by RJ Baker
“Yes,” she said, “you must. And though it scores my heart to send you into such danger. I am proud of you for it.”
Chapter 31
I rode.
On the horizon the Birthstorm began to breach, huge grey arms reaching out from the land ready to smash back down with wind, rain and burning light. I set Xus’s head for the storm and told him to run, and he, great and strong and furious as any storm, ran as if to meet a long-lost mate, head out, antlers back, great muscles bunching and twisting beneath me as they powered us over the long grasses.
At first the sheer explosive speed of Xus brought with it such a strong rush of adrenalin that it banished the tiredness and pain the day had left me with, but that could only ever be temporary. Despite the urgency, despite the panic, the exhaustion started to tell. Rufra’s army had over a day’s riding on me. Crast also had a huge start, and I would not catch him before he joined the army. I could only hope I got there before the fighting started and Crast struck. If Rufra fell, everything he had built would be finished and his army would be massacred. Tomas and Neander would ride through the rest of Maniyadoc hunting down Rufra’s supporters until none remained, the thankful would go back to begging and serving, the living would remain for ever stuck in whatever trade they followed and the blessed and the Landsmen would close their iron grip even tighter around the people of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides.
But for now all I could do was ride, and slowly the hypnotic rhythm of Xus’s feet began to lull me into sleep. Sleeping in the saddle was one of the first skills my master taught me, and, as the adrenalin ebbed, my tired mind drifted back, and I became a child nodding off in the saddle as my master led Xus to our next job. The teeth of the Birthstorm, cold winds that bit through the metal and leather of my harlequin armour, seemed to withdraw and it was as if a warm cloak was placed around my shoulders: a cloak of black, darker than night – a familiar comfort. I rode Xus and felt sure that both he and I were protected by his namesake, Xus the unseen, god of death. I did not fear my mount would stumble, or that straggling Nonmen would stop us, or that the herds of feral pigs would attack. I rode through an otherworld, a semi-real place of shadows and distant voices. I rode for Goldenson Copse and I did not ride alone; I rode with death and we shared a destination, if not a purpose.
I was woken from my semi-doze by thunder as I approached Goldenson Hill, where the land rose gently before falling away to the copse and the shallow river valley that held the remains of an Age of Balance bridge. I urged Xus up the rise and heard a low, long rumble and scanned the towers of black cloud that loomed over the land. But it was not the thunder of storms that I heard, it was the thunder of battle, the meeting of shields as two great armies charged into each other. I reined Xus in at the top of the rise, his great lungs working like forge bellows as I surveyed the land below.
Tomas had arrayed his forces in the bend of the river, his camp train and tents set up around the base of the giant pillars which had once supported the stone structure that crossed Adallada’s River, long since lost. A makeshift bridge of logs had been erected, wooden braces connecting jagged and broken stone teeth, but it appeared to be a tactically foolish place for Tomas to have set up. Of course that did not matter if, as Tomas and Neander thought, they could not fail to win. Tomas clearly intended to make it seem like he had won the old way, his opponent falling on the battlefield. He would claim he had felled Rufra himself and that he had been chosen by the dead gods. With the priests and the Landsmen to support his story that was how it would be remembered. No doubt after the battle Crast would quietly be disposed of, his body fed to the pigs and his involvement never mentioned. Even without Crast’s intervention Tomas still had a far bigger army than Rufra’s, his heavy cavalry swollen to half again as many by the Landsmen, and in the melee where the two armies met I saw a phalanx of green armour where more Landsmen fought. Tomas was stationed behind his troops, well out of bowshot, watching the fight, and my heart skipped a beat, a shard of hate interrupting the flow of blood as I recognised the colourful masked figure by him as Neander.
Aydor led Rufra’s right against a collection of the Tired Lands’ blessed. I counted many flags but was too far away to make out the devices, but there was no disguising the huge form of the man who would have been king as he laid about himself with my warhammer. There was a terrible joy in Aydor’s movements, in his fury. Beside him I could just make out Captain Thian, methodical and careful, but Aydor had no care. He seemed born to the melee, and every swing of his hammer made a corpse. The sun glinted on his shoulderguards and from the enamel on his helmet – it seemed vanity and pride had not left him and he had dressed like a king to go into battle. I found myself wishing for a blade to find him, to create one problem less for Rufra. On Rufra’s left, Danfoth and the followers of Arnst faced the Landsmen. Although Danfoth’s people were badly equipped and organised, there were a lot of them and they fought as a huge, seething mass of black cloth. Where they did not have weapons, clawing hands pulled at shields, bodies offered themselves to the blade so those behind them could get at their opponents. In the centre was Rufra in his silver armour, the flying lizard standard snapping in the wind, right in the thick of the battle. I searched for Nywulf, finding him still alive and at Rufra’s side, guarding the king’s right, holding the bonemount aloft, while Gabran the Smith guarded the king’s left.
Behind Rufra’s infantry stood his archers, led by Bediri Outlander, dressed in the savage finery of the far borders. At their rear were Rufra’s mount archers, led by Boros, and on the far left, furthest from me, stood the heavy cavalry on their mounts with Cearis at their head, calmly waiting for their moment.
Abruptly, and as if at some pre-agreed signal, the two sides stepped back, retreating from each other and leaving a tideline of corpses. Most of the dead on Rufra’s side were in the black rags of Arnst’s followers, while Tomas’s dead wore armour of varying types. It was difficult to tell who, if anyone, had the advantage, and it did not appear the battle had been joined for more than an hour or so. I scanned the ranks of Rufra’s army for Crast but could not see him, so turned my attention to the tents of the baggage train, hoping to find him where he could be more easily intercepted. Again I saw nothing.
A roar went up from Rufra’s troops, dragging my attention back to the battlefield. Something had happened on Tomas’s left flank and his withdrawal was in disarray, the wall of shields had fragmented. Rufra was quick to take advantage. Coloured flags were raised from his position, giving out orders. Bediri Outlander lifted an arm and a hail of arrows flew from the archers in Rufra’s rear ranks, reaching for the sky as if desperate to escape before vanishing against the dark clouds of the looming Birthstorm, then falling, landing to a chorus of screams. Behind the arrows came Cearis ap Vythr and her heavy cavalry, galloping round the rear of Rufra’s army to take advantage of Tomas’s disarray. Even from my vantage point on the hill it felt like the ground was vibrating beneath me as her mounts thundered forward, gilded antlers down, Riders’ spears at the ready to smash into Tomas’s troops.
The Landsmen cavalry counter-charged, riding between the two armies. It was a brave thing to do as it left their flanks open to spears, and many were thrown from Rufra’s side. I saw green Riders fall, but still they charged on, and I braced myself for the clash. But Cearis was no fool. She veered her Riders away. Her cavalry was too valuable, and one on one with Tomas and the Landsmen she knew that, at best, she would take heavy losses, and it was too early in the battle for Rufra to have his cavalry crippled. Behind Cearis thundered Boros with his lightly armoured mount archers, and now it was the turn of the Landsmen to veer away, and though they rode back to their lines at full gallop they still lost men to Boros’s archers before a hastily assembled wall of shields and spears sent them cantering back to Rufra’s lines.
With my knees I urged Xus forward and down into Rufra’s baggage camp, all the time looking for signs of Crast but seeing nothing. Thunder rumbled, this time it was from th
e Birthstorm, and a fitful rain spattered down.
I spotted Crast.
He had removed his helmet, the better to be recognised, and was at the very rear of Rufra’s lines. As the mettle-chanters started their howling for another round of fighting he pushed his way forward diagonally from behind Aydor’s position to Rufra at the centre. I slid from Xus, running for the rear of Rufra’s lines as the horns sounded and his army moved forward to attack again.
Another rumble of thunder was echoed by the crack of shields meeting, and the air filled with howling as the two armies released their aggression and fear. More troops joined the fray from behind me, adding their weight to the push against Tomas’s forces and trapping my arms against the back of the woman in front of me. My legs were barely able to move, I was held helpless by the crush of bodies while danger advanced on my friend. It seemed I was mocked by fate, to be thrown into a seething crowd to save Rufra twice in almost as many days. All my life I had done my best to avoid crowds. I had been raised to live the lonely life of the assassin and to be enclosed by shifting masses of people was alien to me. But Rufra ruled through his people. He went to them and moved among them, and where he went danger followed and so I must go also. No matter how many people stood between us, I would get to him and I would defend him. Maybe this was not mockery, maybe fate simply forced me to acknowledge the direction in which my life headed.
“Let me through!” I shouted, and I cursed the leash cut into my chest. Had I waited just a little longer before I let my master cut me, there would have been no need for me to find myself stuck in a seething mass of men and woman once more. I could have used the magic to make myself heard. “I am Rufra’s champion. Let me through!” But I was not the only one shouting, and by no means the loudest voice. The sensorama of battle was overwhelming – my nose filled with the stink of rust and rancid fat, open bowels and death, mud churned by feet and rain – and no one paid any attention to one more screaming warrior. I was smaller than most around me and even pushing myself up on my toes could barely see above the crowd. My club foot ached, hampering me, making it harder for me to get purchase on the churned ground. I pulled off my helmet, hoping someone would recognise my face, but no one was looking behind.
Arrows sailed down from above and the man to my right groaned, a shaft sprouting from the top of his head. I pushed his limp body aside, squeezing into the space he had left, forcing my way forward with my elbows, but the going was slow. I pulled myself up onto tiptoe again. Freezing rain lashed the heaving mass and just as quickly stopped. Was that Crast? Ahead of me? And past him could I see Rufra?
Yes!
It was Crast, and he was also having trouble getting forward, but his red hair made him far easier to recognise, and people moved aside when they saw him. He glanced over his shoulder and I saw alarm on his face as he recognised me. He fought his way forward with even more urgency.
I was shouting again, my voice now hoarse, and half the time I choked on my words. The one time my club foot would have helped, marking me out as Rufra’s champion, no one could see my feet for the crush of people.
“Crast! Stop! Crast, you must stop,” but he either could not hear me or did not care so I started calling to those around me. “You must stop Crast! He will kill the king!” But my words were lost. The sky was roaring with the pangs of the Birthstorm: thunder crashed and hail swept the battlefield, bouncing off the armour of the woman in front of me and stinging my eyes. All my senses were assailed as I fought my way forward through a sea of angry faces.
Crast!
There!
No, there!
At one point he was just ahead of me, and I made a desperate grab for his copper hair, falling backwards and almost going under the boots of those around me. Only a quick and unseen hand saved me and then the press of bodies pulled me away from Crast once more. I struggled, pushed forward and the currents within the tide of troops pulled me back towards my friend, I could see Rufra’s back, the tiny plates of his armour sparkling with droplets of water. There was blood on his gauntlets, his sword arm rose and fell. By him was Nywulf, working methodically with a stabsword in his right hand and somehow holding the bonemount and his shield in his left, all their concentration to the front. Behind them Crast drew his blade and – as if fate required a stage for treachery – a gap opened around them.
Crast stood alone.
Rufra and Nywulf before him, unaware of the blade at their back.
And Girton Club-Foot – assassin, sorcerer, king’s champion – was too far away to do anything. I could not even throw my blade because of the crush of men and women around me. Despite the thronging soldiers I was just as alone as Crast. Only he and I knew what he intended and only he and I knew I was about to fail to save my king and friend.
“Nywulf!” I said it as the Whisper-that-Flies-to-the-Ear, more in hope than anything, but the magic was not there, the sigil carved into my chest contracted. I found a wall of grey within that allowed no access to the black sea beyond and a searing pain shot through me, making me think I had been hit by one of the arrows that had been falling from the sky. A scream. As if in answer to my thought an arrow had pierced the shoulder of the man next to me, a mortal wound that had punctured his lung and would drown him in his own blood. He looked at me, as if confused that Xus had chosen him for his dark palace. The soldier’s mouth opened, he coughed up blood and I remembered something my master had said, something Areth had said, something terrible I had done. The magic is in all of us. I grabbed the hand of the dying man, felt his life force as a sliver of silver, twisting and spinning against the darkness of Xus’s keep as it swiftly ebbed. Some understanding passed between us. I saw a knowing in his eyes, and an agreement. His life was done, he knew it, but he would gladly give me what was left of it for his king. I grabbed the tail of his life, that small vanishing thread, and I used it to create the smallest of magics.
Then I spoke again.
The Whisper-that-Flies-to-the-Ear.
“Nywulf!”
He turned.
Saw Crast.
Saw the blade.
Saw me.
Understood.
The pain of Crast’s betrayal was a scar on his face – and the anger a fire. All seemed to happen in slow motion. Nywulf pulled the man next to him across so his shield filled the position in the wall he had held and then pushed Rufra out of the path of the blade aimed at his back. Too slow! It plunged into Rufra’s side and he fell back, blood gushing from him as Crast pulled the stabsword out to strike again. Crast’s face was every bit as fanatical as Darvin’s had been. Like Darvin he knew he was lost, but he had chosen to focus entirely on the death of Rufra. His blade came down again. Nywulf moved but Crast had been trained by Nywulf, trained by me. As Nywulf lifted his blade, he realised he would not be quick enough. He dropped his weapon and stepped in front of Crast’s blade, letting it carve into his chest rather than his king’s.
With a heave and a final shove of my elbows, I was through, my blade in my hand. I thrust it into Crast’s back. It was a killing blow, through his ribs and into his heart. I tossed Crast to one side as Nywulf collapsed, the bonemount falling, and though I longed to catch the old warrior it was the bonemount I grabbed. To let it fall was to signal defeat. The troops around me reeled as they realised what had happened, and I felt the line start to waver. Bending, I used all my strength to pull Rufra to his feet. He hissed in pain. Once more I had to perform for a crowd. I must. My throat, raw from shouting, felt like I had been swallowing soured land. I gathered myself, coughed, spat on the ground and forced volume into my voice.
“The king lives!” A coughing fit. I fought to recover my voice. “The king is wounded but he lives!” I shouted it as loud as I could. A roar went up from the troops around us, taking up my cry.
“The king lives!”
I passed the bonemount to Gabran, and then Rufra, Nywulf and I were pulled away from the front line and I heard a second cry go up: “For the king! For Rufra!”<
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Horns sounded from Tomas’s lines and they pressed their attack. The whole of Rufra’s army was being forced back as we passed through it. All around went up shouts of “Hold! Hold!” but as Rufra and Nywulf were lain behind the lines I could feel panic and uncertainty in the air. Rufra could not hide the blood gushing from his side, and to see a warrior as feared as Nywulf brought down was the sort of shock that could lead to an army breaking.
A hand grabbed at the hem of my armour, pulling on it, and I turned. Nywulf beckoned and I knelt. He pulled me close, his face before mine. Blood everywhere: blood on my armour, blood on his hand, blood on his teeth as he tried to speak. With the last of his strength he hauled me even closer.
“Protect him,” he said, and then let go, his life gone.
Rufra was stricken, staring from where he lay in the filth at the rear of his army’s lines, his own pain forgotten.
“Nywulf,” he said simply.
“Gone,” I said.
“It is Goldenson Copse,” he said, his voice dead. “It is my curse to lose here.”
“No!” I crawled across the mud, my words fierce. “Nywulf gave his life to save yours, and you must not give up. How badly are you hurt?”
Tarris pushed me away, pulling at Rufra’s armour to get at the wound. “Too badly to fight, Girton Club-Foot. Get him to my tent,” he said to his acolytes. For a moment I saw gratitude on Rufra’s face, as if he was glad of an excuse to walk away, to hide in the healer’s tent, and I thought Nywulf’s death had broken him.Then he looked to me. Closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
“No.” Rufra’s voice was strong, though filled with pain. “Bring my mount.”
“King Rufra,” began Tarris, “you cannot fight. If I do not treat the wound you will die.”
“If I vanish from the fight we all die,” he said. His troops were being forced further and further back, the rear ranks beginning to encroach on the baggage train. Balance, his mount, was brought, and with her came Xus, trotting happily by her side.
