Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  ‘Listen,’ she said.

  ‘I am – I don’t—’

  ‘Not just to our players.’ She gestured towards the Avareans on the other side of the field. ‘Listen to the whole orchestra.’

  I turned my attention outwards, to the Avarean drummers, whose rhythms now seemed confused, rambling. Their warriors were still singing, but they sounded . . . off, somehow . . . discordant. ‘What’s happening to them? Why have they changed their song?’

  ‘They haven’t,’ Nehra said, standing before her musicians. As she waved her hands in careful patterns in the air, I could suddenly see how she was changing the music. ‘The Avareans play the same rhythms, sing the same notes as before.’

  ‘Then what—?’

  ‘Did you think warsongs were nothing more than jolly tunes to amuse the troops as they go into battle? I composed us a warsong, Falcio. Our drumbeats are syncopating against theirs, breaking down the rhythms their troops use to stay coordinated. The notes we’re playing combine with the melodies they’re singing to create chords that are unnatural to the Avarean ear. This was why I had you bring back their songs to me.’

  The Avarean front lines had not just lost their even pace; they had lost that sense of unity I’d seen before. Now they looked confused, anxious.

  Nehra left her musicians to play on as she turned to see the effects of her work herself. ‘You came to take our country?’ she called out to them, her voice an instrument in itself, challenging them, taunting them. ‘You sought to destroy our culture, our music? Let’s see you come for us when your own hearts begin to beat too fast, too anxiously. Come for us as the rhythms of your own drums are brought crashing down upon you! Let’s see your vaunted skill in battle as we play the melodies that shatter your concentration, that make your ears beg for an ending, that take your own songs and drive you mad with them. This is our weapon. This is how the Bardatti wage war!’

  As if this were his cue, Feltock gave the signal and the horn player next to him seamlessly added a series of blasts into the music, and suddenly, from inside thick pockets of the nightmist, arrows flew out into the Avarean troops. We’d not only sent spearmen into those patches of fog, but archers too.

  I could barely make out Morn, let alone see his face, but I fancied he wasn’t pleased at all.

  ‘Cannon,’ Kest warned.

  In the distance we could see eight of them being rolled forward, their barrels aiming at our rear lines. Eight cannon might not be a lot, but they’re enough to create no small amount of havoc.

  ‘We’ve got to take those out,’ I told Feltock. ‘Let me and the rest of the Greatcoats—’

  ‘You’ll never get through their lines,’ he interrupted.

  ‘We have to try!’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t waste your time,’ Darriana said, and I turned to see her and Gwyn coming up behind me. They looked pale and were shivering as they brushed snow off their coats.

  ‘Where have you two been?’ I asked.

  Darri smiled. ‘Visiting our neighbours.’

  I turned back to see the Avarean cannon-master raise his fist, then bring it swiftly down, and a moment later torches were held to the wicks. For a moment nothing happened.

  ‘You wet down their powder? How did the two of you even—?’

  ‘We’re the fucking Dashini and Rangieri,’ Darri answered, grinning. ‘Sneaking in and out of places is what we do. Now shush. I’ve always enjoyed fireworks.’

  ‘I thought you—’

  Suddenly the sound of thunder rolled over the drumming, overpowering the warsongs, the noise of battle. Fire and sparks exploded dramatically from one of the cannon, followed by another great crack of thunder, then another cannon exploded. Avareans were fleeing the flames, trying to dodge the bits of metal flying at them as the barrels broken apart in fast-moving lethally sharp shards – the noise became so loud I could hear nothing at all save a great ringing in my ears. I might not be able to listen to what was happening, but my eyes were fixed on the chaos raging among our enemies as we all struggled to comprehend what had just happened.

  The Magdan’s mighty warbands had finally met Tristia’s paltry army on the battlefield.

  They were not enjoying the experience.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  The Hundred Names

  It was a good first day, or so they told me. We lost nearly four hundred soldiers in those opening exchanges across the snow-covered field. The enemy had lost many more. I had no idea how Feltock could look across the carnage spread out before us and make such calculations, but he estimated that a thousand Avareans had met their ancestors at the hands of a people they’d believed wouldn’t last an hour.

  That night music rang throughout our camp. The Bardatti went among our troops, leading them in tunes and tales, some of which I recognised, others which I strongly suspected they were making up on the spot. I couldn’t bring myself to go along to share in the momentary joy of death denied for one more night, instead choosing to visit a less jovial part of our camp. Oddly, Brasti joined me.

  ‘Is there nothing more we can do?’ he asked, as we walked along the rows of the wounded and dying. Most were shivering despite the fires set to warm them.

  Ethalia was directing physicians and assistants, comforting those who broke down as patient after patient died from injuries too severe to treat, then, sometimes forcefully, sending them back to work. Every spare moment found her sitting with the wounded, using her Saintly presence to give them comfort, the Gods of any country that might disapprove be damned.

  Sometimes a soldier would call me, ask me to hold their hands for a moment, as if that might do some good, and as I hadn’t the heart to tell them otherwise, I smiled and told the lies you tell the dying, because sometimes that’s all that’s left.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked a young man whose leg was being bound tightly in preparation for amputation.

  ‘Idoren, sir,’ he replied, then suddenly broke into tears. At first I assumed it was at the prospect of losing his leg, but then he said, ‘I failed, sir. I failed him.’

  ‘Failed who?’

  ‘My son. I failed my son.’

  I squeezed Idoren’s hand harder. ‘You failed no one, soldier. There’s no—’

  ‘You don’t understand, sir! I . . . I didn’t even fight!’ He raised his other hand to his eyes. ‘I went out with my squad into a patch of nightmist where I was supposed to shoot arrows at the enemy. My hands were shaking so bad I dropped my quiver. I reached down to get it but tripped on a rock and fell. Two of my own arrows pierced my leg.’

  I looked down at the bandaged wounds. How could that lead to amputation?

  Idoren saw me staring. ‘I couldn’t move – I spent hours there lying on the ground in the snow and the nightmist. I couldn’t move and the cold – well, it got into the wound and now they say I have to lose the leg or it’ll spread.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said uselessly, remembering Trin’s self-mutilated fingers.

  He gripped my hand harder. ‘I never even met the enemy, sir. I never got to say my boy’s name.’ A great racking sob broke from him. ‘He’s a good lad, sir. His name ought to be remembered.’

  ‘Tell me his name.’

  ‘Myken, sir. It’s Myken.’

  I nodded. ‘Tomorrow, Idoren, I’m going to go out on that field and I’ll carry Myken’s name with me. I’ll speak his name when next we meet the enemy.’

  The soldier brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’

  A physician carrying a bone saw discreetly hidden under a cloth signalled it was time for me to leave him to his work. I let go of Idoren’s hand and moved on, only to have another soldier stop me – a thickset woman with a soaked bandage across her head covering a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. ‘My name’s Marsi, my man’s name is Felsan,’ she said, ‘like the Saint.
He has a wasting disease in his legs so he can’t walk – I came to fight for him, and for our two daughters, Lida and Iphissa. Will you carry their names for me, First Cantor?’

  ‘And my boy’s,’ another of the wounded called out. ‘His name is Terrick.’

  A sick feeling crept inside me. I had been the one to convince these soldiers that somehow carrying the name of someone they loved would make some difference to the world. One by one those who had tried to fight but been taken down before they could even face the enemy begged me to carry the names of their loved ones, to make sure the enemy heard them, and knew whose lives they were destroying. ‘I . . . I can’t,’ I said helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, there’s just too m—’

  ‘Tell me,’ Brasti said, and he crouched on the floor and started taking the arrows out of his quiver. He laid them on the ground, then reached inside his coat for a small, sharp knife. ‘Tell me their names,’ he said, and as they did, he set about carving those names into his arrows.

  We stayed there for another two hours, pausing only to call for more arrows, and when he was done, forty-six shafts bore the names of some village boy or girl or spouse or parent. It was impossible to hope each one would find a target, but Brasti just stood up and said, ‘Rest easy tonight, for tomorrow every one of these arrows will fly across that field, and if each one of the Avareans they strike learns only one word of our language, it will be the name you sent them.’

  A lot of the wounded died that night. It would be too much to hope that this strange ritual Brasti had devised would take the pain from their passing, but for some at least, it did give solace. Brasti may never become a Saint, but for those few hours, he was theirs.

  *

  I got back to my tent exhausted beyond measure and desperate for whatever sleep remained to me, but I’d only just removed my coat and unslung my rapiers when Kest appeared.

  ‘Can it wait until morning?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not. We got word a couple of hours ago: a contingent of soldiers is coming from the south. They’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Any idea who’s leading them?’

  ‘Rhetan,’ Kest said, then added, ‘Duke of Baern, apparently. It seems Ossia has abdicated.’

  ‘A death sentence will do that to you.’ I sighed, put my coat and sword belt back on, then checked to ensure the cold hadn’t frozen the blades in their scabbards. ‘I don’t suppose the new Duke has given any indication as to whether he intends to die alongside us or hasten our deaths in exchange for some heretofore unknown favour from Avares?’

  ‘It’s Rhetan,’ Kest reminded me, holding the tent flap open for me. ‘I imagine that’s up for negotiation.’

  *

  ‘You’re rather late, your Grace,’ I said, walking up to Rhetan who stood warming his hands by the fire. Several sturdy looking men I assumed to be his lieutenants stood close by.

  The new Duke of Baern surveyed the darkened field ahead of us. ‘Oh, I expect we’re here in plenty of time for our share of the bloodshed. Besides, I didn’t want to overtire my soldiers by forcing too fast a march. It’s as I’ve told you before: patience in all things.’ When he caught my gaze, he must have seen my suspicion there. ‘We’ll fight with you, Falcio, to whatever end awaits us all.’

  ‘I must confess, I was wondering if Baern might perhaps—’

  ‘Secede? Like Domaris and Pulnam?’ He reached up to scratch at the sparse beard he must have started growing on the way here. ‘I’ll admit I did give it some consideration. However, it appears that I have little choice in the matter.’

  He gestured behind us, to a woman only now dismounting from her horse. I almost didn’t recognise the Lady Mareina at first; she was no longer the beaten-up, emaciated woman I’d first encountered some months ago. Now she looked . . . well, she looked very like her sister Cestina, but what I saw in her eyes was something different entirely. Rhetan shook his head at the sight of her. ‘This Damina you foisted upon me? She had the gall to threaten that should Baern secede from Tristia, then the newly minted Condate of Revancia would secede from Baern. Worse, she somehow managed to convince two Viscounts and a Margrave to go along with her. It appears that conspiracy and sedition runs thick in her family’s blood.’

  Mareina gave me the barest nod in acknowledgment before walking right past me. I turned to see her destination and found her embracing Chalmers. ‘Three hundred soldiers,’ Rhetan said a little bitterly as he clapped me on the shoulder. ‘That’s what your little Greatcoat’s reckless determination to rescue a stranger has bought you.’

  I watched as Chalmers and the Lady Mareina talked for a few minutes, then suddenly burst into laughter, and I wondered what they were discussing, and what bond had formed between them in those moments aboard Margrave Evidalle’s wedding barge.

  ‘Eh?’ Rhetan asked. ‘What was that you just said?’

  I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud, so it took me a moment to remember. ‘Forgive me, your Grace. I believe I said, “Fuck anyone who ever doubts the purpose of daring acts of heroism”.’

  *

  Rhetan wasn’t the only nobleman to arrive that night. He’d met up with Pastien, Ducal Protector of Luth, on the road, bringing nearly a hundred and fifty of his own soldiers with him. We now had roughly four hundred more soldiers than we’d started with.

  On the other hand, we also had Pastien.

  The boy was kneeling in front of Valiana when I found him, ignoring Feltock entirely. ‘What little I have . . .’ Pastien – I suppose he was simply ‘Lord Pastien’ at that point, since the title of Ducal Protector had been stripped from him; all he had left was some pathetically small Condate with half a dozen villages and a town barely big enough to earn the name. ‘What strength the Condate of Guillard has to offer is yours, Realm’s Protector.’

  Kick him in the face. Please, if some small part of you still considers yourself my daughter, just kick him in the face, just once, for your old Da.

  She reached a hand down and bid him to rise. ‘If Tristia is to survive, it will not be on the might of our numbers but on the strength of our hearts. Thank you, Lord Pastien. You and your soldiers are most welcome indeed.’

  The boy’s face brightened, then went a little red. He spoke more quietly when he said, ‘Valiana, I . . . I also hope that this action on my part might persuade you to once again allow me to come to you, for you to teach me how to make you mine once ag—’

  Rolling her eyes, she cut him off. ‘Oh, for the sake of Gods alive and dead, Pastien, are you entirely incapable of doing anything because it’s what you believe in, rather than some coin to exchange for that which you could not earn yourself?’ Before he could reply, she leaned in close, and spoke so quietly I doubt anyone but Pastien and I could hear her. ‘And if you ever, ever try to “make me yours” again, the only thing I will “teach” you is the first rule of the sword.’

  Now that’s my girl.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  The Inevitable

  If our first day of battle had brought us good fortune, the second looked – for a while, at least – like a miracle. The addition of Rhetan and Pastien’s troops had ignited fresh enthusiasm in our existing forces and had enabled Feltock to adjust his positions to good effect. For every one of ours who fell that morning, the enemy lost nearly three.

  But war is a game of numbers, and ours were far too small.

  ‘They’ve altered their tactics,’ Kest shouted as we rode away from the enemy flank with the rest of the Greatcoats and Sir Elizar’s Knights. For the third time they’d repelled our charge. ‘The Avarean commanders have found a way to communicate their orders without interference from the Bardatti warsong.’

  A scream from behind me caused me to glance back and I saw Old Tobb – not only a Greatcoat but a former Domaris cavalry officer – fall from his horse with three spears sticking out of his back. He wasn’t the first Greatcoat to
die that day, nor was he the last.

  Fear and exhaustion began to wear on me. A duellist puts every ounce of energy he has into a few brief minutes in the circle. A soldier must fight on and on, hour after hour, until either a halt is called or he dies on the field.

  Worse than the physical effects was the fog obscuring my thoughts, thick as nightmist. The constant rise and fall of frantic, violent action followed by desperate retreat were wearing on me, turning the battle into a roiling assault on my senses – flashes of steel, splatters of blood, the rapturous roaring of the enemy as they attacked, the panicked screams of our own soldiers as they fell to the ground, the mad, grinning faces of the Avarean warriors hacking them to pieces the last thing they saw.

  By the time the sun set and that strange, unspoken agreement to cease fighting for the day had come once again, I could swear I felt Death himself breathing at my neck, chasing after me as I stumbled up the small hill to collapse beside Kest.

  ‘They fought with all their hearts,’ Feltock said quietly, standing at the hill’s edge as he looked down at our men as they nursed their wounds and took what rest they could. ‘May what Gods there are damn any man who says otherwise.’

  ‘How many?’ I asked. I couldn’t summon enough strength for any more words.

  ‘We lost eight hundred,’ he replied, then turned and grinned. ‘The Avareans lost two thousand.’

  ‘Two thousand?’ We’d fared better than I’d thought, but the look in Feltock’s eyes told me it wasn’t good enough.

  ‘It’s the numbers. They still have four thousand to our less than sixteen hundred.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ I asked.

  He glanced at Valiana and Nehra, as if waiting for one of them to explain what should be blindingly obvious, and when neither spoke, asked, ‘Now?’ He gestured down at the weary soldiers huddled together on the field. ‘Those people did what you asked of them, Falcio: they proved our worth to the enemy. They have displayed as much damned rokhan as any of us could hope for. If the Avareans have an ounce of honour or decency or whatever it is that makes a man show mercy to his enemy, then there’s a chance our people back home will survive.’