Too Many Princes (39 page)

Lottres frowned, maybe objecting to the rude classification of his teacher, but Yriatt ignored it.

“
Come,
Thaeme
, I will show you how,
”
she said. The girl turned in the saddle, trying to keep Brastigan in sight as Lottres led her horse away. He watched her a moment more, and then turned back to business.

Which was drawing nearer by the moment. Brastigan strapped on the helmet and shield, and stamped to loosen his saddle-stiff legs. Around him, men were stretching, shrugging, cutting the air with swords. Brastigan checked their line and found it troublesome. With so much space to cover, they couldn't stand as close as he would have liked. He located Pikarus, directly on his right, and Javes, four men down on the left. Turning, he focused his vision over the rim of his shield and fixed his attention on the approaching foemen.

They were a sorry lot, not the kind of force he expected from an empire of Sillets's reputation. Their swords were of crude workmanship, and they had no shields or body armor. Threadbare clothing in mismatched patterns hung over angles of bone. Their sole uniform was a scanty red tabard.

Aglend, on his left, muttered,
“
This is an army?
”

Brastigan had to agree, except his initial impression that these were youths had been wrong. Brastigan knew skinny—he was skinny. These men weren't skinny. They were gaunt, shriveled flesh corded over their bones, and with them came a peculiar odor like that of something long dead. What he didn't understand was how starving men could mount the rocky slope at such speed.

He answered,
“
Don't take them lightly. If they serve the black magicians, they may be more than they seem.
”

Still they came on, silent except for the tramp of ill fitted boots. No war cries to rouse the blood, no warrior's scowl. No expression at all.

The bone men were scant yards away, now. Brastigan drew deep breaths, full of waiting. His muscles felt tight, coiled. Unlike his brother, Brastigan had never been afraid of a fight. He flexed his fingers eagerly, shifting their grip on sword and shield.

“
The black tower will never fall!
”
Brastigan shouted.

Farther down the line, Javes cried,
“
Cut them down!
”

A roar went up from the Cruthan line, then a crashing as steel met steel. Brastigan stepped between two of the foes, blocking to the left with his shield and to the right with Victory. Right away, he knew this wouldn't be easy. Brastigan had always been faster than the heavy set Cruthan men, able to avoid their clumsy blows. He had no such advantage now. The bone men were just as fast, and very strong. He blocked two blows that left his sword hand tingling, then lunged in return. He twisted Victory, forcing the enemy blade aside, and jabbed at the gap in the bone man's defense. The point struck exactly where he aimed it—and stuck!

It was like stabbing into a chunk of wood. Victory's tip scarcely penetrated the leathery skin. But there was no body jerk, no cry of pain, no blood. The enemy brought his weapon around, ready to retaliate. Brastigan managed to wrench Victory free and fell back a pace, reassessing. Maybe he'd struck a rib?

The first cries of pain went up along the Cruthan line. Pikarus was crying,
“
Stand fast! Let them come to us!
”

Brastigan tried again. He blocked right with Victory, then turned as the man on his left raised his weapon. He lunged at the exposed throat, this time, and saw the blade strike true. The enemy's blade descended, but Brastigan raised his shield and pushed closer. As he felt the punch of Victory shearing through the man's throat he shoved with his shield and turned again, blocking an enemy strike from the right.

Even as he raised his shield and positioned himself to guard against the right-hand foe, he realized the one on the left hadn't fallen. He blocked automatically, staring at the black line, angled slightly upward, across the bone man's leathery neck. This time he knew he'd struck true. The man should have fallen. But still there was no blood.

Brastigan fell back again, glancing toward Pikarus. The sergeant was hard pressed, his face a snarling mask of war. Brastigan knew his face bore the same distorted expression. He aimed a cut at the neck of the bone man pressing Pikarus back. Again, he struck clean and hard. Again, there was no reaction.

Over the irregular beating of swords, he called to Pikarus,
“
What do you think? I got a clean thrust to the throat, and nothing.
”

“
They're not men. They don't bleed.
”
Pikarus grunted back as he swung his sword. Brastigan could tell he'd struck one of the bone men in the chest, but it did no more good than Brastigan's throat slash.
“
They don't die!
”

Well, if finesse was out, brute force would have to do.

“
Chop off their sword arms!
”
Brastigan yelled to anyone who could hear.
“
Cut them down like trees if you have to!
”

Of course, that was easy to say. The bone men's withered skin was so tough, he could see why their masters didn't bother with mail. But any strategy was better than nothing. Brastigan and Pikarus stood shoulder to shoulder. Working in turn, blocking for each other, they managed to sever the wiry limbs. First one, then another, then a third wizened arm fell to the dusty rocks.

Still the bone men stood. Still they fought. With just one arm they grappled and grabbed, dragging shields down or holding back sword blades with fingers that felt no pain.

“
Try the legs?
”
Pikarus called. After much hacking, they managed to hamstring two of their four foes. Even then they tried to come back, pushing themselves forward on their hands. Brastigan kicked one off by itself and straddled its skinny body. He chopped its head off before it could turn over. You couldn't say it truly died, but it finally stopped moving.

Pikarus turned aside, aiding Yugo, who struggled against three bone men. Brastigan worked his way toward Javes. Beheading was easier from the unprotected rear. Of course, it meant he was by himself and vulnerable, too. Brastigan stopped thinking for a while, just chopping and dancing away from crippled enemies. Others didn't fare as well. One man was pinned down by two one-armed bone men while a third stabbed him. Another wasn't moving at all.

“
The black tower will never fall!
”
Brastigan cried as he charged to that man's aid.

It was a long, ugly, exhausting battle. Brastigan had been in fights before, barroom brawls and bandit raids, but those were against men—bleeding, feeling pain, just as desperate to survive as he was. This one was different, so brutal and quiet. The bone men suffered in grisly silence, as if they didn't feel their arms being hacked off, their legs cut from under them. How could any creature suffer such wounds and not notice?

At the end of it, his sword arm burned with exhaustion. His shield hand was numb from the power of his grip. Brastigan gulped in dusty air, felt the gambeson beneath his armor sodden with sweat. The ground was strewn with body parts: bone men writhing like enormous worms. Even now, the crippled, crawling things tried to come at them. Most disturbing was the complete absence of blood. There should have been blood. Brastigan, who had never shied from battle, felt his stomach turn at the cleanliness of this carnage.

Only when he stopped to breathe did Brastigan understand the true horror. For beneath the leather caps were falls of stringy matted hair. Black hair, just like Brastigan's.

It was Pikarus who put his outrage into words.
“
Can those be Urulai?
”

“
They would never serve Sillets!
”
Brastigan snarled.

But hundreds of warriors were missing in Urland, their fates unknown after twenty years. Somehow they must have been enslaved by sorcery. That would explain their poor condition, for who would concern themselves over an army of slaves?

For years, Brastigan had heard stories about Sillets and its evil magic. He had never truly understood. Now, he loathed Sillets and its undying king with an intense, personal feeling. Whoever created such monstrous beings deserved to die.

Brastigan needed something else to look at. He glanced around. The mules had been backed up against a fin of rock and stood in a huddle, heads down, ears hanging slack. Lottres sat in the midst of them, the reins loose in his hand. His face, oddly calm, gazed into nothing. Yriatt sat tall and alert with a hunting bow across her lap, an arrow ready. The three dogs lay in heaps of black fur. When did that happen? Brastigan hadn't heard her bowstring snap.

Behind both of them, the girl sat on her horse with an expression of horror. He strode to her side, wondering if the fragile creature understood what was happening. He hoped it was just the noise that made her look that way, not the grisly work he had been doing.

Brastigan patted her knee.
“
I'm fine.
”
It seemed to calm her.

Finding his own mule, Brastigan got a waterskin. He took two deep gulps, and added, to his brother,
“
Thanks for all your hard work.
”

Lottres didn't respond, but Yriatt said in a brittle tone,
“
This is not over.
”

She was looking past the girl, past Brastigan. He spat another mouthful of water onto the stones and turned. Pikarus helped a limping Roari toward his mule, while Javes methodically struck heads off bone men. Then, beyond Javes, came noise and movement. A pair of black dogs burst over the hilltop. Yriatt's bow sang, and one of them tumbled over with a shriek. Behind them, a full squad of bone men crested the hill.

“
Get back in line!
”
Pikarus shouted. Javes leaped to obey.

Brastigan dropped his waterskin and sprang forward. His heart hammered in a way it never had before. At least one man was dead, and it was a miracle that was the only loss. Two others needed help to stand. That made seven on the Cruthan side, if the injured men could fight, against creatures harder to kill than cockroaches. And they were already tired.

But giving up wasn't possible. Javes and Pikarus called orders. The soldiers scrambled for their places, kicking dead bone men out of the way. Yriatt's bow sent arrows terribly close to their heads, trying to remove the second howling mutt. Brastigan took his place at the end of the line.

“
For the black tower!
”
His voice was a hoarse bark. Victory felt heavy as a log of wood. His speed was gone. But he didn't feel afraid. He just had a job to do.

This time Brastigan hardly had the chance to strike a blow. Something else struck first, grabbing his leg as he stepped forward to swing his blade. He struck hard, then looked down. One of the bone men had escaped Javes's reckoning. It held him by the knee. Brastigan kicked, tried to pull away, blocked an incoming blow, and tried to cut off the creature's arm to get free.

He lost his balance and fell awkwardly. The flat rocks made for a hard landing, and a shaft of pain ran up his arm. Biting back a cry, Brastigan curled inward, covering himself with his shield as best he could.

When the pain cleared enough to think, he raised his head. He was nose to nose with the one-armed bone man. He drew a lungful of its fetid odor, stared into the shriveled pits of its eyes. Brastigan jerked back from the unpleasant proximity, tried to lift Victory and found he was lying on top of it. More bone men had both his legs, dragged at his shield, rained blows on his back. His armor did its job and kept the dull edges at bay.

Through the thumping of blows on his helmet, he heard Javes bellow,
“
Protect the prince!
”
But Brastigan knew with cold clarity that the other soldiers were all in bad spots. It wasn't likely anyone could help him.

He kicked again, struggling to free himself. When that was no use, he rolled onto his back enough to free Victory and jab upward. It was awkward, but it was all he could do.

Vaguely, behind the Cruthan line, he heard strange, barking cries. Then came a loud snarl, like water poured on a pan of hot grease. After that, a rush of hot wind. The air boiled and churned above him. Bone men went flying like rag dolls. Cruthan men were shouting and swearing.

At last, Brastigan could move his legs! He rolled over, finding Javes above him. The soldier relaxed a little, seeing him still moving, and offered a hand up. He took it gladly.

“
It's about time she did something,
”
Brastigan grumbled.

“
What did you say?
”
Javes yelled, as if he couldn't hear himself speak.

Bone men and dead dogs were everywhere. Most lay broken, though a few picked themselves up and came on again. Pikarus was calling to his troops, trying to get them in order. Brastigan heard a racket behind him, and turned to look at the new trouble.

The noise had shaken the mules out of whatever spell held them. They rolled their eyes and danced, squealing in terror. The girl was the source of the weird barking cries. She stared at him and shrieked again and again, unable to put real words to her fear.

Meanwhile, Yriatt struggled to guide her horse through the turmoil. Reaching the girl, she roughly grabbed her shoulder. All composure gone, the witch's voice was high and hard.
“
What are you doing? Stop!
”

“
Hey! Let go of her!
”
Brastigan shouted. That was his girl the witch manhandled. Javes shouted beside him, and he had to turn to face the foe again.

It wasn't easy to watch both situations at once. Mostly he fought, parrying blows and giving back as many as he could. In snatches, he saw Yriatt raise her hands. The beasts stopped their skittish prancing. When he next looked, Lottres was talking urgently, in a grieved tone. Telling tales on Brastigan, no doubt. Both their faced turned to Brastigan, and he spared a moment for a mocking wave.