by A. J. Ponder
Phetero snatched Wraith’s reigns from the groom and half fell, half jumped from the platform onto his steed. White dapples hardly showing under the foam of sweat, Wraith was still rolling his eyes, stamping his hooves and threatening to bite[73] the groom who backed off hurriedly.
Leaning over in his stirrups, Phetero called down to the boy and tossed a small coin in his direction. “Find my wizard, and get him to the western gates, fast. Make sure he’s riding a horse. He’s going into battle with me. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded.
Phetero slapped Wraith on the rump with the flat of his blade. The horse reared, feet striking the air just short of the boy who snatched the coin, and jerked back, scuttling away in the nick of time.
Phetero laughed, and geed his horse to the gate.
§
Just as Dothie realised Arrant should be there, and wasn’t, a quiet shrieking pulled his attention to the sky. It buffeted his eardrums physically, and erupted–kkryaggyth!
Rock flew everywhere, solid wall disintegrating into shards and dust. Horses and men were transformed into bloody corpses—their brain and bone decorating Dothie’s surroundings in a devil’s palette of colour.
Now that it came to it, Dothie wondered if he had the stomach for war. Death? Absolutely, so long as it was other people doing the dying. But war? He felt quite exposed knowing a rock could crush him any moment. Listening carefully for more flying rocks, he distantly noted that a boy was bringing a demented horse in his direction.
“The King wants you.”
“Great,” Dothie snapped, snatching the reins from the boy. “I hope the king’s not planning to do something foolish.”
Fergus waved. He was riding a giant horse that was almost big enough to carry him. “Are you looking forward to the battle?”
“Not so much,” Dothie admitted.
Too soon they had joined the king’s forces. “Please, my lord,” Dothie protested, his horse lurching beneath him. “I would be much more effective from the walls, where I can see what is happening.”
“Do you question me?” King Phetero demanded. “See the sun on my soldiers’ blades. It is a sure sign of the gods favour.”
Victory will be so sweet.
Dothie did not reply. Not so much with a shake of his head, or a disapproving tone.
There would be a time, and soon, when Phetero would think to skewer him with word or a gaze, and he would respond with steel or fire. But not now. Not when the Goodfellows were in the enemy camp waiting for him to make a mistake. They’d practically stood in the open, challenging him, but had never scried inside the city—avoiding all his little subtle traps by not looking.
Angry, Dothie tugged too hard at the reins, sending his horse skittering across the courtyard, after the King. If his life ended now, he had one regret—it wasn’t the books he hadn’t read, or the King he hadn’t killed—it was that he’d glimpsed true power and hadn’t thought to go and claim it himself.
“Frightened, wizard?” Phetero mocked. “You needn’t be. The battle goes well.”
“I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Phetero sneered.
Dothie revised his regret one last time.
Arrant
A book in each hand, Arrant slipped back inside the castle and watched the battle in comfort, and comparative safety, by using a mirror in the dungeons to scry events.
Soon, he lost track of the battle. The vast power the books promised was overwhelming, even to him.
Suddenly, he understood the lure Dothie and Phetero were facing. A world in which they might have anything they desired. He almost ran out to join Dothie there and then, but there would be time to ride out later—after the puddle of Avondale resistance was mown down by the obviously superior Scotch Mist forces.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Flying Onward
Sylvalla tried to marshal the troops still panicked from their mad run to the Avondale fortifications.
Greybeard rode by—he didn’t see her, and she couldn’t reach him. So she stayed on foot, Dirk and Amarinda by her side.
“Hold your ground. Pull in those boards,” Greybeard yelled. “Fools. Hold formation. Hold it! Damn you! By the Maiden, I see boards still crossing the trench. Gottersdang[74]! Pull them back, quick!”
Soldiers hurried to obey as Phetero’s army hurtled toward them. Others glanced about nervously, at the enemy bearing down on them, or the ominous shadow of Torri’s chunkers.
“Shore up,” Greybeard yelled. “Pikes up. Steady.”
The second Chunker fired again. Sylvalla held her breath, but this time the shot was successful and a section of enemy wall collapsed in a dust-smoking ruin.
“Hold!” Greybeard yelled. Feet shuffled as the Scotch Mist cavalry raced toward them in a frothing, thunderous tide of hoof beats.
“Archers! Ready...wait…wait… Fire!” Greybeard howled.
The Avondale soldiers whooped as the arrows landed.
Screams echoed as men and horses fell.
Dripping lather, the first Scotch Mist horse jumped the ditch and was impaled by a protective spike.
“By the gods,” Sylvalla gasped as the sea of Scotch Mist horses reached the Avondale breach-work and erupted into a spray of red blood and white foam.
Horses screamed. Some balked at the jump, only to be relentlessly pushed over the edge by the riders behind. Terrified people screamed as they fell to their doom—eyes wide and jaws pulled into a rictus of fear, they thrashed their arms in a futile attempt to fly above the staked ground below them. But in the end, no amount of fortification could hold, carried forward on a tide of blood.
First one rider made it across, then another, and another. They surged through the broken forest of lances and stakes, using their momentum to advantage to trample the Avondale soldiers. Their cutlasses flashing from side to side, they slayed defenders as casually as if they were reaching for sandbags in a tournament.
Swinging his well-bloodied blade, Dirk pushed Sylvalla and Amarinda further and further back, killing any enemy soldiers foolish enough to come close. Sylvalla’s sword was still clean, but it would not be long now. The air reverberated with steel on steel.
Again and again, Sylvalla’s commanding officers called to their men to hold their ground. With arrows whistling overhead, falling on friend and foe alike, it was hard not to flinch. Sylvalla, her sword drawn in expectation, screamed encouragement, too.
The yelling made her feel better, stronger—and all around Avondale chins lifted.
Sylvalla continued to yell until her throat was as raw as blade-steak. If there was a rout on the front line, they would expose not only themselves, but the entire Avondale army to a massacre.
How much longer can we stand before we fall?
The fighting was so heavy even Dirk was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers, and then there was no more time to think. Sylvalla pushed Amarinda behind her. This time the girl was sensible enough to stay back as an enemy soldier advanced—a rider tossed from his horse. He approached warily on foot, blood oozing from a rent in his trousers. The large straight sword pointed before him was presumably not his own. As cavalry, he would own a sabre, and so he held this longsword clumsily, even as his biceps rippled.
Unskilled—but strong.
He wore a patchy leather vest.
Inadequate armour.
Sylvalla’s body took in this information, and more, before reacting, sword snaking out to nick his arm, trying to cut a tendon. Something vital. Surprise registered in his eyes, before he rushed her—head down, sword thrust in front of him.
“Dirk!” she called in warning, twisting sideways and using her full force to push the oncoming soldier off track and away from Amarinda.
Dirk swung his sword in a decapitating arc.
“Watch out!”
Sylvalla turned to see who was yelling and saw a horse bearing down on her, its rider swinging his sword.
Sylvalla scooped up the fallen s
word and pressed it into Amarinda’s hands. “Run!” she yelled.
Amarinda scrambled away—hopefully to safety.
Hooves thundered, spraying earth, as the rider spurred closer. To survive this, Sylvalla needed to down the horse—duck in and hamstring it. At least that was the theory. She’d never done it in practise. Never even seen it done.
Diving away from the horse’s stamping hooves, she reached up to slash at the horse’s legs as it galloped past. Her sword bit and stuck, for just an instant, before it pulled clear, blood spraying from the gash.
“Yes!” Sylvalla yelled.
“Nooo!” A hoof struck her shoulder. Instinctively, Sylvalla clutched her arm as pain flared through it, and just as instinctively her eyes followed her sword as it flew up in a potentially lethal arc and landed metres away in the mud.
The horse jerked forward two more steps, giving the rider just enough time to jump clear before it fell, screaming and thrashing.
Without looking back, the soldier advanced on Sylvalla, his cold eyes assessing her, his lips curled in disdain beneath an intricately wrought half-helm. Sylvalla drew her gaze away from his face to his sword-hand. Unlike her last opponent he held his weapon well.
The wickedly-curved sabre slashed toward her.
Sylvalla dodged, and dived for her own blade, lifting it triumphantly out of the gore-splattered mud, a small victory as she rolled away before he could attack.
He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to finish the job. “Die now, Princess.” He pointed behind Sylvalla. “The Quirk can’t save you now. He’s got enough to worry about.”
“Good,” Sylvalla replied, not foolish enough to look as she regained her feet.
The man’s blade flicked out.
Scary. He was at least her equal with a sword, and not frightened to face her, man to dragon slayer.
She could hear her old instructor. “Battles are dangerous things. Sometimes even the best fighter loses.”
Focus. Trying to forget this was life and death, Sylvalla concentrated on the crossbar of his blade and looked for a pattern.
She attacked high.
He defended in prime—high and wide. Valuable information, but Sylvalla had no time to capitalise on it as her adversary launched into a barrage of heavy-handed attacks.
Step by step she retreated, her heart hammering in her chest.
He beat her blade, once, twice, catching it in a circular motion designed to twist it from her hand. He failed, only barely, and adjusted his attack to a slashing arc toward Sylvalla’s chest.
Desperately, she parried. It might have worked except the curve of the blade fooled her. The blade bit into her gauntlet. Jumping back and parrying low to avoid a blow to the guts, she tried not to think about how close she’d been to serious harm. She couldn’t worry about that, or how much her injuries were screaming at her.
Damn, I need a shield.
She gritted her teeth and blinked her eyes. Balance. Calm. Sylvalla tried to reform her shattered focus. There could be no mistakes. She searched his defences — another false attack, another retreat. She attacked high, ducking away from the counterattack aimed at her head. Black hair fell from his helmet; he shook his head and blinked.
Is that sweat in his eyes? Sylvalla hoped so. She was fast running out of energy. He was stronger than her and she needed all her strength to compensate.
Is he tiring also? Is his guard slipping? Sylvalla’s sword snaked out, and she caught his wrist. Red stained his sleeve. Blood.
He roared and attacked.
She crashed her sword into his, catching his blade near the fulcrum. Using all her strength to angle the blade, she thrust toward his exposed neck
Her sword bit deep. Blood erupted from the wound. Elation, relief, and horror swept through her as the warrior crumpled to the ground.
Sylvalla looked up from the corpse, numb and shaking.
All around her the carnage was abating.
Amarinda poked her head up from behind the corpse of a horse.
She was still here! At least she’s still alive.
“Hey,” Amarinda said. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your mother about that bit of fighting.” She paused. “Um. Or maybe I will. You’re really good, you know.”
Bloodied
Damn, Sylvalla thought holding up a shield and peering out at the battlefield. Something is off. And not just Amarinda who should never have been allowed on the front lines.
The cavalry Greybeard had stationed behind the hill should have arrived by now. Had they been wiped out? Why had they not come to defend Avondale? And for that matter, why wasn’t Phetero’s cavalry fighting? More horses should be sweeping in from the flanks, destroying Avondale now they’d been softened up by the initial attack. But there was no sign of a rally, just horses bunched up around the king and lines of archers protected by infantry.
“Horse Companies Seven and Eight. Go!” Greybeard yelled. “Take out the archers.” The horses clattered over walkways that were little more than planks shoved together. On the other side the horses formed a wedge and began to gallop toward the Scotch Mist foot-soldiers protecting their archers flanks.
And then Sylvalla heard the distinctive whine—and an ear-splitting crash as a boulder ricocheted off Scotch Mist’s wall, breaking away large chunks of debris with it.
Torri’s Chunkers. They were still working.
A ragged cheer spread from the Chunker’s crew.
Avondale’s missing cavalry chose that moment to thunder down the hillside toward the breach.
“They’re damnably late. Who’s their commander?” Sylvalla said, as a volley of arrows fell about her. “No, no. Forget it. I’ll kill him later,” she muttered after an arrow tore through the hide of her shield—and stabbed into her chest.
If there is a later, she thought, during the agonising seconds of ascertaining whether she was alive or not. Definitely alive. The arrow hadn’t done as much damage as she feared—but now her whole torso was in agonising pain.
Recklessly, she pulled out the arrow, chucked away the useless shield and picked up another from amongst the dead. It looked solid—re-enforced with studs and a heavy metal band.
“Damned archers, won’t they ever give up?”
“They’ve slowed a bit,” Amarinda answered.
“Except Phetero’s bringing his horse to protect them.”
“Just so long as they’re not coming here,” Dirk said. “Our defences are breached, and we’re almost out of defenders. We’d be routed.
EEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—crunch!
A boulder fell just shy of the wall and into the battlefield, creating chaos.
Sylvalla gripped her sword, ignoring the pain shooting down both arms. “Amarinda, please get to safety.”
“What safety?” Amarinda snapped back clutching the heavy sword Sylvalla had given her with grim determination. “I’ll stay.”
“Damn Phetero!” If he’d been half as brave as Amarinda, all this bloodshed could have been avoided. “I have to go, cut him down. This is his fault.”
“What!” Amarinda said. She looked about at the devastation. “You’re leaving me here?”
Sylvalla nodded. “Get to safety!” She’d hardly moved a step before Dirk clamped a hand on her shoulder. “You won’t get far,” he said, nonchalantly reversing his sword into a stray Scotch Mist soldier foolish enough to run at him from behind. “You’d need a horse to get anywhere.
“See that battlefield? I have to do something.”
Phetero’s elite cavalry was protecting the archers’ lines. And once the Avondale attack was over, they’d be coming this way. The only thing going in Avondale’s favour now were the Chunkers, and only one was accurately hitting the wall, Torri’s. Which gave Sylvalla an idea. She scrambled toward it. In her haste she trod on something slimy. The stench of blood and guts and bowels permeated the air as the Avondale soldier’s dead eyes stared accusingly at her.
Shaking, Sylvalla doubled over and retched.
Re-grasping her sword with determination—she focussed on what needed to be done. If she was lucky, very lucky, there’d there be time for mourning the dead later.
She scrambled over more bodies, and yelled over to Torri. “Fire on that bunch of archers and soldiers there. Quick!”
“We have only two more stones, Your Majesty,” she said, shaking her head. “Didn’t you and Grehaum Tehray—” she said, being awfully proper about old Greybeard, “—say we needed to take down the wall at any cost?”
“No!” Sylvalla yelled. “The wall won’t matter if there’s no-one left to breach it. We need to take Phetero and the archers. See!” Even as she pointed, the archers were inching forward and a set of arrows ripped through the leather screens protecting the trebuchet workers.
Are they trying to get a better shot at me—or the people working on the trebuchet?
“Change of plans,” Torri yelled. “The archers. Uncrank it. Loosen it. More. More. Less.” The group worked hard and well. Their ability with this strange contraption justified Torri and Dirk’s original enthusiasm.
The arrows flew thick and fast. Still little more than a nuisance at this range—until a horse was hit. It reared and broke the Chunker’s protective screen.
“Ow! Somebody put that screen back up.” A disembodied voice cut through their conversation.
“Quiet!” Torri snapped. “Right a bit,” her orders continued. “Right again. There. No—up a bit.”
By the gods, hurry up, Sylvalla thought, ducking.
“Looks good,” Torri said. “Go!”
Wood creaked. The machine’s arm swung. The boulder arced up into the sky, crashing down amongst the archers.
The line was devastated. For a moment it was chaos, with much screaming and fleeing, but within moments the archers were firing again. It seemed they were more frightened of Phetero’s soldiers than being pulverised by rocks.
“Quick!” Torri yelled. “Heave it on. Winch it up. We’re aiming a bit further out this time.”
Out on the battlefield a trumpet blew and a small group of men raced toward Phetero.
