Matthew Sturges - Midwinter

The fighting raged through the morning. Mauritane's archers took out fewer of the Unseelie cavalry than he'd hoped, and the mounted Seelie were forced to make up the difference in close combat. Swords flashed and crossbows cracked. As it had done so often before in battle, time disappeared for Mauritane. His mind entered a different place, where all he could see was the field around him. All he could hear were the reports of his subordinates. All he could think was strategy, motion, attack, withdraw, hold, advance. Faces blurred together; motions simplified and became geometric. Mauritane moved through the chaos, applying his blade when necessary, mostly giving orders.

There would be no retreat. If the Unseelie were to cross the valley into Sylvan, then they could launch their projectile bomb where there were no battle mages to pluck it from the sky. Mauritane had to assume that the weapon had survived the city's destruction-it would be foolish to assume otherwise.

As the sun moved across the valley, the Seelie forces advanced, inching across the basin's floor. Mauritane brooked no retreat, would not back down from the enemy. He led charge after charge into the thickest wedge of Unseelie troops, striking for the heart of their command. The Unseelie officers of the center column were forced to call continually for reinforcements, preventing their wings from flanking the Seelie either to the east or the west.

Mauritane fought, slashing and slashing, taking cuts and bruises, and once even a deep bite, forcing out the pain, keeping his thoughts only on forward motion. An Unseelie general fought near him for a while. They eyed each other over the riot of bodies and horses and blades. Soon they were face to face.

Mauritane watched the general come at him, placing a barrier of his own men between himself and Mauritane's remaining cavalry. They squared off. Mauritane glared at the man, passion and anger searing his mind.

The general raised his sword as if to charge. Mauritane steadied himself. Instead, though, the general produced a dagger in his left hand and whipped it not at Mauritane but at Streak. Mauritane felt the beast tense beneath him, then falter and fall to his side, nearly crushing Mauritane's leg. Mauritane rolled off of the animal and looked up, anticipating the general's next attack.

But the attack never came. The general had sheathed his weapon, laughing at Mauritane, and was now riding back behind the lines.

Mauritane found himself suddenly behind his own infantry as they rushed forward to take the next hill. The few remaining cavalrymen had mounted another assault on the small rise at the valley's base.

Mauritane examined Streak's knife wound. The blade had gone in between the shoulders, and the horse appeared to have trouble breathing.

"I have failed you, master," said Streak, struggling for breath.

Mauritane stroked the horse's head. "No, Streak. You served me well."

"I do not wish to leave you."

"I do not wish for you to go." Mauritane put his arms around Streak's neck and squeezed gently. "You are a good horse," he said. Streak took a final breath and collapsed on the harrowed ground.

The fighting continued well into the night. Those of the battle mages who were wounded pitched in by sending up fiery balls of witchlight to illuminate the valley. The sky above became a swirling incandescent palette of pinks and blues and greens, casting harsh black shadows on the icy ground as the soldiers continued their struggle.

While Mauritane's men continued their relentless assault against the central concentration of Unseelie forces, the Seelie cavalry on the valley's western edge began to weaken. Behind the front lines, four divisions of Unseelie infantry peeled off from the main wedge and went for the weak spot.

It was the mistake that cost them the battle.

The thin cavalry line had been a feint; when they were finally penetrated, two companies of Seelie archers arose behind them. Their arrows felled row after row of Mab's infantrymen until their officers realized the error and tried to withdraw. But it was too late. Mauritane took advantage of the momentary weakness and sent everything he had down the middle of the Unseelie front. They held position, briefly, and Mauritane lost what was left of his cavalry. But they could not hold forever. Finally, the Unseelie line broke. Mauritane's infantry poured through the gap, cutting a wide swath through the no-longer-protected battle mages. The sky above the Unseelie grew dark, and the Royal Guard's mages went to work with a different kind of witchlight, directing beams of intense and focused brightness at the Unseelie soldiers. Blinded, they fell back even farther.

Thus pierced, the invading army was now cut off from its commanders. Their foot soldiers spun, confused, unable to discern where the Seelie attacks were coming from. From there, it was simply a matter of time.

One of the Unseelie generals broke rank and fled, taking his companies with him. The Seelie raced to fill the gap. What remained of Mab's armyconfused, tired, disheartened-turned and fled to the north, bearing Queen Mab to safety on a palanquin of silver and gold.

Mauritane fell back against a stone, his sword arm numb, his senses reeling. Around him the smell of blood and death mingled with that of the frozen earth and old snow. The witchlight began to fade, one by one, until only torches remained to give light. It was time to withdraw, to collect the dead, and to sleep.

Word came that Seelie Army reinforcements were now a day out of Sylvan. It was over. There would be no further attempts at invasion. Lacking surprise, there was little Queen Mab could do now but escape with her life.

Eloquet, staggering across the field, helped Mauritane to his feet.

"We've got a few fresh reserves," he breathed. "We're setting up sentries all across the valley's edge. You should go rest."

Mauritane stood unsteadily, wiping his hands on the front of his tunic. "Yes, I think you're right." He took two steps and collapsed to the ground.

When Mauritane awoke, it was late afternoon. He found himself in a plush four-poster bed with satin sheets and more pillows than he could count. Fresh clothes lay on a chair beside him.

He dressed and washed his face in the basin by the bed. Stepping out of the room, he now felt every cut, every scrape, every bruise. He limped down a flight of stairs into a wide hall, where a family of strangers sat eating.

"You're just in time for supper," said the man at the head of the table. He rose, introducing himself as Thura, an eel importer.

"Taking you in was the least I could do," the man offered. "Eloquet is an old friend of mine."

"An eel trader, eh?" said Mauritane, sitting and filling his plate. "I used to be one of those."

There were parades and celebrations planned in Sylvan all night long. Mauritane made himself as scarce as possible, spending most of the evening trying to round up his companions. Finally, near midnight, after a long succession of speeches given by city officials and noblemen, Mauritane was left alone with Silverdun and Raieve in Thura's study.

"How do you fare?" said Mauritane, looking both of them over.

Raieve's leg was immobilized in spellwire. "I got trampled during the Unseelie retreat," she said. "I broke almost every bone in my foot, but I will survive."

Silverdun's face was badly cut; he wore a bandage that covered his left eye and most of the left side of his face. "I suppose I can't get much uglier," he said, shrugging.

"What of Satterly?" said Raieve. "Where is he?"

Mauritane sighed. "I was hoping he'd be back by now."

"We've lost two more days," said Silverdun. "First Lamb is four days away. It's at least six days to the City Emerald riding hard, and we don't even have the girl."