Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three (19 page)

More flashes of artillery to the left, level with their position…less devastating now, with Elissian formations spread out and running, but horrifying
to see so close all the same. Rhillian galloped past burning circles of blackened grass, littered with scores of charred, skeletal corpses in armour. About their perimeters, some men still writhed and screamed, faces half burned away, an arm blackened and peeling, or trying to run on blistering feet. Rhillian tore past running, cowering men, ignoring those who had dropped or sheathed weapons, but now leaning from the saddle to slash one running man who still carried a large polearm. Arrowfire dropped others, murderously accurate, serrin bows having little trouble with chain mail from this close range.

She rounded a blackened oak, its branches burning, smouldering corpses scattered on the upslope, another man pinned to its trunk by a ballista bolt that had gone through shield, mail, flesh and wood. Infantry lines were forming ahead—militia, she saw with disbelief, small folk with poorer weapons and little armour, while the mass of Elissian footsoldiers, comprised of wealthier men and village folk, possessed many. They were standing, while others were running. In the battle of Tirone, in the early days of invasion, southern Lord Horase had thrown the militia in first, to soften up the Steel for heavier assaults to follow. The slaughter had been so horrible, and for so little result, that demoralised infantry and cavalry had been reluctant to attack. Here, Lord Arendt had wisely held the militia in reserve, but had made the folly of committing his main force too close to the Rhodaani artillery. The battle had been over from the moment the first catapult had fired. If not well before.

Serrin cavalry opened fire on the forming lines from range—less use against more well-armoured footsoldiers, but felling numerous militia. Still they held. Rhillian saw men running up and down the line, screaming at their fellows not to run. There were scythes, poles, spears and axes, only the occasional sword. Half had small wooden shields. Rhillian leaped the last small wall, rode over some running infantry who fell flat before her, and picked her spot in the line. Arrowfire felled more, a murderous buzz, serrin now aiming sideways across the line to take shields out of play. Perhaps fifty fell, the lines thinning dramatically as bodies tumbled and hands flailed.

A few archers were firing back, but without serrin longbows or serrin accuracy…. Rhillian stayed low as shafts whistled overhead, and the last serrin volleys cut past ahead, whipping left and right across her path. More carnage, Rhillian’s intended target falling with a shaft through the face, and her second target, and the third. She plunged through the first rank, and took the head off an axeman in the second rank.

Ahead was the castle, and she galloped on, finding enough clear ground to glance behind. The militia lines were gone, like saplings before a spring
flood, and all she could see were serrin on galloping horses. Most had blades in one hand, bows in the other, but were resheathing those blades even now to nock another arrow. The horrid totality of it took her breath away. She couldn’t believe a bunch of peasants had stood and died for their feudal oppressors while their better-armed and armoured comrades fled shrieking all around them. Sometimes humans were simply beyond her comprehension.

Ahead to the left, Elissian artillery made a line across the crest of the hill. Another poor strategic choice—catapults were nearly impossible to fire on sloping ground, and despite the hill adding to their range, they were still out of range of the advancing Steel infantry. Far too much depth to the Elissian formation, not enough width, artillery deployed too far back…but no choice really, given the hill. It was a disaster, and Rhillian wondered if she’d find Lord Arendt before his own men killed him.

She signalled to her
talmaad
to take care of the artillery, and cavalry behind her swung that way, intent on doing that. Already artillerymen were running, leaving their weapons loaded but unfired, the Steel lines still perhaps a hundred paces from range downhill. These artillery held in their slings only stones, not hellfire, and only the Steel used ballistas. Their construction looked poor, crudely hacked from recently felled trees. Everyone tried to copy the Steel, but no one knew how.

Rhillian galloped toward the castle. Its dark stone walls were more a tribute to noble vanity than any serious attempt at defence. It was small, with a single tower, a moat that was little more than a dry ditch, and a portcullis facing onto some small buildings that one might have called a village, if one were generous. She rode over cultivated lands, weaving past farmhouses and jumping stone walls.

She searched the castle’s battlements for archers, but saw none. The portcullis was open, and a group of knights and armoured horsemen clustered about the bridge across the moat, banners flying. Even now, squires were handing lances up to knights, and other armoured men were mounting with assistance. Some now stared, halting to point in her direction. Everyone else turned to look.

Rhillian charged, and now there were other horsemen emerging from the town, and crossbowmen running to form a firing line. But already there were serrin cavalry overtaking her, hooves flying, riders raising themselves a little from their lurching saddles to steady their balance as they hauled back on their bowstrings. Arrows flew, then a grasp at the reins to leap a low wall. Landing, to gallop on open grass, and more arrows were nocked.

A few Elissian horses had been hit with those opening shots from range. A crossbowman fell. Return fire came, a shot fizzed past Rhillian’s ear, a
serrin horse fell with a horrid crash. Armoured knights were charging, straight into the attack, seven, eight, nine…twelve of them, Rhillian counted fast, with another twelve cavalrymen behind.

Arrows peppered the knights’ charging horses, bringing down several in crashing rolls of long legs and armoured limbs. Survivors ploughed through the serrin lines, but found no opponents, serrin simply pulling wide of their charge to shoot them as they passed. Several more crossbow bolts streaked past, but then the bowmen were running back into the village, knowing they could not reload before the
talmaad
were on them.

Perhaps twenty serrin were ahead of Rhillian now, and galloped hard after the departing foursome. Weighed down with armoured riders, and lacking the endurance of sleeker, smaller Saalshen horses, those four would not get far. Rhillian waved some riders into the village to clear it, and peered through the open castle portcullis as she rode past. She glimpsed movement.

She reined up fast, diverting into the shallow, dry moat so as not to cause a pile-up with charging riders behind. But many others were also pulling up, sensing that the four escaping riders did not need more than thirty pursuers, however high their rank. More rode about to cover the far side of town, while others turned to head back down the slope and assist in the final effort to clear the battlefield. Another twenty rode across the small bridge to the portcullis, and Rhillian went in their midst.

The first two riders to reach the entrance dismounted, and ran into the gate towers on either side. The others waited, fanning off the bridge into the dry moat, and close to the base of the walls, arrows nocked and pointing up at the battlements. It was the simplest trick, to lure enemy riders into open castle yards just bristling with bowmen, and stick them full of arrows. Rhillian waited on the bridge, watching fleeing infantry and militia scattering past, and galloping horsemen, some escaping Elissians, others Rhodaani or serrin.

A cry came down from one tower, then the other. Serrin riders urged their mounts into the castle courtyard, watching warily at the surrounding walls, hooves clattering on the pavings. There was bundled straw, scattered manure and abandoned carts, some empty buckets about a well, a mule tied by the forge beneath the wall…but no people. The guardhouse was shut, as were mainhold doors, and the wide stable doors also. But the doors were barred shut on the outside.

Two more serrin dismounted and heaved the heavy bar off the door, dragged it aside, then pulled them open. Rusty hinges squealed, and twenty serrin pulled back their bowstrings, aiming to the dark interior. Rhillian put a hand to her brow and squinted…one thing serrin eyes did not do well was
contrast, light against dark. Within, shapes became clear. Men on horses, in heavy plate armour. Knights. She could not see their faces, but their manner showed dismay.

“Lord Arendt, I presume?” Rhillian called. “Your decoy might have worked, if there were fewer of us.” But your lines collapsed rather faster than even we anticipated, she might have added.

An armoured figure on horseback clopped forward several strides. This horse wore metal barding, covering sides, chest and flanks. Rhillian blinked. That would have been interesting, if all the other horses had been so armoured. Arrows would be as little use against that as all the rest of a knight’s armour, even serrin bows firing arrows tipped with serrin steel were as useful for piercing armourplate as hurled acorns. But it would have slowed the horses, and exhausted them fast. On open ground, against heavier cavalry, serrin could just evade until the opposing horses collapsed of exhaustion, and archers could shoot for the legs. Which was, of course, why serrin hated to fight in fixed formation. It suited none of their fighting styles, on horse or on foot. And against any fixed, weakly armoured formation, this man before her was death on four legs.

“I am Lord Arendt,” said the man in fluent Larosan, his voice muffled behind the armoured visor. He did not raise it. No doubt he’d heard stories, of serrin archers and marksmanship. A pity Errollyn was not here, Rhillian thought sourly. From this range, that visor slit was probably not beyond him. “You have the appearance of the one they call Rhillian.”

It was the hair, Rhillian knew. It gave her away every time. “I might be,” she conceded.

“I wish to grant terms,” said Arendt.

“You’ve been defeated,” Rhillian replied, faintly incredulous. “Those of your army not slaughtered are running like frightened deer. Why would I need your terms?”

“Not you,” Arendt replied. His big horse looked so weighed down, the poor thing barely twitched. “I will give terms to General Zulmaher.” Rhillian had thought as much. “I am the Regent of the North. Not all the northern lords have committed full forces, yet I can grant terms on their behalf. Otherwise, it could take you months to finish them all.”

“Weeks,” Rhillian said. “Less, if their castles are all as pitiful as this.”

“This castle is Lord Herol’s,” Arendt replied. “He’s little more than a hedge knight, it was chosen merely for its strategic location. The greatest castles of Elisse are to the north, thrice in size than any you have so far conquered, and commanded by lords far more stubborn.”

Rhillian sighed, and sheathed her sword over her shoulder. “Come forth
then,” she said tiredly, “and we shall parley.” That was what the man wanted, after all. To parley, and waste time, until General Zulmaher arrived.

Lord Arendt might have nodded, but the armour hid the gesture. He touched great, roundel spurs to his beast’s sides, and clomped forward from the stable gloom. Rhillian rode to meet him halfway. Within the stable, perhaps ten mounted knights watched, swords clasped in gauntleted hands. Arendt and Rhillian paused with their horses nose to nose. Rhillian’s mare sniffed at the warhorse, warily, but the warhorse barely responded. Rhillian gave the northern lord her best gleaming smile. It frightened some human men, that smile, even as it stirred their lust. Most found the effect disconcerting.

It seemed to have some effect on Lord Arendt, for he flipped up his visor to regard her face to face. Rhillian’s right hand went to her belt, produced a knife, and threw. It struck Lord Arendt in the eye, and he lurched in the saddle, then toppled to the pavings with an almighty metal crash. His warhorse danced aside, as though with relief. Rhillian had not even seen what Arendt looked like. Within the stable, his knights sat stunned.

“Finish the rest!” Rhillian announced. Arrows flew, and horses shrieked, flailing and wheeling. These wore no barding. The necessity always saddened Rhillian, but with the riders so invulnerable, there was no other choice. It would take a while to finish the knights, once dismounted, but they were painfully slow against unarmoured
talmaad
, and soon enough the serrin blades would find armour joints, draw blood, and slow the man enough for someone to knock him down and leave him flailing like a tortoise on its back. From there, it was simple knife work.

Once it was done, Rhillian remounted, rode back to the castle bridge, and waited. Soon enough, the first line of Steel infantry crested the hill—the rear rank, as they had begun the day, saved the initial fighting and left fresh to charge into what remained of the Elissian infantry, to prevent any chance of the enemy line re-forming. The green shields of the men were spattered red, as were their short, razor-tipped swords. They showed little emotion as they formed new positions about the town and castle, too well disciplined, and too accustomed to overwhelming victories for that. Most seemed barely out of breath, having run up that slope in full armour and shields.

The second rank—formerly the front rank—came after, in small groups, escorting a truly enormous number of prisoners. Rhillian guessed about five thousand. More than half the entire Rhodaani force, weapons and armour cast aside, some clad in little more than undergarments. They were mustered into great groups on open fields, guarded by lines of Steel infantry and sections of looming Rhodaani cavalry. A surreal sight, like so much in war—a lovely Elissian hilltop, scattered shady trees, paddocks filled with flowers…and
five thousand shivering, frightened, defeated men, who should have been home tending their fields, animals and families.

Finally General Zulmaher arrived, with several captains and junior officers, two of whom were bloodstained and explaining recent actions. The retinue halted beside the large elm at the lip of the dry moat, where Rhillian had taken a seat with Gian and Via, to sip water and rest, while their horses grazed. The horses would need water soon, which would mean a trip down the hill, past all the corpses and wounded. Rhillian did not relish the prospect.