by Beth Brower
“We must get back to our horses,” Basaal yelled, “or we’ll be trampled underfoot!” Basaal tried to pull Aedon away as the councillor was searching for any unlit lines.
“There’s one more!” Aedon shouted, striking his flint.
“Time is gone!”
Aedon pulled free of Basaal’s grasp.
“One more!” Aedon shouted again. He ran forward three steps, and lit the last line.
There was a fizz that almost seemed to sputter out, then the snap of a thousand pieces of metal ringing out with the bright light. Basaal and Aedon dove to the ground.
“Up!” Basaal lifted Aedon, and they began to run out of the way of their own cavalry.
“The rest of the men?” Aedon shouted, blinking as he ran, his eyes blinded by the flashes. Then several more explosions rang out in the night. Trumpets were sounding, the Imirillian camp was mobilizing.
“The men know to drop back to their mounts.” Basaal practically shoved Aedon forward. Basaal could still hear the warhorses’ shrill cries.
“It’s too early!” Aedon yelled as they dropped down into the ravine, running in the darkness to where their horses were tethered. Above them, the Aemogen army came pounding by them like thunder across the spring plain as they rode up into the edges of the Imirillian encampment. The men were screaming as they rode by.
Refigh was spooked, frightened by the endless explosions. Basaal spoke hastily to the horse as he mounted, urging Refigh to trust him. Responding to the familiar feel of Basaal’s touch, Refigh settled into a nervous energy and sprang forward. Basaal pulled out his sword and glanced at Aedon before they galloped upward, into the tumult.
They rode onto the plain, falling in with the Aemogen cavalry. Basaal lost track of Aedon among the shadows of the other riders. He called out to Aedon, but it was of no use. The sounds of the Aemogen cavalry rushed over his shoulders, spilling across the ground below.
He focused on the dark wave before him. And, for a moment, Basaal saw every country he had ever ridden into in the name of war and conquest and family, and he felt as if the terror of every soul who had ever cried out in fear was upon him. He screamed, forcing the fear away. Basaal lifted his black sword above his head. The sounds of clashing metal had begun to lift up through the darkness.
Basaal rode into the tumult of war.
***
The explosions from Colun Tir had been a spectacular, terrifying sight. The immense wave of each blast rumbled off the mountains, crashing against the stones of Colun Tir itself. Eleanor had watched this with Hastian and Zanntal from the balcony, continuing to cover her ears as she heard the sounds of battle rising.
A trumpet sounded, deep and strong.
“The Imirillian trumpet of advance,” Zanntal said in Imirillian. “Shaamil has pulled his armies together.”
“What do you think he will do?” Eleanor asked.
“Push the Aemogens away from the camp, down onto the plain,” Zanntal replied.
“I wish this day were over,” the Queen’s Own muttered nervously at her side, not understanding the Imirillian words they had spoken. Eleanor turned to look at Hastian. His eyes met hers, his face grim, and she took his hand before staring back out over the darkness.
***
Battle, Basaal remembered, was thick work. He brought his sword down on an Imirillian foot soldier, his weapon catching, almost slipping, before he pulled it loose with a cry. Refigh stumbled, and Basaal guided his mount back to the steadiness of the plain below the camp as a wave of Imirillian soldiers forced the Aemogens back.
The air had lightened into the dimness of morning pulling away from night. From what Basaal could now see above the tumult, the Imirillian cavalry was nearly decimated, their horses had sustained the brunt of Aemogen’s attack. But they had thousands upon thousands of men on foot, now organized and pushing the Aemogen forces back from their camp, sweeping them to the south, in the direction of the pass. Basaal was swept with them. His only aim, beyond the struggles of battle, was to stay as far away from his own companies of red-clad Imirillian soldiers as he possibly could.
Basaal was jolted to the side as he pressed into another horseman then swung away. A pain rushed through his leg, and Basaal screamed out, bringing his sword down on the Imirillian assailant who had caused the wound with his own.
The plain was crowded, and fighting turned cumbersome. Basaal swung his sword, forcing his way through the foot soldiers as arrows began to shoot past him. He took down an archer; he did not dare look at his face as light now poured into the valley. He fought, and struggled, and prayed for the day to be over.
***
Light had revealed the state of the battle raging below Colun Tir. The Aemogens had devastated the Imirillian camp, and, even from the distance, Eleanor thought she could see the bodies of men and horses scattered throughout the destruction. There were two forces discernibly moving against the Aemogens: the deep purple of the emperor’s men and the red and black of Basaal’s own. As the conflict washed towards the south—a slow and bloody migration—hundreds of bodies were left behind, strewn across the abandoned field.
Eleanor forced herself not to think of it, watching the field like a chessboard. Pacing, arms folded, the sound of battle seemed to be an endless accompaniment to her life. As if she had never lived without the clamor of war in her ears.
That midday ever came was almost inconceivable to Eleanor despite the shadows again beginning to grow long. The battle now lay farther south than she could follow with her eyes. Standing atop the battlement, Zanntal held his spyglass to his eye, poised impossibly still, except for where the slight breeze of the day moved his deep blue robes. Hastian stood back, his face white, his jaw taut. He was no longer even trying to watch the plain below.
Just as Eleanor was about to ask Zanntal what he could see, the Imirillian soldier stiffened and looked back towards Eleanor. He put his hands to his lips and motioned for Eleanor to stand still as he listened. Something in the silence around them confirmed Zanntal’s suspicion.
“They’ve found Colun Tir.”
Eleanor spun towards the archway leading back into the tower as the sounds of metal rang up the stairs from the direction of the stable yard. They heard a man scream.
***
There was a flash of purple, and Basaal pulled his leg from the stirrup instinctively, shying away from the blade of a single Vestan assassin. Basaal heard a sickening sound, and Refigh jerked his head backward in pain. Grasping at the already disappearing reins, Basaal was thrown from his horse into the mass of battle below him as Refigh came crashing down with a shrill cry of pain. Basaal rolled away, escaping the crushing impact as his horse fell to the ground. The Vestan gave Basaal no time to even wonder after his horse, advancing on the fallen prince in three aggressive steps, bringing his scimitar down where Basaal knelt, dazed from the fall.
Basaal heard the sound of conflicting metal and spun away in time to see Crispin materialize next to him, bringing his sword up to fend off the Vestan’s scimitar. As Basaal stumbled to his feet and grabbed his own sword, Crispin advanced on the assassin, engaging him as Basaal came from the side, and, in one aggressive move, Basaal plunged his sword through the Vestan’s purple robes. The assassin stumbled back and sank to the ground. Crispin finished him off.
The sweep and movement of battle did not allow them to speak as they readied themselves for the next onslaught. Basaal’s legs were shaky from having spent all morning on his horse.
“Let’s fight back toward the closest Aemogen company!” Crispin yelled out across the din.
Basaal called back a word in agreement, swinging towards one of his father’s men, cutting him down just as he felt the skin on his own forearm break.
Hearing a scream, Basaal turned to find Crispin beside him, having taken down another Imirillian at Basaal’s back. Before any expression of thanks could cross Basaal’s face, he saw a knifepoint appear through the front of Crispin’s throat—a strange, unnatural image of
steel protruding from flesh—and then the blood. Crispin’s eyes held onto Basaal’s for as long as he could—as though he were asking Basaal for deliverance—before he stumbled forward.
Basaal caught Crispin, laying his body down and letting go of him in the same motion as he lunged towards his friend’s assailant. Another soldier was upon him. Before Basaal could even think, his sword came around and caught one man in the neck while the other suffered Basaal’s knife between his ribs. A dark rush caught his eye as more purple closed in. And Basaal heard himself say something back to Crispin as he ran.
“I will come back. I will come back for you!”
He may have even screamed it.
***
Hastian raced to Eleanor’s side while Zanntal jumped down from the battlements and swept past her towards the open archway of the balcony.
“We must hide you or get you back to the tunnel!” Zanntal shouted in Imirillian. But sounds rang up the stairs, and, from the hollow echo of it all, Eleanor knew they had broken into the tower.
“They’re inside,” Eleanor said desperately. “It’s too late. How did they come to find the tower?”
Zanntal disappeared down the stairs into the fortress, and Hastian backed up towards Eleanor, his sword drawn, breathing fast, watching.
Eleanor drew her ornamental sword just as a sickening sound came from the stone stairway. Eleanor almost dropped her sword, its hilt warm for the sweat of her hands. She gripped it harder, moving her thumb across the metalwork of the handle, as she tried to pace her breathing and waited. Then Zanntal burst out through the door, the blood on his scimitar catching the afternoon sun.
“The Vestan,” he said. Eleanor gripped her weapon harder. “It is the Vestan.” Zanntal was out of breath. “Three, four of them,” he continued. “One is dead on the stairs. They must have picked up the trail and split away from the battle.”
Zanntal sheathed his scimitar and pulled his bow from off his shoulder, placing a thick arrow above the grip, pulling back the bowstring. He stepped towards Hastian and Eleanor. “There is no going down,” he explained in Imirillian. “Here, we must make our fight.”
Eleanor repeated Zanntal’s words to Hastian as she watched Zanntal train his arrow on the black archway. Hastian muttered something under his breath.
“We must assume the men in the courtyard are dead,” Zanntal continued in Imirillian.
Without any sound, a Vestan swept onto the balcony, his scimitar drawn, his expression grim and satisfied. Zanntal sent his arrow flying. With more finesse than Eleanor would have believed possible, the Vestan swung his scimitar, slicing the arrow in half, sending the pieces flying against the wall behind him. Zanntal had already reloaded his bow and released another arrow, and the scene repeated. But the third arrow hit its mark, catching the assassin beneath the collarbone. He stumbled back as two more Vestan rushed onto the balcony. They swarmed Zanntal as he pulled out his scimitar. Hastian rushed forward, and one of the Vestan turned on him.
“Get back! Back!” Hastian cried to Eleanor as he fended off the Vestan’s blows. Eleanor stumbled back, shaking. She could not think. Was she to run forward to help? Was she to stay back? Hastian almost fell towards Eleanor, and she could not see Zanntal save for the flashes of blue and purple on the far side of the balcony.
Someone shouted an Imirillian curse Eleanor had once heard Basaal use.
Rushing forward to aid Hastian, Eleanor tripped on the hem of her dress and fell against the hard stone, her sword clattering on the ground with a terrifying noise. Eleanor reached for the blade, picked it up, and continued forward. She gritted her teeth and yelled as she swung the blade towards the assassin. He blocked it as easily as if he were redirecting a child’s blow. The man laughed in the process. But it was enough, for Hastian sank his sword deep into the Vestan’s robe, and the assassin’s hand shook as his scimitar dropped to the ground.
Zanntal screamed as the scimitar of his opponent found its mark in his arm. He stumbled back and reset himself, sweat running down his face, which was filled with pain. Eleanor stepped behind Hastian, who was now engaging the remaining Vestan. But, in a quick movement, filled with sounds and agony, Eleanor felt herself being jerked backwards. Her breath stopped as an arrow was pressed hard against her cheek. The first Vestan, who had fallen from Zanntal’s arrow, had pulled himself up to grab her. His breathing echoed the sound of blood siphoning into his lungs—a hellish sluice.
A knife was at her throat, and, in his attempts to breathe, the arrow’s shaft moved back and forth against her cheek. He pulled harder, and Eleanor dropped her sword. Hastian turned back towards Eleanor, dropping his weapon to the ground, holding his hands up, his face still, his mouth set. He stepped over the fallen Vestan at his feet and bent his knees slightly, pleading with the assassin as the knife began to split open the skin of Eleanor’s throat.
Zanntal had stumbled back from his opponent, but the Vestan he was fighting turned and, in a singularly powerful movement, cut through Hastian’s back with a sickening sound. Hastian’s mouth opened, a spasm rattling through the muscles around his spine, causing his chest to fly forward in an ungraceful contortion as Hastian tried to remain on his feet.
His blue eyes looked for Eleanor’s, and she screamed, trying to fling herself towards him. But the Vestan pulled her back. Hastian dropped to a knee as the assassin behind him flung a knife that thudded into his back.
The Queen’s Own shuddered and fell forward, catching himself with his arms, scrambling desperately towards his queen. With a sickening cough, Hastian left blood on the stones before him. and when the Vestan stepped forward to finish the job, Zanntal, from behind, ran the assassin through with a scimitar.
“No—” Eleanor tried to say, but she could not swallow as her captor pulled her another step backward. She could feel a line of blood running down her throat. Hastian was still trying to come to her, his fingers veined from the pain.
Zanntal retrieved his bow—his face pained from injury—notched an arrow, and sent it flying at Eleanor’s face. It sank into the throat of the Vestan behind her with a spray of blood, and Eleanor could taste the metallic zing of it on her lips. As he fell, Eleanor fell with him. Zanntal was upon them, tearing the man’s arm from around Eleanor’s neck, throwing the knife away.
She did not watch what Zanntal then did to the Vestan, for Eleanor could see only Hastian, her Queen’s Own, stretched out before her. She crawled over the blood-covered stones, reaching her hand towards his face. Pushing against his shoulder, Eleanor turned his body to face her. Hastian’s head rolled carelessly to the side, his eyes blank, his back still sending spasms through his muscles.
He was dead.
***
Emperor Shaamil made an impatient noise, and Ammar looked up from where he was preparing a drink for each of them. They sat alone in the luxurious pavilion of the emperor—a flap rolled up on one side—and watched from comfortable chairs the progress of the battle. Shaamil’s tent had been far enough away from the camp’s destruction that his private luxury remained intact.
Shaamil sighed. “We are advancing but not as quickly as I would like.”
Ammar gave no response as he walked towards his father, handing him a drink while taking his own, and sitting in an adjacent cushioned chair. Shaamil’s generals had directed the soldiers to push the fighting down into the plain, away from the Imirillian camp. But the battle had now traveled farther away on its own accord, and it was difficult to see much of the fighting, if any.
The Aemogens, despite their attack of the night before, were still outnumbered by two to one at least. Ammar considered this as he rolled his cup between his fingers and then took a long sip. They would fall in only a few hours’ time.
Shaamil sat patiently, watching the waves of death play out in the valley before him. He also took a drink. He set the cup down and folded his fingers together.
“Not much longer now,” Ammar said.
The emperor looked towards his son but said no
thing.
Ammar finished the contents of his drink in one long movement and set the empty cup aside. “I am sorry it had to be this way,” Ammar stated. “But this needed to come to an end at some point.”
Shaamil looked at Ammar’s empty cup and then at the contents of his own. He stared at Ammar’s face. “You’ve poisoned me.”
“Yes,” Ammar said, touching one of the two gold bands around his wrist. “I have.”
Fury filled Shaamil’s eyes, and he tensed as if he would move, call a guard, or take out his own dagger and end Ammar’s life. Either of these the physician knew could happen. He sat coolly, watching the many avenues of his fate play out on his father’s face. Then a private realization touched the emperor’s mind. His body relaxed, and his shaking mouth steadied into the hint of a peaceful expression.
“Well done,” Shaamil said, clutching the scrolled ends of his chair’s armrests. “Can I expect much pain?”
“I am no barbarian,” Ammar replied. “If you go into your sleeping quarters and lie down, you will find it no harder than falling into sleep. I would imagine a quarter hour, no more, is what you have left in this world.”
Shaamil grunted and looked out over the plane, his jaw working back and forth as he was thinking. “You have broken your physician’s covenant. You have given up the right to practice medicine. Was I worth it?”
“Physician’s make two covenants, Father. One is to never take a life. The other is to uphold life and to uphold Imirillia—” Ammar paused and moved his fingers across his chin. “I desecrate the first to consecrate the second.”
Shaamil’s laugh, when it came, was full of irony. “The only pleasure this gives me is the thought of what your brothers must do with you now. A physician willing to kill—that is far more terrifying than anything I could have become.”
Ammar almost smiled. “Pity Emir.”
Shaamil’s face sobered as he looked down on the plain. “And what is your plan? Get me out of the way and signal the trumpet for retreat?”
