Sword in the Storm (34 page)

“Yes, sir. I am to be engaged. We will be married at the midwinter festival.”

“You know the girl well?”

“We were childhood sweethearts, sir. We chose each other.”

“The best way, I am told,” said Appius. “I wish you joy.”

Before Barus could answer, they saw a black-garbed
tribesman riding down the hillside to the east. “It is the man Connavar,” said Barus. “The Gath call him Demonblade. They think he has some mystic power in battle.”

“There is nothing mystic about a good fighter,” said Appius. “A strong right arm and a valiant heart. That plus a little luck when needed.”

Appius put on his helm and buckled the chin strap. The tribesman was riding fast, which did not bode well. Could it be they were about to come under attack? Appius hoped not. With only three thousand men he would be hard pressed to hold a barbarian army until the next panther arrived.

Connavar reined in before the officers and dismounted. Appius looked into the young man’s oddly colored eyes, then glanced down and saw the splashes of blood on his tunic and leggings.

“Where was the fight?” he asked.

“Around a mile from here, General, but it was a skirmish only.”

“How far north is the Perdii army?”

“I do not believe it is to the north. We have been tricked. A small force of a hundred men came north, creating a false trail. I think Carac slipped away to the east and hid his army. I also believe he will come out of hiding today and attack General Jasaray while he is on the march.”

“You believe the full Perdii army is
behind
us?”

“I do, General. Perhaps fifty thousand men.”

“But you could be wrong?”

“I could be wrong about the timing of the attack,” admitted Connavar, “but I know the army did not flee to the north. I can think of no other sensible reason for the subterfuge. He plans to surprise Jasaray.”

Appius thought for a moment. “There will be a screen of scouts alongside the marching column. It is not possible for Jasaray to be taken by surprise.”

“A screen of
Gath
scouts,” said Barus. “Even if they
keep to the regulation distance—which would be a minor miracle—that would still give Jasaray only a few minutes to form his defenses.”

“He will have two panthers with him and a third following around an hour behind,” said Appius. Returning his attention to Connavar, he asked, “Where is Ostaran?”

“I have sent him to gather all of his forces and ride south. We are spread thin, but depending on where the battle is fought, I would think we can assemble close to a thousand riders.”

“That is all very well if you are correct, young man. If you are not, then you will be leaving my panther without a cavalry screen and prey to assault from a massive force. Have you thought of that?”

“There is no army to face you here, General,” said Connavar. “That I know for certain. It seems to me that you face two choices. Either you complete the fortress or you march to aid the Scholar. Which you choose is your own affair. But I am riding south.” With that the warrior vaulted to the saddle, swung the reins, and kicked his horse into a run.

“What do you think, sir?” asked Barus.

“He seems a capable young man. And if he is right, Jasaray will find himself in great peril.”

“What shall we do?”

Appius ignored the question and wandered away. He had been ordered to protect the site and wait for the next panther and Jasaray.

If he marched his men south and the tribesman was wrong, he would be a laughingstock.

But if Connavar was right …

Hidden behind the tree line of the immense Avelin Forest, Carac stood in the royal chariot, silently watching the road a half a mile distant. Wagons were slowly trundling along it, flanked by marching soldiers. Carac glanced to his left. Thousands
of Perdii warriors, faces painted for war, waited quietly. To his right, stretching for over a mile, was the cavalry, three thousand strong. Their orders were to attack the wagons, kill the drivers, and rob the Stone army of its provisions.

The king ran a hand across his brow, wiping away the sweat. It was almost noon, and the heat in the forest was becoming unbearable. Carac sat back on the curved seat alongside his eldest son, Arakar, who was his charioteer this day. “How soon, Father?” whispered the fourteen-year-old.

“Soon enough,” replied Carac, raffling the boy’s blond hair. The king was dreadfully tired, his eyes burning. He had not slept the last three nights. Tomorrow was his fortieth birthday, and the weight of his
gis
sat upon him like a boulder. The Old Woman had appeared to him a year earlier.
“Let no royal blood be spilled, Carac. If you fail, you will not see forty.”

No royal blood had been spilled. His brother had been drowned, the wife strangled, the boy poisoned. Not one spot of red had shown on any of the corpses. Carac removed his bronze battle helm and wiped the rim. He felt no guilt at the slaying of his brother. Only anger. Alea the
good
king, the
caring
king. The man was a traitor and deserved to die. Few knew of his negotiations with the Stone general and the agreement that the Perdii would become vassals of Stone, allowing Jasaray to build roads and forts in their territory. “It is the only way, Brother,” Alea had told him. “They are invincible, and we are living in their day. As their allies we can help them conquer all the other tribes. The Perdii will once more be preeminent among the Keltoi.”

“We have the power to crush them,” Carac had replied.

“I have seen them, Carac. They have changed the face of war. They come like a flood, irresistible and deadly. Trust me on this.”

“Like a flood,”
he had said. Carac smiled at the memory of his death, choking on the water of the flooded river. The death
of the queen, however, gave him no pleasure at all. Carac had always lusted after the mystical Alinae. He had not intended to kill her and had been prepared to offer her marriage. But when he had gone to her, she had flown at him in a rage, pulling a dagger from her sleeve and lunging for his throat. He had jumped back, the blade slicing the skin of his cheek. Furious, he had punched her, knocking her down and then wresting the dagger from her. “You are a murderer!” she had screamed at him. “I saw it in a vision. You and Bek dragged Alea from his horse. Murderer!” Her voice had echoed through the palace, and Carac’s hands had clamped to her throat to silence her. And he had silenced her, crushing the life from her frail body.

The populace had been told that she had taken her own life in grief over the death of her beloved husband and that her son had swallowed poison. It mattered nothing that most of the Perdii had not believed the story. Strong leadership was always welcome, and Carac had been strong.

The losses in the first attack against the Stone night camp had proved far more damaging. Thousands of tribesmen had deserted after that. But almost fifty-six thousand remained, and today they would crush forever the myth of Stone invincibility. Pushing himself to his feet, Carac stared down once more at the Stone column.

Coming into sight, marching in columns of four, were Jasaray’s two panthers. Carac had given orders that Jasaray was to be taken alive, and he looked forward to seeing the Stone man humbled before him, pushed to his knees, begging for life.

The Perdii king drew his sword and gestured to the trumpeter standing alongside the bronze chariot. A single note sounded.

Perdii cavalry burst from the forest to the north and charged toward the wagon convoy a half mile distant. A second note blared out, and fifty thousand Perdii warriors raced from the forest, bearing down on the slender line below.

Carac turned to his son. “Today you will see glory as never before,” he said. Arakar gave a wide smile, took up the reins, and, followed by two thousand mounted guards, drove the chariot out into the open.

The sky was a clear, cloudless blue, and not a breath of breeze disturbed the summer day. Carac watched in breathless anticipation as the Perdii horde bore down on the six thousand soldiers of Stone. He hoped to see the enemy panic and run, but they did not. Smoothly the marching men regrouped, forming a fighting square, shields locked.

Carac took the reins from his son and drove his chariot down the hillside, the better to see and hear the battle. The front line of Perdii warriors had reached the enemy, and those warriors were hurling themselves on the shield wall. The line held, but like an angry tide the Perdii swept around the fighting square, isolating it, creating a bronze island in a sea of glittering swords.

The Perdii king rode his chariot close to the action, his royal guards cantering behind. To the north his cavalry had butchered scores of waggoners, and several hundred warriors were riding south to attack the Stone rear guard.

Carac swung his chariot and rode up the hillside, turning to gaze down on the embattled Jasaray. He could see the general now, standing at the center of the square, arms clasped behind his back. He seemed untroubled. Irritation swelled into anger in Carac’s heart. Did the man not know he was about to experience defeat? Could he not feel the weight of despair?

Lifting a water sack from a hook inside the chariot, Carac drank deeply. “Are we winning, Father?” asked Arakar. Carac did not reply. The field was heavy with fallen Perdii, and few Stone warriors had died so far. Carac licked his lips. Then came the thunder of hooves, and the king looked to the north.

Close to a thousand enemy cavalry soldiers were charging down the slope toward him, led by the black-garbed killer who had sworn to take his life. For a moment Carac could not
believe what he was seeing. The Gath cavalry had been led away to the north. How, then, were they here? The Perdii king shouted an order to his guard commander. The man wheeled his horse, drew his sword, and led a counterattack against the newcomers.

Carac felt cold fear clutching at his heart. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

“I spilled no blood,” he whispered.

The Gath cavalrymen, their black cloaks streaming behind them, thundered down the hillside, meeting the Perdii charge head on. Connavar, a bronze buckler on his left forearm and the Seidh sword in his right hand, bore down on the first of the enemy. The Perdii rider thrust his lance at Conn’s chest. Conn swayed in his saddle and, as he rode past, slashed his sword up and over. The blade took the rider in the throat, decapitating him.

The two lines of horsemen came together, Gath and Perdii, hacking and slashing, horses rearing and falling, screaming in pain and terror. Connavar fought like a madman, cutting and killing his way through the enemy, having eyes only for the occupants of the distant chariot. A spear thrust through his mount’s neck. The animal went down. Conn jumped clear, ran at a Perdii rider on a gray gelding, stabbed him through the belly, then dragged him from his horse. Taking hold of the mane, Conn vaulted to the beast’s back. There was no saddle, merely a lion-skin chabraque. Taking the reins, Conn swung the horse. A thrown spear sailed by him. Heeling the gray forward, Conn killed the spear thrower.

A warrior charged at him, the two horses crashing together. Conn’s mount reared and almost fell. The Perdii stabbed at him. Conn took the blow on his buckler and sent a return cut that smashed the sword from his opponent’s hand. The rider scrabbled for his dagger. Conn’s sword slashed open his throat, and he pitched to the ground. Another rider charged at
him. Conn lunged and missed. The Perdii hurled himself at Conn, grabbing him, and both men fell to the ground. Conn was up first. Kicking the man in the head, he grabbed his fallen sword and stabbed him through the heart. A horse reared alongside him, the front hooves thudding into his shoulder. Conn was hurled to the ground. The horse leapt over him. Rolling to his feet, Conn saw that the gray was standing close by. Running to it, he mounted. Two Perdii riders came at him. Swinging the horse, he met the first. Their swords clanged together. A spear point slammed against Conn’s buckler, ricocheting off and tearing the skin of his shoulder. Ostaran rode alongside, his saber plunging into the spearman. Conn ducked under a wild cut from the second rider and heeled the gray toward a gap in the enemy line.

Three riders tried to cut him off, but he swerved toward them, killing the first, then cutting left and onto open ground.

Kicking the gray into a gallop, he raced toward the royal chariot. As he rode, he could hear horsemen close behind him. Risking a glance back, he saw a lance-wielding warrior no more than half a length back. The man was riding a powerful chestnut, and he was gaining. Behind him was a second rider, this one a swordsman. Transferring his sword to his left hand, Conn unclipped his cloak brooch, pulling the garment clear. Throwing out his right arm, he let the cloak fly free, then swung his horse sharply to the right. The black cloak billowed out in front of the lancer’s mount, frightening it and causing it to swerve. Dragging on the reins, Conn charged the lancer. The man was an expert horseman, rearing his mount just as Conn closed in. The two horses crashed together. The gray went down. Conn fell heavily, losing his grip on the Seidh blade. The lancer bore down on him. Conn drew his dagger and hurled it. The blade took the lancer in the throat, and he tumbled from the back of his horse. The second rider closed in. Conn ran toward his sword, but the Perdii warrior cut him off. Conn let out a battle cry and charged the man’s
horse, waving his arms furiously. The horse reared. Conn dived past it, grabbing his sword and rolling to his feet just in time to block a vicious downward cut. Three times their blades clashed, and on the fourth Conn’s sword slid clear, opening a huge cut in the rider’s thigh. The man cried out and tried to swing his horse. Conn sprinted forward, plunging his sword under the man’s ribs. The Seidh blade buried itself deep in the Perdii’s body. The rider fell forward over the neck of his mount, then slid to the ground. Conn glanced back. More riders were galloping toward him.

There were some way back. Mounting the dead man’s horse, Conn kicked him into a run. He was close to the royal chariot now, close enough to see the charioteer take up the reins and whip the horses into a gallop. The Perdii king was standing alongside the charioteer. He had three spears at hand and drew one of them, hefting the weight. Conn raced after the chariot, closing fast. A spear flew by him, then another. The third came straight at him. Throwing up his sword, he deflected the spear. The haft struck him side on. Grabbing at it with his left hand, he caught the weapon. His horse was tiring, but he was close enough to the fleeing chariot now to see the face of the Perdii king. Hatred roared through him, burning like fire. With his left hand he flung the spear back toward the chariot. It missed the king but slammed into the back of the charioteer, who fell, dragging on the reins. The two ponies swerved. The chariot tipped and then went over, throwing the king clear. Conn leapt from his horse and ran at the fallen man. Carac rose, drawing his sword. He was both powerful and fast, and the speed of his attack surprised the younger man. Their blades met time and again, and Conn was forced back by the ferocity of the onslaught. But in his mind’s eye Conn saw again the body of his friend hanging on a hook in the Perdii capital. A score of the king’s riders galloped past the fallen chariot and formed a circle around the fighting
men. “He’s mine!” shouted Carac. “Leave him. I’ll cut his heart out.”