Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three (61 page)

Andreyis ran back with the retreat as the Enoran reserve built up momentum, moving at a powerful jog, trampling any who fell underfoot.
The sudden crush of men was alarming, and he held his blade aloft as he ran so as not to accidentally cut anyone.

The Enorans did not stop their advance, as the entire line began to regain the ground it had lost. Andreyis stepped back over the bodies of men left behind, now smothered once more by the shifting tide of battle. Lenays fought furiously to halt the retreat, but footing was hard to attain while moving backwards over bodies.

Above the deafening confusion, Andreyis heard warning yells, and the thunder of approaching cavalry. It was coming from the Lenay right flank, hurtling across the devastated artillery zone. Some galloping horsemen on the far side of the onrushing group were clearly Lenay, and Andreyis felt a huge relief…until he realised that they were a minority, and were in fact chasing the others, and trying to cut them from their saddles.

The majority of the oncoming riders, in scattered wheeling groups, were serrin. There had to be at least a thousand of them. And they were firing into the infantry’s backs as fast as they could reload.

Lenay men were falling as the racing
talmaad
horsemen drew level. And then, they were coming across behind the retreating Valhanan lines. Andreyis threw up his shield and crouched, trying to hide as much of his body behind it as possible. Arrows hissed and snapped left and right, men to his side took shots through their shields, others less attentive took them through necks, shoulders, chests, legs and faces.

Bodies tumbled, and continued to tumble, as passing serrin riders lifted their aim above those closest them. Andreyis risked a glimpse back toward the Enorans, and saw Lenay men struck squarely between the shoulder blades, one moment yelling in support or preparing to swing a weapon at Enoran infantry, the next clutching the air and falling, pierced through chain mail and leathers by the terrible power of serrin longbows.

The serrin seemed to take forever to pass, those nearest them like Andreyis not daring to lower their shields, while those closer to the Enorans dared not turn their backs on the oncoming Steel. Many Lenays stood to protect the backs of those men with their shields, but Lenay shields were smaller, and many fell with shafts through their legs instead.

Then it seemed the serrin procession was splitting, and Andreyis saw their train mixed with many Lenay and Torovan riders who tried to kill them as the serrin evaded, and continued to find targets. Some horses came racing near, dodging wildly with Lenay riders in pursuit. Andreyis saw serrin tucking their bows into canvas bags behind their leg, drawing swords and charging through the closer Lenay infantry, as much to distract the riders chasing as to cause damage. With shields drawn, and bewildered
still from the ferocity of the archery, Lenay men scattered before the onrushing horses.

A man darted from Andreyis’s side to swing at a passing serrin, only for the serrin’s razored blade to sever his sword arm midlength. Another took an arrow through the middle, and stumbled into the path of galloping horses. Andreyis ran at him, intent on dragging him away from their path, but he’d barely begun to move when a horse changed direction to come straight at him. The last things Andreyis saw were fast, galloping hooves and a swinging silver blade.

Sasha had barely rested from her assault on the Enoran artillery when the serrin began pouring across the fields. Where they’d come from she did not know, nor how so many had managed to slip past as many Lenay and Torovan horsemen as comprised the army’s right flank. But come they did, at hurtling speed, a swirling, deadly mass with no respect for formation or self-preservation.

She turned her exhausted horse about and charged at them, her men doing the same, as others tore into the serrin mass’s flanks. The serrin kept riding, weaving back and forth, criss-crossing paths with Lenay cavalry to keep them at bay. Sasha held her left-arm shield across her body to guard her right, where most of the serrin were riding. She could see them firing away from her, into the Lenay infantry, and saw men falling by the score. Any of them could have been a friend. All of them were her countrymen. She kicked her horse to greater speed, as several serrin turned and fired her way.

One of them saw her. A man, silver haired and sharp-blue eyed. Their eyes met, and the serrin’s fixed, with recognition. He crossed his bow to opposite hands across his saddle horn, nocked and drew with effortless strength and balance. Sasha hauled the mare’s reins to the right, but the tired animal was slow to respond. The shield was awkward to use, and left too much exposed. The serrin fired, and as the arrow lunged from the string, Sasha knew that it was her approaching death.

But it was her horse’s. The shaft struck somewhere before her hands, and the animal’s legs simply folded. Sasha did not even manage a yell as her saddle disappeared from under her, throwing her sword clear and trying to roll…

And awoke, hooves still thundering, horses whinnying, warriors yelling, swords clashing on shields and armour, arrows zipping, men shrieking and dying. The music of her life.

She half-rolled and raised her head, and her vision swam. Her left arm hurt, and her shield lay several paces away, its straps broken. She looked about to find her sword, then staggered to her feet, and limped on a wrenched leg to examine her horse. The retched animal still lived, nostrils wide and
frothing, staring at her with the one visible, rolling eye. It kicked and tried to rise, its neck soaked in blood about the serrin’s arrow, only the tail of which was visible in its neck.

Sasha whispered a calling to the animal’s soul, performed the correct sign to her head and its own, then cut its throat. And turned away so she did not have to watch the blood gushing, and the final, feeble struggles of life.

The last of the serrin incursion was passing now, its final riders weaving in mad evasion of many times their number of pursuing Lenay and Torovan cavalry. Serrin were falling as cavalry blades found them, yet still most paid more attention to targets amidst the infantry than to defending themselves.

Several Isfayen were circling back to pick Sasha up. She extended an arm and one dragged her astride with brute strength, Sasha clutching to his back as they set off in pursuit of the serrin, and possibly a riderless horse.

Peering past the Isfayen’s shoulder, Sasha saw the leading serrin riders dividing, then splitting as a wall of charging Lenay cavalry tore into them from the opposing direction. The northerners from the left flank, she guessed. The serrin had charged squarely into the middle of the Lenay formation, and were trapped. Evading riders were decapitated by huge, black-armoured men astride their great horses, who spurred directly into the serrins’ midst with little fear of collision. More and more serrin scattered as the northerners worked their way up the line, striking left and right. Others broke off to pursue desperate escapes, serrin cavalry zigzagging madly toward the rear, where five thousand Torovan infantry reserve blocked their way.

“Stop!” Sasha yelled in her rider’s ear, as he angled as though to pursue. “Stop here, there’s no point.”

He stopped, three companions with him, turning his horse sideways so Sasha could see. Many serrin had turned back, and were heading this way, still firing into the Lenay infantry’s rear…but northern cavalry now overtook them as well, jostling the smaller, sleeker serrin horses, and killing their riders with brutal power. Soon there were but a few visible, each leading perhaps ten Lenay riders in a merry dance around and around, a final defiance of cunning over brawn. Not one attempted to surrender. Several came galloping back past Sasha’s position, well wide of her riders, and with many Lenays in pursuit. No Isfayen man bothered to join the chase.

“
Ilayen
,” said one of the Isfayen sombrely, and held his sword aloft in salute.

“
Ilayen
,” echoed the others.

“That,” Sasha’s rider said dourly, “is the bravest thing I have ever seen.”

The roar from the infantry lines was louder now, and the accent of the voices was not Lenay. Sasha looked, and saw Lenay men being forced back,
their already depleted ranks thinned dramatically further by serrin archery. She could see confusion in the rear ranks, men helping wounded friends, others yelling at them to fight instead, wild gesticulations, others gathering support to run quickly to parts of the line that were about to break. All were falling back, an inexorable, gradual shuffle. From the sound of it, the Enorans had their blood up.

“Not only brave,” Sasha said tiredly. “It’s cost us the battle.”

The Isfayen nodded. “A pointless sacrifice is surrender cloaked as bravery. These serrin knew precisely for what cause they sacrificed their lives. Our centre collapses. I salute them.”

There were yells now as the Torovan infantry reserve steadied their line and prepared to push forward. The Isfayen turned their horses about and galloped out of the way. Soon another Isfayen rider came galloping, holding the reins of a fair looking, riderless warhorse. Sasha leaped onto its saddle, steadied the nervous animal, and realised from its lovely leather bridlework that it had belonged to a serrin. More of her Isfayen were regrouping amidst the masses of cavalry returning to their respective flanks. Sasha waited until she had as many of them about her as possible, then cast one final glance toward the advancing Torovans.

It was not possible that they could hold back the Steel. They were approaching the artillery zone now, and where Lenay infantry might sacrifice a tight formation for a fast sprint, Torovan infantry relied on that tight formation even more so than the Steel. If they arrived as a breathless rabble, they would need to re-form once in battle…nearly impossible against the Steel infantry. Yet if they marched forward in unison, the artillery would cut them to pieces on the way in.

Even as the command to ride came to her lips, she saw something that made her heart stop. Royal flags, galloping to the fore. A cluster of red cloaks ahorse, about a lone man in black astride a brilliant grey horse. And further, to the left, another cluster, red cloaks and noble banners, about another black-clad figure on a horse. King Torvaal Lenayin, and his son Prince Koenyg, riding to battle at the head of Torovan infantry. It raised a cheer from the Torovans, and through the shock Sasha could not help but consider the irony, that it was a king and prince of Lenayin who led them to war, while their own newly crowned king remained safely ensconced in Petrodor.

Sasha’s breath caught in her throat to watch them. She had thought the situation desperate, yet if Koenyg was committing himself and their father to the fight to rally the troops, it was surely well beyond that. Her heels urged to kick at her new mount’s sides, to race to Koenyg’s side and scream that he was being a fool, that even should the Army of Lenayin lose this
battle, all was not lost, and they could regroup and live to fight again. The battle, after all, was diversionary, and designed merely to hold the Enoran Steel off the Larosans’ far larger, exposed flank. Why did Koenyg risk all in this one battle? Or had it not truly been his choice? Had their father ordered it, overruling his commander of armies on this one, singular point of strategy? Or was it honour?

About her, Isfayen men awaited her next command. She had never truly been her father’s daughter. He had certainly never regarded her as such…or at least, not since she was a little girl. Why now should she falter? Why should the sight of him at the head of five thousand Torovans fill her with such terror?

“Come now, lass,” said a nearby rider, grimly. “There is no greater burden than the honour of a king. A man must bear it alone.”

The Torovans let out a roar, and began to run. Ahead of them, the parties about the two Lenay royals accelerated to a canter. From behind the Enoran line, black dots rose into the air like a swarm of bees, and behind them, fiery balls trailing black smoke.

Sasha turned her horse about, and rode with her Isfayen back toward the right flank. If the centre held, only for the flank to fold because she were distracted elsewhere, she would sacrifice everything for which her father risked and fought. She rode on, as fire erupted behind, and did not look back.

Andreyis awoke. He heard cheering, hysterical laughter, the celebrations of victorious warriors. “We’ve won,” he thought dreamily. Then he realised that he could not recognise any words the men spoke.

He lay on his back on the green grass of a Larosan field. His right arm hurt worse than anything he could remember, but at least it was still attached to his body. His head ached and when he put his left hand to his temple, it came away bloody. He recalled the horse bearing down on him, and realised it must have hit him. Better that than the serrin rider’s sword.

Thud, came more, nearby sounds. Thuds, and a whistling, fast fading. Another sound, a sharp crack, then a tortured, creaking rush, as a heavy mechanism of ropes and gears unwound. That would be a catapult firing. It sounded close.

He half-rolled, and managed to look up. Sure enough, the Tracatan artillery was near, cart-mounted ballistas drawn by oxen, and a pair of enormous catapults, each behind four pairs of oxen, intricate and frightening to behold at this range. Men swarmed over them, perhaps a dozen to each, carefully lifting ammunition from the trailing cart as others, shirtless and powerful, wound fast at complex gears, creaking the huge throwing arms back
into place with remarkable speed. An ammunition shot was loaded into the arm’s enormous “palm,” a flint struck, and suddenly the shot was aflame…yet it was strangely coloured—blue, and barely visible. Then, crack, as the release was pulled, and the arm uncoiled once more, hurling a flaming missile across the cloud-strewn sky.

Still the cheering. Andreyis sat up, his arm cradled as it screamed with pain, yet he did not cry out. He stared instead at the backs of the Enoran infantry, perhaps a hundred paces before their artillery. They were cheering, not fighting, swords waving in the air. Many leaned on their shields, utterly spent. Others dropped back to check on the fallen.