Venzene Duchy of Kovalun
County Jižní Pochod
Barony of Hartscross–Jižní Lov
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Vlk found it hard to turn his eyes away from the battlefield below. That lone horseman had, by the looks of things, taken out some three or four of the riders harrying him. While Vlk knew enough of swordplay to respect the man’s prowess, what really impressed him was the horsemanship the rider had so clearly displayed.
Svords take enough practice to vield vell on foot, nevermind from horseback. A rider has to learn to control his mount vith his legs if he means to fight from the saddle. Whoever that man is, vith skill like that, he must’ve been called to the line. If not, and if he lives to make it through the gate, someone vill tell the count vhat he’s done, von’t they? He grinned, feeling a mixture of hope and fleeting triumph. I may finally get to vitness a knighting ceremony!
A voice called out from somewhere behind and below him, putting an end to his wool-gathering. He couldn’t place a name or face to it, but it scratched at the door of his memory.
“Excellency?”
Vlk turned, trying to find the owner of that somehow familiar voice. Instead—as if his thought had summoned the man—his eyes fell upon the Count.
The mountain that was Edmund had, for some reason, stopped a few strides away on the stair to Vlk’s left. This put him several steps shy of the wall walk. He looked as if he’d been standing there for some time.
The choice of perch made for a surreal situation. Vlk and the Count stood at eye level with one another… and Edmund was looking his way. For a moment, he thought the count was staring at, or perhaps through, him specifically. The man’s eyes were red, dry things, the knuckles of his dim hand white upon the pommel of his sword. He was murmuring something, but Vlk couldn’t quite make it out.
For a few heartbeats, he could only meet the tall man’s stare. Gradually, though, he reconsidered his earlier assessment. The count wasn’t looking directly at him. The realization did little to ease his nerves.
Vhy is he looking at Andrej? Vhy is he looking at Andrej, and vy does he seem either vrathful or voeful?
The wind rose, whistling across the palisade’s pointed top. As the gust died away, Vlk caught the tag end of the Count’s soft speech. It sounded low, bitter, and yes—full of woe.
“…Where sweetness ceased at ashes’ end … to feed the greed of honored men. The place where peace was shattered first. They raze-ed fair Měsíční Prst…”
“Excellency?” After the sound of hardened boot soles tromping up nearby stairs, the voice had grown closer. “Excellency, I have everything set, at least until the order comes.”
A hand came up to rest on Edmund’s shoulder. The touch seemed to banish whatever was clouding his face, for he turned away to look out over the palisade wall some feet beyond him.
“We shall see who blinks first, Captain. Has Ruční Kopí returned?”
“He sent a runner with an order I don’t much care for, but my men followed it.”
Ahh. He could finally see who that voice belonged to. Jastrab, the captain of the Bluemark.
“What order?”
The sudden sound of rapid hoofbeats yanked Vlk’s head around. He saw half a dozen horsemen in Percoy livery charging from beneath the shadow of the palisade, toward the enemy. They each bore drawn weapons—slender-looking swords or light maces of bright steel, fair enough weapons for the task at hand. They also wore a strangeness he’d never seen strapped to their dim arms. Each one had a round shield, sized for a child Jitka’s age.
“That order,” said Jastrab. For all his talk of dislike, his tone sounded more amused than displeased. “Your Ruční Kopí said we were to let them out, and they were to hope they could get back in through the northern gate.”
Vlk had little enough time to wonder at either Jastrab’s tone or that strange gear of war. The sound of raised voices further down the line of archers drew his attention away. The battle had shifted once more.
A blur of white raced from east to west across the field, hurtling toward the enemy line’s flank. It took a moment for Vlk to realize what he was seeing. Even once he’d managed it, he found himself excited, but no less confused.
A pale horse… a pale horse veering a white caparison… a long one! Hells, look how it flies out in his wake! He thought he’d seen the quilted thing being cleaned in one of the back paddocks, but he’d no idea what horse or rider it belonged, too. The warrior atop it may as well have been wearing one, too. His kontusz and armor were white, as were his boots, helm, and bevor. His var gear’s stiffer than clothing, but it moves and shifts in the vind as they run… leather? Cloth?
Whatever his raiment was made of, he was an eerie, but welcome, sight. His steed didn’t charge across the hilly landscape. He flew over it, sweeping down upon the line like hell’s own harbinger.
A longish weapon seemed to materialize in his hands as he neared the easternmost enemy. He stabbed forward as he rode, then brought the weapon’s other end around like a quarterstaff, knocking the harrier from his steed. With barely a skip in his horse’s stride, he slung his weapon high above his head and threw a vicious two-handed flat snap across what looked like either the foeman’s neck or face. The impact of the horizontal slash drove the second harrier from his saddle with the speed of a falling stone.
Vlk could hear shouts of unrestrained delight along the wall walk, but he paid them little mind. There was simply too much else to concentrate on. Two more riders, both far more mundane-looking, were now racing up the white warrior’s backtrail. One of them looked to be the other’s squire. He was so short by comparison. He wore a full harness of mail, however, and the Bluemark Guard’s black kontusz.
Vhat is he vielding? I see a veapon, but I can’t make it out.
The other rider was easier to identify. He hadn’t changed since Vlk had last seen him.
“That’s Ruční Kopí!” he said, or at least thought he did. His voice was drowned out by the fresh rumble of the Percoy horses picking up speed—spurring into the fray. More shouts of excitement came from the far left of the wall walk, past the last of the Bluemark archery corps. Next he knew, he heard someone calling his name from somewhere off to the right.
Jitka?
The final blow to his distracted mind was a leather-clad forearm slamming into his chest.
“At the ready! Move!”
Andrej’s archery gauntlet appeared to have small plates of hardened leather riveted onto its back. He doubted the taller boy had meant to strike him so hard, but hells that had hurt! Too surprised to be angry, Vlk stumbled backward and almost lost his footing. A massive hand gripped his left arm, dragging him upright before he could properly fall the twenty-odd feet to the uneven ground.
“A bad time to practice flying, dragon bat.”
It took Vlk a blink to register who’d spoken. By the time he’d realized the kindly voice had belonged to Count Edmund, the man had stepped back to his former position on the stairs, looking out over the battlefield once more.
It was then that the first smell of rain struck his nose. But the sky’s nearly cloudless… Vhy do I smell rain?
“Vllllllk!”
Jitka again, and closer this time. Battle might be joined by the archers at any moment, and little Jitka was desperate to get his attention. What in hells did she want? She didn’t sound afraid.
She sounds … excited?