by M. S. Brook
Chapter 25
Rowland and I trained together for three weeks before I realized he was giving me a thorough test of my warfare skills. “I will push you as far as you will go,” he told me on the first day we worked together, “because the stronger you are, the better I can protect you.”
We ran through the fields in the early mornings and were still crossing swords at sundown. In between we threw spears and shot with our bows and galloped our horses through the woods. I began to regain the strength I’d lost through the long winter, and Rowland noticed the change. “I can see on your face that you’re looking forward again. Are you ready to try something new?”
“I am,” I said, wondering what he had in mind.
“May I ask what weapon or warfare skill you think is your best?”
“The bow. My aim is no less true if I weigh two or three stone less than my opponent. Not true of the sword, I’m afraid. I come up short when I compare myself to other Guardians.”
Rowland nodded. “I agree that your skill with the bow is outstanding. I wonder if we can make more use of it.”
“There’s not much opportunity on patrols,” I said, acknowledging the fact that heavy longbows were useful for guarding the castle walls, but were too bulky for the kind of fighting we did on our mounted patrols.
“Maybe instead of struggling to make you adapt to our methods, we can find a method that makes better use of your abilities. I judge you to be a very good rider also. Another skill where your lighter weight does not hinder you. Morningstar seems to know what you want almost before you do.”
I smiled. “I think he does.”
“What if we could put your two best skills together? Think of Morningstar as a moving platform for shooting—you’d be moving all the time, making you less of a target.”
“But how can I draw a bow from the back of a horse? My aim would be off.”
“I remember hearing that the Northlands had mounted archers back in the old days. Lionel might know how they made it work.”
Uncle Leo did know. He helped us make bows from a design that he’d studied when he was in warrior training. This bow was shorter and its limbs curved back at the ends to give more spring. The wood was reinforced with horn, making it limber and easier to draw, all of which was perfect for using on horseback.
Rowland and I drilled all day, every day, until both of us could shoot from the saddle. Our horses were already well-trained, but we worked with them until they responded to the slightest nudges from our knees and feet. We set up dummy targets and practiced darting, circling, backing up, and shooting while in motion.
Rowland was true to his word, pushing me harder than anyone ever had. We trained every day, dressed in heavy mail and helmet. “I know I’m working you very hard,” he said one evening after we groomed our horses and headed to a late supper. “But I take my charge to keep you alive very seriously.” He pushed the tumble of red from his eyes, his face so earnest that I hesitated for a step before answering.
“I can’t fault you there. Truth is, I’m rather fond of being alive.”
Rowland’s face relaxed into a smile. “I feel the same!”
We kept working, and six weeks later, I carried more tough, supple muscle than I ever thought possible. I could feel it when I ran and when I threw myself onto Morningstar’s back—and I liked it.
My former Eagle patrol came back to Highfield, and Rowland and I were assigned to be part of their company. Azar was now captain, and Brady, Rowland’s redheaded friend from warfare training days, was promoted to second sergeant, along with Torin as first. Rowland and I showed the officers the new method we’d developed, and Captain Azar was impressed with it. He chose the ten best archers in the patrol group and had them train with us for several weeks. When the time came for us to go on patrol, we had a new strategy to use against Domaine’s war bands.
Captain Azar was interested in another skill as well. “Be sure to let me know if you have a dream or see something like you did before,” he said to me.
The old sense of shame and failure washed over me. The last thing I wanted to do was lead my patrol into another trap. “It did not go well the last time, sir,” I said.
Captain Azar scratched his head and looked unsure, but Rowland said, “I wonder if the seer gift can be sharpened and trained like other skills. Maybe as you use it, you will learn to understand it better.”
I nodded, but inside I hoped fervently that I would have no more dreams like the last one.
Our patrol set off for the region near Evergreen, and after days of riding, we crossed paths with a large war band. They were aware that we were tracking them and stopped in an open meadow to wait for us. Connor, our tracker, came back to report on their position. I was near enough to hear what he said to the captain.
“How many?” the captain asked.
“As near seventy as we can tell, sir. And two vithons with them. I’d say seven are Bezarqs, two keepers, and the rest are conscripts.”
We had fifty with us. Our patrol was larger than ever, but still, they had more—and then there were the vithons, which made everything unpredictable.
“They know they have a big advantage. That’s why they’ve elected to meet us instead of running off.”
“Looks like it, Captain.”
“How are they arrayed?”
“They have their backs to the woods, sir, facing the field. The vithons are at each flank under tight leash.”
“Here’s the plan. We will line up as if we are going to charge straight at them, but as we approach, we will split down the middle and fly to the outside. The keepers at the flanks will hold on to their leashes as long as they can to keep the vithons from attacking their own conscripts. Our soft middle will draw the conscripts out in front beyond cover of the vithons, while our bowmen engage the keepers and the Bezarq officers at the flanks. Torin’s men will take the vithon on the right and Brady’s on the left. We’ll leave the conscripts for last. Torin, Brady, anything to add?”
“We’re ready, sir,” Torin said, and Brady nodded.
“Good. Have the men rest for a minute and give them their assignments.” Captain Azar looked at Rowland and me. “We’ll see how your new tactic works.”
The Blackcoats were waiting for us when we rode out of cover. We raised up a great shout and waved our flags. Rowland and I rode with the bowmen to the right flank. Covering for each other with evasive movements that made our strikes seem unexpected, we worked along the edge, targeting Bezarqs by the red vithon crests they wore on the left shoulder. I had a clear shot at a Bezarq thigh and was rewarded by a shout of pain. The arrow must have pierced through, for his horse bucked violently and threw him off, galloping off into the woods. The Bezarq sat up, dazed, an easy target for my second arrow that laid him out for good.
Torin’s men had their assigned vithon and keeper surrounded. Our swift, direct attack was not anticipated, and the keeper was caught between our spears and the wild fury of his vithon. The keeper dropped his leash to let the vithon attack, and it lunged forward into waiting Guardian spears. Torin’s men circled it, poking at its armored sides. I kept an eye out for it even as I looked for open shots. The vithon snapped at the prodding spears, suddenly choosing to lunge for one of the men. Just in time, he got his spear into position, and the vithon swallowed it. The Bezarq I was watching glanced at the writhing vithon and was distracted. I let fly. My arrow clattered against his heavy black breastplate, but Rowland’s following shot carried through his neck. He was the last Bezarq to fall, and with the loss of their officers, the will to fight seemed to bleed away from the rest of the Blackcoats. More than one of them was looking around as if wanting to make a run for it.
I noticed a slender young Dominian, not much bigger than I, at the edge of the action. He kept looking over his shoulder toward the woods. I put up my bow and pulled my sword, maneuvering Morningstar to cut in fron
t of him. Our horses came side by side, and we locked swords, pushing against each other. I saw a flash of recognition in his dark eyes. I guessed he saw that I was a woman. It was his mistake to hesitate.
I nudged Morningstar, and we pushed harder into the other horse. Our blades were still locked, but Morningstar pushed the Blackcoat’s mount off balance, and I shoved the man out of his saddle. Scrambling to avoid the slashing hooves overhead, he dropped his sword and rolled away. Not much of a warrior, I thought, but something stopped me from finishing him. I took a quick glance around the field, struck by the war band’s lack of discipline. It was almost as if they weren’t interested in fighting, but then I noticed how they looked compared to the Bezarqs—poorly nourished, their black clothing worn hard, some of them without the heavy breastplate and armguards the Bezarqs wore. Something was clamoring for my attention. What was it?
Suddenly a memory came to my mind: the face of the dying conscript I’d treated at Evergreen. “I wish I had found another way,” he’d said.
Without stopping to think, I began shouting what came to mind. “Now hear this! Every man who throws down his weapons will be given quarter. Surrender now and you will be spared. Hold the attack, Guardians—give quarter to anyone who surrenders!”
The young man I’d unseated slid to his knees and raised his empty hands in the air. “Throw all your weapons into the grass, and put your hands on your head!” I shouted to him.
He pulled a long knife from his boot and tossed it away and then laced his fingers together on top of his head. All over the field, his fellows followed his example, surrendering swords, daggers, and spears. Soon every Dominian was on the ground, wounded or surrendering, or both.
Captain Azar ordered the weapons collected, and we grouped the prisoners and wounded on the ground, surrounded by our men. Captain Azar conferred with his two sergeants. Everyone was quiet and grim, prisoners and Guardians alike, unsure of what would happen next. I leaned toward Rowland. “I’ve got us in trouble again. See, this is why I don’t want to use the gift. The captain is going to take my head off.”
“Just talk to him,” Rowland said. “The captain has a soft spot for you. And besides, all this might work out for the best. We’ve had a decisive victory with very few Guardian injuries.”
Azar shifted his stance and began calling out orders. “All right. Sergeant Torin’s men will take care of the prisoners. Sergeant Brady’s men will get busy rounding up the horses and preparing the dead for burial. Rowland and Aidriana, you know what to do.”
I hurried to the captain’s side to apologize and tell him what I’d seen.
“I did tell you to use your gift,” Azar said. “Though a little more warning would be useful.”
I winced. “I’m sorry, sir.”
He clapped me on the back. “No harm done. But you might employ the gift a bit further and tell me what I’m to do with all these prisoners.”
“Sir, what if we would take them to Evergreen? The settlement needs workers—”
“These Blackcoats have killed under orders from Saduk,” Azar said. “I’m not sure Evergreen would want them.”
“Sir, I don’t think they want to be killers. They’ve been forced into service under threat of death. If they’re given work to do at Evergreen—”
There was a sudden commotion, a crashing of undergrowth and loud, bellowing roars near the bottom of the field. Five vithons burst out of the woods, each with a keeper running alongside. In spite of their long, heavy tails, the vithons surged across the field with cat-like swiftness. Unable to keep up, the keepers let go of their leashes, and the vithons sprang toward the unarmed Dominians who were sitting on the ground. In a moment the field was all confusion. Horses were screaming and rearing up, careless of where their hooves might land. Our prisoners fell over each other trying to scramble out of the way. The Vithons singled out those who were wounded and unable to move quickly, their victims screaming in terror and pain as sharp teeth tore into their flesh.
Azar leapt on his horse, and I did the same. Morningstar’s training held, though his eyes were rolling from side to side and his legs quivering. I took a moment to speak in his ear and pat his neck. Unhitching my spear, I signaled Morningstar with my knees and headed for the nearest vithon. The bronze-colored beast let go of its prey, staring at me with cold, black eyes, wary that I was charging toward it instead of running away. It raised up on hind legs to guard its prey, unmindful that it was exposing its vulnerable spot to me. I nudged Morningstar to the left, leaned low to the right side, and aimed my spear at the unprotected underbelly, thrusting with all my strength at the grey spot under the breastbone. The vithon gave a warning bellow and lunged to the side, evading my thrust, just enough that I missed the soft spot and connected with the bony armor. It felt as if I’d slammed into a tree trunk. My arm went numb from the jolt, and I dropped the spear.
The hard hit slowed the vithon down. When I pulled around, it was working its dripping jaws open and shut. It stopped to look at me. Lashing its great tail back and forth, it swiveled and ran back in the direction of easier prey. I slipped out of the saddle. It took only a quick look to see that I was too late to help the man on the ground. I collected my spear and ran after the vithon on foot. Every few paces, the grass was splashed with black vithon blood. I’d done a little damage, but not enough to stop the vithon’s wicked attack. It had already managed to pounce on another wounded Dominian. When it saw me coming, it started pulling its prize away by the legs. The poor man screamed, clutching at the torn up sod with his hands as the vithon dragged him backwards.
Rowland ran up from behind and grabbed the vithon’s muscular tail. Digging in with his heels, he pulled with his full weight. The vithon let go of the Blackcoat with a bellow and swept around, tossing Rowland to the ground like he was a small child. Before it could turn on Rowland, three more Guardians came to our aid. They used their spears to prod the vithon, distracting its attention. “Steady, now,” one of the men said to me. “Take your time. It’ll expose itself again.”
The vithon lunged at the speaker and snatched the shaft of his spear, shaking it back and forth in its jaws. Triumphant, it reared up on hind legs and roared, pink foam dripping from its toothy jaws. But I was interested in the soft, gray underbelly once again exposed. I ran forward and thrust my spear. This time my aim was true, and the spear pierced the gray spot. The vithon dropped the shaft and lunged for me, jaws wide and snapping. Letting go of the spear, I leapt clear of the sharp teeth. The heavy torso fell forward, driving the spear through the vithon’s black heart.
The big lizard rolled on the ground, quivering and jerking, black blood gushing everywhere. Rowland helped me roll the twitching carcass on its side. Careful to keep clear of the teeth that were still clattering together, I planted my boot on its belly and yanked my spear out, filthy with thick, black blood.
“Nicely done!” Rowland said. “But next time you might wait until you have help. Those jaws were mighty close.”
“Sorry,” I said breathlessly, “it was killing that man.” My heart was thumping away as I bent over to wipe my spear in the grass. There was more shouting from the men and more screeching and growling. Torin and Brady had killed one of the vithons, and Azar had wounded another. It was chasing after him, dragging its wounded body by brute strength. Guardians surrounded it, jamming with their spears, and the vithon fell, making a shrill, whining sound. Another vithon heard the cry and answered with an enraged roar, racing across the field to join its brother. The men backed up, bracing their spears for attack, but surprisingly, it ran past them and leapt on its crippled brother. The weakened animal squealed and snapped back, scrapping and clawing to protect itself, but the strong one was relentless. It ripped into the other’s belly with dagger-sharp teeth, pulling out entrails, biting and slashing with gore-covered jaws.
It was too careless, though, in its frenzy. The dying vithon snapped up and grabbed
the throat of its attacker in a death grip. The moaning and shrieking was indescribable as the two fatally wounded animals rolled together in a grisly embrace, neither one willing to let go.
Our dread fascination was broken by a deep, trumpeting bellow. Men and horses scattered once more as the last vithon tore across the field, a huge bull, its bronze armor scarred by many battles. It stopped in front of the other two, who were still wrestling and making shrill keening sounds. Rising up, it shook its fearsome head and roared. The sight of the large, pointed ears flapping back and forth might have been amusing, but we were too startled by the scene before us. The giant rubbed its ears with a front claw and then, quick as lightening, sprang onto the gruesome pile and tucked in. As the sound of snapping bones and tearing flesh reached us, I had to look away at the cool green trees on the other side of the field to stop my stomach churning.
“That has to be the biggest vithon I’ve ever seen,” Rowland said in an awed voice.
I tried to ignore the dreadful crunching noises. “The keepers must have withheld food so it would fight well.”
Rowland’s mouth twitched. “It worked, didn’t it? And it’s even more dangerous while feeding.”
“How do the Blackcoats keep the vithons from killing their own men or each other?”
“It’s not easy. That’s why the keepers hold their vithons on tight leash most of the time. The vithons respect their keepers. I’ve heard that they’re paired together when the pups are no more than a few days old. The keepers eat with them and sleep with them, and the vithons accept their commands. But once vithons go into blood-lust frenzy like this, even the keepers can lose control.”
Torin called out four of his men and approached the vithon. It looked up from the pile of carcasses and cocked its head, a low growl rumbling deep in its belly. It opened its jaws, exposing dripping rows of sharp teeth, and went back to crunching on the neck of one of its brothers. Torin reached out and poked the vithons’s tough hide with his spear. The vithon whirled, tail lashing back and forth, the growl higher pitched. It spread its claws over the other vithons, guarding the catch, too cunning to rise up and expose its soft spot. One of the men prodded the other side, and the vithon whirled again, a chunk of meat clamped between its jaws. Back and forth swang the vithon’s head as the men baited it, ears flapping, the low growl rising into a full-throated roar. The vithon shook the bit of dead flesh in its slavering jaws until black blood spattered forth and then cast it aside up and lunged across the carcasses, straight for Torin. I gasped as Torin stood steady in the vithon’s path. If he had turned to run, he would have been dead in an instant, but he held his spear straight ahead and stood firm. The enraged vithon seemed not to notice that it was springing to its death. Torin adjusted the tip of his spear to the wide-open jaws, and the lunging vithon swallowed it whole. At just the right moment, Torin dropped the end of the spear and stepped out of the way. A cheer went up as the vithon crashed to the ground with a gurgling roar. Thrashing and writhing, it struggled to its feet, but the spearmen kept it cornered until weakened by blood loss—the vithon fell for the last time.
