Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

“I wonder what the Gatherer would think,” Sament said, “knowing her flamework heralds such bloodshed.”

Thamos turned to him, eyes ready to fight, but a horn sounded below them, stealing both men’s attention. The count took a deep breath, seeming to deflate as he let it out.

He put a foot in his stirrup, swinging himself into the saddle. “It is too late to worry what women think.”

He lifted his spear. “Archers! Kill anything that moves on the docks until the ships are in! Fire at will!”

Briar ran for one of the great stones by the road, climbing quickly and putting his belly to the rock as he looked out over the approaching forces.

“What do you see?” Thamos asked, riding close.

Colan’s Rise was sheer rock on three sides, with only one rock-strewn road leading to its top. “Too much cover to shoot,” Briar said. “They’re charging on foot. Archers held behind.”

“To be fresh and ready when they retake the hill,” Thamos said. “If they manage it, they can rain arrows on the docks as the Laktonians deploy.”

Briar moved to climb down, but Thamos checked him with a pointed finger. “Stay right there, Briar. This is soldier’s business.”

“My home,” Briar growled. “My fight, too.”

Thamos nodded. “But you fight in ways others cannot, Briar. You alone can escape this hill, and make sure others know what happened here.” He reached into his armor, removing a folded bit of paper.

“You alone can get this to Leesha, if I do not live through the night.”

Briar felt his throat tighten as he took the paper. He liked the count, but there were many Sharum coming.

Too many.

Thamos gave a wild cry, kicking his mare and leading the charge down the road.

Briar felt a surge of hope, watching the heavy horses. He had expected the charge to slow when they reached the Sharum spears, but the Wooden Soldiers and their horses wore lightweight wooden armor strengthened by warded lacquer. They turned the enemy spears even as the giant mustang mowed the men like grass, leaving nothing but bloody clippings behind.

But as they reached the base of the hill, great lights flared as the Krasians put fire to bowls of oil. Mirrors caught and angled the light as the horses came into the sights of the enemy archers. They launched indiscriminately into the press of warriors, heedless of their own men in the line of fire.

Arrows began to find seams and weaknesses in the Wooden Soldiers’ armor. Men screamed and horses reared in pain, even as enemy troops moved to surround them on the open ground.

Thamos gave a signal and his cavalry turned like a flock of birds to race back to the high ground.

It was a temporary respite, but already the Sharum gained ground, and more warriors were flowing up the hill. In the oil lights Briar could see their robes were not black or tan, but green.

That explained why their commander was so willing to waste their lives taking the hill. They were not Krasian at all, but Rizonan men pressed into service. They would do the bleeding, and then their masters would take the hill.

Briar remembered Icha, remembered the sympathy he had felt for the man under the torturer’s screws. That treatment had been cruel, and wrong, and pointless. But it was nothing compared to what the enemy was willing to do.

Briar knew then that nothing would stop the Krasians from taking Colan’s Rise. He rubbed his fingers against the paper the count had given him. If he was to escape, it had to be soon.

The main road was too dangerous, so Briar moved to the far side of the bluff to scale down the sheer walls. With his climbing skills and the blacks he still wore, he could go where others could not.

Or so he thought.

At first Briar rubbed his eyes, thinking they were playing tricks on him. His night vision was strong, honed by a lifetime living in the darkness, but even it had limits.

He froze, straining against the dim starlight and the fires now raging on the waters below as Captain Dehlia and the others attacked the port.

There it was again. Movement on the cliffs. All over the cliffs.

There were dal’Sharum scaling Colan’s Rise, hundreds of them.

He scrambled the other way, racing through the archers. “ Sharum on the cliffs! Sharum on the cliffs!”

“I see one!” an archer called, firing down into the rocks. He must have missed, because he cursed, pulling another arrow.

All around the bluff, archers were confirming the approaching warriors, taking their eyes from the docks as they attacked the closer targets. But the Sharum, black-clad and flat against the steep slope, were difficult targets, and more arrows were wasted than Krasians killed.

Thamos rode up to the sergeant in charge of the Laktonian archers. “Tell your men to stop wasting arrows and keep firing on those docks! I’m leaving a hundred horse to guard them.”

“And the rest of us?” Sament asked, riding up next to him.

Thamos pointed down the hill. “The rest of us are going to destroy the archers they have waiting to position here. They may take the rise, but they will not benefit from it.”

He looked to Briar. “The chaos in our wake …”

Briar nodded. It would be easy to slip away unnoticed with four hundred heavy horse as a distraction.

The count gave a shout, kicking his horse before he had time to rethink his course. The Wooden Soldiers thundered down the hill, sweeping the chi’Sharum aside. Unlike previous sallies, they kept on as they reached open ground, heading straight for the ranks of elite dal’Sharum archers.

The Krasians had not anticipated the move, but their surprise was short-lived, and they began to pepper the horsemen with a withering fire that thinned their ranks. The horses could not run in full armor, and as arrows began to find the gaps, they screamed and fell, often taking out neighbors in their fall.

Still they picked up speed, and suddenly they were on top of the archers, laying about with cavalry spears as their great horses trampled and crushed. The bowmen had no defense, and were quickly overrun.

Thamos led the attack, his spear a blur as his horse leapt to and fro. Sament rode close beside him.

But as the archers were destroyed, the Krasian army moved in. These were not chi’Sharum, given spears and pressed into service. These were true Sharum, bred to battle and trained since childhood, many of them mounted themselves. They closed in from all sides, breaking Thamos’ ranks and shattering his ordered men into chaos.

Still the battle raged. Sament kept close to Thamos, the two lords standing out in their bright armor. Sament batted a spear from Thamos’ path with his shield. Thamos skewered the man, then swung the Sharum’s body into the path of an enemy horse. Sament was ready, putting his spear into the rearing animal’s throat.

They seemed to be dominating the field around them, but from a distance Briar could see they were being separated from their fellows. Herded.

Briar knew he should flee. Should take his lead into the night and deliver news of the loss of the hill, and the letter to Leesha Paper.

But he could not bring himself to go. He pulled up his Sharum veil and flitted from stone to stone, getting closer to the battle.

Thamos and Sament fought their way into a ring, and suddenly found themselves in the clear. The dal’Sharum had circled an area of open ground.

There in the center of the circle was the Krasian leader, Jayan, marked by his white turban and veil.

“You fight well, greenlander,” Jayan called, raising his spear. “Shall we test your mettle against a true foe?”

Abban took up his distance lens—another gift from the Damajah. His Warders had painstakingly taken the device apart, studying the design, the warding, and the shard of demon bone that powered it. It had not taken long to produce more of them, and all his ship captains, Qeran included, had them now.