Blood Legacy: Heir to the Throne (10 page)

“Ambrosius, do you have any suggestions?”

Ambrosius glanced at the map, orienting himself. “I am familiar with this country. It is good land for hunting.” He was silent for a moment, in deep thought. He finally placed his finger on a spot near the Saxon encampment. “I would attack here.”

Tristan and Gavin looked at one another. As intelligent a tactician as the boy had proven, apparently even he could have a bad day.

“That is extremely rough terrain,” Gavin suggested delicately, “rocky and choked with briars.”

Ambrosius nodded. “Exactly. I would position the archers here and the infantry here,” he said, tapping the map. “If the attack occurs in the morning, the sun will be behind the archers and in eyes of the enemies. If the prevailing winds hold, they will be at the archers back, aiding the arrow’s flight while hindering the Saxon’s. Any dust from the battlefield will be blown toward the barbarians.”

Tristan cleared his throat. “That does not change the fact that you are attacking over very unfavorable ground.”

Ambrosius nodded, still examining the map. “Which is why the attack is not an attack, but a feint. The real attack,” he said, moving his finger to the south of the Saxon encampment, “will come from the heavy cavalry from this direction. The Saxons will hold position, the cavalry will split their forces, then regroup for a flank attack.” Ambrosius again pointed to a feature on the map. “The approach for the cavalry is narrow, but the ground is favorable for a quick strike.”

Tristan began nodding slowly. The plan was brilliant. He turned to Gavin, who also nodded his approval. Gavin smiled.

“Is this more of your childhood schooling?” Gavin asked. “Julius Caesar perhaps?”

Ambrosius was still staring at the map. “No, not Julius Caesar, but nor can I take credit for it.” He was still calculating every eventuality, but seemed satisfied the plan was sound. “This is very much like the Battle of Issus.” He looked up at Tristan. “I would like to lead the feint, with your approval.”

Tristan started to object. It would be by far the most dangerous part of the battle and the men involved in the feint were likely to be killed. But Tristan knew that if anyone could survive, as well as protect his men, it was Ambrosius.

“Very well,” Tristan said reluctantly, “but you will hold there only as long as you need to.”

Ambrosius nodded. “With your leave, I will prepare for battle.”

Gavin watched the young man depart. He turned back to Tristan. “The Battle of Issus?” he asked.

Tristan, too, watched the young man depart, noting he carried himself with the bearing of a General.

“Our young friend is not merely a student of Roman tactics,” Tristan said, “but of classical ones as well. The Battle of Issus was fought and won by Alexander the Great.”

Ambrosius sat on his horse in the early morning light. The steeds surrounding him all stepped nervously, but his horse was steadfast, unmoving. The shadows in front of him were shortening as the sun rose behind him. He could feel the gentle heat on the back of his neck in the cool morning air.

Tristan had given him command of the entire initial force, infantry, archers, and cavalry. Ambrosius wondered how the more seasoned commanders would respond, but they seemed cheered by his presence and his responsibility. It was a responsibility that weighed heavily on Ambrosius. It was one thing to risk his own life; another to risk that of his men.

Ambrosius glanced down. He had placed a stick in the ground and marked a line in the dirt when the attack should begin. The shadow now touched the line. Ambrosius raised his arm, and the infantry began marching toward the Saxon line. They seemed to be struggling over the rough terrain, causing great hilarity to echo down from the Saxon soldiers. Ambrosius had directed his men to exaggerate the difficulty of their progress, and he was pleased to see that many of his soldiers had a second career in drama if they so chose.

As predicted, the Saxons could not wait to attack the struggling, vulnerable infantry, and charged down the hillside. The infantry immediately dropped to their knees, shields up, and Ambrosius raised his other arm. The archers let loose their first volley of arrows, arrows that flew straight and true, lifted by the favorable winds. Waves of Saxons went down beneath the blanket of death.

The infantry was immediately back on its feet, now charging up the hill with far less difficulty than they had portrayed, catching the Saxons off-guard once more. There was instant chaos, the sights, sounds, and smells of death in the air. The world became a whirling mass of severed limbs and spattered blood, accompanied by screams of rage and pain.

Ambrosius waited as long as he could, then sent the cavalry charging up the hill. Many of the cavalrymen were certain their horses would never make it over the rough terrain, but somehow their steeds seemed to be following the horse of their commander, which never missed a step. In a surprisingly short time, Ambrosius was in the midst of battle, his sword swinging and slicing through metal, flesh, and bone.

At some point, he was unhorsed, but it was no matter. He would just as soon slaughter the barbarians face-to-face. He lost track of time, and certainly lost track of how many men he had slain. All he knew is that he was continuing to move forward and although covered in blood, had barely sustained a scratch.

After what seemed an interminable amount of time, Ambrosius heard the horn signaling the flanking attack had begun. As expected, the Saxons were completely unprepared for the secondary assault, perhaps because the “feint” had been so lethal and effective. Surprisingly, Ambrosius and his men had nearly split the Saxon defenses up the middle, so successful had their advance been. The flanking attack and subsequent regrouping annihilated any remaining discipline of the barbarian troops, and the Saxons turned to run.

Ambrosius whistled for his horse, and the steed ran across the battlefield toward him. He mounted the horse while it was still on the move, swinging upward with amazing athleticism. Drawing his sword, he charged after the fleeing Saxons, joined by any of his men still standing. He began to chase the barbarians back into the sea and his men eagerly followed. In fact, at this moment, his men would have followed him to the very edge of the world.

Many hours later, Ambrosius, accompanied only by his horse, picked his way back through the forest. He had killed every last Saxon he could find, and he had long ago outrun every one of his men. It was possible he would not be able to return to the battlefield before the sun rose again and although he did not want to concern Tristan, he was considering stopping for the night.

The fatigue of his horse finally made the decision for him. He dismounted and led the animal to drink in a nearby stream. It was a very peaceful setting, and the stream flowed by so gently the reflection of the full moon was barely disturbed. He glanced down at his clothing and armor. He was covered in blood and the stream looked inviting.

Ambrosius disrobed, leaving his sword within arms reach, and waded into the chilly stream. He let the cold water run past him, then lowered himself fully to wash the blood from his arms and torso. He dunked his head, cleansing the crusted blood from his hair. He stood upright, enjoying the sensation of the cool night air on his bare skin. A chill passed through him, one that had nothing to do with the cold air. He had the distinct feeling someone was watching him.

He turned, reaching for his sword, but it was no longer where he had placed it. Instead, it was held by an exquisitely beautiful woman with long dark hair and flashing dark eyes, eyes that examined his nakedness quite openly. What she saw obviously gave her pleasure, and she glanced down at the sword she held in her hands.

“They will return,” Ravlen said casually.

Ambrosius, too, looked at the bloodied sword.

“–and in greater numbers.” Ravlen added.

Ambrosius knew she was referring to the Saxons. “I know,” he said simply.

She set the sword down. “But still you will fight them.”

Ambrosius nodded. “Yes.”

She smiled as she stepped into the water. “I told you that you were a warrior.”

He gasped as she placed her hands on his chest, running her fingers along the ridged muscles of his body. She did it with that same sense of simple curiosity, as if exploring some strange new world with every touch. He did not move, patient beneath her exploration. He watched her, trying to memorize every feature, every expression, every gesture, every mannerism.

“I have missed you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

She smiled as one would smile at a child, then gestured toward the bank of the stream. “Show me how much you have missed me.”

CHAPTER 12

KUSUNOKI INHALED THE FRAGRANT, GRASSY SMELL of the tea. It was green tea, made from a line of plants he had bred for centuries. He cultivated and plucked the buds himself, experience having taught him the ones that would give the full but light, slightly sweet flavor for the tea.

He rose at the slight knock on the door and moved to let Ryan in. She stopped in the doorway, taking a deep breath.

“Gyokuro,” she said, assessing the aroma.

Kusunoki nodded, pleased.

“Picked in May.”

Kusunoki smiled, even more pleased “So you did pay attention to your lessons.”

Ryan smiled as well. “Yes, even the ones that did not involve slicing something in two.”

Ryan moved to the table and kneeled. It was not a formal tea ceremony, but Kusunoki still served the beverage with great ritual and reverence, a reverence Ryan emulated as she sipped the tea.

Kusunoki gazed at the wisps of steam that rose from his cup. “So what is it that has finally forced your hand?”

Ryan glanced up, a wry expression on her face. “You mean other than the constant pressure from you and Abigail, as well as the Others?”

Kusunoki’s tone was mild. “We have not even seen you for almost two years.”

“You do not need to be here for me to feel your presence,” Ryan replied.

Kusunoki smiled. So she had sensed his meditations.

The two were silent for a long moment, and Ryan was deep in thought. When she finally spoke, there was no trace of her previous playfulness.

“My hand was not forced. I believe it is what my father wishes.”

Kusunoki looked at her sharply, uncertain of her meaning. “You can sense Victor?”

“No,” Ryan said, hesitating. “Well, maybe yes. I am not certain.” She paused again, searching for the words. “I do not know if I am truly sensing him or if it is just that I wish I could sense him.”

Kusunoki thought it was probably the former. If anyone could maintain contact with Victor in his current stasis, it would be Ryan. It was, however, immaterial to the discussion at hand.

“Either way, you are correct.”

Ryan turned to him, an eyebrow raised in question.

“Assuming command is what your father would wish.”

Ryan stood, unfolding to her full height in one supple movement. Kusunoki watched his beloved pupil. She had always moved with a deadly grace, giving the impression of surface relaxation with tautness beneath. She moved to stare out the window, resting her hands on the windowsill.

Kusunoki stood, as graceful as his pupil. He moved behind her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. She surprised him by leaning back into his chest, and the shock of contact caused him to sharply inhale.

Ryan smiled. “I see I am not the only one who maintains irrelevant human gestures.”

Kusunoki lowered his arms, encircling her waist in a relaxed embrace. Ryan leaned her head against his shoulder, enjoying the comforting sensation. It reminded her of her father.

Ryan’s mind was open to him, and Kusunoki was amused. “Is that how you think of me? As a father-figure?”

There was a playful sensuality in Ryan’s reply. “Not entirely.” She turned her head slightly and glanced up at him. “But then again, that is not entirely how I think of my father, either.”

Kusunoki’s eyes drifted downward to the vein running along the tendon of Ryan’s neck. His eyes caressed the skin that covered the blood.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he said, “wild, unruly, impossibly powerful for one so young.” He raised his eyes to hers once more.

“You have not changed much.”

Ryan did not speak, merely smiled. There was a sudden, quiet, intensity in Kusunoki’s voice as he added, “Except you are much more powerful.”