An Ill-Fated Sky

by Darrell Drake

  Of course, she had been outfitted with a charger, so she needn’t necessarily share his horse. But they’d reasoned it was better left behind. Shkarag hadn’t the expertise for fighting on horseback, and together they would fare better.

  The legionnaires were disembarking now. Not yet, Tirdad told himself. Chobin’s command was vastly outnumbered, but with the cover of night, and by striking the bank as the legionnaires disembarked, they just might gain the upper hand.

  A new star smoldered into life, streaking across the windows of the sky, and flaring up at the height of its arc. The signal. Tirdad let out the battle cry that’d been struggling for release, and spurred his charger into a gallop.

  Under a cloudless sky, crisp and clear, a thunder arose that caused hearts to skip a beat. The accompanying cries made it all the more harrowing. Tirdad charged at the head of his company, lowering his pike as he bore down upon the legionnaires, who were scrambling into formation. Across the river, the same thunder rumbled, but it may as well have been a world away. Tirdad had relinquished control to the spirit of battle.

  Pomegranate-red didn’t swamp his vision, but it did tinge the edges, bleeding in such that it augmented the senses he’d honed since childhood. To his sides, his company followed his example, each choosing a target to level their pike on. He screamed, urging his charger into a burst of speed that threw off the huddle of legionnaires he’d been riding for, and without pretense, gored two on his way through. That tore his pike from his grip, but it was enough to scatter the group. Combined with similar efforts by the other riders, his side of the river descended into chaos.

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion from there. Fires from discarded lanterns danced between combatants, making the clash all the more stilted by delineating movements in a flickering cadence. He brought his horse around and called it into another charge, brandishing his starling-black sword as he did and, with a downward stroke, scored a mortal blow on the nearest legionnaire.

  Ahead, a pair of legionnaires had mounted and, likely marking him as an officer due to his epaulettes, charged. The vice released. He grinned, gleaning no small amount of pleasure from their connection, and paid no heed to the advancing cavalry. Instead, he hacked at those locked in combat to his flank, blade gleefully running through one of two warriors who were on the verge of gutting one of his comrades. The throbbing in his palm intensified.

  Embers flitted about like the snowflakes of war; smoke obscured skirmishes and filled lungs; metal rang, whined, and clashed to the many screams and shouts that made up the din of battle. Invigorating was the word. He felt invigorated.

  Just then, as he peered beneath his helmet and through the mess of hair that had fallen free, the cavalry closed on him. He only bothered to glance up after dispatching his second target by summarily running that one through as well.

  It was just in time to catch Shkarag’s rebuttal. She planted one boot firmly on his shoulder, and with a nimbleness that defied her heavy armour, sprang over his charger’s mane. She’d never been one for convention, so while her display was nothing short of spectacle, it was expected.

  She hurled her spear as she bounded from his shoulder, aiming for the rider on the left, who was closer by a wide enough margin that what followed transpired as if orchestrated for theatre.

  Her spear lodged in the flank of the horse, butt protruding at an angle which Shkarag had the dexterity and timing to land on with one foot, squatting and sweeping an axe as if casually reaching down to run her hand through the waters of a stream, and in so doing cleaving clean through the legionnaire’s face. That smooth motion went on, becoming an off-kilter whirl that unwound on the butt of her spear. The second rider passed by right as she finished uncoiling for Shkarag to spring straight into her, fangs bared and axes primed. The collision tore her from her saddle, and meant certain death for the woman. An unceremonious chop to the brow saw to that.

  Shkarag broke away from straddling the soldier’s torso just in time to dodge a spear thrust at her chest. Hissing, she holstered her axes. When the next thrust reached for her abdomen, she nimbly stepped aside, and caught it in a fist. The legionnaire yanked at it, but her grip didn’t so much as budge. She’d found another spear. Shkarag snatched it out of his hands without an inkling of effort. This caused the legionnaire to stumble forward, which made it all the more smooth when she flipped the spear over to skewer him through the gut. Shkarag stomped one boot forward, hissing over the din as she did, to shove the spear further and come up flush with the man. Like a viper lashing out, she seized his throat with her fangs, then stomped back with a jerk that rent flesh and withdrew most of her spear. Before he had time to clutch his neck, she leveraged her spear to fling him overhead as if discarding an empty egg shell. For Tirdad, that meant riding beneath a rain of blood.

  “For fuck’s sake, Shkarag!” He yelled over his shoulder, but she had already bowled into the fray.

  Tirdad brought his charger around, watching her out of the corner of his eye while surveying the battle. Harried as they were, the Hrom battalion was too out of sorts to mount a proper defense. Some were stuck on the river, unsure which bank to turn to, or taking cover from arrows loosed from either side.

  He took heart at that, content in the knowledge that they would wreak further havoc. Heartened, and high on adrenaline, Tirdad stabbed his sword at the heavens, a part of him wishing he could do just that, and bellowed a battle cry. All along the bank, similar cries took shape.

  Tirdad urged his horse into action, his sights on the crowd Shkarag had amassed. She had her axes spinning in either hand and could have been mistaken for a fire-juggler with the way they gleamed, their afterimages vibrant brushstrokes against the night.

  He imitated her display with a flourish of his long sword, a twirl that ate the light instead of reflecting it, and which preluded a jab straight through the neck of the first soldier he passed. As that one fell, so too did another. Shkarag stepped to and fro in long flowing movements, footwork light and smooth in its gradual transition from heel to toe and back again. She’d grown accustomed to her less daring, yet equally wicked, axe-fighting as a result of their sessions. Leaning back and bringing an arm overhead, as if sweeping a cape over her shoulders, she chopped clean through the wrist of a man directly behind her. Then, emitting a hiss that crackled with energy, she interrupted her routine by slamming her shoulder into a legionnaire who had no way of anticipating the sudden change in tempo and direction. Her play at grace collapsed, and as he stumbled back she snatched him by the helmet, which exposed his throat for her to tear open with her fangs.

  The spray of blood was the last Tirdad caught of it, though her hisses and serrated breaths were unmistakable—each emboldened him, as if right by his ear. In the battle-seconds it took for her routine to command his attention, he’d passed through the crowd, having trampled at least one assailant under the hooves of his charger.

  Over the course of an hour or more, he shadowed her mayhem. Where she thrived in chaos, he rode nearby, using his vantage to support her with sword and arrow while taking stock of which way the scales of the larger battle tipped. He knew she could have managed alone, but it was fulfilling to work as partners. Besides, the fighting was fiercest wherever she went, and he had to be ready to sound orders if things turned sour.

  After all that time moving from one skirmish to another, he’d only just now lost sight of her. Tirdad squinted through a curtain of smoke, eyes burning. Sweat caked his face, matted hair to flesh, collected blood and soot. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “Fuck,” he cursed. The fires weren’t really blazing to anyone’s benefit at this point. Tirdad pulled his scarf up over his nose and galloped through, emerging from the other side where the fighting was thickest. That being the case, he didn’t slow down. Instead, he spurred his charger through the horde, throwing his blade in downward strokes with abandon. Having spotted her at its centre, he fell into orbit around Shkarag’s circle of mayhem, scattering half of i
t on the way there. The legionnaires were quick to regroup.

  Rather than circling around for another charge, Tirdad brought his horse about and began hacking and stabbing at those who accosted the half-div. Between the two of them, the legionnaires’ attention was divided and unorganized.

  Tirdad batted aside one spatha, turned another, and riposted by interring his blade into the heart of a Hrom soldier. That the man wore cuirass didn’t matter; his starling-black blade pierced it without effort. The hilt gave an abrupt throb, and Tirdad withdrew it before the legionnaire could fall. By then, the remaining legionnaires had their shields up, having fallen back into a tight circle. Without his pike, Tirdad wasn’t going to have much luck penetrating their shield wall, so he pulled back to assess the situation.

  Pockets of Hrom units were banding together, forming larger groups. The banging of Shkarag’s axes sounded off as she vented against their shields. Hisses accompanied. Soon, enough groups would be united to mount a serious counter-offensive. That was fine; the strike was meant to be incisive, opportunistic. Never had an outright routing been part of the plan. He reached for his horn where it hung from his weapon belt and gave it a drawn out blow. The signal carried, clarion and well over the river to Chobin’s command. It told everyone to fall back.

  That was a crucial distinction to be revisited in later celebration. You could fall back in victory, but the same could not be said for retreat.

  “Shkarag!” Tirdad called, riding straight for her, heedless to the legionnaires who leapt aside to avoid being trampled. Wild-eyed and fangs bared, she had her axes spinning, scraping over and clanging against shields. Her assault didn’t relent until just before Tirdad neared, arm out and ready to extract her. With a snarl of a hiss, she holstered her axes and snapped a claw out to grip his forearm, which swung her up and onto his charger.

  Together, they joined the ranks in racing away at full gallop. Triumphant shouts roused the air around them like the drums of war. What a thrill! Tirdad belted a whoop of his own.

  Behind him, Shkarag sat backwards on the plum-coloured rug that was slung under the saddle, cuirass flush with his back. Although he couldn’t see her, he could sense her smoldering bloodlust. It was mesmerizing. Beautiful. He wanted to embrace her, to share an intimate moment between the carnage of combat and the excitement of a victory well-earned. For a spell, he concentrated instead on putting distance between them and the all too real threat of a counter-strike.

  “Fuck it,” he soon said. Reins in one hand, Tirdad leaned back and turned in his saddle, slipping an arm under hers, which encouraged her to do the same to face him, though her focus didn’t leave the battlefield to their rear. Her fangs were still lowered; her eyes darted over the fires in the distance.

  “I’ve never seen you in action before,” he said. “Not like this. Not in war. You were a presence, a wonder. Like all the theatre revolved around you. You—”

  Why in the seven climes was he talking to her? Tirdad towed himself closer by her lower back. That her fangs were primed didn’t stop him—on the contrary, he paid them extra attention, even stained as they were with blood. He kissed her with a flame stoked by adrenaline. He treated her fangs to the majority of his passion, sensitive as he’d come to learn they were. The hiss it elicited was low, dangerous but not displeased. Absorbed as she was in the pocket of chaos from which they fled, Shkarag nevertheless had the wherewithal to return his kiss in kind.

  Where had this been all his life, and why had he squandered all those years oblivious to what they could have shared?

  • • • • •

  Unchallenged in their withdrawal, they regrouped in the relative safety of a gorge hemmed in by the nearest ridge. Those who had been on his side of the river sung Tirdad’s praises—a far cry from the so-called legend he’d earned mere months earlier for his part in thwarting his cousin. Likewise, those who had witnessed Shkarag’s prowess, and those who had thrived on her aura (though none as much as his bond afforded), were generous with their salutes. As uncomfortable as the attention made her, she made no attempt to turn away the date- and raisin-distilled liquors it won her.

  As regrettable, as destructive as all wars were, even having forsaken the honour to be gleaned and glory to be honed in the crucible, this easy camaraderie always struck Tirdad as a righteousness to be found in the midst of so much death. That he felt the call of the war drum in his heart was not the same—it was visceral.

  People from all walks of life could be crowded into a battlefield, be forced to face their demise head on, and come out of it with an appreciation for those who had shared in that struggle despite their many differences.

  “Fuckers will remember that pounding next time they’re rubbing on the olive oil,” said Chobin, which drew Tirdad out of his introspection. “Heard they put up less of a fight on your end.”

  “Could’ve been much worse,” Tirdad agreed. He tore his attention from the half-div, who was sitting backwards on her charger and going through distillate after distillate, swept it over the clan bannermen where they milled about tending to the wounded and their horses, to finally stop on the marzban. “All things considered, I think we got off easy. They could have swarmed us if they had pooled their numbers.”

  Chobin tapped his temple, grinning from ear to ear. “They didn’t. We kept them on their heels. General was on our bank, though, so there were a few times I was afraid he’d mount a counterattack.”

  He took a generous swig from his wineskin, and laid a hand on Tirdad’s shoulder. “Feels strange being your superior. Officially and all. But I want you to know you’ve earned these epaulettes.”

  “Thanks.” Tirdad didn’t care, if he were being honest with himself. He only wore them as a favour for a friend. Chobin didn’t need to know as much.

  “This’ll surely turn that nasty legend of yours on its head,” added the marzban.

  “. . .” Tirdad turned a deadpan expression on the marzban.

  “What? Think I haven’t heard it? It’s amusing as all get out. Something about you going ass up for Shkarag in your duel? Hah!”

  Tirdad sighed. “I can’t catch a break.”

  “Ah, but you’re on the other end of things now, so that legend hasn’t made much sense lately.”

  “Lately?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another sigh. Tirdad shook his head in exasperation. “Well, what’s our next move?”

  Chobin scratched the side of his head, where his woolen hair was disheveled and greasy. “Wait on the King of Kings. He isn’t far off, and we’ll need the bulk of the army if we hope to lay siege to Dara.”

  “Oh?”

  “Messenger arrived just now. King of Kings probably wants to make them regret besieging Nisibis. Can’t say it’s a sentiment I disagree with.”

  Tirdad nodded. Giving them their just deserts was all well and good, but it helped that Dara was a frontier fortress crucial to Hrom’s defense. Taking it would be as severe a blow to them as losing Nisibis would have been to Iran.

  “In the meantime,” said Chobin, “let’s find something to eat. All that fighting worked up an appetite.”

  “Joy,” said Tirdad, dismounting. “Rations.”

  • • • • •

  Having hastened their march to reach Dara before the garrison could call in supplies and aid from the surrounding area, the army of the King of Kings was able to unite with Chobin’s contingent the next evening.

  Tirdad, despite being raised in part by a talented general, never had a mind for strategy—or an interest in it besides. So he was relieved when, because he had no official rank to go by, he never received a summons to the pavilion where discussion of the sort took place. No poring over maps and arguing tactics for him. Most of all, no coming face to face with the very same King of Kings who had dissolved his House.

  This is what crossed his mind when, well before sunup, he was rudely awoken in his modest pavilion. His hand shot to his sword where it lay beside him. The royal guard who
had used his pomegranate-headed mace to prod Tirdad awake was already on his way out, standing aside deferentially and holding the tent flap open so that another man could enter, ducking as he did.

  “Tirdad.” The voice was aged, wise, and in that wisdom, clement. “I hope you will excuse the rude awakening. There is something I would ask of you.” The figure glanced at his guard, who left without the need for an order. “Get dressed if you would.”

  Tirdad blinked. Having been disturbed during a state of deep sleep, he was still out of sorts. “Uh.”

  The hand on his chest stirred, preceded a drowsy grumble. “Šo-rude crown-baster. Just fell asleep, too.”

  “Crown . . . what?” Tirdad turned his attention to the man. Outlined in the glow of the camp, it was easy to miss the more subtle divine blessing that brightened his features. “Oh.” He clapped a hand over his mouth and hurried to prostrate, but was interrupted by an upraised palm.

  “Your diligence is noted, but that is not necessary,” said the King of Kings, hands now behind his back. “We are at war, and alone besides. There is something we must discuss, but not here.”

  Tirdad gave a quick nod and hurried to get some clothes on. Languidly and with a drawn out yawn, Shkarag did the same. The King of Kings led them out without a word, having the courtesy to hold the flap open as they exited. They wound through the encampment where it capped one of the rolling hills that surrounded Dara. Across a dip between their hill and the next, Tirdad could make out the stone-hewn walls of the fortress city where tiny patches of torchlight patrolled.

  The three made their way down a calm gradient, passing between quiet pavilions and startled soldiers who were quick to prostrate, the King of Kings with his hands clasped behind his back, Shkarag limping into a spear she’d lifted a few minutes earlier, and Tirdad wondering why he’d been singled out. He had no desire to become a puppet of this man, even if he was, by and large, a just ruler. Tirdad had his own plans.