Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (88 page)

Gyle and Rykjard were in the command position, at the centre of their lines. They’d set up along a low ridge facing east, straddling the main road near a tiny mud-brick village called Jekuar, eighty miles east of Brochena and twenty southwest of Riban. ‘The Battle of Jekuar,’ Gurvon murmured, trying out the sound of it. What songs would the bards compose to remember it? What lessons would it teach to history?

He really just wanted it to be over so he could retreat from the glare of visibility to the back stairs and shadowy alleys that were his natural habitat.
Even during the Noros Revolt, I fought behind the lines. I’m a spy, not a bloody king . . . I should’ve stuck to what I’m good at.

He had a sudden urge to apologise to Rykjard. ‘Endus, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Elena should have done her job – there’d be no rallying point without her; no Cera Nesti to unite them. We’d have occupied the whole of Javon without a fight.’

‘Aw, where’s the fun in that?’
Rykjard grinned.

‘I guess I’m just bitter, that’s all. Elena’s made it complicated – she’s forced me to improvise, and now we’re trapped in this bloody cycle. Even if we win here, we’re going to have to re-conquer the whole damned country.’

‘Victory here will knock the stuffing out of them,’ Rykjard predicted. ‘Chin up, Gurv. We’ve got the better ground, the better men, agents inside the enemy command tent and numbers on our side. What could go wrong?’

I know Endus is right
 . . . After all, he
did
have the better position – and something else up his sleeve that even Endus didn’t know about.

They reviewed the order of battle together: Roland Heale’s Dorobon legion, only about three thousand men since Forensa, were on the left. He could count on them: they had nowhere else to go. In the centre was Rykjard’s legion, a little under-strength after losses at Lybis earlier that year, but loyal, no doubt of that. That was more than he could say about his right, where he’d placed Hans Frikter’s Argundians; barely two thousand remained in fighting condition, and since Forensa they’d been positively mutinous. To bolster them, he’d quietly brought three thousand of Adi Paavus’ men north from the Krak; he was risking losing the fortress to gain victory here. He really hoped Elena hadn’t got wind of that.

Protecting both flanks and poised to sweep in were the Harkun, led by Ghujad iz’Kho, some six thousand riders in all – all of them survivors of the carnage at Forensa. They gave him little confidence; he doubted they’d stick if things began badly. Iz’Kho had sent most of his surviving riders to the Rift Forts, to try and capture them and so bring more men up, but so far the Forts were holding.

So: seventeen thousand men, roughly told. He thought about who they were matched against, trying to weigh the odds.

The enemy’s right, facing the Dorobon, were the Aranio, Rimoni cavalry and footmen, just about a full legion, but unblooded – and more importantly, he was inside Stefan di Aranio’s head: the Lord of Riban was primed to run at the first chance. But that could change if the Nesti had some early successes.

On the enemy left: the Kestrians. They’d fought at Forensa so more than likely they were depleted – but they were hardened soldiers. They’d be up against Adi Paavus’ best, plus three thousand Harkun.

The enemy centre would be held by Rimoni of Forensa – only around two thousand of them, from what he could determine. Most of the Nesti fighting men were safely chained up in the Gorgio slave-mines, hundreds of miles away in Hytel. But they did have the Jhafi militia, five thousand or more ragged, poorly equipped Noories of the sort who’d somehow held up Hans Frikter at Forensa. They’d been defending their city then, fighting for their home; an exposed battlefield in the middle of nowhere was a different sort of fight entirely.

So he made it roughly seventeen thousand men each: too even for his liking, but his magi were fighting men, not scholars like the Ordo Costruo.
We should be victorious . . . especially with our little surprise . . .

‘What’s your first move, Endus?’

The Hollenian wrinkled his nose. ‘We’ve got the best of the ground, and we’re dug in through the centre and left. We’d do best to defend initially, let ’em beat their heads against our shield wall until they’ve knocked themselves silly, then counter-charge.’

‘If either flank gives way, the Harkun there will bolt,’ Gyle warned.

‘I know that, and so do Heale and Paavus.’ Rykjard peered away toward the hazy southern flank. ‘Adi’s the key. We’ve tried to disguise his legion as Frikter’s, and we’re keeping most of the men behind the ridge so the Kestrians will think they’re up against a weakened force. The plan is to lure ’em in, then once they’re committed to the attack, I’ll loose the Harkun at their flank.’

Gyle nodded approvingly. ‘It sounds good. I’m taking our skiffs up to prevent Elena’s magi from overflying us and spotting Adi’s men.’

And that has the added advantage of me being in the air already if this goes badly.

‘I love this moment, when everything’s still perfect,’ Rykjard said with a relaxed smile. ‘From now on, it all gets messy.’ He approximated a salute and walked back to the cluster of magi and tribunes, already beginning to gesticulate. Orders were scrawled and signed, messengers scattered. In the distance, the village bell in Jekuar chimed thrice: the third hour of daylight.

It was time go to war.

*

Cera Nesti wondered if she was going to be sick. Every man who marched past her was going into mortal danger: many would be crippled for life, or lie buried in an unmarked grave after a few hours of savagery. They’d hack at other men with sharpened metal until something vital was hurt beyond bearing, then collapse, only to be stabbed or trampled or simply ignored while they bled to death.

Dead, like Timori.

It was what she’d seen on the streets of Forensa and she was trying to steady herself to go through the same ordeal here. She’d thought she would be burning for vengeance, but instead she just felt ill.
Is anything worth this?
she asked herself for the hundredth time.

Everyone around her seemed to think it was. Even those who’d been through it before looked eager to get started, as if this were an unpleasant but necessary task, like digging a ditch or burning out a roach nest. Scouts and runners were coming in all the time, clamouring for attention if their news was urgent, or waiting patiently in line until Piero Inveglio was free. She had made the comte her battlefield commander, over the heads of Stefan di Aranio and Justiano di Kestria: the old Rimoni nobleman was the highest-ranked man with any expertise in battle left to the Nesti family. Justiano and Stefan hadn’t been happy about it, but she’d told them to do their duty and win glory by contributing to victory.

Glory . . . what is it anyway? Isn’t it enough to win?

‘They’ve put what’s left of Frikter’s men on our left,’ Justiano’s messenger was explaining. ‘We can cut through them – it’s where they’re weakest.’

Piero Inveglio was nodding, his sharp face taut with anxiety. He clearly didn’t relish the role of commander, but no one else in Nesti colours had his experience. Thankfully, Theo Vernio-Nesti was still days away from joining them, something she was beginning to think might be deliberate. That line had always been a nest of cowards the only members of the family who hadn’t risen against the Dorobon, during either occupation.

‘I agree,’ Stefan di Aranio announced. ‘Let the Kestrians attack on the left.’ He’d been chipping in nonstop all morning, suggesting anything that didn’t involve his people taking risks. Cera trusted him less and less as battle approached.

Inveglio looked skywards. It was still early morning; the third bell had just chimed. He could delay a decision no longer. ‘They are dug in. It will likely not be so easy as you believe.’

Cera turned to Odessa D’Ark. ‘Odessa, is there some way we can end this swiftly?’

The expectant mother was plainly in discomfort, which only emphasised their desperate straits – Kazim had not regained consciousness and Elena could barely stand without him, so there was no way they could spare her.

Odessa grimaced. ‘Of course. Kill Gurvon Gyle.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Anything’s possible. But he’ll not be making himself obvious.’

‘The stories say that in the early times, disputes between villages would be settled by heroes fighting on behalf of everyone, so that fewer people would suffer,’ Cera suggested. ‘Is there any such tradition in Yuros?’

‘Not among magi,’ Odessa replied drily. ‘We’ve never been shy about letting others die in our stead. Anyway, Gyle would laugh in our faces.’

‘What about this question of where to attack?’

‘I’m not a general. Elena knows war, not me. I’m just here to keep you alive.’

‘Attacking on the left is a stupid rukking idea,’ rasped an unexpected voice, and Cera’s heart leapt to her throat as she whirled.

‘
Elena?
’

Her champion looked awful: sickly-faced, grey about the temples and not even clad in armour. Her breathing was laboured and she was using a wooden staff to compensate for her left knee; she couldn’t put weight on it. But she was
here
. Cera choked up. At last she managed, ‘You should be in bed!’

‘I’ll rest afterwards,’ Elena croaked.

Cera swallowed. ‘Is Kazim—?’

Elena’s wounded eyes focused briefly on her. ‘Asleep.’ She looked away. Her lover hadn’t regained consciousness since Timori’s assassination, and Elena had quietly confided one night that without him, she had very little gnosis energy: all she had was going into keeping Kazim alive.

‘You look like shit,’ Odessa snapped. ‘Go back to the healers’ tent.’

‘I can’t.’ Elena scowled at the clump of arguing men. ‘We shouldn’t attack on the left. The key advantage to the attacker in battle is the choice of where and how to strike; the art of the defender is to direct the attackers towards a point that is stronger than it looks.’ She jabbed a finger at the Rondian right. ‘Given we know that Frikter’s men were mauled a month ago, they should be hiding them, not waving banners to help us find them.’

‘So you’re saying Gyle wants us to attack his right?’

‘Exactly. But Aranio and Kestria seem to think otherwise and Inveglio doesn’t have a clue. Who am I to say: I don’t have a cock. But I had better try.’ She grimaced at Cera, then hobbled into the argument.

‘Send her to the rear,’ Odessa muttered. ‘She’s going to get herself killed.’

*

From the air, it all looked different. Gurvon rejoiced to be above, detached by distance. His windskiff went whisking along the lines, flanked by two others piloted by Brossian and Veritia, as he got the shape of the battle from above. From up here, the units stopped being people, instead resembling tabula pieces, their individuality subsumed into the greater whole.

He pictured Elena in the lines opposite, giving terse advice and snapping at the knights and officers, cutting off their half-baked ideas with a withering comment. She’d always been more at home in such scenes: a player, not an observer.

But Endus is playing my pieces, and he’s better versed than either of us.

He conjured a face in the air and reached out to make contact, to reassure himself. Gabrien Gorgio-Sintro appeared, Ricardo’s older brother.

Ricardo had been left in Hytel to secure the city – and, of course, Portia Tolidi.
I’m not sure I’d trust any brother of mine with her
.

Gabrien was a swarthier man than Ricardo, with a cold, hard face.

Gurvon greeted him
.

‘Inside two hours,’ Gabrien responded, speaking aloud. ‘My men are jogging.’

‘This is not heat, Rondian,’ Gabrien replied. ‘You will see, in summer.’

‘We’ll be ready, Magister Gyle. The Gorgio and the Nesti have a long history.’

He broke the contact and took his skiff on another circuit of the lines, quietly pleased with Gabrien Gorgio-Sintro’s demeanour. He looked like a fighting man. He was equally pleased when he saw the Nesti massing to the south: the Kestrian knights were preparing to attack right where he wanted them to.

They’re falling for it . . . I think they’re falling for it.

His optimism grew as the pieces began to move exactly as Endus had foreseen.

*

Tabula. That’s what we’re playing here.
Cera tried to tell herself that she had to be dispassionate about all this. Victories required sacrifices to achieve victory, they’d lose. She’d read the books, learned the lessons.

But it still made her belly churn to look to the south, her army’s left: the Kestrian knights and their levies were marching forward, walking their mounts to the edge of arrow- and crossbow bolt-range, so they wouldn’t blow the horses before they hit the enemy lines. She wondered how all those young men felt. Were they frightened rigid, or did their eyes shine with faith? Did they believe in their cause, or were they simply doing their duty? Or was it still just a game to them?

Pawns advance! Knights go forth!

The army was like a great organism, an anthill of movement, a confusion of motion that had an acrid smell of sweat and sickness and the tang of adrenalin and fear. The noise was constant: shouted orders, calls of encouragement, banter between men as they passed each other. Messengers, riders and runners came and went in a blur, men marched by, towards the rise where the Rondians were positioned. She caught her breath at the first volleys of arrows, but they were hers, flying from the Jhafi militia into a clump of distant Harkun horsemen on the left.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked Elena, who was slumped beside her on a young mare, hunched over in the saddle, looking pale and sweaty.

‘I couldn’t persuade Inveglio not to attack on the left,’ she growled. ‘The Kestrians are moving forward, with Jhafi skirmishers screening their left to deter the Harkun from attacking their flank. The main body are marching towards Frikter’s legionaries: see his banners? I don’t know who’s in charge of them now.