by Tim Akers
The light above him was crystal green. Lady Strife’s golden face shimmered through. The end of summer was approaching, and already the mornings had taken on the bite of autumn. Soon it would be the equinox.
Floating in the Tallow, Ian turned his mind to the increase in gheists, and the dangers of lesser holidays that marked the ebb of the powers of Cinder and Strife. There would be more vow knights on the roads, and more gheists in the forests. The war might affect that. If the vow knights could not safely travel, they might stay in the Lightfort and leave Tener to its feral gods. He would need to take precautions, to protect his men from the marauding gheists. He wondered what Martin would be doing to keep his Suhdrin knights safe. Perhaps their fear could be turned to his advantage. Dress his raiders in woad and strike at their flanks. Give them some sleepless nights. He smiled at the thought, and started to float back toward the surface.
An arrow dimpled the water over his head. Ian stared at it for a second, wondering how someone’s target practice had gone so badly astray, then another bolt landed beside the first, to be joined by an entire flight that fell like rain.
Gasping, he stood and looked at the southern bank. The tents of Marchand and Roard remained where they had been. There were soldiers among them, and quite a few on the bank, but none of them had bows or stood in the concentrated ranks necessary to launch such a flight. The men and women Ian could see were all staring at Ian’s camp, shock on their faces. Which meant the attack wasn’t coming from the south.
A horn went up behind him, then another. Ian whirled to find that several tents were on fire. Another flight of arrows came from the forest to the north, this one trailing streamers of smoke and burning pitch. Rally horns called shrilly from the length of the camp, joined by clarions from the Suhdrin side of the bank.
Ian splashed to shore and started pulling on his clothes. A knight ran up to him, a woman he didn’t recognize. She wore the colors of House Dougal, the hart and harrier, and was carrying a collection of armor that Ian recognized as his own.
“My lord,” the woman said matter-of-factly, then she bent to help Ian prepare.
“What’s happening?” he snapped.
“Arrows from the trees. Seems like most of the sentries are already dead, for them to be so close. Raise your arms.”
Ian did so, then ducked as a quarrel hissed over his head. The woman slapped his arms back up, then tossed a chain shirt over his head and fastened it to his belt.
“Will have to do,” she said. “Don’t get shot in the leg.” Then she marched back to the tents. Dark-cloaked soldiers were boiling out of the forest, pouring through the camp and cutting the men down before they were properly armed or armored.
“Wait! We must rally the banners! Sound the horns…”
“Already done,” she yelled over her shoulder. “Your sword is there. Draw it, and earn your name.” Then she drew her own weapon and waded into the chaos of the camp, the swirl of combat, screaming the words of her house.
On the opposite bank, the Suhdrin horns were sounding, mustering their forces. Lines of spear and bow were forming at the ford, and Ian could see a swirl of horsemen donning armor and preparing for the charge. They would be coming across the river in just a few minutes. The Tenerran guards at the ford had all turned to face the threat from the forest. They were pressed from both sides, though how this force had gotten into the forests to the north was beyond him. If Ian didn’t rally the defenses, the whole camp would be swept from the field.
Gwen Adair has failed us.
He pulled on his boots and drew his sword, tossing the scabbard aside. The attackers from the north had fought through the pickets and were among the tents, cutting free the harnessed mounts and driving them from their pens. Whoever these soldiers were, they were nearly silent in their attack, but didn’t seem terribly effective. Most of the arrows had flown over the camp, and even in the state of disarray, it seemed as though Ian’s banners had rallied and were giving a good showing.
A column of Suhdrin attackers stumbled onto the riverbank. Their shield line was broken and their spears bristled in all directions, rather than moving in concert. A party of Tenerrans crashed into them, brushing aside their spears and hammering the shields.
“The hound! The hallow!” Ian screamed as he joined the fight.
* * *
The battle was closely fought and quickly over. The Tenerrans broke the Suhdrin shield wall like a baby’s spine, grinding them apart and spitting out the refuse. Ian stood on the far side of the carnage with his ears ringing and his hand numb from striking sword to bone.
Suhdrin forces massed on the southern bank of the Tallow, but had not made a move to cross. He looked around and saw the knight who had helped him with his shirt.
“Sir…” he said.
“MaeWulf,” she answered. Her eyes were on the dead at her feet. “These are children.”
“Dead ones, aye—and old men, the infirm… not much of a fighting force,” Ian said. “If they hadn’t taken us by surprise, there wouldn’t have been a threat at all.”
“How in hells did they get behind us?” MaeWulf muttered. “We’ve got eyes from here to Dunneswerry, and Gwen Adair was holding the fords to the west.”
“A question for Gwen Adair,” Ian said.
Without warning, another flight of arrows dropped on the camp, this one drawing blood, though it fell on Suhdrin and Tenerran alike. There was a rumbling confusion, then the nearest line of tents collapsed. In the cloud of dust that rose, his own warriors appeared, fighting a retreat, their faces turned to the distant forest.
The battle line moved to the banks of the river, sweeping Ian, Sir MaeWulf and their attendant knights along with them. It was pressed by an organized spear line, soldiers fighting like madmen and anchored by a core of mounted knights. At their center was a banner, and the knights clustered around it.
At their fore was Sir Henri Volent, the Deadface, fighting like a demon, killing like a butcher.
Across the Tallow, a horn sounded, and the enemy began to move.
“Defend! Defend!” Ian shouted over the clamor. He waved his sword in the air, but the men and women around him did not see it. “Hold the line!”
“There is no line, my lord,” MaeWulf growled between gritted teeth. She’d sustained numerous wounds, blood leaking through her chain mail, but she fought on. Ian tried again to rally the fight, but only drew the attention of the Suhdrin attackers.
They pressed closer to him.
A spear snagged his shoulder, gathering up the links of his mail and tearing the coat, leaving rings to spill down his chest like coins. The weight of the unsettled armor dragged down his sword arm. Without a shield, Ian had to depend on his blade for protection, and it was slowing him down. He stumbled back and splashed into the river. The water that had flowed so clean a few minutes before was now murky with blood.
A face broke through the shield wall and he struck at it, breaking bones and teeth. That man disappeared, and another threw himself forward, hacking madly at Ian’s blade. The men-at-arms around Volent fought with rabid strength and a complete disregard for their own flesh. It was as though demons drove their blades. A shield bashed into Ian’s chest, and when he fell backward it was into deep water.
He dropped his sword, and struggled against the weight of his armor until he got his feet against the muddy riverbed, pushing his head above water. Volent’s mounted knights were splashing through the river, struggling to keep their horses calm in the current.
With water up to his chest and his sword missing, Ian was caught in the retreat of his men. Herded like sheep, the Tenerrans beached themselves on the slick stones of the ford. They crowded into the shallow water, milling about like spawning trout. Ian found himself pressed tight on all sides. Even if he hadn’t lost his sword, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to fight. The air was full of the screaming of horses and men, the crash of arms, and the sound of distant horns.
Then there was a near horn,
followed by hoofbeats.
The screaming got louder.
A wide lance of knights-errant—in full armor and flying the banners of Roard, Marchand, and LeGaere—crashed through the ford. They crushed the dismounted Tenerran rabble like eggs.
Something struck Ian’s shoulder. He wheeled away from the blow, seeing a spray of crimson that he only distantly recognized as his own blood. Then he was in the river, this time falling on the far side of the ford, and the cold drove the air from his lungs. He sank, mud between his fingers and in his face. Bodies piled on his back and his lungs burned for air. He squirmed free, but his armor kept him under the surface. His left arm wouldn’t move, but with the numb, aching fingers of his right he found the hem of his ruined shirt of mail.
He shrugged free of it, the links snagging in his open wounds like fishhooks, tearing flesh from fat and spilling blood into the water. Then the shirt slipped free of his body, and he floated with the current. The light above his head was clear and green. The air left his lungs, and darkness filled his head.
Ian drifted, the current taking him westward, away from his father, farther from the Tenerran lines and safety. The river bore him on.
* * *
The first horn came from the western picket. The oxbow crescent of Malcolm’s army was anchored at either flank by the two fords they had used to cross the Tallow, with each defended by heavy lines of spear, backed by the majority of the Tenerran archers.
To the east, there were no more crossing points until the Reaveholt, the walled city that managed most traffic between Greenhall and the Fen Gate, while to the west the river was punctuated by various fords and lesser bridges. Gwen Adair held the fords farther to the west, while Malcolm’s son was charged with the nearest major ford, just beyond the river’s bend.
There had been no word from Ian.
Yet the perimeter guards were signaling an attack. Malcolm shifted on his campstool, turning away from Rudaine, and stared in that direction. Like most of his men, he had taken to wearing his armor day and night. It was beginning to wear on him, but the immediate fear of attack washed his discomfort away.
“Are they probing the flank?” Rudaine asked. He and Malcolm had been discussing their options, whether they would fall back across the Tallow or press on to Greenhall.
“No, I think it’s more than that,” Malcolm said. He stood and called for his horse, then began buckling on his scabbard. “I see no movement along the Suhdrin line.”
“Neither do I,” Rudaine answered. The bulk of the Suhdrin army was spread out before them. “They stir, but I think it’s as much curiosity as preparation.” A few riders tracked along the Suhdrin line, but most of the forces were still clustered around their fires.
He glanced up at the sky.
“An hour to dusk. A terrible time to mount an attack.”
“And yet, the horns.”
Malcolm grunted. Someone brought his horse and shield, then several men helped the lord of Houndhallow into his saddle. Rudaine still stood on the ground. From his perch, Malcolm could see the whole Suhdrin line, as well as the western pickets, where the horns were still sounding. Ian’s position was still out of sight on the northern side of the river, and the forces arrayed against him were equally hidden.
“No, there’s nothing. If there’s an attack on the western ford, it’s led by ghosts. Sir Bray, get a rider to that picket and find out what the hell they’re on about.” Malcolm waited until the knight was on his way, then leaned down to Rudaine. “Those are your men, Duke. Are they prone to fright?”
“No man who marches out of Drownhal is prone to fright.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no movement on the southern line. Either your scouts have decided to call the hunt, or…” Malcolm turned to receive a report and his eyes drifted across the Tallow, to the supply camp that lined the northern bank. “Gods be damned,” he muttered.
A silent line of riders was scything through the camps, cutting down the few guards and securing the northern mouth of the western ford. Rudaine looked in the direction of Malcolm’s gaze, then swore and took off at a run.
“Mount a charge on that ford, Drownhal!” Malcolm shouted after the retreating figure. “We can’t afford to be cut off!”
Rudaine didn’t answer, but kept running. Malcolm whirled his horse and rode to the river’s bank. Men and horses were stirring as their commanders slowly realized what was occurring. A call drifted over the river valley, this time from the Suhdrin camps. Halverdt must have received word.
That’s madness, Malcolm thought. Why wouldn’t he have known of a flanking attack on the Tenerran position? Still, there was no denying that the Suhdrin lines were only now shifting themselves.
“My lord,” Sir Bray called, “they fly Marchand and Roard banners! Scouts spotted them riding down the embankment from the direction of your son’s position at the ford, but only called the alarm when they realized the number. They thought it a ruse.” The knight stumbled up to Malcolm’s flank.
“There was no warning from my son?”
“No, my lord. We must assume that his position has been overrun.”
“And my wife?”
“She is on the northern bank, my lord. There were messengers from several uncommitted Tenerran lords. They were dining among the wagons, for safety.”
“Well, they’re involved now,” Malcolm spat. He looked up as a shout came from the western ford. Rudaine was leading an assault, a small fist of mounted knights that crashed into the water under a hail of arrows. “They have archers in the woods. This’ll be a bloody business.”
“What should our men do?” Bray asked.
“See that the eastern ford is secure. It’s unlikely that they would have circled all the way around, but gods know what’s possible. Keep an eye on the south. If the Tenerrans…”
“Riders south, my lord!” a messenger called, riding hard and fast from the front lines. “There seems little plan to it, my lord, but the Suhdrin knights are mounting.”
“We’re in for it, then. Get the pikes set. Make sure MaeHerron gets his shields to the center of the line, and don’t let them engage until the Suhdrin force is committed.” The messenger nodded to each command, edging his horse away in his eagerness to relay the orders. Malcolm reached out and took the man’s reins. “Listen carefully. Whatever is happening, Halverdt is as surprised as us. Have the commanders calm their men. Have them take time for prayers. Show no fear in the face of this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord, but…”
“Enough,” Malcolm spat. “We hold this line or we fall.” He released the man’s horse and gave it a slap. “We fall all the way back to Houndhallow, and gods help us.”
“What of your wife, my lord?”
“What of her?” he asked. “She knows the blade.”
* * *
The Marchand banner fluttered and fell, the black spear and red rose spotted with blood. The air was heavy with smoke and the screams of dying men. The only light was the flickering fire of the Tenerran supply wagons, and the sweet stink of charred meat mingled with sweat and spilled guts.
Lord Daeven cradled the broken head of his son, his hands sticky with blood. Sorcha Blakley stared into the night, watching the last riders of the failed flanking attack disappear among the trees. She ground the shaft of her long spear into the mud and looked down at the fallen child.
“Now will you join us, Lord Daeven?”
Daeven shook, his shoulders heaving, his cheeks slick with tears and his dead son’s crimson. The Earl of Blackvaen glared up at her.
“Do not think you can twist a child’s death into another hundred spears for your heresy, Duchess.”
“His blood is on Suhdrin blades, Daeven. You will not see that avenged?”
“I will not see my other sons killed,” he said. He stood, cradling the body. The boy’s head rolled back on what remained of his neck, a fresh gout of blood freed as the flesh tore and bones ground together. �
�Nor my daughters raped, nor my wife widowed.”
“You came to talk banners,” Sorcha said tightly. “Perhaps to talk peace, and they brought the blade to our table.”
“You,” he said. “You brought the blade. They have only answered in kind.”
“Lord Daeven, there are thousands of Suhdrin spears clustered on our border. Even now…”
“Enough. I must bury my boy as far from this slaughterhouse you’ve built as I can manage,” Daeven said. He wrapped the child’s face in his cloak, gathering the broken pieces back into the whole, wincing as his son’s blood-streaked face disappeared behind the cloth. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the night.
Sorcha sighed and put her spear aside. She was still dressed in her dinner finery, hastily crushed beneath a breastplate and chain skirts, the whole outfit ruined with blood and sweat. The riders had fallen on them so quickly, there hadn’t been time to find shelter for her guests. Even Earl Daeven had taken up his sword, to defend his son as much as his own life.
It hadn’t been enough.
One of her maidens ran up, bow in hand. The girl was naked beneath her armor, except for a loose shift of wool. She had taken a quicker and less modest approach to the ambush, cutting her silks away when the assault had come. Sorcha almost regretted not following her lead.
The girl saluted, then bent the knee.
“Get up, child. What is happening?”
“The last of the riders have fallen back. We’re rooting the archers out of the forest now. They were children, my lady. Boys and old men.”
“They fought well, for boys and old men,” Sorcha said. “And the other guests?”
“Lord MaeFell has already sworn his numbers to us, though he hasn’t called his banners. It will be weeks before they reach us. The rest of your guests are safe enough.”
“Not all of them,” Sorcha said, looking down at the drying blood at her feet. “See that Earl Daeven receives an escort home. What of the southern side of the river?”
