Legacy of Steel

by Matthew Ward

  Viktor thrust his claymore over the rim of a rust-coloured shield, silencing a challenge with steel. A spear glanced off his armoured shoulder, another from the chain peytral protecting his steed’s chest. A havildar bellowed challenge and died beneath Viktor’s second thrust.

  “Væga af væga!” Inkari’s axe swung a bloody arc and a prince’s head tumbled.

  Dismayed, the first rank bowed. Gaps opened up between the shields. Rosa rowelled her steed, a sword flashing in her right hand, and a borrowed vanaguard axe in her left. A Silsarian Immortal barred her path, golden shield high to fend off the sword, mace-blow angled at her horse’s jaw. A twitch of heels, and her horse stepped aside. The mace wasted its force on empty air. Rosa’s axe did not. The Immortal fell, his armour crimson between shoulder and neck, and then she was among the third rank, screaming like a woman possessed.

  Vanaguard streamed past Viktor and howled into the gap. Hooked axe-blades snared shield rims, split helms and mangled flesh. Bowing shields broke apart.

  “Livasdri!” came a warning bellow. “Livasdri!”

  Gangling, crackling shapes descended on the eastern flank. Gnarled forms woven from branch and briar, nearly as tall on their misshapen legs as the riders on their horses. Thrashing fronds dragged vanaguard screaming from their saddles. Axes crunched down. The sweet, musty smell of sap and heady pollen mingled with the bitter metal of spilt blood.

  The underhand sweep of the claymore threw a shieldsman sprawling, and then Viktor was face to crackling face with the new-come horror. Livasdra. Strawjack. A son of Fellhallow, risen from loam and buried sins. Green fire blazed in empty eyes. The jagged slash of its mouth parted in a rustling, crackling hiss.

  Branches crunched beneath the claymore’s strike. Black sap oozed up over the blade. Twisted fingers wended about steel. As Viktor strove to wrest the sword free, thrashing fronds burst from the strawjack’s other hand and lashed about his head. They forced their way into mouth and nostrils, and pried at his eyes.

  Viktor gagged at the creature’s rotten taste. Lungs already laboured by battle spasmed and strained. The claymore refused to budge, stuck fast in woody flesh and the strawjack’s remorseless grasp.

  He set loose his shadow.

  The strawjack disintegrated in a spray of ice-crusted branches and mouldered bones. Stomach churning, Viktor ripped the masterless fronds from his mouth and spurred forward.

  His shadow tore the next strawjack apart before it had chance to turn.

  Two dozen paces to the west, separated from Viktor by a tide of fleeing Silsarians, Rosa’s axe hacked a flurry of wet, snapping blows and another strawjack fell. Inkari’s vanaguard made kindling of others, their heavy, hooked blades more suited to the task than Viktor’s sword.

  Rosa galloped on, aiming for where an eagle-banner flew proud above a knot of battered souls and broken corpses in hunter’s green. She slowed as she approached the grave of Essamere, manner cold and silent. Sword sheathed, she claimed the banner offered to her, and raised it high.

  “Essamere!”

  Knights cantered to her side. Bloodied orphans of the battlefield on weary horses. Newcomers in the colours of Fellnore, Prydonis and Sartorov, abandoned by the fury of the Thrakkian charge. The glory of the Republic, distilled to a hundred spurs. A force to reshape many a battle, but not that bloody valley, which had already seen the deaths of thousands, and would witness thousands more.

  All this Viktor knew, and he knew that Rosa did also. But as she turned her steed to the west, where the imperial banner flew above the ruin of king’s blue dead, he recognised also that she didn’t care.

  He spurred away from the fleeing Silsarians and the screams of slaughter. “Rosa! Wait!”

  Their eyes met, her gaze bleak. Then she sprang away, banner streaming behind and her voice dolorous. “Until Death!”

  “Until Death!”

  The Essamere battle cry spilling from their lips, the knights of four chapterhouses galloped in her wake, rivalry forgotten in the cause of vengeance. Deaf to Viktor’s bellowed orders. Deaf to all save the blood rushing in their ears, and the urging of slain comrades.

  Viktor cast about the field. Bodies thickened the Selnweald approach. Most human, some not. The majority wore the rust-cloth of Silsaria or the gold of their Immortals, but sea green and yellow claith too lay bloodied among the dead – men and women who’d ridden hard to fight for coin and honour in a foreign land.

  To Viktor’s right, north and east from where the shield wall had broken, shrill pipes brought order to Thrakkians opposed by a thick wall of Corvanti shields. Swift-moving wayfarers traded shots with Hadari outriders as Inkari withdrew, the cloaks of the vanaguard joined by the plainer garb of mercenary thrydaxes.

  Further east still, a pride of simarkas loped away from the wreckage of the southernmost Hadari catapults, leaving dead engineers in their wake. The northernmost blazed, the grassland raging with alchemist’s fire cast from the Dauntless’ ballistae.

  South, Keldrov’s motley regiment shook itself into a shield wall, banners raised high, and those of the 14th highest of all. More outsiders come to die in the Council’s war – southwealders and phoenixes siding with one old foe against another.

  A second line formed up to Keldrov’s left, heavy pavissi shields planted in the mud as soldiers of the 10th readied their crossbows. A thornmaiden thrashed and died as bolts struck home. Three and a half thousand, all told. Not enough to vanquish the Icansae and Corvanti mustered on the bluffs – a host easily twice the size of Keldrov’s command – but sufficient to lend caution now their catapult crews were dead and the Silsarians torn asunder.

  “Typical Akadra.” A limping Izack approached, supported by a stranger. “Come to take the credit now I’ve softened them up.”

  Viktor stared again at the valley. At its bounty of dead, and those who came to join them. “There’ll be credit and blame enough to go around come nightfall.”

  “Aye.” Izack shuffled to a halt, unswollen eye creasing. “Never seen anything like this. Revenants, strawjacks… Prydonis pulling their weight. If that’s not the end of the world, I don’t know what is.”

  Viktor grunted. It might not be the end of the world, but the Republic? The next few hours would see it stand or fall. Surprise was spent, and a measure of the Thrakkians’ strength alongside. What remained had to be levied with care.

  But where to intercede? Not to the north, where the Dauntless had reaped a heavy toll of the grey-clad Britonisian cataphracts and the wreckage of grunda wagons littered the riverside. Nor along Selnweald’s eaves, where the balance of battle lay more in Tressian favour than anywhere else in sight.

  No. The centre called. Beyond Rosa’s cadre of charging knights. Beyond the blaze of emerald and gold that marked the glory of Rhaled on the march, and groves of strawjacks lurching alongside. The huddle of king’s blue about the coaching inn. Men and women waiting to die behind barricades and locked shields. The fulcrum upon which the battle would turn, if deeds were sufficient. And for all that men cursed Viktor Akadra’s name, none did so because his deeds were lacking.

  “You’ll find shelter with the 14th,” he told Izack. “Tell Keldrov to send help if she can, but to take no risks.”

  The other scowled, pride and frustration vying for dominance. Then he clasped his uninjured hand to his chest. “I’ll do that. Good hunting, Lord Akadra.”

  The Tressian shield wall shattered beneath the emerald thunderbolt. Kai hurtled on. Weakness was a memory, drowned in blood and banished by triumph’s prospect. His steed vaulted the barricade, leaving dead and wounded behind. Panicked soldiers ran hither and yon against the fading blue-white flames, seeking the shelter of stone tavern and empty stables. Cataphracts ran them down, a scream for every dipped spear. The drums called to greatness – the trumpets demanded it – and Kai rode on through the spiralling duskhazel to the second Tressian line, clinging to the coaching tavern’s outer courtyard.

  An old man in scruffy leathers held high a
blazing staff. Golden light flared against the smoke of a burning hayrick, hurling a lunassera from her ghostly chandirin. A rush of bronze sent six kraikons to contest the thunderbolt. Blades taller than a man swept Immortals from their saddles. Tressian soldiers hacked at horsemen with halberd and sword.

  Another kraikon loomed, the tramp of its coming rattling teeth in Kai’s jaw. He leaned low, the wind of the great sword’s passage almost plucking him from the saddle. Rising, he sent moonfire blazing at the brute’s chest. Steel armour ran like rain. Bronze trickled away. Golden magic sparked for the heavens and the kraikon froze, motionless.

  Maces and hammers rang on bronze. Lunassera darted through the cataphracts’ torn ranks, shard-spears cheating Tressian plate, the sanctity of their presence driving out the kraikons’ spark. Kai cast about for Elspeth or Devren – for members of his guard. Finding none, he drove his horse on towards the hayrick and the kraikons’ master. King’s blue soldiers scattered before the moonfire sword. The old man held his ground.

  Light flared as he raised his staff to the parry, the fires of sun and moon writhing in opposition. The clash drove the man from his feet, and the staff from his hands. Kai wheeled about to finish the deed.

  The thready boom of the grave-call shuddered through his soul.

  Too late, he realised that the nearest thornmaidens were dark and charred, their fires out, and duskhazel spent.

  Mist rushed in, the old man lost behind a seething shroud of greenish white. The sounds of battle faded. The burning hayrick bled away into memory. There was only the mist, and grim laughter echoing within. It came from nowhere and everywhere, shifting and billowing with the vapour.

  “She’s coming for you,” said the Raven. “My queen is so very angry. How pleased she’ll be when I offer her your head.”

  Kai spun about in his saddle. He saw only mist. “Show yourself! Are you afraid to face me?”

  “Found your honour at last, my Emperor?”

  “What does the Raven know of honour?”

  “Everything.” The mocking chuckle turned bitter. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

  Smoke bled across white. Skull helms gleamed silver.

  Kai hoisted the moonfire sword high. “Ashanael Brigantim!”

  “My sister can’t help you,” said the Raven. “She won’t help you.”

  Black flame challenged white. With a scream of terror, Kai’s horse hurled him from the saddle and vanished into the mist. Fighting the creak of jarred bones, Kai rose heavily to one knee, and thence to his feet.

  He struck the revenant’s sword aside and buried his blade in its vaporous chest. A sword fell. An empty helm rolled away. Other revenants pressed in, a noose closing tight, swords held at guard and each a perfect mirror image of the next.

  “All those bargains and deceptions, and you are alone.” The Raven’s voice echoed about the mist. “And do you know why?”

  A second revenant burst to ash, consumed by moonfire. A new circle closed tight. Silhouettes of man and horse flickered against the veil, no less distant than before.

  “Should I care?” Kai bit out.

  “Because sooner or later everyone comes to my keeping.”

  As one, the revenants’ swords came up. The circle drew in.

  “Until Death!”

  Horses quickened to the gallop, the knights given to the madness of the charge.

  Rosa abandoned herself to the wind, to a vengeance too long denied. Lances plunged deep into the cataphract rearguard and were abandoned for mace and sword. Her axe rose and fell, drawing blood with every pitiless stroke. Through it all, she held the eagle of Essamere high, so that fallen brothers and sisters might catch a glimpse from the mists and see themselves avenged.

  While others faltered, Rosa forged on into a red world. A spear pierced her shoulder and ripped free. A mace-blow set the world ablur. She felt neither. There was only the brief resistance of flesh beneath the axe, and the scream summoned by its bite.

  The meadowland clash of knights and cataphracts fell behind, lost to thrashing thornmaidens and the screams of their victims. The contested tavern lay ahead. Owl banners milled about the courtyard. Blackness rushed to consume them, silver death masks leering as revenants coalesced. Kraikons stood dark and desolate above the dead.

  In the shadow of a burning barn, horseless Immortals vied with the revenants’ flames. A slender woman – near twin to the one slain at Vrasdavora’s bridge – slashed at the nearest with a silver dagger. Black flame seared her arm and she reeled away. A bear-cloaked brute caught her as she fell. His mace scattered a revenant to smoke and the mists swallowed them both.

  To the west, defenders rallied beneath torn banners. To the east, rising vapour swirled about dying fires. Columns of Rhalesh shieldsmen shrank inwards as black flames seared their ranks. Thorned, grasping hands ripped revenants to shreds, skull helms and swords lifeless where they fell. Gleaming shard-spears sliced them to smoke. Others came hissing out of the mists – an endless tide in thrall to the Keeper of the Dead.

  And passing through it all with as little care as a priest taking an evening’s stroll, the tatter-cloaked horror of Jack o’ Fellhallow, flanked by two lissom, burning women who shrieked with delight even as blue-white flames consumed them. They pressed on through the barricades and ditches, he with a creeper’s stride, and they with witless caper. Where they passed, the mists recoiled, and revenants burst to mist. Shadowthorns lost their fear, shields and banners raised anew.

  Rosa thrust back her spurs, steering for where she’d last seen the imperial banner. The House of Saran. The Emperor and his accursed daughter, who’d cheated her of mortal life and of a love that had made bearable an eternal’s existence. Perhaps even Aeldran Andwar, were she lucky.

  The Raven take them all. Sevaka would be avenged.

  The revenant hissed its last, the helm clattering against hidden stone. Survivors drew back and pressed in anew. Muscles screaming, Kai wiped his brow. Another down. He’d lost count of how many. He’d lost all track of time. How long before Elspeth’s borrowed strength ebbed? How long before the Raven tired of his game, and closed tight the ring of blades?

  “Can you feel it, my Emperor?” The Raven’s voice echoed about the mists. “Pieces of you are slipping away. Your army loses heart. Soon the House of Saran will be but a memory.”

  The revenants’ swords snapped up to high guard, the blades levelled like spears at Kai’s head. He circled about, gaze resting on each opponent for no more than a heartbeat.

  “Melanna will be Empress!” he spat. “My line will continue!”

  The Raven laughed. “Do you truly not know what you’ve done? You promised her to Jack. She’s to be the new Queen of Fellhallow.”

  “No!” A cold hand closed about Kai’s heart, the sensation close kin to the crippling spasms of recent days. “I offered myself! My life!”

  “You offered your future.” Beyond the circle of blades, the mists unfurled. The Raven stood, hands loose behind his back, his expression pure disdain. “Tell me, my Emperor. What is a daughter but a man’s future?”

  A revenant lunged. Flame raced ice-hot across Kai’s ribs, scaled armour no defence against Otherworld’s baleful steel. Black blood hissed away silver. A sweep of the Goddess’ sword scattered the revenant to smoke.

  Kai doubled over, eyes clamped shut against the pain. “No! You’re lying!”

  The Raven shrugged. “My brother always wants what I have. When I sought a queen, he had to have one for himself. But not for him arduous courtship, or the wooing of heart and soul. What need has he of regard when she’ll be nothing but a possession of which to tire? No. He found a fool who’d trade all that he loved for a handful of ash.” He spread his hands above his head. “Do not bargain with the Lord of Fellhallow. Someone ought to write that in nice big letters above the throne, don’t you think? There’s always some halfwit who tries.”

  The words burned at Kai’s aching heart, their truth undeniable. A father’s place to
be generous. A daughter’s to serve and sacrifice. Jack’s generosity with his daughters, offered in payment for Kai’s own unwitting gift.

  A golden future rotted away. Death was nothing beside the horror of a daughter sold. The moonfire sword slipped from nerveless fingers. Kai barely felt it go, nor the ice-hot kiss of the swords that formed a steel collar about his neck.

  “Help me save her,” he said. “I beg you.”

  The Raven tutted. “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll give you anything—”

  “Ah, but everything you have will be mine in time as it is. All I seek is an Emperor’s head. A gift worthy of a queen.”

  Mists unravelled before blue-white flame and the sweet scent of duskhazel. Kai sank to his knees as the revenants scattered to smoke. The murk yielded to a cobbled courtyard and a toppled wagon; a stone well beneath grey skies. An imperial banner, its staff snapped and its cloth soaked red, propped limp against a wall. And bodies. So many bodies, the gold outnumbering the blue. An army brought to ruin by deception and pride.

  All for nothing, and less than nothing.

  A thornmaiden cackled her last and scattered to blazing blue ash. Another daughter undone by a father’s ambition. The Raven stumbled away, his pallor greying as the duskhazel did its wicked work.

  {{Well, brother,}} said Jack, his voice a swarm of hornets. {{Shall we make an end of this?}}

  The clamour of battle rose as mist fell away. Blue-white flame hissed and spat about a woman’s blackened embers. And beyond? Across cobbles choked with mud and corpses? The proud shadowthorn Emperor, face haggard and bright with tears. Rosa’s heart quickened with grim joy.

  She gave no thought to the Essamere banner she cast aside. She hurtled on, the axe swept back for the blow that would split Kai Saran’s honourless head from his emerald-studded shoulders. For Riego Noktza and the dead of Ahrad. For the 7th. For Tregga, and Tarvallion’s humbled spires. And for Sevaka. For Sevaka most of all.