Even as the command to ride came to her lips, she saw something that made her heart stop. Royal flags, galloping to the fore. A cluster of red cloaks ahorse, about a lone man in black astride a brilliant grey horse. And further, to the left, another cluster, red cloaks and noble banners, about another black-clad figure on a horse. King Torvaal Lenayin, and his son Prince Koenyg, riding to battle at the head of Torovan infantry. It raised a cheer from the Torovans, and through the shock Sasha could not help but consider the irony, that it was a king and prince of Lenayin who led them to war, while their own newly crowned king remained safely ensconced in Petrodor.
Sasha’s breath caught in her throat to watch them. She had thought the situation desperate, yet if Koenyg was committing himself and their father to the fight to rally the troops, it was surely well beyond that. Her heels urged to kick at her new mount’s sides, to race to Koenyg’s side and scream that he was being a fool, that even should the Army of Lenayin lose this battle, all was not lost, and they could regroup and live to fight again. The battle, after all, was diversionary, and designed merely to hold the Enoran Steel off the Larosans’ far larger, exposed flank. Why did Koenyg risk all in this one battle? Or had it not truly been his choice? Had their father ordered it, overruling his commander of armies on this one, singular point of strategy? Or was it honour?
About her, Isfayen men awaited her next command. She had never truly been her father’s daughter. He had certainly never regarded her as such…or at least, not since she was a little girl. Why now should she falter? Why should the sight of him at the head of five thousand Torovans fill her with such terror?
“Come now, lass,” said a nearby rider, grimly. “There is no greater burden than the honour of a king. A man must bear it alone.”
The Torovans let out a roar, and began to run. Ahead of them, the parties about the two Lenay royals accelerated to a canter. From behind the Enoran line, black dots rose into the air like a swarm of bees, and behind them, fiery balls trailing black smoke.
Sasha turned her horse about, and rode with her Isfayen back toward the right flank. If the centre held, only for the flank to fold because she were distracted elsewhere, she would sacrifice everything for which her father risked and fought. She rode on, as fire erupted behind, and did not look back.
Andreyis awoke. He heard cheering, hysterical laughter, the celebrations of victorious warriors. “We’ve won,” he thought dreamily. Then he realised that he could not recognise any words the men spoke.
He lay on his back on the green grass of a Larosan field. His right arm hurt worse than anything he could remember, but at least it was still attached to his body. His head ached and when he put his left hand to his temple, it came away bloody. He recalled the horse bearing down on him, and realised it must have hit him. Better that than the serrin rider’s sword.
Thud, came more, nearby sounds. Thuds, and a whistling, fast fading. Another sound, a sharp crack, then a tortured, creaking rush, as a heavy mechanism of ropes and gears unwound. That would be a catapult firing. It sounded close.
He half-rolled, and managed to look up. Sure enough, the Tracatan artillery was near, cart-mounted ballistas drawn by oxen, and a pair of enormous catapults, each behind four pairs of oxen, intricate and frightening to behold at this range. Men swarmed over them, perhaps a dozen to each, carefully lifting ammunition from the trailing cart as others, shirtless and powerful, wound fast at complex gears, creaking the huge throwing arms back into place with remarkable speed. An ammunition shot was loaded into the arm’s enormous “palm,” a flint struck, and suddenly the shot was aflame…yet it was strangely coloured-blue, and barely visible. Then, crack, as the release was pulled, and the arm uncoiled once more, hurling a flaming missile across the cloud-strewn sky.
Still the cheering. Andreyis sat up, his arm cradled as it screamed with pain, yet he did not cry out. He stared instead at the backs of the Enoran infantry, perhaps a hundred paces before their artillery. They were cheering, not fighting, swords waving in the air. Many leaned on their shields, utterly spent. Others dropped back to check on the fallen.
The fallen, Andreyis saw, were everywhere. There were frighteningly more Lenays than Enorans, on his patch of ground. They made a grisly carpet, still writhing and groaning in places, as though the dead themselves protested this fate.
Andreyis struggled to his feet. There was a rise of gentle hillside beyond, and up it, he could see men fleeing. Lenay men. The proudest warriors in all Rhodia, running for their lives as an Army of Lenayin had never run before. Into their midst fell a rain of ballista fire. Nearby, where catapult shots fell, there followed great eruptions of blue-tinged orange flame.
“Stop it!” Andreyis shouted at the nearest ballista crew. “Stop shooting!” Men turned to look at him. “Stop shooting, damn you! You’ve won! Let them go, have you no honour?”
They ignored him, shirtless, sweaty men winding fast, and placing more forearm length bolts in the empty breaches. More bolts sprang skyward. Andreyis found that he was crying. He looked about for a sword, but before he could bend his injured body to fetch one, hooves thundered close, and an Enoran cavalryman dismounted before him, weapon brandished.
“You, shut it,” the Enoran demanded in Torovan.
“Tell them to stop killing a defeated opponent!” Andreyis shouted back. “You have no honour!”
The Enoran advanced, and laid his blade against Andreyis’s throat. His eyes were battle-wide and deadly. “You serve evil,” he said coldly. “Your masters would kill us all. Enoran mercy was stolen from us long ago.”
Andreyis brought his good arm down hard across the Enoran’s wrist, kicked at his knee, and twisted expertly. The man fell, and found himself staring up at his own weapon, levelled at his throat. “I am friend to Sashandra Lenayin and Kessligh Cronenverdt,” Andreyis hissed, “and I at least have honour! If Enorans do not, I shall teach it to you!”
He turned and ran, as best he could, at the nearest ballista cart. Men saw, and shouted warning, but then another horse blocked his path, and Andreyis found himself staring up at the bright, golden eyes of a serrin. He stopped, trying to imagine a way around this obstacle that might do some good instead of just dying immediately. The serrin shouted something, and waved his sword.
More shouts answered, and artillery fire ceased. A silence hung in the air, as the cheering had faded. It hung like a great emptiness over the fields. The serrin looked down at Andreyis. “You ask much of me,” he said grimly. “It has been long since Saalshen or Enora has faced an honourable opponent in battle. And longer still since we have been pressed so hard as this. Many of your countrymen live to attack us once more. I would rather it otherwise.”
Andreyis held the sword up before his face in salute. He then laid it on the ground before him. “I am bested,” he declared. “My life is yours. I ask only that my honour remain unstained.”
The serrin stared at him for a long moment. “Says he’s a friend to Sashandra Lenayin and Kessligh Cronenverdt,” said the cavalryman, climbing to his feet. “That was a nifty trick. Could be true.”
“Are you?” asked the serrin.
To lie was dishonourable. Sometimes, amongst Goeren-yai, that mattered little. But upon a field of battle, surrounded by dead and dying, honour was all. “Yes,” said Andreyis.
The serrin nodded. “Take him to custody,” he said. “With their king dead, Sashandra Lenayin may figure prominently in the transition of power.”
“She may be dead too,” the cavalryman cautioned.