“No,” she said. “I won’t. You’ve made a promise to another; I won’t help you break it.”
“Then, after. . I will write to her, tell her. .” He realized he was deliberately avoiding saying Kaitlin’s name aloud, and he wondered why.
“Don’t talk of ‘after,’ Karl,” she said. “We don’t know that there will be an ‘after.’ There’s only now. This moment, then the next and the next. That’s all we have right now. If there’s an after, we’ll figure out then what that might mean for us, or if there even is an ‘us.’ For now, all I can think about is how to survive tomorrow.”
She walked back into the apartments. Karl didn’t follow her. He stood at the railing of the balcony, and listened to the city and to his conscience.
War
Sergei ca’Rudka
The battle began with spell-fire and a sword thrust to the belly of the city.
All that morning the Firenzcian army approached: a steady advance that edged ever closer, a great arc slowly pressing down toward the forces Sergei had placed around the city from nearly Nortegate to the banks of the A’Sele.
The defensive line was dangerously thin. Sergei didn’t have enough men; despite Sergei’s persistent urgings, Kraljiki Justi had refused to allow the entirety of the Garde Civile and war-teni to move forward.
Instead, the Kraljiki wrapped battalions of Garde Civile and his most loyal chevarittai around himself as a protective cocoon: inside the city walls. Sergei had been given orders by the Kraljiki not to engage unless necessary, and so the defending forces grudgingly gave ground to the advancing ranks. There were occasional skirmishes, brief flurries of combat punctuated with the challenges of the Firenzcian chevarittai.
Some of the chevarittai of the city couldn’t resist the challenge and went out to meet their cousins-a few ca’-and-cu’ of both sides bloodied the ground prematurely as a result.
By Second Call, the tension had become nearly unbearable. The army of Firenzcia was a thunderhead looming near the city, like a silver-and-black cloud issuing tongues of lightning and growling with low thunder, the wind cold and vicious and rising.
The storm, inevitably, broke.
Sergei sat astride his horse on a small knoll a mile outside the old city walls, up the Avi a’Firenzcia along the River Vaghian. His leg ached, and his back was stiff, but he forced himself to ignore the nagging pains. Several flag-and-horn pages waited near him to relay orders and A’Offizier ca’Montmorte was at his side. From the knoll, Sergei could see the front ranks of the opposing force. The banner of the Hirzg and the Red Lancers was being flown prominently: Jan ca’Vorl was out there, somewhere close. In front of Sergei, the two armies were separated by a muddy field, the once-ripening crop of wheat prematurely harvested and the remainder trampled under the hooves of the chevarittai and the boots of the Garde Civile and conscripts as they’d retreated to their present position in the western tree line.
Sergei had stopped the grudging retreat-if they backed any closer to the city, the fighting would be taking place among the houses and buildings that had grown up outside the original walls. Their spines were to Nessantico’s outskirts; the offiziers had re-formed the lines.
Seeing them waiting, the Firenzcian army had halted, but Sergei didn’t believe they would remain there for long.
The sun fell directly on the field. The light did nothing to warm them.
“If I were Hirzg Jan, I would wait,” ca’Montmorte said. “It’s already past Second Call. He should establish his lines, call his offiziers together for consultation and settle the troops in for the night. I’d continue the advance at First Call tomorrow.” Ca’Montmorte nodded at his own advice. “That would give us time to bring more conscripts from the city and have the Archigos send up the remainder of the war-teni. The Hirzg doesn’t know that we don’t have the entire Garde Civile waiting in reserve.”
Sergei shook his head. “I know the man, Elia. The Hirzg is a decent tactician but a mediocre strategist-if there’s any strategy here, it will be the Starkkapitan’s. Ca’Vorl’s most dangerous in the midst of a fight, but he has no patience. He also knows he has the advantage. No, this is what he wants and he will have it now. I’d wager that he intends to sleep tonight inside Nessantico, and we’re in his way. He’ll attack. He won’t wait.”
Ca’Montmorte shook his head. “That would be foolish.”
“Wait,” Sergei told him. “I know the man. .”
They waited less than a quarter-turn of the glass. Without warning, a half-dozen fireballs bloomed, brilliant even in the sunlight. They rushed over the field, arcing no more than a half-dozen men’s height from the ground, streaking from the far trees beyond the roving groups of Firenzcian chevarittai and the impassive lines of infantry. “Teni!”
Sergei cried and the pages reached for flags and horns to sound the alarm, but the few war-teni with Sergei had already responded. Their counter-spells, Sergei realized gratefully, were curiously rapid-no doubt the Envoy ci’Vliomani, who along with a hand of Numetodo was with the war-teni, was responsible for that. Given the lack of warning, Sergei had expected the teni’s response to be too late, but two of the onrushing suns fizzled and died before they reached the front ranks of the defenders, and two more went careening back toward the far side of the field to explode in front of the enemy ranks.
Cheers went up from the Garde Civile.
But the remaining fire-spells were untouched. They slammed hard into the ranks, exploding with gouts of the liquid fire, and cheers dissolved into screams. Those caught directly died instantly, their bodies torn apart; those nearby were enveloped in blue Ilmodo-fury that clung to their skin and clothes. They bellowed in agony, rolling on the ground, trying to smother the stubborn flames. Those who rushed to help their fellows found that the spell-fire adhered to their own hands. Where the war-fire blazed, the ranks shuddered and threatened to fall apart, the conscripts panicking, and Sergei shouted along with the other offiziers and chevarittai. “Hold!” he cried. “Damn it, make them hold!” The flag-pages waved yellow flags desperately; the horn-pages blasted an imperative two-note call on their cornets and zinkes.
More spell-fire came; again, most were countered and a few thrown back into the enemy, but not all could be stopped. The trees on the west side of the meadow were on fire now, and the panic was beginning to spread along the lines. The offiziers had swords out, keeping their men under control. The cornets of the pages seemed to be lost in the growing noise.
But the lines, tenuously, held together.
Sergei nodded-if the Hirzg had intended to send him fleeing under the barrage of the war-teni, that plan had failed.
“The Archigos’ war-teni deserve commendation,” ca’Montmorte said. “Right now, we’re holding our own, but if they keep up the barrage, we’re going to have to give ground.”
“The Hirzg isn’t that patient,” Sergei repeated. “That will be the last volley of the war-teni. He’ll bring in the chevarittai and the army now.”
Again, they did not have to wait long. With a thousand-throated voice, the Firenzcians charged. The hooves of their chevarittai pummeled the ground; behind them, the infantry spread out like a horde of black ants. “Archers!” Sergei shouted: the pages dropped their yellow flags to pick up blue, the cornets shrilled, and the offiziers took up the cry. With a sibilant, wordless steam-kettle hiss, arrows crowded the sky, arcing up and down into the onrushing forces. There were counter-spells from the Firenzcian war-teni-arrows went to harmless ash in great puffs of cloud and arrowheads pattered like metal rain onto the mud-but some of the chevarittai and their horses went down, as did many soldiers. But there were far too many behind them, and more continued to flow out from the trees.