The council of blades, p.19
The Council of Blades, page 19
The Lanze Spezzate of the Mannicci family brigades, all half-armored men on speedy horses, thundered down the track to the valley floor. Prince Mannicci watched them go and struck a fist against his saddle tree, willing his men into even greater speed.
An approaching rattle of armor made Prince Mannicci tug his horse into a turn. Blade Captain Gilberto Ilégo, sheathed in his armor plate of arsenic green, drew his mount up beside his lord and gave a gracious salute.
“My prince.”
“Ilégo.” Mannicci barely spared the man a glance, choosing instead to stare with furious intensity across the stubble fields. “Form your men up on the right of my own. I appreciate the help you have given us in trying to hunt this Svarézi down. To you I give precedence and honor in the line of battle.”
“I am most grateful for your good opinion, Lord.” Ilégo sank slightly forward in a bow, hiding his dark, black eyes. “I shall attend to their deployment at once.”
The Blade Captain turned and rode away to his own units of billmen and archers. Mannicci watched him go, gripping and regripping his own reins in armored gauntlets that shook with hate.
Hate for the Colletrans; hate for the false-hearted Svarézi, who had scorned the hospitality of the Mannicci house to carry out his city’s abominable crime. Blade Captain Ilégo had placed the stamp of reason upon the confused reports of the palace guard, placing guilt squarely in Svarézi’s treacherous claws. For once, political differences had been set aside as the Blade Families became united as Sumbrians.
It had taken five frustrating days to bring the army up to readiness, five days too long. Mannicci glared across the fields and willed his soldiers to win through.
“My prince!”
Wings clashed and clattered as a palomino hippogriff made a dainty landing nearby. The creature stood posed with its neck bravely arched and its forefoot high, making a proud sight as its rider saluted with his bow.
“My prince, our air-scouts are engaged! The Colletran army is already through the northern pass, and is deploying into battle array.”
Prince Mannicci turned cold eyes to the immaculate young scout.
“Have they prepared field fortifications? Did your sorcerers detect them tampering with the battlefield?”
“No, my liege. They move forward in attack formation at best possible speed.”
“Then let them come to the slaughter!” Mannicci signaled to his heralds, waiting behind him in a row. “The army is to deploy into battle formation. All heavy cavalry is to brigade here with me.” Horses turned, proud trumpets raised, and the rising challenge of the battle paean rose into the sky. Sitting square upon his golden horse, the Sumbrian prince stared in the direction of his fast-approaching enemy while behind him his soldiers transformed themselves into a single, perfect instrument of war.
“There! I see the scum! There’s a cavalry picket just behind the mill!” Prince Ricardo of Colletro, surrounded by his exquisitely armed and armored peers, lashed an ivory riding crop across his saddle bow. “We’ve found them right where Svarézi said they’d come!”
Colletro’s army swarmed past with weapons pointed at the slope and mud-stained boots clawing at the road. The burgonets worn by the infantry hid the soldiers’ expressions; still, they gave their leaders a wide, disdainful berth, and spoke only in low and savage growls.
They were being forced to refight a battle which already should have been won. If Svarézi had been prince, the Sumbrians would have been obliterated in the summer; loot would have been taken and honor would have been saved. Instead, the city faced a grim, lean winter, having paid a massive ransom in gold and grain to their enemies.
Uncaring of the mettle of his men, Colletro’s prince let his fine silver horse paw at the air and thrilled as revenge spilled into his grasp.
“A fine thing, gentlemen! A fine thing that we sent Svarézi to the Sumbrian court. Without him, we would never have gained word of this sneak attack. They would have forced the passes and taken the valley in a single day!”
Murmured agreement came from the fifty highest nobles of Colletro, the Blade Captains and their eldest sons, who had gathered here for war. Behind them, the heavy cavalry collected in reserve, forming itself into a single massive wedge of enchanted steel. The air flickered as hidden lightning spat across the skies; the Colletran battle mages were busy at their spells, preparing the troops for immediate attack.
Above the stab and flash of spellfire, a new sound slowly arose: a swelling, deep, triumphant boom that made the nobles turn. All across the valley floor, tired soldiers stood to cheer. Men suddenly hoisted their helmets atop their pikes and bills. The whole army rose up with one unified roar of acclaim as a night-black hippogriff swept across the battle front, banked its wings, then sank down and clamped its claws into the ground.
The troops cheered Blade Captain Svarézi, a soldier’s soldier and a man obsessed with their victory. The general raised his gauntlet in a return salute, then held aloft a severed enemy head amidst the savage acclaim of his men.
Svarézi contemptuously tossed aside his battle trophy, accepted the touch of helpful hands as he slid down from his mount, and with a curt order bid the hissing hippogriff to leave the soldiery unharmed. Immaculate in his black velvet-covered armor, Svarézi strode across the wheat stubble to his prince and peers.
Prince Ricardo acknowledged the man with a wave of his ceremonial baton.
“Valued cuz! Sweet captain!”
“My lord.” Svarézi’s black-bearded face glared up at his elected monarch through the eye slots of his burgonet. “The air cavalry has returned their report; Sumbria’s army has not yet managed to deploy.”
The announcement instantly snapped up the attention of soldiers nearby, yet failed to move the prince. Ricardo stroked slowly at his chin and gazed thoughtfully off toward the southern pass.
“It would seem to be in form to allow him to complete his preparations. We are, after all, civilized men.”
“Sire, as we are civilized, intelligent men, we have no choice but to attack!”
Ugo Svarézi spoke with a gravel-voiced roar, a sound more common on the parade ground than the court. He growled his words in his thick, foul common tongue, gathering an audience of noble cavalry and common foot soldiers who crowded around him in a growing throng.
“Attack, my lord! Now—before they prepare their battle lines! They have broken the truce. Sumbria is not satisfied with the little gains from treaties. Now they come to take the valley, and the city, as their own!” Ugo Svarézi let his anger soar. “Form the cavalry. Lead the lancers yourself in a single, crushing blow! Make a single strike and gut the Sumbrians before they can deploy!”
The troops greeted Svarézi’s speech with a mad, incoherent roar; the cavalry horses reared in joy, pumping hooves into the air and slamming back into the ground in a stunning crash of armor plate. The army demanded an all-out attack, screaming its anger at the indecisive prince.
Ricardo and his counsellors leaned their helms together to confer, their gilded armor twinkling in the sun. Reluctant acquiescence eventually occurred; Ricardo issued his orders, heralds spurred off toward the heavy cavalry commanders, and the battle mages rode up to take positions for the charge.
The prince exchanged his baton for a heavy golden lance, allowing his pages to equip him for the attack; two servants helped to arrange his tabard skirts and helmet plumes, draping the prince’s attire into clean, classical folds.
“Very well, Svarézi, we shall take your good advice. You have served the city well thus far, so we shall finish Sumbria and be done with them!” Prince Ricardo inspected his helmet as a page held it up before his eyes, nodded abstract approval, and allowed the heavy metal casing to be lowered onto his head. “Who commands the bulk of Sumbria’s air cavalry?”
“Gilberto Ilégo, my lord.” Svarézi coldly sheathed his bow. “Not a warrior. He commands their air forces from the ground.”
“Then he should prove to be meat before your claws; support the cavalry attack from the skies.”
Ugo Svarézi’s dark eyes were hidden as he tilted down into a bow.
“It shall be as you command, my prince. I wish you joy of battle.”
Svarézi snapped his fingers to summon his battle staff, then strode back to his waiting hippogriff. Ignoring him, Prince Ricardo raised a benedictory hand over uncaring men and spurred his mount forward to join the front ranks of armored horse.
Scarcely waiting to form, the dense wedge of armored cavalry spurred up the valley floor. The Elmeti, noble horsemen clad in fantastic full armor—man and horse—crashed through brush and orchards, grass and stubble with the slow-building momentum of an onrushing avalanche. Light lancers joined the flanks; mounted archers, sorcerers, and crossbowmen swarmed like clouds of gnats to the fore. The whole charge built haphazardly, collecting men and horses into an onrushing wave of solid steel.
At the forefront of his city’s cavalry, Prince Ricardo thrilled to the sense of power rumbling in the air. All about him were packed the armored nobility—powerful men on heavy horses, crammed boot to boot and sheathed in flawless plate. The whole mass jammed itself tight, lances scarcely able to sink down for the attack. The cavalry reached hard footing and instantly increased its speed.
“Onward! Onward!”
There! On the hillside above, Sumbrian banners waved; the enemy was deploying from their march columns, pikes disarrayed and units in confusion. Warning trumpets sounded in the lines far beyond, figures churned in panic, and suddenly Colletro’s cavalry felt a thrill of blood-red rage.
With a formless snarl, the cavalry stabbed spurs into their horses, raking at the creatures’ flanks. The mounts screamed, and the vast formation swept forward in a maddened charge.
Trumpets pealed, and the call ran like fire in the nobles’ blood. A thousand cavalry stormed ahead, screaming out in lust. Lance points sank as grass whipped past the chargers’ flanks; horses pumped their legs in frenzy, hurtling themselves like meteors at the Sumbrian battle line. The faster beasts clawed to the front, slowly leaving lesser creatures behind as they stretched their necks into a blurring, deadly charge.
“Colletro! Colletro!”
A Sumbrian sorcerer fired from the hill; ice darts whipped into the cavalry, rattling from breastplates to leave a blood mist whirling through the sky. A catapult stone plowed through the ranks, crossbow bolts stabbed ineffectually across the air, and the cavalry blasted through the Sumbrian skirmish lines and crushed them to the ground.
Swarming in a thin cloud far ahead of the avalanche of onrushing knights, the Colletran light cavalry struck home like a cyclone of fire; javelins and crossbows blasted a savage volley home, plowing into knots of Sumbrian officers and men. Sumbrian arbalests sheeted darts into the churning crowd, emptying saddles, and the ranks erupted as Colletran sorcerers unleashed a wave of spells.
Lightning slashed into packed blocks of pikes, lifting men up from the grass like the blast of a volcano; fireballs flickered, wreathing magical domes of force; spirits whirled and snarled into the Sumbrian lines. Their damage done, the Colletran skirmishers frantically whirled and tried to ride away only to disintegrate as their own heavy cavalry trampled home.
“Colletro!”
Screaming horses overturned; lightning whipped through the air, and suddenly the Colletran nobles struck into their prey. With a shock front that rebounded from the mountaintops, the lancers slammed home into the Sumbrian left wing.
Infantry sprayed back from the deadly hooves like ocean foam; the horses rammed full tilt into armored men, smashing them wildly aside. Lances blasted into armored backs, ripped through helms, and shattered like glass. Pushing forward like men riding into a storm, the cavalry drove onward through a churning mass of enemies.
The dense pike formations boiled like frenzied nests of ants. Spears tangled, unable to press the attack as horsemen hacked down into the mob with axe and sword. Here and there an infantry spear lunged home; soldiers grunted as they pushed the points through horses’ breasts into the guts beyond. Animals screamed, blood flew, and still the metal giants carved their swords into the shrieking mob.
Horses were crushed by the tremendous pressure of surging infantry; surrounded by the hard-packed mob, Prince Ricardo howled in frenzy as he hacked downward with a flaming sword. Here was the battle joy he had never known! The thrill of bloodshed and victory. The prince chopped down through the helm of a helpless, fleeing man; he whipped high his sword, screamed out his city’s name, and thanked Tchazzar for his horse, his blade, and his beaten, shrieking enemy.
The attack had slammed home on the Sumbrian left, where Cappa Mannicci’s most loyal Blade Captains had been given the vital flank command. Swept back by the storm, Orlando Toporello urged his gigantic black-bronze horse forward through the flood of his own retreating men, roaring like a maddened troll as the crush bore him relentlessly away. Finally he struggled through into the fight, smashed a Colletran noble from his saddle with a single hammer blow, and tried to fling his units back into the melee.
High above, the hippogriffs dipped and whirled as though disdainful of the muck and mess so far below. The air cavalry fought in loose, wheeling formations, exchanging arrow fire and ever ready to plunge down upon careless combatants below. From time to time a body fell—sometimes buoyed by a feather fall spell, and sometimes simply tumbling to bloody destruction through the churning fog of war.
One formation broke away from the wild airborne melee. Toporello—desperately rallying a stand of pikes to fend off another death blow from the Colletran cavalry—heard a bellowed warning and tugged his horse aside. The enemy hippogriffs slashed mere inches overhead, jerking banners with the numbing speed of their passage, then whirred low across the Colletran cavalry.
The hippogriff riders opened fire, wheeling one after another to shower arrows at a single golden figure riding amongst a press of infantry. The rider reeled as arrows scored sparks across his breast, cursed as one shaft pierced his shoulder plates to wound him, then ignored the injury and spurred his charger deep into the fray.
“My lord! My lord, the Colletran infantry advances!” One of Toporello’s officers, his armor torn, blood staining his jaw, gripped his commander’s reins. “They will strike us from behind!”
Prince Mannicci had ridden hard to reach the site of the disaster; he paused to let his fellow Blade Captains plunge into the midst of their own men, trying to beat fugitives back into the battle lines with the flats of their swords. Swirled and surrounded by terrified, fleeing soldiers, he ripped open his visor and somehow spied Toporello’s standard. The prince raked back his spurs, sent his golden horse ramming a path through the retreating troops, and somehow shouldered the beast through to Toporello’s side.
Old Toporello, sheathed in blood from head to foot and brandishing a dripping hammer, never once paused in his labors as he spoke to his lord.
“We’re outflanked, and the infantry are done for! They’ll break within another minute, then run straight for the pass.”
“Damn! How did it happen?” Cappa Mannicci’s face shone white with rage under his visor’s brim. “Ilégo’s scouts should have seen them before they even crossed the valley floor!”
“Then they used some sort of spell to attack us with surprise!” Toporello saw his center unit break, and readied his tiny stand of rescued infantry to plug the gap. “Do we fight it out, or withdraw?”
“Withdraw!” Prince Mannicci stood in his stirrups, careless of the crossbow bolts and spellfire still blurring through the smoke and dust. “My own ground troops will make a stand before the mouth of the pass. Flee back behind us—we’ll cover the retreat!”
“Yes, my lord!”
Toporello had already turned to go on about the business of saving his men as his prince rode away to gather up Sumbria’s cavalry. The old general spared a glance at the central melee, frowned as he saw no sign of the Colletran rider clad in gold, then set his heralds trumpeting the signal for retreat.
“Message for the prince! I bear a message for the prince!”
The Colletran herald rode in agitation back and forth through returning swarms of cavalry. The armored knights, their lances broken, horses blown, and still soaring with elation from the slaughterfest of a cavalryman’s dreams, rode past toward the rear. They had broken the enemy’s left wing. The loss of their own light cavalry was scarcely even remembered; now other troops could pursue Sumbria’s fleeing rabble back into the pass. They had done all that Svarézi could desire, knowing that approving eyes watched them from above.
Mounted on a nervous horse—a beast of pixie breed with feathery antennae jutting up from its brow—the herald searched returning faces for a sign of his prince. His mount pranced and skittered back from the overwhelming stench of blood, shying from the brutal laughter on the air.
“A message for the prince! A message for Prince Ricardo!”
A thick, choking mist of fireball smoke and spell-fog rolled across the ground. Silent within the gloom, a knot of riders materialized: three men leading a team of pages who carried a litter made of broken spears. Lolling lifeless on the stretcher was a figure armored all in gold with a helm topped off with purple plumes.
“My lord!”
The herald surged forward in alarm; he dismounted all in a rush and flung himself at his dead prince’s feet.
“My liege!”
Above him, the leading cavalryman made a face of scorn.
“You’ll have to speak louder than that. He’s shot his bolt and gone.”
“But how?” The herald laid an astonished hand upon his prince’s lifeless breast. “Who could possibly have bested such a man in battle?”
Many possibilities sprang to mind. The Sumbrian boys chorus? The guild of circus clowns? The armored horseman almost made a contemptuous reply, then thought better of it and helped himself to some of the herald’s stock of wine.
“One minute he was fighting, and the next … he was down. He must have taken a concussion on the helm.” The rider sounded too tired to make much of his prince’s death. “He slowed down, missed a parry or three, and got torn to pieces like a lamb thrown to the wolves.” The cavalryman nudged at the herald with a broken, filthy sword. “You’ll have to go and find a real man’s employment for yourself from this day on.”
