Adrian Tchaikovsky - Heirs of the Blade

‘They can’t be on us already?’ Mordrec complained, as Dal rejoined the other riders at the front. Even as he said it, though, Soul was pointing. Along the treeline ahead of them could be seen the glitter of sun on armour, and then they saw the enemy cavalry. So far, in the skirmishing, they had faced individual nobles on their mounts, and each noble had brought his own levy of peasants travelling on foot and slowing him down. There had not seemed enough of the aristocracy to mount the cavalry charges that traditional Commonweal war had centred on. Now here they were, surely the majority of the nobles under Salmae command, and they were racing to catch the brigands in the open. There were perhaps forty of them in all, noblemen and noblewomen with their favoured mounted retainers, but Dal knew the bandits could not stand up before a cavalry charge. They would break and then be ridden down, however many of them there were.

If the brigands had been moving at their usual slower pace before then they would have been caught right under the hammer. Even running as they were, it would be touch and go, but they had bought themselves a chance to get under cover now, and safe from the worst of the charge.

Dal Arche’s wings took over, parting him from his saddle as he coasted over his fleeing people. He had his bow in hand, an arrow fitted to the string.

‘Archers!’ he bellowed at them. ‘Hold till my mark!’

As he had expected, at least half of his bowmen were running headlong for the safety of the trees now, but a number had stopped to form a ragged line, and now Soul Je leapt down to join them, drawing back the string on his man-high bow.

The approaching cavalry exerted a fearful fascination, and Dal nearly missed his chance. ‘Loose!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Loose, cut and run!’

He watched as the arrows rose high, before curving in midair and falling upon the riders like rain. Soul’s shaft caught one man near the point of the enemy formation, cutting between his helm and breastplate and sending the luckless target lurching back across his saddle. None of the other shots found a human target, but they struck home amongst the horses, causing them to jerk sideways, rearing and plunging. The gleaming perfection of the charge faltered just enough, and then the archers were following their fellows into the trees, on foot or wing, and Dal followed after. He realized that he had not actually loosed his own arrow at all.

Did I ever really want to become a leader of men? he asked himself. Surely the answer was no.

This long arm of the forest – this brigand’s road – would take them to within striking distance of the Rhael border, but he doubted that a few trees would keep the Salmae off his back from now on. They were obviously pushing for the endgame, and Dal found that he had overextended his people, driven them too far from home, too close to Rhael. But we were doing so well! Then he remembered the war, and the way that every victory against the Wasps, however striking, had seemed to be the prelude to an ever-greater defeat. Just my luck that I find a Commonweal noble who actually learned something from all those cursed battles.

He drove his followers hard, keeping them moving and keeping them organized. He had scouts on either flank, and Soul Je leading a band of the fleetest in the vanguard, whilst Mordrec and Ygor marshalled the main force, chivvying stragglers and keeping some semblance of order.

The pursuing riders had plainly lacked the nerve to simply charge straight into the forest, where their advantage would be swiftly lost, after which so would they. However, Dal knew there was more. Cavalry on their own won few battles, so there would be somewhere ahead where the Salmae would have picked out an ambush point – or at least that would be how Dal himself would arrange it. After all, it was hardly a great secret as to which direction the bandits would take…

So perhaps we jump the wrong way? Dal sent a runner ahead to fetch Soul back. ‘You know how the land lies ahead?’ he asked the Grasshopper. At Soul’s terse nod he continued, ‘What do you say to us breaking left, out into the open? Where can we find woods again, after that?’

‘A half-mile east and there’s a fair stand of cane forest, but it’s commune land.’

Dal stared at him hard, even as Soul loped along beside him, keeping pace. ‘Stick-kinden?’ he said, expressionless.

‘You don’t believe in them?’

‘I’m sharper than that, but even so… Three hundred brigands heading through Stick-kinden land, someone’s going to get it wrong, and we don’t need more enemies.’

‘We can always skirt the edges. Salmae might not follow,’ Soul suggested. ‘Break for the open again, quarter-mile, there’s denser woods. We can hide up there, set watch and stay overnight.’

They got clear of the woods without delay, despite a fair proportion of Dal’s people demanding to know where they were going. They lacked the discipline and the stamina of true soldiers, and the march was already beginning to tell on them.

But out in the open they found new motivation: the thought of the Salmae cavalry looming in every mind. Dal rode back and forth along the length of their ragtag formation, keeping them together and on the move. Soon enough, one of his people had spotted the enemy: a small shape dark against the sky. That was one of their nobles, high above on a dragonfly, hovering as its rider located the brigands and worked out where they were going. The sight sparked a certain satisfaction in Dal Arche. So, you didn’t guess we’d do this, eh?

Still, the Salmae were making the most of their new discipline, and their first troops were in sight just before the brigands made it to the edge of the cane forest. Footmen and riders both were approaching, but far enough away still for Dal’s people to get themselves under the suspect cover of the bamboo without trouble.

Once they had all assembled amongst the boles, Dal halted them. Around them the countless tall stalks remained ominously still, the field of close-packed verticals playing tricks on the eye. The sky above was darkening now, cloudless enough to promise a chill night. As the brigands stamped and shuffled, Dal waited on Mordrec and Ygor, who had gone to the perimeter to see what the Salmae would do next.

They were holding off, came Mordrec’s report at last. Nightfall had seen the sparks of Salmae campfires out beyond the canes, where they seemed to be settling down and waiting for dawn.

‘Which leaves us with a few possibilities,’ Dal remarked. ‘They might be tricking us and come for us at night, which’d mean a mess for all concerned. We could try and make our own move at night, and hope they won’t notice. Or perhaps they reckon they can match us as we move around the cane-forest edge, and pen us in here.’

‘We don’t want to be in here any longer than we need to,’ Ygor stated. ‘Mord and me, we saw something, we think. Like a man, a very tall man, watching us.’

‘Well, we’re still alive for now,’ Mordrec added, pragmatic as always. ‘What’ll it be? Make camp or make our move?’

‘Soul?’ Dal asked, and the Grasshopper seemed to materialize at his shoulder. ‘You know these places, yes?’

‘A little, from the war.’ Soul Je had been an Imperial Auxillian in the Twelve-year War, and not enjoyed it much.

‘The… locals, they might come for us at night?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘They can be reasoned with?’

‘They like their privacy, Dala.’

Ygor muscled in, then. ‘Looks like they’re around a third of our number.’ The skin over his eyes creased, where a man with eyebrows would have raised them. ‘Fight? Attack them overnight?’

‘Sounds like they’re inviting it,’ Dal agreed. ‘Which is why we won’t. There’ll be more of them, for sure. They wouldn’t have kept us hopping all day just to fail so badly now. We need to get clear of them. If we fight, we fight when and where I choose. Soul, I get the impression you can talk to our… hosts in here? You’ve done it before?’