By the Sword (65 page)

Now the place was two and three feet deep in water and mud, all covered by the long grass growing there and the luxuriant, green, mosslike scum floating on the top. One of Kero's Healers had a remarkable ability with plants... and, much to everyone's surprise and delight, the Heralds were able to feed him energy. Between the scum they'd cultured with tender care on the temporary lake for the past month, and the accelerated growth of the past two nights, they now had the kind of cover that normally took half the summer to grow. It looked just like solid land—until you tried to walk on it.

Now was when Kero missed her mages the most. They would have been able to create illusions of solid land—and phantoms of Valdemar forces along with those illusions. That would have lured Ancar's people into a charge right into the worst of the muck. And once the charge had started, the momentum of the troops behind the front line would have driven the rest even deeper. Whole wars had been won with blunders like that.

Instead, she could only wait for his front line to wander into the swamp, and bring her skirmishers around to harry him deeper into the mire. Supposedly there was a Herald out there also diverting water from a nearby spring to come up behind him, so that he'd have muck on three sides, but she wasn't counting on that.

Hoofbeats again in the mist, but this time the scout didn't bother to gallop up the hillside; he just waved, and turned back. That was the signal Kero had been waiting for. She vaulted into her saddle, and whistled.

Below her, the skirmishers moved out at a careful walk, so that every part of the line stayed in contact with the part next to it. Fighting in conditions like these was hellish—and it was appallingly easy to fire on some vague shape out there, only to discover that it was one of your own.

“Friendly fire isn't.”
That was one of Tarma's Shin‘a'in sayings, succinct, and to the point.
We haven't lost a Skybolt to friendly fire yet,
she thought, as she sent her horse carefully picking her way down the slick, grassy slope.
I don't want to start now.

The Herald and his Companion followed her, silent as a pair of ghosts, and hardly more substantial in the mist. For once that white uniform was an advantage. She urged Hellsbane into a brief trot at the bottom of the hill, then reined the warsteed in once they caught up with the skirmishers. She was anchoring the westernmost portion of the line, the place where Ancar's men might get around them if they weren't vigilant.

Another reason not to have Valdemar regulars on this action: most of the ground to the south was booby-trapped, and Kero didn't want the green troops to wander into it. Any place horses or foot could get through was thick with trip-wires, pit-traps—and gopher-holes. One of the Heralds, it seemed, had a Gift of “speaking” to animals, and he must have called in every mole and gopher for leagues around to undermine those fields. No horse could
ever
get safely across those fields, and it was even risking a broken ankle to try if you were afoot. Regulars might forget that. The Skybolts would sooner forget their pay.

So the south was booby-trapped, then came the swamp on the west. The only “safe” ground was to the north, which was exactly where they
wanted
Ancar to go. That was the side they'd contest, and they were going to have to make it look as if they'd come upon Ancar by accident.

If he thought they were a small force of Selenay's Guard—

—backed by nobody—

—depending mostly on the treacherous terrain to protect this section of the Border, he'd be on them like a hound on a hare. Meanwhile, they'd try and stay just out of his range
(“If the enemy is within firing range, so are
you,
”
Tarma's voice croaked in her mind), and pick as many of his men off as they could before he extracted them from the mire. That was the heart and soul of Kero's strategy in this first engagement.

Up ahead in the mist, and far to her right, Kero heard a wild horn call; it sounded
exactly
like a young bugler in a panic, and she mentally congratulated Geyr on his imitation fear. That was the signal that the right flank was up even with the edge of the swamp, and the enemy was in sight. She took Hellsbane up to a fast walk, and the rest followed her lead.

Then the mare planted all four feet and snorted; she whistled, and the line stopped moving. They'd planted the edge of the bad ground with wild onions, and the moment Hellsbane had smelled one, she'd known to stop. Right at this point, it wasn't marsh, but it was water-logged and soft, and not what any of them wanted to take a horse through.

Besides, in a few moments, the enemy would come to
them.

The mist muffled noise, but as Kero strained to hear past the sounds of her own people, she made out faint cries and things that sounded like shouted orders and curses, off to her right and ahead. And they were coming closer with every moment. She whistled again; the signal was repeated up and down the line, and as if they were reflections of a single man, every Skybolt slipped his short horse-bow or crossbow from its oiled case, strung or cocked it, set one arrow on the string, and put another between his teeth or behind his ear.

Their range with these weapons was far longer than their current range of visibility. There would be one ideal moment, when
they
knew the enemy was coming, but he didn't know the Skybolts were there, when they would have the best chance of trimming down some of the front ranks. It was the best opportunity that they'd likely ever get during the march north; the point where the enemy forces would be just barely visible as vague shapes moving through the mist.

No one aimed yet. Kero strained her eyes for the first sign of the enemy, knowing that every one of her people was doing the same. The skirmishers knew to fire as soon as they thought they saw
anything,
and never mind bothering about targets; the mist would be too deceptive to allow for accurate shooting anyway, and the more arrows that sped toward the enemy lines, the likelier the chances of actually hitting someone. Any injury is a nuisance; in a swamp, any injury could be fatal.

She heard splashing, and thought she saw something—hesitated a moment.
There, to the right—was that—yes!
The thought actually followed on the act of aiming, firing, and nocking a second arrow and firing again. Nor was she alone; virtually all of the fighters in her immediate vicinity had done the same, and the shouts and screams from the billowing fog were all the reward any of them could have asked for.

The enemy surged forward; became, for a moment, more than just shapes. Now they were targets, and the hail of shafts became more deadly-accurate. The Skybolts fired, and fired again, while Ancar's forces tried in vain to get their own archers into position, and lost man after man to the wicked little arrows. Half of the skirmishers fired Shin‘a'in bows; powerful out of all proportion to their size, made of laminated wood, horn, and sinew. The little arrows couldn't penetrate good armor, but they could and did find the joints, the neck, the helm-slits, all the small but numerous weak spots in a common soldier's war-gear. The other half of the Skybolts used heavy horse-crossbows—which
could
penetrate armor, and often entire bodies, though the short-bowmen got off four shots for every single crossbow bolt. The trade was worth it, since they made a devastating combination.

Hellsbane stood as steady as a statue under her, ignoring the screams and the whirring of arrows all around her. Ancar's forces floundered in the mud for long enough to lose plenty of men, before the armored officers that weren't dropped by the crossbows pulled them back into the cover of the mist. A few moments later, Kero heard the whistled signal farther up the line, then the whir of arrows and the shouts and cries of pain started all over again, off beyond the wall of fog.

We probably aren't doing more than nibble away at
him, she thought, trying to judge the size of the army from the sounds in the murk.
But right now I'll bet the front rank isn't a very popular place to be.

But the sun began to break through the clouds, and the drizzle lessened. Whether Ancar had weather-working mages with him, or whether it was just the time for the weather to clear, Kero couldn't tell.
It looks natural enough,
she decided, as the sun became a visible disk through the overcast.
Well, no streak of luck runs forever.

Ancar's officers had figured out what was happening, too; the sounds from out of the mist quieted, except for the moaning of those unfortunates wounded and left behind in the muck as their comrades retreated. Kero whistled another signal, also passed up the line—Geyr sounded his bugle again, still in character as a frightened youngster. As soon as the mist broke and the enemy could see them clearly, she expected a charge, and she wanted the Skybolts ready to move just before it came.

The sun broke through the clouds, and the fog lifted in a rush, as if frightened away by the light. That was when the Skybolts saw the true size of the force facing them.

The sun blazed down on the field, as if to make up for the fact that it had hidden all morning. Kero hadn't known what size of army to expect, and had planned for the worst, but hoped for the best. In that fleeting instant between when the enemy officers sighted them, and their trumpeters sounded a charge, Kero had time first to curse, then to be very thankful that the only troops here were hers. The veteran Skybolts would fake a panic and turn tail, just as the plan dictated. If Selenay's green forces had been faced with this sight, the panicked flight might well have been real. She couldn't imagine unseasoned fighters being able to hold against something like this.

There seemed no end to them; they filled the valley, and spilled out over the hills beyond. She couldn't imagine where Ancar had gotten so many men—and they were
all
men, all that she could see, anyway. That in itself was ominous; why
not
have female fighters, archers at least?

Bloody hell. Better get out of range, quick!
She gave Hellsbane her cue, and the mare reared as if spurred, screamed and slewed around on her hindquarters, and lurched into a gallop. The rest of her fighters weren't far behind her. She bent over Hellsbane's neck and looked back over her shoulder.

As she had expected, Ancar's officers reacted to that apparent stampede by frantically signaling a charge. But they didn't know the ground, and Kero and her native guides did.

Their mounted troops were on tired beasts that had just spent the last candlemark struggling through mire. And the poor things weren't Shin‘a'in-bred. They did their best, but before they'd even gotten to firm ground, the Skybolts were well out of range of even the heaviest crossbow. Once on firm ground, they still weren't a match for Shin‘a'in-bred speed and stamina. The lead continued to open. She grinned, ferally.
Never reckoned on that, did you, m‘lord Ancar?

Kero halfway expected them to give up and turn back, but they didn't; that meant it was time to give them another goading. She wheeled Hellsbane at the top of the slope, and raised her hand; a heartbeat later, the rest of the Skybolts joined her on the ridge, already readying another flight of arrows, and as she brought her hand down, they rained missiles down on the cavalry struggling up the slope toward them. Horses and riders alike fell screaming in pain, and as the front rank went down, they tripped the ranks behind, bringing the charge to chaos. She hated to do it, but horses were harder to replace than fighters, so horses were fair targets.

This time she only allowed time for one crossbow volley before signaling that it was time to run again.

She thought that surely they'd turn back now-but when she looked back over her shoulder as the Skybolts pounded down the other side of the hill, she saw the first of them, silhouetted against the sky, still coming.

She debated stopping a second time and letting off another volley, but something deep inside her told her that might not be wise. In another moment, she was very glad she'd made that decision, for riding at the head of the charge, on a strange, homed creature that was
not
a horse, was an unarmored man dressed in brilliant scarlet.

A mage.
She made a split-second decision. Need would protect her—but she didn't know if it could still protect the rest of her troops without Quenten there to make sure of the extension of the spell. As always, Hellsbane was in the lead, whether in retreat or in the charge; she waved to her Lieutenants to go on without her, and pulled the mare up, reining her around, and readying her own bow.

She raised the bow, arrow pulled to her ear; saw the mage raise his hands—gesture, a throwing motion—

—felt a tingle all over her body, like the pins-and-needles of a limb waking from being benumbed—

And heard, in the back of her mind, an angry humming, as if she'd roused a hive full of enraged bees.

She was too far away to see the mage's face—he was really at the extreme of her best range—but he raised his hands again as she loosed her arrow, and his abrupt movement seemed to speak of anger and puzzlement.

She never even saw the arrow in flight; neither did he, or he might have been able to deflect it arcanely. But as the tingle increased, so did the humming, until it seemed to be actually in her ears. And not two lengths from him, the arrow she had loosed suddenly incandesced, and flared to an intolerable brightness as it hit him squarely in the chest, burying itself right to the feathers.