“Aiii! Kweeeh! Yiiaaah!” the cries of the Sem filled the air with indecipherable insults and curses.
Marus scowled at the noise. The old count was right in the midst of the attack, maintaining his position at the head of his blue knights. His blue captain’s plume waved above the cavalry vanguard as he cut through the fray, moving no slower than many of the younger knights. Garanth rode close to his side as one of his flag bearers, guarding the count without pause.
From time to time as the melee eddied around him Marus would withdraw his beloved blade, drenched in wildling gore, and pull back behind his flagbearers to rest for a moment and look over the battle. There was chaos on all sides, spraying blood and flying sand, horses rearing and wildings swarming so thickly that it was hard to tell one from the other.
Once, the severed head of a Sem flew up into the air, trailing a red gout of blood across the men below, a grimace of hatred frozen on its painted face. This brought a round of cheers from the invaders, but the sound was soon lost beneath the frantic whinnying of horses and screams of men as two steeds were brought down by Sem spears and collapsed on the crimson sand, throwing their riders to be trampled under the wildling horde.
“Hmm,” Marus grumbled as he surveyed the scene, easing his thirst with a flask of water handed to him by one of the knights of his guard. Just a few yards away the battle raged. His men were fighting with their faceplates lowered, knocking aside the poisoned spears that were thrust at the weak armor at their necks, trying to hold the line against a determined Sem advance. Their shining blue armor was stained with the blood of friend and foe.
“Hah! Foul monkeys!” Marus heard a voice exclaim behind him. “By Istar, they’re fiendish, smelly brutes!”
The voice was familiar, young and lively; it came from the tall rider who now rode swiftly past the count, swinging his sword with determined ferocity, cutting down Sem to right and left. His skill was impressive. The count’s hard-set eyes softened. “Eru. You’ll not die here, either,” he muttered softly. Garanth, by his side, gave no sign that he had heard the count. Silently the lieutenant raised his faceplate and took a gulp of water.
“How many youths have perished under these flags,” Marus continued, too low for even Garanth to hear, “on the streets of Parros during the War of the Black Dragon, and now here, painting the wastes of Nospherus with their blood—for Mongaul, for Mongaul…” The count’s eyes were filled with deep sadness. “For Mongaul,” he repeated. “I understand why we fight. I know it is our destiny to rule this land. But I do not want to see another young man fall. Not one.” He shook his head and gazed out toward the front lines once more. Eru of Argon was gone. Like a galloping thunderbolt he had disappeared into the melee, cutting as he went.
I am getting old, thought Marus, then he cleared his throat and turned to his lieutenant. “Back into the fray, Garanth.”
“Ready, Lord Captain,” said Garanth, slapping his chest in a firm salute, which Marus knew meant: I am old, but I can fight harder than any younger man.
Marus waited for him to lower his faceplate and then shouted “For Mongaul!” and charged toward the turmoil of the lines, sword swinging.
“For Mongaul!”
The shout went up on every side, the men answering their captain.
Astrias, accompanied by his lieutenant, Pollak, sweltered back in the rearguard. He regarded his placement in today’s formation as a clear sign that the lady general’s dissatisfaction with him had not yet abated. When it came time for a retreat, or should they need to about-face and attack an enemy from behind, the position of rearguard could be one of great honor, but not today. Today they were to meet the enemy head-on, and chase them head-on should they withdraw. Only the most useless of captains would have been assigned to the rearguard today.
And now the battle was joined and playing out a good distance from his position, so far that he could barely hear the courageous shouts of his fellow knights taking enemy heads. Astrias’s mood grew darker.
He should be up there with them, winning victory—and winning her heart.
Although he had not yet fully realized it, Astrias was very much enamored of the Lady General Amnelis, she of the shining golden hair and cool emerald eyes. She made him want to achieve great things, to win her praise—and, just maybe, her smile of satisfaction. But from the very beginning of this excursion all his efforts had gone awry. First he had failed to capture Guin and the four other fugitives, leading most of his strike force to bloody death in the Nospherus interior… And then, when he tried to make up for his failure by chasing down the Sem without waiting for the lady’s orders, the vanguard he urged on had fallen into the yidoh trap and Captain Leegan had perished. Both times he had escaped while others died. Both times he had come back defeated, ashamed of his failure, ashamed to be alive.
If I had only been given the front lines this time, I would be washing off that shame, finding a way to make this disgrace right again.
But instead of giving Astrias a chance to redeem himself, his liege had scorned and scolded him harshly, throwing him in the rearguard. Just thinking about it set a fire in Astrias’s breast.
Everything is his fault! His fault! Guin…