“My God,” Prado whispered hoarsely.
Kumul gazed out over the battlefield and shook his head. “It is a day of wonder when the mercenaries do our work for us.” He glanced sideways at Lynan. “Your father would be very proud of you, lad. I was wrong—again.”
Lynan smiled at Kumul and reached out to grip his shoulder. “You taught better than you knew.”
Kumul shook his head. “No. I never taught you this well.”
“Excuse me,” Korigan interrupted impatiently. “But can we kill them now?”
Kumul laughed. “My lancers first.”
Korigan bristled. “I am a queen! It is my right to lead my people into battle!” she declared.
For a second they tried to stare each other down, then a plaintive voice said, “I am without a horse.”
Lynan dismounted and held out the reins to Gudon. “My friend, would you do me the honor of leading the first charge of my army?”
Gudon stared wide-eyed at Lynan, and the prince had to place the reins into his hands.
Korigan and Kumul looked at Lynan, then at Gudon, and then at each other again. “It is fitting,” Korigan said.
“Yes,” Kumul agreed. He turned to one of the Red Hands, nodded to his horse. The Chett dismounted and quickly brought his horse up to Lynan, who thanked him and mounted. The Red Hand hurried away to find another ride; he certainly was not going to miss out on the battle.
“Your orders?” Lynan asked Gudon, now astride Lynan’s horse.
Gudon, still in considerable pain, grimaced. Below them, Prado had hurriedly formed his lines, but his troops were obviously exhausted and frightened; they thought they had won a great battle and instead had only made their own deaths more certain. He remembered the terrible atrocities and crimes they had committed against his people in the past and hardened his heart.
“Kill them all,” he said. “Kill them all except Prado.”
* * *
“I don’t recognize the pennant,” Freyma said, pointing to the blood-red flag with its golden circle. “It’s not the Sun clan, is it?”
Prado shook his head. “No. This is not their territory.” He knew what it meant, but did not want to tell the others. In a strange way, the implication terrified him even more than his own imminent death. He saw the whole of the continent of Theare falling into a maelstrom of violence and death. The Chetts were organized, and they were marching east. The pennant waving atop the western slope promised years, maybe decades, of constant, bloody war. Even mercenaries needed some years of peace to enjoy their spoils.
“I should have stayed on my farm,” Freyma said, but there was no self-pity in his voice. He said it as a statement of fact.
“We all should have stayed on our farms,” Prado replied. “Even them,” he added, nodding to the survivors of Rendle’s army who had joined his force in common defense. He could hear some of his recruits starting to sob, and surprised himself by feeling sorry for them. He wished suddenly that he had taken the time to have children. Well, he admitted to himself, children I knew about.
“Here they come,” Freyma said.
There was no shout or cry. The Chett cavalry eased over the slope, ambled their way to level ground.
“They have lancers,” Freyma observed. “That’s a surprise.”
“Do you see who leads them?”
“That’s Kumul fucking Alarn, isn’t it?” Now there was surprise in Freyma’s voice.
“I see our barge pilot is calling the shots.”
“Imagine him making king.”
“Imagine,” Prado said tonelessly.
The Chett cavalry took a moment to straighten their line. They were no more than two hundred paces away. Prado ordered the archers to shoot. A dismal shower of arrows whistled overhead and fell among the enemy. Most stuck in the ground, one or two found flesh and eyes. Another flight, with similar results.
“Now,” Prado said under his breath, and even as he said the word, the Chetts started their charge. He never thought he would see the day when the Chetts would keep close order, although it was only the lancers. The horse archers were already spreading apart and moving around his force’s flanks. The lancers went from a walk to a canter to a gallop so smoothly he could not help admire it.
“Good-bye, Freyma,” Prado said.
“Good-bye, J—”
An arrow seemed to sprout from Freyma’s left temple. He fell out of his saddle. Another arrow claimed Freyma’s horse. Someone moved into the gap.
“Charge!” Prado cried, and his own thin line started its countercharge. Armed mainly with swords, they knew most of them would be skewered before they had a chance to come to grips with the Chetts, but also knew that if they tried to flee they would only be skewered from behind.
Prado kneed his horse until he was almost in front. He aimed his sword at the barge pilot’s head, promising himself to take out the little bastard before he died. The rider charging beside Gudon caught his attention; he was as pale as mist and as small as the pilot, and he had a scar ...
No, it couldn’t be!
Lynan focused on one enemy, a rider with a helmet and a long sword, and for the whole charge kept his sword point aimed at that man’s chest. Seconds before they would have collided, his target was taken by a lance and disappeared from view. Lynan swerved to his left, half saw a sword slashing toward him and deflected it easily. His horse veered to avoid a biting stallion and lost its momentum. Lynan wheeled around, searching for the nearest enemy. A young man, no older than he, rode into view, swinging a sword with more energy than skill. Lynan dodged the first blow and drove the point of his own sword into the man’s neck. He did not wait to see the results. He spurred his mare into a canter and attacked one of two riders ganging up on a wounded Red Hand. He dispatched the first by stabbing him in the back. The second twisted aside to counter the new threat, and the Red Hand took off most of his face with a slashing cut. More enemies joined the fray, and Lynan found himself in a confusing tumble of men and horses. A Red Hand died in front of him, a dagger in her heart. A wizened mercenary coughed blood, disappeared. A man in the uniform of Haxus was huddled in his saddle with his hands closed over his head, screaming something; Lynan sank his sword into the man’s stomach and the screaming stopped. He saw a sword coming toward him out of the corner of his eye and quickly brought his own weapon up to block it; he deflected the killing stroke, but the flat of the other sword thwacked against the crown of his head. Lynan saw stars, felt himself swoon in his saddle. Someone nearby screamed. Hands plucked at him, trying to keep him upright.
And then his senses cleared so quickly it felt as if someone else was suddenly occupying his body. Red Hands were all around him, protecting him at the expense of their own defense.
“Enough,” he said, and kicked his heels into his mare’s flank. She leaped forward. Lynan saw a huge mercenary loom in front of him, carrying a long saber in one hand and a spiked mace in the other. He grinned at Lynan, raised his sword, and slashed downward. Lynan blocked the blow and used his own sword to flick it away. The saber flew out of the mercenary’s hands. The impetus of his charge took Lynan past the man, but he swung his sword backward and caught the man in the neck. He twisted his sword free and spurred his horse again into the fray, breaking through the enemy line. He was surrounded by mercenaries. His sword whistled as he thrashed left and right, not aiming at any one target. He kept on moving, plowing through any opposition, not able to control the white fury that had taken over his mind and body. One moment he was surrounded by screaming men, panting horses and the almost overwhelming smell of blood and shit, and then he was in the clear.
There was a line of foot archers in front of Lynan, desperately loosing arrows at the Chett horse archers picking at them from both flanks. They did not see Lynan. He charged into them, hewing at heads and arms. The archers scattered, crying in fear, and Lynan rode them down until once again he found himself in the melee and surrounded by the press of fighting and dying men and horses.