Phoenix Unbound
Page 74
Azarion left his commander’s side to gather his forces in readiness. He caught a glimpse of his fierce sister galloping past him, first arrow already nocked into place as she raced with the other Savatar light cavalry toward the Kraelian line.
In no time the sky had turned black with the hail of arrows as Savatar archers harried the square’s perimeter, shooting straight into the line or up in the air where the arrows fell from above like sharpened rain, pinning arms and shoulders to shields and feet to the ground.
Mal Vornak ordered his skirmishers to attack the archers, but they were driven back to hide behind shields by the relentless Savatar arrows. As Erakes predicted, the Kraelian general ordered his light cavalry to engage the archers.
Azarion timed the maneuver, counting as the Kraelian light cavalry chased the retreating horse archers ever closer to the main Savatar force. He wheeled his mount around and bellowed to his captains, “Make ready!” Armored riders atop barded horses formed their lines, couching the long, heavy spears meant to puncture enemy lines in a frontal charge.
As the horse archers galloped past the heavy cavalry, Azarion called out again. “Ride forth!”
The thunder of hooves and war whoops from the Savatar deafened him as they charged into the pursuing lines of Kraelian light cavalry, spears lowered. Azarion lurched backward on his horse, nearly sliding off as the animal struck breast to breast against another horse. Equine squeals joined the screams and shouts of men fighting and dying on the field.
Azarion turned the spear into a battering ram, using it and the sword he carried to cut, stab, and bludgeon his way through the melee of Kraelian and Savatar fighters until his blade coursed with blood, and he and his horse were painted crimson in gore.
He fought off gauntleted hands that tried to rip him from the saddle, and lost his favorite dagger when he plunged it into a soldier’s neck. The fountain of blood erupting from the wound temporarily blinded him in a hot tide, and he barely dodged the blow of a hammer against his helmet.
The blaring howl of the horns signaled the heavy cavalry’s retreat, and his men gathered together to gallop back to the main force, passing another wave of horse archers who returned to harass the Kraelian infantry.
The hours of slaughter and bloodshed wore on as the sun traveled its path across the sky. Unplanted fields were littered with the corpses of Kraelian and Savatar soldiers and their horses. The ground crackled underfoot from the wood of thousands of spent arrows.
That evening, in the Savatar war camp, Azarion stood outside his qara and peeled off his blood-caked armor, letting each piece drop to the ground. He swiped a hand across his face, succeeding only in smearing more blood on his skin. He was drenched in sweat, the splatter of entrails, and horse shit. The Savatar had won the day, and while he was pleased with the outcome, he didn’t dare call it a victory. They had to get through tomorrow and a sunrise that would surely reveal the arrival of reinforcements from outland Kraelian garrisons.
The light of a nearby torch revealed the approach of a visitor. A tall shadow solidified into his sister. Like Azarion, she was filthy and bloody, with dark shadows painting the skin under her eyes. Still, she gave him a triumphant grin and raised a flask in offering.
Azarion sat in the dirt and invited her to join him with a wave of his hand. She settled next to him and passed the flask. Her braids had come unraveled, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulders to drag through the dust in a tangled mass. “It was a good day,” she said.
He took a swallow of mare’s milk before passing the flask back to her. “It was a bloody day, and we aren’t any closer to breaching the main gates.”
She shrugged. “But we’re still here, still ready to fight tomorrow, and a lot of Kraelian dead are fertilizing those fields right now.” Her side-glance was puzzled. “Besides, didn’t you say in council we didn’t need to actually breach the city? Just keep the garrisons focused on it long enough for our eastern forces to capture the Gamir section of the Golden Serpent and destroy those garrisons?”
That had been his plan, the one he repeated numerous times, first to Erakes and the other atamans, then to the Kestrel clan, and finally to the Goban. Sacking the city wasn’t the primary goal, though Gilene’s idea of capturing the granaries and holding them ransom to avoid a long siege worked in their favor.
Gilene. Azarion sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in an attempt to lessen the pressure of a headache blossoming behind his eyes. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of her, a night that he didn’t ache to have her next to him while he slept. His worry for her gnawed incessantly at him. Were the autumn and winter not taken up by planning for this battle, he might well have succumbed to the overwhelming temptation to ride for Beroe and fetch her back.
It would have been easier to let her go and let her be were she returning to a peaceful life, instead of a wretched one.
“What troubles you, Brother?” Tamura regarded him steadily, her green eyes, so like his own, bright in the torchlight.
He stared in the city’s direction, its walls and towers hidden by trees and shadow. “The equinox is upon us tomorrow. The Empire always celebrates it with the Rites of Spring.”
A strong hand gripped his forearm, and he glanced down to see Tamura’s slender fingers, with their broken, dirty fingernails, clutching his vambrace. Sympathy softened her hard features. “Do you think the agacin is in Kraelag?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I sent two scouts to find out. I’d hoped to hear from one or both tonight.”
As if fate heard him and chose to humor his concern, a man entered the pool of light and bowed to Azarion. “Azarion Ataman, I have news.”
Azarion stood, his exhaustion forgotten as his stomach somersaulted in anticipation of the scout’s words. Tamura stood with him, a comforting hand on his back. “Tell me.”
“The Rites of Spring will be observed tomorrow. Those women who were tithed as sacrifices will burn at midday.”
Tamura’s flattened hand seized into a fist, gathering Azarion’s tunic tight in her grip as he lunged forward, ready to bolt through the camp and over the bloody fields, straight into enemy territory so that he might scale the walls or beat down the gates with his fists and retrieve the woman who had captured his soul and held it willing hostage.
“Her trial is not yours, Brother,” Tamura hissed in his ear. “She will survive it. You won’t if you run into the arms of Kraelians waiting to hack your head from your shoulders!”
The scout edged away from the pair, wary of Azarion’s reaction to his news and Tamura’s snarling warnings.
Azarion shook her off and exhaled a shaky breath through flared nostrils. Gilene would survive the fires tomorrow, but what about after, with the city under siege and no doubt closed to any who would enter or leave it now except the armies? His gut churned at the thought of what she might be enduring now, in a cell with a gladiator still raging from a day’s fighting in the arena, blood still hot and his lust high.
He closed his eyes, hands fisted at his sides so tight, his knuckles turned white. Tamura’s words—“She chose this, Azarion. She knew what awaited her”—did nothing to ease the fury boiling inside him. Gilene was so close, but she might as well have been trapped on the moon for all that stood between them.
Azarion sent the scout away with a short thanks. He didn’t return to his seat next to the meager fire he’d started earlier, choosing instead to pace, his weariness burned to ash.
In no time the sky had turned black with the hail of arrows as Savatar archers harried the square’s perimeter, shooting straight into the line or up in the air where the arrows fell from above like sharpened rain, pinning arms and shoulders to shields and feet to the ground.
Mal Vornak ordered his skirmishers to attack the archers, but they were driven back to hide behind shields by the relentless Savatar arrows. As Erakes predicted, the Kraelian general ordered his light cavalry to engage the archers.
Azarion timed the maneuver, counting as the Kraelian light cavalry chased the retreating horse archers ever closer to the main Savatar force. He wheeled his mount around and bellowed to his captains, “Make ready!” Armored riders atop barded horses formed their lines, couching the long, heavy spears meant to puncture enemy lines in a frontal charge.
As the horse archers galloped past the heavy cavalry, Azarion called out again. “Ride forth!”
The thunder of hooves and war whoops from the Savatar deafened him as they charged into the pursuing lines of Kraelian light cavalry, spears lowered. Azarion lurched backward on his horse, nearly sliding off as the animal struck breast to breast against another horse. Equine squeals joined the screams and shouts of men fighting and dying on the field.
Azarion turned the spear into a battering ram, using it and the sword he carried to cut, stab, and bludgeon his way through the melee of Kraelian and Savatar fighters until his blade coursed with blood, and he and his horse were painted crimson in gore.
He fought off gauntleted hands that tried to rip him from the saddle, and lost his favorite dagger when he plunged it into a soldier’s neck. The fountain of blood erupting from the wound temporarily blinded him in a hot tide, and he barely dodged the blow of a hammer against his helmet.
The blaring howl of the horns signaled the heavy cavalry’s retreat, and his men gathered together to gallop back to the main force, passing another wave of horse archers who returned to harass the Kraelian infantry.
The hours of slaughter and bloodshed wore on as the sun traveled its path across the sky. Unplanted fields were littered with the corpses of Kraelian and Savatar soldiers and their horses. The ground crackled underfoot from the wood of thousands of spent arrows.
That evening, in the Savatar war camp, Azarion stood outside his qara and peeled off his blood-caked armor, letting each piece drop to the ground. He swiped a hand across his face, succeeding only in smearing more blood on his skin. He was drenched in sweat, the splatter of entrails, and horse shit. The Savatar had won the day, and while he was pleased with the outcome, he didn’t dare call it a victory. They had to get through tomorrow and a sunrise that would surely reveal the arrival of reinforcements from outland Kraelian garrisons.
The light of a nearby torch revealed the approach of a visitor. A tall shadow solidified into his sister. Like Azarion, she was filthy and bloody, with dark shadows painting the skin under her eyes. Still, she gave him a triumphant grin and raised a flask in offering.
Azarion sat in the dirt and invited her to join him with a wave of his hand. She settled next to him and passed the flask. Her braids had come unraveled, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulders to drag through the dust in a tangled mass. “It was a good day,” she said.
He took a swallow of mare’s milk before passing the flask back to her. “It was a bloody day, and we aren’t any closer to breaching the main gates.”
She shrugged. “But we’re still here, still ready to fight tomorrow, and a lot of Kraelian dead are fertilizing those fields right now.” Her side-glance was puzzled. “Besides, didn’t you say in council we didn’t need to actually breach the city? Just keep the garrisons focused on it long enough for our eastern forces to capture the Gamir section of the Golden Serpent and destroy those garrisons?”
That had been his plan, the one he repeated numerous times, first to Erakes and the other atamans, then to the Kestrel clan, and finally to the Goban. Sacking the city wasn’t the primary goal, though Gilene’s idea of capturing the granaries and holding them ransom to avoid a long siege worked in their favor.
Gilene. Azarion sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in an attempt to lessen the pressure of a headache blossoming behind his eyes. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of her, a night that he didn’t ache to have her next to him while he slept. His worry for her gnawed incessantly at him. Were the autumn and winter not taken up by planning for this battle, he might well have succumbed to the overwhelming temptation to ride for Beroe and fetch her back.
It would have been easier to let her go and let her be were she returning to a peaceful life, instead of a wretched one.
“What troubles you, Brother?” Tamura regarded him steadily, her green eyes, so like his own, bright in the torchlight.
He stared in the city’s direction, its walls and towers hidden by trees and shadow. “The equinox is upon us tomorrow. The Empire always celebrates it with the Rites of Spring.”
A strong hand gripped his forearm, and he glanced down to see Tamura’s slender fingers, with their broken, dirty fingernails, clutching his vambrace. Sympathy softened her hard features. “Do you think the agacin is in Kraelag?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I sent two scouts to find out. I’d hoped to hear from one or both tonight.”
As if fate heard him and chose to humor his concern, a man entered the pool of light and bowed to Azarion. “Azarion Ataman, I have news.”
Azarion stood, his exhaustion forgotten as his stomach somersaulted in anticipation of the scout’s words. Tamura stood with him, a comforting hand on his back. “Tell me.”
“The Rites of Spring will be observed tomorrow. Those women who were tithed as sacrifices will burn at midday.”
Tamura’s flattened hand seized into a fist, gathering Azarion’s tunic tight in her grip as he lunged forward, ready to bolt through the camp and over the bloody fields, straight into enemy territory so that he might scale the walls or beat down the gates with his fists and retrieve the woman who had captured his soul and held it willing hostage.
“Her trial is not yours, Brother,” Tamura hissed in his ear. “She will survive it. You won’t if you run into the arms of Kraelians waiting to hack your head from your shoulders!”
The scout edged away from the pair, wary of Azarion’s reaction to his news and Tamura’s snarling warnings.
Azarion shook her off and exhaled a shaky breath through flared nostrils. Gilene would survive the fires tomorrow, but what about after, with the city under siege and no doubt closed to any who would enter or leave it now except the armies? His gut churned at the thought of what she might be enduring now, in a cell with a gladiator still raging from a day’s fighting in the arena, blood still hot and his lust high.
He closed his eyes, hands fisted at his sides so tight, his knuckles turned white. Tamura’s words—“She chose this, Azarion. She knew what awaited her”—did nothing to ease the fury boiling inside him. Gilene was so close, but she might as well have been trapped on the moon for all that stood between them.
Azarion sent the scout away with a short thanks. He didn’t return to his seat next to the meager fire he’d started earlier, choosing instead to pace, his weariness burned to ash.
