Only the flock of priests crowding around the Emperor kept the General from leaping over and shaking the man. "That will give away our position," Marciano said as calmly as he could muster.
"Exactly," the Emperor patted the old man on his cheek again as if he were about to offer a sweet, "Matters are at hand. But first we need to announce ourselves."
"Archers will pick every one of us off as we approach," Marciano muttered to himself, going over exactly how he'd stop this insane plan were he to have a tower's fortification to fall back on. "And they'll keep the gate shut, we won't have a chance to get close."
"So..." Vasska prompted, knowing that the only way to get that brilliant military mind working was to throw it impossible odds and see what came out.
"A distraction," it tumbled out of Marciano's mouth unbidden. He'd rather have said, "We all go home, gather enough forces to batter down a tower, and then attack." But his own body betrayed him, "Wait until they open the doors, to let the servants out for washings or midden dumping, then use the chaos as cover."
The Emperor grinned at his pet performing perfectly, "Excellent."
"The river forks around the Tower, yes?" Marciano spent months bent over the maps when he wasn't bent over the side of the ship, bidding adieu to his meager meals. "I'll take one team up the right, and..." he searched his brain to think who'd be his right hand now that Lanza was gone.
"I shall lead the others," the Emperor announced proudly. Every tonsured head snapped up at that.
"Sir, I don't believe that is a prudent choice," Marciano chose his words carefully.
The tonsures all nodded in agreement, not wanting to test how sword proof their faith's shield was. But Vasska waved away Marciano's concerns as if they were a fly, "No, no, I can handle myself. And Argur assures me all will be well."
Every priest turned to the General, whose tongue and hands were tied by a woman without eyes. He acquiesced begrudgingly by bowing his head and turned towards his men. The priests all huddled and whispered, but the slow burn of their Lords glare silenced them.
"Ten of you will follow me. We're going to create a distraction while the other twenty will follow behind the Emperor," the General ordered. Vasska waved happily while every soldier tried to hide the fall of their weary faces. "Wait for my signal before engaging, remain hidden," Marciano continued.
He pointed out the ten to follow him and directed them off towards the river to take as much time to prepare as they needed. Vasska grinned and said, "I shall need to arm my cabinet then," and toddled off with his bewildered and terrified priests in tow. As the Emperor passed old bows and swords to men who hadn't picked up anything heavier than a collection plate in twenty years, the General swarmed around the rest of his men.
"Do what you can to protect the Emperor, and for gods' sake, do not let him fight."
"And the priests, Sir?" one of the boys, probably not even fully into an apprenticeship piped up.
"What of them?"
"Do we protect them as well?"
Marciano looked over at the bewildered men, still in their ivory robes, trying to tie oversized swords to their light belts and hook quivers around their backs. "Fuck the priests," the General said to appreciative nods from the others, and a gasp from the child. He was getting a crash course in growing up today.
"All right, we move on my signal."
It wasn't his first campaign. Not technically, anyway. His mother had been growing heavy with him when she donned her father's armor and rode into battle. Oldest story in the Bard. The only fact she took an arrow to the knee was probably why Fabian wasn't born on the battlefield. She liked to joke that he'd been conceived there.
Fabian wasn't certain what to make of the famous General Marciano de Falcrine, a man who'd slain the barbarian hordes of the north into the loving embrace of the Empire. He hadn't expected a man that reminded him of his second or third grandfather (his mother moved around battlefields a lot). But he'd been tasked with protecting the Emperor and protect the Emperor he would.
Luckily for everyone involved, Emperor Vasska was placed far behind the front line, creeping through the underbrush. This was under the pretense that they wanted to keep him safe. In reality, the man wouldn't stop muttering prayers under his breath. Fabian, being so small, was voted for the frontline along with their only surviving scout and one of the priests, a birdlike nervous man who kept checking the sun as if he'd left the kettle on.
A break of trees crowded around the river flowing concurrent with the tower. As Fabian lowered his body to the ground with the scout and grabbed the collar of the priest to bring him with, he spotted a girl splashing in the crisp mountain water. The priest fumbled with the weapon the Emperor doled out to him, an old shortbow mostly gifted for adolescents. It must have gotten dropped into the armory on accident.
Fabian ignored the man, his eyes on the girl as she dropped another sheet to the water with a slap and turned behind her to call something to the other girls back on the warm edge. Whatever they replied back caused her to laugh, and Fabian felt his own cheeks rising in amusement. He'd never believed in love at first sight before, but this enchantress, this witch of his heart, a lady with hair the color of caramel, and skin as pale as snow, and nipples hardening in the cold water, ran off with what little of his manhood he'd managed to accumulate these past months.
He had dreams, images of him getting down on both knees and confessing his undying love, while she slapped him in the back with that wet sheet. Fabian figured he could work out the details later. The priest shifted beside him again, trying to figure out how to fit an arrow into the child's bow.
The precious love of his life turned and gazed into the underbrush, her hand rising to her eyes to shield the afternoon sun when an arrow burst through her perfect breast and she collapsed into the water. Fabian turned to the priest beside him, whose eyes were wide with shock at the arrow that slipped through his fingers.
He'd have pummeled the man to death with his bare hands if the scout didn't curse, "Shit. Attack!"
All thoughts of his beloved drifting below the river vanished as the enemy reared up over the servant girls.
Marciano slipped off Peter, nudging the horse back into the woods. His honed eyes followed a pair of shadows, willowy and skirted, babbling about in the foreign tongue as they carted about an overripe basket. He gave a signal to his men to hang back as he moved in the shade, inching closer to the arm of the tower. The girls paid him no heed, just another mass in a forest full of them. They either assumed they were safe or pretended they were for sanities sake. He knew the delusion, it had served him well for many campaigns.
An exhausted wrist leaned against a long dead tree, which creaked under the General's weight. He froze, watching the girls who didn't seem to notice the fresh sounds out of the forest. But still he felt it, that innate cloying fear of being watched that kept so many prey alive. He shielded his own eyes against the sun to stare out into the undulating hills at a woman leaning down and staring back at him.
She rose rickety, and his eyes spotted the small shine of silver around his exposed wrist. Marciano cursed at himself when a scream broke across the fields. The two girls turned their heads about, as if dragons were about to swoop out of the sky yet only fluffy clouds answered back. But that bending woman knew what was up, and she waved her kerchief about shouting something in the Ostero tongue.
"Fuck!" Marciano cursed and whistled low, calling to Peter and his men who swarmed like determined squirrels out of the trees. Mounting himself quickly, he unsheathed his sword and gave his quickest battle speech, "The bastards have routed us. Attack!"
The General spurred Peter on into a gallop, blazing past the girls who'd dropped their basket and were running towards the sound of the scream. At first Marciano was as well, but something turned his eye, the flash of red from both the bending woman's hair as well as her kerchief as she raced towards the gates. His heels dug deep into Peter's side and he chased after the woman.
&n
bsp; Behind him his men burst free from the greenwood, their armor slowing them as they tried to overtake the girls. Killing the servants hadn't been part of the plan, confusing the enemy into the direction of the attack was. But watching their own get slaughtered on that beach by these kin whetted the rage bubbling inside every soldier. Marciano shifted his sword to his left hand, drawing closer to the red haired woman. He had no intention of killing her, unless necessary. She was in better shape than the aged General was, but no man or woman could outrun a horse. Peter churned up the wet ground, slipping under his footing, but shattered the distance between the two.
She only looked back once, a face frozen not in terror but rage. A rage she was using to try and outrun a warhorse. The gates were mere feet from her, but Marciano knew he could catch her before she found safety in the walls. He shifted the reins to his sword arm and dropped his other hand, intending to either knock her down or scoop her up as a bargaining chip or informant.
The woman didn't look up or back, just kept running even as the smell of sweat and horse overpowered her gasping breath. As Marciano's hand was about to clasp around her dress an arrow buzzed millimeters above his arm.
The shock was enough to throw the General off as he subconsciously pulled back on the reins to get out of range and the woman escaped, dashing behind the palomino horse of a man blacker than Empire armor. His eyes glowed with indignation as he raised the bow once more and took aim. Marciano yanked Peter hard to the right, but the arrow wasn't meant for him. Instead, it stuck deep into the armpit of his man as he was about to cut down one of the girls. The black man dropped his bow and unsheathed his own sword before calling out. Behind him poured ten mounted knights, most still trying to adjust their armor pieces as if they got dressed in a hurry.
"Fall back!" Marciano shouted, trying to get his men's attention, but they were scattered and divided, chasing and slaughtering the servants who'd been easy pickings.
He raced towards the men, calling out his codewords to try and break them from their own blood haze. "Assemble!" he knocked his sword against one's shield and then swatted another in the backside. They looked at their General and sat bolt upright before falling into position. A few others turned at the commotion and followed suit.
Only the priests, trained in the art of killing-by-proxy failed to heed the General's orders. They were chasing about like dogs let off their lead, one so far gone he dashed right in front of the General's horse. Peter barely paused as the holy man squished beneath iron hooves. But the men started to round about, lining up to form a wall against the enemy's forces. Marciano used a three-point turn to spin Peter about, and came face to face with what had to be the Lord of the Tower. He had a feather that would look outlandish in most of the court lady's wigs peacocking from his helmet. An embellished "A" graced the shield tucked safely at his side, but gave no other hints. Someone important enough people should already know who he was.
"Why have you come?" he called out in Ostero.
Marciano had a passing grasp of the opening ceremonies, never bothering to learn the local garbled tongue, only pointing in vague directions and grunting until the battle commenced. He pointed his sword skyward and said, "Tower of Ashar."
The Lord chuckled as if he told an amusing anecdote. Even the knights pulling up beside him laughed as if they were all about to enjoy a round of fox hunting. Marciano didn't risk a look behind him, but he felt the confused glances about his men. The General never told a joke.
"What makes you think she is yours?" The Lord probably responded with. Though Marciano was thrown off by the gauntlet fists trying to cover escaping giggles.
Not wanting to garble and risk the most humiliating triumph by killing his enemy with laughter, Marciano pointed to his chest and the symbol of the Empire. Normally this was when the enemy would either square off, shout something intelligible while wrenching their shirt off to reveal a very blue torso beneath, or quake in fear and sign over all their territories and their mothers just to be sure. Instead, the knights howled with laughter. Some slapping their horse's withers in entertainment, which caused the animals to whinny along with their masters. Even the Lord had trouble trying to swallow a wide grin.
Marciano dropped his head into his hand to massage his temples. He wasn't paid enough for this. That's when he spotted a lone horse moving to the west. At first, he thought one of his own men had disobeyed his orders when he glanced at the white faces of each knight. The black one was missing.
As the General sat upright, every Ostero Knight shifted, the laughter falling as quickly as it began. Marciano waved his sword as if he were about to curse the grounds upon which the knights walked before pointing it towards the black knight trying to herd the surviving servants back to the gates. "Kill them," he cried, releasing his men.
But the Ostero man had been predicting this, and a handful of arrows were drawn and aimed before the Empire could take a step, bounced off the invading armor. One found its purchase through the helmet's gap, the rider tumbling off his horse's perch. The animal, released from its tightened grip, broke free and ran mad through first the Empire's line and then the Osteros. The men were scattered, some falling off their own horses in the congestion and confusion.
Marciano; however, spotted a very dark shadow rounding on the bald-head of the Emperor. He dodged the hastily swung sword of the Lord and spurred Peter into a gallop, chasing after the Black Knight. The man kept racing his horse between the fleeing servants, who were clutching onto each other and crying, and the few priests who'd managed to hang onto their slender lives. He'd try and block their poorly aimed arrows as best he could and threaten to trample any that dared get close, but never went in for the kill.
Still, Marciano could see a bad situation growing into a monumental disaster if the Emperor did something foolish, which was his Lord's entire reason for being. His fingers tightened around his still notched sword, a fact he kept forgetting to remedy, as he closed the gap between himself and the Black Knight.
The man inched his horde closer to the gate, they were nearly at the start of the stone walls, when he finally locked eyes with Marciano. A bold man to wear no helmet into battle, they each thought of the other as they weighed their options.
A sword shaped like the crescent moon appeared in the Black Knight's hand, a permanent red sheen to the blade. Marciano'd only ever seen such things in bazaars in Avari, stacked high with ancient weaponry pulled from forgotten graves. No man ever figured out how to wield one without cutting his own backside. But the glint in the Black Knight's eye warned him otherwise.
Squaring off as if he were about to enter a joust, Marciano shifted, trying to drag his sword arm back. The Black Knight smiled and followed suit, two men running head on into each other, only the quickness of their reflexes the deciding factor. All of the battle drifted away as the General slowed his breath, his eyes on the overdrawn blade of the opponent's sword. It raised itself high, preparing for an attack. Just as they were about to meet, the General took advantage of his taller horse and swung first, only to bounce off the Black Knight's shield.
He'd tied his reins to the saddle horn and quickly used the free hand to block the General's blow. As Marciano reeled, the Black Knight brought his blade down deep into Peter's side. The horse screamed as the man rode on, circling back around his charges. Marciano screamed out, summoning the power of every order he'd ever given, every out of control soldier he'd talked down, every slammed teenage door he'd kicked down, and pulled Peter to a stop. Before the horse had a chance to realize what was going on, the General jumped off, the bow already in his hands.
The Black Knight circled back around the servants as they filtered into the gate, trying to hurry the last few as they called back to the battle raging on their front lawn. An impossible shot; the man was well enough armored, and prancing about wildly, but Marciano let the rage bubbling under his skin aim for him.
He drew back the arrow and followed the Black Knight, his movements erratic, when sudden
ly the man stopped, turning to look at his master. Marciano released before his mind registered what happened. The arrow cut over the lines of the battlefield and stuck deep into the folds of the Black Knight's thigh. A curse far more foreign than anything the Osteros could cobble together broke across the battlefield.
But the man wouldn't fall, instead the Black Knight grabbed the ends of the arrow and snapped the shaft off so it wouldn't pull in the breeze. Another cry came from the Ostero Lord and the Black Knight spurred his horse to his master's side.
The Ostero Knights began to break free from their attack, falling back towards the gate. Marciano cried to his men, racing towards them on foot, "Press them! Press them harder!"
His beleaguered men gave it their all, but wherever they tried to cut around the Osteros, the Black Knight was there, his curved sword breaking wrists and shattering weapons. He culled through the enemy's lines to his Lord and drove his sword right through the neck of Marciano's soldier. The Lord didn't say anything to the Black Knight, only turned his horse and ran for it.
Still the injured Black Knight, a dribble of blood following his every step, circled around the Ostero Knights, not giving up until each was free before turning behind to follow. First, a handful of the Ostero archers made it through the gate, then the injured and shaken knights. As the Lord broke through he shouted out an order that even Marciano could understand, "Close the gate!"
"Press!" The General ordered, but his men hesitated, afraid of the black demon who'd diced through them.
A grinding of the portcullis gears reverberated around the battlefield and the metal door crashed to the earth right before the cutoff face of the Black Knight. He kicked his heels into his horse, trying to get her to stop before she rammed into the immovable door. His horse appeared as wise as her master and she spun quickly, turning to face an army of twenty or more very angry soldiers.
He raised his sword and cried out. But Marciano, limping slightly as he chased up to the gate, cried out, "No one move!"
The King's Blood Page 45
