The squires proved easy to cajole into saddling their own horses and riding in as reinforcements. They were all too eager for the opportunity to prove themselves and come to the aid of their king, beating their shields and calling out war cries, some with voices that still cracked with youth. Gail had ridden with young warriors before but often they were hardened, hand-selected by her for cruelty and lack of conscience. How these boys would hold up in the horrors of battle she was less sure. Soft, she thought most of them, and pampered from city life.
All that was about to change.
If she was right. If not, it would be the pillory post for her or even the gallows.
Gail had around four dozen riders, no time for an exact count. She kept Kevin and Patrick at the front with her. Her two friends had shared the “orders from the king,” so most of the impressionable squires assumed that Kevin and Patrick had been left in charge. It suited her needs. Kevin and Patrick were well liked, well respected, and proficient at relaying her orders, calling them out with the deep voice that she lacked.
They rode out of the camp following the hoof prints of the cavalry in the sandy soil of the steppes. It made for easy tracking but she did not like what she saw: the Maurvant had retreated into a narrow gorge, a dry riverbed making for swift passage. Too swift. She urged her horse onward to where the canyon walls narrowed then pulled up hard on the reins, the riders coming to a stop behind her.
The way was blocked. A pile of rock fall, three men deep, barred the way. The landslide was fresh, dust still hung in the air, and rocks were still settling in place. From the other side she could hear the sounds of war horns, the cries of men, and the clash of arms.
“There is nothing natural about this rock slide. It was to cut off their escape.”
“Do we climb over?” Kevin asked.
“No, we’d have to leave our horses and we don’t want to surrender that advantage. Ride back. Half should take the north side of the canyon, half the south. We’ll ride along the rim and use the high ground to our advantage.”
She did not wait for comment or even agreement. She simply kicked her own horse, parted the cadre of squires behind her, and hoped they were not too late. There was no relief for her mount; she drove him hard through the scrub and shifting rocks along the dry wadi, briars and branches whipping her legs. Soot croaked and flapped his wings overhead. Half the riders peeled away to the north where the slope of the canyon wall was gentle and they started climbing in a cloud of dust.
How few they seemed once divided.
Their way on the south slope of the canyon was not as easy, the horses floundering on the scree. From halfway up, however, she had a better vantage point on the rim of the canyon to the east. There the cliffs were bristling with Maurvant archers nocking back their arrows, their shadows long in the setting sun. They were dressed like barbarians, in skins, and leather, not a shining plate of metal armor among them. Their faces were covered in chalky white paint streaked with lines of red, black, ocher, or blue. It was one thing to hear about the enemy, to build him up in one’s mind, but to see him on the field of battle was to make the conflict and the coming violence real.
Gail felt bile rising in her throat, her hands trembling with the fever of the fight. They would be spotted any second and lose the element of surprise. Worse, their opponents had the high ground. They could not afford to continue struggling with the horses.
“Dismount!” she cried. “Take the rest of the hill on foot.”
A few squires stubbornly tried to make the rest of the climb mounted, only to have one of the horses tumble with a whinny and crush the leg of the rider.
One down already.
The others took to running up the slope, most passing her with their longer strides. But when they reached the top they showed their inexperience, hesitating, gathering around Patrick who simply looked back to her for instruction. She knew they were past the point of strategy. Already she could see the other half of their party riding down the archers on the north rim. Those on the south rim had already spotted them.
“What are you waiting for? Charge them!”
The squires were nothing if not brave. Once the order was given they brandished their swords and went running pell-mell towards the archers. She followed, her stature denying her the opportunity to lead at the front, but she knew Patrick would be there and would rise to the occasion. From atop the rim she was afforded a clear view of the canyon floor. King Talamar and his men were surrounded, their shields thick with arrows, while Maurvant riders circled. Desperate, she found herself searching the purple and blues of the Antan cavalry for the verdant green of Darid’s surcoat. She breathed such a sigh of relief at seeing him alive lined up next to the king that she surprised herself. A wave of protectiveness surged within her along with rage towards the enemy. She drew out an arrow, nocked it back in her bow, steadied herself, and let it fly at a Maurvant archer. He twisted as the arrow struck home in his neck just as one of the squires came and cut him down from behind. She grabbed a second arrow and a third, picking her targets out from the Maurvant that were not engaged yet with the squires. Without plate armor they made for ripe targets, her biggest constraint was avoiding her own men. A Maurvant tribesman, flakes of white paint in his long mustache, spotted her and came rushing, a stone battle ax raised above his head. No time to nock an arrow, she drew both her swords, tucked and rolled beneath his strike, spun up, hamstrung him with a quick swing then lowered her second blade to his neck.
She could see his pulse beating in his throat, sweat smearing the paint on the edge of his jaw. His eyes betrayed his fear, his knowledge that he was lost, but so close—as close as she had been to so many other men she had murdered—she lost her desire to release his life blood into the dirt. Instead she kicked away his ax and indicated with a shake of her head for him to run.
He wasted no time, scrambling up, turning and sprinting away, kicking up dirt with each running footstep.
She was a mystery to herself now, surprised at the waning of her own bloodlust. But there would be others she could not spare. She sheathed her swords and took a knee beside the edge of the cliff, taking aim at the Maurvant riders below. The turnabout on the cliffs above had caught them by surprise and their ring of riders had scattered in panic when arrows began to rain down on them from both the north and south walls.
“Don’t hit our people!” Gail cried out as a slew of arrows from squires with little experience stuck into the earth near their own cavalry. She let one arrow after another loose until her fingers peeled and ached. The tide was turning below with the king and his men breaking out of the dome of shields they had formed and now striking down the Maurvant riders. The Maurvant, sensing their own plan turned against them, charged the Antans, making a courageous last stand, though some fled along the dry riverbed, and still others fell to their knees to surrender. Gail pulled arrows from the dead Maurvant around her and used them again. Before she might not have spared those Maurvant who surrendered, but this time she did, something like mercy having taken root within her. So she saved her arrows for those who rushed the line of Antan knights, letting the cowards flee and the trusting surrender.
When all was done there were more Maurvant covering the ground than their own. Cries of triumph rang out from the canyon. Gail dropped back on her haunches, then her rear, her legs spread out before her, her chin hitting her chest in exhaustion. Patrick slapped her on the back, his face spattered with blood, his grin exultant as he laughed. “Looks like you just might be a hero, Alex.”
Soot settled on her shoulder and croaked as if he approved.