27. Twenty-Four

Heskir and his mage army held position on the ridge in a line, crimson banners waving against an azure sky. I shifted atop my horse in my ill-fitting armor. Sweat ran down the back of my neck and my chest. The collar sat snugly against my throat, the sting of needles digging in now a familiar sensation. I imagined elven swords were very much like needles when they went in, too, but they would cleave much more than a few drops from me.

We had four hundred fighters, but Ruith had opted to split the force into three. Two hundred elves waited with me in a wedge formation while he'd sent Aryn with a hundred more riding east. Their task was to flank Heskir's men and smash in from behind. Our job was to survive long enough for them to do it.

Up on another hill to the west, in a graceful arch, most of our mages and the archers awaited orders from Katyr and Ieduin.

I hadn't told Ruith that I'd never been in a battle before. It seemed like useless information. I was going to be part of this one, green or not, and my options were the same: live or die.

I looked over at Ruith, his face steady, stoic, unworried. Wind tugged at his braids, pulling at them from where they stuck out beneath his helmet. There was no sign of doubt in his posture or the words he had spoken before. It didn't seem to have even occurred to him that we might lose, even though that seemed likely to me.

There was no meeting of commanders in the field before the horn sounded as there would have been back home. There was just the horn and then all hell broke loose. Arrows flew and fire rained from the sky. Despite the clear day, lightning and thunder shot from mage taps, battering the enemy"s left flank. To escape the deadly waves of magic and arrows being flung at them, Heskir had two choices. Either he could order his men to charge down from their advantageous position, or they could change formation, shifting eastward. Slowly, they chose the latter. The front lines thinned, but the army itself stretched back further than we could see from our position on the low ground.

"We do not have to break them," Ruith shouted. "We only have to push them." To me, in a quieter voice, he said, "Ride beside me. Show no fear. If you lose your horse, find another."

A horn sounded, and my heart clogged my throat almost as much as the collar when my horse moved forward without any instruction from me.

The elves were screaming demons on horseback making their approach. I'd never heard anything like the deep throaty hollering sound of their war cry, like a vicious aerie of eagles against the thundering of hooves. The ground itself rose to fight us, tufts of grass becoming reaching vines and dirt parting at the enemy's command to trip up the horses.

I knew how to ride. I was a three-time champion of the mounted obstacle course at Ostovan, but even I struggled to stay seated and make the jumps required. Horses screamed. Magic flashed, a wall of water falling like a veil from the sky. We rode through it and smashed into the enemy on the other side.

This close magic was only friendly fire, so it was all spears and swords, shields smashing and blades clashing. I barely got a sense of what was happening before the world tilted and I hit the ground. I pushed up, crimson mud squelching between my fingers. Red armor in front of me. I got my sword up just in time to catch a blow meant for my shoulder. The elf that met me was strong, and I was on the ground, but I found the strength to push up. Momentum sent him staggering back a step. Somewhere, he'd lost his helmet, leaving his face muddy. I stabbed at it messily, slicing his skull from crown to chin. The blade got embedded in bone and I had to kick him off.

I turned and froze. The day was gone. Everything was smoke and blood. Bodies clashed with swords. Horses rolled in the muck, dead or dying. Errant fireballs loosed, catching men and shields. Vines curled around warriors who had to stop fighting to hack them off. In turn, they had their heads, arms, legs cut off by the enemy. Crimson and blue blended seamlessly together so that it was impossible to tell friend from foe.

If you lose your horse, find another.

The order rang clear in my mind. Find a horse. I could do that.

I took a step, and the fighting parted, revealing an elf on horseback, his red armor gleaming. Bloodstained blond braids streamed down from beneath a crimson helm and silver taps gleamed.

A horse. He had a horse.

It didn't register that I had found Heskir until I was already challenging him. Heskir, on horseback, thrust his spear forward, killing a man. He hadn't seen me yet. With a sword and unfamiliar armor, I wasn't going to be a match for him, but I needed his horse. Ruith said get a horse.

But first, I needed a shield.

A dying man groaned on the ground, half hidden beneath his large, round wooden shield. The emblem on the front was that of a vine entangled red tree, the paint chipped and blood covered. I seized the shield from the dying man on my way past him.

A Runecleaver sword slashed at me. I smashed the shield into his arm, batting the sword away and leaving him open for an easy thrust. When I looked up, Heskir had spotted me. He yanked his spear out of his last opponent and spurred his horse toward me at a full gallop. I let him come, and when he raised his spear, I caught his downward thrust with the shield. The spear landed with enough force that it sent an ache rippling through my arm. With a silent shout, I wrenched the shield to one side, and the spear with it. Heskir was still holding onto the spear, trying to drive it into me. His eyes widened as he was pulled along with the spear and shield. He realized at the last second he was about to be unseated from his horse and rolled to keep from landing badly. On the ground, we were equals but for one thing: Heskir still had his magic.

Vines sprouted from the ground and pushed him back to his feet. I had taken his spear, but that hardly seemed to matter to him. He tore a strip of vine free and unfurled it into a whip. Thick thorns swelled at the end, dripping red as he spun it in a circle. With a shout, he flung it out at me. On instinct, I brought the shield up. His thorn whip smashed into the wood, shattering the remnants of his spear and leaving a sizeable dent behind. Numbness spread up my arm, and when I tried to lift it, pain answered. He brought the thorn whip down again, and I opened my mouth to scream as it impacted with bone shattering strength, but no sound came out.

Fleshy vines closed around my throat, and he yanked, pulling me closer, strangling me with them. He smirked as if he'd won, but it was his final mistake. I still had my sword, one good arm, and enough air to use it. Gritting my teeth, I drove the blade into his lower stomach at a perfect angle, just beneath his breastplate.

Heskir froze, eyes widening, the look on his face one of utter disbelief, as if it were inconceivable to him that a slave would dare kill him. His hold on the thorn whip loosened, and I leaned my full weight into the sword, pushing in. His taps flared, and then died with an impotent spark, his power depleted. He abandoned his hold on the whip now, wrapping his fists around the blade as if he could somehow stop it. I yanked it free of him and he jerked as if stung.

Heskir sank to the ground, his vines curling and turning gray.

I discarded the shield and took his horse, a blood-spattered white stallion, using a dying man's shoulder to climb up into the saddle. My arm throbbed, but I didn't think it was broken.

As I was deciding what to do next, there was another horn. The crimson armored mages turned the other way, eyes wide as fresh horses poured over the horizon. I recognized some of them as ours, but there were too many, more than the hundred men Ruith had sent to flank Heskir's force. Riding with our men were elves in red armor, carrying a new banner: the red oak and a broken broadsword.

"It's the Broken Blades," someone shouted, and Heskir's men immediately began throwing down their weapons.

Breathing heavily, I carried my sword and rode out to find Ruith. He, too, seemed to have lost his helm in the battle. Other than five dots of blood on his left cheek and a hand shaped smear of the same on his horse's hindquarters, he looked much the same as he had before the battle.

Ruith didn't even look at me as I rode up beside him, but it was impossible to miss the small, knowing smile. "I see you found a horse. Good man."

My chest swelled with pride at the simple praise.

An elf in the same crimson armor as Heskir's men rode up, the Broken Blades banner waving on his flank. Niro Runecleaver.

"Commander Niro," Ruith said in greeting. "I did not expect you to take the field today."

Niro, stone jawed and green eyed, replied, "I did not expect Vinolia to play her hand so brazenly. Her actions last night and today have brought dishonor to our great house."

There was a moment of silent understanding between the two commanders, some quiet vying for position, before Niro removed his helm. Long, silver touched golden hair full of braids flowed down strong, wide shoulders.

"There was a time," Niro said, "when your father would not have tolerated this sort of insubordination. Now, he turns a blind eye to it in the south and burns villages in the north. There is no honor in grinding the heel into a defeated man's neck. No glory in the murder of unarmed women and children." He glanced at me briefly and then back to Ruith. "Your father has become the tyrant he once sought to unseat. I wonder if his son will learn from those missteps."

"I have not come to fight my father's war," Ruith said, "but to end it."

Niro handed his helm to the flag bearer. With a flourish, Commander Niro dismounted. I tensed as he drew his sword, but the proud elf dropped to his knees and laid the bare blade across his lap, hands resting on his thighs, head down. It was Ruith's sword, the one given to him as a wedding present.

"Then my Blades are yours," Niro offered with reverence. "I bind my honor to yours, my life to this endeavor. Before the gods, I pledge myself and my men to your cause until it is done, or we raise our cups together in Dehira." The Runecleaver commander lifted his sword and cut through his palms one at a time, offering them both in supplication.

Wind blew through the battlefield, carrying the stench of death. The wings of carrion birds fluttered above, inaudible against the clink of armor and the dying of elves and horses, of enemies being taken prisoner and medics appearing to do their grim work. Tiny waterfalls of crimson fell from between pale fingers.

Ruith dismounted and clasped Niro's bloody offering. "I accept your pledge and return one of my own, that I will ask no more of you than your loyalty and no less than honor demands."

"You have it," came Niro's reply. "I am yours, my king."

A ripple of shock went through me. My king. The elves had no king. Everyone knew that. They had a council of clans which gathered to vote for a new Primarch every three years. The last king of the elves had been slain during an uprising many years ago.

Cold understanding dawned on me then that we were not some disparate army marching back to the capital after the end of the summer raids. No, it was too carefully constructed to be that, the command structure too firm, the men's loyalty to Ruith too unwavering.

His was a rebel army, and I was witnessing it find its first footing.

Ruith pulled Niro to his feet. The two elves clasped arms, a treasonous accord struck.