Michael Sullivan - Nyphron rising

"Still, you're the only one left in the world who can really do magic, right? So there's no chance anyone is magically listening."

"What about this rain? It's not supposed to stop? It would seem I am not the only one."

"You're afraid of Arista?"

"No, just making a point. I am not the only wizard in the world and I have already been far too careless. In my haste I took chances that maybe I should not have, drawing too much attention, playing into others' hands. With so little time left-only a matter of months-it would be foolhardy to risk more now. I fear the heir's identity has already been compromised, but there is a chance I am wrong and I will cling to that hope. I'm sorry Hadrian. I can't tell you just yet, but trust me I will."

"No offense, but you don't seem too trustworthy."

The wizard smiled. "Maybe you are Jerish's descendent after all. Very soon I'll need Riyria's help with an extremely challenging mission."

"Riyria doesn't exist anymore. I've retired."

The wizard nodded. "Nevertheless, I will require both of you, and as it concerns the heir, I presume you'll make an exception."

"I don't even know where I'll be."

"Don't worry, I'll find you both when the time comes. But for now, we have the little problem of Lord Dermont's army to contend with."

There was a knock at the door. "Horses ready, sirs," the new adjutant-general reported in.

As they stepped out, Hadrian spotted Gill walking toward him with the fighter's purse. "Good morning, Gill," Hadrian said, taking his pouch back.

"Morning, sir," he said, looking sick but making an effort to smile. "It's all there, sir."

"I'm a bit busy at the moment, Gill, but I'm sure we'll have a chance to catch up later."

"Yes, sir."

Hadrian mounted a brown-and-white gelding Bently held for him. He watched as Esrahaddon mounted a smaller black mare by hooking the stub of his wrist around the horn. Once in the saddle the wizard wrapped the reins around his stubs. "It's strange. I keep forgetting you don't have hands."

"I don't," the wizard replied coldly.

Overhead heavy clouds swirled as boys ran about the camp spreading the order to form up. Horses trotted, kicking up clods of earth. Carts rolled, leaving deep ruts. Half-dressed men darted from tents, slipping in the slick mud. They carried swords over their shoulders, dragged shields, and struggled to fasten helms. Hadrian and Esrahaddon rode through the hive of soggy activity to the top of the ridge where they could see the lay of the land for miles. To the north, the city with its wooden spires and drab walls stood as a ghostly shadow. To the south lay the forest, and between them a vast plain stretched westward. What was once farmland was now a muddy soup. The field was shaped like a basin, and at its lowest point a shallow pond formed. It reflected the light of the dreary gray sky like a steel mirror. On the far side, the hazy encampment of the Imperial Army was just visible through a thick curtain of rain. Hadrian stared but could only make out faint shadowy shapes. Nothing indicated they knew what was about to happen. Below them on the east side of the slope, hidden from imperial view, the Nationalist Army assembled into ranks.

"What is it?" Esrahaddon asked.

Hadrian realized he was grimacing. "They aren't very good soldiers," he replied, watching the men wander about creating misshapen lines. They stood listless, shoulders slumped, heads down.

Esrahaddon shrugged. "There are a few good ones. We pulled in some mercenaries and a handful of deserters from the Imperials. That Renquist you were so taken with, he was a sergeant in the imperial forces. Joined us because he heard nobility didn't matter in the Nationalist Army. We got a few of those, but mostly they're farmers, merchants, or men who lost their homes or families."

Hadrian glanced across the field. "Lord Dermont has trained foot soldiers, archers, and knights-men who devoted their whole lives to warfare and trained since an early age."

"I wouldn't worry about that."

"Of course you wouldn't. I'm the one who has to lead this ugly rabble. I'm the one who must go down there and face those lances and arrows."

"I'm going with you," he said. "That's why you don't need to worry about it."

Bently and three other young men carrying colored flags rode up beside them. "Captains report ready, sir."

"Let's go," he told them and trotted down to take his place with a small contingent of cavalry. The men on horseback appeared even less capable than those on foot. They had no armor and wore torn rain-soaked clothes. Except for the spears they held across their laps, they looked like vagabonds or escaped prisoners.

"Raise your lances!" he shouted. "Stay tight, keep your place, wheel together, and follow me." He turned to Bently. "Wave the blue flag."

Bently swung the blue flag back and forth until the signal was mimicked across the field, then the army began moving forward at a slow walk. Armies never moved at a pace that suited Hadrian. They crept with agonizing slowness when he was attacking, but when defending seemed to race at him. He patted the neck of his horse who was larger and more spirited than old Millie. Hadrian liked to know his horse better before a battle. They needed to work as a team in combat and he did not even know this one's name.

With the wizard riding at his right side and Bently on his left, Hadrian crested the hill and began the long descent into the wet field. He wheeled his cavalry to the right, sweeping toward the city, riding the rim of the basin and avoiding the middle of the muck, which he left to the infantry. He would stay to the higher ground and watch the army's northern flank. This would also place him near the city gate, able to intercept any imperial retreat. After his company made his turn, he watched as the larger force of light-mounted lancers broke and began to circle left, heading to guard the southern flank. The swishing tails of their horses soon disappeared into the rain.

The ranks of the infantry came next. They crested the hill, jostling each other, some still struggling to get their helms on and shields readied. The lines were skewed, broken and wavy, and when they hit the mud, whatever mild resemblance they had to a formation was lost. They staggered and slipped forward as a mob. They were at least quiet. He wondered if it was because most of them might be half-asleep.

Hadrian felt his stomach twist.

This will not go well. If only I had more time to drill the men properly they would at least look like soldiers.

Success or failure in battle often hinged on impressions, decided in the minds of men before the first clash. Like bullies casting insults in a tavern, it was a game of intimidation-a game the Nationalists did not know how to play.

How did they ever win a battle? How did they take Vernes and Kilnar?

Unable to see their ranks clearly, he imagined the Imperials lined up in neat powerful rows waiting, letting his troops exhaust themselves in the mud. He expected a wall of glistening shields peaked with shinning helms locked shoulder to shoulder, matching spears foresting above. He anticipated hundreds of archers already notching shafts to string. The knights, Lord Dermont would hold back. Any fool could see the futility of ordering a charge into the muck. With their pennants fluttering from their lances, and heavy metal armor, the knights probably waited in the trees and perhaps around the wall of the city-hidden until just the right moment-it is what he would do. When they tried to flank, Hadrian and his little group would be all that stood in the way. He would call the charge and hope those behind him followed.

They were more than halfway across the field, when he was finally able to see the imperial encampment. White tents stood in neat lines, horses corralled, and no one was visible.