‘How far do we have to go?’ asked the Queen.
‘Eighteen miles,’ replied the scout. ‘But the road is not easy.’
The Queen turned to Colonel Laville.
‘Can we do it? Can we reach Sophia before the Possessed?’
The Colonel’s eyes narrowed at the challenge. A further eighteen miles over difficult terrain would not be easy. And at the end of it they would be required to fight a battle. But the Legion spent its time training for such challenges and so Colonel Laville gave the Queen a decisive nod.
‘Then let us be about it,’ she said.
With that she urged her black stallion forward, the fifty knights of her personal guard falling in behind her. She ignored the penetrating gaze of Aurelian Cruz who was beginning to suspect that she intended to lead the charge into battle herself.
‘Don’t be absurd,’ she had told him but Aurelian was far from convinced.
Ever since the young Chevalier had taken up his post as military advisor, the Queen had taken her lessons with deadly seriousness. She could ride as well as any man and was skilled with lance, sword and bow. She might not have the brute strength of a trained soldier but she had the soul of a knight. Her armour bore all the hallmarks of the Missaglias workshop and Aurelian could not help thinking that she intended to put it to the test.
*
Tyramimus’s heart was still beating rapidly but his face was flushed with the exhilaration of victory. He felt no pain as the royal surgeon stitched up the gash on his forehead. The day was theirs.
Cutting the catgut thread with a small knife, the surgeon pressed a turmeric dressing to his scalp and bound it before fixing the bandage with an expert knot. The king gave him a nod of thanks and rose to calm his horse, which stood trembling at the edge of the battlefield, the fresh scent of carnage thick in its nostrils. The animal’s legs bore numerous cuts and a flap of skin hung from its right shoulder but still it gave a snort of recognition as the King laid a hand on its sweat-soaked neck. The battle was won but the injured animal offered visible evidence of the challenge they had overcome.
Tyramimus had fought in several battles but never against the Possessed and their heedless ferocity had come as a brutal shock. The Acheronian soldiers were accustomed to armies that fought in formation, armies whose morale could be broken, but not the Possessed. Injury only drove them to greater heights of fury and many an Acheronian soldier had died by underestimating what it took to put one of the Possessed down.
Even the battle mage’s dragon had been injured and would need several hours of healing before it was able to fly again. But finally it was over. The remaining Possessed were being slaughtered and a fire was raging over the demon’s corpse, an attempt, the men said, to prevent its hateful spirit from returning to the world.
His heart swelled with pride, but as the lust of battle faded away Tyramimus began to reflect on what it had taken to defeat this enemy. His army had outnumbered the Possessed and still it had taken all their strength to prevail. For the first time the Acheronian king had some insight into what the other kingdoms had been facing and the realisation had a sobering effect. He had called them weak because of the territory they had ceded to the Possessed, but they had been fighting this enemy for decades and now he wondered that anything of Illicia or Beltane remained at all.
Before he could dwell on such matters any further his attention was drawn by one of his officers.
‘My Lord,’ said the man, pointing towards the northwest slope of the valley. ‘The scout from Sophia has returned.’
Wiping the residue of blood from his left eye Tyramimus stepped forward as the rider approached. The man’s face was white with shock at the state of the king’s army.
‘What news from Sophia?’ asked Tyramimus, irritated by the man’s reaction. ‘Has the Queen reached the city?’
Drawing his eyes away from the battlefield the man shook his head.
‘No, my Lord. The last reports suggested she was still a day’s ride away.’
‘But she will get there before the Possessed?’ pressed Tyramimus.
‘If she can reach the city before sunset,’ said the scout. ‘But her arrival will be in vain.’
‘Nonsense, man!’ said Tyramimus. ‘She leads the Legion du Trône. And the garrison at Sophia will surely help.’
‘But the Possessed army, my Lord.’
‘What of it?’ snapped Tyramimus. ‘We have dealt with the larger of the two armies. She has six thousand elite troops to deal with the smaller force.’
The man’s face blanched and Tyramimus was filled with a horrible sense of foreboding.
‘My Lord,’ said the scout and he paused to wet his lips. ‘The Possessed armies must have grown on their passage through Valentia. The army you defeated here was the smaller of the two.’
Tyramimus felt the earth shift beneath his feet as he turned to the northwest. Twenty miles in that direction lay the Navarian capital of Sophia, a city which, despite its claims of independence, he considered to be his own. He had thought the city would be safe; that he had faced the greater danger in confronting the Possessed army that ventured south. Now he learned that he was wrong.
Shame surged through the king’s heart, shame and bitter regret. Thoughts whirling he turned away, casting his eyes over the army that was now resting on the slopes of the valley. Some searched the battlefield for any who might still be alive, while the officers organised work parties to bury the dead.
Tyramimus glanced at the sky before turning back to the northwest. His troops were exhausted but there was still the best part of an hour before midday.
‘Twenty miles,’ he thought.
‘If she can reach the city before sunset,’ the scout had said.
His jaw clenched with grim resolve, King Tyramimus turned to a nearby officer.
‘Give the signal for the army to fall in and prepare to march.’
‘But the men are exhausted, my Lord. They need time to recover.’
‘They are soldiers of Acheron!’ bellowed Tyramimus. ‘They will do what is required of them! And right now their king requires them to march.’
‘To where?’
‘To Sophia,’ said King Tyramimus. ‘To the aid of Queen Catherine of Wrath.’
*
The Queen looked down upon the beautiful city of Sophia and her heart almost quailed in despair. The walled city sat at the head of a broad valley, its terraced streets rising steeply to the magnificent Hall of Stars and the pointed towers of the Consul’s Palace. To the west the sun was setting, its warm light contrasting starkly with the black clouds of a storm that was approaching from the west. The city glowed in a nimbus of golden light but a shadow on the land mirrored the dark clouds in the sky and like the weather it too was steadily encroaching upon the city. The vanguard of the Possessed was less than a mile from the city walls.
But for the sound of jangling tack and the sporadic whinnying of nervous horses the Queen’s army stood in silence until Colonel Laville offered a perfect example of military pragmatism.
‘Their numbers have grown,’ was all he said.
The Queen did not answer. She was trying to calm her breathing, which was suddenly too shallow, too short. The Possessed army was far larger than they had expected and suddenly the mighty Legion du Trône seemed small and inadequate.
Apart from the occasional captured warrior this was the first time the Queen had laid eyes on the Possessed and the sight of it filled her with dread. They moved with horrible certainty, confident that nothing could come between them and the prize of sixty thousand souls.
‘It is not too late to withdraw.’
Colonel Laville was required to point out strategic options but the Queen could hear the reluctance in his voice. Even outnumbered as they were, the commander of the Legion was ready to face the enemy. His courage shamed the Queen.
‘We could retreat to Ruaen,’ said another of her officers. ‘Call in reinforcements and make a new stand there.’
<
br /> The prospect of retreating offered an overwhelming sense of relief and the Queen was on the brink of giving the order. But then her thoughts returned to the people of Sophia. The mothers and daughters, the fathers and sons, the soldiers and city officials who knew there was nothing they could do to save their city. The garrison numbered barely a thousand while a Ferocian army of more than ten thousand moved towards the city.
She could retreat and gather a larger army at Ruaen. Perhaps that would be the prudent thing to do. Temptation tugged at the Queen like a physical force. It would be so easy to give in. But she was the daughter of King Philip the Commoner. She could no more abandon the people of Sophia than a mother her child.
As if in a dream the Queen urged Souverain forward and every man in the Legion felt a terrible conflict in their hearts, the urge to follow her into battle vying with the instinct to protect their Queen. She was a woman like, their sisters and wives, but she was also their Commander In Chief.
Urging her mount a few lengths forward the Queen drew her sword and the air was filled with a symphony of steel as six thousand knights drew theirs in turn. Trained war horses shifted, stamped and snorted as they recognised the tension that comes before a charge.
The Queen’s heart was filled with a terrible fear and she could not shake off the feeling that the enemy was coming for her alone. The Possessed were now so close that she could see the great shape of the demon moving in their midst. The fear was so strong that it was all she could do not to break down and cry but then she felt another presence beside her. It was a presence she had known for many years and yet she had never really appreciated just how strong it was.
‘It knows I’m here,’ she said, her eyes fearful beneath the raised visor of her helm.
‘That’s just the way it feels,’ said Aurelian. ‘It knows we are at our weakest when we think only of ourselves.’
The Queen gave a barely discernible nod. If that was the case then she had an entire nation of souls that could come to her aid. She would think of all those she loved, and one in particular, one who had faced this fear countless times. Through the leather of her gauntlet the Queen traced the horse-head buckle on the belt about her waist. She would think of her Chevalier and try to match the courage he had shown throughout the years.
‘Leave the demon to me and Dwimervane,’ said Aurelian and the Queen shuddered at the thought of facing such a foe.
‘We need to hit them hard,’ said Colonel Laville. ‘Make the most of our heavy cavalry.’
The Queen gave a nod of agreement.
‘If you’re quick you could hit them while they’re still on the flood plain.’
‘And we could form a defensive line along the edge of the higher ground,’ said Aurelian, indicating a rise in the land that followed the curving edge of the flood plain.
‘That would make it difficult for them to encircle us, but that won’t stop the vanguard from reaching the city,’ said Colonel Laville.
‘Leave the vanguard to me,’ said the Queen.
Colonel Laville was about to object but the Queen cut him off.
‘Captain Ney. Captain Geraldi,’ she called out. ‘You will ride with me to secure the city walls.’
The two captains bowed their heads. Each of them led a squadron of a hundred knights. Even with the Queen’s honour guard that would still leave them outnumbered more than four-to-one, but the Queen knew she could ask for no more. Colonel Laville would need every possible sword and spear if he were to stop the main body of the Possessed.
Without risking a look in Aurelian’s direction she addressed Colonel Laville.
‘May the light shine upon your blades.’
‘And yours,’ said the colonel and they could all hear the strain in his voice.
As the Queen turned her horse towards the city Aurelian looked over to Dusaule.
‘Go with her,’ he said with a simple jerk of his chin.
Dusaule’s eyes were dark and unreadable but he dipped his head in acknowledgement. Ever since the night of Falco’s summoning he had avoided all contact with Dwimervane, but now he turned to face the dragon. Aurelian knew she did not blame the silent Crofter for what he had done but Dusaule was too consumed by guilt and grief to see it. With a barely discernible bow he lowered his eyes and turned to follow the Queen.
Aurelian watched as she began her descent towards the city while Colonel Laville led the rest of the army to engage the main body of the Possessed. The heavy cavalry went ahead of the rest. If they timed it right they could strike a heavy blow before the demon came to the fore. Once that happened it would be down to himself and Dwimervane to stop it.
The old battle mage felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle upon his shoulders but he was ready for it. He had languished too long in the cosy backwaters of Wrath. One arm be-damned, this was where he belonged, facing down the enemy on the battlefields of the world.
Sensing his determination Dwimervane let out a low growl as the Legion began its advance. No time now to think about the Queen. The main body of Ferocian troops lay before them plus a demon that could render even the Legion’s courage obsolete. But Aurelian had spent many years protecting soldiers from such fear and despite his damaged body his faith was as strong as ever.
Holding the Legion safe within his grasp he went with the army as they moved to engage the Possessed.
*
Cantering down the slope the Queen’s mind was retreating to a place that all soldiers must find if they are to face the spectre of death. As the vanguard of the Possessed closed on the city she raised her sword. She did not have the booming voice of a parade ground sergeant but still her words rose above the drumming of hooves as she raised the tempo of their charge.
‘For Navaria!’ she cried but the Knights of Wrath had a war cry of their own.
‘For the Queen!’ they bellowed and for all her fear, the Queen’s heart soared as she led her brothers into battle.
*
On the walls of the city the people of Sophia looked up in disbelief as the Queen’s army appeared on the hillside. Until now they had thought themselves lost to the black army approaching from the east. Now they wept as they watched the Queen herself riding to their aid. It was some small mercy that only the oldest soldiers of the city could see that even her great heart might not be enough to save them.
93
The Battle of Navaria
Into the valley of Sophia rode the Queen of Wrath, her knights strung out beside her in a thundering wall of steel. For a moment all her thoughts were drowned out by the overwhelming sound of hoof beats. Raised up in her stirrups the Queen crouched low over Souverain’s back, her sword arm pointing down and back, the reins in her shield hand gripping the pommel of her saddle for balance.
Now, just two hundred yards from the Possessed, they were still one beat short of full attack speed but the Queen would hold back that final burst of acceleration until the last possible moment. Already the ground beneath her swept past in a blur and she felt almost as if she were flying. The wind streamed through the slits in her helm, cooling the sheen of sweat on her face. Her breath seemed to ebb and flow in slow motion, the rhythm of her horse a rolling cadence rather than the headlong charge that it actually was, the world drawing a breath before it was plunged to chaos.
To her right was the rising outline of the city, the towers glowing in the light of the evening sun. Away to her left there was a great looming shadow, the main body of the Ferocian force. And straight ahead, the vanguard of the Possessed, a mass of Sciritae and Kardakae that still seemed intent on capturing the city. They were almost at the walls and the first bestiarum was closing rapidly on the gate. So massive was the bison like creature that Sophia’s gate must surely fail and then the Possessed would flood the streets of the city. The knights had just moments to strike before it was too late.
‘EN VÉRITÉ!’ cried the Queen and two hundred and fifty war horses leapt forward anew as they raised their charge to the full.
Only now did the Possessed seem to notice them and with disturbing single-mindedness they swung about to meet the new threat storming down the hill. Many of the Possessed ran towards the oncoming knights but most formed up into deep ranks, close packed and braced for the powerful attack. It was clear that they had some idea of the damage such a cavalry charge could inflict.
The second bestiarum also noticed the Queen’s charge and its clawed feet threw up clods of earth as it changed its course to drive headlong at the approaching horses. However, the first bestiarum was too intent on the gate to notice anything else and the Queen muttered a curse as the beast held to its course.
Through the restricted vision of her helm she caught only fleeting glimpses of the black shape powering towards the gate. A volley of arrows shot down from the walls as the city’s defenders tried to stop it but the defence was poorly co-ordinated and ineffective and the beast slammed into the gate with a boom that reverberated across the field.
Even in the midst of her charge the Queen flinched at the sound, but there was no time to see if the gates of Sophia had held. The remaining distance to the Possessed had closed in a rush and she braced herself for the imminent impact.
More than a hundred Sciritae were streaming towards them but the Knights of Wrath simply rode them down and they disappeared beneath a wall of churning hooves. The Queen saw one Possessed warrior raise its sword to attack her but a twitch of her reins and the Sciritae was smashed aside by the steel peytral on Souverain’s chest. Black blood spattered the Queen’s armour but any thoughts of disgust were swept away as they struck the main body of the vanguard.
For an instant the Queen marked the centre of a bristling line of spears and then the world seemed to explode in a deafening crunch of steel and mangled flesh. Their charge was a savage wave of death and the Knights of Wrath rode it deep into the Possessed. Horses screamed and lances splintered but the wave rolled on and the Queen went with it. Her legs felt battered and bruised from all the glancing blows and collisions. Three times she was almost unhorsed, but somehow she held on and as the charge finally ground to halt she struggled to get her bearings in the maelstrom that raged around her.
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