The Battle of Ratibor
Hadrian sat in the rain. Heavy chains shackled his ankles and wrists to a large metal stake driven into the ground. All day he waited in the mud, watching the lazy movements of the Nationalist Army. They were just as slow to decide his fate as they were to attack. Horses walked past, meals were called, and men grumbled about the rain and the mud. The gray light faded into night and regret consumed him.
He should have escaped, even if it meant shedding blood. He might have been able to save Arista's life. He could have warned her that the Nationalists would not cooperate and have her call off the attack. Now, even if she succeeded, the victory would be short-lived and she would face the gallows or a beheading.
"Gill!" he shouted as he saw the sentry walking by in his soaked cloak.
"Ah yes!" Gill laughed, coming closer with a grin. "If it isn't the grand marshall. Not so grand now, are you?"
"Gill, you have to help me," he shouted over the roar of the rain. "I need you to get a message to-"
Gill bent down. "Now why would I help the likes of you? You made a fool out of me. Sergeant Milford weren't too pleased neither. He has me running an all-night shift to show his displeasure."
"I have money," Hadrian told him eagerly. "I could pay you."
"Really? And where is this money, in some chest buried on some distant mountain, or merely in another pair of pants?"
"Right here in the purse on my belt. I have at least ten gold tenents. You can have it all if you just promise me to take a message to Ratibor."
Gill looked at Hadrian's belt curiously. "Sure," he said. Reaching down he untied the purse. He weighed it in his hands, the bouncing produced a jingle. He pulled open the mouth and poured out a handful of coins. "Whoa! Look at that. You weren't joshing; there's really gold in here. One, two, three…damn! Well thank you, marshall." He made a mock salute. "This will definitely take the sting out of having to stand two watches." He started to walk away.
"Wait!" Hadrian told him. "You need to hear the message."
Gill kept walking.
"You need to tell Arista not to attack," he shouted desperately, but Gill continued on his way swinging the purse around his finger until his figure was obscured by the rain.
Hadrian cursed and kicked the stake hard. He collapsed on his side, lost in a nightmare of frustration. He remembered the look on Arista's face, how hopeful. It never crossed her mind that he would fail. When he first met the princess, he thought her arrogant and egotistical-like all nobles-grown up brats, greedy and self-centered.
When did that change?
Images flooded back to him. He remembered her hanging out her wet things in Sheridan. How stubbornly she slept under the horse blanket that first night outside, crying herself to sleep. He and Royce were both certain she would cancel the mission the next day. He saw her sleeping in the skiff that morning drifting down the Bernum and how she had practically announced her identity to everyone when drunk in Dunstan's home. She had always been their patron and their princess, but somewhere along the way she became more than that.
As he sat, pelted with rain, and helpless in the mud, he was tormented with visions of her death. He saw her lying face down in the filthy street, her dress torn, her pale skin stained red with blood. The Imperials would likely hoist her body above Central Square, or perhaps drag it behind a horse to Aquesta. Maybe they would cut her head off and send it to Alric as a warning.
In a flash of anger and desperation, he began digging in the mud, trying to dislodge the stake. He dug furiously, pulled hard, then dug again-wrenching the stake back and forth. A guard spotted him and used a second stake on the chains connected to his wrists, to stretch him out flat.
"Still trying to get away and cause mischief are ya?" the guard said. "Well, that taint gonna happen. You killed Gaunt. You'll die for that, but until then you'll stay put." The guard spit in his face, but the effect was hardly what he sought as the rain rinsed it away. It crushed Hadrian knowing it was Arista's rain washing him clean. Lying there, he saw the first sign of dawn lightening the morning sky and his heart sank further.
Emery could see the horizon as the faint light of dawn separated sky from building and tree. Rain still fell and the sound of crickets was replaced by early morning stirrings. Merchants appeared on the street far earlier than usual pushing carts and rolling wagons toward the West End Square then, neglectfully, left them blocking the entrances from King's Street and Legends Avenue. Other men came out of their homes and shops. Emery watched them appear out of the gray morning rain, coming one and two at a time, then gathering into larger groups as they wandered aimlessly around the square, drifting slowly, almost hesitantly, toward the armory. They wore heavy clothes and carried hoes, pitchforks, shovels, and axes. Most had knives tucked into their belts.
A pair of city guards working the end of the night shift-dressed only in light summer uniforms-had just finished their last patrol circuit. They stopped and looked around at the growing crowd with curious expressions. "Say there, what's going on here?"
"I dunno," a man said, and then moved away.
"Listen, what are you all doing here?" the other guard asked, but no one answered.
Barefoot and dressed in a white oversized shirt and a pair of britches that left his shins bare, Emery strode forward feeling the clap of the sword at his side. "We are here to avenge the murder of our lord and sovereign, King Urith of Rhenydd!"
"It's him. It's Emery Dorn!" the guard shouted. "Grab the bastard."
As the guards rushed forward they were too late to realize their peril as the groups closed around them, sweeping together like a flocks of birds.
The soldiers hastily drew their swords swinging them.
"Back! Get back! All of you! Back or we'll have the lot of you arrested!"
Hatred filled the faces of the crowd and excitement crept into their eyes. They jabbed at the soldiers with pitchforks and hoes. The guards knocked them away with swords. For several minutes the crowd taunted with feints and threats, and then Emery drew his blade. Mrs. Dunlap found the sword for him. It had once belonged to her husband. In all the years of service, Paul Dunlap, carriage driver for King Urith, never had occasion to draw it. The steel scraped as Emery pulled the blade from the metal sheath. With a grim expression and a set jaw, he pushed his way through the circle and faced the guards.
They were sweating. He could see the wetness on the upper lip of the closest man. The guard lunged, thrusting. Emery stepped to the side and hit the soldier's blade with his own, hearing the solid clank and feeling the impact in his hand. He took a step forward and swung. It felt good. It felt perfect, just the right move. The tip of his sword hit something soft and Emery watched as he sliced the man, cutting him across the chest. The soldier screamed, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide in shock, clutching himself as blood soaked his clothes. The other guard tried to run, but the crowd held him back. Emery pushed past the wounded man and with one quick thrust stabbed the remaining guard through the kidney. Several cheered and began beating the wounded men, hacking them with axes and shovels.
"Enough," Emery shouted. "Follow me!"
The guards' weapons were taken and the crowd chased Emery to the flagstone building with the iron gate. By the time they arrived, Carat was already picking the lock. They killed those on duty only to discover most of the rest were still in their beds. A few got to their feet before the mob arrived. They stabbed the first confused man through the ribs with a pitchfork that he took with him when he fell. Emery stabbed another and an axe took a third's shoulder partway off, lodging there so that the owner had to kick his victim to pull the axe free. Swords and shields lined the walls or lay in pine boxes. On shelves sat steel helms and chain hauberks.
The mob grabbed these as they passed, discarding their tools of trade for tools of war. Only ten men guarded the armory and all died quickly, most beaten to death in their beds. The men cheered when they realized they took the armory without a single loss of life to their side. They laughed, howled, and jumped on tables, breaking plates and cups and whatever else they could find as they gleefully tested out their new weapons.
All around him Emery could see the wild looks in the eyes of the men and realized he must wear a similar expression. His heart was pounding, his lungs pumping air. He felt no pain at all from his back now. He felt powerful, elated, and a little nauseous all at the same time.
"Emery! Emery!" He turned to see Arista pushing through the men. "You're too slow," she screamed back at him. "The garrison is coming. Get them armed and formed up in the square."
As if pulled from a dream, Emery realized his folly. "Everyone out!" he shouted. "Everyone out now! Form up on the square!"
Arista had already begun organizing those men who remained outside into two lines with their backs to the armory and their faces to the square.
"We need to get weapons!" Perin shouted at the princess.
"Stay in line!" she barked. "We'll have them brought out. You have to maintain the lines to stop the garrison from charging."
The men who stood in line holding only farm tools looked at her terrified as across the square the first of the soldiers struggled to push away the wagons and carts that had been rutted in the mud. Soon the men Emery had shooed out began taking their place in front of the line.
"Form up!" Emery shouted. "Two straight lines."
Arista ran back into the armory and began grabbing swords and dragging them out. She spotted Carat stealing coins from a dead man's purse and shoved him against a wall. "Help me carry swords and shields out!"
"But I'm not allowed to," he said.
"You're not allowed to fight, but you can carry some swords damn it. Just like you unlocked the door. Now do it!"
Carat seemed like he would say something then gave in and started pulling shields down from the walls. Doctor Gerand entered carrying bandages but discarded them quickly to help deliver weapons. On her way out, Arista saw a woman running in. Her dress soaked from the rain, her long blonde hair pasted to her face so that she could hardly see. She stopped abruptly at her approach.
"Let me help," she said to Arista. "You get more while I pass these out."
Arista nodded and handed over the weapons then ran back inside.
Carat handed her the stack of shields he was carrying and she ran them down to the young woman, who in turn took them to the waiting line. When Arista came out again she found a line of older men and some women had formed up and were passing the weapons like a bucket brigade with the young blonde adding more to the line.
"More swords!" Arista shouted. "Helms and mail last."
Carat assembled weapons into manageable piles for the others to grab.
"No more swords!" The call soon came. "Send shields!"
The bell in Central Square began to ring, its tone sounding different that morning than any other, perhaps due to the heavy rain or the pounding of blood in her ears. Most men on the line only held a sword. Arista could see fear in every face.
She could hear Emery's voice drifting above the rain with each delivery. "Steady! Dress those lines. Tighten that formation," he barked the orders like a veteran commander. "No more than a fist's distance between your shoulders. Those with spears or pikes to the rear line, those with shields to the front. Wait! Halt!" he shouted. "Forget that. Back in line. Just pass the spears back and hand the shields forward."
With the next delivery of weapons Arista paused at the armory doorway and looked out across the square. The garrison had cleared the wagons from King's Street and a few soldiers entered. They looked briefly at the lines of townsfolk then went to work to clear the other carts.
Emery stood in front of the troops. Everyone had a sword or spear but most did not know how to wield them properly. Nearly all the men in the front row held a wooden shield, but most simply held them in their hands. In at least one man's case, he had his shield upside down.
"Adam the Wheeler, front and center!" Emery shouted and the middle-aged wheelwright stepped forward. "Take the left side and see that the men know how to wear their shields and hold their swords." Emery likewise called Renkin Pool and Forrest the silversmith's son into action and set them to dressing the line.
"Keep your shield high," Adam was shouting. "Don't swing your sword-thrust it instead. That way you can maintain tighter formations. Keep the line tight, the man next to you is a better shield than that flimsy bit of wood in your hands! Stay shoulder to shoulder!"
"Don't let them turn the flank!" Renkin was shouting on the other side of the line. "Those on the ends turn and hold your shields to defend from a side assault. Everyone must move and work together!"
Helms and hauberks were coming out now and there were a few in the front row hastily pulling chain mail netting over their heads.
A surprising number of imperial soldiers already formed themselves into rows on the far side of the square. Each one impeccably dressed in hauberk, helm, sword, and shield. They stood still, straight, and confident. Looking at Emery's men, Arista saw nervous movements and fear-filled eyes.
Four knights rode into the square. Two bore the imperial pennant at the end of tall lances. On the foremost horse rode Sheriff Vigan. Beside him came Trenchon, the city's bailiff, splashing through the puddles. Hooked to Vigan's belt, in addition to his sword, was the whip. Vigan's face was stern and unimpressed by the hastily assembled slightly skewed lines of peasants. He rode up and down, trotting menacingly, his mount throwing up clods of mud into the air.
"I know why you are here," Vigan shouted at them. "You are here because of one man." He pointed at Emery. "He has incited you to perform criminal acts. Normally, I would have each one of you executed for treason, but I can see it is the traitor Emery Dorn and not you who has caused this. You are victims of his poison, so I will be lenient. Put down those stolen weapons, return to your homes, and I will only hang the leaders that led you astray. Continue this and you will be slaughtered to the last man."
"Steady men," Emery shouted. "He's just trying to frighten you. He's offering you a deal because he's scared-scared of us because we stand before him united and strong. He's scared because we do not cower before his threats. He's scared, because for the first time he does not see sheep, he does not see slaves, he does not see victims to beat, but men. Men! Tall and proud. Men who are still loyal to their king!"
Vigan raised his hand briefly then lowered it. There was a harsh crack followed immediately by muffled thwack! At the sound Emery staggered backward. Blood sprayed those near him. In his chest was lodged a crossbow bolt. An instant later the fiery red-haired boy fell into the mud.
The line wavered at the sight.
"No!" Arista screamed and shoved through the men and collapsed in the mud beside Emery. Frantically she struggled to turn him over, to pull his face out of the muck. She wiped the mud away while blood vomited from his mouth. His eyes rolled wildly. His breath wheezed in short halting gasps.
Everyone was silent. The whole world stopped.
Arista held Emery in her arms. She could see a pleading in his eyes as they found hers. She could feel his breath shortening with each wretched gasp. With each jerk of his body she felt her heart breaking.
This can't be happening!
She looked into his eyes. She wanted to say something-to give a part of herself to take with him-but all she could do was hold on. As she squeezed him tightly he stopped struggling. He stopped moving. He stopped breathing.
Arista cried aloud, certain her body would break.
Above her the sheriff's horse snorted and stomped. Behind her the men of the rebellion wavered. She heard them dropping weapons, discarding shields.
Arista took in a shuddering breath of her own and turned her face toward the sky. She raised one leg, then the other, pushing herself-willing herself-to her feet. As her shaking body rose from the mud, she drew Emery's sword in a tight fist and lifted the blade above her head and glared at the sheriff.
She cried in a loud voice, "Don't-you-dare-break! HOLD THE LINE!"
Chained and stretched out in the mud on his back, a shadow fell across Hadrian's face and the rain stopped hitting him. He opened his eyes and, squinting, saw a man outlined in the morning light.
"What in Maribor's name are you doing here?"
The voice was familiar and Hadrian struggled to see the face lost in the folds of a hooded robe. All around him rain continued to pour, hitting the mud puddles and grass, splashing, forcing him to blink.
"Sergeant! Explain what goes on here. Why is this man chained?"
Hadrian could hear boots slogging through the mud. "It's Commander Parker's orders, sir." There was nervousness in his voice.
"I see. Tell me sergeant, do you enjoy being human?"
"What's that, sir?"
"I asked if you liked the human form. Having two legs, two eyes, two hands for example."
"I ah-well, I don't think I quite understand your meaning."
"No, you don't, but you will if this man isn't freed immediately."
"But, Lord Esrahaddon, I can't, Commander Parker-"
"Leave Parker to me. Get those chains off him, get him out of that mud, and escort him to the house immediately, or I swear you will be walking on all fours within the hour, and for the rest of your life."
"Wizards!" the sergeant grumbled after Esrahaddon had left him. He pulled a key from his belt and struggled to unlocked the mud caked locks. "Up you go," he ordered.
The sergeant led Hadrian back to the house. The chains were gone but his wrists were still bound by two iron manacles. He was cold, hungry, and felt nearly drowned, but only one thought filled his mind as he saw the rising sun in the east.
Is there still time?
"And what about the wagons on the South Road?" Esrahaddon growled as Hadrian entered. The wizard stood in his familiar robe that was, at that moment, gray and perfectly dry despite the heavy rain. Esrahaddon looked the same as he did in Dahlgren except for the length of his beard, which now reached to his chest giving him a more wizardly appearance.
Parker was seated behind his table, a napkin tucked into his collar, another plate of ham and eggs before him.
Does he have the same meal brought to him each morning?
"It's the mud. They can't be moved, and I don't appreciate-" He paused when he spotted Hadrian. "What's going on? I ordered this man staked. Why are you bringing him here?"
"I ordered it," Esrahaddon told him. "Sergeant, remove those restraints and fetch his weapons."
"You?" Parker replied, stunned. "You are here only as an adviser. You forget I am in command."
"Of what?" the wizard asked. "A thousand lazy vagabonds? This was an army when I left. I come back and it's a rabble."
"It's the rain. It doesn't stop."
"It's not supposed to stop," Hadrian burst out in frustration. "I tried to tell you. We need to attack Dermont now. Arista is launching a rebellion this morning in Ratibor. She'll seal the city so he can't retreat. We have to engage and defeat Dermont before he is reinforced by Sir Breckton and the Northern Imperial Army. They will be here any day now. If we don't attack, Dermont will enter the city and crush the rebellion."
"What nonsense." Parker pointed an accusing finger. "This man entered the camp claiming to be a Marshall-at-Arms who was taking command of my troops."
"He is, and he will," the wizard told him.
"He will not! He and this princess of Melengar are both responsible for the treachery that probably cost Degan his life. And we have had no news of any Northern-"
"Degan is alive, you idiot. Neither Hadrian nor Arista had anything to do with his abduction. Do as this man instructs or everyone will likely be dead or captured by the Imperium in two days. You, of course," the wizard glared at Parker, "will die much sooner."
Parker's eyes widened.
"I don't even know who he is!" Parker exclaimed. "I can't turn over command to a stranger I know nothing about. How do I know he's capable? What are his qualifications?"
"Hadrian knows more about combat than any living man."
"And am I to take your word? The word of a-a-sorcerer?"
"It was on my word that this army was formed-my direction that produced its victories."
"But you've been gone. Things have changed. Degan left me in charge and I don't think I can-"
Esrahaddon stepped toward the commander. As he did his robe began to glow. A blood red radiance filled the interior of the house, making Parker's face look like a plump beet.
"Alright! Alright!" Parker shouted abruptly to the sergeant. "Do as he says. What do I care!"
The sergeant unlocked Hadrian's hands then exited.
"Now, Parker, make yourself useful for once," Esrahaddon said. "Go round up the regiment captains. Tell them that they will now be taking their orders from Marshall Blackwater, and have them gather here as soon as possible."
"Marshall Lord Blackwater," Hadrian corrected him with a smile.
Esrahaddon rolled his eyes. "Do it now."
"But-"
"Go!"
Parker grabbed up his cloak, his sword, and pulled his boots from under the table. He retreated out the door still holding them.
"Is he going to be a problem?" Hadrian asked, watching the ex-commander hop into the rain, grumbling.
"Parker? No. I just needed to remind him that he's terrified of me. Esrahaddon looked at Hadrian. "Marshall Lord Blackwater?"
"Lord Esrahaddon?" he replied rubbing feeling back into his wrists.
The wizard smiled and nodded. "You still haven't said what you are doing here."
"A job-for Arista Essendon. She hired us to help her contact the Nationalists."
"And now she has you seizing control of my army."
"Your army? I thought this was Gaunt's."
"So did he, and the moment I'm away Degan gets himself captured after putting that thing in charge. Royce with you?"
"Was-Arista sent him to contact Alric about invading Warric."
While eating Parker's ham and eggs Hadrian provided Esrahaddon with further details about the rebellion and his plans for attacking Dermont. Just as he had finished the meal there was a knock on the door. Five officers and the harried-looking sergeant, carrying Hadrian' swords, entered.
Esrahaddon addressed them. "As Parker no doubt informed you, this is Marshall Lord Blackwater, your new commander. Do anything he says as if he were Gaunt himself. I think you will find him a very worthy replacement for your general."
They nodded and stood at attention.
Hadrian got up, walked around the table, and announced, "We will attack the imperial position immediately."
"Now?" one said astonished.
"I wish there was more time, but I've been tied up elsewhere. We will launch our attack directly across that muddy field where the Imps' three hundred heavy cavalry can't ride, and where their longbow archers can't see in this rain. Our lightly armored infantry must move quickly to overwhelm them. We will close at a run and butcher them man-to-man."
"But they'll-" started a tall gruff-looking soldier with a partial beard and mismatched armor, then stopped himself.
"They'll what?" Hadrian asked.
"I was just thinking. The moment they see us advance, won't they retreat within the city walls?"
"What is your name?" Hadrian asked.
The man looked worried but held his ground. "Renquist, sir."
"Well, Renquist, you're absolutely right. That's exactly what they will try to do. Only they won't be able to get in. By then our allied forces will own the city."
"Allied forces?"
"I don't have time to explain. Don't strike camp, and don't use horns or drums to assemble. With luck there's a good chance we can catch them by surprise. By now, they probably think we will never attack. Renquist, how long do you estimate to have the men assembled and ready to march?"
"Two hours," he replied with more confidence.
"Have them ready in one. Each of you form up your men on the east slope out of their sight. Three regiments of infantry in duel lines, senior commanders located at the center, left, and right flanks in that order. And I want light cavalry to swing to the south and await the call of the trumpet to sweep their flank. I want one contingent of cavalry-the smallest-that I will command and hold in reserve to the north near the city. At the waving of the blue pennant begin crossing the field as quietly as possible. When you see the green relay the signal and charge. We move in one hour. Dismissed!"
The captains saluted and ran back out into the rain. The sergeant handed over Hadrian's weapons and started to slip out quietly.
"Wait a moment," Hadrian halted him. "What's your name?"
The sergeant spun. "I was just following orders when I chained you up. I didn't know-"
"You've just been promoted to adjutant-general," Hadrian told him. "What's your name?"
The ex-sergeant blinked. "Bently…sir."
"Bently, from now on you stick next to me and see that my orders are carried out, understand? Now, I'll need fast riders to work as messengers-three should do, and signal flags-a blue and a green one-as big as possible. Mount them on tall sticks and make certain all the captains have identical ones. Oh, and I need a horse!"
"Make that two," the wizard said.
"Make that three," Hadrian added. "You'll need one too, Bently."
The soldier opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded and stepped out into the rain.
"An hour," Hadrian muttered as he strapped on his weapons.
"You don't think Arista can hold out that long?"
"I was supposed to take control of this army yesterday. If only I had more time…I could have…I just hope it's not too late."
"If anyone can save Ratibor, it's you," the wizard told him.
"I know all about being the guardian to the heir," Hadrian replied.
"I had a feeling Royce would tell you."
Hadrian picked up the large spadone sword and looped the baldric over his head. He reached up and drew it out, testing the position of the sheath.
"I remember that weapon." The wizard pointed to the blade. "That's Jerish's sword." He frowned then added, "What have you done to it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Jerish loved that thing-had a special cloth he kept in his gauntlet that he used to polished it-something of an obsession really. That blade was like a mirror."
"It has seen nine hundred years of use," Hadrian told him and put it away.
"You look nothing like Jerish." Esrahaddon said then paused when he saw the look in Hadrian's face. "What is it?"
"The heir is dead-you know that don't you? Died right here in Ratibor forty years ago."
Esrahaddon smiled. "Still, you hold a sword the same way Jerish did. Must be in the training somehow. Amazing how much it defines both of you. I never really-"
"Did you hear me? The bloodline ended. Seret caught up to them. They killed the heir-his name was Naron by the way-and they killed his wife and child. My father was the only survivor. I'm sorry."
"My teacher, old Yolric, used to insist the world has a way of righting itself. He was obsessed with the idea. I thought he was crazy, but after living for nine hundred years you perceive things differently. You see patterns you never knew where there. The heir isn't dead, Hadrian, just hidden."
"I know you'd like to think that, but my father failed and the heir died. I talked to a member of the Theorem Eldership who was there. He saw it happen."
Esrahaddon shook his head. "I've seen the heir with my own eyes, and I recognize the blood of Nevrik. A thousand years cannot mask such a linage from me. Still, just to be sure, I performed a test that cannot be faked. Oh yes, the heir is alive and well."
"Who is it then? I'm the guardian, aren't I? Or I'm supposed to be. I should be protecting him."
"At the moment anonymity is a far better protection than swords. I cannot tell you the heir's identity. If I did, you would rush off and be a beacon to those watching." The wizard sighed. "And trust me, I know a great deal about being watched. In Gutaria they wrote down every word I uttered. Even now, at this very moment, every word I say is being heard."
"You sound like Royce." Hadrian looked around. "We're alone, surrounded by an army of Nationalists. Do you think Saldur or Ethelred have spies pressing an ear against this farmhouse?"
"Saldur? Ethelred?" Esrahaddon chuckled. "I'm not concerned with the Imperial Regents. They are pawns in this game. Have you never wondered how the Gilarabrywn escaped Avempartha? Do you think Saldur or Ethelred managed that trick? My adversary is a tad more dangerous and I am certain spends a great deal of time listening to what I say no matter where I am. You see, I do not have the benefit of that amulet you wear."
"Amulet?" Hadrian touched his chest, feeling the metal circle under his shirt. "Royce said it prevents wizards like you from finding the wearer."
The wizard nodded. "Preventing clairvoyant searches was the primary purpose, but they are far more powerful than that. The amulets protect the wearers from all effects of the Art and has a dash of good fortune added in. Flip a coin wearing that, and it will come up the way you need it to more often than not. You've been in many battles and I'm sure in plenty of dangerous situations with Royce. Have you not considered yourself lucky on more than one occasion? That little bit of jewelry is extremely powerful. The level of the Art that went into making it was beyond anything I'd ever seen."
"I thought you made it."
"I did, but I had help. I could never have built them on my own. Yolric showed me the weave. He was the greatest of us. I could barely understand his instructions and wasn't certain I had performed the spell properly, but it appears I was successful."
"Still, you're the only one left in the world who can really do magic, right? So there's no chance anyone is magically listening."
"What about this rain? It's not supposed to stop? It would seem I am not the only one."
"You're afraid of Arista?"
"No, just making a point. I am not the only wizard in the world and I have already been far too careless. In my haste I took chances that maybe I should not have, drawing too much attention, playing into others' hands. With so little time left-only a matter of months-it would be foolhardy to risk more now. I fear the heir's identity has already been compromised, but there is a chance I am wrong and I will cling to that hope. I'm sorry Hadrian. I can't tell you just yet, but trust me I will."
"No offense, but you don't seem too trustworthy."
The wizard smiled. "Maybe you are Jerish's descendent after all. Very soon I'll need Riyria's help with an extremely challenging mission."
"Riyria doesn't exist anymore. I've retired."
The wizard nodded. "Nevertheless, I will require both of you, and as it concerns the heir, I presume you'll make an exception."
"I don't even know where I'll be."
"Don't worry, I'll find you both when the time comes. But for now, we have the little problem of Lord Dermont's army to contend with."
There was a knock at the door. "Horses ready, sirs," the new adjutant-general reported in.
As they stepped out, Hadrian spotted Gill walking toward him with the fighter's purse. "Good morning, Gill," Hadrian said, taking his pouch back.
"Morning, sir," he said, looking sick but making an effort to smile. "It's all there, sir."
"I'm a bit busy at the moment, Gill, but I'm sure we'll have a chance to catch up later."
"Yes, sir."
Hadrian mounted a brown-and-white gelding Bently held for him. He watched as Esrahaddon mounted a smaller black mare by hooking the stub of his wrist around the horn. Once in the saddle the wizard wrapped the reins around his stubs. "It's strange. I keep forgetting you don't have hands."
"I don't," the wizard replied coldly.
Overhead heavy clouds swirled as boys ran about the camp spreading the order to form up. Horses trotted, kicking up clods of earth. Carts rolled, leaving deep ruts. Half-dressed men darted from tents, slipping in the slick mud. They carried swords over their shoulders, dragged shields, and struggled to fasten helms. Hadrian and Esrahaddon rode through the hive of soggy activity to the top of the ridge where they could see the lay of the land for miles. To the north, the city with its wooden spires and drab walls stood as a ghostly shadow. To the south lay the forest, and between them a vast plain stretched westward. What was once farmland was now a muddy soup. The field was shaped like a basin, and at its lowest point a shallow pond formed. It reflected the light of the dreary gray sky like a steel mirror. On the far side, the hazy encampment of the Imperial Army was just visible through a thick curtain of rain. Hadrian stared but could only make out faint shadowy shapes. Nothing indicated they knew what was about to happen. Below them on the east side of the slope, hidden from imperial view, the Nationalist Army assembled into ranks.
"What is it?" Esrahaddon asked.
Hadrian realized he was grimacing. "They aren't very good soldiers," he replied, watching the men wander about creating misshapen lines. They stood listless, shoulders slumped, heads down.
Esrahaddon shrugged. "There are a few good ones. We pulled in some mercenaries and a handful of deserters from the Imperials. That Renquist you were so taken with, he was a sergeant in the imperial forces. Joined us because he heard nobility didn't matter in the Nationalist Army. We got a few of those, but mostly they're farmers, merchants, or men who lost their homes or families."
Hadrian glanced across the field. "Lord Dermont has trained foot soldiers, archers, and knights-men who devoted their whole lives to warfare and trained since an early age."
"I wouldn't worry about that."
"Of course you wouldn't. I'm the one who has to lead this ugly rabble. I'm the one who must go down there and face those lances and arrows."
"I'm going with you," he said. "That's why you don't need to worry about it."
Bently and three other young men carrying colored flags rode up beside them. "Captains report ready, sir."
"Let's go," he told them and trotted down to take his place with a small contingent of cavalry. The men on horseback appeared even less capable than those on foot. They had no armor and wore torn rain-soaked clothes. Except for the spears they held across their laps, they looked like vagabonds or escaped prisoners.
"Raise your lances!" he shouted. "Stay tight, keep your place, wheel together, and follow me." He turned to Bently. "Wave the blue flag."
Bently swung the blue flag back and forth until the signal was mimicked across the field, then the army began moving forward at a slow walk. Armies never moved at a pace that suited Hadrian. They crept with agonizing slowness when he was attacking, but when defending seemed to race at him. He patted the neck of his horse who was larger and more spirited than old Millie. Hadrian liked to know his horse better before a battle. They needed to work as a team in combat and he did not even know this one's name.
With the wizard riding at his right side and Bently on his left, Hadrian crested the hill and began the long descent into the wet field. He wheeled his cavalry to the right, sweeping toward the city, riding the rim of the basin and avoiding the middle of the muck, which he left to the infantry. He would stay to the higher ground and watch the army's northern flank. This would also place him near the city gate, able to intercept any imperial retreat. After his company made his turn, he watched as the larger force of light-mounted lancers broke and began to circle left, heading to guard the southern flank. The swishing tails of their horses soon disappeared into the rain.
The ranks of the infantry came next. They crested the hill, jostling each other, some still struggling to get their helms on and shields readied. The lines were skewed, broken and wavy, and when they hit the mud, whatever mild resemblance they had to a formation was lost. They staggered and slipped forward as a mob. They were at least quiet. He wondered if it was because most of them might be half-asleep.
Hadrian felt his stomach twist.
This will not go well. If only I had more time to drill the men properly they would at least look like soldiers.
Success or failure in battle often hinged on impressions, decided in the minds of men before the first clash. Like bullies casting insults in a tavern, it was a game of intimidation-a game the Nationalists did not know how to play.
How did they ever win a battle? How did they take Vernes and Kilnar?
Unable to see their ranks clearly, he imagined the Imperials lined up in neat powerful rows waiting, letting his troops exhaust themselves in the mud. He expected a wall of glistening shields peaked with shinning helms locked shoulder to shoulder, matching spears foresting above. He anticipated hundreds of archers already notching shafts to string. The knights, Lord Dermont would hold back. Any fool could see the futility of ordering a charge into the muck. With their pennants fluttering from their lances, and heavy metal armor, the knights probably waited in the trees and perhaps around the wall of the city-hidden until just the right moment-it is what he would do. When they tried to flank, Hadrian and his little group would be all that stood in the way. He would call the charge and hope those behind him followed.
They were more than halfway across the field, when he was finally able to see the imperial encampment. White tents stood in neat lines, horses corralled, and no one was visible.
"Where are they?"
"It's still very early," the wizard said, "and in a heavy rain no one likes to get up. It's so much easier to stay in bed."
"But where are the sentries?"
Hadrian watched, shocked as the mangled line of infantry cleared the muddy ground and closed in on the imperial camp, their lines straightening out a bit. He saw the heads of his captains. There was no sign of the enemy.
"Have you ever noticed," Esrahaddon said, "how rain has a musical quality about it sometimes? The way it drums on a roof? It's always easier to sleep on a rainy night. There's something magical about running water that is very soothing, very relaxing."
"What did you do?"
The wizard smiled. "A weak, thin enchantment. Without hands it is very hard to do substantive magic anymore, but-"
They heard a shout. A tent flap fluttered, then another. More shouts cascaded, and then a bell rang.
"There, see," Esrahaddon sighed, "I told you. It doesn't take much to break it."
"But we have them," Hadrian said stunned. "We caught them sleeping! Bently, the green flag. Flag the charge. Flag the charge!"
Sheriff Vigan scowled at Arista. Behind her, men picked up weapons and shuffled back into position.
"I told you to lay down your arms and leave," the sheriff shouted. "Not more than a few of you will be punished in the stocks, and only your leaders will be executed. The first has already fallen. Will you stand behind a woman? Will you throw away your lives for her sake?"
No one moved. The only sound was that of the rain, the sheriff's horse, and the jangling of his bridle.
"Very well," he said. "I will execute the leading agitators one at a time if that is what it takes." He glanced over his shoulder and ominously raised his hand again.
The princess did not move.
She stood still and tall with Emery's sword above her head, his blood on her dress, and the wind and rain lashing her face. She glared defiantly at the sheriff.
Thwack!
The sound of a crossbow.
Phhump!
The moist sound of a muffled impact.
Arista felt blood spray her face, but there was no pain. Sheriff Vigan fell sideways into the mud. Polish stood in front of the blacksmith shop, an empty crossbow in his hands.
Renkin Pool grabbed Arista by the shoulder and jerked her backward. Off balance, she fell. Pool stood over her, his shield raised. Another telltale thwack and Pool's shield burst into splinters. The bolt continued into his chest. The explosion of blood and wood rained on her.
Another crossbow fired, this one handled by Adam the Wheeler. Trenchon screamed as the arrow passed into his thigh and continued into his horse which collapsed, crushing Trenchon's leg beneath it. Another bow fired, then another, and Arista could see that during the pause the blonde woman had hauled crossbows out of the armory and passed them throughout the ranks.
The garrison captain promptly assumed command of the Imperials. He gave a shout and the remainder of their bowmen fired across the square. Men in the line fell.
"Fire!" Adam Wheeler shouted and rebel bows gave answer. A handful of imperial soldiers dropped in the mud.
"Tighten the line!" Adam shouted. "Fill in the gaps where people fall!"
They heard a shout from across the field then a roar as the garrison drew their swords and rushed forward. Arista felt the vibration of charging men. They screamed like beasts, their faces wild. They struck the line in the center. There was no prepared weak point-Emery and Pool were dead, the tactic lost.
She heard cries, screams, the clanging of metal against metal, and the dull thumps of swords against wooden shields. Soldiers pushed forward and the line broke in two. Perin was supposed to lead the left flank in a folding maneuver. He lay in the mud, blood running down his face. His branch of the line disconnected from the rest quickly routed. The main line also failed, disintegrated, and disappeared. Men fought in a swirling turmoil of swords, broken shields, blood, and body parts.
Arista remained where she fell. She felt a tugging on her arm and looked up to see the blonde woman again. "Get up! You'll be killed!" She had a hold on her wrist and dragged Arista to her feet. All around them men screamed, shouted, and grunted, water splashed, mud flew, and blood sprayed. The hand squeezing her wrist hauled her backward. She thought of Emery lying in the mud and tried to pull away.
"No!" The blonde snapped jerking her once more. "Are you crazy?" The woman dragged her to the armory entrance, but once she reached the door Arista refused to go in any farther and remained at the opening, watching the battle.
The skill and experience of the garrison guards overwhelmed the citizens. They cut through the people of Ratibor and pushed them against the walls of the buildings. Every puddle was dark with blood, every shirt and face stained red. Mud and manure mixed and churned with severed limbs and blood. Everywhere she looked lay bodies. Dead men with open, lifeless eyes and those writhing in pain lay scattered across the square.
"We're going to lose," Arista said. "I did this."
The candlemaker, a tall thin man with curly hair, dropped his weapons and tried to run. Arista watched as six inches of sword came out of his stomach. She did not even know his name. A young bricklayer called Walter had his head crushed. Another man she did not know lost his hand.
Arista stood still holding Emery's sword. She clutched the doorframe holding on as the world spun around her. She felt sick and wanted to vomit. She could not move or turn away from the carnage. They would all die. It was her fault. "I killed us all."
"Maybe not." The blonde caught Arista's attention and pointed at the far end of the square. "Look there!"
Coming up King's Street Arista saw a rush of movement and heard the pounding of hooves. They came out of the haze of falling rain. Riding three and four abreast, horsemen charged into the square. At their head were two riders. One carried the pennant of the Nationalists-the other brandished a huge sword. She recognized him instantly.
Throwing up a spray of mud, Hadrian crossed the square. As he closed on the battle, he led the charge into the thickest of the soldiers. The garrison heard the cry and turned to see the band of horsemen rushing at them. Out front, Hadrian came like a demon, whirling his long blade, cleaving a swath through their ranks, cutting them down. The garrison broke and routed before the onslaught. When they found no retreat, they threw down their weapons and pled for mercy.
Spotting Arista, Hadrian leapt to the ground and ran to her. Arista found it hard to breathe, and the last of her strength gave out. She fell to her knees, shaking. Hadrian reached down, surrounding her in his arms and pulled her up.
"The city is yours, Your Highness," he said.
She dropped Emery's sword, threw her arms around his neck, and cried.