by Anthony Ryan
“Battle is always a risk, Highness. But I’m confident this matter will be settled come noon.” He bowed and went to his horse, galloping off and soon lost in the morass of men and dust.
Lyrna looked up at the tallest tower in the temple. She was tempted to spare herself the sight of the battle, the dream having dispelled any desire to witness more bloodshed, but it seemed cowardly to turn her sight from the army now. “My lady, see if you can find a spyglass,” she told Murel, making for the tower.
Ascending the tower proved a trying business, her legs aching with the effort as she forced herself up the narrow steps without slacking the pace, Iltis and Benten huffing along in her wake. It was hard not to be distracted by the tower’s internal decoration. Every surface, including the steps beneath her feet, was adorned with some ancient Volarian script, the symbols at the lower levels carved with a delicate precision and elegance that faded the higher she climbed, so that by the time she reached the top the symbols were a confusion of haphazard etchings, seemingly carved by some random feverish hand. She made a note to ask Wisdom as to the meaning of it all when time allowed.
The top of the tower consisted of a crenellated spike ascending from a flat granite platform a dozen feet in diameter. Like the steps the surface of the platform was adorned with more writing, so wildly confused she knew she looked upon the work of a maddened soul. The platform held no balustrade or shelter of any kind, a hard, cutting wind whipping Lyrna’s hair about as she stepped free of the staircase. Benten ventured forward to peer over the unguarded edge before making a hasty, slightly pale-faced retreat. “Best stay close to the centre, Highness,” he advised.
Lyrna looked to the east, seeing two great walls of dust edging towards each other across the plain. The pall lifted sometimes to reveal the marching regiments and provide some clue as to Marven’s dispositions. He had placed a solid line of Realm Guard on his left, close to the river, which would prevent any flanking move in that direction. The centre was held by a mix of Nilsaelin and Realm Guard infantry whilst the bulk of the cavalry moved in parallel to their line on the right flank. Behind the main body were four more regiments of infantry and the Renfaelin knights, though only two-thirds were horsed, the remainder obliged to suffer the indignity of walking to battle.
“Quite a sight, Highness,” Iltis said with a rare grin.
She had seen her fill of battle, but as only a participant, and seeing one unfold at such remove provoked a strange sense of guilt, as if she were a spectator at some bloody entertainment. “Indeed, my lord,” she replied, forcing a smile. “Quite a sight.”
Murel appeared at Lyrna’s side, sagging and out of breath. “With Brother Hollun’s compliments, Highness,” she gasped, holding out a spyglass. Lyrna took it, extending it to full length to train the lens on the Volarian host. It took several moments before the dust faded sufficiently for her to make them out, finding their ranks were arranged in neat order, the Free Sword battalions marching in a steady rhythm. Like Marven, their commander had seen the wisdom of anchoring the left flank on the river, with most of the cavalry on the right. However, she could tell their line was stretched thin, the infantry moving in ranks only two men deep so as to form a front wide enough to match that of her army. She raised the spyglass, the dust shifting enough to allow a view of their rear.
“No reserve,” she murmured. Does she seek to bleed us? Spend the lives of an entire army to reduce our numbers? Even for a deranged mind it seemed a facile strategy. Why not gather enough force to meet us in equal numbers farther down the road?
Marven halted the army three hundred yards short of the Volarians, Cumbraelin archers moving forward to form three dense ranks in front of the line. The storm had left her with only a third of the number that had sailed at the Blessed Lady’s behest. However, the arrow-riddled corpses she had seen at Alltor had provided ample evidence of what even a small number of skilled longbowmen could do, and she had over three thousand. Added to the archers were the twelve cart-borne ballistae now being wheeled forward. Lyrna checked each one with the spyglass to ensure Alornis had not somehow contrived to escape Davoka’s care, breathing a soft sigh of relief at her absence. She had given the Lonak woman stern instructions to bind the Lady Artificer hand and foot should she try to join the battle and hoped it hadn’t proved necessary.
A ripple went through the loose ranks of the archers as the Volarian line came to within two hundred paces, the spyglass picking out men standing with bows drawn and raised high, each with a thicket of arrows thrust into the earth around his feet. They loosed as one, the arrow storm thick enough for her to discern the flight of the shafts, a dark arching cloud forming between the archers and the Volarians. Their line seeming to shimmer under the weight of the assault, the centre taking the brunt of the punishment.
The ballistae were soon adding to the barrage, at least twenty men falling to the first volley, the ranks of the central battalions thinning with every step. Lyrna watched as a battalion was decimated, trailing a dozen or more dead and wounded every ten yards, until it inevitably began to slow, marching men faltering as their comrades died around them. She watched an officer wheeling his horse about at their rear, waving his sword and shouting unheard exhortations until a ballista bolt punched through his breastplate with enough force to carry him clear of the saddle. The battalion slowed further, halted, then broke, men dropping weapons and turning to flee, bowed low under the unending deadly rain.
Lyrna couldn’t hear the shout that must have erupted from the Cumbraelins then, but knew it would be a savage expression of vengeance barely satisfied. They surged forward in an unbidden charge, discarding bows to draw swords and axes, pelting towards the gap in the Volarian line. Not a man to miss an opportunity, Marven gave the signal for an immediate advance, the entire Realm Guard moving forward at the run, the cavalry on the right spurring to an immediate charge. Lyrna saw the Cumbraelin assault strike home before the dust grew too thick to see more. She had a glimpse of the Volarian centre fragmenting under the fury of their onslaught but soon the entire field became a mass of roiling dust and the vague, flickering shadows of men in combat.
“Well,” Iltis commented. “That was a piss-poor show.”
“Highness.” Lyrna turned at Murel’s soft but insistent call, seeing her point to something to the north, another dust cloud on the far bank of the river. Lyrna trained the spyglass on the base of the cloud, discerning a mass of horsemen moving at the gallop.
“Cavalry,” she murmured, watching the horsemen come closer, noting their armour was red instead of the usual Volarian black. Also it was a sizeable force, over five thousand by her reckoning. The Empress sends her Arisai, she mused, recalling Brother Frentis’s description from one of his dream visions. Why not send them with her army?
“The river’s too deep to ford for miles around,” Benten said. “Even if they have boats, the battle will be over before they can make a crossing. The archers will cut them to pieces.”
Lyrna felt a certain unease build in her breast as the red-armoured horsemen came closer, their course becoming more clear as they neared. She had expected an attempt on the army’s flank, presuming they had some means to cross the river, but instead the horsemen were riding directly towards the temple, towards her.
“How many guards did Count Marven leave us?” she asked Iltis.
“Two regiments, Highness. The Twelfth and the Queen’s Daggers.”
Lyrna moved closer to the platform’s edging, looking down at the temple below. Lord Nortah had clearly spotted the horsemen and was arranging his own company of archers at the riverbank. As if sensing her scrutiny he looked up, gesturing at the onrushing cavalry with a baffled shrug. Why would they charge just to mill about on the other side of the river? The river …
She trained the spyglass on the fast-rushing current, seeing only churning water, grey with silt. It was when she lowered the spyglass that she noticed something odd about the waters, how the current seemed marginally faster as it neared the temple,
the waters slightly paler in colour. “There’s something under the water,” she whispered, knowing it was far too late.
The lead company of horsemen galloped towards the far bank and plunged into the river without pause, their horses sinking no more than two feet into the water, churning it an instant white as they continued their charge. Before Iltis grabbed her hand to drag her to the stairwell she had a glimpse of one of the red-armoured men, a blazing smile on his face as he neared the southern bank, laughing at the meagre volley from Lord Nortah’s archers.
Davoka waited at the bottom of the steps, face grim and spear already bloodied. Alornis was at her side, staring in white-faced immobility at the carnage unfolding in the temple. The noise was near deafening, colliding metal mixed with the screams of the dying, the roaring challenge of those still fighting and the laughter of the men who had come to kill her.
On emerging from the stairwell, Lyrna glimpsed one of the Queen’s Daggers, a hulking fellow heaving an axe, shouting in rage with every blow as his red-armoured opponent danced aside and slashed repeated and precise cuts into his face. Beyond them the temple was a tumult of whirling combat and steel, Lord Nortah just visible amidst the fury, hacking down an Arisai and dragging one of the Daggers to his feet, voice raised as he attempted to assemble a defensive formation. Despite his skill, Lyrna could see his survival owed much to Snowdance, the war-cat a blur of claws and teeth as she took down one enemy after another, apparently numb to the wounds they slashed into her sides.
“We must…” she began, starting forward.
“NO!” The Lord Protector’s considerable fist closed over her arm, tearing Lord Nortah from sight as she was dragged away.
“Lord Nortah!” she protested, trying to wrestle free.
“Will die here defending you, Highness.” Iltis pushed her against a wall as an Arisai appeared from around a corner, voicing a delighted laugh as he thrust at the Lord Protector with a narrow-bladed sword. Iltis twisted aside, the Arisai’s blade tip shattering on the stone, though he still retained enough steel to parry Iltis’s overhead counterblow, but insufficient speed to dodge Davoka’s spear thrust to the groin. Iltis shoved the corpse aside and took hold of Lyrna’s arm once again.
“The horses are tethered on the western edge of the camp,” he said. “Should I fall, Highness, do not linger.”
Two more Arisai appeared to block their path, Davoka and Iltis instantly charging forward to meet them. This part of the temple was mostly narrow walkways threading a complex course between the various pyramidal structures, constricting the movements of the combatants, though it seemed to favour Iltis. The hulking lord locked the hilt of his sword onto an opponent’s, bearing him down with his bulk, slamming a knee into his chest to wind him before smashing his unarmoured head against the wall, again and again until the skull cracked like an egg.
Davoka’s assailant managed to fend off her precise jabs with apparent ease, voicing a laugh that died as Lyrna sent her dagger spinning into his neck. A clash of steel at her back made her turn, seeing Benten, backed against a wall, sword moving with frantic speed as he tried to fend off two Arisai. Murel, crouched at Lyrna’s side, uttered a screech of rage and launched herself at the nearest foe, her dagger sinking into his arm. The Arisai tore his arm away before she could retrieve the blade for another blow, slamming a punch into her face that sent her reeling, advancing towards her with a broad grin, then collapsing as Benten’s sword cleaved into his neck. The other Arisai lay dead at his feet but the young lord’s hand was clamped over a wound in his side, the blood flowing thick through his fingers.
“My lord!” Lyrna rushed towards him, finding herself restrained by Murel. The girl’s eye was swelling shut and she seemed a little unsteady on her feet, but still had enough strength to prevent Lyrna from going to Benten’s side as three more Arisai appeared, one sparing a brief glance for the wounded lord before laying his throat open with a swift, efficient slash.
“Lerhnah!” Davoka’s hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her along, the world becoming a blur of frenzied combat. Iltis led the way, attempting to find a course through the maze of stone, now littered with corpses at every turn. Davoka guarded the rear, pausing to spear any pursuing Arisai who came within reach. At Lyrna’s side Murel had hold of Alornis’s hand, the Lady Artificer’s face betraying scant notice of the surrounding horror.
Iltis gave a shout of frustration at finding their way blocked again, ducking under a sword swing and delivering a counter that left his assailant giggling as he regarded his severed fingers. The Lord Protector cast around, his features betraying a panic Lyrna had thought beyond him. It was his fear that restored her, banishing the sight of Benten, the blood flowing from his gaping neck to soak the temple floor. The gods are always thirsty …
“To the centre, my lord,” she told Iltis. “At least there are allies there.”
He hesitated a moment then gave a shallow bow. “I crave forgiveness for my failure…”
“Time is against us, my lord.” One of the Queen’s Daggers lay nearby, a lean, dark-haired woman, her hatchet cradled in her arms as if clutching a beloved infant. Lyrna bent to retrieve the weapon and nodded at Iltis to proceed.
They were obliged to fight their way through to Lord Nortah’s surviving defenders, perhaps fifty of them in a tight circle in the centre of the temple, ringed by a growing wall of dead. Iltis hacked down an Arisai from behind, laying about on either side with great two-handed blows of his sword, carving sufficient passage for Lyrna and Murel to force their way through with Alornis between them. Iltis tried to follow but fell as an Arisai delivered a kick to his legs, others closing to finish him but reeling back as Davoka landed in their midst, spear whirling to claim eyes and outstretched hands. She paused to haul Iltis to his feet, the Lord Protector barrelling through the throng of red-armoured men as she followed close behind, spear still whirling.
Lyrna was quickly conveyed to the middle of the formation where she found Snowdance slumped on her side, ragged flesh dangling from her claws, fur matted with gore and the stone beneath slick with blood. Despite her injuries the cat’s great yellow eyes stared up at Lyrna as bright as ever. She even uttered a soft purr as Alornis knelt to run a hand over her head.
Lyrna looked up as the cacophony suddenly abated, the clash of weapons fading to leave only the groans of the wounded. The Arisai were thick on all sides but seemed to have retreated somewhat. Many were wounded, some grievously so, missing eyes or standing with gaping wounds to the face or blood flowing freely from rents in their armour, but they were all smiling, not in mockery, or cruelty, but joy.
This is what they were made for, Lyrna thought, her eyes playing over the sea of happy faces. A new race born to delight in slaughter. The Volarian bred to perfection.
Around her the Queen’s Daggers all stood, drawing breath in ragged gasps, tensed for the next assault. Most had bloody scars, some wide-eyed in shock or grief. But still no fear, she saw, seeing how their ranks tightened around her, many casting furtive glances as if fearing her disapproval. The Empress made something vile, she decided. I made something great.
“We make them happy it seems,” she said, rising from the war-cat’s side. She raised her hatchet above her head, the gore-covered blade evidence its owner had died hard, as she intended to do. “Stand with me and we’ll make them weep!”
As one the Queen’s Daggers roared, a savage blast of defiance and bloodlust, waving their weapons at the Arisai and voicing taunts rich in obscenities. “I’ll feed you your balls, you grinning fucker!” a stocky man with a halberd spat at the nearest Arisai, who seemed to find this even more cause for amusement.
Lyrna met Lord Nortah’s gaze, reading a grim certainty in his expression. He glanced down at Snowdance, her eyes closed now, and his face spasmed in mingled rage and grief before he straightened. “We are taking our queen out of here!” he told his soldiers. “Assault formation!”
The response was immediate, the Queen’s Daggers moving wi
th the unconscious precision born of months of training, ordering themselves into a wedge shape in the space of a few seconds. Nortah raised his sword, preparing to give the order to advance, then paused at the sight of some commotion in the ranks of Arisai. The throng parted to reveal a tall figure, armoured in red as they were, but his face that of a much older man, the features long and lean, thin lips and pale blue eyes. Also, unlike the Arisai, he wore no smile.
Lyrna saw Nortah’s sword arm sag as he gaped at the tall man, face drawn in mystification. “Aspect?”
CHAPTER NINE
Reva
“Why you not … afraid?”
Lieza’s Realm Tongue was adequate but not accomplished, though considerably better than Reva’s Volarian. She sat on the only bed, knees drawn up and clasped in her arms, eyes bright as she watched Reva go through her scales. On the first day of their confinement Varulek had provided her with a wooden short sword and some intently spoken advice, “Ready yourself with all vigour. The arena cares not who you were, only what you might be.”
Their quarters consisted of a windowless cavern-like chamber providing more than ample room for practice. Reva danced across mosaic-tiled floors, dodging between elegant pillars of black marble veined in white. The walls were decorated in faded paintings depicting various beasts and men in combat and she noted how Lieza did her best not to look at them. At the far end of the chamber a large bath was inset in the floor, supplied with hot water via some hidden contrivance of pipes. Besides the bed, however, there was little in the way of furniture, or anything of sufficient weight to make a decent weapon. Even her wooden sword was made from sandalwood and like to shatter at the first contact with anything substantial.
“Fear kills,” Reva told the slave girl, spinning through a final combination of parries and thrusts. “You’d fear less if you trained with me.”
The scale was her own invention, a much modified variant of one of Vaelin’s Order standards, designed for confronting the Kuritai. Although from what Lieza told her of the spectacles Reva concluded a contest with the slave-elite might be preferable. She had quizzed the girl closely for several hours, leaving off only when she began to cry, tears flowing as she stumbled over a description of some kind of cat with teeth like daggers.
