He reached behind his shoulder and drew the sword, raising it high. The light was meagre under the darkening sky but still it caught enough sun to gleam. He cast his gaze over their faces, pale and rapt in the rain as he spoke again, “And I will kill any man who raises a hand to stop me. Those who wish to come with me are welcome.”
He turned Flame about, moving forward at a slow walk, hearing the commotion build behind him, Marven’s and Adal’s voices audible above the multitude of shouted orders. He called on the song and let the voices fade, scanning the Volarian ranks and waiting for the note of recognition. Perhaps they executed him for cowardice. But then it rose, a clear note of pure fear as his gaze fell on a battalion positioned just to the left of the Volarian centre.
Well, he thought. At least I got to know Alornis.
He kicked his heels into Flame’s flanks and the stallion reared before spurring into a gallop.
Time seemed to slow as they sped towards the Volarian line, the spectacle of it all filling his gaze. Fireballs fell in a low arc, cast by the ballista-ships in the river, the city’s fires now smouldering under the rain, the clouds above thick and black save for the occasional flicker of lightning.
Arrows came for him as he charged, easily avoided thanks to the song, its music louder than he had ever known it. He waited until it picked out the former captive, his fear a high-pitched scream in the second rank of his battalion, then began to sing, forcing every vestige of anger and bloodlust into the song he cast forth. He felt it strike home, the Free Sword’s last hold on sanity breaking like glass as he beheld the charging figure on the horse, coming straight towards him with sword levelled. The ranks of the battalion rippled as the youth began to claw his way towards the rear, lashing out at restraining hands with his short sword, screaming in terror, a few soldiers in the front rank turning to look on the commotion.
In truth it wasn’t much, just a small flaw in an otherwise impressively disciplined line, but today it was enough.
Flame struck home with the fearless charge of a born warhorse, smashing men aside and trampling the slow-footed into the earth as Vaelin’s sword began its own song. He cleaved a man’s face apart from chin to skull with an upward slash, his helmet parting with the force of it, then spurred Flame onward, the sword slashing in an unceasing, unstoppable blur. Men rolled limbless in their wake, screams adding to those of the former captive, still fighting his maddened way towards safety.
A hard-faced veteran loomed out of the throng, short sword raised in a swift thrust, but the song saw all today and blared a warning, the veteran sinking to his knees a second later, eyes and mouth agape at the jetting stump of his wrist. Another Free Sword tried to hack at Flame’s legs, earning a sweep of the sword that left him headless.
They burst through the rear of the Volarian line, Vaelin hauling Flame to a halt in a fountain of churned sod. The terrorised Free Sword was kneeling in the open ground beyond, eyes wide and unblinking, all trace of sanity having fled. Vaelin turned the horse about, finding the Volarians moving to encircle him, blades levelled as they edged closer, fear on every face.
Vaelin heard laughter somewhere and realised it was his own. He also felt the trickle of blood from his nose that told him he had sung long enough. He ignored it and charged again, riding down the nearest Free Sword and killing the men on either side of him, wheeling to the right and hacking down a man shouting orders, then another who stood frozen in fear.
But not all were so fearful, a dozen men or more leaping and slashing in an attempt to bring him down, but the song warned of every attack. He parried, ducked and killed in a whirl of song and blood until Flame gave a loud pain-filled whinny and reared, an arrow buried in his flank. The horse stayed upright for a few more seconds, rearing and lashing out with his hooves, but a spasm of pain brought him to his knees, Vaelin rolling free of the saddle, coming to his feet to parry a thrust and punch his sword point through the breastplate of the man who delivered it, the star-silver blade penetrating the armour with ease.
He wrenched the blade free and stood beside his dying horse, Free Swords on all sides, creeping closer as officers hounded them with curses. The song birthed a new note, something discordant, touched by wildness but also a fierce and boundless loyalty. He laughed again and the Free Swords paused.
“I’m sorry your general didn’t take my offer,” he told them.
Snowdance landed in their midst in a blaze of teeth and claws, pinning two men to the ground, her great jaws fixing on each head in turn and ripping them free. Her gaze fell on Vaelin for a moment, the song rising in warm regard, then she was gone, charging into the thickest knot of Volarians, blood and limbs scattering in her wake.
The Volarian line was torn apart now, a gaping rent some twenty yards wide proving an irresistible target for the North Guard and Captain Orven’s guardsmen. They came streaming through with swords flashing, the gap widening further until the entire Free Sword battalion broke apart. Captain Adal hacked down a running Volarian and pulled up as he caught sight of Vaelin standing beside Flame’s corpse. “You’re hurt, my lord.”
Vaelin touched a hand to the blood streaming from his nose and shook his head. “It’s nothing. Rally your men and wheel to the left, engage the cavalry on their flank.”
“You’re dismounted . . .” the captain protested as Vaelin walked towards the nearest Volarian battalion.
“I’ll be all right,” he replied with a wave, not turning.
The song was an unquenchable fire now, fuelling his charge through their ranks as he killed and killed again, parrying or side-stepping blows that should have brought death. He attacked the next battalion from the rear, finding them Varitai immune to any terror he might spread but lacking the instinct needed to counter his song-born skill. He hacked his way into their midst to cut down their commander who, unlike them, was entirely capable of feeling fear, whipping his horse bloody and laying about with a whip as he tried to fight free of their ranks. It didn’t help.
The battalion disintegrated around him as Foreman Ultin led his miners in a headlong charge against their front, the men of the Reaches giving full vent to their rage, born of the terrible sights witnessed on the march. The Varitai responded with automatic precision, forming densely packed defensive knots as they fought to the end.
“Re-form!” Foreman Ultin was shouting, having planted his banner to the rear of the Volarian line. “Form on me!”
“Take them left,” Vaelin told him, frowning at the man’s appalled expression.
“You . . .” Ultin gulped, eyes staring into Vaelin’s for a moment, then blinked and looked away. “Yes, my lord!”
Vaelin felt a dampness on his cheeks and touched a hand to his eyelids, the fingers coming away bloody. He paused and tried to quiet the song, but a new note of warning made it flare again. He turned to the right where Count Marven’s infantry were engaged in a furious struggle with a smaller number of lightly armoured men. Vaelin saw how they moved with a remarkable fluency as he ran towards the fight, most armed with a sword in each hand as they did their terrible dance, the Nilsaelins falling by the dozen as they pressed around them. The famed Kuritai, he realised, ducking under a slashing sword, rolling into a kneeling position and hacking back to hamstring the swordsman. The Nilsaelins roared and fell on the wounded Kuritai in a mass, swords and daggers flashing.
The song flared again and Vaelin looked up to see three Kuritai coming for him, one in the lead and two moving to his flanks. He removed all restraint from the song and suddenly the Kuritai were moving through air made of clay, their coordinated attack clumsy and sluggish, leaving so many openings. The song faded a little as the three Kuritai tumbled to the earth around him, splashing mud in the unending rain, blood gushing from near-identical wounds to the throat.
He straightened, seeing a Kuritai regarding him with his head tilted, face blank like a child seeing a puzzling trick for the first time, an expression also worn by many of the onlooking Nilsaelins. A bowstring snapped and the curious Kuritai fell with an arrow in his chest, his brothers turning to face a new threat as Hera Drakil led his Seordah into the fray. The Nilsaelins were brave but could only prevail through weight of numbers. The Seordah, it transpired, needed no such advantage.
Vaelin watched the Seordah chief slide under a slashing short sword and bring his war club round as he sprang to his feet, the back of the Kuritai’s head exploding from the impact. The other Seordah dealt with the remainder, war clubs and knives whirling, Kuritai falling in a matter of seconds.
“I see why the forest remains untouched,” Vaelin commented as the war chief crouched at his side.
“You need the healing man, Beral Shak Ur,” he said, pulling him to his feet.
Vaelin staggered a little as the song flared again, fighting down a shout of pain as fresh blood rose in his mouth. Reva! He turned to the city, eyes tracking along the causeway to find the gates lying wrecked and open. “I need a horse,” he said.
The Seordah was clearly reluctant but Count Marven pulled up beside them, dismounting and offering Vaelin the reins. “Fight better on foot in any case,” he said, blood flowing freely from a cut on his cheek.
“Form your men up,” Vaelin told him, hauling himself into the saddle. The new vantage point gave him a clearer view of the battle. He could see every section of the Volarian line now engaged, broken here and on the right where Nortah’s company gave full vent to their rage as they tore apart a Free Sword battalion twice their number to join up with Ultin’s miners. The left still seemed to be holding despite a furious assault by Caenis’s Realm Guard. Beyond them the swirling mass of horses just visible through the rain told him the Eorhil were in the process of mastering the Volarian cavalry.
