Brak nodded. “The priests are calling on Xaphista. What you feel is them working a coercion, R’shiel.”
She shuddered, thinking this was what she had planned for the Gathering. She hadn’t known it would feel so unclean.
“When will they attack?” Damin demanded.
“Not for a while yet. But they’d only be doing this if they planned to move soon.”
Damin did not need to be told twice. He dumped the saddle at R’shiel’s feet and ran toward the Keep.
“Can’t we do something, Brak?”
“If you want to reveal your presence to Xaphista, by all means, stop his priests from calling him.”
She glared at him before picking up the saddle, lugging it toward the tent. “What’s the use of having all this power if you can’t do anything with it?”
Brak held back the tent flap for her as she shouldered her way in. She dumped the saddle and bridle on the racks and then pushed past him as she stepped outside, looking toward the crumbling old fort. Distant shouts reached them on the cold air as Damin raised the alarm.
“You can do anything you want, R’shiel,” Brak said, following her gaze. “The trick is knowing when it’s going to cause more harm than good.”
“Like coercing the Gathering?”
He nodded. “You think what you can feel now is unpleasant. Wait until you’re channelling it yourself. The Harshini prohibition on coercion isn’t some altruistic principle. It’s dangerous, R’shiel, and you are still a babe in arms when it comes to magic.”
R’shiel glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was fixed on the rousing army.
“Then what should I do?”
He turned to her finally and shook his head. “If I knew that R’shiel, I’d have told you.”
Chapter 27
Brak’s timely warning proved its worth and the Defenders were in position long before the Karien army advanced the following morning. As dawn lightened the sky, Tarja rode behind the lines to Lord Jenga’s position on a small knoll overlooking the battlefield, frost crackling under Shadow’s hooves.
Ditches filled with sharpened stakes would force the battle down a v-shaped corridor, pushing the Kariens into an ever-narrowing field of fire. The Jagged Mountains to the east, and the Sanctuary Mountains to the west, formed a natural barricade to any flanking manoeuvres. The mountains were both a blessing and a curse. The Kariens could not get past them, but neither could the Defenders. The only way to flank the enemy was to wait until they had crossed the border and were well into Medalonian territory.
Damin’s mounted archers had been split into two companies: one under the command of the Warlord and one under the command of Captain Almodavar. They were positioned on the arms of the V-shape and would harry the enemy flanks as the Kariens advanced. Their mobility and their astounding accuracy with their short bows meant they would remain relatively safe from counter-attack, as the Kariens would have to break ranks and cross the stake-filled ditches to pursue them.
At the apex of the v-shape waited the longbowmen. They were the only hope of halting the Karien advance. The longbow could out range any weapon the Kariens could bring to bear on the Defenders, and their defence lay in the rain of arrows that should decimate the Kariens before they got close enough to use their own weapons. Behind them stood the infantry, ready to advance if the Kariens got so close that the archers were endangered.
Tarja commanded one of the units of light cavalry. His job was to come at the enemy from behind, once the Kariens were committed to the battle. The deadly trenches had been carefully measured and dug to ensure a cavalry mount could clear them, as it was a safe assumption that a Karien warhorse, weighted down by the knight he carried, would have no hope of achieving the same feat. What worried Tarja was the Fardohnyan cavalry. They had dug the trenches before they learnt they would be facing Fardohnyans as well.
The killing ground was pockmarked with treacherous holes, dug to trap the charging destriers of the mounted knights. Tarja wondered if it was a measure of his character that he felt more sympathy for the horses that would die this day than the men.
He reached the command position and dismounted, as a trooper hurried forward to hold his mount. Jenga waited under the shelter of a wide pavilion, talking to Damin and Nheal Alcarnen, who had command of the reserves. To his surprise, R’shiel and Brak waited with him.
R’shiel looked pale in the dim light. Brak’s expression revealed nothing of what he was thinking.
“It’s stopped,” she told him as he entered the tent, pulling off his leather gauntlets.
“What’s stopped?” Jenga asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“The magic. Whatever the Karien priests were doing, they’re not doing it any more.”
“Is that a good sign?”
Brak shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. At the very least, it means you won’t have long to wait.”
Jenga frowned, uncomfortable with this talk of magic. Tarja warmed his hands over the brazier for a moment before turning to Brak and R’shiel.
“Just exactly what were they doing?”
“Coercing their troops, Brak thinks,” R’shiel told him.
“What does that mean?”
“It could mean they won’t stop attacking, regardless of what you throw at them,” Brak warned. “A coercion makes men act against their natural instincts. Don’t count on them breaking, even if faced with impossible odds. They’ll just keep on coming until it wears off. That could be hours or days.”
Damin looked across the tent at them and nodded. “We have legends of battles fought by men under a coercion. They didn’t stop attacking until every last man was dead.”
Jenga listened to the discussion with growing alarm. “This is madness! Isn’t there something you can do?”
“Zegarnald will be with us,” Damin said.
Jenga turned on him impatiently. “Bah! Your gods! I need practical solutions, not flights of fancy.”
“Actually, Zegarnald might be more help than you imagine, my Lord,” Brak said. “Coercing men in a battle is sort of breaking the rules. It might be worth appealing to him.”
Before Jenga could answer the faint sound of a horn reached them.
“You speak to your damned gods, Lord Brakandaran. I have a battle to fight.” He strode from the pavilion with Nheal close on his heels.
Damin pulled on his gauntlets and turned to them with a grin. “I’ll see you later, my friends. Try not to get yourselves killed.”
“Be careful, Damin,” R’shiel called after him as he strode out of the tent to his waiting mount, held by a black mailed Raider. Raising his hand in salute, he swung into the saddle and rode at a canter towards the coming battle.
Tarja looked at R’shiel curiously. “You and the Warlord seem to be getting on well.”
“Jealous?”
“Should I be?”
“Oh for god’s sake!” Brak muttered impatiently.
Tarja smiled, realising how foolish he sounded. “I have to go. You take care of her, Brak. I don’t want her anywhere near the battle.”
“I can take care of myself, thank you, Captain,” she declared. “But I know what
