“Maybe, but they both have your eyes. Well, your eyes before they changed.”
“Hmmm,” Thania said in agreement. “Anton already looks as if he’s going to be as tall as you are.”
“Runs in the family.” Stefan unclasped her hands and faced her. “This first strike is more of a test before the main campaign begins. I intend to return to spend at least a little more time with you all. But-”
Thania placed a finger to his lips, cutting him off.
After kissing her finger, he gently removed it. “I need to say this.” He stared into her golden eyes. “Teach them who and what they are. Never let them forget me even if I should be away for years. Above all, regardless of what happens, what Nerian does, do not leave them alone with him.”
“The only way I will ever leave them is if I’m imprisoned or dead,” Thania said. “Our pendants, the pieces of us I imbued into them, now also contain a part of the children’s essences. The day you do not feel its warmth, our love, when within its presence is the day you will know something is amiss. But even then, there will be hope.”
Stefan couldn’t help his frown. The words seemed an odd thing to say. In ways, they reassured him, but the end sounded almost prophetic. Her hands stroking his face chased away the thoughts.
“Come, my love,” she said, golden eyes shining, voice husky with need. She headed for the bed, hips swaying seductively.
A grin on his face, Stefan shed his clothes and followed. At dawn, he would spend some time with the children. But right now, all he wanted was to chase away his worries, all the plots, and make love to his wife.
CHAPTER 17
A relentless march past the Sands of the Abandoned then through the Everlast Mountains into Everland brought Stefan’s forces to this rock-strewn pass. With Harnan territory due east of the Sands, this was the only route left to them. As usual, he’d made sure his soldiers feasted the night before. Men should not battle on an empty stomach. They needed their full vigor when they went to greet their gods. To either side, rock faces and slopes rose to sheer heights. His cape billowing behind him, Stefan surveyed the Erastonian army. Through a wavy haze of heat, black armor glinting, they spread below in an unmoving mass half the number of his forty thousand Unvanquished.
Stefan wiped sweat from his brow then raised the looking glass to his eye. The men of the Erastonian vanguard wore dark, shiny leather armor and bore short dual swords, one on each hip. Behind them stood infantry in black plate mail, either with two-handed great swords or tasseled polearms. Inside each helm, he made out faces so pasty white they gave the impression his men faced walking corpses.
Battle standards flapped above the Erastonian army, displaying a gray fist enclosed around a black lightning bolt-the Searing Fist. Against the backdrop of the valley and the mountains behind the enemy, a storm boiled. Lightning flickered among the gray clouds like some daemon’s eye opening and closing quickly. With each flash in the puffed quilt, thunder rumbled. At a slow roll, Erastonian drums joined the bellows. Their trumpeters blared in unison. From over two thousand feet away, the enemy ranks rippled as they began their charge.
What do they hope to accomplish? They have no archers or cavalry, and we have the advantage of higher ground. This is going to be a slaughter. Still, something about the way they charged gave Stefan pause. He frowned, took the looking glass from his eye, and wiped away sweat once again. The Erastonian infantry appeared closer than they should be for men who ran. He scanned the field through the bronze tube. The Erastonians had covered over half the distance in moments. In Ilumni’s name, how is that possible?
“Tell the men to fire the scorpios,” Stefan yelled, hand clenched around the looking glass.
Both Kasimir and Garrick started at the order, but they passed it on. Trumpets along the Setian lines blew.
The Cardian slaves cranked the drays into position. Operators turned the loading mechanisms on the scorpios.
By the time Stefan brought the tube to his eye once more, the charging Erastonians were within five hundred feet. In a black avalanche, they swept down the pass, the rumble from twenty thousand boots shaking the ground. The absence of a single battle cry among them was more than disconcerting; it made Stefan’s heart hammer. Good gods, they’re fast. Too fast.
“Fire,” Stefan shouted as he fought down the dread that threatened to become panic. “FIRE-Gods damn it-FIRE!”
Three thousand scorpios loosed their projectiles. The din of oncoming boots washed out the twang of the weapons’ release. Through the looking glass, a nervous tingle rippling within him, Stefan followed the bolts’ flight. Zipping sideways like rain showers whipped by the strong winds, the steel-tipped projectiles flew true.
Within a foot of striking their targets, the bolts rebounded as if they struck some unseen wall. They fell to the ground. Not one struck their intended targets.
Stefan gasped. Next to him, similar exclamations issued from Garrick and Kasimir. Shocked and awed murmurs rippled down the cavalry ranks to either side of them.
The scorpios reloaded and fired. Again, no effect.
The operators cranked the gears frantically now. Bolts flew and struck the same invisible wall.
A Forged shield, it had to be.
“Signal the pikemen to be ready.” Even as he yelled the order, Stefan knew it was too late. He’d been too stunned by the infantry’s speed and the failure of the scorpios. The Erastonians would slam into his men before they arranged their formation. “Cavalry, charge!” he cried.
Trumpets wailed as he kicked his mount into motion. A roar went up from his men as hooves began to drum on the hard earth. Sword out, heart thumping, Stefan leaned into his stallion’s neck. The chances of saving his men seemed slim, but he had to try.
A scant few pikemen managed to set their spears forward before the Erastonians crashed into them in a boiling wave. A few of the enemy were impaled, which told Stefan the shield no longer protected them. Others leaped impossibly high and far over the extended pikes, landing behind the forward line of swordsmen and among the pikemen.
The slaughter of the Setian began.
Unable to drop their spears and unsheathe their short swords in time, the pikemen were cut down. Occupied by the enemy still pouring in, the defensive line of Setian swordsmen could do little to help. Those that did turn died to dual-wielding, white-faced Erastonians stabbing them in the weaknesses of their armor between torso and legs or at their necks. Blood spurted in gouts, painting silver armor red and made leather darker.
The second rank of pikemen did manage to draw their swords but found themselves outmatched by the faster, lightly armored Erastonians. Another enemy wave leaped over the milling mass of Setian battling along the front line to reinforce their other warriors. They hacked and slashed with merciless efficiency.
By now, the black plate wearing Erastonians gained the lines and began to lay about with their two-handed great swords, decimating all who stood before them. The Setian managed to strike down a few, but his men soon disappeared beneath the wave of black.
A trumpet sounded as his cavalry reached the rearmost infantry ranks. What remained of his men struggled mightily against the Erastonians to hold their own. Scorpios still tried to fire, and the ones that did loose were able to punch through a few of the enemy soldiers, nearly splitting them in half when they struck. But the quarters were too close. The Erastonians quickly focused on the scorpios, dropping slaves and operators in quick succession.
“Protect the scorpios,” Stefan yelled. He dashed toward the closest ones, his warhorse knocking men from its path as he slashed left and right, carving a space around him.