With the increase in speed came the increased dislocation and disruption of the Aurolani east wing. Adrogans signaled, and the readied cavalry units charged. Snow flew as hooves pounded down the road, and horses slammed full on into the infantry.
What had been pristine snow was now churned crimson, alive with twitching bodies writhing around broken lances. Horses, with their backs broken from a blow with a hoargoun’s club, thrashed their hooves in the snow. The rime giants, skewered by dozens of lances, faltered and fell, some pitching over into the road, others stumbling back and crushing gibberers underfoot.
Kryalniri and vylaens cast spells, but Phfas and his Zhusk compatriots used the power of the yrûn to blunt most of these. The small contingent of Vilwanese warmages he’d been given shot their own spells. They specifically targeted the Aurolani magickers, forcing them to choose between self-defense and death. A surprising number chose the second option. Even as they died, they cast hideous fireballs that incinerated cavalrymen, or punched holes in the infantry line.
Gyrkyme laced the Aurolani formation with fire. Their swooping attacks released dozens of firecocks, which exploded against Aurolani troops or the ground. Three of them hit one hoargoun at the heart of the Aurolani center, turning him into a living torch. In his pain he crushed comrades, and his screams were enough to chill the blood of all who heard. Other firecocks wrought havoc amid the frostclaws. They killed some, and unnerved others enough that a panic swept through the Aurolani cavalry.
Cheers ran through Adrogans’ troops as the Aurolani formation began to crumble. Their left had hit and held, such that the Aurolani center came forward. Its support, the east wing, had been shorn free, leaving the flank open for a crushing charge from the Alcidese or Jeranese Horse Guards. A textbook example of how a battle should be fought, things were going too well for Adrogans for him to be comfortable.
Then he saw it.
The burning hoargoun had been cavorting and spinning, but never trying to slap out the flames that engulfed it. Instead its thick fingers tore at the harness it wore. It was attached to a satchel of heavy canvas, not unlike those troops wore to carry supplies. Save no one wears one of those into combat. On a creature the size of the hoargoun, the satchel could have contained three bullocks, and it certainly bulged with whatever its cargo was.
Adrogans watched it for a moment more, and felt Pain sink her fangs into the back of his neck. He pointed at the hoargoun and shouted at Phfas, but it was too late.
The hoargoun’s pack exploded.
The creature wearing the device literally became a crimson mist from the thighs upward. Fire blossomed for a second where its chest had been, then a thunderous blast rippled over the landscape, knocking warriors down, making snow dance, and even shattering ice over the river. A lethal spray of missiles shot out in every direction.
Gyrkyme were shredded, spiraling down with bloody feathers floating in their wake. Some of the Savarese Knights had swept around to the rear of the Aurolani center, catching the blast full force. Round lead balls and jagged pieces of bent iron punched through their armor. Sharp fragments of crockery sliced exposed flesh and the force of the blast itself was enough to send horses and riders tumbling.
But as much damage as the explosion did to the Savarese Knights, it did more to the Aurolani troops. It ate the middle out of their formation. Those it had not killed it wounded, and all the infantry had been knocked down. They struggled to their feet, dazed and disoriented, with many of them turning back to see what had happened.
Which is when Adrogans’ troops hit them. There had been no charge blown nor any signal given. One of the balls had crushed the signal horn and the hand holding it, but these men needed no signal to know when to fight. They had been shocked and some hurt by the blast, but all of them had their blood up, and the enemy became the focus for their fury.
Fighting to steady his horse, Adrogans swiped at blood dripping into his right eye. Something had hit him, opening a cut, but the pain of it was nothing compared to the pure waves of agony his yrûn played into him. It swirled through him like a twisting column of fire, so he took hold of it, channeled it, then cast his gaze out over the battlefield.
There, on his left, another hoargoun was struggling with a pack. That creature was not burning, but a thin trickle of smoke rose from the corner of the burden it raised over its head. The creature’s arms went back, preparing for a long throw that would plant the device deep in amid the Mountain Guards.
Adrogans stabbed his left hand at the hoargoun and let pain flow. He let pure agony wrack the hoargoun, locking its muscles and bowing its back. The satchel sank lower, then the creature toppled backward. It hit the ground in a cloud of snow, and the satchel bounced once before it exploded.
With that explosion, the Aurolani left wing evaporated.
So did the fire atop the tower in far Svarskya.
One of the other hoargoun, one that fell in the initial charge, had been fitted with one of the explosive devices. Someone decided it should be called a boombag, and for want of a better term, it stuck. Vilwanese mages and several weapons-masters hauled it off to a small hollow and opened it. Inside they found a cask of firedirt with a long fuse surrounded by shot, metal, and ceramic debris. It appeared the device was meant to be used as the second hoargoun had attempted to use it, though one warmage did note that the harness was not really conducive to easy removal.
Could Nefrai-kesh have meant the hoargoun to commit suicide? He looked north to the city. Lights burned, from the towers and broken walls, out to the city warrens that surrounded the inner, older city. Is he telling me that we will face such things every step of the way?
That prospect shook Adrogans for a moment.
Phfas came to stand beside him and look at Svarskya. “You take this as a warning, yes?”
“Is there another interpretation, Uncle?”
The wizened man nodded. “The dog that does not want to fight barks louder than the one that does.”
Adrogans considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Even if those devices had worked, not enough damage would have been done to allow his troops to win. And if he had meant to use the boombags to win, he would have employed them against the bridge garrison. You’re right; there is some other game being played here, and I don’t know what it is.”
The Zhusk shaman snorted. “He is foolish, if he plays games when we are making war.”
“Yes, but perhaps he has a grander prize in mind.”
“Will that stop you from winning yours?”
Adrogans smiled and rested his right hand on Phfas’ shoulder. “No, but if I knew what his prize was, we might be able to win that as well.”
“Excuse me, General, we have a report about the battle we are prepared to send to Lakaslin by arcanslata.” The signal-mage gave Adrogans a piece of parchment, then cast a spell to make a light so he could read it. “Is it satisfactory, sir?”
The Jeranese general nodded slowly. “This will do for my private archives. Delete any reference to boombags and give all credit for the victory here to the troops on the field, not the devastation done by those things.”
“But, sir, warning others of the devices . . .”
“I know, but they failed here, so perhaps they won’t be used again.” Adrogans gave the man a nod. “If we let others back home fear things they might never see, we contribute to the Aurolani effort. I won’t aid the enemy that way.”
“Yes, sir.” The signal-mage bowed and withdrew.
Phfas smiled. “You see a glimmer of his prize?”
“Not really, but we both agree Nefrai-kesh was sending a message. I’ve just decided his message was meant for me alone.” He scratched at the stitched cut over his right eye. “As such, it is unimportant to anyone else, but a message I shall take to heart.”
CHAPTER 56
W ill had known intellectually that raiding supply caravans would not be easy. The supplies and replacement troops Chytrine would need meant vast numbers of people an
d huge amounts of equipment would be heading south. Just the draft beasts and their keepers would outnumber the raiding force they had assembled. Had he been planning an equivalent strike on a gem merchant’s caravan, he would have wanted the forces a lot more even and the strike to be on his own turf.
The experience Crow and Resolute had gained through decades of hitting and running, combined with the knowledge of the local area provided by the Murosan Lancers, gave them an edge. Unconventional tactics worked further in their favor, like dropping trees across the routes the Aurolani used, or switching the little marking stones around so a supply train marched off along a road that took them well out of their way.
Crow and Resolute set out definitive rules for how to attack the enemy in any of their ambushes. Magickers were always a target, and the best shots—be they archers or draconetteers—were assigned to kill them. Next were the draft animals. Sleighs that couldn’t be drawn could not deliver their goods. If they could isolate a part of a supply train and steal the goods, they did that, but anything they couldn’t get to, they burned.
And from the first siege of Fortress Draconis, Crow had learned how devastating a burning wagon of firedirt could be, so when fire-arrows played over the supplies, those were favored targets, and everyone got under cover when one was engaged.
The two of them even planned their ambushes in depth, setting a reserve and lines of retreat that would make pursuit difficult. After an initial rattle of draconette shots cut down sleigh drivers and mages, arrows would rain down from another direction, killing beasts. When the troops assigned to protect the caravan moved to attack the ambushers, they themselves would be raked with flanking shots.
In the six days they had been out, they had diverted four groups—two being parts of the same caravan that had gotten stretched out during a snowstorm. They hit one of those groups hard when the leader decided to camp for the night. That particular raid still sent shivers through Will.
That section of the supply train had been the lead element, and had decided to wait for the other half to catch up. In all fairness to the leader, the snow had started getting thicker, so traveling was not going to be easy. He chose for them to shelter against the lee side of a line of hills, so they got some protection from the wind. The terrain did force them to stretch the caravan out, and the storm meant the guards at one end of the camp couldn’t see or hear those at the other end.
And all the while they set their camp up, Resolute and others studied the layout. They learned who was sleeping where and marked out what wagons were the most important. This section had very little firedirt, so instead of exploding it, the raiders decided to steal as much as they could to replenish the supplies of their draconetteers.
Though gibberers are normally nocturnal, the drive to get supplies south meant they had been pushing themselves hard. The storm came as a welcome excuse to rest. And had the howl of the wind not covered the raiders’ stealthy advance, the rasped, rumble-growl of snores would have sufficed.
Will remembered watching Resolute drift soundlessly through the night to reach the first gibberer picket before the beast even knew he was close. The Vorquelf had approached from downwind, denying the gibberer a chance to catch his scent. The first it knew of his presence was the tight clasp of his hand over its muzzle. The second was the sharp, short stroke of a razored longknife across its throat.
Despite being half-metal, Sallitt Hawkins had reached the next guard equally silently. As it turned and sniffed at the scent of blood on the air, the meckanshii caught its neck in the V of his right arm. His left hand caught hold of the metal wrist, then he twisted and dragged the gibberer back over his right hip. Another twist from Sallitt, this one shorter and sharper, and the gibberer went limp and slid to the ground.
Will moved with them through the night, entering the camp as if part of a legion of ghosts. Knives and garrotes made short work of guards and those few hapless gibberers who ventured from tents to find water or relieve themselves. Resolute sliced through the wall of the leader’s tent and stabbed one of his bladestars through the creature’s chest.
While the raiders moved toward the middle of the camp, Will directed his Freemen to loot the firedirt sleigh. Without complaint and with a minimum of trouble, they accomplished their task and before long they reached the place where Crow waited with the Lancers. Will said nothing to him, but waited at his side. Finally, the others trickled in, with Resolute bringing up the rear.
Crow looked at him and whispered in a low voice. “No scalps?”
The Vorquelf actually smiled for a moment. “I only take them from warriors.”
His words sank deep into Will and chilled him. Deep down he knew that the gibberers below were just as important to Chytrine’s war as those on the front lines. Without the supplies, her army would grind to a halt. Without food, they would starve. Without firedirt, they could not break city walls. Every one of the gibberers they slew down there would hurt a handful of warriors.
The fact was, however, that most of the gibberers in the camp were not warriors. Some were old, some were young, others were clearly addlepated, but only a few could have actually qualified as warriors. Certainly, given a longknife they would defend themselves, but they were not trained for killing. They hardly represented the caliber of foe he’d fought in the past, and killing them as they had almost seemed like murder.
Part of him knew their deaths were necessary. What made him uncomfortable was being in a position to sit in judgment. Just because Chytrine had decided he had to die didn’t seem to justify his being able to decide the fate of others. Then again, by killing them, he stopped her from killing him and his friends. It could be justified as self-defense, but had none of the clarity of self-defense wrapped in battlefield glory.
As the raids progressed, the raiders began to form bonds. Crow encouraged that by mixing units for specific missions, and assigning groups to aid others. That built trust and on those occasions when the depth of preparation proved necessary, everyone was happy for the help.
It started with the meckanshii, but slowly spread throughout the group. The Oriosan warriors from Fortress Draconis had left their life masks behind, so they had fashioned for themselves black masks that they did not decorate. Though no one talked about it, everyone knew the black masks were because no one harbored even the illusion that they would survive their actions. Wearing a black mask mocked death, and soon the Murosans and Will’s Freemen made and donned them. The meckanshii even made black masks for Lombo, Qwc, Dranae, and Resolute. The four of them quickly adopted the masks.
There was no black mask for Will, and after he got over the initial pique at being left out, he understood why. Everyone there believed fervently in the Norrington Prophecy. If they were going to die, Will would die last. As long as he defied death, there was hope.
That afternoon, before they mounted up to stage another raid, Sallitt Hawkins approached his brother. In his metal hand he held a black mask. “We were hoping that you’d wear one of these and join us.”
Crow, who had been settling his bow into his saddle scabbard, hung on to the saddle. His shoulders sagged for a second, then he turned with a grim expression on his face. “You know I can’t take a mask. Mine was long ago stripped from me. I was judged unworthy, and that has not changed.”
Sallitt stood there silently, the mask’s ties floating softly on the breeze. Will watched the muscles bunch in his jaw and his eyes narrow. The silvery metal mail that fleshed the right side of his face contrasted sharply with his red hair and pale skin, but it flowed as if it lived, tightening as the man thought. Will actually saw a vein pulse at his temple beneath argent sheathing.
The elder Hawkins kept his voice even, but a tightness in his throat had lowered it. “We’ve been thinking on that. It was Tarrant Hawkins who was stripped of his mask. Events seem to have proven that to be wrong. But it’s not Tarrant Hawkins we’re offering this mask to. We’re offering it to you, Kedyn’s Crow. The past doesn’t matter. What
matters is that you’ve earned the honor of a mask many times over.”
Crow started to shake his head and deny the honor.
Will stepped forward and took the mask from Sallitt’s hand. He looked up at Crow. “In Meredo, you accepted that I was your liege lord. You accepted a mask from the hand of a Norrington before. Will you take this one now, for me? For this company?”
The white-haired man nodded slowly and dropped to one knee. Will stepped behind him and fastened the mask on, catching a hair in the knot. “It’s not that this mask makes you one of this company, Crow. In taking these masks, they’re all joining you and Resolute in your war with Chytrine.”
The Norrington stepped away and untied the mask from his own right arm, then pulled it on. He reached back to tie it into place, but found Crow there. “A Norrington always has a Hawkins to help him, my lord.”
Will smiled as he felt the knot snug and tug a piece of hair. “Thank you, Crow.” He looked up and saw the other men, especially the Oriosans among them, smiling broadly.
Will aped their smile. “Well, now that’s done, men, we have killing to do. Let’s go. There will be a lot of it, so we might as well get an early start.”
CHAPTER 57
E ven before setting out for Navval, Alexia had seen signs that her strategy was having an effect on the Aurolani forces. Crown Prince Bowmar and his core of two heavy cavalry battalions had hurried north on the Porjal road and set up in the hill country. As expected, they skirmished with the Aurolani lead element, which withdrew and waited for the bulk of the army to come up. When the Aurolani general—identified by arcanslata as a sullanciri—entered the field of battle, the Murosan cavalry withdrew to a new line of hills, with the infantry to back them up.
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