Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  She looked down at the Ruskalder army. The narrowness of the gate had funneled them into a spear point thrusting into Aurilien’s side, relentlessly driven home by the mass of warriors behind it. The sight made her chest ache. They could not be allowed to take the city. She wouldn’t let them do it. She looked out over the army, noting the position of the banners. The seven-fingered hand was still gone. Hrovald’s banner…sweet heaven, there it was, the howling crag-wolf of Ruskald, not a hundred feet from the gate. And there was Hrovald, sitting his horse, urging his men forward with great slashes of his sword. There was a clear space some five feet around him as a result. At the rate his men were going, he’d be inside in less than the half hour Haverson had predicted they’d need.

  She came back down the stairs and mounted. “We will distract them,” she said to Haverson, and rode off toward the west gate, thinking furiously. If she could get Hrovald’s attention…he no doubt hated her enough she could be a distraction all by herself, but would that stop the army? They might not even be able to get out, if Seven-Fingers still had his army surrounding the gate. The Tremontanan Army and the Kirkellan were so close, they just needed a little more time….

  The Ruskalder were still at the gate, though they’d stopped pounding and had started singing a war song that seemed to have a hundred verses, each one about a different part of the body the Ruskalder would cut off or crush or maim in some way. Since they were singing in Ruskeldin, the Tremontanan soldiers listened in curious ignorance, and the Kirkellan just rolled their eyes. “The Ruskalder are so childish,” Revalan said when Imogen drew up beside him.

  “We’ve got to get out of here to harass the Ruskalder army again,” she said. “If we can take the pressure off…the Tremontanan Army is so close, they just….” She fell silent.

  “What good can we do? There’s only sixty-five of us left,” Dorenna said.

  “There’s no way the whole Ruskalder army can get inside the city before the Tremontanans get here. They’ll be crushed against the city wall, the more so because they still have no idea the Tremontanan Army is coming,” said Kallum.

  “Maybe they should,” Imogen said, an idea forming.

  “Should what?”

  “Know the Army’s on their heels.” Imogen slid down again—her side was really starting to hurt now—and went slowly up the stairs. The jeering redoubled when the Ruskalder saw her on the wall, but she ignored them and looked off into the distance, where the oncoming Army was now clearly visible. “Look!” she shouted at the Tremontanan soldiers nearby. “The Army is on its way! They’ll be here in minutes. Tell everyone!” She waved and shouted and jumped, once, before realizing it was a bad idea. The soldiers near her caught the idea and ran with it, jumping and shouting and waving and pointing until the soldiers on the other side of the gate joined in. It didn’t take long for the Ruskalder to turn and look at what had gotten the defenders so excited. Then the seven-fingered banner dipped and wheeled, and the chief cursed at his men and rode off toward the main body of the Ruskalder army, the warriors following at a run.

  Imogen came down the stairs and stood, breathing heavily, leaning with her hand on Victory’s flank for support. “We can ride out again.”

  “What was the point of that?” Revalan asked.

  “They’ll spread the word that the Tremontanan Army is on its way. The Ruskalder will have to turn and prepare to fight, or at least most of them will. That means fewer people trying to get in the main gate, which will ease the burden on the defenders. Mount up, riders, and let’s chase some Ruskalder!”

  “You’re staying,” Areli said when Imogen tried to follow her own order. “You’ve already exerted yourself too far.”

  “I swear I won’t enter the fighting. I just can’t bear to be left behind, Areli, you should understand that.”

  Areli glared at her. Dorenna said, “If you fall, one of us is going to have to carry you back, and if that someone is me, I’m going to put a few more holes in you just for spite.”

  “Understood.” Imogen pulled herself into the saddle, carefully not grimacing, since Areli and Dorenna were both still watching her. “Captain, I think you must bar this gate after us and go to help them at the main door. They are not doing well.”

  “I don’t think we should leave our post,” the captain said, though the gleam in his eye told her he wished otherwise.

  “If you do not, then I think perhaps this post will not matter.”

  The captain’s lips twitched. “You could make it an order.”

  “I am not your superior.”

  “Ma’am, after the day we’ve had, I think you’ve earned the right to give orders.”

  Imogen wasn’t sure it worked that way, but she said, “Then I order you to help the soldiers at the gate.” If nothing goes wrong, neither of us will be in trouble. Though, come to think on it, if things do go wrong, no one will be around to get either of us in trouble.

  She led the diminished company through the gates and around the curve of the city wall as before. Ahead of them, the seven-fingered banner made straight for the army and another one of the banners, this one of a fist wielding a sword point-down as if stabbing his enemy’s back. Imogen held up a hand. “Let’s watch for a bit.”

  Ripples passed through the army. The first spread outward from the seven-fingered banner, as if it were a stone dropped into a pool. The second ripple began at the farthest edge of the Ruskalder army and spread, more slowly, toward the city wall. Warriors turned to face the new threat, which now seemed only minutes away. And a third ripple arose, trailing another banner that moved from near the gate to the rear, or now the front, of the army. Hrovald. Imogen’s heart raced. “Go, keep them busy until the army arrives,” she said, and watched with impatience as her riders darted away.

  The Ruskalder were waiting for them. This time, riders engaged the enemy and had to pull away quickly or be overcome. Some Kirkellan were overcome, their horses slaughtered as they themselves fell. Imogen’s hands clenched so hard into fists her nails cut deep into her palms. She had to get closer. Just a little, not close enough to be drawn into the fighting. She might need to pull someone out, heaven forbid. Maybe a few feet closer.

  Then she saw Revalan’s Rohrnan founder, saw Revalan fling up his hands as he disappeared into a mass of Ruskalder warriors, saw Dorenna, screaming, launch herself and Rapier into the mob, and without a conscious decision Imogen kicked Victory into a gallop. Dorenna was laying about her with sword and knife, forcing the Ruskalder back, and Imogen rode in to where Rohrnan lay unmoving and Revalan lay beside his horse, his chest a gory mess, his eyes open and sightless. Imogen heard herself screaming at Dorenna to get clear, used Victory’s mass to shove her way past two Ruskalder to grab her friend’s reins. She nearly lost her head when Dorenna turned on her before realizing who it was. Dorenna only needed one look from Imogen to know what had happened. Together, they fought their way clear of the mob and rode some distance away, silent, then without another glance Dorenna rode back toward the battle. Imogen was too numb to cry. Later. We’ll mourn later.

  The seven-fingered banner dipped, steadied, then dipped lower and finally fell. The Kirkellan raised a shout that despite her sorrow warmed Imogen’s heart. One chief gone; that left several hundred Ruskalder warriors without anyone to give them orders. If only they could do the same with Hrovald’s banner.

  She looked around to see where it was. There, near the edge of the army, moving back and forth to follow the pacing Hrovald on his undeserved Kirkellan mount. He was right there and not a single Kirkellan warrior was nearby. Again without thinking Imogen rode in his direction, staying well clear of the army and moving quickly to discourage anyone who might see her as the easy target she was. Hrovald turned to watch her as she rode by, close enough that she could see his face contort with fury when he realized who she was. He viciously slammed his heels into his mount’s sides, shouting something at his warriors she couldn’t make out, and rode directly at her.

  C
hapter Thirty-Three

  Stunned, she at first didn’t realize no one was riding out after him. She thought, That’s interesting, I wonder if he wants to come to terms, then realized he was bearing down on her with his sword upraised. She nudged Victory into a gallop and steered her wide of the army. Hrovald changed his course to follow her. Of course he wasn’t interested in peace. He wanted her dead.

  His horse was gaining on Victory. She didn’t have time to lead him in the direction of the tiermathas; she needed to find a place to stand and face him. She looked around and saw the fields extending in every direction, toward the army, toward the woods, toward the city. This is as good a place as any. She wheeled, drew her saber, screamed a battle cry, and charged.

  Their blades met with an arm-numbing clash, and Imogen rocked back in her saddle and barely recovered before Hrovald swung at her again.

  “Greetings, wife,” he said, grinning at her.

  Imogen bared her teeth at him. “Don’t you remember? I divorced you.”

  “Only husbands can divorce wives.” He parried a stroke and returned a blow that rattled Imogen’s teeth.

  “Does your first wife know that?” She drew in a breath and parried his blow. “Why would you want a wife as unwomanly and violent—” this with a jaw-cracking blow of her own—“as I am?”

  “I’m going to make you submit—” he gasped for breath— “like a good Ruskalder woman.”

  He slashed at her face, and she ducked, then thrust at his navel. Her side throbbed wetly with what she hoped was sweat.

  “I am Kirkellan, and a warrior. We do not submit.” Imogen parried, struck, parried again, and swung a great chopping stroke at the man’s head. “And let me tell you—“ she thrust at his stomach— “what I told the last man you sent after me.” She swung at his head. “Until you win, just—shut—up.”

  They went silent, then, no wasted breath, the only sounds the block and parry and thrust of combat. Imogen wiped sweat away from her forehead, a momentary inattention that got her a shallow slice on her left biceps. Her side was definitely bleeding now. Jeffrey was going to kill her when he saw her. No. No thinking of him.

  Hrovald’s gaze flicked to her side, and his grin broadened. “I’m not the first one to try to gut you,” he said. He thrust at her side and Imogen barely deflected the blow. She turned to put her injured side away from Hrovald and took another cut across the shoulder. “Weak, like any woman,” he snarled.

  Imogen thrust for Hrovald’s stomach; he deflected it poorly, and her saber ran deep into his thigh. “Good thing I’m a weak woman or that would really have hurt,” she said, making Hrovald redouble his efforts, ignoring the blood his trousers were soaking up. Flecks of foam speckled the corners of his lips, and his eyes were so wide Imogen could see white all around his dark irises. He screamed profanities at her until he was hoarse, but showed no sign of weakening.

  Imogen felt drained. She knew she was losing blood, though her side was numb. Her vision was blurry and her arm hurt from blocking Hrovald’s mad swings. She was going to tire first, and then it would be over. She wished she knew how close the Tremontanan Army was. She just had to keep him occupied until the Army came, and then they could take over. Her exhausted arm was parrying and striking on its own. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could leave it here to finish the fight and I could go have a nap somewhere else?

  She gave Victory a signal and Victory reared up and slashed at Hrovald’s mount with her iron-shod hooves. Hrovald’s horse squealed and danced back a few steps, and Hrovald’s next swing connected with nothing but air. Imogen, breathing heavily, maneuvered Victory out of the way and lowered her weapon to a guard position. “Pity you don’t know how to make that horse a weapon,” she said.

  Hrovald screamed and rode at her; Victory sidestepped and Imogen swung hard at Hrovald’s back. The blow glanced off his armor, and in her weakness she fumbled and nearly dropped her saber. Then Victory screamed in pain, a long high sound that cut to Imogen’s heart as surely as Hrovald’s sword might. Her rear legs buckled and Imogen tumbled to the ground, landing hard on her backside. High above her, Hrovald grinned and ran his tongue along the flat of his blade, which was dark with blood. “Broke your weapon,” he said.

  Imogen rolled over and found Victory struggling to rise, blood streaming from a deep, broad wound in her flank. “No,” she said, then had to duck and roll again as Hrovald’s sword came whistling toward her head. Victory cried out and thrashed her legs. Imogen came to her feet and, circling, drew Hrovald away from her wounded horse. “Why don’t you come down here and make this an even fight?” she shouted.

  “Fighting women is beneath me,” Hrovald said.

  “Then you don’t mind your entire army knows you can’t kill this one woman? Weakling. Coward. You entered into an agreement with one woman and were humiliated by another. How did you explain it, when your people found you tied up in that little room? Did you lie to them about being overcome by six huge men with axes? Anything to keep their respect—”

  Hrovald roared and leaped off his horse, stumbled, and ran at Imogen, flailing wildly. Even though she’d expected it, even though it had been her plan, the ferocity of his attack surprised her, and she barely deflected the first of his wild swings. If she’d been fresh and unwounded, the fight would have been over in seconds, but her reflexes were slow, her brain muddled, and she fought a defensive battle, parrying and blocking and never seeing an opening to make an attack. He’s going to kill me, she thought, and an image came to mind, not of her tiermatha or Victory or her family or even Jeffrey, but of that lone dark tower rising high above Aurilien. “You can’t have it,” she gasped, and shoved him back, hard, following with a slice across his midsection he had to leap back to avoid.

  Now she pressed the attack, feeling strength rise up like a golden tide within her. She laughed in Hrovald’s face as that power filled her, thrusting at his belly, slashing at his face—

  —but there were too many people now, jostling her, driving her and Hrovald apart. The Army had arrived, and she was caught up in the middle of it. They were both going to be crushed. She had to get free. She saw Hrovald mount his horse and slash at the fighters surrounding them, turning violently in his saddle as he looked for her. Imogen shoved and kicked and struck with her saber, wading after him, deflecting blows and trying not to be drawn into combat. Hrovald continued to flail about, screaming obscenities, and still didn’t see her even when she pressed against his horse’s flank. “Sorry,” she whispered to the animal, and drove her blade deep into its side.

  It reared and twisted to get away, and Hrovald, his grip firmer on his weapon than on his reins, fell to the ground. Without thinking, Imogen raised her saber in a two-handed grip and drove the point of it through Hrovald’s chest and into the ground beneath him with all her failing strength.

  Hrovald gasped, his mad eyes still wide. He reached for the blade with both hands and pulled at it, bloodying his hands on its sharp edges. Imogen, panting, leaned on the hilt so she wouldn’t fall over. “Kill…you…” Hrovald choked out, blood staining his lips, then the light in his eyes died, and his hands fell limp to his sides. Imogen breathed in deeply, watching sparks of light cross her vision. I should say something, she thought, but no words came to mind.

  A blow skittered across the shoulder of her leather armor. She ducked to avoid the next one and tugged hard at her saber to free it. It was stuck fast in the ground. She hadn’t realized she’d had so much strength left. She dodged another blow and punched her attacker in the throat, and when he staggered, choking, she ran. She and Hrovald had been nearly at the edge of the fighting, and she stumbled into clear ground and kept running. She was cold and aching and dizzy, her earlier battle rage evaporated. She turned; no one had followed her. She staggered to a nearby copse of trees and lowered herself to the ground, and let unconsciousness claim her.

  Imogen woke at twilight to the sound of birds in the trees above her. They seemed to be arguing, different voices tak
ing up the fight at top volume. The roots of the tree she lay beneath dug their giant knuckles into her back and neck and, most painfully, her wounded side, which felt as if it had been torn open and filled with molten iron. Her trousers were unpleasantly damp where her buttocks had rested too long on the earth. Standing took several tries and finally the assistance of the tree she’d fallen unconscious next to. She looked around, but found no convenient stick to use as a cane, so she walked, one slow step at a time, away from the copse and toward the battlefield.

  To the south, the city was lit by a thousand lamps, glowing as golden as if struck by the summer sun. The oak and iron gate still sagged, but the wall was empty of attackers and defenders both. No smoke rose above the roofs and towers of Aurilien, no screams drifted on the chilly wind to her ears. They’d won, though where the victors had gone was a mystery. Nothing moved on the battlefield. There were no signs of either army. It was as if ungoverned heaven itself had reached out and swept everyone away, soldiers, warriors, horses and all, leaving nothing but the dead.

  Too many bodies lay where they’d fallen in grotesque poses. Now the battle was over, she found herself regarding them with nausea. She’d been happy enough to kill when she was fighting for her home, but in seeing the result of so much bloodshed she could only think of the waste. If Hrovald had been content to stay at home, if he hadn’t been so driven by pride and a desire to conquer, this field would be empty of everything but grass.

  “Help me,” one of the bodies said. Imogen fell to her knees beside a woman in a green and brown uniform whose face was a mask of blood and whose hand clutched at her stomach. “Water,” the woman added, her voice nearly a whisper, and Imogen patted her sides until she remembered she’d left her flask on Victory’s harness. Victory. Is she even alive? “I’m sorry,” she told the woman.