Rise Of Empire (48 page)

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 the 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 might be because most of them were half-asleep.

Hadrian felt his stomach twist.

This will not go well. If only I had more time to drill the men properly, then 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 the Imperialists’ ranks clearly, he imagined them lined up in neat straight rows, waiting, letting his troops exhaust themselves in the mud. He expected a wall of glistening shields peaked with shining helms locked shoulder to shoulder, matching spears foresting above. He anticipated hundreds of archers already notching shafts to string. Lord Dermont would hold back the knights. Any fool could see the futility of ordering a charge into the muck. Clad in heavy metal armor, their pennants fluttering from their lances, the knights probably waited in the trees or perhaps around the wall of the city. They would remain hidden until just the right moment. That is what Hadrian would have done. When the Nationalists tried to flank, only Hadrian and his little group would stand 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 perfect rows, horses were 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 in amazement 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 still 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’s 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. Signal the charge. Signal 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 sounds were those of the rain and the sheriff’s horse and the jangling of his bridle.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll execute the leading agitators one at a time if that’s 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!

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’s shop, an empty crossbow in his hands.

Renkin Pool grabbed Arista by the shoulder and jerked her backward. Off balance, she fell. He 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. Trenchon screamed as the arrow passed through 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 assumed command of the Imperialists. He gave a shout and the remainder of their bowmen fired across the square. Men in the line fell.

“Fire!” Adam 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 and 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 had collapsed. 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 had not met lost his arm.

Arista still held Emery’s sword in one hand and clutched the doorframe with the other 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, and 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!”

Arista saw a rush of movement coming up King’s Street 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, shouting. One carried the pennant of the Nationalists, but the foremost brandished a huge sword, and 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 at them 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 nowhere to retreat to, 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.

T
he rain stopped. The sun, so long delayed, returned full face to a bright blue sky. The day quickly grew hot as Hadrian made his way around the square through the many mud-covered bodies, searching for anyone who was still alive. Everywhere seemed to be the muffled wails and weeping of wives, mothers, fathers, and sons. Families pulled their loved ones from the bloody mire and carried them home to wash them for a proper burial. Hadrian stiffened when he spotted Dr. Gerand gently closing the lifeless eyes of Carat. Not far from him, Adam sat slumped against the armory. He looked as if he had merely walked over and sat down for a moment to rest.

“Over here!”

He spotted a woman with long blonde hair motioning to him. Hadrian quickly crossed to where she squatted over the body of an imperial soldier.

“He’s still alive,” she said. “Help me get him out of the mud. I can’t believe no one saw him.”

“Oh, I think they saw him,” Hadrian replied as he gripped the soldier under his back and knees and lifted him.

He carried the man to the silversmith’s porch and laid him
down gently as the woman ran to the well for a bucket of clean water.

Hadrian shed his own bloodstained shirt. “Here,” he said, offering the linen to the woman.

“Thank you,” she replied. She took the shirt and began rinsing it in the bucket. “Are you certain you don’t mind me using this to help an imperial guard?”

“My father taught me that a man is only your enemy until he falls.”

She nodded. “Your father sounds like a wise man,” she said, and wrung the excess water from the shirt, then began to clean the soldier’s face and chest, looking for the wound.

“He was. My name is Hadrian, by the way.”