"I remember that weapon." The wizard pointed to the blade. "That's Jerish's sword." He frowned then added, "What have you done to it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Jerish loved that thing—had a special cloth he kept in his gauntlet that he used to polished it—something of an obsession really. That blade was like a mirror."
"It has seen nine hundred years of use," Hadrian told him and put it away.
"You look nothing like Jerish." Esrahaddon said then paused when he saw the look in Hadrian's face. "What is it?"
"The heir is dead—you know that don't you? Died right here in Ratibor forty years ago."
Esrahaddon smiled. "Still, you hold a sword the same way Jerish did. Must be in the training somehow. Amazing how much it defines both of you. I never really—"
"Did you hear me? The bloodline ended. Seret caught up to them. They killed the heir—his name was Naron by the way—and they killed his wife and child. My father was the only survivor. I'm sorry."
"My teacher, old Yolric, used to insist the world has a way of righting itself. He was obsessed with the idea. I thought he was crazy, but after living for nine hundred years you perceive things differently. You see patterns you never knew where there. The heir isn't dead, Hadrian, just hidden."
"I know you'd like to think that, but my father failed and the heir died. I talked to a member of the Theorem Eldership who was there. He saw it happen."
Esrahaddon shook his head. "I've seen the heir with my own eyes, and I recognize the blood of Nevrik. A thousand years cannot mask such a linage from me. Still, just to be sure, I performed a test that cannot be faked. Oh yes, the heir is alive and well."
"Who is it then? I'm the guardian, aren't I? Or I'm supposed to be. I should be protecting him."
"At the moment anonymity is a far better protection than swords. I cannot tell you the heir's identity. If I did, you would rush off and be a beacon to those watching." The wizard sighed. "And trust me, I know a great deal about being watched. In Gutaria they wrote down every word I uttered. Even now, at this very moment, every word I say is being heard."
"You sound like Royce." Hadrian looked around. "We're alone, surrounded by an army of Nationalists. Do you think Saldur or Ethelred have spies pressing an ear against this farmhouse?"
"Saldur? Ethelred?" Esrahaddon chuckled. "I'm not concerned with the Imperial Regents. They are pawns in this game. Have you never wondered how the Gilarabrywn escaped Avempartha? Do you think Saldur or Ethelred managed that trick? My adversary is a tad more dangerous and I am certain spends a great deal of time listening to what I say no matter where I am. You see, I do not have the benefit of that amulet you wear."
"Amulet?" Hadrian touched his chest, feeling the metal circle under his shirt. "Royce said it prevents wizards like you from finding the wearer."
The wizard nodded. "Preventing clairvoyant searches was the primary purpose, but they are far more powerful than that. The amulets protect the wearers from all effects of the Art and has a dash of good fortune added in. Flip a coin wearing that, and it will come up the way you need it to more often than not. You've been in many battles and I'm sure in plenty of dangerous situations with Royce. Have you not considered yourself lucky on more than one occasion? That little bit of jewelry is extremely powerful. The level of the Art that went into making it was beyond anything I'd ever seen."
"I thought you made it."
"I did, but I had help. I could never have built them on my own. Yolric showed me the weave. He was the greatest of us. I could barely understand his instructions and wasn't certain I had performed the spell properly, but it appears I was successful."
"Still, you're the only one left in the world who can really do magic, right? So there's no chance anyone is magically listening."
"What about this rain? It's not supposed to stop? It would seem I am not the only one."
"You're afraid of Arista?"
"No, just making a point. I am not the only wizard in the world and I have already been far too careless. In my haste I took chances that maybe I should not have, drawing too much attention, playing into others' hands. With so little time left—only a matter of months—it would be foolhardy to risk more now. I fear the heir's identity has already been compromised, but there is a chance I am wrong and I will cling to that hope. I'm sorry Hadrian. I can't tell you just yet, but trust me I will."
"No offense, but you don't seem too trustworthy."
The wizard smiled. "Maybe you are Jerish's descendent after all. Very soon I'll need Riyria's help with an extremely challenging mission."
"Riyria doesn't exist anymore. I've retired."
The wizard nodded. "Nevertheless, I will require both of you, and as it concerns the heir, I presume you'll make an exception."
"I don't even know where I'll be."
"Don't worry, I'll find you both when the time comes. But for now, we have the little problem of Lord Dermont's army to contend with."
There was a knock at the door. "Horses ready, sirs," the new adjutant-general reported in.
As they stepped out, Hadrian spotted Gill walking toward him with the fighter's purse. "Good morning, Gill," Hadrian said, taking his pouch back.
"Morning, sir," he said, looking sick but making an effort to smile. "It's all there, sir."
"I'm a bit busy at the moment, Gill, but I'm sure we'll have a chance to catch up later."
"Yes, sir."
Hadrian mounted a brown-and-white gelding Bently held for him. He watched as Esrahaddon mounted a smaller black mare by hooking the stub of his wrist around the horn. Once in the saddle the wizard wrapped the reins around his stubs. "It's strange. I keep forgetting you don't have hands."
"I don't," the wizard replied coldly.
Overhead heavy clouds swirled as boys ran about the camp spreading the order to form up. Horses trotted, kicking up clods of earth. Carts rolled, leaving deep ruts. Half-dressed men darted from tents, slipping in the slick mud. They carried swords over their shoulders, dragged shields, and struggled to fasten helms. Hadrian and Esrahaddon rode through the hive of soggy activity to the top of the ridge where they could see the lay of the land for miles. To the north, the city with its wooden spires and drab walls stood as a ghostly shadow. To the south lay the forest, and between them a vast plain stretched westward. What was once farmland was now a muddy soup. The field was shaped like a basin, and at its lowest point a shallow pond formed. It reflected the light of the dreary gray sky like a steel mirror. On the far side, the hazy encampment of the Imperial Army was just visible through a thick curtain of rain. Hadrian stared but could only make out faint shadowy shapes. Nothing indicated they knew what was about to happen. Below them on the east side of the slope, hidden from imperial view, the Nationalist Army assembled into ranks.
"What is it?" Esrahaddon asked.
Hadrian realized he was grimacing. "They aren't very good soldiers," he replied, watching the men wander about creating misshapen lines. They stood listless, shoulders slumped, heads down.
Esrahaddon shrugged. "There are a few good ones. We pulled in some mercenaries and a handful of deserters from the Imperials. That Renquist you were so taken with, he was a sergeant in the imperial forces. Joined us because he heard nobility didn't matter in the Nationalist Army. We got a few of those, but mostly they're farmers, merchants, or men who lost their homes or families."
Hadrian glanced across the field. "Lord Dermont has trained foot soldiers, archers, and knights—men who devoted their whole lives to warfare and trained since an early age."
"I wouldn't worry about that."
"Of course you wouldn't. I'm the one who has to lead this ugly rabble. I'm the one who must go down there and face those lances and arrows."
"I'm going with you," he said. "That's why you don't need to worry about it."
Bently and three other young men carrying colored flags rode up beside them. "Captains report ready, sir."
"Let's go," he told them and trotted down to tak
e his place with a small contingent of cavalry. The men on horseback appeared even less capable than those on foot. They had no armor and wore torn rain-soaked clothes. Except for the spears they held across their laps, they looked like vagabonds or escaped prisoners.
"Raise your lances!" he shouted. "Stay tight, keep your place, wheel together, and follow me." He turned to Bently. "Wave the blue flag."
Bently swung the blue flag back and forth until the signal was mimicked across the field, then the army began moving forward at a slow walk. Armies never moved at a pace that suited Hadrian. They crept with agonizing slowness when he was attacking, but when defending seemed to race at him. He patted the neck of his horse who was larger and more spirited than old Millie. Hadrian liked to know his horse better before a battle. They needed to work as a team in combat and he did not even know this one's name.
With the wizard riding at his right side and Bently on his left, Hadrian crested the hill and began the long descent into the wet field. He wheeled his cavalry to the right, sweeping toward the city, riding the rim of the basin and avoiding the middle of the muck, which he left to the infantry. He would stay to the higher ground and watch the army's northern flank. This would also place him near the city gate, able to intercept any imperial retreat. After his company made his turn, he watched as the larger force of light-mounted lancers broke and began to circle left, heading to guard the southern flank. The swishing tails of their horses soon disappeared into the rain.
The ranks of the infantry came next. They crested the hill, jostling each other, some still struggling to get their helms on and shields readied. The lines were skewed, broken and wavy, and when they hit the mud, whatever mild resemblance they had to a formation was lost. They staggered and slipped forward as a mob. They were at least quiet. He wondered if it was because most of them might be half-asleep.
Hadrian felt his stomach twist.
This will not go well. If only I had more time to drill the men properly they would at least look like soldiers.
Success or failure in battle often hinged on impressions, decided in the minds of men before the first clash. Like bullies casting insults in a tavern, it was a game of intimidation—a game the Nationalists did not know how to play.
How did they ever win a battle? How did they take Vernes and Kilnar?
Unable to see their ranks clearly, he imagined the Imperials lined up in neat powerful rows waiting, letting his troops exhaust themselves in the mud. He expected a wall of glistening shields peaked with shinning helms locked shoulder to shoulder, matching spears foresting above. He anticipated hundreds of archers already notching shafts to string. The knights, Lord Dermont would hold back. Any fool could see the futility of ordering a charge into the muck. With their pennants fluttering from their lances, and heavy metal armor, the knights probably waited in the trees and perhaps around the wall of the city—hidden until just the right moment—it is what he would do. When they tried to flank, Hadrian and his little group would be all that stood in the way. He would call the charge and hope those behind him followed.
They were more than halfway across the field, when he was finally able to see the imperial encampment. White tents stood in neat lines, horses corralled, and no one was visible.
"Where are they?"
"It's still very early," the wizard said, "and in a heavy rain no one likes to get up. It's so much easier to stay in bed."
"But where are the sentries?"
Hadrian watched, shocked as the mangled line of infantry cleared the muddy ground and closed in on the imperial camp, their lines straightening out a bit. He saw the heads of his captains. There was no sign of the enemy.
"Have you ever noticed," Esrahaddon said, "how rain has a musical quality about it sometimes? The way it drums on a roof? It's always easier to sleep on a rainy night. There's something magical about running water that is very soothing, very relaxing."
"What did you do?"
The wizard smiled. "A weak, thin enchantment. Without hands it is very hard to do substantive magic anymore, but—"
They heard a shout. A tent flap fluttered, then another. More shouts cascaded, and then a bell rang.
"There, see," Esrahaddon sighed, "I told you. It doesn't take much to break it."
"But we have them," Hadrian said stunned. "We caught them sleeping! Bently, the green flag. Flag the charge. Flag the charge!"
***
Sheriff Vigan scowled at Arista. Behind her, men picked up weapons and shuffled back into position.
"I told you to lay down your arms and leave," the sheriff shouted. "Not more than a few of you will be punished in the stocks, and only your leaders will be executed. The first has already fallen. Will you stand behind a woman? Will you throw away your lives for her sake?"
No one moved. The only sound was that of the rain, the sheriff's horse, and the jangling of his bridle.
"Very well," he said. "I will execute the leading agitators one at a time if that is what it takes." He glanced over his shoulder and ominously raised his hand again.
The princess did not move.
She stood still and tall with Emery's sword above her head, his blood on her dress, and the wind and rain lashing her face. She glared defiantly at the sheriff.
Thwack!
The sound of a crossbow.
Phhump!
The moist sound of a muffled impact.
Arista felt blood spray her face, but there was no pain. Sheriff Vigan fell sideways into the mud. Polish stood in front of the blacksmith shop, an empty crossbow in his hands.
Renkin Pool grabbed Arista by the shoulder and jerked her backward. Off balance, she fell. Pool stood over her, his shield raised. Another telltale thwack and Pool's shield burst into splinters. The bolt continued into his chest. The explosion of blood and wood rained on her.
Another crossbow fired, this one handled by Adam the Wheeler. Trenchon screamed as the arrow passed into his thigh and continued into his horse which collapsed, crushing Trenchon's leg beneath it. Another bow fired, then another, and Arista could see that during the pause the blonde woman had hauled crossbows out of the armory and passed them throughout the ranks.
The garrison captain promptly assumed command of the Imperials. He gave a shout and the remainder of their bowmen fired across the square. Men in the line fell.
"Fire!" Adam Wheeler shouted and rebel bows gave answer. A handful of imperial soldiers dropped in the mud.
"Tighten the line!" Adam shouted. "Fill in the gaps where people fall!"
They heard a shout from across the field then a roar as the garrison drew their swords and rushed forward. Arista felt the vibration of charging men. They screamed like beasts, their faces wild. They struck the line in the center. There was no prepared weak point—Emery and Pool were dead, the tactic lost.
She heard cries, screams, the clanging of metal against metal, and the dull thumps of swords against wooden shields. Soldiers pushed forward and the line broke in two. Perin was supposed to lead the left flank in a folding maneuver. He lay in the mud, blood running down his face. His branch of the line disconnected from the rest quickly routed. The main line also failed, disintegrated, and disappeared. Men fought in a swirling turmoil of swords, broken shields, blood, and body parts.
Arista remained where she fell. She felt a tugging on her arm and looked up to see the blonde woman again. "Get up! You'll be killed!" She had a hold on her wrist and dragged Arista to her feet. All around them men screamed, shouted, and grunted, water splashed, mud flew, and blood sprayed. The hand squeezing her wrist hauled her backward. She thought of Emery lying in the mud and tried to pull away.
"No!" The blonde snapped jerking her once more. "Are you crazy?" The woman dragged her to the armory entrance, but once she reached the door Arista refused to go in any farther and remained at the opening, watching the battle.
The skill and experience of the garrison guards overwhelmed the citizens. They cut through the people of Ratibor and pushed them against the w
alls of the buildings. Every puddle was dark with blood, every shirt and face stained red. Mud and manure mixed and churned with severed limbs and blood. Everywhere she looked lay bodies. Dead men with open, lifeless eyes and those writhing in pain lay scattered across the square.
"We're going to lose," Arista said. "I did this."
The candlemaker, a tall thin man with curly hair, dropped his weapons and tried to run. Arista watched as six inches of sword came out of his stomach. She did not even know his name. A young bricklayer called Walter had his head crushed. Another man she did not know lost his hand.
Arista stood still holding Emery's sword. She clutched the doorframe holding on as the world spun around her. She felt sick and wanted to vomit. She could not move or turn away from the carnage. They would all die. It was her fault. "I killed us all."
"Maybe not." The blonde caught Arista's attention and pointed at the far end of the square. "Look there!"
Coming up King's Street Arista saw a rush of movement and heard the pounding of hooves. They came out of the haze of falling rain. Riding three and four abreast, horsemen charged into the square. At their head were two riders. One carried the pennant of the Nationalists—the other brandished a huge sword. She recognized him instantly.
Throwing up a spray of mud, Hadrian crossed the square. As he closed on the battle, he led the charge into the thickest of the soldiers. The garrison heard the cry and turned to see the band of horsemen rushing at them. Out front, Hadrian came like a demon, whirling his long blade, cleaving a swath through their ranks, cutting them down. The garrison broke and routed before the onslaught. When they found no retreat, they threw down their weapons and pled for mercy.
Spotting Arista, Hadrian leapt to the ground and ran to her. Arista found it hard to breathe, and the last of her strength gave out. She fell to her knees, shaking. Hadrian reached down, surrounding her in his arms and pulled her up.
"The city is yours, Your Highness," he said.
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