Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (90 page)

*

Grandmaster Lann Wilfort reacted to the crackling voice in his mind by raising his bloodied sword, looking left and right, then he sent a stern command to his men to pull back a few paces.

The Nesti centre were broken open, just a thin line of footmen standing between him and the Nesti leaders. He could see Cera Nesti herself, just a bookish girl in violet on a pale horse. She certainly didn’t look worthy of all the fuss, and Elena Anborn appeared to have crawled from her sickbed.

A glance to either side showed him that Gyle’s army was advancing on all flanks, and victory looked inevitable: sixty minutes or so after the first major contact, which, in his experience, was about right. Unless two armies had vast reserves arriving in staggered groups onto the field, it usually took only an hour or two to crack a line and break it open. The rest of the day would be spent mopping up. The bards who sang of day-long battles were just dressing the ham.

he sent
.

He knew of Elena Anborn, of course: one of Gyle’s people, gone rogue. A veteran of the Noros Revolt, and an operative on the fringe of criminality since. She’d been given an amnesty after the Revolt – all Gyle’s people had – as the empire wanted to use them in the Second Crusade, and since then she’d been mostly in the East, Wilfort understood – changing sides and cutting throats.

I don’t care what else is agreed
, he told himself,
there’s no way in Hel she’s escaping the noose.

His men formed up again, facing the Nesti. There were enemy soldiers hurrying in, trying to interpose, but the convention of war said that once surrender was raised, it should not be abused. Not that he believed Anborn gave a shit about conventions, so he kept his sword in hand as he spurred forward.

‘Grandmaster Wilfort?’ Elena Anborn called.

‘I’m Wilfort,’ he replied. ‘You look like shit.’ She did too: she was sweating like a fever-bound child, and beneath her tan she was pallid and drawn. She looked closer to sixty than her reputed age of forty-odd. ‘Are you wounded?’ he asked, a little puzzled; he could see no blood nor distinctive bandages.

‘Just unwell,’ she replied, her raspy voice dry, ironic. ‘Thanks for the concern.’

He smiled quietly at her off-hand manner, deciding he rather liked her. That wouldn’t stop him hanging her, of course. He nudged his horse closer so they could negotiate out of earshot of the riff-raff. ‘I could order the charge and you and your queen would be butchered in a few moments. But you offered surrender?’

‘I did,’ she acknowledged, cocking her head as though listening to something distant. ‘I freely offer it.’

‘Excellent. Wise, I’m sure. These are my terms: the Nesti girl and her senior aides will be surrendered to me immediately: including yourself and your pet Noorie. The Ordo Costruo may—’

‘No, Grandmaster: you misunderstand,’ Elena interrupted. ‘I’m offering
you
the chance to surrender.’

‘You’re . . .
what?
’

*

Roland Heale had already formed his men up before the embankment, facing front and ordered, watching the Harkun wheeling and swirling as they fired their arrows at the massed Rimoni below. They were Aranio’s men from Riban, bearing heavy shields and well-drilled: the arrow storm was cutting into them, but most of the shafts were striking shields or armour. They were withdrawing with shields aloft, and looked like any moment they’d simply turn and march away, which Heale understood was something Gyle and Aranio had arranged.

Gyle gets everywhere
. The thought wasn’t a comforting one: he’d done his own deals with that particular devil and felt good about none of them.

It looks like he’s brought us a victory today, though . . .

In the centre the lines were dissolving into mêlée and the momentum was all with Rykjard. There were Kirkegarde banners well in advance of the assault, and the Nesti flags in the centre were down. Collapse was imminent, and the rout would begin.

‘Sir,’ his closest aide called in an excited voice, ‘the Gorgio are here!’

He nodded in acknowledgement: Gyle had taken him aside and warned him to expect a surprise at some point in the day. This must be it. He turned to face the rear, watching the massed ranks of white tabards and green shields tramping towards them, led by a young man with drawn sword and bared teeth: Gabrien Gorgio-Sintro, he presumed from his plumage and shield insignia. He ran his practised eye over the ranks: some fifteen thousand, he estimated – a Hel of a lot of men to march across the land unseen, but Javon was a big place. They looked travel-worn, but eager to join the fray. He raised his hand to their captain: ‘Lord Gabrien Gorgio-Sintro?’

The Gorgio lord – the late Alfredo’s nephew, if Heale remembered correctly – raised his right hand in return, trotting closer. ‘Sir Roland? I am he for whom you have been awaiting,’ he said in passable Rondian.

They clasped hands, while the Gorgio officers moved closer, grim-looking men with bitter faces. ‘You’ve marched all the way from Hytel? That’s a Hel of a way!’

The young man was so deeply tanned he could almost be a Noorie. His teeth flashed brilliantly as he replied, ‘A forced march, ten hours daily, without fortifying our camps – the Jhafi fear us too much to take us on.’

‘I’d heard they had you all but locked up inside Hytel,’ Heale noted.

‘Then you heard wrong,’ he replied. ‘There was no way we were going to miss out on this!’ He surveyed the battlefield. ‘You are advancing?’

‘We’re about to – we’ve already driven them back in the south and the centre. You’re just in time for the rout!’

‘Indeed.’ He licked his lips. ‘Where do you want my men?’

‘Put them in behind my ranks and follow us in. Rykjard wants us moving forward as swiftly possible.’

‘Excellent,’ he purred and turned to his second, a giant Rimoni with a morose face and drooping moustaches. ‘Move the men in behind our friends the Dorobon.’ The giant growled some orders, then nudged his horse closer, joined by his fellow officers, who slid in among the half-dozen magi Heale had at his side, those kept back from the frontline. They reluctantly made room for the Gorgio men. ‘Where are the Nesti?’ the Gorgio lord asked eagerly. ‘Show me their banners.’ His voice positively dripped with hate.

Heale spent the next few minutes pointing out the enemy positions and explaining their own placements while the Gorgio formed up. ‘Basically, the Harkun are pinning the Aranio down until we advance and sweep through them, then we’ll swing south.’ He waved an arm expansively. ‘My front line is ready to move, if your men are?’

He inclined his head.

‘Let’s unleash Hel,’ Heale said grandly.

The Gorgio leaned over and slapped him on the back.

Hard.

It was accompanied by a sharp pain, and a puzzling numbness in his chest. He went to tell the Gorgio boy not to be so forward, but instead, his whole body went into some odd state of disassociation, as if it wasn’t his any more. He looked around in sudden alarm and saw the giant Rimoni sweep a greatsword across his chaplain’s neck, lopping off his head almost effortlessly, then all about him, his healers and junior magi were stabbed from behind before they could shield. He looked at Gabrien, bewildered. There was a bloody dagger in the Rimoni knight’s left hand, and a dark smile on his face.

‘Damned Rondian scum,’ the Gorgio snarled. ‘I’ll show you
Hel
.’ He pushed the dagger into Heale’s throat and wrenched viciously. Blood sprayed, and Sir Roland reeled in the saddle. His horse shrieked and tore loose of his grip, and the ground rose up like a dark wave . . .

*

Endus Rykjard turned his eyes from the centre where the aether was thrumming with whispers of a Nesti surrender, then north towards the white-clad Gorgio ranks formed up behind the Dorobon, ready to advance. He smiled in grim satisfaction and was turning back to order the centre to advance when an odd movement stayed his eye: there was some kind of a mêlée around Roland Heale’s banner, a strange fracas – and then, quite suddenly, from a quarter of a mile away, too far to do anything but
watch
, he saw the unmistakeable sight of massed javelins, hurled from the Gorgio rear . . .
into the backs of the Dorobon legion
.

‘
Shizen!
’ he bellowed, staring wide-eyed in disbelief, like his aides and bodyguards, as the Gorgio newcomers followed up their thrown javelins with drawn swords, pounding forward into the back of the Dorobon legion, hacking down men who were barely aware they were in a fight. The whole line convulsed, and those at the front – now the rear – of the Dorobon line panicked as a wall of men thrice their number came roaring down the slopes towards them.

‘What’s happening?’ someone gasped.

How the Hel would I know?
Rykjard grabbed a relay-stave.

It wasn’t Heale who responded, but a Jhafi-dark Gorgio, with bright eyes and a savage look on his face.

—
?>

scum
like you.>

The relay-stave went dark and the connection snapped. From across the sands came a new roar, pouring from the mouths of the advancing Gorgio. ‘
NESTI! NESTI! FORZA NESTI!
’

*

Elena watched the Grandmaster’s face change as the aether and his natural senses told him of this last betrayal, the one she’d hoped and prayed for ever since Ivran Vostycka, the scholarly Ordo Costruo Air-mage she’d sent to Hytel in the wake of Forensa, had first reported the changing situation there.

After the Kirkegarde had pulled out of Hytel, Emilio Gorgio had struck. He was part-Jhafi, but an acknowledged bastard, son of Alfredo Gorgio’s brother; he had many Jhafi adherents – and a strong Rimoni following as well. Being good-looking and charismatic certainly did no harm, but his popularity had a lot more to do with his natural intelligence and proficiency with arms. After Alfredo’s unexpected demise, he’d rallied both peoples and destroyed the Gorgio-Sintro faction. With Gyle now effectively blind in Hytel, Ivran Vostycka’s offer of alliance with the Nesti had gone unnoticed, and once Emilio had been given assurances that his marriage to Portia Tolidi would not be opposed, nor his claim on the Lordship in Hytel, he’d freed the Nesti mine-slaves and marched south himself.

Lann Wilfort brandished his sword. ‘I could cut you in half with one hand tied behind my back, Anborn,’ he sneered. ‘You’re out on your feet.’

She didn’t try to deny it. ‘To what avail, Grandmaster? The empire’s adventure in Javon is over, either way. Gyle’s lost this battle, and he’s lost the war. If you fight on, in the end you’ll be overwhelmed and die. Surrender, and save yourselves. Or just run – if you go like the wind, you might just get your men out.’

She gripped the faint amount of gnosis she still had, ready for whatever desperate sacrifice was required, because she was going to die before she let him by.

But she hadn’t misjudged: Wilfort had always had a reputation for pragmatism. He pulled his warhorse’s head around and faced southwest, then turned back and fixed his eyes on her. ‘Well played, Anborn,’ he said, grudgingly.

Then he shouted at his men to turn around and get the Hel out of here, at the double.

Elena wobbled in her saddle, feeling about to faint – but somehow she stayed upright. This was the culmination of so much, and even though she was utterly exhausted, she didn’t want to miss a moment.

*

Cera Nesti watched in stunned disbelief as everything turned on its head.

At first everyone around her was in near panic as they watched the Gorgio arrive, trying to rearrange themselves into defensive lines. Elena and the Kirkegarde grandmaster were parleying, and that meant surrender..
I’m only la Scrittoretta, but I know the rules here. You can’t renege on an offer to yield . . .

Then something Elena said made the Kirkegarde Grandmaster’s head whip around to the North, and she saw his eyes widening. Everyone followed his glance, and at that moment there was a strange ripple in the enemy lines as the Dorobon and Gorgio blurred into each other.

Then a cry carried all the way across the plain, loud enough to make her heart explode: ‘
NESTI! NESTI! FORZA NESTI!
’

Tears leapt to her eyes, turning her sight liquid, while on every side men began to scream the praises of their favoured god, roaring their lungs out. Swords were shaken at the skies and trumpets blared, as everyone in her army expressed utter joy . . .

‘
FORZA LA VIOLA! FORZA NESTI!
’

The cry was being taken up on all sides now, and the lines of men were straining. Piero Inveglio was in a shouting match with the knights around him, trying to restrain them from a headlong charge. ‘The Rondian centre is unbroken!’ he was yelling. ‘Hold!
Hold!
Let the north take its course, and then let’s see if—

‘
. . . Oh, rukk it! Let’s kill the bastidos!
’ he bellowed, and spurred towards the enemy.

Her whole army began to surge forward in his wake, still disciplined, until the enemy ahead suddenly fell apart, their ranks collapsing even before contact was made. With a roar, the Rimoni centre threw itself into the pursuit.

*

‘
NESTI! NESTI! FORZA NESTI!
’

No! That makes no sense!
Endus conjured in the air to bring the sight closer, but that was far worse: it showed him so-called Gorgio ripping off their white outer tabards to reveal violet beneath. He shouted in denial, ‘
No!
They can’t be Nesti—! They can’t! They were all killed – Gyle
ordered it
!’

We’re betrayed by the Kore-bedamned
Gorgio
 . . .

He kept scrying, realising the newcomers were both Nesti and Gorgio, fighting together, decades of rivalry and hate buried beneath something greater: Rimoni against Rondian, an older hatred by far. And beyond them he could see more Jhafi – men from the northern part of the country, who had always known who their enemy was – were swarming onto the battlefield. His own men, facing east, were now looking over their shoulders at the commotion to the north.