Authors: Tim Akers
“I think their mission has changed,” Lucas answered. “Frair Allaister and his men are gone from their ranks, and they have turned their backs to the Fen Gate.”
“Perhaps they return to Greenhall,” Elsa agreed. “They may have split with the priests, and are determined to head home.”
“That may be, but it’s more likely that they seek an easier prey,” Lucas said. “Last report had Blakley’s forces stretched thin along the Redoubt. A sufficient attack upon their rear could break the defenses along the Tallow.”
“It’s been a month since that report,” Elsa replied. “Things could have changed. The war may be over.”
“This is the sort of war that is never over,” Lucas said. He twitched his reins, and his horse turned north. “But that is none of our concern. Not yet, at least.”
Elsa followed suit, peering around with a troubled look. “I can feel the strangeness of this place closing in,” she whispered. “The land has found us, and it does not approve.”
“I am a shadow, Sir LaFey, and you are the sun.” Lucas shrugged. “We will stand together, and the land will not confound us.”
“Still, this is a haunted place. A place of great power,” Elsa said.
“Yes, and something else,” Lucas said. “Do you feel it?”
“I do,” Elsa said. “The scent of corruption is gone. Our gheist is missing.”
“We will find the trail again, I’m sure,” he replied. “I can sense something just north of the camp. We will start there. Perhaps we will find where Frair Allaister has gone, as well.”
“What good will tracking the frair do us?”
“An interesting question,” Lucas said. “I’m sure there will be an interesting answer, as well.”
T
HE WATERS OF
the Tallow flowed peacefully over the smooth stones of the ford. They started as snowmelt in the high Suhdrin mountains that surrounded Heartsbridge, then washed down into a hundred lesser streams that eventually became the Wyl. At Dunneswerry that river split, half into the Tallow, half into the Silverlyn. When it entered the Fen, the Tallow cut its way through limestone bluffs and narrow gorges, sometimes rushing white and fast, other times as slow and gentle as summer, until it reached the Felling Bay and emptied into the sea. It served as the natural border between Tener and Suhdra, a line drawn by the gods.
This river had seen a lot of blood, and still it ran clean and cold.
Ian stood at its northern bank and washed the dust from his feet. He waded slowly out into the depth of the river, feeling the tug of the current and the flickering touch of curious fish, then dropped beneath the surface. The cold arced into his bones, yet Ian felt relaxed in a way he hadn’t since Chev Bourdais had tried to kill him on the fields of Greenhall.
He sunk his feet into the mud and let the current drag across him. He gave his mind to it, reciting the rites of Cinder that settled his thoughts and invited cold reason. Ian was angry with his father for shuffling him to the flank, keeping him from the glory of the battle. All these weeks later and he was still angry with Martin for implying that Tener was at fault in this struggle, and he was furious with himself for letting these things keep him awake at night. So he let the anger go with the water.
The light above him was crystal green. Lady Strife’s golden face shimmered through. The end of summer was approaching, and already the mornings had taken on the bite of autumn. Soon it would be the equinox.
Floating in the Tallow, Ian turned his mind to the increase in gheists, and the dangers of lesser holidays that marked the ebb of the powers of Cinder and Strife. There would be more vow knights on the roads, and more gheists in the forests. The war might affect that. If the vow knights could not safely travel, they might stay in the Lightfort and leave Tener to its feral gods. He would need to take precautions, to protect his men from the marauding gheists. He wondered what Martin would be doing to keep his Suhdrin knights safe. Perhaps their fear could be turned to his advantage. Dress his raiders in woad and strike at their flanks. Give
them
some sleepless nights. He smiled at the thought, and started to float back toward the surface.
An arrow dimpled the water over his head. Ian stared at it for a second, wondering how someone’s target practice had gone so badly astray, then another bolt landed beside the first, to be joined by an entire flight that fell like rain.
Gasping, he stood and looked at the southern bank. The tents of Marchand and Roard remained where they had been. There were soldiers among them, and quite a few on the bank, but none of them had bows or stood in the concentrated ranks necessary to launch such a flight. The men and women Ian could see were all staring at Ian’s camp, shock on their faces. Which meant the attack wasn’t coming from the south.
A horn went up behind him, then another. Ian whirled to find that several tents were on fire. Another flight of arrows came from the forest to the north, this one trailing streamers of smoke and burning pitch. Rally horns called shrilly from the length of the camp, joined by clarions from the Suhdrin side of the bank.
Ian splashed to shore and started pulling on his clothes. A knight ran up to him, a woman he didn’t recognize. She wore the colors of House Dougal, the hart and harrier, and was carrying a collection of armor that Ian recognized as his own.
“My lord,” the woman said matter-of-factly, then she bent to help Ian prepare.
“What’s happening?” he snapped.
“Arrows from the trees. Seems like most of the sentries are already dead, for them to be so close. Raise your arms.”
Ian did so, then ducked as a quarrel hissed over his head. The woman slapped his arms back up, then tossed a chain shirt over his head and fastened it to his belt.
“Will have to do,” she said. “Don’t get shot in the leg.” Then she marched back to the tents. Dark-cloaked soldiers were boiling out of the forest, pouring through the camp and cutting the men down before they were properly armed or armored.
“Wait! We must rally the banners! Sound the horns…”
“Already done,” she yelled over her shoulder. “Your sword is there. Draw it, and earn your name.” Then she drew her own weapon and waded into the chaos of the camp, the swirl of combat, screaming the words of her house.
On the opposite bank, the Suhdrin horns were sounding, mustering their forces. Lines of spear and bow were forming at the ford, and Ian could see a swirl of horsemen donning armor and preparing for the charge. They would be coming across the river in just a few minutes. The Tenerran guards at the ford had all turned to face the threat from the forest. They were pressed from both sides, though how this force had gotten into the forests to the north was beyond him. If Ian didn’t rally the defenses, the whole camp would be swept from the field.
Gwen Adair has failed us.
He pulled on his boots and drew his sword, tossing the scabbard aside. The attackers from the north had fought through the pickets and were among the tents, cutting free the harnessed mounts and driving them from their pens. Whoever these soldiers were, they were nearly silent in their attack, but didn’t seem terribly effective. Most of the arrows had flown over the camp, and even in the state of disarray, it seemed as though Ian’s banners had rallied and were giving a good showing.
A column of Suhdrin attackers stumbled onto the riverbank. Their shield line was broken and their spears bristled in all directions, rather than moving in concert. A party of Tenerrans crashed into them, brushing aside their spears and hammering the shields.
“The hound! The hallow!” Ian screamed as he joined the fight.
* * *
The battle was closely fought and quickly over. The Tenerrans broke the Suhdrin shield wall like a baby’s spine, grinding them apart and spitting out the refuse. Ian stood on the far side of the carnage with his ears ringing and his hand numb from striking sword to bone.
Suhdrin forces massed on the southern bank of the Tallow, but had not made a move to cross. He looked around and saw the knight who had helped him with his shirt.
“Sir…” he said.
“MaeWulf,” she answered. Her eyes were on the dead at her feet. “These are children.”
“Dead ones, aye—and old men, the infirm… not much of a fighting force,” Ian said. “If they hadn’t taken us by surprise, there wouldn’t have been a threat at all.”
“How in hells did they get behind us?” MaeWulf muttered. “We’ve got eyes from here to Dunneswerry, and Gwen Adair was holding the fords to the west.”
“A question for Gwen Adair,” Ian said.
Without warning, another flight of arrows dropped on the camp, this one drawing blood, though it fell on Suhdrin and Tenerran alike. There was a rumbling confusion, then the nearest line of tents collapsed. In the cloud of dust that rose, his own warriors appeared, fighting a retreat, their faces turned to the distant forest.
The battle line moved to the banks of the river, sweeping Ian, Sir MaeWulf and their attendant knights along with them. It was pressed by an organized spear line, soldiers fighting like madmen and anchored by a core of mounted knights. At their center was a banner, and the knights clustered around it.
At their fore was Sir Henri Volent, the Deadface, fighting like a demon, killing like a butcher.
Across the Tallow, a horn sounded, and the enemy began to move.
“Defend! Defend!” Ian shouted over the clamor. He waved his sword in the air, but the men and women around him did not see it. “Hold the line!”
“There is no line, my lord,” MaeWulf growled between gritted teeth. She’d sustained numerous wounds, blood leaking through her chain mail, but she fought on. Ian tried again to rally the fight, but only drew the attention of the Suhdrin attackers.
They pressed closer to him.
A spear snagged his shoulder, gathering up the links of his mail and tearing the coat, leaving rings to spill down his chest like coins. The weight of the unsettled armor dragged down his sword arm. Without a shield, Ian had to depend on his blade for protection, and it was slowing him down. He stumbled back and splashed into the river. The water that had flowed so clean a few minutes before was now murky with blood.
A face broke through the shield wall and he struck at it, breaking bones and teeth. That man disappeared, and another threw himself forward, hacking madly at Ian’s blade. The men-at-arms around Volent fought with rabid strength and a complete disregard for their own flesh. It was as though demons drove their blades. A shield bashed into Ian’s chest, and when he fell backward it was into deep water.
He dropped his sword, and struggled against the weight of his armor until he got his feet against the muddy riverbed, pushing his head above water. Volent’s mounted knights were splashing through the river, struggling to keep their horses calm in the current.
With water up to his chest and his sword missing, Ian was caught in the retreat of his men. Herded like sheep, the Tenerrans beached themselves on the slick stones of the ford. They crowded into the shallow water, milling about like spawning trout. Ian found himself pressed tight on all sides. Even if he hadn’t lost his sword, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to fight. The air was full of the screaming of horses and men, the crash of arms, and the sound of distant horns.
Then there was a near horn, followed by hoofbeats.
The screaming got louder.
A wide lance of knights-errant—in full armor and flying the banners of Roard, Marchand, and LeGaere—crashed through the ford. They crushed the dismounted Tenerran rabble like eggs.
Something struck Ian’s shoulder. He wheeled away from the blow, seeing a spray of crimson that he only distantly recognized as his own blood. Then he was in the river, this time falling on the far side of the ford, and the cold drove the air from his lungs. He sank, mud between his fingers and in his face. Bodies piled on his back and his lungs burned for air. He squirmed free, but his armor kept him under the surface. His left arm wouldn’t move, but with the numb, aching fingers of his right he found the hem of his ruined shirt of mail.
He shrugged free of it, the links snagging in his open wounds like fishhooks, tearing flesh from fat and spilling blood into the water. Then the shirt slipped free of his body, and he floated with the current. The light above his head was clear and green. The air left his lungs, and darkness filled his head.
Ian drifted, the current taking him westward, away from his father, farther from the Tenerran lines and safety. The river bore him on.
* * *
The first horn came from the western picket. The oxbow crescent of Malcolm’s army was anchored at either flank by the two fords they had used to cross the Tallow, with each defended by heavy lines of spear, backed by the majority of the Tenerran archers.
To the east, there were no more crossing points until the Reaveholt, the walled city that managed most traffic between Greenhall and the Fen Gate, while to the west the river was punctuated by various fords and lesser bridges. Gwen Adair held the fords farther to the west, while Malcolm’s son was charged with the nearest major ford, just beyond the river’s bend.
There had been no word from Ian.
Yet the perimeter guards were signaling an attack. Malcolm shifted on his campstool, turning away from Rudaine, and stared in that direction. Like most of his men, he had taken to wearing his armor day and night. It was beginning to wear on him, but the immediate fear of attack washed his discomfort away.
“Are they probing the flank?” Rudaine asked. He and Malcolm had been discussing their options, whether they would fall back across the Tallow or press on to Greenhall.
“No, I think it’s more than that,” Malcolm said. He stood and called for his horse, then began buckling on his scabbard. “I see no movement along the Suhdrin line.”
“Neither do I,” Rudaine answered. The bulk of the Suhdrin army was spread out before them. “They stir, but I think it’s as much curiosity as preparation.” A few riders tracked along the Suhdrin line, but most of the forces were still clustered around their fires.
He glanced up at the sky.
“An hour to dusk. A terrible time to mount an attack.”