The absence of magic coursing through his body added to the sensation, he realised, feeling insubstantial, almost weak as his impending death reared in his mind. Everything else fled before that: here he was, armed with weapons to make a God envious -and there was no help to be found. He was outnumbered, miles from safety, and not so inexperienced that he didn’t know that any magic he did use would kill him and his friends as surely as it would those they were fighting.
A flicker of anger appeared at that thought.
If I’m going to die, so is that bastard Certinse. I couldn’t stand to take my last breath and see his triumphant grin. I’d rather put out my own eyes first.
He looked up at the overcast sky. The poacher’s moon would have fallen behind the horizon by now. If Nartis was watching, he was obviously content to leave his Chosen to whatever fate was coming.
‘More horsemen, my Lord,’ someone called, and a soldier pointed off to their left. A group of mounted men trotted in line at the top of the slope, following the path Isak’s party had taken, anonymous against the darkness of the tall pines.
‘Vesna, do you recognise them?’
Vesna craned his neck, then shook his head. ‘I can’t tell. They’re wearing a uniform I don’t recognise, but they’re riding hunters, and they’re not knights or hurscals, not all in black like that.’
‘Their leader isn’t,’ Carel said, sounding confused. ‘Is that—? Gods, it’s a bloody chaplain leading them!’
He was right: as the party came closer they could make out the one man not in black was sporting the white robes of a legion chaplain. His hood was pushed back to display a bald head and a long grey beard hung down over his chest. As they neared, the chaplain stood up in his stirrups and called something towards the enemy cavalry, swinging his moon-glaive in a wide circle above his head and finishing his statement with a roar and a cackle of laughter.
‘Bastard’s a bit old to be an active chaplain,’ Vesna commented, ‘and what’s he laughing about—?’ He broke off abruptly, then exclaimed, ‘Oh Gods, of course! He’s been waiting the best part of his life for this day, no wonder he’s making sure he enjoys it!’ He turned to Carel. ‘Get our men in the saddle, now -those knights are on our side but they’re still outnumbered.’
The men didn’t wait for Carel’s orders; they were already running for the horses. Isak grabbed Vesna by the arm and demanded an explanation.
‘That’s Cardinal Disten,’ the count said, his eyes shining. ’He’s the one who uncovered the whole bloody Malich affair. He’s been after the Certinse family ever since, but he never managed to find the proof he needed to have them tried. Now they’ve delivered themselves to him, both Duke Certinse and Suzerain Tildek, and that’s reason enough to round up the rest of the bastards.’
‘Who are the knights with him? That’s not a cardinal’s staff.’
Vesna beckoned one of the soldiers to bring their horses. ‘Dark monks, I’d bet, my Lord. The Brethren of the Sacred Teachings themselves. Suzerain Saroc has always been known as a bit of a recluse -I think we’ve just found out why!’
Isak swung himself into the saddle and looked at the advancing horsemen. ‘I never expected to be so glad to see religious fanatics,’ he said as the newcomers unleashed a volley of arrows into the suddenly disordered enemy soldiers desperately turning to face the new threat. Isak grinned and drew his own sword. The dark monks didn’t make the numbers even, but it was close enough for Isak. He felt the sharp hunger of magic inside his chest as Eolis glittered in the dull daylight, around the lower part of which the Skull of Hunting had wrapped itself. It looked as if the guard and a few inches of the blade had been coated in a thick layer of ice, and the weapon throbbed with barely restrained power.
‘Morghien, Mihn, your weapons will do more good here, protecting Tila and Mistress Daran, than in the midst of a cavalry charge.’ The wanderer nodded. He was not a natural horseman and controlling his animal in the midst of battle was no easy thing. Mihn looked less impressed, but he didn’t argue; his staff would be of little use against plate-armour.
‘The rest of you, form line. I’d prefer them alive to put on trial, but dead will do almost as well.’
The men laughed and Carel called out the first line of the Palace Guard’s battle-hymn. The voices, few as they were, sang out with lusty vigour as Isak watched the enemy reel from the unexpected assault. Cardinal Disten’s manic laughter echoed out and Isak gentled Toramin as he waited for the Ghosts to ready themselves.
He fixed his attention on his prey, seeing the distant Duke Certinse slapping away the hand of the knight next to him -presumably his uncle, Suzerain Tildek - and drawing his sword. Flames burst from the weapon’s surface and Isak smiled and raised his own weapon in salute. The slender blade glittered in the dull light, a soft
sssshh
sounding as it cut the air.
‘I’m going to have your head on a spike,’ Isak said softly, a promise to the wind. He gestured, and his party advanced a few yards until they were clear of the hollow and standing on firmer ground, where they stood and waited for the monks.
Wherever they came from, they were well trained and led. They swapped bows for lances quickly and neatly enough to have satisfied even that notorious disciplinarian General Lahk, and charged into the disordered cavalry, who were scattering even before the first blow had been struck. Cardinal Disten’s troops didn’t bother giving chase; they reordered their lines and continued on towards the knights across the stream. Duke Certinse hadn’t moved; his men appeared paralysed by indecision. Even when the charge was called and Certinse levelled his sword towards Isak, still more than a few heads were turned towards the dark monks.
Vesna drew Isak’s attention to the other regiment of cavalry, and both men grinned as the captain, incandescent with rage, berated his men, only to be cut off abruptly as one of them shot him and sent him tumbling to the floor.
‘They’ve seen the sense of it,’ Vesna called.
‘And now we finish this,’ Isak said, and kicked his spurs into Toramin’s flanks. The massive stallion didn’t need any further encouragement, slamming his enormous hooves into the ground and charging forward.
The dark monks were closer and once through the stream they crashed into the enemy’s flank, forcing them to slow and turn as Isak led his own small unit to meet them head-on. The monks’ impact threw the hurscals into disarray, and Toramin, moving at speed, missed the target, slamming instead into the Lomin standard-bearer’s horse with such force that it threw the man from his saddle and his animal collapsed on top of him. Isak pulled Toramin away, not wanting the horse cut by a flailing leg, and hacked at the nearest hurscal, catching a hopeful swinging mace on its edge, then using Eolis to cut savagely across the knight’s face, tearing through his visor as if it were made of cotton. Isak laid about himself furiously, spreading chaos through what was left of the enemy ranks as he made for the centre. He caught an axe on his shield and sheared the shaft, leaned forward to punch his shield into the man’s face-plate, then moved on, not waiting to see what damage he’d done. A lance-head scraped past his belly and Isak turned to see a knight in white and yellow reach back for another stab. As Isak dropped his shield down to trap the shaft and break it on his thigh, a hurscal dressed in Lomin’s red hacked at his other side. Eolis absorbed most of the force, but the axe-head spun off that unnatural blade and the spike on its reverse stabbed down into Toramin’s shoulder. As the huge horse screamed and reared up, the hurscal, still clinging grimly to his battle-axe, was dragged from his saddle. Toramin stamped down on the man as Isak yanked the spike from the horse’s flesh and let it fall.
A black-cowled monk pushed past them, an edged mace in each hand, and Isak took a moment to look around. He saw Count Vesna trading blows with Duke Certinse nearby, and nearer still, one of the Ghosts was savagely attacking Suzerain Tildek. In the chaos, Isak couldn’t see who it was, but as he deftly worked an opening in the suzerain’s defence and knocked Tildek reeling, there was no doubt the soldier outmatched the nobleman.
Isak had no time to look further as a hurscal came at him head-on. The white-eye slashed at the man’s head but missed; another hurscal came in from his left and as the two attacked Isak together, words came unbidden to Isak’s throat and he felt magic flow out through Eolis. The sword traced a path of blinding light that made both attackers cry out and cover their eyes. The unnatural edge did the rest.
Isak sensed rather than saw a tall knight with a swan emblazoned on his chest just as he launched a furious attack. Hacking at Isak with a gleaming broadsword, the knight forced Isak into defensive mode, warding off the blows, until Toramin, circling clockwise, managed to shove the knight’s own mount off-balance and Isak was able to get a blow in himself. Eolis cut the knight’s broadsword in two, then continued on down into the man’s peaked helm. The knight went rigid, then flopped to the floor as Isak withdrew.
Looking around, Isak saw the enemy break and run, but beyond them was a ring of archers with bows ready. The fleeing men came to a sudden halt when a single arrow hit the lead knight with an audible
thud
. For a moment, all they could hear were the cries of the dying, then the men, broken, threw down their weapons and pulled off their helms.
‘My Lord,’ called Vesna from somewhere behind. Isak pulled his own helm off and hung it back on his saddle as he turned to the count.
‘A present, my Lord,’ Vesna continued, prompting laughter from those around him. Beside him, alternately scowling and grimacing with pain, was Karlat Certinse. The young duke clutched at his sword arm as blood ran freely from the elbow joint. He had no helm and his face was streaked in blood and mud, his long black hair matted.
‘Get that wound bound, then his hands and mouth,’ Isak ordered. ‘I want him alive. Better to string him up in Tirah than on a field somewhere.’ Isak nudged his horse closer and saw a flash of fear in Certinse’s eyes before hatred masked everything. Beneath the blood and mud and the purpling bruise swelling the duke’s left cheek, he looked almost absurdly young.
What are you
, Isak thought,
a boy in a man’s armour, playing a game you don’t really understand, or the calculating traitor I’m going to hang you as? In this life, does it matter?
Isak lifted the duke’s chin with his finger and looked into his eyes. ‘What’s more,’ he said quietly, ‘I shall hang your mother beside you, and any other member of your treacherous family that my Chief Steward takes a disliking to on the morning I sign the warrants.’
The only sound that escaped Certinse’s lips was a hiss of pain as a Ghost roughly removed the armour obscuring his wound and tied a tourniquet around the upper part of his arm.
Isak slipped from his horse and began to check the soldiers milling around. Those few knights who had been slow to surrender had been herded into a circle and battered to their knees. Everywhere he looked, men lay contorted in agony, screaming, or moaning softly. A pair of Ghosts appeared on either side of him as he knelt beside one of the injured on the ground, a Lomin hurscal. Isak gently pulled away the helm to reveal a man about Vesna’s age, his eyes wide with fear and pain as he huffed in short sharp breaths, his hands awkwardly clasped about the broken stub of a lance protruding from his side. The bubbling rasp indicated the head of the lance was embedded in the man’s lung. There was no hope for him. Taking the man’s head in his massive hands, Isak ended the pain as quickly and gently as he could.
He looked around at his cream-liveried guards, their emerald dragons easy to pick out. ‘Carel?’ he called, a flutter of anxiety in his heart. He spun around, seeking the veteran’s familiar build, but his old friend was nowhere in sight. Isak stood and took a few steps forward, looking around in increasing panic.
‘Here, my Lord,’ one of the Ghosts called, waving Isak over to where he knelt. Despite the lack of urgency in the man’s voice, Isak ran the twenty yards to his side, a heavy feeling in his gut. Before he got there, he heard a familiar voice swearing, ‘Careful, you ham-fisted bastard!’
Isak smiled with relief as he reached Carel’s side. It was the quiet ones you had to worry about. The soldier was easing off Carel’s cuirass, having already cut away the arm section. There wasn’t much blood; Isak guessed it might be a bad break. Crouching down, he picked up the arm section and ran his finger over the split and dented plate just above the elbow. It had been badly mangled.
‘Fell off your horse, did you, old man?’
‘Piss on you. It was a mace and you know it,’ snapped Carel in reply. He winced again as the cuirass snagged on his tunic. ‘Not everyone’s made of iron, you shit-brained lump. Oh Gods, that hurts! Someone find me a flask of something strong.’
The soldier tending his commander pulled a knife from his belt to cut away the sleeve. Carel’s once-powerful arm looked white, except for the deep sickly bruise that had begun to reveal itself. Isak could see from the angle that it was a nasty break, and the colour made him think that Jeil would have his work cut out to save the arm at all.
‘Gods, it doesn’t look good,’ said the soldier, unthinkingly.
‘I know that, you bastard,’ Carel spat. ‘Nartis be blessed it’s my left.’
‘Lord Isak,’ called a booming voice and Isak turned to see the man Vesna had identified as Cardinal Disten advancing towards him. He was indeed dressed as the chaplain he had once been but, as he neared, Isak could see the cobalt-blue hems of his robe were faded and patched. The cardinal himself was an imposing man -several years older than Carel, Isak guessed, but standing over six feet tall, and still with a young man’s bulk. His long beard and the straggly remains of his hair were completely grey and his lean, lined face bore more than a few scars. Only his eyes belied the impression of age, burning fiercely from beneath thick dark eyebrows.
‘My Lord, it’s an honour to meet you,’ Cardinal Disten said as he dropped to one knee. Isak could see the moon-glaive hooked to his belt was still dripping blood onto the torn grass.