The Princess's Dragon (29 page)

Many of Barselor’s artillerywomen died before Onian ordered his catapults out of range. Derek allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. Already Ariva had performed better than Onian expected. His own ballistae struck the battering carts and shattered them, sending splintered wood into the ditches where the front line tossed torches. Desultory fires burned in the ditches for a short time while Onian recovered and pondered his next move.

The next charge came at sundeath, rendering artillery nearly useless for both sides as the falling twilight hindered their sight. Derek had suspected this would be Onian’s next move, since his own batteries proved problematic for the charging enemy. This time, the front line braced itself as a contingent of Onian’s foot soldiers came upon them almost silently, engaging the solid wall of pikemen and hacking their way through. Many of the enemy swordsmen breached the frontline only to meet veteran mercenaries who quickly dispatched them.

The battlefield erupted in chaos as the soldiers fought for their lives, taking no prisoners. No enemy retreated, and they all died at the hands of Ariva, but they claimed a fair number of their own victims, Ariva’s sons lying dead after only one short battle in their life.

Onian harried them through the night, sending charge after charge, and Derek ordered every charge met with flaming arrows, the archers firing blindly

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into the moving mass of shadows. More Arivan soldiers met Morbidon that night but by sunbirth, the victory still went to Ariva, though the cost was high.

Bodies piled up on the battlefield before the front line, as healers dragged off Ariva’s wounded to the camp behind the lines.

Derek rubbed a gloved hand over his burning eyes, exhausted and frustrated. He longed to be down in the trenches with the men, slashing and hacking away at the enemy, not stuck on the commander’s stand playing this brutal game of kings and knights with a dictatorial fanatic. This was a job for kings, but his own king knew nothing of real warfare, so Derek took his place, directing the men as he countered Onian’s every move, trying not to mourn every dead Arivan below.

Onian chose his next move and sent Bladen’s knights to charge the front line. As he expected, the arrows of Arival archers bounced harmlessly off their heavy armor, and they bore down on the front line on their giant armored warhorses, fording the corpse-choked trench with ease. Catapult missiles struck some of them, knocking them from their horses, but the massive beasts, bred and trained for battle, did not shy, and kept charging, leaping over other fallen mounts and knights. The knights carried lances, lowered to pierce the shielded front line and trample over the swordsmen behind. Derek ordered the ballista bolts held in reserve; certain they wouldn’t take out enough of the knights to justify the loss of the valuable rounds.

Derek waited, holding his signal, certain that the previous night’s activities, performed between charges and under the cover of darkness, would prove more effective than the artillery against the charging knights. Just as they prepared for impact, Derek dropped his hand, signaling his men, and at each end of the pass, groups of men tugged on massive and heavy ropes, spiked barbs knotted throughout their length. The ropes shot up out of their shallow burial ground and directly in the path of the knights. The men holding them barely had the time to secure them around the stone pillars marking the boundaries of the Pass before the front wave of knights struck the barrier.

Pikemen parried the wildly swinging lances as the horses screamed in agony, their vulnerable legs slamming into the rope and tangling them within the barbed length or sending them rolling, crushing their riders beneath them.

The unexpected obstacle sent many knights sailing off their mounts; they didn’t rise from the ground swiftly enough to avoid the swords aiming for the joints of their armor. Those knights that held their seat fought their entangled, 174

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panicking horses and dropped their lances to draw their swords, swatting at the enemies that sought to pull them from their mounts.

Derek anticipated the knights and felt satisfaction at the success of his counter-maneuver as his soldiers, quickly earning their veteran status, finished off the knights that didn’t escape the rope barrier. Onian’s generals signaled a retreat and the knights bringing up the rear reversed their course and fell back to the enemy line just out of range.

Still, Onian held many of his troops in reserve. Derek suspected the other man possessed a secret weapon that he held back, choosing instead to investigate Ariva’s defenses. Derek awaited the reports of his scouts, hoping they possessed news of more of the enemy’s plans. So far, only two of his men returned from their scouting trip, bringing news of nothing that he couldn’t already see from his position high above the battlefield.

After the fall of the knights, Derek expected a reprieve, and Onian didn’t disappoint. Derek signaled for a change on the front lines, fresh soldiers relieving those weary from the latest battle. Fatigue plagued him and he left the stand, placing his first general in charge so that he could take a quick rest before sundeath—or Onian’s next move. He returned to the camp, heading for his pavilion, wearily returning the salutes to the men that hailed him. He barely made it to his bedroll before he collapsed into a deep and dreamless sleep.

His second general, General Heinrich, a man of middle years who’d never personally seen a battle but excelled in his training, shook Derek awake what seemed like only moments later.

“My Lord, you asked me to awaken you before sundeath. Even now the mountains pierce the sun.”

“Any move from Onian?”

“Not yet, milord, though we expect something tonight.”

“What of the scouts, have any returned?” Derek shook himself awake, grinding the sleep from his eyes and wishing the aches in his body arose from good solid fighting rather than hours of perching in a command post.

“Not since you retired, milord. We fear they are dead at this point.” Derek followed the general from the tent and glanced over at the passing sun as it made its journey to Morbidon’s kingdom. The moon already showed a mere sliver in the darkening sky. Derek turned to the general. “Onian will undoubtedly strike again tonight; he cannot afford to allow this battle to drag on, and he must breach the front line soon.” General Heinrich nodded

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agreement. “I have a plan; we must move quickly though.” Derek headed toward the front line, shouting over his shoulder to the general, “Get me all the extra pikes you can find.”

Onian didn’t strike immediately at sundeath, waiting for total darkness for his next move. Derek suspected that Onian planned to use the “Blind Knights,” Morbidion monks that trained to fight in dim light, strengthening their night vision, so that they may better serve Morbidon in his shadowy kingdom. It would be Derek’s next move if he held Onian’s post. His men worked busily away at his plan, though many didn’t like it. Still, they obeyed the Warlord, aware that it was his knowledge and tactics that kept them alive and Onian out of Ariva for this long.

As true night fell, Derek’s keen eyes spotted the first shadows moving in the gloom and sent up the signal. Torchbearers rushed out onto the battlefield and ignited the enemy corpses impaled on pikes. The night sky in the kill zone before the front line lit up with flames just as the monks moved into range. The archers raised their weapons and flaming missiles shot into corpse-lit night.

The monks, their night vision ruined by the flames around them, struggled to regroup even as they fell beneath the unceasing onslaught of Ariva’s missiles.

The macabre human torches burned for hours, sending foul smoke into the night sky and infuriating the enemy troops even as the Arivan archers cut down the nearly unarmed monks.

Derek’s first general climbed the stand to confer with him. “Once again, milord, you anticipated Halidor’s move.”

Derek glanced away from the burning battlefield, “You forget I have fought Halidor before, Josef. They used many of these same tactics against Vanguard where I served as a mercenary.”

“You’d think they would know that.”

“I assure you, Onian knows as much about me as my own mother did, Josef. We cannot catch all of his spies.”

“Would that our own sources proved so reliable,” Josef answered.

“I agree. I am frustrated by the failure of our scouts to return. Onian has something major that he saves, unwilling to play his winning hand just yet. I can feel it; he hesitates, wanting to be certain that he has drawn out all of our defenses. Yet so far, I have seen nothing that Halidor hasn’t used before.”

“Perhaps this is all he has, milord. We may yet win the day!”

“Yes, Josef, perhaps you are correct.” But Derek didn’t believe so and his 176

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head ached from just sitting and watching the battle. “I am going to join the men on the morrow, Josef.”

“That is good, they will see your presence and it will do wonders for their motivation. A visit from the high commander always rallies the troops.”

“Not a visit, Josef. I need to fight. I am going to stay on the front lines. You will take over command here until I return.”

“What? But, milord—” Josef, one of the oldest soldiers in Ariva’s army, sputtered—“we need you here. Already you have held off Onian’s dogs longer then anyone hoped. We cannot afford to lose you in battle.”

“Do you think I will die so easily, Josef?” Derek casually inquired, his eyes hooded and dangerous.

“No, no, of course not, but it is still a terrible risk. There is no reason for it; we are winning!” Josef protested.

“No, Josef, we are simply at a stalemate. We will not win unless we find some way to break Halidor’s spirits. Until that time, I cannot sit up on this stand watching the battle drag on.”

“Perhaps you need more sleep, milord. I will take the next watch and inform you if Onian moves again.”

“I will sleep tonight, Josef, but tomorrow I intend to join the battle personally.”

“Milord, I cannot let you do that.”

Derek paused at the steps leading down from the stand. Josef gulped but held his ground.

“I don’t recall making a request, General Josef. The last time I checked I was still the Warlord here.” Derek turned on Josef, his eyes steely. “I suggest you don’t forget that. I will repeat myself only once; tomorrow I join the battle personally. You decide if you wish to command this post or find yourself hanging from the gibbet for treason.” Derek turned away again, exiting the commander’s stand without a backward glance. Josef took out a scrap of spidersilk, hand-embroidered by his young wife, and mopped his brow, collapsing in the chair Derek vacated.

“Gods help us,” he whispered to the night air.

The following morning Derek strode out to the front line, rested, refreshed, and dressed in full armor, his sword strapped to his waist and his shield already on his arm. The feathered helm he wore bore little resemblance to the one he pulled out for ceremonial occasions. He’d ordered it designed for function

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rather than elegance, and there was nothing particularly beautiful about the unadorned metal save the fluttering dyed feathers waving from the top. He met with his generals one last time. Despite their complete shock and dismay at his decision to fight, they held their silence and made note of his commands before he marched out to the front line. The generals shook their heads as they watched him go, wondering if, in the strain of battle, the Warlord had lost his sanity.

Derek felt quite sane. Finally, he could fight and feel the rush of battle lust push through his veins, chasing away fear and doubt. He could engage the enemies personally rather than move his pawns around the battlefield the way he had been. He needed to hear the dying screams of Halidor’s men loud in his ears and crush their dead beneath his boots. Only this would shake him from his thwarted longing to seek revenge. He had no idea how long Onian planned to camp at Ariva’s border, but each passing cycle meant another delay to his personal quest. Sitting back and watching others die at his command left him too much time for thought.

The men cheered when they saw him, and word passed down the line that the Warlord came out to survey them personally just as he had at the start of battle. When he marched to the center of the front line and took up his position, the cheers died down as the men whispered in surprise. The field captains raced over to confer with Derek, and he told them with an air of finality that he would lead the next battle personally. The soldiers overhearing this passed the news down both ends of the line and soon the cheer began again, a rally cry that echoed off the mountains, the stone goliaths amplifying the sound until it reverberated back to the enemy, striking fear into their hearts.

For the soldiers, Derek’s presence among them only boosted their moral. The captains looked at each other, then back at the command post, where First General Josef shrugged his shoulders in response.

Derek waited with the men, eager for blood. The soldiers around him shifted from nerves and inexperience while he remained motionless, silent, solid, and lethal. He watched the enemy line, certain that Onian made note of his new position and equally certain that the next charge would target him personally. Onian would see the death of Ariva’s Warlord as the first key to victory.

Derek had no intention of dying and he impatiently awaited those foolish enough to try to kill him. Fortunately he didn’t have to wait long. He suspected 178

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Onian, too, grew impatient with this game so it didn’t surprise him when the prince sent out his cavalry. Derek had nothing other than artillery to counter these horsemen. Having seen his previous trick, they would not be so easily fooled. He ordered the pikemen into battle formation and they crouched, shields raised and pikes lowered.

Derek remained in front of the wall of pikemen, standing between two lethal pikes as he waited to engage the cavalry soldiers. The wind whipped the feathers on his helm, signaling his position to the enemy. He watched them come and felt the chilly calm of impending battle take him, giving himself over to the fight.