Jori left the new war leader to do his job. Now he could concentrate on his men. He felt a weight lift from his heart. He went down to Sandun and his captain of the guards. The krasuth, Polkinombu, followed closely behind him, like a shadow.
“I’ve given command of the battle to War Leader Valo Peli,” Jori told Sandun. “The center is my responsibility. Follow me, and we will hearten the men.”
Sandun glanced back up the hill at the new war leader and then turned and saluted Lord Vaina. “As you command, my lord. Keep your helmet tight and your shield ready. You don’t want an arrow in your eye.”
At this, the krasuth spoke in heavily accented Serice: “No arrows shall harm the lord this day.”
“More than one king of Kelten was laid low by an arrow,” Sandun told the krasuth. “I shall not forget your promise.”
As they walked past the Keltens firing their long bows, Jori Vaina heard them cheer; he saw them turn to each other and slap their hands together, palm to palm. “What good result do your comrades celebrate, Sandun?”
“My lord, they say that Basil struck down an incautious enemy general with a far shot. Look there.” He pointed. “See where that knot of Kitrans have gathered.”
Jori lifted his farseer to his eye and observed a group of Kitran elite guards struggling to place a body on a horse. Judging from the armor and the helm, it was indeed an officer. The man was dead or too badly injured to ride. Jori didn’t know the names of many of Nilin’s generals, but it was doubtless too much to hope that General Orsbil had been killed. They wouldn’t know who it was until after the battle, if ever.
An hour after noon, with the hot sun beating down and dust from all the horses filling the air, the attacks on the center slackened. A quarter of a tik away, Kitran horsemen trotted, but only rarely did they fire arrows. Those they shot were lightweight flight arrows with no accuracy: simply harassing fire. Jori did not know where the main mass of Nilin’s army had gone. There was too much dust in the air to see.
Jori gave orders to have his men eat, switching ranks to do so. With Sandun and a few guards at his side, he went all along the lines, encouraging the men, warning them to stay ready.
“Looks like we have beaten them off!” said one youthful captain.
“If so, we will march tomorrow to Kemeklos,” Jori told the officer. “We have come to save our brothers in the old capital. This day’s battle is just a step on the road.” Jori wanted his men to remember why they had come. They were on a rescue mission. There was a reason why they were fighting beside this river this day.
Another hour passed, teeming clouds gathered in the sky overhead, and then the Kitrans renewed their assault. They seemed to have fresh supplies of horses and arrows. Now they rode closer to his front lines. They charged with spears more often and stayed locked in hand-to-hand combat longer. His men were getting tired from the strain of the battle and the renewed Kitran assault. Some soldiers went mad and charged forward to their deaths, screaming. Others fainted and had to be carried out behind the second line. Some of these men were faking. Jori had to restrain himself as the rear-line sergeants beat men with sticks to get them back to the front; the men had to fear the sergeants behind them almost as much as the Kitran.
By the fourth hour after noon, Lord Vaina began to feel…confident? He had walked among his men, shot arrows alongside the Keltens, banged on the drums, promoted men, and comforted the dying. He had even conferred the title of opmi on several men who had fought valiantly under his watchful gaze. This was what battles had been like in the past, when he had been the leader of a hundred soldiers, when he knew the name of every man who was fighting for him. When it was all personal. When he could make a difference by just saying a few words.
His men were doing what they were supposed to do: staying behind the bulwark, defying the Kitran taunts, ignoring the pretend retreats. Standing amid his troops, Jori had the feeling that he was part of a vast living creature with thousands of arms. So many important tasks were being taken care of without his orders: water was being distributed to all the men, the injured were carried back and treated, arrows were brought up to the archers so they could keep firing, Kitran arrows were being pulled out of the ground, cleaned, and reused.
At whiles, massive bolts flew above their heads and exploded over the Kitran cavalry whenever they clustered together to perhaps get water or new arrows of their own. Each time one of the bolts exploded, his men cheered and the Kitran—those that were still alive—rode off shouting curses.
The Kitrans tried to destroy his battleships with fireboats covered in tar and oil and sent down the river from docks out of sight. Also, a fast-moving bastiuani of Sogands with fire arrows tried to set fire to his warships from the west side of the river. But his fleet was prepared for both these assaults, and the Sogands were beaten back easily. Valo Peli, the war leader, countered every new threat with his own response, like a master chess player who had prepared his army for every event. In any case, these were mere diversions; the main attack was always from the Kitran cavalry to the north and east.
Every hour or two, Lord Vaina returned to the command tent where War Leader Boethy reported on the status of the battle in clipped, precise language. Arno Boethy irrefutably lived up to his reputation as a master commander. Amid the chaos of conflict, he was as cool as if he were supervising a group of scribes in the Ministry of Revenue. Well, this was what Jori had been told, over and over again: a wise ruler succeeded by having virtuous men of wisdom working for him. One man, no matter how talented, could not do everything on his own. Sometimes another person, no matter how dangerous, was better for a job.
Six hours after noon, again the Kitran attack on his lines had tapered off. Jori trotted back uphill to the command tent. His men still held the line. Pojo’s vanguard had been battered; his standard had fallen briefly, but the Kitran assault had failed to dislodge the vanguard from its position. Modi’s reinforcements had arrived in time. The blockage in the river had finally been removed, and the three battleships trapped downstream had sailed up to join the fight, bringing along some fresh troops and more of the oversized exploding bolts. Jori Vaina saw his commanders were smiling; even his war leader described the situation with a trace of pleasure.
“Everything Nilin has tried has failed,” Valo Peli said vigorously. “The enemy losses are extraordinary. At least two thousand horses lie dead out there in the trampled wheat. Nilin has but a single unbloodied unit remaining: his buffalo heavy cavalry. Now is the final test for the Kitran general. Is it over today? Will he pull back and fight again later? Or will he throw his last dice onto the table? Will he gamble with his last coins or go home?”
With his farseer, Jori looked to the enemy, dimly visible through the haze. His attention was drawn to a tall eagle banner perhaps a tik away. Something was going on under the banner. A group of riders, milling about. The glint of sunlight reflected from their armor. Officers. His gut decided for him: Nilin was there, debating this exact question.
“Nilin is meeting with his generals under the large banner.” Jori pointed east. “So close through the Kelten tube but too far for us to do anything.”
“We have a few flying bolts on the warships for very long-range attacks,” said Urho Rejit, his chief military engineer. “Their accuracy leaves much to be desired, but this seems as good a time to use them as any.”
Jori Vaina looked over at the war leader and lifted his eyebrows. Valo Peli nodded back at him and then gave the order. Engineer Urho ran down to the flagship and up the gangplank. Jori saw his fourth wife, Eun, and Sandun’s new wife standing together near the giant ballista. The women of Shila were different from Serice highborn women: civilized but a little tougher, more willing to get their hands dirty. Eun had assured him that she was now carrying his child. A son, my lord, I am certain. Conceived from the pure essence of your martial spirit. Well, he would see in ten months’ time. If she produced a
healthy son, she would move up in the rankings of his wives. Not first rank, of course; no woman would ever displace Osmo.
The massive ballista on Heaven’s Lightning fired, and Jori turned and watched as the bolt with stubby wings flew far, only to fall short of the Kitran banner. Another ballista fired from the Dragon of Mur, and then another. By luck or by skill, one bolt landed amid the Kitran commanders at the base of the eagle standard.
Jori was elated. “A silver cat for each man of that crew!” he called out. The Kitran officers, looking like small toy soldiers, withdrew farther to the east. Their eagle banner dipped and swayed as it slowly followed them. More bolts were fired, chasing it into the dusty haze.
Jori drank several mouthfuls of watered wine to quench his thirst and passed the wineskin to Sandun and his guards. Then the sound of Kitran horns reached them like an echo in the hills, a call to arms blown by a thousand devils. He guessed what the horns meant—they all did. Jori’s advisors hurried to the eastern edge of the small rise and watched as the Kitran cavalry began moving around, forming an enormous line.
“It’s a sally, another charge,” Valo Peli said, almost in awe. “Look, in the center—the buffalo riders are ready. This is it! Nilin is throwing all he has into one last attack. What a madman! What a fool!” For the first time, Valo Peli lost his calm demeanor—as though it was his army that was being thrown away, as though he was enraged at seeing the enemy make such a blunder. Valo Peli shouted out: “Come on! Come on, you half-wit, you pretend general, you lord of stupidity! Throw your army away—do it! Do it! Send everything you have in one idiotic charge against an unbroken army of spearmen! Yes! I spit on you. I spit on you! You never were a true Kitran. You were never the real son of Bolod Ulim!”
Valo Peli fell silent for a few heartbeats while he collected himself. Then he swiftly issued a series of orders. “Sound the drums. Use all the remaining explosive bolts as soon as the enemy is in range. Have every man kneel with his spear set in the earth. Beat out the commands. This battle will be over in ten minutes.” He sat down on a camp stool and fanned his flushed face with a piece of paper.
Jori Vaina stood next to his war leader and faced east, gazing in wonder at a sight that he would never see again: five thousand Kitran cavalry all formed into a single line, stretching across the valley of Devek, moving towards his soldiers. The afternoon sun shone red on their armor and glanced off the tips of their spears.
From his men, there were jeers, shouted insults. A forest of spears, a wall of spears was lowered, pointed straight at the Kitrans. Unshaken, unbroken, defiant. From the Keltens there were shouts in their foreign tongue; Jori was satisfied they were yelling curses at the Sogands.
With a muttered apology, Sandun left his side and went down to join his comrades. As he ran down the rise to stand with them, he waved his glowing sword around in the air, and cried out in a powerful voice: “The Fire Sword stands with you.”
The rumble of the Kitran cavalry grew in volume.
“The Fire Sword is WITH YOU!” Sandun’s voice seemed to grow in strength, matching, briefly, the sound of the Kitran horses and buffalos.
There were cheers from the men around him. Lord Vaina’s guards all knelt with their spears pointed out, the third line, protecting him and the war leader.
The heavy ballistas in his battleships began to fire. Accurately placed bolts exploded over the Kitran cavalry, blowing holes in their ranks. There were no following ranks. The Kitran had formed one line; there was no reserve. Now the Kitran were moving at full speed; they closed the distance with the Red Crane Army at a gallop. The noise was like a continuous peal of thunder, and the ground shook. A few spears wavered, but for every spear that dropped from shocked, nerveless hands, ten more were unmoving.
At the end, in the final seconds, Jori could hear the Kitran warriors. He could see their open mouths, their eyes wide with hate, rage, and even fear. But it wasn’t enough. Their hate could not compel their horses to run headlong onto the masses of spears sticking right at them. In the final instants, the horses of the Kitran pulled up, bucked, and shied away.
The sound was indescribable. Nearly five thousand horses shrieking in fear and agony, falling to the ground, being forced onto the spears of the Red Crane warriors by horses running behind them. Up and down the line, the Kitran charge failed!
Only in the center did the heavily armored buffalo warriors charge home. In a combination of training and animal instinct, the shaggy beasts had lowered their heads and run straight into the spears in the center of the line, right in front of Jori’s tent. Hundreds of the buffalo died, but many of the Red Crane spearmen were trampled, their spears shattered, their shields broken; the log wall they knelt behind was blown apart. The front line vanished under the assault, stabbed and hacked by the elite warriors who leapt from their impaled, dying animals and fought like wild animals themselves in an all-out effort to reach and kill the commander of the Kunhalvar army.
Jori’s second line immediately came under assault. The Keltens were in the thick of the battle. Jori was close enough to hear the strange whine Sandun’s sword made as it cut through metal weapons and armor. Lord Vaina immediately ordered his second line on either side of the break to advance into the center. Although the elite buffalo warriors were the best fighters in the Kitran army, their dwindling numbers were no match for a thousand men.
His captain of the guards came up, an appeal written on his face as he pointed down at the fighting going on just a javelin’s throw away. Jori knew his men wanted to fight; so did he. He yearned to draw his sword and release all his pent-up emotions in savage fury of bloodletting.
“You have my permission, Captain,” Lord Vaina told him. “Slay them! Slay them all. A thousand silver cats to the man who kills Nilin and brings me his head.”
Jori didn’t see Nilin, but he felt certain the enemy commander was near.
His guards rushed down the hill to join the fighting, shouting, “The Red Crane! The Red Crane!”
After several minutes of furious bloodshed, Valo Peli spoke up. Pointing north, he said: “The Kitran are fleeing, on foot and by horse. The north line has stood firm. And to the south, it is the same. You have won, Lord Vaina. You have defeated Nilin Ulim.”
It seemed to be true, though with the dust and the injured horses running wild, he had resisted the temptation to seize on a false hope. In the center, the press of Red Crane soldiers coming from both directions was a tide that submerged Nilin’s buffalo riders. There were five or ten spearmen for every Kitran warrior. The buffalo riders died beside their mounts, hacking in futility against one spear while many more stabbed them over and over.
Jori Vaina turned and addressed Valo Peli solemnly. “I had outstanding men helping me. This victory is principally your doing, War Leader.”
Valo Peli bent down and made as if to string his bow, but he couldn’t seem to manage to get the bowstring over the notch at the top. He gave up and gradually drew himself to his full height.
“For years, I have dreamed of a day when I could lead a Serice army against…against my former masters.” Valo Peli’s tight voice hinted at the emotional struggle inside. “Things in my past, things that I have done that I now regret. I believe this day I have done something to redress earlier…acts.”
Jori Vaina looked at the man standing beside him, and then he spoke softly, hardly to be heard over the sounds of the fighting still going on. “You have done more than a little to redress your sins. Your account with me is settled. But it will take time to prepare the ground for your open return. Many people, not least my Lady Osmo, are slow to forgive and slower to forget. However, a huge step has been taken, and it shall be recorded in the written history that you were the commander this day. And perhaps other battles yet to be fought.”
Valo Peli bowed solemnly and rubbed his sleeve across his face. Then he issued a stream of new orders. The Red Crane cavalry were unl
eashed and sent out from behind the southern flank to chase the defeated Kitran army. Kun the Younger’s horsemen were ordered to follow the Kitrans all the way to the fortifications around Kemeklos but no farther. More commands were issued related to the care of the wounded and gaining accurate counts of the injured and dead.
Jori looked around, taking in the sight of a momentous victory. Across the fields of Devek, without question the Kitran soldiers were fleeing into the dusk. His men cheered and waved their spears at their retreating foes, but only a few of the Red Crane footmen had crossed their bulwarks. Even now, they were following orders. If another division of Kitran cavalry was waiting in the hills to spring an attack on his disorganized army, they were going to have to wait long.
The Keltens were yelling at each other in evident joy, hugging and slapping each other on the back. We Serice are so reserved compared to them, Jori Vaina thought. When is a Serice man ever allowed to express real, unbridled happiness? Then he saw Blue Frostel, the Kulkasen warrior, strutting around and yelling like a monkey from the south. Jori sighed and shook his head. In his experience, all Kulkasen were little more than actors, preying upon the gullible with tricks of fire and colored smoke. Real warriors were part of an army, not lone wanderers. He did not understand what the Keltens saw in the man.
The drums went silent for the third time that day even as his cavalry appeared from the south and swept over the trampled wheat, chasing and killing the retreating Kitran, galloping north in the direction of Kemeklos.
This is what victory in an epic battle feels like, Jori thought. This is the culmination of years of struggle, effort, training, planning. Everything came together, and it worked. On this day, he had the superior army. He’d expected to win, hadn’t he? Wasn’t this all part of his master plan? Well, no. He’d held doubts about his chances. He had made every effort to win, but had he expected victory? He couldn’t answer his own question, not even to himself.
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