The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (75 page)

James did not know where Princess Sasha was. He could not identify her in the chaos of enemy units. Almost childishly, he yearned to engage her in single combat. Every instinct told him he should be heading back toward the safety of the city, where he could maintain a smaller but more easily manageable front. There were siege weapons in the town now, and Master Guilliam had promised a Slicer by next week. James sorely wished for one of those killer bows now.

Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to cast away his pride and focus on saving his army and what little territory he ruled. He remembered all too well his wife’s advice, how he must keep calm and aloof, how he must observe war affairs
from afar. He had to endure the bloodshed stoically and make emotionless decisions. That’s what emperors ought to do. He should never engage in combat personally. He was too valuable for that.

James looked at his own imperial guard, some of the best men in the force, committed to standing around idly. He could see the anguish on their faces. They were, too, a reserve, in a way. With excellent armor, weapons, and training, they probably accounted for more than the scattering of boys and old men recruited from Ecol and nearby villages, or the frightened city watchmen who awaited their deaths near the mining camp.

“We must retreat,” Captain Nolan urged again.

“On the contrary, we fight,” James snapped. “Timothy, with me.”

The captain paled. “Sir, please. Who takes command now?”

James shrugged. “From up here, you will have a better view of the battlefield than I will out there in those fields. You have the provisional command. Make sure you use the reserves wisely. Do not commit the reinforcements until they are needed. Keep this hill at all costs.”

Captain Nolan saluted, but James was already walking down the narrow trail that wound around the stakes. The ground was covered in ashes to prevent running men from slipping. At the base of the hill, James let Timothy tighten the straps on his armor before he mounted his horse.

“Boy, you have your own command,” he told his aide.

“We will keep at your flank,” Timothy said bravely.

Moments later, they were trotting northeast, toward the unstoppable torrent of Red Caps. Master Hector was probably already engaged, but he could not see the terrain that well anymore. Robbed of the high view, he felt instantly confused,
insecure. Even a few paces of altitude made such a drastic difference. Now, his vision was limited to scarred fields, bodies strewn on the ground in absurd poses, the stream of weary troops with grime and blood on their clothes and skin. He was glad for the fact the enemy force consisted mostly of women. It was so much easier identifying your foe; you did not have to focus on banners and colors.

They merged with the retreating Third Legion, gave them their strength and courage back, and then backtracked into the slaughter. A raucous cry escaped the lips of men around him as they lowered their weapons and slammed into the wall of Red Caps.

He saw saw one of Xavier’s men topple off the horse, impaled on a broken spear. His gelding reared and kicked, but the enemy soldiers kept pressing and stabbing, piercing its belly. The large dun animal crashed down, scattering men like toys.

Rushing in, James swung his sword hard and felt it connect. His hand shuddered as he pulled the blade away clean, hair and hot blood flying, specks touching his face. The woman dropped without a word.

You are being a fool
, his soul, marinated in many hours of warfare and tactics, was trying to tell him. But he was not listening. Instead, a glamorous image of his father saving the nation floated before his eyes, transposed over the sight of death and agony.

Lieutenant Timothy edged closer, keeping his shield up, protecting him. The gangly boy was being defensive, swinging lightly, mostly to keep the jabbing spears away. Bruce was at his side, too, the flanks of his beautiful steed lathered in sweat and gore, mauling the enemy with high overhead blows.

Then, James saw Master Hector maybe ten paces away. His own forces were pushing hard, keeping the enemy at bay. The
Third Legion had fully regrouped, it seemed, and was striking back. A horn sounded. He did not know whether it was friend or foe. He did not care. There was elation and a desire to kill in his heart. For a blissful moment, he did not need to think about Amalia, Jarman, or anyone else.

He saw a flag rising above the carnage. The First Legion. Now his united massive force would show the Red Caps all its worth.

The Parusites were on the retreat. But even in their defeat, the women were grim, stubborn, dignified. They were yielding ground, but slowly, very slowly, never breaking formation, the notion of a rout never once considered. The defenders were eager, screaming defiance, giving all they had, hurling the women back.

James let the tide sluice past him. He gained a moment of respite. He reached for his water canteen. It had been sliced off clean, and there was a deep gouge in his saddle. He had never noticed that blow.

“Water,” he gasped. One of his bodyguards tossed him his own skin, and James drank eagerly in between quick breaths.

Sergeant Hector reined in near him, his horse neighing angrily, dancing in a circle. “That was close,” the old man said and spat. He was covered in blood, but it did not seem to be his.

James nodded. He wanted to ride south and engage the bulk of the enemy force there, but at the moment, his task was to protect the east and north sides. If the enemy breached their lines, all other positions would become indefensible, and they would be forced to flee back into the city. Then, a real siege would begin. With the Parusites having superior numbers, he could not afford that to happen.

Still, he needed information. He tried to whistle, but his lips were too wet. “I need a report. I need to know how Warlord Xavier is faring!” he shouted. Lieutenant Shawn sent one
of his men to a nearby tower. The men high on the shooting platform would have a better idea.

His breathing slowed as he waited. The din of the battle made his head hurt, made it almost too hard to concentrate, but he kept his focus. He could not let his battle rage flare down now; he had to remain alert. The ten thousand men of the First and Third had redeployed almost near the original siege line and were holding the enemy at bay. Elements of the Seventh were heading toward the mines to rest, while the still incomplete Eighth Legion under Commander Wayne was coming to replace them.

Well, that was what he thought was happening. All he could see was a mass of men seething like a swarm of maggots, and flags tottering and snapping on tall poles. If not for the killing, the day could have been beautiful: early spring, sharp, clear, and cool, with a soft gossamer haze pierced by soft golden sunlight.

James removed his helmet for a moment. His scalp itched as fresh wind ruffled his plastered hair. He looked toward the nearest watchtower. The men on the platform were standing and no longer taking aim. They seemed to be gawking north, away from the battle.

The horn sounded again, two long, forlorn notes. Then, a bugle joined the commotion, piping shrilly. James felt a tremor of dread up his spine.
An army approaching?
he wondered.

The dispatch was coming back at full gallop. He pulled up sharp before the emperor, almost sliding off the saddle. Clots of earth flew around him.

“Sir, sir, another army coming from the north, beyond the mines! More Parusites, sir. And they got those huge beasts.”

James looked at Sergeant Hector. The man had a hard, resigned look on his face. Well, they had thought the Red Caps
did not have any olifaunts. It turned out they did, and now they were leading a surprise attack from the north.

How had they gotten there? Did they cross into Caytor to avoid being spotted by his scouts and spies? Or did they travel all the way around from the west, entering Eracia, slipping past Bassac? It did not matter. They had to be defeated.

He took a deep breath and put his helmet back on, squeezing his cheeks until his voice came out funny, pinched. “Get the First back here. The Third will have to hold on its own. I want all the troops near the mines forming up a solid defense.”

They were riding again, a stream of grim, determined men with a taste of victory on their lips and uncertainty in their hearts. Soon, they could see the enemy.

The huge gray animals were lumbering through the mining camp, crashing wooden skeletons and huts, rumbling forward like a landslide. The Athesian troops were inching back away from their towering, menacing presence, trying to deploy.

James stopped to the rear of the triple row of archers, getting ready to fire. A boy was ambling sideways before the front rank, using a torch to light their arrows. Drums were pounding somewhere. Must be those mercenaries.

“I heard they hate dogs,” Bruce remarked. “Or we could set a few pigs on fire and send them at those monsters. No beast likes fire.”

James snapped angrily at Xavier’s man. “Do we have any pigs here?” He looked around. “Dismount.”

The mining camp was in ruins now, a wreckage of shattered scaffolding and low buildings, a cloud of dust rising all around. A solid formation of olifaunts was moving toward his position. There were not that many, but they sure looked scary.

James noticed there were other soldiers among the enemy ranks. Women, too. It was not a pure Borei force, but
a detachment. Most of the enemy troops were on foot, those warriors included. They had crossbows, and it seemed the killing would begin with a flight of arrows.

“Get behind the shield, sir,” Timothy urged.

James retreated, let the archers do their job. His squire planted a heavy lacquered pavise in the soft ground. James knelt behind it, feeling livid. But he could not charge those animals, not just yet. Horses would not go near them, he reckoned. He wished Amalia was here, but she was organizing the city’s defense.

“Fifty gold coins to any man who takes out an olifaunt’s eye,” James declared boldly, trying to bolster their spirits. He could feel the men’s fear. It was a solid wall of rank smell and quick, short breaths. “Our flanks?”

“Solid and holding,” Major Landon told him. “Looks like Sergeant Hector is keeping his ground, too.” He glanced back, but it was impossible to see. Then, he walked away to join the second regiment.

Three runners were waiting to take commands to distant units. James knew he would have to coordinate this well. He had the Seventh, the Eighth, his personal troops, Mayor Alistair’s watchmen, and the volunteers, and they all had their separate notions of glory, valor, and discipline. The companies had to work in unison if they wanted to defeat these gray monsters.

Was Princess Sasha leading this surprise force, he wondered. Or was she farther south? Was Xavier still holding his ground? No available answers. Was this how Father had felt in his fights? What kind of battlefield understanding did he have? How did he make his decisions?

But all he had was the legend, and he doubted Emperor Adam would have felt worried about this impending clash with
the Parusites. James did not want to admit it, but he was somewhat scared.

He wondered if he really needed to be hiding behind a large square of wood and iron. After all, Sirtai magic was protecting him. Well, Jarman and Lucas were keeping him safe against this mythical enemy; they refused to get involved in the squabble between the nations of the realms. James had asked for assistance several times, but they would not help him kill the Parusites.

It was silly, really. They could end the war that much quicker, and with fewer casualties. Then, once he had peace, he could focus on trying to understand this northern threat. This way, the Sirtai were actually making more people die. Their weird sense of honor baffled him, and even angered him. Jarman and his life slave had come to be his advisers, but that meant withholding support when he turned down their advice. He could not escape the feeling the Sirtai were plotting a much bigger game and that he was just another tool.

I should be in Ecol
, he thought.

The voice of his wife rang in his head:
Emperors do not prance about among common troops
.

I should be focusing on diplomacy, on strengthening my bonds with Caytor and Eracia
.

But he preferred this battlefield. He understood it better. Amalia had more skill in court business; she was best suited to handle the more subtle sides of this crazy affair.

James winced as the archers fired almost all at once. The world moaned with a thousand voices, and the sky darkened with arrows. Answering the call of Athesian bowstrings, the enemy force fired their weapons. For a moment, it looked as if the two masses of arrows would collide in midair, but then they just passed one another. They looked so slow and fragile.

They began raining.

The arrows hissed, thrummed, whistled, and meowed as they fell among the defenders. James knelt under the shield and watched the hail of death around him. Most of the shafts glanced or broke or thudded impotently into the heavy shields, but a few slipped past and pinned men down, through arms and legs. A ripple of screams and groans exploded across the line. Several soldiers sagged to the ground, almost too peacefully.

James peered behind the shield toward the front line. The olifaunt riders were hanging back, waiting for the archers to do their job first. He could see dead men and women on the other side as well. The Athesian volley had scored well, but the gray beasts seemed unscathed.

The second salvo rose, into the clear spring sky, into the sun, then fell. James saw an arrow hit a soldier in the shoulder, punching through his plate. He cursed and dropped his sword, then staggered to the ground. One of his squad mates knelt by him, his own shield forgotten, and began pulling the shaft out. The curse became a slobbery howl.

More arrows, more death. He saw men impaled through their feet, their calves, their forearms. Only there was nothing the defenders could do. They had to endure the barrage. James wished he had clever ideas to share with his men. But his mind was empty, and he was desperately trying to envision the battlefield the way a bird might see it, to estimate the position and numbers of his troops, to know if the Second and Third were holding. He wished the Eighth Legion was at full strength. He wished he had the Slicers; they could have taken out those olifaunts with a single missile.