Flash jerked his thumb up toward the hill and said to Hawkeye, “Says he’ll sound the attack.”
Hawkeye did not react to the lack of title or protocol, but beckoned Flash, who followed him to where they couldn’t be overheard. Hawkeye’s question surprised him: “Can he command?”
Flash’s first reaction was resentment. But Hawkeye’s tone wasn’t derisive as in
He can’t possibly command;
it was a genuine question.
Flash rubbed his gloved fingers over his mouth, thinking. Hawkeye had been in the Battle of Ghael Hills. He’d seen action, and so far Flash and Evred hadn’t.
So he said, “I think so. He was really good the last year or so at the academy.”
Hawkeye let out his breath with a whoosh, looked around, then said, “The other one couldn’t.”
The other one—the Sierlaef. The battle—Ghael Hills. A real battle. Flash was glad he hadn’t returned a sarcastic answer: whatever had happened in their boyhood days, here was the truth.
Flash stared at Hawkeye, frustrated at not being able to see his expression in the dim light. The rising murmur behind them meant the boats were drawing near; it was almost time for battle.
So he said quickly, “He’s not like—”
Inda
, he almost said. But they’d stopped using Inda’s name with anyone outside their class years ago. Covering that lapse, he whispered, “He’s learned from people. Tried his ideas in the games. He’s got a cool head.”
Although the answer didn’t mean much, Hawkeye turned up his thumb in the old academy gesture of agreement as he studied the coastline. He waved Flash back to the hill and returned to his rock.
His job before an attack was to advise. During an attack he was to make certain that Evred’s commands were carried out, and if any mass charge was ordered, to lead. He’d also lead his own wing—the First Wing—which was gathered around him now. His stomach tightened; he wished he was on the hill, but would he be able to make sense of everything from there, especially in the dark? His mind raced backward through memory as he watched those boats: he never commanded a war game as the Sierlaef and Buck had always had precedence—maybe he couldn’t—
Yes, I know I can lead a fight even if I can’t plan one
. Command—lead—boats near the breakers—ready, ready—
Evred, if you don’t signal I will
—
Evred stared out at the dark water crammed with bobbing silhouettes. He motioned to the harbormaster. “Are those Venn or pirates?”
“Pirates,” the harbormaster stated. “Venn use their oars in a pattern. Them pirates might have drilled Venn landings. If so, we’ll see shields come up right as they hit the breakers.”
Anyone could see that the best moment to attack the incoming boats was when they were fighting through the rolling breakers. Apparently the Venn drilled to overcome that weakness; they might have trained their allies.
Evred wiped his hands down his battle tunic, then glanced at his bugler. “Ready?”
Four longboats surged up and down, now riding the blue-white waves—
“Prepare arrows.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat so hard it burned.
One sharp blast on the horn, and all up and down the palisade fire teams whipped up their bows. Arrows sparked with flame. Another blast, and the air filled with the rushing sound of arrows flying, pinpoints of glowing gold arcing toward the breakers. Evred cleared his throat again, as softly as possible, against the tickle of oil smoke at the back of his throat. No sneezes—
Some of the pirate silhouettes raised shields, some didn’t. Most let out a roar and their shadow-shapes dove into the almost equally dark water, emerging with weapons raised, the edges of their steel glinting in the soft light of the humming canopy of fire arrows.
No Venn training, then. Allies or hirelings?
“Better get ready.” Sindan touched his shoulder, and Evred reached for the wrist guards worked with the Montrei-Vayir crimson and gold that his betrothed, Kialen, had sent him. He knew the thought had been Hadand’s as Kialen, poor little soul, would never think of such a thing. He buckled them, pulled his gloves back on, and checked that his sword was loose in its baldric before he slid his left arm into the shield strap. It felt strange to wear a sword instead of carrying it on his saddle.
Reaching the shore, fifty, maybe sixty men leaped out of each longboat, some of them carrying bucket-shrouded lamps, which cast odd jiggling light pools as they ran with a roar for the walls.
“Defense,” Evred shouted at the bugler, ashamed at how high, how sharp his voice sounded, as the first men dashed to the wall. Already locals were leaping over, wild, without any discipline. Three fell, hacked viciously by bawling pirates.
The bugler raised his horn. Evred saw his eyes widen, reflecting the torchlight, as he drew in a deep breath. His fingers trembled, but his blast was pure, the racing triplets blood-stirring, and below Hawkeye shouted, “Line!”
Smooth, drilled, assured, the First Wing’s dragoons rose in a line, not leaping forward but staying back, holding ground; as the pirates clambered over the wall, the trumpet called the attack, and the dragoons’ spear points glinted as they struck. Shouts, screams, guttural moans smothered the rhythmic hiss and thump of the breakers.
Evred clenched his fists, fingers sweaty inside his gloves. For a short time nothing was visible in the fitful torchlight but a mass of struggling figures. Cries and clashes of steel reverberated through the cold air. More torches flared here and there, and fires kindled, painting the skirmish with a ruddy, beating glow. The pirates shouted, then launched forward in groups to break through the line, which held; fewer from each group were thrown back. Most fell.
Some locals, seeing the line hold, joined, to be thrust aside. They pressed too close, hampering the warriors.
One of them yelled something in Olaran. Evred made out the word for boat. Perhaps they were going to launch into the water and . . . do what? He dismissed them from his attention—the locals couldn’t be trusted or controlled because no one was in command. They ran to and fro, many of them retreating toward the buildings.
This battle was his to win or lose.
A great shout rose farther along the rocky shore: a breakthrough. “Defense. Second line,” Evred said hard, to keep his voice steady. “Third in attack formation.”
The bugler sounded the signal for the second line to emerge, and then the three-short-three-long for the third line to reform into wedges.
“South!” the harbormaster cried. “I count five, six boats, coming up from the south side—”
But Evred had been watching.
“Southern fire line,” he said to the bugler.
Longboats ghosted in toward the shore, no lights, the sails barely visible. “Arrows,” Evred said, and again the fire arrows rained on the boats.
This pirate group was better disciplined. Shields rose overhead as the boats shot in, straight up to the beach, the arrows clattering harmlessly on the shields sounding like a distant hailstorm. Masses of figures, their steel gleaming cold blue in the starlight, swarmed up the beach—
“South lines defense,” Evred said, and this time the bugler was too quick.
“What do you see?” Sindan asked.
“The dragoons are holding line . . .” Evred tried to find the words for what he was seeing, then gave up, after a time forgetting that he’d been speaking. The jumble of images was fast, too fast, sometimes meshing into a whole but more often breaking his attention just as he seemed to make sense of what he saw: a scream near the point drew his attention that way. A flare of fire snapped his eyes to the west. Pirates running into a building—the crash and shatter of wood smashing through windows.
A breaker surged up, more boats riding its crest.
“Signal to the third fire line,” Evred called to his bugler. He was surprised his voice was hoarse. He wasn’t fighting— except his muscles bunched, his insides cramped, sweat ran inside the quilting under his mail coat.
Yip! Yip! Yip!
The academy cry flared up, high, harsh, feral. Evred turned his focus downward, saw reflected in the firelight the crimson and gold banner with the big black bar across it: First Wing. Hawkeye’s bright yellow head at the lead of a wedge of riders racing along the shore to—ah! Another load of boats, almost out of sight around a bluff.
That meant the scouts were dead. Evred signaled his last line of reinforcements to swarm down the mountainside to ward the flank attack. He could no longer identify specific wings, much less flights. Here and there three-cornered guidons fluttered, some of them jabbed up and down, others waving in a circle.
Guidons—never thought they were worth carrying— night battle—
Fire—reflection—see mass movement in the fire—
Keep order—
He clamped down on galloping thoughts because they were galloping away from the truth: his force was now fully committed and he had lost his grasp on the battle’s shape. If indeed he’d ever had it.
A pang of self-loathing burned through him. He said in a hard voice, “Signal command to wing captains.”
Two rippling chords of five notes apiece, and it was done, not that Evred could see any change—
Clang!
He spun around. Sindan’s sword whirled, blocking one, two assailants. Another ran up from behind. In a single much-drilled move Evred gripped his sword, stepped to Sindan’s left without fouling his shield, and brought his heavy cavalry sword down on the bobbing enemy before him. Full strength. Full strength for the very first time; excitement drove his arm hard, but his blade did not cleave flesh, it thudded hard against mail and glanced off, causing him to stagger back a step.
But only for a heartbeat. His body, drilled over years, knew what to do. His hand shifted its grip, his arm whipped round into a tight side-cut. The pirate turned his head to see where the hiss came from and for a moment Evred saw a young face, open mouth, dry lips, the gleam of torchlight in open eyes, then his blade chunked into the fellow’s neck and stuck. Blood spurted, smelling hot and salty sweet, and Evred yanked the blade free as the pirate fell, hand clutching weakly at his neck, his body spasming helplessly.
Sindan gasped over his shoulder, “Finish him. Don’t let them suffer.”
Clunk! Clang!
He raised his shield against the ax-blow of an older man who wore jewel-encrusted silks over his battle gear, the stones a red glimmer reflecting the light of the city on fire.
Evred drew his breath, used both hands to drive his blade down, cutting through the fallen pirate’s fingers as well as his neck, and the body went limp, the head mostly cut free, but not altogether. The mess, sidelit from the roaring house fires, made Evred reel, pinpoints of light sparkling across his vision.
Step behind. His arms jerked: up came blade, shield ready.
This time it was easier. The pirate wielded an ax, already in its downstroke. Evred’s blade snapped upward so fast, so hard, he nearly took the man’s arm off.
Thud.
He ripped the blade free to whirl it around from the other side below the fellow’s ear, cutting free a dangling golden hoop.
Chunk.
A sound he had never heard in the academy, the sound of steel burying itself in living flesh.
He did not look at the fallen but whirled to scan the area, saw several pirates retreating rapidly back into the dark. Before him stood Sindan, the bugler, and Uncle Anderle’s Runner, dark-smeared swords at the ready. What now?
Sindan motioned the others into a protective circle. Oh. Around
him
.
Yes, I’m in command
.
Evred stumped back up to his old position, his breath harsh in his throat. His wrists felt like water and he fought to regain control, holding his breath and letting it out in gasps as he looked back and forth, trying to make sense of the battle.
He couldn’t get rid of the image of the wide eyes, the severed neck—a howling roar just beyond the fishing dock—a line of dragoons falling back, overcome by a mob of pirates——he looked away—yes! On the other side the ordered ranks of an entire flight—whose? Whose banner was that? Captain Senelayec—
He smacked the bugler on the arm with his sword hilt. “Senelayec to the left, reinforce.”
The boy worked his lips then blasted the commands. The notes were not true, but they were loud, and Evred watched Senelayec’s men react to their signal. No more than quick shufflings to reform ranks, and then they ran in tight formation to the aid of the dragoons, meeting the mob of pirates head on in an enormous clash of weapons, shields, and shouts.
Senelayec roared a command, the ridings broke into threes and carved their way into the mob, which melted before their onslaught.
Too long! He had watched too long, and jerked his head to the other side so fast he staggered. Two groups running: pirates. Going back to the boats—
In the streets silhouettes surged back and forth. Fires blazed, obscuring the battle on the south shore. Furious yells rang up the palisades: someone had smashed the bottoms of the boats! Locals? “Good thinking,” Evred said, realizing he ought to have thought ahead to those boats, as the desperate pirates turned for a last stand.
Fighting on the fish docks. Fighting on the high road—
A screeching rabble chased pirates down toward the new houses, flinging torches at them, catching some on fire.
Evred gazed, desperate, his heartbeat echoing in his ears, the scene changing everywhere he looked. Chaos! No, the battle had broken into running, chasing, turns, stands, surroundings. ..
"Behind us.” Sindan.
Evred whirled, his head pounding sickeningly. The intensity of battle had not abated; he scanned the skirmishes— there, holding. There, holding. There, chasing the pirates down to the sea. East falling back—which captains could he send—wait. He didn’t need individual signals!
“Reinforce eastern flank,” he croaked.
This time the bugler was ready, notes clear and strong.