Prishata knew he had just witnessed a miracle of sorts.
He had no idea what god or supernatural power had intervened in the battle to help them. But clearly, something or someone had caused the earth to rise up and strike down those attackers. Several hundred of them lay around the clearing, most buried under tons of dirt, others with their mouths and eyes stuffed, lifeless.
There were probably still attackers outside the grove, he knew, perhaps a few hundred, perhaps more. But he could see none of them attempting to enter the grove itself. The fact that their way was blocked by high mounds of loose dirt and the corpses of their fellow mercenaries and animals was only part of the reason why they were probably hesitant to make the attempt.
He guessed that they were more afraid of the supernatural forces than they had been of the Krushan defenders. These were men and women who had committed terrible atrocities in their lifetimes. They had thought nothing of committing a few more today, for the right amount of gold. But to take on forces that were more than human exceeded their mandate. Like all ignorant, violent persons, they were intensely superstitious. Ironic as it might seem, in his experience, the most violent people were always the most fanatical. Be it religious extremism or simply a fanatical devotion to a creed. Mercenaries were more pragmatic, but even they had their fears and cultural superstitions deeply embedded in their psyches. The attackers were spooked out of their skulls by the way their comrades had been killed. They were probably riding away from the grove now as quickly as they had arrived.
“General, the attackers are retreating!” said an exuberant young captain. “Shall we give pursuit?”
Prishata smiled at the young man. “We are the last line, Captain. We do not leave our ward. Remember?”
The soldier realized his mistake. “Apologies, sire. I am a little . . . confused.”
“No matter,” Prishata said. He dismounted slowly from his horse, stroking her neck affectionately. He was happy she had survived the battle. He would have been happier if Karnaki and more of his defenders had survived as well, but that was the price of war. “I shall go now to check on the prince to make sure—”
A wail rose from the tent behind him, startling him and the two dozen last line defenders. Those who had sheathed their swords drew them again at once, while some wheeled around, expecting to see a new wave of attackers approaching from the grove.
But the danger was not from the grove.
Prishata looked in the direction of the pavilion, which was the direction of the river too, and his heart ran cold.
There was a boat floating across the river, carrying several mercenaries, who laughed and pointed and waved mockingly upon catching sight of Prishata.
He roared and began to run down the bank, skipping and leaping down the gentle slope. “Krushan! To your prince!”
Prishata reached the pavilion and burst in, his sword raised and ready, expecting to see two dead bodies within, one male, one female.
Instead, he saw the blank, unseeing eyes of his crown prince.
“Prince!” he cried, lowering his sword and coming forward. “Are you well?”
Adri held out his hands to Prishata, wailing like an animal in pain.
More soldiers rushed into the tent, one of them the young captain who had spoken to Prishata moments ago.
“General, shall we loose arrows at them? They are still within bowshot!”
“No!” Adri cried. “No arrows! You will hit her.”
Prishata stared at his prince, at the tears streaming from those unseeing eyes. He looked around the tent and saw that it was deserted apart from Adri. Then he understood.
He left the tent and looked down at the river.
The boat was several hundred yards downstream already, just a thumb-sized brown shape on the water. But he could make out the faces of the mercenaries, still grinning and waving. And the shapeless form of their passenger. A figure with its head covered by a burlap sack. He saw how it had been done, the boat sent downriver at just the right time, when all the defenders were busy fending off the overwhelming number of attackers in the grove, too preoccupied to even notice the river. The tactic of attacking from all three sides on land, creating the illusion that the direction behind the defenders—the river—was a safe zone.
Prishata realized they had been most brilliantly played and outmatched.
“They never intended to kill Crown Prince Adri at all,” he said now, as much to himself as to the captain standing beside him. “This was their plan all along.”
To kidnap the prince’s beloved companion, the maid. Who also happened to be the mother of his unborn bastard child.