by Fire
Then Sal struck the enemy’s rear and the battle broke up into skirmishes between four or five combatants and in some places individual contests. Freyma gathered together all the recruits he could and formed a new line just in front of their camp. The surviving archers, seeing what he was trying to do, formed up behind him. Sal saw as well and started calling her own riders back. The enemy was exhausted and their horses blown; their leader tried to get them to form a line as well, but they were too slow. Arrows started falling among them, scattered and largely ineffective but demoralizing nonetheless, and they started to pull back through the stakes to safer ground, and there they were rejoined by their comrades retreating from the battle on the left flank. They knew they had lost, but they also knew their opponents were too tired to pursue. Some among them were crying for another charge, but they were shouted down; for most of them, it was clear that the battle was over.
All the pain, all the planning, all the waiting, were made worthwhile when Prado saw that Rendle recognized him. The man turned whiter than a sheet, cursed Prado, and charged toward him.
It seemed as if all the fighters there knew to avoid this contest and peeled away. The two leaders met at full gallop. The flank of Rendle’s horse crashed into the head of Prado’s mount, but even as his horse went down, Prado felt his sword strike flesh. He landed heavily, somersaulted, and staggered back to his feet. His horse lay on the ground, its neck broken. Rendle wheeled his horse around and charged again, raising his sword high. Prado stood his ground and blocked his enemy’s slashing attack. As Rendle barged past, Prado grabbed hold of his jerkin and pulled down savagely. Rendle shouted as he lost his balance, his torso twisting back over his horse’s hindquarters, and used his thighs and knees to remain mounted. Prado saw his chance and swiped savagely with his sword. His blade sliced into his enemy’s neck. Rendle gasped, coughing blood; his horse reared and bolted, the sudden action forcing Prado’s blade deeper. Rendle’s head jumped off his neck, and his horse galloped on, its decapitated rider slowly sliding off the saddle; one foot caught in the stirrup and the torso bumped along the ground as it was carried away.
Prado heard a groan, and realized it came from his own lips. He looked down and saw a deep slash in his right thigh, blood oozing over his breeches. He looked up again and saw Rendle’s head not far from him. He stumbled over to it and used his sword to impale it through the neck. He raised the grisly trophy over his head and waved it in the air, shouting his victory for everyone to hear.
First, it was only the enemy riders nearby that cried in despair and fled, but it was enough. In a few minutes the slopes were occupied only by Prado’s troops. They watched as the enemy gathered and milled about two hundred paces north of the stakes, unsure of what to do, wary of any pursuit, but Prado knew his own side was too exhausted to follow. Some of the enemy turned their horses and kicked them into a slow trot, and soon the rest of them were following.
Freyma rode up. “Shall we start the chase?”
“Have we any fresh horses?”
Freyma shook his head.
“Our casualties?”
“Moderate. Maybe four hundred dead, twice that many wounded. I figure two thousand of the enemy are dead or wounded here. Sal says there are at least three hundred of them dead on the other side of the hills to the east.”
“Kill any of their wounded left behind.”
Freyma left to carry out the order, and Prado looked to the retreating enemy again. They were now half a league away. He counted a thousand or so, many of them slumped over their saddles. They were leaderless and at least two weeks from sanctuary; many of them would not see their homes again.
He searched among his own troops. They were worn out, but he still had enough to carry out his first mission. He raised his sword again, peered at Rendle’s bloody face and grinned at it. “I was just going to cut your throat, you bastard.” He laughed crazily.
And now for Lynan, he thought.
That was when he heard the screams of dying men in the distance. His first thought was that some of Sal’s riders had come late on the field and pursued the retreating enemy after all. He looked up and what he saw did not make any sense. The enemy were riding as hard as they could, but toward Prado and his troops!
“God’s death, what’s happen—”
“Prado!”
He spun around to his left and looked up the slope. There, standing as free as you please, and grinning from ear to ear, was the blasted barge pilot.
“You sent me into a trap!” Prado shouted at him. He shook Rendle’s head at him. “And see what has come of it!”
“That was not my trap, master!” the Chett replied. He spread his arms wide. “This is my trap!”
And suddenly the barge pilot was no longer alone. It seemed as if the skyline itself was changing shape, turning into a line of cavalry that stretched along the whole length of the valley.
“My God,” Prado whispered hoarsely.
Kumul gazed out over the battlefield and shook his head. “It is a day of wonder when the mercenaries do our work for us.” He glanced sideways at Lynan. “Your father would be very proud of you, lad. I was wrong—again.”
Lynan smiled at Kumul and reached out to grip his shoulder. “You taught better than you knew.”
Kumul shook his head. “No. I never taught you this well.”
“Excuse me,” Korigan interrupted impatiently. “But can we kill them now?”
Kumul laughed. “My lancers first.”
Korigan bristled. “I am a queen! It is my right to lead my people into battle!” she declared.
For a second they tried to stare each other down, then a plaintive voice said, “I am without a horse.”
Lynan dismounted and held out the reins to Gudon. “My friend, would you do me the honor of leading the first charge of my army?”
Gudon stared wide-eyed at Lynan, and the prince had to place the reins into his hands.
Korigan and Kumul looked at Lynan, then at Gudon, and then at each other again. “It is fitting,” Korigan said.
“Yes,” Kumul agreed. He turned to one of the Red Hands, nodded to his horse. The Chett dismounted and quickly brought his horse up to Lynan, who thanked him and mounted. The Red Hand hurried away to find another ride; he certainly was not going to miss out on the battle.
“Your orders?” Lynan asked Gudon, now astride Lynan’s horse.
Gudon, still in considerable pain, grimaced. Below them, Prado had hurriedly formed his lines, but his troops were obviously exhausted and frightened; they thought they had won a great battle and instead had only made their own deaths more certain. He remembered the terrible atrocities and crimes they had committed against his people in the past and hardened his heart.
“Kill them all,” he said. “Kill them all except Prado.”
* * *
“I don’t recognize the pennant,” Freyma said, pointing to the blood-red flag with its golden circle. “It’s not the Sun clan, is it?”
Prado shook his head. “No. This is not their territory.” He knew what it meant, but did not want to tell the others. In a strange way, the implication terrified him even more than his own imminent death. He saw the whole of the continent of Theare falling into a maelstrom of violence and death. The Chetts were organized, and they were marching east. The pennant waving atop the western slope promised years, maybe decades, of constant, bloody war. Even mercenaries needed some years of peace to enjoy their spoils.
“I should have stayed on my farm,” Freyma said, but there was no self-pity in his voice. He said it as a statement of fact.
“We all should have stayed on our farms,” Prado replied. “Even them,” he added, nodding to the survivors of Rendle’s army who had joined his force in common defense. He could hear some of his recruits starting to sob, and surprised himself by feeling sorry for them. He wished suddenly that he had taken the time to have children. Well, he admitted to himself, children I knew about.
“Here they come,” Freym
a said.
There was no shout or cry. The Chett cavalry eased over the slope, ambled their way to level ground.
“They have lancers,” Freyma observed. “That’s a surprise.”
“Do you see who leads them?”
“That’s Kumul fucking Alarn, isn’t it?” Now there was surprise in Freyma’s voice.
“I see our barge pilot is calling the shots.”
“Imagine him making king.”
“Imagine,” Prado said tonelessly.
The Chett cavalry took a moment to straighten their line. They were no more than two hundred paces away. Prado ordered the archers to shoot. A dismal shower of arrows whistled overhead and fell among the enemy. Most stuck in the ground, one or two found flesh and eyes. Another flight, with similar results.
“Now,” Prado said under his breath, and even as he said the word, the Chetts started their charge. He never thought he would see the day when the Chetts would keep close order, although it was only the lancers. The horse archers were already spreading apart and moving around his force’s flanks. The lancers went from a walk to a canter to a gallop so smoothly he could not help admire it.
“Good-bye, Freyma,” Prado said.
“Good-bye, J—”
An arrow seemed to sprout from Freyma’s left temple. He fell out of his saddle. Another arrow claimed Freyma’s horse. Someone moved into the gap.
“Charge!” Prado cried, and his own thin line started its countercharge. Armed mainly with swords, they knew most of them would be skewered before they had a chance to come to grips with the Chetts, but also knew that if they tried to flee they would only be skewered from behind.
Prado kneed his horse until he was almost in front. He aimed his sword at the barge pilot’s head, promising himself to take out the little bastard before he died. The rider charging beside Gudon caught his attention; he was as pale as mist and as small as the pilot, and he had a scar ...
No, it couldn’t be!
Lynan focused on one enemy, a rider with a helmet and a long sword, and for the whole charge kept his sword point aimed at that man’s chest. Seconds before they would have collided, his target was taken by a lance and disappeared from view. Lynan swerved to his left, half saw a sword slashing toward him and deflected it easily. His horse veered to avoid a biting stallion and lost its momentum. Lynan wheeled around, searching for the nearest enemy. A young man, no older than he, rode into view, swinging a sword with more energy than skill. Lynan dodged the first blow and drove the point of his own sword into the man’s neck. He did not wait to see the results. He spurred his mare into a canter and attacked one of two riders ganging up on a wounded Red Hand. He dispatched the first by stabbing him in the back. The second twisted aside to counter the new threat, and the Red Hand took off most of his face with a slashing cut. More enemies joined the fray, and Lynan found himself in a confusing tumble of men and horses. A Red Hand died in front of him, a dagger in her heart. A wizened mercenary coughed blood, disappeared. A man in the uniform of Haxus was huddled in his saddle with his hands closed over his head, screaming something; Lynan sank his sword into the man’s stomach and the screaming stopped. He saw a sword coming toward him out of the corner of his eye and quickly brought his own weapon up to block it; he deflected the killing stroke, but the flat of the other sword thwacked against the crown of his head. Lynan saw stars, felt himself swoon in his saddle. Someone nearby screamed. Hands plucked at him, trying to keep him upright.
And then his senses cleared so quickly it felt as if someone else was suddenly occupying his body. Red Hands were all around him, protecting him at the expense of their own defense.
“Enough,” he said, and kicked his heels into his mare’s flank. She leaped forward. Lynan saw a huge mercenary loom in front of him, carrying a long saber in one hand and a spiked mace in the other. He grinned at Lynan, raised his sword, and slashed downward. Lynan blocked the blow and used his own sword to flick it away. The saber flew out of the mercenary’s hands. The impetus of his charge took Lynan past the man, but he swung his sword backward and caught the man in the neck. He twisted his sword free and spurred his horse again into the fray, breaking through the enemy line. He was surrounded by mercenaries. His sword whistled as he thrashed left and right, not aiming at any one target. He kept on moving, plowing through any opposition, not able to control the white fury that had taken over his mind and body. One moment he was surrounded by screaming men, panting horses and the almost overwhelming smell of blood and shit, and then he was in the clear.
There was a line of foot archers in front of Lynan, desperately loosing arrows at the Chett horse archers picking at them from both flanks. They did not see Lynan. He charged into them, hewing at heads and arms. The archers scattered, crying in fear, and Lynan rode them down until once again he found himself in the melee and surrounded by the press of fighting and dying men and horses.
He attacked a rider in the uniform of a Haxus officer, someone not much older than a boy. The officer tried desperately to ward off Lynan’s attack, and he started to cry. “Please . . .” he whimpered, blocking another thrust. “Please...” But Lynan only smiled at him and attacked again, his sword slicing through the officer’s wrist, then onto into his thigh. The officer wailed as Lynan plunged his sword into his chest, then gurgled and died.
Lynan roared, driving his horse on. Three more enemies. They saw him coming and split to take him from the front and both sides at the same time. Lynan slashed at the one on his right, his sword sinking deep into the man’s skull. Something stuck in his waist, and he looked down to see a dagger there, half its length inside of him. He let go of the reins and punched the mercenary on his left in the face. The face crumpled and the mercenary fell back. The mercenary in front gaped in horror and tried to back his horse away. Lynan pulled the dagger out of his side, saw a trickle of dark, dark blood run down his shirt, then threw the weapon at the retreating mercenary, striking him between the eyes.
He wheeled his horse in a tight circle, searching for another enemy, but there was no one left to kill. There were no more mercenaries, no more riders in Haxus uniform, no more archers. A troop of his Red Hands galloped up to him, crying his name, their desperate concern obvious on their faces.
“I am all right,” he assured them, then remembered he had been stabbed. He looked down at the wound, but although he found the flat, diamond-shaped cut in his shirt, there was only the faintest mark on the skin underneath.
Prado received a second wound that day, a hard blow to the back of his right hand. The barge pilot had done that. Prado had been surprised the little Chett could fight at all, let alone outfight someone like himself, a mercenary with a quarter century of combat behind him. As soon as they met, Prado had swung for his head, but the Chett had ducked as lithely as a young boy and brought down the hilt of his own sword on Prado’s hand, breaking a few bones and forcing him to let go of his weapon. After that things had become confusing. He remembered being knocked off his horse, two men with red hands falling on him and tying him up. He lost consciousness for a while, and when he woke, the battle was over. The barge pilot had reappeared, made him stand up, and forced him to look over the battlefield.
“We’ve counted them,” the barge pilot told him. “We have removed our eighty dead and already burned them. That is their pyre over there. All the other bodies you see are those of our enemy. Nearly six thousand of them. You are the only survivor.” The Chett leaned closer so he could whisper in Prado’s ear. “But not for long.”
Prado was turned around again. There were five figures approaching. He recognized Kumul and Ager and Jenrosa and—he still could not believe the change—Prince Lynan, but the fifth was a tall Chett female he knew nothing about.
When they were near enough, the barge pilot bowed deeply. “Your Majesty.”
Lynan smiled. “Well done, Gudon. How do you feel?”
The Chett called Gudon breathed deeply and joined his companions. “Rejuvenated,” he said.
“Gudon?”
“I have finished with him, little master. He knows I am the one who brought him down. It is enough.”
The prince stood directly in front of Prado. The mercenary could not meet the eyes in that pale face and had to turn away. Fear curdled in the pit of his stomach, fear of something much worse than death. Lynan turned to Kumul. “When we were finally reunited in the Strangers’ Sooq, I remember you said something about Jes Prado.”
“I said I would fillet the bastard,” Kumul returned.
Prado went white. He had expected to be paraded before the victors and then beheaded. But not...
“He is yours,” the prince said. “But when you are finished, make sure his face is still recognizable.”
It took the rest of the day and the whole of the next to gather all the enemy dead together and burn their remains. An expedition was sent to Rendle’s distant camp to take care of any guards left behind and to bring back all the booty they could find. They returned with horses, weapons, and the news that on sighting them one of the guards—a Haxus regular—had released several carrier birds, all of which had escaped.
Together, the two mercenary forces delivered a great deal of potentially useful booty; horses mainly, but also weapons, stocks of food, including some hay for the horses, and good clothing, including new leather boots and jerkins. Everything was loaded onto most of their surviving mounts, and a few of the less seriously wounded Chetts were charged with escorting them back to the High Sooq for distribution among all the clans; all except some of the stallions which Kumul insisted on keeping.
“Our mares do not make good chargers,” he told his companions. Lynan and Korigan smiled at each other. “What’s so funny?”
“You said ‘Our mares,’” Lynan explained.
