Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

Over four hundred arrows rose from the cornfield and arced down into the centre of the Volarian column, raising a tumult of shouted alarm and discordant bugling. Apart from the initial chaos, however, the effect of the volley was minimal, claiming barely a dozen soldiers before their officers managed to whip them into reasonable order. As usual, the Varitai were first to form ranks, three battalions assuming a defensive formation in the space of a single minute. Frentis was pleased to see they had been placed in the centre of the column, meaning the flanks would be held mostly by Free Swords and recently pressed conscripts. Draker had it right, he concluded. These men are commanded by fools.

The archers kept up their barrage without pause as the Volarian line took shape, continuing to loose as a chorus of bugles pealed out the signal for a general advance. Frentis had no need to issue further commands, the archers having been well drilled in what to do next. Even though the corn was tinder dry, Frentis had taken the precaution of liberally scattering oil-soaked bundles of kindling about the field, providing aiming points for the archers which their fire arrows soon found with creditable precision, birthing an instant conflagration. They had strict instructions to loose five arrows in quick succession then run for the firebreak, though some continued to let fly even as they retreated from the smoke-shrouded field. The inferno took hold almost immediately, a bright wall of flame stretching the length of the advancing line and birthing a thick curtain of black smoke that concealed all from view.

Frentis turned and nodded to Master Rensial then kicked his stallion into a gallop. They had burned a broad avenue through the corn on either side of the main firebreak, wide enough to accommodate a charge by a full company of cavalry quickly followed by a thousand infantry. Even so, the thickness of the smoke made for an unnerving ride, his horse voicing a whinny of protest at the proximity of the flames. Frentis kicked his flanks again, spurring him to a faster gallop and they drew clear of the smoke, finding himself confronted by a pair of startled Volarian cavalrymen. He rode between them, slashing left and right, hearing simultaneous shouts of pain before charging on.

All was confusion now, the smoke descending and lifting according to the whim of the wind. When it cleared he cut down any Volarians within reach, when it thickened he charged on, his only indication of the progress of the battle coming from the screams of pain and fury on all sides. He caught occasional glimpses of Master Rensial, killing with typical artistry, his horse seeming to dance at his slightest touch of the reins, confounding those unwise enough to challenge a man Frentis now knew to be the finest horse-borne warrior in the world.

The Volarians proved to be a mixed bag, some fleeing at the first sight of Frentis, others immediately rushing to confront him. As the smoke thickened once more he found himself assailed by a mounted Kuritai, apparently unconcerned by the diminished view, charging at him on a fine stallion two hands taller than his own. Frentis twisted in the saddle as the Kuritai closed, his sword sweeping down to cleave into the neck of Frentisʼs stallion. He leapt clear as the animal screamed and reared in a fountain of blood, landing nimbly on both feet and casting a throwing knife at the Kuritai. It struck home, sinking into the slave-eliteʼs face just above the jaw, but failed to divert his charge.

Frentis rolled, trying to slash at the charging stallionʼs legs as it thundered by. But the Kuritai was too skilled a rider, angling the animalʼs course at the last moment to avoid the blade. Frentis threw another knife as the Kuritai wheeled for a second charge, the steel dart sinking into his horseʼs rump and causing it to rear. Frentis sprinted forward, leaping and slashing, the Order blade cleaving through the greave on the Kuritaiʼs wrist. He tumbled from the saddle, rolling to his feet and whirling to face Frentis with sword levelled, blood still jetting from the stump of his severed hand. Frentis heard a familiar snarl behind him and sank to one knee, Slasher and Blacktooth leaping over to attack the Kuritai with well-honed precision, the bitch fixing her jaws on his legs whilst her mate tore at his throat.

He didnʼt wait to view the spectacle, running through the haze in search of further opponents. His ears were soon assailed by a great roaring followed by the multiple clang of clashing weapons, his ears leading him to the sight of his infantry tearing apart a battalion of Free Swords. They had evidently charged headlong into their line, given the way it had bowed and broken in the centre, hacking and stabbing with their axes and scythes, every face lit with a desperate fury.

The Free Swords tried to stand their ground for a time, bunched together in compliance with the shouted orders of their officers, many freed slaves falling to their short swords, but their line had been broken and, unlike those they fought, they still entertained notions of long lives and families. After another few momentsʼ frenzied resistance they began to break, men turning and sprinting into the smoke, at first singly or in pairs, then a dozen at a time. One ran in Frentisʼs direction, skidding to a wide-eyed halt and landing on his backside, his sword apparently already dropped. Frentis paused to regard the man, taking in the terror in his quivering face, the unintelligible pleas spouting from his lips, and pointed sternly towards the west. The Free Sword gaped up at him for a second more then scrabbled to his feet, sprinting away, still begging for mercy.

“Form up!” Frentis called to the milling freed folk, some still stabbing away at the Volarian dead. “Gather weapons and form up!”

Through a judicious mix of shouts and jostling he managed to reimpose some order, those appointed as sergeants returning to their senses at the sight of him and forming their companies into an offensive line, many now armed with swords and cavalry lances.

“Keep at it until you clear the smoke,” Frentis ordered, turning and striding towards the Volarian centre. The line held until they heard the sound of further combat, unquenched bloodlust raising a cheer from the freed folk as they broke into a spontaneous charge. Knowing they would be deaf to further orders, Frentis charged with them, the smoke parting to reveal a solid wall of Varitai, blank faces regarding them above levelled spears.

He leapt at the last moment, his sword sweeping aside an upraised spear, boots impacting on a Varitaiʼs breastplate, propelling the man backwards. He landed clear of the Volarian line and turned, hacking down two Varitai in quick succession, his sword finding gaps in their armour with deadly accuracy. The freed folk were quick to spot the opportunity, piling into the gap in a dense mass of thrashing men and women. The useful panic that had gripped the Free Swords was absent here, however, the Varitai falling back in response to a strident bugle call to form another defensive formation twenty yards on. Frentis could see two figures in the centre of the shrinking circle of Varitai, a burly man with a bugle raised to his lips, a veteran sergeant judging by his armour, and a slighter figure with the plumed helm of a junior officer.

“Hold!” Frentis held up his sword as the freed folk gathered themselves for another charge. The rage had gripped them all now, every soot-streaked face alive with a desperate thirst for more blood, gore-covered weapons in every hand, trembling with anticipation.

“We can take them, brother!” a woman called out in hoarse Realm Tongue, dagger in one hand and short sword in the other, both red from tip to hilt. It took a moment for Frentis to recognise this panting, black-faced figure as Lissel, the former chandler from Rhansmill.