Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III

by Richard Baker

  “I’m not worried about their numbers,” Kara replied. “The merchant coster men aren’t going to be in any hurry to die for Maroth Marstel. As for the runehelms, we’ll see what we see. We’ve got reason to believe they might not be as formidable as we fear—at least, not here.” She looked over to Sarth. “I think it’s time, Sarth. I doubt we’ll have much to say, but I suppose we should offer parley anyway.”

  “Very well,” the sorcerer said. “Please excuse me for a moment.” He dismounted, handing the reins to a soldier, and ducked into a doorway of the outlying abbey ruins. Kara thought she heard a whisper of arcane words and felt a tug of the unseen forces around her; the spellscar she carried made her more sensitive to such things than any but a trained practitioner of the arcane arts. A few moments later, there was a rustling in the doorway of the outbuilding—and Geran Hulmaster emerged, dressed in a light coat of elven mail, a fine cape of dark blue fluttering behind him and a plumed helm tucked under his arm.

  “Sarth will be preoccupied for a time with important divinations,” he said. “He suggests that we continue without him.”

  Kara hid a smile behind a small cough. The likeness was almost perfect. If she hadn’t known that it was Sarth wearing her cousin’s appearance, she never would have guessed the truth. There were a few details that weren’t quite correct—Sarth’s gait wasn’t quite right, the voice was subtly off, and he didn’t carry himself with the same unconscious ease and physical readiness Geran had gained through years of study in swordsmanship. But she knew that she was an exceptionally keen observer of such things, and she was of course very well acquainted with her cousin. People who knew Geran casually would never guess that he wasn’t who he seemed to be, especially if Sarth was careful to avoid speaking too much.

  “Very good,” she replied. “Let’s go.” Tapping her heels to her mount’s flanks, she trotted out into the open field ahead of the massed Shieldsworn. Her standard-bearer Vossen rode out behind her, carrying the blue griffon banner of the Hulmasters. Sarth, in his magical guise, rode on the other side of the banner, and Kendurkkel Ironthane jogged along on a stout pony just beside him. They reached a point about halfway between the two armies, and halted. Kara eyed the enemy ranks carefully; there were a handful of arbalesters mixed in with the Council Guard infantry, but none of them seemed to be thinking of trying their luck at a long-range shot. There was a small stir among the riders grouped under the banners at the center of the council army, and then a small knot of riders trotted ahead, riding slowly to meet them.

  “What is the point of this exercise again?” Sarth asked quietly.

  “Traditionally, it’s done to issue challenges, to set terms for the ransom of prisoners, or to convince someone in a difficult position to retire without a fight,” Kara answered. “I don’t have any such notions on my mind today. My purpose is to make sure that Marstel and his captains see you here. I don’t see any harm in misleading them as to Geran’s whereabouts.”

  Kendurkkel chuckled into his beard. “Well, now I confess I’m wonderin’ myself,” he said. “’Course, Laird Hulmaster might not want me t’be knowin’. I hogtied him and dropped him on the Council Hall steps the first time we met.”

  Kara smiled uncertainly at that. Was that intended as a jest, she wondered, or was Kendurkkel reminding her that his loyalties were for sale? She thought she’d won more of the dwarf mercenary’s respect than most, and that just maybe he’d feel a little more allegiance to the Hulmaster cause than some other employer, but the fact remained that the Icehammers were mercenaries. Mercenaries had a bad habit of following the gold, and more than one battle had been lost by a company switching sides because of a better offer, or simply deciding to stand down while a contract was “renegotiated” to their liking. She’d never heard any such story of the Icehammers, but there was a first time for everything. She glanced at the dwarf, trying to gauge his mood.

  “Well, it’s old Marstel himself,” Kendurkkel said in surprise, nodding at the riders approaching from the council army. “Hadn’t expected that. And that captain next t’ him is Edelmark of Mulmaster, I think. Dun’t think I know the big fellow with them. No sign o’ the wizard.”

  “I think that’s Miskar Bann, the chief of the Veruna concession,” Kara said. She frowned and studied the approaching riders. Marstel looked vaguely ridiculous in a plumed helm and a parade-ground suit of half-plate that was fitted around his broad belly, but he rode better than she would have expected. In fact, he looked in better health than she’d seen him in years. His eyes were bright above his stiff white mustache, and he wore an expression of bluff confidence as he reined in his heavy charger ten feet short of Kara’s party. Marstel’s followers lined up alongside him.

  Marstel studied Kara, Sarth in his likeness of Geran, and Kendurkkel Ironthane. Then he snorted. “Well?” he said. “You have something you wish to say to me?”

  Kara fixed a stern look on him. “Maroth Marstel, you are a murderer and a usurper. I call on you to lay down your arms and surrender yourself to the rightful lord of Hulburg. All who have oppressed and harmed the people of Hulburg will be held to account, but we will spare the lives of your warriors and your captains if you surrender. This is your opportunity to make answer to the charges against you.” She paused, then added, “I don’t much care if you find your death on this field today, but your armsmen follow a fat old fool, and they deserve a chance to make restitution for what they’ve done. They won’t be able to do that when they’re dead.”

  Marstel flushed in anger, but it was Edelmark who spoke next. “Bold words,” he said to Kara. “We’ll see how far your righteous indignation carries you when our cavalry’s cutting you to pieces and our runehelms are smashing your lines.” He looked over to Kendurkkel, and smiled coldly. “You would’ve been wiser to pass on this contract, Master Ironthane. It’s not too late to reconsider.”

  “It’s been a long walk from Thentia,” the dwarf answered. “Hardly makes sense t’ turn back wi’out havin’ a go at ye, Edelmark.”

  “Good,” said Miskar Bann. He glared at Sarth in his magical disguise, and slapped his left knee, which was encased in a brace of leather and iron. “I came here for a fight, anyway. I owe you for this limp, my lord Hulmaster. I’ll be looking for you on the field!”

  Sarth shot Kara a quick look before he answered the Veruna captain. Clearly Bann knew Geran and had some grievance with him, although the tiefling had no idea what it might be. Sarth fixed an angry glare on Bann and snarled, “Then I’ll give you one to match on your other leg, if you insist!”

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” Kara said.

  “To that ridiculous ultimatum?” Marstel snarled. “You’ll have it soon enough, my dear. Your tired little rebellion ends today. No quarter, asked nor given.”

  “Fine,” Kara said flatly. “No quarter asked, no quarter given.” She nodded sharply to Sarth and the standard-bearer, and the Hulmaster party wheeled their horses and cantered toward their own lines. Behind them, Marstel and his officers galloped off as well.

  “I suppose we’ll be earnin’ our keep today,” Kendurkkel said as they rode back.

  “So it seems,” Kara answered.

  “Who was that Veruna captain?” Sarth asked.

  “I wasn’t there, but I seem to recall that Geran crossed swords with a couple of Veruna armsmen at Erstenwold’s last year, just before his duel with Anfel Urdinger,” Kara replied. “He carved them up pretty badly. I think Bann might’ve been one of them.” She took a moment to study her dispositions from the front as they rode back. The tents and wagons of the Hulmaster encampment lay within the wide expanse of ruins that adjoined Rosestone, but all three shields of her army, and the Icehammers as well, now stood to arms along the remnants of the wall that had once encircled the abbey’s large outer bailey. The ruined walls weren’t much of an obstacle, but they offered some amount of cover, and the attacking force would be channeled toward the open spaces between the remaining wall sections. The old abbe
y building itself anchored their right flank; the Icehammers held that end of the Hulmaster line. Captain Wester’s First Shield waited in the center of their lines, and Captain Merrith’s Third Shield in a tangle of ruined outbuildings at the left flank. Larken’s Second Shield guarded the rearward approaches to the old bailey. The Amaunatori friars who still lived in the abbey’s intact portions had retreated to their chapel, hoping to stay out of the way.

  The Shieldsworn cheered as they passed back into the lines. Kara nodded to Sarth, who slid down from his mount and hurried back out of sight in the abbey ruins again, and signaled for the shield-captains to join her. In a moment, Wester, Brother Larken, Merrith, and Kolton gathered around.

  “I take it Marstel refused to kiss his own fat arse when you told him to?” Wester asked.

  “No, he politely declined.” Kara smiled, but her eyes were fixed on the field in front of her. She studied distances, imagined maneuvers, and considered countermoves, all in the space of a few moments. “Larken, I want your shield to stand back off the line. You’re my reserve. As for the rest, we’ll stand our ground and let them come to us. We’ve got more bows than they do, and we’ll make them pay in the open ground.” She glanced around behind her, studying the lay of the land behind the Hulmaster camp. “I don’t think it’s likely, but if for some reason we’re driven out of the camp, fall back on the round hill there. That will be our rallying point.”

  “Aye, Lady-Captain,” her captains answered.

  “All right, get to your shields. No one’s to move from our lines without my signal. May Tempus favor you all.” Kara waited as the captains galloped off to their own companies, and quickly set their ranks in order. She rode over to take up a place near Brother Larken’s company, where she could keep an eye on the whole battle and choose the right time and place to commit the reserve.

  Across the space between the armies, she could see the standards of the various merchant detachments riding away from Marstel’s banner, returning to their own companies. It seemed that the false harmach’s forces had finished with their own deliberations and were ready to advance. Several trumpets sounded from Marstel’s banner; the Council Guard ranks murmured and stirred, marching forward. The wind rose, making their banners ripple and snap in the breeze; the distance between the armies began to shrink.

  “The enemy cavalry’s on the move,” Sergeant Kolton said from beside her. The old veteran was in charge of the small knot of bodyguards who stayed close to Kara and Sarth.

  “I see them,” Kara replied. Between the Jannarsks, the Iron Ring, and the Verunas, there were close to two hundred enemy horsemen to keep an eye on; they rode out from behind the enemy left and positioned themselves to harass her right flank, where the Icehammers were posted. “Kendurkkel can hold them at bay.”

  “Shall we open fire?” Larken asked her.

  Kara shook her head, waiting for Marstel’s soldiers to march closer. She didn’t want her soldiers wasting arrows, and more importantly she wanted her enemies well within the killing ground when the first blows began to fall. When the distance between the ranks was half a bowshot, she nodded to her standard-bearer. “Vossen, signal the shield-captains: volley fire!”

  The Hulmaster banner dipped and straightened; Shieldsworn trumpeters sounded the signal for Kara’s command. As one, the archers in each of the shields on the line bent their bows, held a moment, and then loosed their arrows. Almost a third of the Hulmaster soldiers carried heavy bows, and hundreds of arrows streaked through the gray skies. Council Guards reeled and fell beneath the deadly rain; distant screams echoed across the open moorland, and the approaching ranks seemed to ripple and writhe like a great, wounded serpent. Ten heartbeats later, a second volley took flight, and more of Marstel’s soldiers dropped. But now bolts and arrows arced out of Marstel’s formation in reply. The Hulmaster troops were tough targets for Marstel’s archers; most were armored in mail, and those not plying their bows carried large shields they now raised against the enemy fire. Some missiles found their mark anyway, and Hulmaster soldiers began to fall by ones and twos with cries of pain or choking screams. Then a third Hulmaster volley followed, raking Marstel’s ranks again.

  “The runehelms,” Sarth murmured. Kara looked to the center of the enemy line, and scowled. The sleet of arrows seemed to make no impression at all on Rhovann’s gray constructs. The things marched straight ahead without breaking step, gathering arrow after arrow with little effect.

  “Let’s hope that swords and axes work better,” she answered. Nils Wester’s First Shield held the center of the Hulmaster line; they’d be the ones to meet the runehelm assault. The enemy fire grew heavier, and now fiery bolts and jagged lances of lightning shot out from wizards and sorcerers scattered through the enemy ranks. Roars of fire and deafening thunderclaps pealed over the moor. The Hulmaster army had no spell-casters to speak of beside Sarth. Kara glanced toward the Icehammers’ end of the battle; the merchant cavalry darted and feinted at the mercenaries’ flanks, but they held their distance, waiting for the Hulmaster army to break.

  “Archers! Fire as you will!” Kara called. Horns and trumpets sounded again, and regular flights of arrows became a steady hail of hissing shafts. The Hulmaster captain set her eyes on the cluster of banner-bearers where Marstel and his officers watched the unfolding battle behind the ominous formation of runehelms. She was sorely tempted to lead a charge against the enemy captains, but until she knew exactly how dangerous Rhovann’s toys were, she didn’t dare risk it.

  Goaded by the deadly missiles, the Council Guard broke into a jogging charge, while the Shieldsworn raised a great chorus of war cries. With an awful sound of clattering steel and shouting warriors, the two armies finally met along the Shieldsworn line. To the left and right, the Shieldsworn wavered under the assault, but held the line; man-for-man, they were more heavily armored and better trained than the Council Guard, and Marstel’s advantage in numbers wasn’t enough to overwhelm them. But in the center, the Shieldsworn didn’t face Marstel’s hired soldiers; they faced Rhovann’s runehelms.

  “Here they come,” she breathed, and allowed herself a humorless smile. She’d soon see whether the creatures were as dangerous as Geran feared, or not.

  The runehelms, sixty or seventy strong, marched into Wester’s line. Black halberds rose high, and then fell with sickening power. No shield or mail could withstand the blow of weapons that heavy driven with such remorseless power; in a matter of moments, two score Hulmaster soldiers were cut down by the hideous strength of the creatures. The constructs advanced a few more steps, drawing back for another blow. Brave Shieldsworn darted inside their reach, driving spears into gray claylike flesh or hacking furiously with axe or sword, but the runehelms seemed almost impervious to their attacks. One of the monsters staggered as a big Shieldsworn fighter flung aside his shield and hewed at its knee with his war axe in a two-handed grip, carving a notch in the creature’s leg as if he had a mind to fell a tree. But the runehelm he attacked struck him a backhand blow with its left hand and sent him flying through the air. Before he could rise again, the monster buried the blade of its halberd in his chest and wrenched it free. The center of the Hulmaster line buckled under the runehelm’s inexorable assault.

  So much for the hope that they might be easier to kill a few miles from Hulburg, Kara thought darkly. The only defense against the things was to not be standing wherever that halberd was coming down.

  “Damn it all,” she snarled. Her Shieldsworn weren’t giving an inch to the Council Guard on either flank, but the runehelms were destroying her center before her eyes. If Wester’s shield broke, the battle might be lost. In desperation, Kara motioned to her standard-bearer and Brother Larken behind her. “To the center!” she cried. “Follow me!”

  Spurring Dancer forward, she rode up into the furious melee where Wester’s shield struggled to stop foes that seemed unstoppable. Then the chaos of battle engulfed her and her bodyguards. In the space of five heartbeats, Kara found herself in
the thick of the fray, unable to think about anything more than the enemies immediately around her. Her sword darted and flashed, batting away massive halberds, leaping out to find a gray throat, blurring in a brutal arc as it took a council soldier’s arm at the elbow. Dancer’s hooves lashed and struck as the big mare plunged through the fighting.

  A few steps behind her, Sarth abandoned his horse and took to the air, shielding himself with a golden halo that deflected the occasional bolt or spear hurled in his direction. The sorcerer had no skill for fighting from horseback, and he knew it. From his vantage he scoured the enemy ranks with great blasts of fire, only to catch the attention of several merchant company wizards. A furious spell battle erupted in the air over the confused melee as the tiefling traded lightning bolts and brilliant darts of magical force with his adversaries. A gray-bearded mage in the colors of the Jannarsks lashed out at Sarth with a rainbow-colored ray that shattered into individual beams when it struck his spell-shield; a glancing touch of the orange ray singed a path across Sarth’s chest, blackening his robes and raising a wisp of smoke from his smoldering garb. Sarth shrugged it off, as his race was little affected by fire of any sort, and replied with a barrage of deadly ice darts that skewered the Jannarsk mage several times through and cut down a number of the Jannarsk soldiers near him as well.

  Kara wheeled around, trying to assess whether she’d downed any of the runehelms in her countercharge, but the automatons still pressed forward. No blood seeped from opened throats or deep stabs in their gray flesh. “How in the Nine Hells do you slay these things?” she growled to herself. The warrior who’d chopped at its knees might have had the right idea—a shield wouldn’t help anyway, and if the things could be immobilized by cutting their legs out from under them, they’d pose little threat.