Prishata

Karnaki came riding up to Prishata, her horse’s mouth lathered with the foam of effort. “Sir, they are breaking through!”

“On which side?” Prishata asked.

“All sides!” Karnaki said, then shouted, “Sir!”

Prishata saw the arrow whistling toward him and inclined his head a few inches to the right, just enough to let the missile zip past his left ear. He did not believe in ducking and hiding. A general led by example, and it made a poor example if he was constantly dodging arrows and spears. He could see the bowman at the far end of the grove, one of several riders who were making their way through the trees. Captain Karnaki had already dispatched several of the inner circle to hold them off, and fighting broke out a minute later, swords and arrows flashing through the grove as both groups engaged.

So it had come down to this, Prishata thought; they were going to have to stand and fight with their backs to the Jeel. He wondered now if he ought to have made arrangements for a boat in which to send the crown prince downriver. He had considered it, but just as he had the policy of not bending or ducking to avoid arrows, so also the House of Krushan had the policy of never retreating. Even Queen Mother Jilana, normally the most anxious about the safety of her family members, had staunchly refused to even discuss it. “The day a Krushan has to flee a fight is the day he abdicates his claim.”

Prishata touched the hilt of his own sword. It had stood in him good stead for a dozen battles, including the memorable one at Reygar, where they had fought the supernatural evil of Jarsun. He would have to draw it soon, but not yet. For a general to draw his sword meant that he would not be able to sheath it again unless he won a victory or it was cut from his dying hands.

These rules, these principles, these policies, he thought, with no bitterness, they are the marks of our honor and privilege, but they are also the signs of our downfall. We humans will kill and wage war for such symbols as a flag or an ideal, but when it comes to saving lives, we can never seem to put our shoulders together with half as much enthusiasm. What is it about killing that fascinates us so?

There was no more time to think. He shouted to Karnaki, “Last line! Call last line!”

Karnaki nodded and passed the order on.

In moments, a line of horses encircled the imperial pavilions. Behind the horse riders stood a line of soldiers on foot. Both horse and foot soldiers had their swords drawn and were ready to fight.

Prishata took his place in the horse line. The soldiers to either side—one male, one female—both glanced at him in surprise. It was not a general’s place to stand in the front line. His place was at the rear, behind his soldiers.

“Last line is last line,” he told the curious warriors to either side. “We stand as one.”

The others heard and exchanged glances. He saw the pride in their quick smiles and felt gratified. At least you lived a good life and led your soldiers well enough that they feel proud to have you stand alongside them in the last fight. That is as close as a warrior comes to earning true glory.

The fighting in the grove was more intense now, the attackers continuing to pour in from all sides in a never-ending stream. Even elephants and camels were visible, their riders pushing the reluctant animals through the close-growing trees. His defenders were dwindling, barely a hundred or so left, apart from the twoscore who stood now with him.

It would soon be all over. The hope of backup was long forgotten. In a few more moments, the attackers would swarm them on all sides and they would be fighting for their lives, destined only to die fighting here.

There were worse places to die. Riverdell was beautiful, and dying here meant one’s blood mingled with the Jeel’s sacred waters. Prishata had been wounded and near death in some awful spots, in distant, foreign lands. If he was to die here, then he would meet his death with pride and honor.

But before that, he would take a few enemies with him.

“We are Krushan!” he called now, raising his sword high. “We fight!”

A roar of voices echoed him. “We are Krushan! We fight!”

The fighting grew fiercer and closer. Defenders were falling like sheaves of corn hacked by a traveling scythe. There were just too many attackers.

The clearing was filling up rapidly, archers and horsemen and even camels and elephants all pushing in. He saw an elephant brutally prodded, bleeding profusely from a gaping wound behind his ear as the vicious rider forced it to rear up and crush a mounted Krushan. The elephant trumpeted in distress and turned to try and dislodge its cruel mahout, losing its balance and toppling over the horse carcass. It landed on two other Krushan fighting bravely on foot after their horses were killed. The elephant thrashed about madly, upsetting the other elephants and horses and camels, and pandemonium resulted, causing a minor stampede and several more deaths and injuries from kicking animals and accidental deaths.

Prishata had been in battles where this kind of thing happened, dozens or even hundreds dying from some unfortunate turn of weather or geography. He had seen a whole regiment lost to a snow avalanche once, and of course there was the historic Battle of Dasarajna, where King Sudas had cleverly dammed then released the river Parusni to flood the valley and eliminate the army of the Ten Kings; every general since then had studied that battle in depth. This struggle in Riverdell was by no means the most memorable or the most brutal he had seen, but as he always told his junior officers during training, “Every death is the first because it is the first time that person is dying, and every battle is your first, because it is the first time you are experiencing that battle.”

There was a brief lull in the battle as the confusion caused by the panicked animals dissipated, then the attackers renewed their efforts. Prishata estimated that there were at least a thousand or more of them already in the grove, pushing their way in against perhaps a hundred of his defenders, all told. No, make that three- or fourscore at best. A lot of his defenders were wounded and in agony, but still fighting to the very end.

He saw a half dozen attackers driving spears into the body of a defending soldier still holding her sword. She cut the ankle of one of her attackers as she died, and the man squealed like a rabbit and fell, clutching his foot. An elephant trod on him, crushing his right shoulder and chest, and his squeals ended there and then. The attackers were not even caring who they killed; Prishata saw some of them cutting down their own fighters by accident, something that happened often during sword fights in close quarters when animals were involved. They didn’t care or stop to check; mercenaries had no loyalty to one another or any cause; they were each here because they had been paid to kill or die.

He bit his lip in frustration. In a pitched battle he would have made short work of such an enemy force. But in such close quarters, with such unequal numbers, he knew his defenders stood no chance. Already the attackers were only a few yards away. Prishata saw Karnaki fighting against three attackers at the same time, then taking an arrow from a fourth attacker mounted on a camel, and another arrow. Then a third. Then the three attackers circled her, cutting and hewing at will.

Prishata saw bright arterial blood spurt from his lieutenant and sighed and added Karnaki to the long, long list of brave officers lost who had served under him, and the many more lost under whom he had served himself as a young man. Prishata had had a long illustrious career. If he was to die here, defending his crown prince, so be it.

And then it was time.

The attackers were at them and Prishata raised his sword to deflect an arrow, shouting once again, “Krushan! Fight!”

“Krushan! Fight!” came the response, sounding like it was shouted by several hundred rather than the thirty odd defenders remaining.

Prishata threw himself into the fray, his old muscles remembering timeworn moves as he swung and chopped and stabbed, his horse turning smartly, responding to the years of conscientious grooming and loving care he had lavished on her.

He had taken down four enemy attackers before the completely unexpected happened and the earth exploded in the middle of the grove.