrage coiled hot and heavy around his heart. Larn must have seen as much on his face, for he rocked back on his heels and grinned.
“I know that Courtnay bitch is to thank for all this. I intend to repay your whore in kind.” His smile slipped then, his voice falling to little more than a whisper when he said, “I’m going to raze this town of yours. When I find her, I’m going to stick her until she begs me to kill her. When I’ve had as much of her as I can stomach, I’ll give her to my men. And when they’re through, we’ll find what else we can stick her with. This”—he flicked the pike, sending ripples of pain through Manek’s chest—“should give you a fair idea.”
His limbs leaden, Manek let his head loll back onto the ground. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Larn’s face hovering over him anymore.
Despite himself, a grin tugged at his mouth. “She’ll stick you first.”
He pulled his last dagger from his belt in small movements, knowing Larn would need to be close to use it, so close that he’d be delivering a killing blow. That was all right. Manek had known. But he had to take Larn with him. He’d promised, and his bride wasn’t one to cross.
He heard the whoosh of air as Larn stood, anticipated the sword swinging above him. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to know where it would strike. All he needed was for Larn to get close while he did it and then, finally, Manek could end this.
Fifty-Seven
Though it was Dea who did teach the mortals violence, it was Ean who taught them to fight. Their violence became less mindless, more tactful. To those devoted to the sword, Ean taught stratagem and cunning, how to subdue an opponent and rout him, leaving no escape at his back. And so Ean created war, and in war, we mortals feel closest to him.
—Ean’s Gift
From atop the battlements, Ennis watched it, watched the meadow beyond turned into a place of carnage. Men and horses lay strewn across the battlefield, arrow and sword and axe and pike driven through their bodies. The smell rose up to her, a coppery tinge of blood with upturned earth and sweat.
Within the throng of bodies still alive, still fighting, she spied Larn’s banner. Hot ire lanced through her, and if she could’ve wished for anything then, it would be for a bow and arrow truer than Tamea’s own, to strike him down.
She caught glimpses of Lowlanders, their mismatched armor stark against the black of the Midlanders’. But there weren’t enough. Waurin’s men had run from the trees to the west, but still it wasn’t enough. They were destroying Larn’s force, but at too steep a cost. By nightfall, neither army would be left standing.
And then she saw him. Manek rode with a small force in the center of the battle. And she knew. Their best chance was to kill Larn, to hope that, leaderless, the Midland forces would fall into disarray. But killing Larn was no small task, and Manek and his thirty men barreled towards Larn’s own guard, fifty or more strong.
Get to him, whispered through her thoughts. You must get to him.
But Ennis stood rooted in place, for the voice hadn’t been her own. It was a southern wind whispering to her, brushing across her cheek, pulling strands of hair free from her plaits. Whose was that voice? The tips of Ennis’s fingers tingled. Did she want to know?
You must get to him.
Before she could stop herself, she was striding northward, her eyes trained on the battle, on Manek. They were surrounded by Larn’s guard, completely encircled.
“Ennis?”
Her name snapped her back to the battlements. Essa was at her elbow.
Get to him.
She tried shaking her head to dispel the thought, but it was halfhearted at best. The voice only grew stronger.
Get to him!
“Ennis?” Essa was staring at her, her lovely face creased with a frown.
“They’re trying to fight through to Larn,” Ennis said, nodding at the battle.
“Will they make it?”
“No.”
Essa chewed the inside of her cheek. “Can anything be done?”
“If Larn dies, it could be over.”
Ennis looked in surprise at the archer who’d spoken, standing at her post a few paces away. Her eyes were intent on Ennis, grim lines bracketing her mouth.
Slowly, Ennis nodded.
“Could you do it?” The archer closed the distant between them, her words drawing the attention of those nearby. “Could you help them?”
“I won’t abandon you here,” she said.
Another archer came up beside the first, her gaze just as serious. “Those Oltaraani bastards won’t be attacking for a while yet. But if they do, we’ll need reinforcements. The only ones left are out there, fighting.”
The first archer nodded. “If the Midlanders were defeated, our men could come back.”
“Larn dead would certainly cause chaos,” Essa said, beginning to prod too. Traitor.
The first archer shifted her weight from foot to foot, her jaw set. Ennis knew why. She thought Ennis could help the husband, son, or brother she had fighting out there, could perhaps end it by ending Larn. The archer said, “We can take care of ourselves while you—”
Ennis took two hurried steps forward, fixated on the battle. Manek’s horse was dancing with someone else’s, swords singing.
Get to him!
Her pulse thrummed so loud she was sure the others could hear. She was vaguely aware of Essa saying her name, but the voice had resorted to shouting.
“Milady, please,” the first archer implored.
Ennis opened and closed her mouth. Clenched and unclenched her fists. Nodded.
“I’ll take twenty with me. With a little luck, we can punch through, catch them tired and unawares.”
On her jog to the staircase, Ennis called out her intent, rallying twenty volunteers and twenty fresh horses. She left the first archer in charge of the north wall, told messengers to run and tell the other captains what was happening.
While Ennis swung onto Coro, Essa mounted a horse nearby. Ennis thought to argue but kept quiet. She hadn’t stopped her from going to burn Oltaraani ships—she couldn’t stop her now.
As the gate opened, weapons were handed to them, bows and quivers and daggers. Ennis used every niche in her saddle and extra space in her belt to stow weapons.
Armed to the teeth, they set out, Ennis and Essa at the head of their small column.
Coro set the pace, barreling towards the battle at full speed. They needed to be quick, striking hard and fast, for she and the women weren’t nearly as armored as the soldiers.
That voice didn’t fade as she hoped it would, but grew stronger as they neared, keeping time with her racing heart. It became a litany in her head as she searched frantically for Manek.
Ennis leaned back in the saddle, anchoring herself, and sent an arrow sailing into a Midlander’s chest. A few more shots from her column, and they were upon what remained of the Midland line.
Those on foot tried scrambling out of the way as they bore down, swords slashing, boots kicking. Ennis felt hot blood splatter across her leg as she ran a Midlander through. The man slid from the saddle as she jerked her sword out.
Ennis guided Coro further into the throng of bodies, crying out Manek’s name. It was lost in the cacophony of death and dying.
She tugged a dagger from her waist, threw it with better aim than she’d ever had before, sending it into the neck of a man heading straight for Essa.
He’s there. Get to him!
Ennis’s head whipped around.
She saw Larn first.
There was no mistaking his bald head or dogged face. It was pulled tight in a look of smug satisfaction. His eyes danced with malicious glee as he looked down at a body, pinned to the earth with a long iron pike.
“No, no, no!”
Coro shot forward, bounding over bodies.
Manek said something, making Larn’s face twitch. Ennis saw the change in the set of his shoulders as he stood, looming over Manek.
Larn lifted his sword.
Manek’s eyes were closed.
The sword pointed down, straight at Manek’s stomach.
Ennis would’ve run him down, let Coro break his wretched body beneath his massive hooves if Larn hadn’t leapt away at the last moment. Both Ennis and Larn let out a howl of rage.
She wanted to go to Manek, pull that damn pike out, but she knew she was more use on Coro.
Larn regained his footing and took a swaggering step towards her, gripping his sword.
He charged when he saw her going for an arrow.
There wasn’t time to aim. She fired, the arrow lodging in Larn’s leg. He yelped, staggered, and wrenched the arrow from his flesh in the time it took her to notch another. This arrow glanced off his shoulder plate with a ping, a little spark glittering from the scrape of metal.
She squeezed her legs, tried directing Coro like she knew Manek could do with Oren, and the horse moved, but not quickly enough. Larn was upon them, slicing at her chest. She leaned back, barely missing the blade.
Ennis kicked, connected with his chest, sent him tripping.
But he grabbed her foot.
Her body jerked, trying to follow him down, but her left foot caught in the stirrup. She kicked free before he could pull her leg from its socket and fell hard, letting out a pained wail when her body went one way but her ankle another.
She had to get up. She’d only one dagger left, in her boot. Her father’s sword was still secured to her saddle.
Pushing off the ground, she whistled as Manek had shown her, and Coro turned wary eyes in her direction. She whistled again, her mouth dry and the sound sputtering, as she clawed her way to standing.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Larn standing, too.
Coro came at a trot and she hobbled to him, lunging for the saddle when she felt hands at her back.
A four-fingered hand tore at her hair, but she fought her way to the saddle, wrapped both hands around the golden hilt of her sword.
“Gave it to you, did he?” Larn’s hot breath puffed against her ear.
“Yes,” she said, elbowing him in the neck, then his wounded leg for good measure. It gave her the moment she needed to pull the sword free of its scabbard. “And I’ll kill you with it.”
Larn looked from the sword to her face, the memory of the last time she’d bared it at him playing across his eyes. “I could’ve spared myself a lot of trouble if I’d just killed you.”
She feinted left, slashed right. Their swords met and trembled overhead as Ennis and Larn tried to bring it down on the other. The hilt felt molten hot in her hand.
They danced across the patch of meadow, Ennis keeping herself between Larn and Manek, knowing he’d use him to distract her. The hours of firing arrows made her back prickle with fatigue. Larn stood more than a foot taller than her, a fact he pressed, using his size and reach to outmaneuver her.
He was backing her towards something. Manek?
She spun about, grabbing the dagger from her boot as she did. Ducking under his arm, she jammed it into his hip with a sideways thrust. He growled, staggering away, and Ennis whirled on him.
The pommel of his sword struck the side of her head with a crack, and Ennis toppled. She could feel the split skin oozing blood. Bright pinpricks flashed across her vision, and the memory of a similar strike made her nauseous.
She gripped her sword in one fist, a clump of grass in the other, desperately trying to center herself.
The sound of shifting feet made her heart jump into her throat—she rolled away.
The tip of his sword slashed her chest, ripping her tunic and skin at her right shoulder, scraping across the breastplate, and gouging the fleshy tendon between her neck and left shoulder.
She convulsed in pain, the slice leaving a trail of fire and blood.
She needed to get up. She was dead down.
His boot scuffed her palm as he kicked her sword away.
“No!”
She tried turning over to crawl, her fingers wildly scrabbling for the sword, but his boot kicked her again, pressing her onto her back.
She clutched at his shin and heaved, throwing her whole body into bringing him down. And he fell like a mountain, right on top of her.
All the air was punched from her lungs. A tangle of bloody limbs, she heard the rasp of metal and his hot curses in her ear.
He groaned and lifted his head. His eyes were dazed, but when they locked with hers, he blinked away his shock and glared.
He’d lost his sword in the fall, but Ennis’s lay a yard away.
She thrashed harder, desperate to be out from under his heavy body. He leaned more of his weight on her as if he knew she’d rather be pinned with a pike like Manek than with his vile flesh.
Ennis fought for another inch, couldn’t wait anymore. Throwing her hand up over her head, she reached for the sword, fingers straining to cover those last few inches.
Larn grunted and splayed his hand across her belly, pushing himself up. He sat on her legs and looked for his own sword. When he saw how far it was, he wrapped four fingers around her dagger, still protruding from his side.
With a grimace he jerked it from his flesh and turned it, dripping, on her.
She fought. Just a little more. She knew it was close, so close. She dug her heels into the ground, pushed.
He clutched at her chest, his fingers sliding beneath the breastplate, and yanked. She slid more firmly under him, further away from the sword.
She knew if she closed her eyes, she’d see Tamea’s face staring down at her. She wanted to. She wanted her last sight to be Tamea, not Larn.
Her eyes fluttered closed. But she saw nothing. No goddess. Nothing.
Her heart clenched, panic knotting in her throat. Why wasn’t she here? Where—
Something metal plopped into her outstretched palm. She didn’t ask, didn’t look. Just struck.
The hilt of her sword smashed against Larn’s head. It took another hit to unseat him.
Scrambling out from under him, Ennis sucked in a gulping breath of air before whirling back to Larn. He was balanced on his knees and
elbow, a hand clutching at his head. He was trying to get up.
So she swung.
The blade sliced into Larn’s neck. Arterial blood spurted, and he gasped, eyes bulging.
She adjusted, swung again. The sword caught against bone.
Larn shuddered.
Ennis braced her foot against his side and wrenched back the sword. Two more swings, two more hacking strokes, and finally, Larn’s head went tumbling.
The moment his decapitated body collapsed, a great clap of thunder roared in Ennis’s ears. She teetered on her feet, the ground trembling beneath her. Her weary mind couldn’t understand what was happening, could only watch as the world spun and howled and shook. The sky split open, a streak of lighting flashing across the sky, sending tendrils of electricity across Ennis’s face that sizzled and scorched.
And just as soon as it began, it stopped. The world was silent, the sky clear.
All Ennis could do was tremble. She only remained standing because her knees were locked, frozen in place. Then a sob escaped her, and another.
The sword was heavier than it’d ever been, and she could barely lift it again. The sight of Larn’s mangled body, what remained of his neck, made her gag. The bitter taste of wrongness filled her mouth.
No. No, this was right. Larn had to die.
Movement caught her eye. Manek had a weak grip on the pike, but his hands were too slippery with blood.
Her knees nearly buckled at the sight of her last task, but she made herself go to him as quickly as she could, before any Midlander could.
She swallowed her sob when she finally stood over him. As gently as she could, she braced her foot against him and pulled. The pike came out smoothly, bringing with it a well of blood.
Ennis fell to her knees beside him, ripping fistfuls of fabric from her body. She pressed part of her sleeve underneath the wound, a scrap of breeches on top. The only noise of pain he made came when she lifted him to put the wad of cloth on the underside of the wound.
“Ennis,” he said, his voice rough as a boulder rolling down the mountain.
