Lady of the Star Wind (48 page)

There wasn’t much talk in the ranks. Here and there, a horse moved or a chariot rolled briefly out of position.

Mark sat on his restive horse, Sallea and the rest of his small cavalry unit behind him. He’d gone on uncountable missions, been in grave jeopardy many times, but never like this—in open, primitive battle with blunt-force weapons. Mentally, he reviewed the briefing he’d held with his cavalry, going over various scenarios and how they’d react to each. He and his unit were as prepared as anyone could be. Glancing at the moons for a moment, he wished Sandy was safe at the mountain stronghold, not nearby in their camp, ready to take care of the inevitable casualties. After holding him tight and giving him a protracted kiss, she’d told him to be careful, which amused him even under the dire circumstances. He didn’t know how a man could be careful in the middle of a pitched battle and remain an effective fighter, but he assured her he’d try. He’d left her the civilian blaster as a precaution, even though the unit held no more than two or three shots at best.

Rothan stood in his large chariot, wearing a uniform much like any other officer’s, but on his head sat a golden helmet with a blue horsehair crest and the symbol of the crown. He stared into the distance, where the unsuspecting enemy slumbered. A standard bearer waited at his side, holding the king’s flag on a tall staff so Rohan’s location would be known by all during the battle. Djed stood in a chariot on the other side of the king’s, clutching his bow. Rothan’s driver bent over, uttering soothing remarks to the nervous team of horses.

Mark checked his blaster again. It wouldn’t be much use in this kind of close combat, but he wore it as a last resort should Rothan be caught in dire peril. He couldn’t imagine going on a mission or into combat without it.

“His Majesty prepares to give the signal,” Sallea whispered from behind him.

Turning his head ever so slightly, Mark asked, “Is Lakht in position?”

“Yes, he circles the enemy camp and reports no unusual activity.”

Mark gathered the reins as Rothan signaled to the trumpeter. Defiant, golden notes pierced the morning silence, and the line of chariots took off, racing toward the unprepared enemy camp. Mark and his cavalry kept pace with the wheeled units. As they came closer to the walls of the camp, Rothan’s archers loosed flights of arrows. Enemy soldiers fell from their posts as at least some of the arrows found targets. Horns blared now, calling the Maiskhan forces to action. The gates of the camp opened, and a few chariots raced to meet the oncoming wave.

One second, Mark was riding at full gallop, the Mikkonites and Nakhtiaar warriors riding at his back, launching arrows at the enemy ranks. The next moment, he was in combat, striking out left and right with his sword, cutting down enemy soldiers, his well-trained horse picking its way through the melee in response to his signals. Slinging their bows across their backs, Sallea and the troopers switched to swords or spears, using the advantage of height that being in the saddle provided. Many enemy soldiers attempted to engage with Mark and his cavalry unit as they plowed through the thick of the battle, staying in a tight formation, driving a wedge in the enemy forces. He had to work hard to stay abreast of Rothan’s chariot in the crush of combat, slashing at anyone who came within range. He parried blows aimed at him. He dodged arrows or covered himself with his shield, continuing to move forward. An amazing number of ground troops boiled out of the enemy camp, but the element of surprise helped Rothan’s forces to some extent. Many of the enemy soldiers hadn’t had time to don body armor.

There was intense hand-to-hand combat, with Mark and his cavalry weaving through the packed battleground, wheeling at his command time and again to cut a swathe through another knot of fiercely struggling combatants.
 

Lakht swooped in and out of the fray, targeting anyone bold enough to threaten Sallea.

Then the battle ended all at once, the enemy soldiers breaking ranks and running away before the superior Nakhtiaar forces. Most didn’t try to retreat to their camp but threw down their weapons and shields and fled past the camp, heading for the safety of the river and the city beyond.

Trumpets blared, ordering a recall of Rothan’s troops.

General Intef shouted orders in a stentorian voice, trying to prevent their troops from giving chase to the enemy. Mark and Sallea, who had fought as hard as any of them and guarded his back well, led their unit close to the parked chariots to hear the orders.

“Send scouts to keep an eye on their retreat,” General Intef ordered Mark, who nodded at Sallea. She launched Lakht into the air from her arm, selected five of her men, and galloped off in the direction taken by the fleeing Maiskhan.

“This victory came too easy, too fast,” Rothan told his grandfather. Djed was binding a small wound in the king’s left arm.

Jaw clenched, the general was grim. “Don’t look askance at victory. We were fortunate to surprise them. The gods favored us in this. And we didn’t need your Captain Khefer and his chariots, who I note haven’t shown up as yet in any event. Perhaps he fell off the mountain.” The general grinned at his own grim joke.

“I never expected the Maiskhan forces to crumble so easily,” Mark agreed. “What are we going to do now?”

“Detail one company to take charge of the camp and the prisoners, and then we move on to attack the city,” the general declared. “We need to take control of the city today. “

“The ragtag rabble we sent fleeing won’t be much help to Farahna’s Maiskhan forces in holding the capital against us,” Rothan said. “Not if Nakhtiaar troops will declare for me.”

“What’s taking so long to form the columns for the rapid march?” the general demanded of no one in particular, striving to see through the dust and the haze of the warming day.

“Your Majesty!” A chariot swept up beside them in a cloud of dust. The passenger was a young officer whose name escaped Mark.

“What brings you?” demanded the general.

“The men of Riverhold have broken ranks to loot the Maiskhan camp, my lord.”

“Their soldiers have no discipline at all.” The general gestured to the officers waiting nearby. “Take ten squads and stop the looting. Get the Riverhold men into ranks at once. We’ve no time for this.”

“We must not be in disarray,” Rothan agreed. “I want to press on to the river now.”

“We’ve got to get control of those rogue units first, my lord,” the general said.

“I’ll go,” Rothan said. “They won’t persist in this greedy foolishness in my presence.”

He set his chariot in motion toward the enemy camp. Mark rode after him, the other chariots following them. As he rode, he noted some disciplined columns of soldiers gathered around their standard bearers, heeding the orders of their officers, forming into companies to march again. But there were gaps on the right flank, where the Riverhold men should have been.

Wounded, an arrow protruding from her shoulder, Sallea galloped into the circle around Rothan. She struggled to stay in the saddle and Mark kept her from toppling to the ground as she came up next to him.
 

“A huge army comes across the river,” she said through gritted teeth before collapsing onto her horse’s neck.

“There's an army coming at us,” Mark yelled, catching the unconscious woman before she could fall. He gestured for the nearest Mikkonite soldier to take Sallea. “Get her to our camp, make sure my Lady treats her wound. Go!”

“Gods preserve us, the Maiskhan have reinforcements,” General Intef shouted. “Trumpeters, sound the call! The attack comes!”

Mark and his comrades were soon surrounded by shouting hordes of the enemy. Battle raged again on the plain. At some point, Mark’s horse collapsed under him, and he fought his way free of the stirrups. Using his blaster indiscriminately now, he shot enemy soldiers getting close to Rothan. His small cadre of Mikkonite warriors stayed with him, most also on foot, fighting like demons. The general and the few remaining officers and troops surrounded the king, wielding their swords and spears desperately, but wave after wave of Maiskhan came at them. Mark was afraid their attempt to retake Nakhtiaar for its rightful ruler was failing when he heard the golden trumpets above the shouts and cries of battle. Swiping one hand across his eyes, he peered through the dust. A wave of chariots flying the king’s standard swept across the plain behind the Maiskhan forces. Arrows cascaded from the sky like hail, pelting the enemy from behind, creating chaos in the Maiskhan ranks.

“It’s Khefer and his chariots!” Mark yelled to Rothan. “We just have to hold on a few more moments, and they’ll be here.”

“Praise to the gods, he arrived in time!” The king beheaded an enemy soldier with his sword, pivoting and ducking under the blade of the next man, skewering him even as Djed shot two soldiers full of arrows in quick succession.

The conflict redoubled in intensity as the Maiskhan commanders apparently realized their chance at victory was slipping away under Khefer’s attack from the rear. Mark struggled to stay in one piece and to do his part to keep Rothan alive. The individual enemy soldiers gave ground around him, terrified of his “magic” as man after man fell, burned as if by lightning. He knew the charge would soon be exhausted, but a blaster was no use if the rebellion lost the king.

And then no one else charged at him, no flights of arrows arced in. The battle was done.

His uniform dusty and bloodstained, Khefer rolled up to Rothan and Mark’s position in his battered chariot, saluting as his driver reined the team to a halt. “My lords, I’ve come as promised!”

“In the gods’ own time,” Rothan answered.
 

“Let’s drive these dogs across the river, toward the city, and kill them against the walls,” Khefer shouted, shaking his fist at the retreating enemy.
 

“My chariot is done—the wheel is smashed, and the left horse is dead. Let me join you, and we’ll chase these invaders together,” said the king.

Khefer’s driver stepped back as the captain took the reins while Rothan leaped into the chariot. Mark cut Rothan’s surviving horse free from the traces so he could ride it bareback. He swung onto the horse as Khefer’s chariot lurched into motion. The nearby trumpeter blew a summons to bring the remaining able-bodied men to their leader’s side.

“I bring the reinforcements from West Canyon Keep with me as well,” Khefer shouted. “We met them on the mountain trail, being of the same mind as I was, to create surprise.”

CHAPTER NINE

“We can’t attack the city gates and hope to get inside,” General Intef repeated for the third time. “The Maiskhan hold the entrance and the nearby walls.”

“My spies tell me more than half the Nakhtiaar units will fight under our banners.” Captain Khefer clenched his jaw, tone barely civil, patience visibly threadbare. “When we attack, the loyal troops will move against the Maiskhan from inside the city.”

The argument over strategy raged. Mark took the goblet of wine from the nearest servant and drained it in one gulp. War was thirsty work. The army had driven the fleeing Maiskhan forces toward the city and had indeed killed or captured most. A few had gotten inside the massive gates before the defenders slammed them shut. Rothan’s forces established a makeshift camp outside of arrow range while the next moves were debated.

Rothan pointed his belt knife at Mark. “What do you think?”

He slammed the wine goblet on the table. “I say we go for it, throw the counters, as your people say. We need to take the city, get this war over with. Your army can’t sustain a long campaign, and mounting a siege won’t win this conflict for you. There’s still the Maiskhan navy and the reinforcements they’re supposed to be bringing. We’ve beaten this discussion to death.”
 

“Capturing Farahna and cutting her treacherous throat will end the war.” Sounding very sure, Rothan released his grip on the map of the city, allowing the scroll to curl away from him. “Prepare to attack within the hour.”

There was a commotion at the entrance to the tent. The guards were pushing and shoving against someone attempting to come inside. The war council members jostled each other to see what was happening.

A bloodied, frantic soldier in the colors of the Mountaintop province fought with the guards. He caught Rothan’s eye and shouted the catastrophic news. “The Lady of the Star Wind has been kidnapped!”

Conversation in the tent stopped.

“Bring him here,” the king said.

Pain stabbed through Mark at the man’s words, as if he’d been hit by a force knife in the gut. He went ice cold, clenching his hand on the edge of the table as he waited for the injured soldier to be helped closer so he could give details. “Is she alive?”

“Yes, my lord, as far as we know.” The man talked in gasps, as if at the end of his strength.

Guards walked the messenger toward the council table, half carrying him the last few paces. Not caring about protocol, Mark shoved a stool closer and helped the man sit before he fell. The messenger addressed Rothan. “The Lady of the Star Wind was tending to the wounded on the battlefield across the river, Exalted One. A party of Maiskhan came through, capturing her and escaping in their chariots. It was as if they were searching for her, rather than fleeing the battleground.”

The soldier swallowed hard. “The guards fought, but to no avail. There were ten or twelve Maiskhan, accompanied by the priests. After fighting off our troops and capturing her, the enemy rode in the direction of the new temple. Although injured, Lady Sallea took a horse to follow them. The rest of us gave chase on foot but were soon outdistanced. I myself heard the enemy say the Lady would be sacrificed to gain the victory for the Maiskhan.” The man coughed up blood and sagged to the floor. “We did our best, my lords, I swear to you.”