Breath of Heaven, page 6
The page darted away.
“What is it?” Terson asked, his anxiousness getting the better of him.
“GreatLord Kobel commands our unit to be ready for action at Kertillion Square at the seventh hour.”
“What for?”
Gregson shifted toward the edge of the wall facing the charred Autumn Tree and the black mass of the Horde’s camp that stained the plains beneath it. “It would appear the lords of Temeritt have tired of waiting for the Horde to come to us.”
* * *
“All units have assembled, Great Lord.”
Kobel didn’t turn at the report, his eye sweeping the extent of Kertillion Square. Five hundred cavalry and nearly a thousand foot soldiers in full armor and the Temeritt colors of the Legion filled the open area, along with another thousand of the conscripted forces from the refugees and population. Most of the latter looked terrified, outfitted in bits and pieces of armor and whatever weapons could be found within the city. He had blacksmiths working day and night to produce more swords and armor, but in the meantime they made do with what they had. The city was crowded, and they had food enough for at most four or five months if they rationed, but he wasn’t certain how much longer they could hold out after that.
He turned to Lord Akers. “And are your own men ready, Lord Akers?”
“They are. I received word ten minutes ago.”
“Very well. Pass the orders to each unit and mount up.”
Akers issued orders as he moved down the line, runners darting out among the soldiers to report to unit leaders. Those not already mounted among the cavalry pulled themselves into their saddles while unit leaders shouted orders to fall in. Some of those on foot headed out, clearing the street toward the near gates. Many Temeritt citizens—their faces lined with stress and fear, but who continued on with their lives as if the Horde weren’t outside the walls—scrambled out of the way.
Kobel moved toward his own mount. Once seated, Kobel nodded toward the horn bearer to his right. As the notes sounded, kept low since everyone who needed to hear was in the square, Kobel kneed his horse forward. His escort fell in around him—two standard bearers and a small personal guard of five Legion.
They wound through the streets. Faces appeared in windows in the second and third stories to either side, and merchants and customers stepped to the doorways of the shops beneath. A few people moved out onto their balconies. Most were children and the elderly, the men who were able still working in the blacksmithies or training with the Legion, the women fletching arrows, tending wounded, or helping with the organization of arms and armor, weapons and food. No one cheered, although Kobel saw some of the dread drain away in their eyes as the small force of Legion marched past. Reality had sunk in when the Legion forces had staggered into the city after their defeat at the Northward Ridge and the Horde closed in. The killing blow, the one that had sunk despair throughout the entire city, had been the burning of the Autumn Tree.
Kobel’s hands clenched on the reins and his horse snorted in confusion, head tossing before he managed to unlock his fingers. He had tasted the fear of the citizens that day and in the days that followed. The fire lasted three days, longer than Kobel would have expected, but then it wasn’t a natural tree. It had smoldered for another two. And during the entire time, the Horde had roiled on the plains before the city. A token force had tried to take the main gates when the Autumn Tree had first caught fire, but it hadn’t been a serious threat. Kobel assumed it was some of the Horde’s creatures unleashing aggression on the nearest target. Most of those attacking had been the more animalistic of the Horde’s force—the trolls and giants. They’d managed to kill a few from the heights before they’d retreated. The Alvritshai and the snake-like creatures that made up most of the rest of the force had stayed well out of range, setting up camp beneath the Autumn Tree. Initially, there had been enough to encircle half of the city, spread out in a thick arc, their campfires dotting the plains at night. A week after the tree had burned, two-thirds of the army had packed up and headed to the west.
None of their scouts had managed to elude the Horde and warn the Provinces to the west or the south, or Yhnar in the east. He didn’t think any of the messages sent by pigeon had reached them either.
He glanced to the sky, picking out the leathery birds that circled overhead, out of range of even the longbows. There were at least four of them drifting above them whenever the sky was clear, sometimes as many as eight. The only time they couldn’t be seen was when it clouded over.
He’d seen the creatures take out at least a dozen of the messenger pigeons himself.
Shouts brought his attention back to the street and the wide plaza before the gates that opened up before them. He caught Akers’ eye, then Kobel and his escort broke away from the main force toward the stairs. Dismounting, he handed the reins off to a waiting page, patted the animal’s neck, then led the way up to the parapet above.
As soon as he broke out into the chill evening air, he moved to the edge of the wall, placing his hand against the gritty stone. He glared at the Horde beyond, at the creatures drifting overhead, then toward the east.
Clouds billowed on the horizon, spreading westward. Lightning flared in their depths, illuminating the layers within, although it was still too distant to hear anything more than a low grumble of thunder. But it was coming in fast.
They’d been waiting days for such a storm.
He mentally recited a prayer to Diermani, then turned to head back down to his forces. “Tell Lord Akers he may begin. We’ll attack as soon as he’s ready.”
* * *
Jayson clutched his spear with both hands. On either side, his fellow Legionnaires fidgeted, clothes rustling and armor clanking as they brushed up against each other. They were pressed too closely together for the spears to be effective, but Jayson knew they’d be able to spread out once they reached the far side of the gate.
Overhead, the first trailing edges of the storm he’d seen earlier scudded across the sky. The sun had begun to fade twenty minutes ago.
“We aren’t ready yet,” someone whispered behind them.
“Shut up.” Vics’ grizzled features scanned the officers as orders were passed around the ranks. “We’re as ready as they think we are, nothing short of that. If they say we can handle this, we can. They aren’t stupid. GreatLord Kobel knows what he’s doing.”
Jayson fervently hoped so.
Sudden movement caught his eye. With a creak of straining wood, the massive southwestern gates began to grind open, the portcullis still down. The road and the plains stretched beyond, the arched stone walls narrowing the view to a space twenty riders could slip through at once. Jayson’s eyes shot toward the height of the wall, where he could see a few of GreatLord Kobel’s men, those set to watch and report from the heights.
Then Gregson rode down the unit’s length. “We’re to hold the gates and protect the retreat, nothing more!” Lightning flared and thunder rumbled through the stone beneath their feet as Gregson repeated the orders, passing back and forth, voice raised to fight the storm. “Hold the gates and protect the retreat! GreatLord Kobel, Lord Akers, and the cavalry will ride out to meet the Horde, not us.” He said more, but thunder drowned it out, followed a moment later by a spattering of rain.
A few of the men groaned, but the overall sense from everyone was relief.
Vics nodded succinctly. “I told you.”
Jayson didn’t have a chance to respond, the rough clanking of chains filling the plaza as the portcullis began to rise. A roar from the Legion echoed back toward their unit as the front ranks charged through the opening and out onto the plains. The cavalry followed, and before Jayson was ready, Terson and Gregson motioned them forward.
They moved as a unit, their minimal training holding together better than Jayson would have expected. The men on all sides roared incoherently, the sound bouncing back on them as they ran beneath the gate, the thickness of the wall surrounding them. Jayson kept the line as they broke through on the far side. Terson called out orders, but Jayson only half heard them. Their unit broke to the right, only a few missing the mark or stumbling, and then they were spreading out as they’d been taught. Another unit in better armor and carrying shields had already formed up in a line from a point on the road back to the wall and Gregson’s men fell in behind them, settling into crouches with their spears pointed toward the sky, each spaced between two of those in armor. The shield bearers each had swords, but Gregson’s unit only carried knives. The shield bearers weren’t any more experienced than Jayson’s unit, he realized, but they had the armor because they were the spear carriers’ protection.
Kneeling, Jayson scanned down the line, picked out Ricks and a few others from Cobble Kill. He couldn’t see Curtis. Behind them, a similar line of shield bearers and another unit of spears had formed the second half of their formation. Any attack would strike the point and be split down the two sides.
But they’d have to get through the cavalry first.
Clouds roiling, rain coming down in fits and spats, Jayson shifted his attention toward the horse and riders led by GreatLord Kobel and Lord Akers. Beyond them, the Horde had begun to react. Their camp was too distant for Jayson to make out much, especially with the storm sheathing the plains in half-light, but he saw movement, heard scattered shouts and the blat of a horn.
GreatLord Kobel didn’t wait. With a sudden tensing of haunches, the cavalry leaped forward, horses streaming across the plains. At the same time, the clouds unleashed their downpour, rain sheeting across the battlefield and obscuring the charge. Jayson shuddered as the chill water sluiced down his neck and beneath his armor, soaking him in a matter of moments. He wiped it away from his face and spluttered, men cursing and shifting on all sides as they did the same. The crushed stalks of grass sank into the earth as the dirt soaked up the rain and became mud.
“Hold steady!” Ricks stalked back and forth behind them. “Hold the line!”
A sudden scream pierced the roar of water and the growls of thunder and Jayson started. His hands worked at the wood of the spear as images of the fighting in Cobble Kill and the mad dash for safety at the Northward Ridge echoed in the back of his head. He thought of Corim, training in his own unit, and Ara—of all of those who’d started out with him in Cobble Kill and made it to Temeritt—and something in his chest hardened. He straightened where he knelt, and the edges of panic that fluttered through his chest calmed.
They stayed that way, tense and expectant, for what felt like eternity, rain pounding down from the skies, snatches of battle reaching them at odd lulls between the thunder. Lightning revealed nothing but gray streaks of rain and the purplish, bruised clouds above. A few of the men cringed at each blue-white streak.
Then a riderless horse bolted out of the rain and everyone started, a few crying out in shock. Spears and shields rattled and clanged as the wall tightened, Gregson shouting, “Ready!” unnecessarily. The horse slowed and whinnied as it hit the blockade, turning to canter down its length. As it passed Jayson’s location, he recognized the Legion’s colors and noted the slash across its flank, blood marring the animal’s skin. With a curse, Ricks ordered a few of the men aside and, with the help of two others, caught and pulled the spooked animal back behind the barricade, sending it toward the gate with a slap.
A moment later, a half-heard horn call made everyone tense. Wind cut it short, but Jayson would have sworn it was a call to retreat.
“Tighten up!” Gregson growled. “Keep close and don’t waver.”
Jayson drew strength from the solidity of his commander’s voice. He readied himself.
He heard the riders before he saw them, the call for retreat blaring out of the hissing rush of rain again, followed by the low rumble of hooves gouging into the plains. Frantic orders blazed through the officer’s ranks and far to Jayson’s left the wall drew back, leaving an opening wide enough for a score of horses abreast. Before those who’d withdrawn had managed to regroup, GreatLord Kobel, Lord Akers, and two-thirds of the cavalry burst from the curtains of rain and angled toward the opening. The GreatLord shouted orders as he kicked his steed into a faster gait, but he was facing away from Jayson and they were swallowed up by the storm. Seconds later, the last of the Legion riders sprinted through the opening and the shields and spears began to close the gap.
Jayson spun toward the plains, breath catching in his throat as nervous energy coursed through his arms. His body felt hot and flushed, even through the chill rain, and his hands trembled. He held the spear shaft tight to keep it from showing. Behind, the sound of the cavalry faded as they funneled through the gate and into the city beyond, but nothing appeared out of the sheeting rain—no black-and-gold clad Alvritshai riders, the eagle’s talon splayed across their chest, no stone-skinned trolls or leathery cat-like creatures with luminous eyes.
When horns sounded from the walls above and Gregson cantered past ordering everyone to fall back, Jayson exhaled through clenched teeth, not quite believing that the Horde wasn’t boiling out of the darkness as they’d done at Gray’s Kill. He kept his eyes on the rain as he backed toward the gates, the pointed formation collapsing inwards. The men in his unit muttered and cursed, those in the shield guard shooting withering looks at the few who voiced their disgust that they were retreating without a fight.
Moments later, Jayson backed beneath the shelter of the gate and wall and heaved a sigh of relief.
* * *
GreatLord Kobel ignored the rain that plastered his hair to his head and streamed from his nose and chin. He stood staring out at the murky gray that hid the Horde. He’d barely been able to see the forces on foot that were still retreating by the time he’d made it back to the wall’s height after the battle. His arms were trembling from wielding his sword, his head ringing with the tumult and chaos of the battle—men screaming, metal clashing, horn blaring—all filtered through the rumble and roar of the thunder and rain. Yet he knew that the Horde had only thrown a token force at them.
He leaned out through the crenellations to watch the last of the Temeritt forces reenter the city, heard the gates clanking closed, then waited with breath held for the Horde to appear. But they didn’t come.
Why not attack when they were provoked? Why hadn’t they attacked before this?
Lord Akers appeared, moving swiftly to Kobel’s side. “I estimate we killed at least half of the Alvritshai mounts in the paddock before the Horde managed to organize any significant resistance.”
“Losses?”
“Twenty-two men, another few dozen wounded. A score of the horses.” Akers hesitated, then added, “Was the feint successful?”
Kobel squinted into the storm. The entire exercise had been a diversion, the clouds and rain a cover for the release of four scouts from the northeastern gates with messages for the GreatLords in Yhnar, Borangst, and the provinces to the west. It was hoped the storm would last long enough for the messengers to make it outside of the Horde’s range. The last few attempts hadn’t succeeded, the creatures above locating them long before any messages could be delivered. The scouts’ bodies had been hung from the lower branches of the remains of the Autumn Tree, caged and still alive, left to starve. The Horde made certain they were visible through spyglasses.
“We won’t know unless our scouts appear beneath the Autumn Tree,” Kobel said. “But even if they are found and the warning and call for help dies with them, we still have one last recourse left to us.” He turned to meet Akers grim expression. “Patris Raleveti is prepared to call upon Diermani’s Hand.”
4
“—a distinct tannic and is that a hint of cherry?”
Matthais Pavia, councilor to King Justinian, smiled at Lords Ancona and Pesavo over the top of his wine glass before taking another sip. He savored the flavor as he watched the two lords closely. Neither one of them wielded much power within the Province, but he’d found over the years that he never knew when he’d need a crucial extra voice, especially in recent years. Justinian was young—a mere eleven years of age—and the regency that had ruled through him since the death of his father had settled into complacency. But Justinian was a month away from coming of age and he had shown distressing signs of independence. Matthais had no intention of allowing Justinian his own reign, not with the promises he’d extracted from the lords of the Provinces and the Wraiths. He needed the boy pliable and dependent on the advice of his councilors.
Especially Matthais.
“GreatLord Alden has made significant strides in his wineries of late,” Lord Ancona said in appreciation. “Wouldn’t you agree, Pesavo?”
“Certainly. Although I still believe his vintage of three years ago was the best. Smoother and with a tart oak flavor. I’ve never been fond of the sweeter wines.”
Matthais was no longer listening. Movement on the far side of the arboretum where he’d arranged to meet the two lords had caught his attention and he frowned in annoyance. He’d hoped to spend the entire afternoon with them, uninterrupted. He lowered his glass and followed the page with his eyes as the youth made his way toward them.
“Matthais?” Lord Pesavo prodded.
He shifted his attention back to the lordlings and sighed. “I apologize. I was distracted by our approaching visitor.”
Both of the lords twisted in their seats, Ancona’s eyes narrowing in interest and speculation. Of the two of them, Matthais had decided that Ancona was the shrewdest, the one that would require the most attention and care. Pesavo appeared merely to enjoy his status and exhibited little to no intelligence or ambition of his own. Ancona, however, had aspirations; not only for himself, but for those he ruled over.
