Blood of War (24 page)

“But what gives me the right to lead? Why shouldn't you be in charge?” Jurel burst out, louder than he intended. A few soldiers at the edge of the camp glanced doubtfully his way.

“Keep your voice down,” Mikal growled. He shot a look to the hesitating soldiers and they scurried away, eager to escape the angry glare. Mikal was silent, then, for a bit, leaving them wrapped in a breathy cocoon of sound as leaves soughed in the light breeze. He stared out into the growing twilight, pensive, before speaking again.

“Some lead because they possess uncommon acumen and bravery, an uncommon ability to earn and keep respect. Most lead because they are born to it. Like nobility. These people lead because they have a title. Whether they are qualified to lead or not, they are given the right by birth. A wholly unfortunate circumstance in many cases.

“So far, you lead because of who you are, because of your title. Who would question command of an army to the God of War? But the more I see you in action, the more I think you deserve that leadership. The more you learn, the better you get, and you learn quickly, Jurel. At the beginning of all this, I would have cut off my right hand before following you into battle. Now, I think I should be glad for the opportunity to fight for you.

“Even your question does you credit. It's no easy thing to send more than a thousand men into battle and the fact that you worry about it, well, it shows strength of character. But you shouldn't voice it about. Too easy for common soldiers to misread strength of character with lack of confidence. Your soldiers need you to appear confident, even if you aren't.”

Then, without another word, he strode away.

Jurel was not entirely sure what he felt. Gods, if he wanted to be honest, he was not entirely certain what he
should
feel. Pride, certainly, for apparently having earned—or at least being in the process of earning—Mikal's respect. But among the spoken warnings there had been an unspoken one as well in his teacher's words. Warning what? That Jurel needed to keep his wits about him? That he should keep going as he was, should perhaps not let his new found power go to his head, should not let confidence—if he ever found it—turn to arrogance? Arrogance turns too easily to complacence and then inflexibility: what worked last time must work this time. He thought it sounded right, but he was not certain.

With a sigh, Jurel stared into the sky, seeing the first pinprick star wink into existence. It all came down to uncertainty. That was what it was. A God of War unable to use his abilities so not quite a god. A man who was not quite a man, burdened with a title that supposedly elevated him above others and so kept him isolated. A warrior who hated violence. A farmer who was a frighteningly proficient killer. He was all of these things, and all of these things battled violently against each other until in the end, though he knew who he was supposed to be, he was unsure of who he was.

Chapter 19

It was still murky as Jurel trotted through the trees with Mikal silent at his side. The sun had just broken over the horizon but could not yet penetrate into the depths of the forest. Mist clung low to the ground; walking was deceptively treacherous. They passed squads of men, many already on horseback, their lances reaching into the lowest layer of the canopy above, but most were on foot, not yet ready to climb into the stirrups if they were cavalry, or prepared for the final march if they were infantry.

Two days had passed since his conversation with Mikal under the trees. Two days, during which he had spent any free time he had brooding, moodily passing through the camp like an angry wraith. Even Metana had not been able to draw him out of his mood, and late the previous night, she had stormed out of his tent after telling him exactly what she thought of big sulking oafs and their temper tantrums.

Everyone he passed with Mikal seemed jumpy. No wonder; the enemy was only three miles away. The battle would be well and truly joined in only a few hours. The priests, one every few hundred paces, seemed preoccupied. Every one that Jurel spoke to responded with single distracted syllables. The officers were not any better. Everyone was respectful, but their minds were on other matters.

In a break between the trees, he caught sight of Captain Cordale and Kurin conferring. Their bottom halves were obscured in scarves of mist, their tops, by shadow, but Kurin's lanky height was unmistakable.

“How goes it?” Jurel whispered.

Cordale shook his head; his grim expression, bathed in darkness, seemed surreal. “I'm not certain. The men, at least, are ready.” He glanced doubtfully through the trees.

“Then what's the problem?” Mikal said.

Cordale blew out his breath. “We're only a few miles from them, but there hasn't been any report of activity. Not even a single scout has been spotted.”

“And my priests are reporting strange things as well,” Kurin joined. He too had a deeply shadowed expression not solely caused by the darkness. “I don't quite understand it. There are...ripples.”

“But our scouts have seen them?”

“Yes, Milord,” Cordale said. “A few over two thousand. They travel in the open, on the caravan route, without a concern in the world. They outnumber us but with our element of surprise, we still have the advantage.”

Jurel glanced at Mikal who shrugged.

“It's up to you, Jurel.”

Something was wrong here. Jurel felt it like an itch that could not be scratched. It was not a conscious understanding but more like an instinct, like knowing when someone was watching him. He wavered in that instant: should they continue with their ambush, or should they retreat and try again farther down the road after these anomalies had been explained? Gods, why were they looking to him as though they expected him to solve all their problems?

But the enemy force had been seen. They were on the road, they were almost within range, and they were being lax. It seemed they had no idea what was about to befall them; everything was going according to plan. If Kurin was right about these arcane ripples, then surely he and his priests could handle it. They were there, after all, for precisely that purpose while Jurel's soldiers took care of the rest.

He eyed Mikal, then Kurin and Cordale, who watched him without expression. He shrugged, as he decided.

“Then we proceed.”

* * *

The forefront of the prelacy's force came into view around the bend less than a half mile away. Armor reflected in the early sun, hard sparks of light. Pristinely white cloaks fluttered, so many of them that the force looked more like a moving glacier than an army. A rank of cavalry rode in the vanguard, followed by ranks of infantry interspersed with platoons of archers. In the center, a group of robed men rode with heads bent. That would be the priests.

Jurel watched their steady approach from his hiding spot inside the tree line, marching in tight formation; even with his limited understanding of warfare, Jurel was impressed by their discipline. He glanced at Mikal who answered his unspoken question with a slight shake of his head: not yet.

Something was wrong. Jurel could feel it. He was overlooking something. He ran over the plan in his head again: his cavalry would charge into the infantry, hopefully shattering them at one go; his own infantry would follow closely to support the flanks; archers would pepper the enemy ranks while the priests would eliminate any arcane threat. This spot had been carefully chosen for their ambush. Once the trees ended, there was a hundred paces of field until they reached the road. It would give his cavalry enough time as they charged to form up into tight wedges after breaking clear the trees but not so much that the enemy would be able to form up properly. If all went well, there would be an out-and-out rout within the hour. But something was wrong and he had no idea what it was.

Because of the lack of scouts, Jurel and Mikal had decided to move the force forward until they were only a few dozen feet inside the treeline. The less forest his men had to wade through, the quicker the attack.

Jurel chewed his lower lip as he watched the enemy continue to walk into his trap.

After an eternity of waiting, after the sun had risen another degree, and the enemy was directly ahead, Mikal touched his shoulder.

Now.

Kurin Sent the signal as Jurel and Mikal ran to their horses and mounted, each drawing their swords. Behind, the first sounds of his army's motion could be heard: branches snapped, underbrush rustled. Within moments, his men became visible as blurs of motion through the trees.

Heart racing, Jurel watched his first line break from the trees, thundering hooves almost drowned out by the sudden howling of hundreds of voices. As he and Mikal left their concealment, a profound exhilaration took him; even though the coolness of the previous night lingered, sweat slicked his back and forehead.

The constant drilling had its intended effect. His men formed wedges that were so tight, their knees almost brushed. Lances still raised high, they thundered forward, as more and more filtered from the trees and added their weight to the charge. Arrows had begun to rain down already from the trees, archers firing on the run. It was long range, but they did not need accuracy; there were plenty of easy targets. The charge bore down, and as though given command, every lance point dipped until the wedges of cavalry became large, barbed arrow points.

His cadre of brothers and sisters joined the fray. Bolts of lightning struck liberally along the inner perimeter of the enemy force, balls of fire whistled overhead to disappear into the marching Soldiers of God.

Jurel watched, suddenly frozen. He would have expected the enemy force to be pulling up short. He would have expected to see startled expressions as soldiers turned to see the sudden charge flying at them. He would have expected cries of alarm, shouts of surprise and screams of agony, weapons being hastily drawn. But they continued to march as though they were not threatened by a thousand and more men, as though fire and lightning were not ripping them to shreds.

With only a dozen paces left for the cavalry to cover, Jurel finally noticed something truly terrifying. The shrieking fireballs did not strike anything. They did not explode, they did not cause soldiers to erupt into screaming infernos. They simply disappeared into the mass arrayed along the road. Where a fireball touched a soldier, there seemed to be a ripple like water disturbed by a stone.

Mikal had just enough time to mutter, “What the...” when the first platoon met the flank of infantry. It was like a strong wind in fog. The enemy infantry simply...blew away as his cavalry continued at full momentum. There should have been a deafening crash of metal on metal. The air should have been, right at that moment, filling with the howls of the injured, the dying. Instead, as more of his cavalry blew into the enemy ranks, soldiers began shouting confused questions.

Jurel turned his eyes to Mikal who stared back and for the first time, Jurel saw a hint of fear in the man's ashen features.

It all snapped into place. The sense of wrongness that had plagued him all morning suddenly made stark sense. A heartbeat before Kurin came galloping up frantically calling for retreat, Jurel understood.

“Illusion!” cried Kurin. “They knew we were here. Illusion!”

“Retreat,” Jurel shouted. “Mikal, get the men moving south. Out of here now!”

Mikal did not need to be told; he was already on the move, voice raised to prodigious levels, sounding the retreat.

Slowly, the sluggish blanket of confusion began to part as the constant battering of training took over. With no more need for silence, horns began to sound, urgent bleatings that shivered in the air. Squads quickly merged with platoons, bannermen waving standards in the air, as the army began to move south. Slow at first, they picked up speed until the ranks of infantry trotted then broke into a jog to keep up. If the fleeing ranks seemed a little ragged, well, why not? After all, Jurel's army was being routed without a single sword stroke.

“What happened?” Jurel demanded, rounding on Kurin.

“I don't know,” was the bitter reply. “I knew something felt wrong about all this. I
knew
it! We were all looking for this. We kept a close enough eye that I was positive they couldn't do this. Then, when the scouts reported visual contact, I thought we were all right.”

And it had been his, Jurel's, decision to continue with the attack as planned, even though his own instincts had screamed against it. He had rushed in before getting all the information, and now his army was exposed and in imminent danger of attack. He punched his leg in frustration, cursing.

“Don't blame yourself, Jurel. We were all fooled. Even Mikal thought continuing the attack was acceptable.”

Jurel nodded but he was not entirely convinced. “Go see to the priests, Kurin. Get them moving south too.”

With a nod, Kurin wheeled his horse and galloped into the trees.

What was the enemy commander planning? What was the next move? It seemed that this ruse was bait of some kind, but for what? To simply lure them into the open? To expose him and his army, a game of hide-and-seek? Jurel was still taut as a bow, his instincts clamoring. No. Not just that. They would not have revealed their knowledge simply to laugh at Jurel. So, what then?

Jurel had never been in a situation like this before, but if he had, if he had had the experience to draw on, he would have known a very important fact: a question like that is answered either now or later. If the answer arrives later, it often arrives when it makes very little difference. But if the answer arrives now, well, it most often arrives in the most disastrous manner possible.

He did not even see the wave of fireballs that incinerated the front line of his cavalry. All he saw was a strobe of brilliant blue-white flashes. These flashes were followed by an explosion that threw men and horses through the air like smoking rag dolls. The concussion sent a shock wave ripping through the ranks, felling almost everyone for fifteen paces. Indeed, it was so powerful that Jurel, still a hundred paces away, felt the impact like a fist in the gut.