Like a wolf hard upon
the scent of his prey, Mechnes tracked Prince Akmael as he rode behind the lines, along the crest and toward the river. The Syrnte infantry were driven down slope, but the Mage King’s weaker flank had begun to cede ground under the pressure of Barathamor’s horse near the river. The destruction of Akmael’s cavalry on their right flank could expose his foot soldiers and turn the battle back in Mechnes’s favor.
Seizing the opportunity, Mechnes unsheathed his sword and spurred his reserve into action.
“I want the Mage King’s head,” he cried, “and the maga’s corpse. All other plunder is yours. To victory!”
His men echoed the shout, their canter gathering into a gallop.
Mechnes pulled ahead to lead a wedge that drove hard into the melee, seeking to separate the Mage King’s horse from his infantry. He split the skull of a stray foot soldier, releasing a warm spray of blood before bearing down on one of the mounted men.
Sword met sword in a vicious song as Mechnes forced his opponent back. The horse whinnied in protest under its besieged rider, who struggled to repel each savage stroke. His shield splintered under Mechnes’s relentless pounding, his blade failed to penetrate the Syrnte’s rapid counters. When the man’s strength gave way and his guard faltered, Mechnes plunged the blade into his torso, relishing in the sound of metal parting mail and ripping through flesh.
The wounded rider tumbled from his mount.
Mechnes spat, wheeled his horse around, and chose his next kill, a sallow-faced youth who had lost his helmet. Blood streamed down the boy’s face from a cut over his eye, but he was quick with the sword, deflecting a blow meant to sever his neck, and counterattacking with skillfully delivered strokes. When the blade slipped from the youth’s hand, he seized Mechnes’s sword arm, muscles bulging on his neck as he struggled to keep the Syrnte Lord’s blade from slicing open his face.
Mechnes grinned at the youth. “First battle, lad?”
“Your last, milord.” The boy spoke between breathless grunts.
He shoved his shield at Mechnes in an attempt to throw him off balance. Knocking aside the attack, Mechnes released his knife and drove it into the boy’s throat, twisting until blood spurted hot from the wound. The young knight managed a few feeble blows before succumbing to a fit of choking. Mechnes watched him fall with disdain.
Do they have nothing better then this?
The grass was now slick with blood. An invigorating taste of salt and iron hovered about the field. Mechnes saw flames exploding amidst his men, and heard furious roars as Akmael’s Mage Warriors shapeshifted into bears.
Yet the Syrnte had been prepared for these tricks, and the cries of his men rang out in relentless chords of triumph, while the silver and purple banners of the Mage King fluttered and fell back, their hold increasingly uncertain against the renewed determination of the Syrnte army.
The horns of Moisehén blasted again from the ridge.
“Form ranks!” Mechnes thundered, indicating the crest where a fresh flood of spearmen appeared, led by the Mage King. “Form ranks!”
His trumpeters repeated the call as Mechnes disengaged from the melee. Other riders gathered to him, but too few and too slowly.
The new line of enemy warriors pounded forward, thrusting spears at rider and horse, shouting threats of death as they stabbed both men and mounts.
Mechnes parried their wooden shafts, and injured any soldier that came within reach, but the Mage King’s reserves were skilled and pressed forward relentlessly. The Syrnte horses whinnied in protest, nostrils flared and eyes crazed with fear. They shied away from the spearmen, rearing and prancing in circles.
“Curse this madness!” Mechnes reined in his mount, anger running hot through his veins. The horses were useless against these foot soldiers, and the battle was slipping from his grasp. “Hold your ground, men! The Mage King is within reach.”
He spotted Prince Akmael just beyond the line of spears, mounted on his horse and galvanizing the soldiers. Hungry for the royal bastard’s blood, Mechnes spurred his horse back into the fray, coming head to head with spearmen and taunting their front line.
“You think you are soldiers? You are nothing! Cowards and women, all! I am Mechnes, Prince of the Syrnte and Lord General of the San’iloman. I will have your heads, all of you, and the entrails of your king!”
A soldier with a weathered face and steady hands lunged toward Mechnes, separating himself from his comrades, ignoring the reprimands of his officer. Bloodlust and ambition burned in the man’s eyes as he thrust his spear at the Syrnte commander.
Mechnes laughed and drew back as his quarry followed, spinning on his horse, sweeping aside the spearhead with his shield. “You think yourself the Mage King’s hero? Every army has a fool like you.”
The man lunged again, slipping on the bloody remains of an unfortunate soldier. Mechnes responded with lightning
speed, sword slicing through leather and mail to tear open his opponent’s chest. The man stumbled back, determination overcoming surprise as he tried to regain his stance. Adjusting the grip on his spear, he attacked once more, but the thrust was weak. Mechnes struck, cleaving the man’s skull and snatching his spear as he fell.
Sheathing his sword, Mechnes let the dead man’s weapon settle in his grip as his mounted warriors continued to cede ground to the Mage King. The spear was not balanced for throwing, but no matter. The Syrnte prince had made use of poorer weapons under more difficult circumstances.
He eyed his target, now pulling to the front of the line, urging the men forward with vigorous shouts and raised sword.
The Mage King spotted Mechnes and spurred his horse to close the distance between them.
Mechnes stood in his stirrups, drew back his spear arm, and breathed a short prayer to the silent heavens.
“If there be Gods, let them favor me now.”
He released the spear. It sailed in a smooth arc toward the Mage King, hit the regent, and toppled him from his horse.
Shouts of consternation overtook the ranks of Moisehén. Their lines buckled at last.
Chapter Forty-One
Pain seared through Eolyn
. She clutched her shoulder, dizzy and fighting for each breath, arm numb from shock.
The mages who had been holding the circle ceased their chanting.
“No.” Eolyn blinked back an icy haze of dread. “Akmael…”
She abandoned the circle and ran down slope. A mage warrior intercepted her.
“Milady!” He caught Eolyn’s arm, bringing her momentum to a sudden, painful halt. “You can go no further.”
She shook him off, eyes fixed on the battle. “Where is he? Where is the King?”
Below, chaos was taking hold. There was no sign of Akmael, only his rearing horse, frightened and trapped inside a mass of fighting men. The two armies writhed like giant serpents in their death throes. Triumphant howls echoed across the field.
“Slain! The Mage King is slain!”
Horns sounded, and the Syrnte let forth a deafening roar of victory.
Men began to break away from the ranks of Moisehén, an ominous trickle that preceded frenzied retreat. The rout, Eolyn knew, would be merciless.
“Milady.” The mage warrior demanded her attention. “We must leave now.”
The rest of her guards had gathered around them, some already mounted, one of them with her mare in hand.
Eolyn took her horse by the bridle and pressed her forehead against the flat of its snout, whispering words of encouragement in a language learned long ago.
“He is not dead,” she said to the mage warrior.
“Gods grant that you be right, but it changes nothing. The battle is lost, and I have my orders.”
“Your orders are to protect me.” Eolyn mounted, Tzeremond’s staff in hand, Kel’Barú at her hip. “Protect me then, as I ride to the aid of our King.”
She spurred her horse into a gallop, charging downhill toward the heat of the fray, ignoring the guards’ shouts of consternation.
Stragglers who had begun their retreat paused at her passing and watched the maga’s descent with bewildered expressions. On the edge of the battle Eolyn reined back, nostrils flaring at the sting of blood, stomach roiling at the sight of so many mutilated men.
“Gods help me,” she murmured, invoking the spirit of her dead mother. “Beloved Kaie, Maga Warrior, woman of my blood, give me strength.”
The guards were approaching from behind, hooves pounding against the earth while they shouted their demands to halt. Eolyn did not look back, but waited, measuring the pace of their pursuit. Just before they reached her position, she spurred the mare forward again, forcing them to follow.
She kept her eyes on Akmael’s horse as they plunged into a river of death. A cacophony of metal and men driven mad overwhelmed her senses. Turbulent currents of fighting impeded her pace and threatened to drag her down.
The guards managed to surround her, defending her with sword and shield, their entreaties for retreat silenced by the will to survive. Under their protection, Eolyn pushed forward, conserving her magic as much as she could while invoking quick and scalding flames to fend off her attackers.
At last a path opened between her and Akmael’s horse. She sprang forward, breaking free of the circle of guards and invoking the speed of the wind.
She did not see the Syrnte warrior until it was too late. His sword flew from his hand, a flash of deadly light that sank deep into her horse’s neck. The animal reared, throwing Eolyn as it crumpled to its knees screaming.
She hit the ground hard, bones cracking upon impact, breath knocked from her lungs. Gasping, Eolyn scrambled to regain her footing. Her limbs throbbed with pain. Tears threatened to blur her vision.
Somehow Tzeremond’s staff remained in her grip. She used it to steady her spirit, to reach for the power of the earth.
A Syrnte soldier rushed Eolyn with sword raised, but his advance was stopped by a shout from the man who had brought down her horse. That man approached now, triumph in his gate, his blood-spattered face twisted into a malicious smile.
“Maga Eolyn.” He paused at a distance. “I am Mechnes, Prince of the Syrnte. Do you come to reclaim the body of your dead king, or to pay homage to your new master?”
“A maga has no master.” Eolyn fought to subdue the tremor in her hands. “Save the Gods who rule her heart.”
“I will take your heart then.” Mechnes accepted a sword from one of his comrades. Eolyn remembered how swift and sure the first had flown from his grip. “Though I may be obliged to cut it out.”
Kel’Barú shivered at her side, restless in its hilt, eager for this man’s blood. She ignored the temptation of its call. To go after Mechnes with a sword would be the greatest of all her follies.
Instead, she adjusted her grip on Tzeremond’s staff and focused on the steady hum at its core.
“You are finished here, Prince Mechnes,” she said. “In the name of the King, I bid you leave these lands. You and all your men. I will not ask again.”
“It is your King who is finished, maga. I rule Moisehén now. I bid you, set aside your staff and kneel before me, or you will find this sword lodged between your pretty breasts.”
Maehechnahm,
she replied,
arrat saufini
Tzeremond’s staff jumped at her call in an ominous surge of power.
Mechnes flung his sword in a sure, straight path to her heart.
Ehekaht neurai!
Lightning tunneled from the earth and travelled through the rowan staff, bursting from its crystal head in an explosion of white fire that lanced at Mechnes and threw him to the ground, trapping him in a luminous net.
Eolyn clung to Tzeremond’s staff, channeling all power of life and limb into its deadly fire. She braced for the impact of the Syrnte sword in desperate hope that her enemy would perish before his blade parted her sternum.
Fire crackled over Mechnes’s body and he screamed in agony, but Eolyn did not relent until his cries faded and the stench of burnt flesh saturated the air.
Eolyn released the curse. Her hair was singed, the palms of her hands blackened and raw. Her ears rang. She coughed and gagged and drew a rattling breath.
Running a sore hand over chest and abdomen, she found herself whole and unharmed. The flame had deflected Mechnes’s sword, which now lay useless on the ground, blade tarnished, leather wrappings of the hilt melted away.
Warily, Eolyn approached her victim, remembering the last time she had attempted this curse, how Tzeremond had survived its impact and risen again, vanquishing the maga and banishing her soul to the Underworld. Drawing Kel’Barú, she held the faithful blade in front of her, stepping close and setting the tip of the sword at Mechnes’s throat.
The man wheezed, sputtered, and lay still. He turned his head as if to look at her, but his soot-encrusted eyes had been burned white by the curse. He lifted a trembling hand toward her face.
“Adiana.” Mechnes’s voice was reduced to a ragged whisper, tinged with mirth and melancholy. “I knew it would be you.”
“What?” Eolyn’s bewilderment gave way to realization and then horror as Prince Mechnes’s limbs went limp.
She let go of the sword and fell to her knees. Taking the Syrnte commander by the shoulders she shook him and slapped him across the face. “No! You cannot die. Not until you tell me what you have done with her!”
Eolyn beat her fists upon the dead man’s chest, tears streaming down her cheeks, imploring him to speak until rough hands took hold of her and dragged her away.
“Maga Eolyn.” The man repeated her name, holding her by the shoulders until her ravings ceased and she looked at him as if awakening from a dark and terrible dream.
It was one of the guards, face bloodied and dripping with sweat. He studied Eolyn as if seeing her for the first time. Abruptly he released her and backed away. His head was bowed; fear and respect filled his expression.
“Look, Maga Eolyn.” He gestured down slope. “Look at what you have done.”
Along the length of the field of battle, the last of the Syrnte fled before the banners of Moisehén. Stragglers were being hacked down, scattered bodies looted by the King’s soldiers.
Eolyn turned away from the slaughter.
In war, even victory seems an ugly thing.
“Where is the King?” she asked.
The guard nodded in the direction of a group of knights and soldiers. Akmael lay splayed on the ground at their feet, surrounded by corpses of men who had tried to protect him.
At last unhindered, Eolyn rushed to his side.
Her heart stopped at the sight of his face, ash-gray and steeped in death. The skin around his lips and eyes had turned a sickly blue. The spear that had brought him down had since dislodged, whether during the fall from his horse or by his own hand she could not know. Blades had pierced his armor, and the lacerations had produced copious amounts of blood. Though the flow appeared to have stopped, Eolyn knew from his drenched tunic, and the dark and sticky pool beneath him, that he had already lost too much.
“Akmael.” She knelt beside him, removed his gauntlets and took both hands in hers. His fingers were stiff and cold as ice. She felt for his pulse and after a long agonizing moment, found it, fainter than the whisper of falling snow.
“Send for High Mage Rezlyn.” She loosened the straps on his armor that she might expose the wounds and begin to bind them. “And a litter for the King.”