Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The enemy came at dawn. This attack was a surprise to Dryden. He had set guard pickets as usual and a rotating watch through the night, so they were not wholly caught unawares, but still, the brashness of the attack was unexpected. Dryden had thought that the combined attack of Vastrum and An-Dakal would begin at dawn, so his men were prepared for battle; however, they had not expected to be on the defensive, so positions had not been prepared, nor had they the time since they had only arrived on the low ridge the day before. A small sortie had always been a possibility, but this was no mere raid. Thousands of enemy horsemen lined up, enough to sweep An-Dakal’s small army from the field. The An-Beya attack would leave the north and western sides of the sprawling city vulnerable to the two Vastrum armies, but that was a small consolation to the men on the hill. The enemy was coming in force. Dryden knew there were only two choices when faced with an ambush: flee or counterattack. Standing your ground rarely worked, and a lack of decisiveness led only to ruin. Dryden had never been one to flee.

  “Blood and thunder!” Dryden swore as he watched the enemy streaming from the city as the first rays of sun broke the horizon and shone off the enemy helmets below. The Vastrum men and the An-Dakal were arrayed for battle but in an offensive position, ready to attack the city with their horses. They were vastly outnumbered. Bellephoron, the grey stallion he was currently riding, Rosie having been left with Winslow, whinnied softly and stamped his feet. The pale horse was eager for a charge. Dryden watched through his spyglass, “Captain Benton, ready the men. Lieutenant Dobbson, find Kavala as quick as you can; tell him I intend to counterattack.”

  “Sir,” Dobbson saluted and rode hard down the line to where the An-Dakal men were now milling about uncertainly.

  Captain Benton turned to Sergeant Krach, “Sound the bugle. Get the men mounted up and arrayed for a charge.” The captain had a kind of eager look on his face as he said the words. None in his squadron made any note about how outnumbered they were.

  The enemy arrayed below the ridge was getting lined up for their own charge. Some warlord below was riding down the line shouting words of encouragement. The banners of An-Beya and other clans slapped in the eastern wind. Angry cries of the enemy faintly echoed up the hill, the army shouting as one over and over again. The man rode back the other way, his gold cloak trailing behind him, leading the shout. Dryden could hear his words like a whisper on the wind but could not understand the Vuruni tongue. He looked about and found that his translator was close at hand.

  “Private Brown, what is that man saying?”

  “He says they fight for their homeland. They fight for what is right; they fight for their families and their loved ones. They fight for their city. He says that we would take the soul from the land. He likens us to demons and beasts. He says we would take their women and kill their children. He says we will give them no mercy, and they should give none in return. He is calling the An-Dakal unworthy and corrupt. He says they fight under the blessing of Tizrun, and that his storm is a sign, and that it comes to sweep us all away. He says that they cannot fail if their god is with them. Rise, he says, rise up, men, and protect what is yours. Ride with me, ride and kill your enemies, ride and kill the usurpers and the foreign dogs, ride with me to glory and victory, ride upon the winds of Tizrun, ride to glory, ride to glory, ride with me.”

  Then a great cry went up from the host on the plain below, and the man turned to where Dryden was, at the center of their line. The man spurred his horse, and together, the whole army of the enemy surged forward towards Dryden, Kavala, and all the riders of Benton’s squadron and the army of An-Dakal.

  “A rousing speech, no doubt,” Benton commented dryly, “Shall we kill them, sir?”

  “Indeed, when they are halfway up the slope, sound the charge,” Dryden replied.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Lieutenant Dobbson returned, galloping down the line. He quickly stopped and saluted his superiors: “Kavala says he is of the same mind, sir. He intends to charge as well. He will wait upon your call to charge.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant.”

  “Also, he bids me tell you that Kurush himself is leading the enemy attack.”

  “Is he now?”

  “Yes, sir, that is what he says.”

  “Then perhaps we can end this whole fight today,” Dryden grinned, “Cut off the head and all that.”

  “He warns that Kurush is a sorcerer. Be wary of him.”

  “Is that all, then, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. That was the whole of his message. You may return to your company, then, Lieutenant.”

  The lieutenant saluted and then rode back down the line to where his company was. The last piece of the message gave Dryden pause. He had met Kurush twice. He had made a note both times of the usurper’s golden eyes. Aisa had those eyes, so did Mar, and Kavala, and most, though not all, sorcerers that Dryden had ever encountered. Why it had not registered with him that the man was a sorcerer, he did not know. It had not occurred much to him then. Without Mar by his side, however, it seemed it could matter greatly at the moment. He did not know the extent of Kurush’s power, but he felt relieved that Kavala, at least, was a wizard. He wondered how much protection that could offer in battle. There was not much time to think on it. The enemy cavalry was coming hard up the slope. There were no grand speeches from either Dryden or the An-Dakal leader. Dryden only drew his sword, and the rest did the same with him. Sergeant Krach brought the bugle to his lips and sounded the charge. The army of An-Dakal warriors and the squadron of Vastrum soldiers put spurs to their steeds. Bellephoron surged forward eagerly. All the horses and men surged with him. Two thousand riders swept down the hill towards the line of the enemy. There were no great tactics or brilliant manoeuvres. This was a time only for killing. To the east, the storm drew ever nearer; lightning cracked, and thunder rolled, drowning out the beating hooves of the two armies.

  Dryden and the rest of the 13th held their swords ahead of them like spears. His heart pounded to the beating of the hooves. He gripped his sword. It glowed hot in his hand. His vision blurred. He could see the whites of the enemy’s fearful eyes, the panic in their horses' eyes. Bellephoron surged under him and leapt up and through the enemy line at the last moment. The larger horses of the 13th crushed through the ponies of the Vuruni. They were amongst and even through the enemy lines. Dryden’s sabre cleaved through a man's head, and then he was amongst the enemy horsemen. His sword seemed to act of its own accord, sweeping and cleaving through the enemies around him. Bellephoron whirled and swept into the smaller mounts of the Vuruni, knocking them aside. The horse was a furious fighter, seeking out foes for Dryden to take. Blood sprayed from one man all across Dryden as he cleaved into the man’s neck. Another man was trampled under his horse’s feet. Another man came close, and he cut that man down, too. Dryden saw An-Beya's banner and spurred his horse towards it, cutting and slashing from the bucking saddle beneath him. Rosie had never fought like this; she was sturdy and smooth under him. Bellephoron was a writhing, rearing, angry destrier, but he did as he was bid and heaved himself through the chaos towards the black and gold banner of An-Beya. Then he saw him, Kurush, mounted on a white horse and surrounded by a dozen guards clad in golden armour. Victory was on the king’s dark face as his cavalry surged up the hill through the thin An-Dakal line. Dryden spurred Bellephoron once more, pushing into the midst of the enemy from the side. Somehow, the guards did not see him until he was amongst them. His sword carved through one man like cutting into a cake. He cut down a second. His hand burned through his glove as it glowed like it had just come from the forge; the handle of the enchanted sabre was so hot. A cry went up from the men around him, “An-Beya!” They shouted. He disregarded it. He cut down the man holding the banner. The man fell from his horse and the flag with him. Next, he turned to Kurush. The sorcerer-king smiled serenely at Dryden. He smelled the faint scent of ozone, and a huge boom rang out. Lightning shot down from the sky. It was aimed for Dryden, but at the last instant, it turned aside. He cried out as his sword went white hot, but he kept his grip even though he could feel his glove burning away and the flesh on his hand sizzling. He felt a jolt through him that resonated up through the ground, and where the bolt hit the ground, the sand turned to glass. A look of utter shock came over Kurush’s face. Dryden swung his sword towards the king, and it cut him deeply, his face frozen in agony. The cry of An-Beya came again, and the enemy surged towards their king. A wall of talwars and lances pushed away Dryden’s horse. The wounded king disappeared into the mass of his own men, who began to fall back towards the city. Then, with their king wounded, their banner down, and faced with the Bloody 13th cutting them down from the flanks, the enemy fled.