Auum called his Tai and raced off, gathering others to him. He whipped out another jaqrui, this one finding a gap in the shield net and thudding into the back of one of the rider’s heads. The cavalryman pitched from his horse.
‘Get the runners! Get the runners!’
Ahead of him arrows flew and elves sprinted on the chase. ClawBound joined them, the panthers snapping at the heels of cavalry horses, one cat leaping to snatch a trooper from his saddle and bear him screaming to the ground. But the key men were getting away.
The surviving Protectors curved in more sharply, blocking the elves’ route to the escaping Xeteskians, and around their flanks came the remains of the cavalry, swords held high, yelling war cries, their mounts thundering across the plain.
‘Arrows!’ yelled Auum, and he pulled another jaqrui from his belt pouch and flung it, seeing it miss its target as the rider ducked reflexively at the sound, hunching close over his saddle. ‘Tai, be sure.’
The horses were on them, eight riders crashing into the line of TaiGethen, the elves dodging, waiting for an opportunity to strike. From the sides, arrows came in, thudding into three of the horses, which grunted in pain but ran on. One rider was downed, tumbling forward and under the hooves of his mount.
Auum could all but feel the breath of the animal on him when he skipped right and slashed his sword high, taking his opponent in the leg. He turned to watch them halt and turn. Auum took off at a sprint, racing past battling elves and men and hearing the scream of a dying TaiGethen cut off abruptly. The rider had pointed his horse and was kicking it back into motion, holding his sword low this time and to his left, defending his wounded leg.
But Auum wasn’t interested in dodging this time. Going full tilt at the horse, he gauged the closing distance, leapt high, rolled in the air and arrowed in straight-legged, his feet catching the rider on the top of his head and catapulting him from the saddle. Auum landed rolling, coming up fast to finish the job, but there was no need. The broken angle of the still body told him everything.
He swung back to begin the chase after their main targets but could see immediately he was too late. Yelling in frustration, he turned to look for his Tai in the closing moments of the battle only to see a Protector impossibly close to him. He caught a glimpse of slashed mask and bloodied face behind it and an axe blade flashing towards him. He dived reflexively right, looking up to see the weapon coming at him again, head height. He raised his blade to block but knew it wouldn’t be enough.
A black shadow crossed his vision and a panther took the Protector at the neck. The axe came through, catching the animal’s hindquarters, shearing off a leg. It dropped to the ground dead, its ClawBound partner howling anguish. The bound-elf dived onto the prone enemy and stabbed straight-fingered again and again into his throat until it was nothing but bloody gore.
Auum placed a hand on the elf’s shoulder. Elsewhere, the fight was done, the Xeteskians disengaging and running; some escaping, others being cut down as they went, victims of sword, spell and arrow. The ClawBound’s howls split the air, his cries taken up by his brothers and their animals. The elf hugged his panther to him, smoothing its bloodied fur as ClawBound ran in from across the plain to mourn his loss.
‘I am sorry,’ said Auum. ‘That blade was meant for me.’
The elf looked up at him, paint streaked with his tears, eyes red and glistening. ‘It was vital you lived,’ he said, then he let his head drop in prayer. He would be buried with his panther.
Auum backed away and rejoined his Tai. The war was not yet won.
Tendjorn had been moved to command the Dordovan forces south of Xetesk and took it as a rebuke for his failure to lure the Xeteskians into an incursion across the River Dord. It had been a one-sided affair, he had lost far too many men and perhaps he was right to be shamed. The thought, though, did not improve his mood.
It was early evening, and in the camp between the south and north lines he was debating what to have for supper. He was bored with thick soups and stews and wondered if he could persuade some of the men to go out hunting deer. It was against regulations to leave the front but a forest two miles to the east was said to be home to a few. It could hardly hurt.
He was in charge of two hundred foot soldiers and mages spread thinly against an attack he didn’t believe would come; not now Lystern had joined the blockade. And they had been effective in reducing supply to Xetesk to a trickle at best. The Lysternan leader, Heryst, was engaged in diplomacy which Vuldaroq was determined would fail. And though part of Tendjorn wanted it to fail too, so he could avenge his earlier poor showing, most of him wanted to go home, put his feet up and continue his research.
Tendjorn ambled out of his command tent and wandered over to one of the perimeter guards to the south of the camp. The majority of his men were north, well dug in against a Protector force he knew was out there. But he had stationed as many as he could spare in his south-facing line because command said Xeteskian researchers were heading home and would try to break the blockade. He didn’t believe that either.
‘Anything to report?’
The guard saluted then smiled and shook his head. ‘Still nothing, sir.’
‘Have they checked in?’
‘A couple of hours ago, nothing to—’
FlameOrbs appeared in the sky perhaps three miles south, maybe less, quickly followed by the unmistakable sparkle of HotRain.
‘What on earth?’ he said. ‘Have we got anyone that far south?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The Lysternans?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware, sir,’ said the guard.
They watched for a while, seeing spell after spell crack across the sky, getting no nearer.
‘Get out to the first watcher,’ ordered Tendjorn. ‘Get me some information.’
‘No need,’ said the guard, pointing.
Someone was running towards them, arms flailing for balance, legs pumping hard at the coarse scrub-covered ground. He was shouting something unintelligible and seemed to be waving them away. Tendjorn stood where he was, a hand cupped to his ear.
‘I can’t hear you!’ he shouted, and beckoned him on. ‘Get closer.’
The man was screaming his words out. Tendjorn frowned. Someone else was shouting too, but from behind. The watcher got within earshot.
‘Protectors!’ he gasped. ‘Twenty-five, running this way. Bring in the defence.’
Tendjorn nodded and turned, running back towards the centre of the camp.
‘Captain, I need a defence south. Protector force coming this way. Twenty-five. Mages, FlameOrbs and DeathHail. Now move!’
But there was something else. While some ran to do the Captain’s bidding, more were running the other way, grabbing weapons from stands, other officers screaming orders, faces white with fear.
‘Gods, what is happening?’
Tendjorn hurried up to his north line, cresting a rise that looked out across a long plain. They had chosen this position as an ideal battlefield. Coming across it were more Protectors. A hundred more at least. They would have their battle.
‘Shit,’ he rasped. ‘Keep them back as long as you can. Beware our south! More coming from the south.’
He turned and ran back towards his tent. From the south line, the ring of steel and the crump of spells had begun. Tendjorn slipped inside the tent and lay back on his cot, trying desperately to calm himself enough for a Communion. Vuldaroq had better be receptive. Tendjorn didn’t have long to live.
Chapter 40