Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“This lot canʼt face a thousand, Redbrother,” Lekran stated that evening. “The new ones still think itʼs a game and most have never seen a real fight.”

“Then itʼs time they did,” Frentis replied. “We canʼt run forever. I will take the archers, see if we can thin their ranks a little. Sister Illian, get your people to start piling these rocks up into some semblance of a fortification. You and Draker will have charge of the camp until I return.” He turned to Lekran and the Garisai woman. “Can I trust you both to perform a task without spilling each otherʼs blood?”

Ivelda gave Lekran a sour glance but nodded, the former Kuritai issuing a terse grunt of agreement. They watched as Frentis scratched out a map in the dirt, listening intently as he explained their role.

“Much could go wrong in this,” Lekran observed.

“Even if it doesnʼt work, it should at least claim half their number and the people here will have a fighting chance.” Frentis stood, hefting his bow. “Master Rensial, if you wouldnʼt mind joining me?”

They found a shadowed overhang to hide in as they watched the Varitai march into the hills, Frentis using his spyglass to pick out the officers. Identifying the commander proved an easy matter, a sturdy man on horseback in the middle of the column, his authority plain in the curt nods he gave to the younger men who occasionally rode to his side. The column was tightly ordered but had a loose skirmish line of Free Sword cavalry at its head, flanks and rear.

“This fellowʼs a trifle too cautious for my liking, Master,” Frentis commented, passing the glass to Rensial.

The master held it to his eye for a brief moment then handed it back with a shrug. “Then kill him.”

Frentis beckoned Corporal Vinten and Dallin to his side and pointed to the columnʼs southern flank. “Dallin, youʼll come with Master Rensial and me. Vinten, take the others and circle around. When they make camp wait for twilight and pick off as many pickets as you can. Once itʼs done head back to the camp, donʼt linger.”

The City Guard gave a reluctant nod. “Donʼt feel right leaving you, brother.”

“Do this right and weʼll be fine. Now go.”

They tracked the column until dusk, watching as it formed itself into a square-shaped encampment with the usual disconcerting speed and precision of Volarian slave-soldiery. Watching the way the entire battalion moved like one living beast made Frentis glad he had never had to face them in open field and wondrous as to how Vaelin had managed to beat so many at Alltor. Little wonder she thought they could conquer the whole world.

They left Dallin with the horses a half mile ahead of the Volarian camp and approached on foot, making for the northern picket line. He and Rensial wore their Free Sword mercenary garb, basically identical to the standard kit but slightly less uniform in appearance, the breastplates adorned with various scribblings in Volarian. Frentis couldnʼt read the words but Thirty-Four had translated enough to indicate it consisted of various cynical and fatalistic slogans common to veteran Free Swords: free in spirit but a slave to blood , was a typical example. However, their garb was clearly sufficiently similar to the other Free Swords to allow them to approach the first one they saw without raising any sign of alarm.

“Fucking cold tonight,” he greeted them cheerfully, steam rising as he pissed against a rock.

Master Rensial didnʼt speak a word of Volarian but repeated, “Fucking cold,” with uncanny precision before stepping close to cut the manʼs throat. They hid him in the lee of a large boulder and moved on, making it all the way to the campʼs fringes without interruption. Varitai were posted at intervals of twenty feet, silent, barely moving sentinels who also offered no challenge as they made their way to the campʼs interior, picking out the large tent positioned in the centre. Frentis was dismayed to find two Kuritai standing outside the tent; the Volarian commanderʼs caution was proving ever more trying. They made their way to a fire a short distance away, hands hovering to catch the warmth and listening to the faint snatches of conversation from the tentʼs interior.

“… every day we delay earns more criticism, Father,” a voice was saying, earnest with youthful impatience. “You can bet those bastards in New Kethia are making great capital of our misfortunes already.”

“Let them,” came a more placid response, the voice older, gravelled and weary. “Victory always silences criticism.”

“You heard the scouts yesterday, at least two hundred slaves have taken to foot in the last week alone. If we canʼt crush this rebellion soon…”

“Itʼs not a rebellion!” the older voice snapped, a sudden anger banishing the weariness. “Itʼs an invasion by blood-crazed foreigners and youʼll not say any different. There has never been a slave revolt in the history of the empire and our family will not have its name sullied by the mention of one. You hear me?”

A pause before a sullen response, “Yes, Father.”

The older voice issued a tired sigh and Frentis pictured its owner sinking into a chair. “Get the map. No, the other one…”

They waited until the sun had vanished behind the skyline and a flurry of alarm sounded from the southern perimeter, Vinten following his orders with typical efficiency. Frentis filled his palm with a throwing knife and met Rensialʼs gaze. “Donʼt kill the son.”

They ran towards the tent, Frentis waving frantically at the south with his empty hand. “Honoured Commander, we are attacked!”

As expected the Kuritai both stepped forward in unison to block their path as a curse sounded from the tentʼs interior, a broad grizzled face appearing at the flap, demanding, “Whatʼs all this babble?” in a gravelled voice.

Not so cautious after all, Frentis decided as the knife flew from his hand, flashing between the two Kuritai to take the commander in the throat. Frentis danced aside as the Kuritai on the right lunged, his sword clashing with the twin blades as he spun, his own blade slicing deep into the slave-eliteʼs arm. It barely seemed to slow him, his good arm whipping around to slash at Frentisʼs chest, their swords colliding with a flash of sparks before Frentis reversed his hold on the short sword, sinking to one knee, and thrusting up at the Kuritaiʼs head. The sword tip caught him under the chin, punching through into the brain.

Frentis looked up to see Master Rensial finishing the other Kuritai, blocking an overhead swing with his sword as his other hand brought a dagger up to find the gap in the slave-eliteʼs armour between armpit and chest. The master stepped back as another figure erupted from the tent, a tall young man swinging a short sword in a double-handed grip, yelling in anger and grief, his blows frenzied and poorly aimed. Rensial sidestepped an overextended thrust and batted the sword from the young manʼs grip before felling him with a swift backhand across the face.

The young man scrabbled back as Rensial advanced, hands coming up to protect his face, a barely coherent plea for mercy gibbering from his bloodied lips. Frentis went to stand over him, the young man shrinking back farther, eyes wide with terror. “You dishonour your father with this display,” Frentis told him with stern disapproval then inclined his head at Rensial. “Master, I believe itʼs time to go.”

As he had hoped, Vintenʼs attack had drawn attention to the southern perimeter and their progress from the camp was largely free of any interruption, shouting to every guard they met that the camp was facing a heavy assault and the commander slain. It had little effect on the Varitai but the Free Swords were soon hurrying to investigate. Only one attempted to block their way, a burly cavalryman of middling years with the bearing common to sergeants the world over.