Farred followed on before turning around and took one last look at Gyrmund, wondering as he always did whether he would ever see him again, and then turned back to his present task. He had a job to do, and it was important. Control of the Lantinen Sea had been lost to the Kharovians. The Sea Caladri were apparently the only people with a strong enough fleet to take them on. If Hajna could persuade them to act, the harbours of South Magnia would be the ideal location for them to base their fleet, and that was the reason Farred was getting involved with the mission.
Rainer, as organised as ever, led them to the east gate where Archbishop Godfrey’s small entourage was waiting for them. Baldwin had asked Godfrey to ensure they had safe passage through his duchy of Gotbeck. The Archbishop approached them. His horse was lively, and he had to give it a good slap on the neck to calm the beast down. Farred couldn’t help thinking that the forthright churchman and the enigmatic queen had very little in common, but the Archbishop was meticulously polite.
‘Your Highness,’ he greeted her. ‘The weather looks set fair for our journey.’
‘Good. I am most grateful to you for offering to escort me.’
‘Not at all. We certainly can’t have you navigating the swamps of South Gotbeck by yourselves. It’s not just the risk of getting lost. Lizardmen still inhabit the marshland. I have done much to cull their numbers in recent years, especially since the death of the evil witch who protected them. But it’s nigh on impossible to completely eradicate them, especially since the Caladri won’t lift a finger to help.’
Extraordinary, Farred thought to himself. In one little speech he has insulted magic users, the Caladri, and expressed his regret at not being able to commit genocide.
‘Well, I will leave you to it,’ said Rainer. ‘I wish you all the best of luck.’
The chamberlain gave Farred a brief look, suggesting that he might need a good share of luck, before leaving them for the castle.
‘Lord Farred,’ said Godfrey, acknowledging him. They had got to know each other pretty well, having spent the summer stuck in Burkhard Castle together.
‘Your Grace.’
‘I think we may have an interesting few days ahead of us,’ muttered the Archbishop.
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, Your Grace.’
The Battle of Simalek
V
SHIRA STUDIED THE ARMY arrayed before them.
Pentas had been right. The forces facing them were deadly, yes. Isharites with their crystal swords, no doubt laced in poison, that left you paralysed when it entered the bloodstream. She heard the barks of the Dog-men rather than saw them: kept in reserve, perhaps, as a weapon to shatter her own lines. But no Drobax. And as for numbers, Arioc had raised no more than they had. Maybe less. Arioc hadn’t won complete control in Ishari, then. He was taking a risk bringing this army into Haskany. That gave her Haskans a chance. And that was all she had asked for.
The plain on which the two armies met was flat, with a tree-line to the rear of Arioc’s position, from which his force had arrived, hoping to surprise them. But Pentas had given them good warning of the enemy’s approach. The flat terrain meant that the cavalry contest would be decisive, and so Shira had chosen to lead the Haskan cavalry herself. The infantry divisions were under the command of her uncle, Koren. As she thought of him, she heard the Haskan trumpets blaring, and ahead of her cavalry position the infantry started to march. This was a battle she wanted, and so she couldn’t wait for the Isharites to attack. If she did, Arioc might choose to stay where he was and slink away in the night to fight some other time.
Behind her lines lay the watchtower of Simalek. That was where Pentas would observe the battle and help when needed. He had the task of neutralising Arioc and any other magi her husband had brought with him. Could he hold them off long enough for her to win a victory? She knew nothing of magic, and so had to put her faith in the red-eyed magus. He had his role and she had hers.
The waiting before a battle was the worst part. The battle itself was horrible, but at least then time rushed by, as the mind and body were fully occupied. But as Shira’s infantry slowly marched forwards, she experienced the gut-wrenching anticipation with none of the physical release.
The Haskan infantry marched farther and farther away, individuals disappearing into units, units disappearing into a line on the horizon. The Isharites didn’t move, waiting for the Haskans to come to their position. But Shira and her generals had expected as much.
Eventually, the sound of trumpets blared; the clash of wood on wood and steel on steel; the shouts and the screams of men killing and men dying; all the noises of war came to them on the air. Moneva’s cavalry waited. They were too far away to see which side had the advantage, except that there was little movement, and the fact that the sounds continued unabated indicated that the fighting was fierce.
Shira’s stallion raised its head and she patted his neck as gently as she could with steel gauntlets.
‘Easy, Shadow,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘not our turn yet.’
He relaxed, putting his head back down. She loved this one. He was black as night, muscled, and savage in combat.
And then, the infantry sent them the signal. First one, then two riders could be seen, detaching themselves from the infantry units, riding hard in their direction, and waving red flags as they did.
Her force readied themselves to go. Shira stood up in her stirrups and twisted around, to look at her main cavalry force, and the smaller reserve force who would stay put for now. She pulled her visor down, limiting her vision to a narrow strip. She raised one arm.
‘For Haskany!’ she shouted, and her soldiers repeated the war cry.
Shira turned back, picking up the lance she had skewered into the ground. She leaned forward, saying ‘Now, my friend.’ He didn’t need much encouragement, springing ahead, leading the other horses who followed him, as she led her subjects.
‘You can be my new king,’ she told him, exulting in her freedom, in the moment. ‘We don’t need the old one anymore.’
The signallers waved their flags to the right, and so they swung around in that direction. When they straightened out, on the flank of the infantry battle, they could see the Isharites up ahead. The enemy didn’t carry lances, instead they already had their swords drawn. The Haskans would have the initial advantage on impact, but would then have to be wary of the Isharite weapons. Shira and Koren, knowing full well the threat of poison, had insisted on covering all their soldiers head to toe in metal armour, to give them the best protection possible.
As they gained speed, the distance between the two forces rapidly diminished. Shira could now see the individual riders who were coming at her, identifying one with a bluish coloured sword as her target. The clash of cavalry could be terrifying, but she knew that neither she nor her mount would pull up.
She levelled her lance at her target, and then the two lines crashed together. As the Isharites tried to avoid the lances aimed at them, they crashed into one another. Shira’s target was buffeted to the side at the last second and her lance missed, but connected with someone else; she couldn’t see who. Her mount was kicking and biting, turning around in a circle, and it was hard for Shira to get her bearings. She drew her sword and pulled on the reins, wresting control back over the beast.
She looked around her, trying to focus as the noise of battle engulfed her—men’s shouts combined with the screams of horses, some of which were writhing and kicking on the ground; others were riderless, their riders now fighting on foot if they had survived the fall. She could see her soldiers slashing a path towards her. She waited for them to arrive before striking out with them, working as a unit to gain the advantage over the Isharites. One of her men lost the point of his sword, shattered by the hard crystal of an Isharite blade.
Nonetheless, they were forcing the enemy back. Until they came upon a line of Isharite cavalrymen. They had the biggest horses, the most expensive armour. And in the middle of the line sat
Rostam, newly appointed member of the Council of Seven, and Arioc’s chief henchman. Until recently they had been on the same side, both working to further Arioc’s ambitions. Now Shira had chosen her own side, but Rostam had remained loyal.
She raised her visor, making sure that he had seen her. He held his sword vertically in front of him, in a kind of salute. Instinctively, the soldiers around them left a space. Shira would fight with Rostam, and the outcome, she knew, was likely to swing the course of the battle.
She pushed her visor down, kneeing her horse so that it circled to the left. Rostam copied her movement.
There are many ways to win a fight, Shira knew, and one of them is to know your enemy. Predict what they will do. She knew Rostam well enough, knew that he would consider himself superior to her in every way: strength, skill, stamina. He believed he could win any number of ways: beat her down with strength, or kill her with a thousand cuts, especially if he had applied poison to his blade. Shira knew that her enemy might have one weakness: over-confidence in himself, and an underestimation of her.
Shira suddenly kneed her horse forwards into a charge. She pulled her sword back and put everything into a massive strike. If Rostam had evaded her, she may have toppled off her horse. But he chose to block. He blocked, thinking he could parry and counter-attack; demonstrate his superiority. He hadn’t realised quite how strong she was. He hadn’t anticipated she would take such a huge risk. Rostam’s block was too weak—Shira’s strike forced through it, her hips, core and arms working together to push him back. The power of her blow pushed his blade back against his body, pushed his body back in his seat so that he lost his balance. Shadow bit at the face of Rostam’s mount, causing it to skitter away.
For a moment, that seemed to linger longer than it really lasted, Rostam tottered back in his seat, arms windmilling to regain his balance. Shira brought back her sword over her left shoulder, then struck down. Her strike was true, connecting with Rostam’s neck and virtually severing his head from his shoulders. His body sprawled to one side, feet still caught in the stirrups.
There was a moment of shock on both sides, at the speed of the outcome as much as anything else. Then the fight resumed.
That one incident changed the course of the contest. Rostam was just one man, but his death boosted the confidence of the Haskans, just as it put doubt in the minds of the Isharites. Slowly at first, then faster, Shira’s soldiers gained the upper hand, pushing the enemy back, until one turned around and fled, then others, then all of them. The Isharite cavalry escaped back the way they had come and the Haskans gave chase, hoping to run them back to their camp and into the woods, making sure that they didn’t regroup.
Shira was with them, a grim smile on her face. Then something, an intuition maybe, made her slow down and stop. Some of her soldiers saw and stopped the chase too, started calling to those ahead. Shira raised a hand for silence.
To her left, she could see that the infantry had stopped fighting. The two sides stood a few feet apart, and an eerie silence had descended over them. And they weren’t looking in her direction. They weren’t reacting to her victory. They were looking in the opposite direction. To the south.
Pentas stood on the roof of the watchtower of Simalek, which rose almost one hundred feet into the air, a marvel of Persaleian engineering. Here the wind battered him, but the position allowed him a unique view of the plain around the tower. He observed the clash of cavalry on the battlefield. He had found two Haskan magi, an older man and his younger and more gifted protege. The younger of the two, Rimmon, could also ride a horse, and so Pentas had sent him with Shira.
Rimmon helped him to see Shira and Rostam circling each other, and when Shira attacked, Pentas and Rimmon were able to suppress the use of magic. He could see Shira strike Rostam down, see the battle turn in the favour of the Haskans.
But he didn’t see the black kite gliding towards the tower, until it was too late. The bird landed on the parapet and only then did Pentas give it his full attention. The bird transformed before him, taking the form of Arioc.
They looked at one another for a short while. Pentas felt a brief feeling of despair. He hadn’t wanted to die, and now that the time had come, he regretted it. And yet, he told himself, this was always going to be the likely outcome.
‘What’s happening?’ Arioc asked him, gesturing at the battle down below.
‘Rostam has fallen.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘He was your son, was he not?’
‘I believe so. But I can always raise another army. It is you I have come for.’
‘I feel honoured that this is all for me,’ Pentas waved his hand at the spectacle before them ironically.
‘Don’t be surprised, Pentas. I have killed Ardashir. Now I will kill you. That only leaves me Siavash, and all my rivals will be gone. Then Diis will join with me.’
‘He has not done so already?’ Pentas asked.
He genuinely wanted to know. He had wanted this Haskan rebellion to be an inconvenience for the Isharites. But their failure to crush it in its early stages had surprised him. If Diis had not intervened, leaving the Isharite leaders to their own devices, that would explain their weakness.
A look of annoyance, maybe even insecurity, flickered across Arioc’s face.
‘He will not join with me until I have proven myself. I would expect nothing less. But the time draws near. And so it is your time, Pentas. I have wasted some of my own time wondering why you engaged in this foolishness. Surely you knew it couldn’t last long.’
‘I am Madria’s servant, Arioc. I always have been.’
A look of surprise now crossed Arioc’s face. He smiled then, and looked at Pentas with a new expression, almost one of respect.
‘Well, I admit at times it had occurred to me. It certainly explains your regular incompetence. Your failures regarding her weapons, of course. You were in Edeleny, then?’
‘Yes. That was me.’
‘And you were behind the attack on Erkindrix?’
‘I helped them,’ said Pentas. ‘But then so did you.’
‘Indeed. We just had very different motives. Well, you have played a good game Pentas, I will give you that.’
Pentas looked past Arioc.
‘You may think this one last game,’ he said, ‘but perhaps you should look behind you.’
‘Really. Now you disappoint me. This is more like the Pentas I thought I knew.’
‘This is no joke, Arioc.’
Arioc turned, and saw what Pentas could see. Seven crows, flying in a V-shape towards them.
‘Not your magi?’ Pentas asked him, already knowing the answer.
‘No.’
Arioc seemed to tear his attention from the birds to the battle below them.
‘See there,’ he said.
Pentas looked where Arioc pointed, to the south of the fighting, and saw nothing. Then he realised what he was seeing. The Isharite fog, creeping towards the two groups of infantry. A third force had arrived, concealing its presence, and was now not far from the two armies. He could see on the battlefield, but he had no way of communicating over such a distance. The twins, Soren and Belwynn, were surely the only ones with that power. But maybe he could send a kind of warning; encourage Shira to notice the trap. He tried but would not know whether he had succeeded.
‘Siavash,’ he said to Arioc. ‘And I think now we know who Diis has chosen. And perhaps has chosen for some time.’
‘I have been fooling myself,’ Arioc admitted. ‘Diis has not forgiven my role in Erkindrix’s death.’
‘Maybe you are altogether too human for him, Arioc.’
‘Enough of your silver tongue, Pentas. What do we do?’
‘It’s ‘we’ now, is it?’
‘Of course it is. That’s the only chance we have of survival.’ Arioc looked him in the eyes. ‘My assumption is we can’t beat them, even working together.’
‘I would agree,’ Pentas replied cautiously.
> ‘Then we flee,’ determined Arioc. ‘Then they must decide whether they chase one or both of us. It may give one of us a chance to escape.’
‘Agreed,’ said Pentas. He paused, not quite believing he was saying it. ‘Good luck.’
But Arioc had already transformed into his kite. The bird took one last look at him then flew away, heading north.
Pentas looked at the approaching crows, no doubt seven masters of magic. Maybe even Siavash himself was amongst them. The truth was, Pentas had never learned to transform into animal form. It was a highly complex piece of magic, generally only mastered by the Isharites.
But he had mastered an alternative means of travel: the teleport. It was equally difficult, and perhaps more dangerous, requiring him to focus on a precise location to send his body. If he got it wrong, he could send himself to his death. He concentrated, focusing on a location he had identified before the battle. It was, after all, always prudent to be prepared. As he felt himself begin to move, as the sensations of blurred vision and stomach churning began to take hold, he was able to spare a brief thought for Arioc.
Good luck escaping from all seven of them, you bastard. You’re going to need it.
Shira trotted her horse back the way they had come, then stopped again, listening.
This time, she knew she heard it. It was a sound she was all too familiar with. Drobax. Thousands upon thousands of Drobax, marching in their direction. She could hear them and, she now thought, even smell them. But she couldn’t see them.
It was magic. Arioc had brought the Drobax with him, somehow circled around their position without them noticing. He had concealed them with magic, the same trick her magi had used in Rotelegen.
Pentas had missed it. Had failed.
But if it was Arioc, she asked herself, why had his soldiers stopped fighting too? She smiled, a mirthless smile, when she understood what was happening. Siavash. He had outwitted the pair of them.
The Jalakh Bow Page 7
