Archers shot again, this time aiming. The kwajiin front rank went down as if scythed grass. Their spears fell, but the next rank replaced them. The kwajiin kept coming, spears thrusting, and finally hit our front line.
The xonarchii hurled stones, which struck with incredible force. One moment a man would be standing in place, and in the next his legs would be thrashing from beneath a blood-washed rock. Others would reel away, spattered with blood, arms broken, ribs crushed. Had the ground been dry, the stones would have careened further, but this was horrible enough.
The cavalry gathered on the other side of the stream, lowered spears, and prepared to charge. The creature ferrying the kwajiin general let out a bellow. At first, I thought it might have signaled panic because of the immediate kwajiin reaction. Chaos reigned for a moment, then the enemy executed a maneuver of such precision and elegance that I never would have thought possible on parade, much less in the midst of battle.
With troops like these, the world might well be yours, Nelesquin.
The back three ranks of each wing sprinted south to the formation’s rear, effectively closing the box. They set themselves immediately, spears outward. Even before the cavalry began its charge, it faced a square formation that provided no opening for attack.
Pyrust signaled again and the drums boomed. His Hawks pressed forward and the Naleni wing came around. Vroan’s people rushed forward, so our formation wrapped the kwajiin square’s north and west sides. The press of soldiers stopped the enemy advance. Spears did kill some of our men, but we got into their lines and began hewing through shields.
The weight of our forces proved too great. Because it had sacrificed a third of its depth to reinforce the rear, the kwajiin west wing started to buckle. The cavalry waited for that wing to break or for the kwajiin to reinforce from the east wing. In anticipation, Pyrust waved his fan and the militia on the left flank surged forward.
That’s when the kwajiin plan revealed itself. The swamp boiled with activity. Heads and shoulders emerged from the watery depths, rising like bubbles. Hundreds of vhangxi — thousands-waded from the shallow water and attacked.
I wanted to believe the vhangxi had been waiting in the depths of the marsh the whole time and we had somehow missed them. I needed to believe that we could have prevented the disaster that resulted. I wanted to believe there was a chance, however slender, that we could have been victorious that day. But with each passing moment, the terrible reality of the battle set in.
I think Ranai’s words had been prophetic. I imagine the vhangxi had been sown in the water as eggs or tadpoles. They remained there until blood tainted the water. They grew quickly-with a speed somehow augmented by Nelesquin’s sorceries-and it was this newly spawned horde that emerged to feast on the militiamen.
The vhangxi erupted in the midst of our militia. They burst up out of the water, taking off legs and arms. They slashed with claws, raking off faces, then appropriated weapons from the fallen. They never paused in the attack that crushed our left flank.
Only idiots and tavern-bench generals would fault the militia for breaking. They were merely conscripts who had marched nearly four hundred and fifty miles in under a month’s time. They’d had no real training. Their rations were barely enough to keep them alive. Some in the rearmost ranks did not even have weapons, and the vhangxi were far better at scavenging than they were.
The militia broke. While the vhangxi hit them in the flank, the xonarchii hurled stones toward where the militia linked up with the Hawks. Death lurked at either side of their formation, so their only escape was to the rear. Those too slow were trampled or cut down. Fleeing men churned the swamp into a muddy froth.
Far too many died there.
The kwajiin surged forward into the gap and hammered the Desei Hawks’ flank. Pyrust’s warriors fell back, but set themselves and repulsed the first drive. The kwajiin pressed hard, forcing the Hawks to give ground. The Desei held the line, every one of them knowing that once the vhangxi left the swamp, they would be overwhelmed.
Their only chance at survival came with reinforcements. Unfortunately, the fleeing militia headed straight for the militia reserve. The retreating troops infected the others with panic. The reserves’ ranks evaporated. They flung down their arms and raced north toward Moriande. The way they were going, I expected some would not stop until they’d reached Felarati again.
Had the cavalry been back on our side of the stream, they could have stopped the kwajiin advance. But out of position as they were on the far side of things, they could do nothing. The advantage they hoped to exploit never materialized.
Fans flashed and I waited to read orders to advance. None came. Drums called for retreat. The Hawks and the Naleni Dragons withdrew, but Vroan’s Ixunites never managed to disengage. The kwajiin punched into that gap. The cavalry had come around and tried to plug it, but neither they nor the handful of militia regiments on that wing could stem the kwajiin advance.
The Naleni troops, hard-pressed, broke next and ran. The kwajiin overwhelmed the westrons. With the Ixunites laying their arms down, the kwajiin pressed on and slowly surrounded the Desei Hawks.
The last I saw of Pyrust, he had drawn his sword. He waved it at me-my signal to go-then he saddled up and rode down to be with his troops.
Ranai had been right. Before noon the swamp had become a lake of blood.
Too much of it belonged to the troops who might have been able to save Moriande.
Chapter Twenty
2nd day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Zyarat Hills, Helosunde
Keles hunched forward and coughed as quietly as he could. His stint in the damp Vallitsi dungeon had done him no good. In the two days since his rescue, his bruises had gone from a livid purple to a slightly softer brown, with a curdled yellow at the edges. The burns had scabbed over, but the wounds remained red despite the variety of poultices he applied to them. Worst of all, his lungs had become congested and his ribs ached from coughing.
It didn’t matter that he was surrounded by plants that could produce a tea that would soothe him; the refugees had little time to rest and no chance of making a fire to boil water. He did manage to chew up some leaves and roots and pack them inside his cheek. The bitter taste sent shivers through him. He managed to keep water down, but even thinking about food turned his stomach.
Prince Eiran’s rescue had infuriated the Council of Ministers. They’d immediately sent messengers out to gather what forces they could to pursue Eiran and his sister. While there were those Helosundians who were more than happy to defy the Council and give the refugees aid, the band was too big for anyone to hide. The fact that over half of them wore Desei arms and had the look of battle-hardened veterans put off many sympathizers.
Though Prince Eiran claimed that he never intended to make for the Dark Sea coast, the ministers cut that avenue of escape off very quickly. That started the refugees angling southeast into the heavily wooded Zyarat Hills district in which Eiran and Jasai had grown up.
Jasai’s pleasure at being home again mocked the danger of pursuit. She traveled close to Keles, ignoring warning that a pregnant woman should shy away from magic. She told folktales rich with the region’s traditions. For the first time in their long association, she was truly happy.
That came as no surprise. She’d been reunited with her brother after believing him dead. The Council, working in accord with Prince Pyrust, had ordered his execution, but they’d given the job to a man whose sympathies lay with Eiran. Jasai’s brother decided that disappearing would be a good way to grant him time to figure out the political landscape. He’d already gathered a small force of loyalists when he’d learned of Jasai’s capture and decided to save her.