by Ellyn, Court
Was the boy so inured to violence that being assailed upon by foreigners in the middle of an ice storm didn’t amount to “something wrong”? Briéllyn had seen the enemy’s numbers, and their devices, and didn’t like to calculate the odds that a knight, no matter how swift with his blade, would be able to protect the king from the fighting going on only two hills away.
The boy’s talking tapered off and his head began to droop as he warmed up inside her cloak. Briéllyn tucked his head to her chest and let him sleep.
Throughout the night, the older squires took turns checking the horses. They had been hobbled and tied loosely together on the far side of the hollow. More than once, a rope slipped its knot and a horse began to wander off. The herd would follow if the squires weren’t diligent.
Distant howls and screams floating through a break in the hills prompted Briéllyn to warn them to go in pairs.
A child’s shrill scream made her glad she had.
A girl of twelve broke through the herd and raced back to the shivering crowd. “I saw them, two of them, over there, trying to steal the horses! Laral and Drys are still over there!”
The cry woke the boy in Briéllyn’s arms. She lifted him aside and pulled a dagger from her belt. She’d killed rabbits with it on her journey up the Blythewater, never suspecting she would need it to kill a man. The others did the same, unsheathing dirks and gathering stones.
The girl screamed again, and Briéllyn saw, not two, but four Zhiani warriors emerge from the dark. They divided, just like wolves sizing up a herd of lambs. They laughed. “One nanny for all these goatlings?” said one, heavy accent twisting his words.
“Leave these children be,” Briéllyn said, pushing the king’s son behind her. She kept the dagger swathed inside her cloak, gripping it so tightly her fingers throbbed.
“Ah, I remember you,” said another. “The lady of the house. The one we could not touch.” He took a step too close, and Briéllyn swept her dagger at him. He dove aside, caught her arm, and grabbed a handful of hair. Forcing her to look him in the face, he said, “I will touch you all over before I kill you.” He flung her over his shoulder and began hauling her away from the children. Where was her dagger? She must’ve dropped it when he wrenched her arm. She flailed and drove her fists into muscle hard enough to bruise. The children wailed in protest. A few older ones chased after her, but the other three Zhianese ran at them with their swords bared, scattering them.
Two horses broke from the herd and charged toward the laughing Zhianese. “Catch them!” cried one. But the horses were too swift. One wheeled to the right where Briéllyn kicked and shrieked. The Zhiani turned toward the thumping of hooves in time to receive a diamond-studded dagger in his eye. The force of the strike drove the man backward, and Briéllyn toppled with him. She didn’t stop pummeling him until she was sure he was dead.
The second rider chased down another Zhiani and buried a short blade in his back.
“Stop running!” cried the squire with the diamond dagger. “There are only two left. Take them.” His comrades took encouragement and charged the remaining men. Stones took flight, and hellish cries rose from the mouths of children. The Zhianese had no intention of running away. They swept wickedly curved blades, trying to lop off heads that had grown too big for little shoulders. A stone knocked one Zhiani in the head, and two squires pounced the second from behind. The squires dragged the men to the ground. The oldest ones killed them quickly, but the youngest ones stomped and kicked at the bodies until they were no longer afraid.
Briéllyn witnessed the scene with her mouth agape. These gentle children, who only moments ago had huddled close for warmth and shuddered at the sounds drifting down from the hills had turned to merciless warriors. Goddess, help us, Briéllyn prayed and fell to her knees. Her stomach heaved, and she wept.
A light touch on her shoulder compelled her to compose herself. “Are you hurt, m’ lady?” She recognized the squire with the diamond dagger as the one who had served her cane liquor in the king’s pavilion. “I’m sorry about your fall,” he said, “but I didn’t want him to get away with you.” He nudged the corpse with his toe, stooped, and cleaned the dagger on the Zhiani’s vest. “Drys and I killed the other two over there, the ones trying to make off with the horses.” His voice was as straight and unwavering as an arrow shaft. “They didn’t see us coming.” He examined the slack face of his victim and said something that made no sense to Briéllyn: “I’ll remember your face, mister, but I won’t cry for you.”
~~~~
40
Dawn amounted to a thin line of red light caught between the gray eastern plain and the low, sailing cloudbank. At least the sleet had stopped. Kelyn couldn’t feel his arse or his toes, but daylight approached, and everything improved with the daylight. Maybe the Fierans would attack in earnest now and give the soldiers on the hilltop a chance to warm up.
King Rhorek’s fire had dwindled to smoky embers, but the War Commander set a couple of his knights to gathering more brush and ordered them to set the dead horse’s shoes into the coals. Not the ideal cauterizing instruments, but they would do.
Captain Jareg called for a new shift of Falcons to stretch their legs. The Falcon on Kelyn’s right groaned as he stood, and another took his place. Lissah wrapped her hands about Kelyn’s arm, pressed in close, and shuddered.
Surprised, he said, “G’morning. What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer, only glared glumly at the fading red strip of sky.
Kelyn tried again. “Cleave to me like this and someone besides Ulna will guess how much you like me.”
“Doesn’t matter anymore,” she said. “Today will be the day. Won’t it.”
The day for what? he wanted to ask, but judging the despair on her face and the fact that she was willing to relinquish their secret, he could guess the answer. “We’re going to live through this.”
She grinned dryly. “Some of us maybe. What about them?” She glanced at the row of bodies. Five of Ilswythe’s knights, seven of Arqueth’s patrolmen, and four Falcons lay frozen under a thin coat of sleet and blood. “Before the king is taken, the last of us Falcons will be dead.”
Kelyn set his shield aside and squeezed her hands. “We’ll flee with him before we let that happen.”
“If he lets us.”
He released her and took up the shield, not willing to admit she might be right. “They haven’t sent up an arrow in a while,” he said, trying to give her hope. “They must’ve run out by now. If we had archers with us, we could be nice and give the arrows back. Ah, well. The Fierans will just have to do without.” In the paling light, the hill resembled a hedgehog’s bristled back, for all the green-fletched arrows. Strolling Falcons and soldiers gathered them up and piled them near the bodies. If Kieryn were here, he could fill a few Fierans with them. Not that he would. Kelyn doubted Kieryn had it in him to aim slowly at a man and release the string. All the better he wasn’t here anyway, in case the day proved Lissah right.
“Next shift,” Jareg called, and Kelyn struggled to his feet. His knees felt like two rusted hinges, and his toes began to sting as hot blood poured into them. Lissah joined him in his slow turn about the hilltop, Jareg’s orders be damned. She ignored the stares that her brethren and the knights along the redoubt aimed her direction. They were too tired and cold to smirk and toss jibes anyway.
“You going to marry me after this?” Kelyn asked.
“Course not.”
“In twenty years you’ll regret it.”
She paused. “Kelyn, it’s obscene to think about twenty years when we may not last twenty more minutes.”
“You’re wrong.”
She stomped her feet and blew on her gloved hands. “We gonna fight right here and now?”
He grinned. “It would keep us warm.”
She sighed and resumed walking. Kelyn started after her, then stopped. Something changed in the air, more subtle than the shift from day to night. On the eastern rim of the
hill, one of the patrolmen shouted, “Heads up!”
Shields rose. Only half a dozen arrows took to the sky, but by the time the cry went up, they were angling for targets. Kelyn shoved Lissah aside, and an arrow struck him just beneath the shoulder guard. The force knocked him to his knees and stole his breath. Lissah grabbed him under the arms and dragged him back to the circle of Falcons, hissing one profanity after another.
Kelyn found he couldn’t lift his shield with his left arm, had to use his right. Scores of arrows threaded the sky. So much for his prediction that the Fieran supply was exhausted.
Over the tinking and hissing of the iron hail, Lissah shouted, “Got to get that arrow out of you.”
From deeper inside the circle, someone shouted, “I’ll help. Move over.” The shell of shields shifted as the Black Falcon crawled on hands and knees to get to them.
“Sire, don’t worry about me. Stay down.”
Rhorek ignored the commands, grabbed Kelyn by the scruff and hauled him to the center of the circle. “Grit your teeth,” he said, gripped the arrow shaft and gave it a quick tug.
It felt like his insides were being pulled out, heart, lung, and bone. He heard a girlish cry squeak through his teeth. Rhorek sat back on his heels; no arrow. “It’s stuck in the shoulder blade.”
“Shit, break if off!” Later, Kelyn would wonder how he had dared bark at the king in such a fashion, but at the moment, all he could think about was the pain lashing up his neck and down his arm.
Rhorek took hold of the shaft, close to the wound. “Soon as we get off this rock, we’ll have to get you to a surgeon.” He twisted, and the shaft snapped clean.
The fall of arrows stopped abruptly. Kelyn fixed his shield in his left hand and drew the falcon blade, saying, “They’ll charge now, sire, keep low.”
Instead of the high-pitched war cries of the Zhianese, a rumble of thunder grew. A horn in the Fieran camp blasted a series of notes, and Garrs cried, “The archers are falling back! The mercenaries, too!”
“There!” shouted Arqueth, pointing east. The patrolmen emerged from under their shields and waved their arms and whooped joyfully. Lander leapt onto the redoubt and cried, “Leshan!”
At Kelyn’s side, Rhorek sighed audibly and whispered his thanks to the heavens. But Kelyn had no time for prayers. He tugged Chaya free of the stake holding him down, tore a pair of arrows stuck in his saddle and mounted up. He was over the redoubt before anyone could stop him.
~~~~
Keth called after his son. “Bloody fool, come back here!” But Kelyn was heedless, charging madly down the steep slope toward his foster-brother. Leshan was a single black-clad figure riding at the head of a bright blue beast. Reckless, charging straight into the Fieran camp like that. But the Fierans hadn’t expected it, and Goryth looked like he might be having trouble getting his lines in order. The archers wheeled and loosed upon the cavalry bearing down on them.
Keth’s knights cheered and beat their shields, invigorated. Over his shoulder he heard Captain Jareg: “I’m sorry, sire, we’ll have him replaced.”
“The hell we will!” Rhorek shouted, inches from Jareg’s face. “For the Goddess’ sake, let’s follow him. Bring me Brandrith. Now!”
The Falcons unstaked their blues, and Jareg held Brandrith’s reins.
“Right,” said Keth, gesturing to his commanders. “Here.” Rhorek, Lander, Garrs, and the knights gathered close for a quick plan. “Leshan attacks from the east, we’ll sweep wide, down the west side of the hill, attack from the north. Goryth will have little choice but to fallback into Leania or drown in the Bryna. Move.”
Rhorek and the remainder of his Guard loped from the hilltop, the rest ran after on foot, their war cries a match for any Zhiani. Keth cast a haunted glance at the stones atop Slaenhyll, then followed.
~~~~
Kelyn had made a promise to his foster-brother. He meant to honor it, whatever the consequences. He joined Helwende’s cavalry just as they smashed through the lines of Fieran archers. Leshan’s cry ordered them on, into the rings of tents and campfires. There, the Warlord sat an angry red charger at the head of a hundred horse. Kelyn had heard countless rumors about this mountain of a man, and in his monster-faced helm he was fearsome to behold, but he was still just a man.
In a storm of steel and flesh, the lines of horse collided. Kelyn passed within arm’s reach of the Warlord—their shields scraped—but both swung blades for the men on their right, and soon Kelyn was free of the line. He wheeled and charged in again, keeping an eye on Leshan. No more than a single Fieran separated them at any moment, and for the first time in a long while, he heard Leshan laughing. He fought for his own lands now, and he did not shrink from the task. The sound of it filled Kelyn with something like pride, something like joy, and his wound became a dim memory, numbed with exhilaration.
Shouts came from the north, and Kelyn recognized the other Falcons charging into camp with Rhorek in the lead. Da’s red plume, a bright flag in the gray morning, descended the hill, his knights in tow.
Heat, like the fire of a falling sun, whipped Kelyn back to the fight at hand. Aralorris and Fierans turned to find its source. The Zhiani infantry formed tight ranks, commanded by a man on a golden desert stallion. Ahead of him advanced fifteen men; fire exploded from their hands.
Avedrin? What could they do against fifteen avedra warriors? The image of white fire leaping from Kieryn’s hands put a dread chill in Kelyn’s belly. The flames subsided, and he saw the hoses, dragon-shaped nozzles, and leather bags under the soldiers’ arms. Ah, the devices Lady Rhyverdane mentioned.
The Zhiani commander bellowed an order, slaves touched torches to the nozzles and flame erupted in long streams. Horses reared and bolted. One ran past with a mane of fire. Men in blue uniforms screamed and slapped at the flames engulfing them, then fell still. The Zhianese marched right over them.
Leshan shouted over the screams, “Fall back!”
The Helwende cavalry and Tírandon’s garrison rode fast from the range of the devices.
Reining in, Leshan slapped at the smoldering sleeve of his undershirt and swore. “How the hell do we fight that?”
The Warlord and his cavalry fell back as well, reformed behind the Zhiani firespitters. The line of sporadic, spraying flame arched and spread out as the Dragon-wielders advanced toward the Falcons and Da’s knights as well.
Kelyn’s brain churned. “Whatever is in those bags can’t last forever. If we only had archers we could puncture them. So we’ll have to sweep around behind. Half the cavalry will remain here and draw the flame. The other half will come at their rear. It won’t stop them from using those things, but at least with their attention divided, we won’t be facing a solid wall of fire.”
“Aye, but whoever circles around has the Warlord and his cavalry to face.”
“It’s the best we’ve got,” Kelyn snapped.
With the Dragons approaching, they hadn’t time to think of something better. “Geris!” Leshan called.
The lordling rode forward, whey-faced. He had ridden the charge admirably enough, but perhaps he had merely followed the herd. Kelyn noted his clean, shining blade.
“Dragons or cavalry?” Leshan asked.
“Hmm?” Geris squeaked. “I’m fine where I am.”
“Dragons, then,” Leshan confirmed. “And you can bet your arse I’m staying with you to make sure you and your men don’t turn tail. Kelyn, Tírandon’s garrison is yours.”
Kelyn raised his sword and led twenty-five men south to skirt the perimeter of the Fieran force. With a sweep of his arm, they charged.
The Warlord was no fool. He had divided his own cavalry to face the two-sided assault. Still, Kelyn decided his men were outnumbered two to one. Doesn’t matter. Win through. Keep hitting. He slashed at the Fieran on his right, bashed left with his shield.
A blast of fire awaited him on the other side. Chaya reared, taking the worst of the heat. Two of his men and their mounts screamed inside a ball of f
lame. He spurred toward the Dragon-wielder, aiming for the torchbearer first. He hoped the wet ground would extinguish the torch before someone could retrieve it and ignite the liquid. The garrison kept pace with him and struck down the Dragon-wielder, then made for the next. All the while, the Fieran cavalry roared down their necks. Caught between fire and steel. For a heartbeat, Kelyn doubted his own confidence in victory, but another Fieran fell to his blade, then a Zhiani, and Leshan galloped past as the Helwende horse broke through the Warlord’s line.
Lord Geris had stayed close to his side and appeared to have gotten the hang of things, for his sword and his uniform were covered in dark splotches. Behind them, fire pooled in the grass.
“Push through to the king!” Kelyn cried. Leshan acknowledged with a right wheel across the campground.
Fieran and Zhiani infantry surrounded King Rhorek’s position. The Falcon Guard and the War Commander’s knights hemmed him in, taking the brunt of the assault. Even with the Warlord’s host divided, there were just too many.
Kelyn located his father’s red plume. The War Commander dived under a stream of fire, rolled to his feet barely ahead of the flame and severed the Dragon-wielder’s head. Several more were closing in.
“Go for the bags!” Leshan ordered and slashed low. Blood and fuel spilled into the trodden grass. Slaves were crushed under the charge and their torches ignited the reeking pools. Horses panicked. One of them belonged to Geris. The animal bucked and threw him headfirst into the blazing pool. He scrambled to his feet, slapping wildly at his hair and ran straight into the startled line of Zhiani infantry. He did not emerge again.
The press shifted away from the indifferent fires.
Before the fury of Helwende’s charge, defenseless slaves dropped their torches and fled. The commander in the red turban chased after them, slashing with a whip, but the slaves kept running. With the Dragons useless, the battle became familiar ground. Kelyn pressed through to the knot of Falcons and knights in blue.
