Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (89 page)
Read Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) Online
Authors: David Hair
‘Meanwhile we’ll hold ground here in the middle, while Aranio pretends to attack on the right, to give Gurvon something else to worry about, so perhaps he won’t reinforce Frikter in time.’
Cera peered northwards, almost a mile away, but it was all a blur, nothing more than dark stains on the dun sand.
Knights take mercenaries . . . Please, Pater Sol!
‘The Harkun nomads are returning fire,’ Elena reported. ‘They’re massed to the south of our flank and they’re shooting back at the skirmishers. But we’ve still got a clear run at Frikter’s Argies.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Only if Gyle’s an idiot. Or if his men aren’t obeying him.’
‘That could happen,’ Cera said hopefully. ‘Why don’t we attack with everyone?’
‘Stick to law books, Cera. If we over-commit, we’ve got nothing in reserve if anyone breaks. It’s all about holding your line and not getting flanked, even when attacking. If you get flanked, you start losing men at three or four to one. If your line gets broken, same thing, and then it gets ugly, fast.’
The dark smudge of Kestrian footmen went forward first, advancing at a walk as the arrows began to fall among them. They recoiled at a line of undefended trenches, then poured through, while the men coming in behind began ripping out the stakes the Rondians had laid. It looked all very professional, but it was horribly slow when they were under fire.
‘Why are they only walking?’ Cera asked, appalled.
‘You’ve got to move in a line if you don’t want the lead men to be hacked apart before the rest arrive. So you move in an orderly fashion,’ Elena replied matter-of-factly. ‘Those obstacles slow the advance, give more time for the archers. They’ll reform on the other side of the trenches then you’ll see them charging at speed. But first –
oh, shit!
’
A blast of flames had erupted from a line of secondary trenches, and even across the distance and above the noise all round them, they could hear the screams of the tiny human torches lurching about blindly. A dismayed cry erupted and the advance stalled, until more men poured through: plumed officers, shouting orders. A robed battle-mage, an Ordo Costruo man, appeared and started dousing a ten-yard-wide area of trench before coming under mage-bolt fire himself. Taking heart, the Rimoni advanced again up the slope, finally reaching the Argundian lines.
The noise rose as Cera jiggled with frightened excitement. For several minutes all she could see was a thick press at the base of the low ridge, slowly bulging at three or four points as the enemy lines gave way and the Rimoni pushed forward, and the Argundians wavered. But the cheers of her men were stifled as the enemy counter-surged, reserves pouring to the breach from behind the ridge the Argundians defended. The distant noise grew more shrill, and then the Kestrians began to retreat down the slope, back to where the next wave were gathering. Further south, a large line of mounted men wheeled towards the Harkun, pennants fluttering on lances.
‘Justiano’s ordered his knights to drive off the Harkun horse-archers,’ Elena reported. She shook her head. ‘They won’t get near them. And he’s making another push against the Argundians.’
More minutes crawled by that must have been hellish in the middle of that press, but from her vantage Cera could only imagine. Every few minutes the front line boiled back or forth as a weak spot was made or found, then it would close. Little waves of momentum built then dissipated, breaking down in the morass of men. Above, six Rondian skiffs were now engaging five Ordo Costruo windcraft – one of the Rondian ones almost immediately burst into flame, and the whole army cheered.
It was almost a half an hour since the engagement began, and it was going well, Cera thought. The Kestrian knights had driven off the Harkun, and the footmen were steadily pushing to the old front line and driving the Rondians back. ‘Are we winning?’
‘It’s too early to say,’ Elena replied. ‘Frikter’s lot aren’t breaking, just getting pushed. It’s almost got to the point where reinforcements might break them.’ She didn’t sound like she thought that would happen, though.
Cera glanced to the north and saw that the Aranio were milling well short of the enemy lines. Clouds of arrows were flying. ‘What’s happening up there?’
‘Not enough,’ Elena muttered. ‘Just archery practise. Aranio is supposed to be advancing, not trading shots.’
Enemy trumpets droned into life, a haunting wail emanating from the southwest, behind the Argundians, and suddenly new banners rose from a point behind the ridgeline, a forest of black and yellow, which poured forward onto Justiano’s left flank. Bursts of lightning shot across the gap between the forces, and gouts of flame.
Elena cursed aloud. ‘Rukka! It’s Adi Paavus’ boys! See the yellow serpent? Gyle’s brought Adi’s boys up from the Krak!’ She swore furiously. ‘And look at the Harkun— They’re wheeling back onto the Kestrian knights – they’ve been hiding their full numbers too.’
Cera clutched at her heart. ‘What’s Justiano doing?’
‘He’s deployed footmen at a fallback position, while trying to counter-charge Adi’s lads. It’s rukking suicide.’ Elena broke off into a coughing fit and almost fell out of the saddle.
The Kestrian knights were indeed on the move: they suddenly kicked into motion, and the ground rippled as the heavy horses lumbered forward, building in momentum as they plunged towards the line of yellow banners. It looked irresistible, until fire and crossbow bolts flew all at once, ripping apart the front riders and cutting deep into those beyond. Cera cried and clutched her stomach as the whole force wavered. Then with a howl, the Harkun blades flashed in the sun and the nomads poured towards the stricken assault. The two forces careered into each other and the Kestrians dissolved.
‘I knew this would rukking happen,’ Elena muttered, then raised her voice. ‘Piero, reinforce the left!’
Piero Inveglio looked increasingly distressed, capering about snapping commands as another flock of runners shot in different directions. One of his aides ran towards her. ‘Please, Lady! Retire to the baggage area!’
Cera glared at the boy until he fled.
Queen to the rear. Never!
Her reserve infantry came to life as the army struggled to respond to the unfolding crisis. This was more frightening even than Forensa, where you couldn’t see more than a few dozen yards. This was panoramic and all the worse for it.
Pater Sol, be with us. Mater Lune, bring confusion to our enemies! It can’t end here – not after all we’ve been through: it
can’t
!
35
The Last Betrayal
Gods and Daemons
It is intriguing that many of the daemons of the aether have names that can be equated with the names of pagan deities in both continents. The questions raised are obvious.
S
AKITA
M
UBARAK,
O
RDO
C
OSTRUO,
H
EBUSALIM, 916
Jekuar, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 930
22
nd
month of the Moontide
Cera Nesti sipped from her water-flask, trying to quench her parched throat and settle her stomach. Beside her, Elena Anborn was hunched in the saddle, sweating and haggard. A few yards away Comte Piero Inveglio looked little better as he issued orders and missives to the runners, all the while keeping one eye on what was before him. He was forming a new defensive line on the left, sending in reserves to anchor it, to give the Kestrians something to retreat to as they came streaming back from the Rondian lines – they were not quite fleeing, but they were being heavily pursued. The initiative was now clearly held by Gyle’s men.
‘What about the north?’ Cera asked anxiously.
Elena was glaring across the battlefield. ‘Aranio was supposed to attack, but he’s clearly not going to. All he’s done is form a defensive line and let the Harkun pepper him with arrows. Did Piero change his orders, or did he ignore them?’ Her rasping voice couldn’t conceal her tension. ‘The next half hour will decide this.’
A blast of trumpets to the west, in the middle of the Rondian lines, drew their attention back to the centre as the Rondians began to pour over their own barricades in ordered ranks, banners flying. ‘Are they attacking our centre?’
Elena’s expression grew grimmer. ‘Yes, they’re attacking here too.’
Cera’s mind raced. ‘They know something . . . they must do, to feel so confident.’ The sick feeling in her belly congealed. She strained her eyes first north, then south, could see nothing, but still the Rondians came forward, leaving their ridge and fortifications and setting up the charge in full view.
This is the end!
Except it wouldn’t be: not for her. Gyle would make an example of her, something to be whispered of whenever anyone contemplated rebellion. ‘Can we hold them?’
Elena threw her a sick look. ‘We’re about to find out.’
*
A mental communication fizzed into Gurvon Gyle’s mind from Endus Rykjard.
.
<
I needed to keep it dark, Endus, so the Nesti wouldn’t be able to guess they were coming from our deployments.>
Gurvon looked north and saw the arrays of men, both mounted and footmen, all in Gorgio white, pouring in behind the Dorobon legion: ten thousand men, enough to crush the Aranio flank, then pincer the Nesti centre and finish this war.
! Push forward!>
*
The Rondian assault struck the Nesti centre like a wave, battering at the lines of violet-tabarded Rimoni and rough-clad Jhafi, which reeled and shook and recoiled, barely holding. Rivulets of sweat were running down Elena’s face as the fighting edged closer and closer: three hundred yards, then the last two hundred in a rush. Cera was staring motionless, completely caught up in the struggle as it boiled closer and closer to their position.
We’re breaking
, Elena thought anxiously.
We
must
hold longer!
For a few minutes the push and shove staggered this way and that, then suddenly the Nesti ranks were blasted apart in a burst of flame and a wedge of Kirkegarde mage-knights thundered through the gap, footmen following them through like a flash-flood in the rainy season.
Dear Kore, I wish Kaz was here . . .
The emptiness where Kazim should be inside her awareness ached, sucking at her soul. She’d grown so used to having him with her,
in
her mind and heart, that his absence was defining her. She was a husk with a very telling lack of gnosis. She thought she could manage a shield and a few mage-bolts, but after that—
I’m going to last about six seconds against Kirkegarde magi. Some bloody royal champion I am . . .
‘Hold them! Hold them!’ she shouted, as the Nesti royal guards formed up in front of Cera and the commanders, presenting long spears and preparing to sell their lives dearly. Even Piero Inveglio had drawn his sword now, though his face was despairing.
We need more time . . .
But the Kirkegarde men were coming right for them, carving up the distance between in seconds. The Nesti army folded aside, unable to slow the charge as they thundered out of the middle distance, and suddenly they were
here
.
She blasted at the lead man, but his shields held, so she slammed kinesis at the horses’ hooves; she mowed one beast down, sent it tumbling headlong and the rider slammed into the earth at full gallop. His neck snapped in a sickening wet crunch – but there were dozens behind him, lances low and fire blossoming all around them. They hit the ranks of Nesti footmen just as they presented pikes; the long spears skewered steeds and riders in a sudden, sickening tangle of colliding flesh. The whole line bulged backward, and Cera shouted in fright.
Then Elena herself came under attack, mage-bolts slashing at her shields as she made her horse dance, lurching in the saddle as she fought to stay mounted. A crowd of Nesti knights tried to form up to pull Cera away, but the Kirkegarde had punched through already and were streaming in from both flanks and engaging them.
The whole front was dissolving.
‘Hold them!’ she screamed. ‘Hold the line!’
Then she saw, away to the northwest, line upon line of white-clad men marching out of the haze, entering the field behind the Dorobon banners on the extreme left of Gyle’s lines. She sucked in a mouthful of air as she recognised the uniforms:
Gorgio of Hytel . . .
‘Hold! Hold!’ she shrieked, projecting her voice towards the Kirkegarde commander. She recognised Lann Wilfort’s heraldry: she’d not met him, but she knew his reputation as more morally flexible than most. ‘Parley! A parley, Grandmaster!’
Wilfort’s helmed head swivelled towards her. <
Anborn? A parley?>