They waited less than a quarter-turn of the glass. Without warning, a half-dozen fireballs bloomed, brilliant even in the sunlight. They rushed over the field, arcing no more than a half-dozen men’s height from the ground, streaking from the far trees beyond the roving groups of Firenzcian chevarittai and the impassive lines of infantry. “Teni!”
Sergei cried and the pages reached for flags and horns to sound the alarm, but the few war-teni with Sergei had already responded. Their counter-spells, Sergei realized gratefully, were curiously rapid-no doubt the Envoy ci’Vliomani, who along with a hand of Numetodo was with the war-teni, was responsible for that. Given the lack of warning, Sergei had expected the teni’s response to be too late, but two of the onrushing suns fizzled and died before they reached the front ranks of the defenders, and two more went careening back toward the far side of the field to explode in front of the enemy ranks.
Cheers went up from the Garde Civile.
But the remaining fire-spells were untouched. They slammed hard into the ranks, exploding with gouts of the liquid fire, and cheers dissolved into screams. Those caught directly died instantly, their bodies torn apart; those nearby were enveloped in blue Ilmodo-fury that clung to their skin and clothes. They bellowed in agony, rolling on the ground, trying to smother the stubborn flames. Those who rushed to help their fellows found that the spell-fire adhered to their own hands. Where the war-fire blazed, the ranks shuddered and threatened to fall apart, the conscripts panicking, and Sergei shouted along with the other offiziers and chevarittai. “Hold!” he cried. “Damn it, make them hold!” The flag-pages waved yellow flags desperately; the horn-pages blasted an imperative two-note call on their cornets and zinkes.
More spell-fire came; again, most were countered and a few thrown back into the enemy, but not all could be stopped. The trees on the west side of the meadow were on fire now, and the panic was beginning to spread along the lines. The offiziers had swords out, keeping their men under control. The cornets of the pages seemed to be lost in the growing noise.
But the lines, tenuously, held together.
Sergei nodded-if the Hirzg had intended to send him fleeing under the barrage of the war-teni, that plan had failed.
“The Archigos’ war-teni deserve commendation,” ca’Montmorte said. “Right now, we’re holding our own, but if they keep up the barrage, we’re going to have to give ground.”
“The Hirzg isn’t that patient,” Sergei repeated. “That will be the last volley of the war-teni. He’ll bring in the chevarittai and the army now.”
Again, they did not have to wait long. With a thousand-throated voice, the Firenzcians charged. The hooves of their chevarittai pummeled the ground; behind them, the infantry spread out like a horde of black ants. “Archers!” Sergei shouted: the pages dropped their yellow flags to pick up blue, the cornets shrilled, and the offiziers took up the cry. With a sibilant, wordless steam-kettle hiss, arrows crowded the sky, arcing up and down into the onrushing forces. There were counter-spells from the Firenzcian war-teni-arrows went to harmless ash in great puffs of cloud and arrowheads pattered like metal rain onto the mud-but some of the chevarittai and their horses went down, as did many soldiers. But there were far too many behind them, and more continued to flow out from the trees.
The charge hit the front line in a clash of metal. A frothing chaos spread, the angry foam of a storm-driven wave crashing into unyielding land.
Sergei had to force himself to stay back and not charge into the fray with his sword-the Hirzg’s sword-held high. But it was difficult enough with his healing wounds just to sit his horse, and it was not the commandant’s role to fight.
Not yet. Not today. For a turn of the glass, perhaps more, the Nessantico line held, as Sergei directed his offiziers through the scurrying pages and the signals of flags and cornets.
But they couldn’t hold forever.
The line sagged inward toward Sergei’s position as the meadow filled with Firenzcian black and silver. The war-teni lobbed spells and counter-spells into the field and onto the rear ranks; fire burst in colorful sparks over the field, and the screams of the wounded and dying were muffled in drifting smoke and confusion.
Distantly, Sergei saw a portion of the northern end of the line give way entirely. Firenzcians poured through the gap, the banners of the chevarittai fluttering as they pushed deep into the Nessantico ranks.
The flag-pages around Sergei glanced over nervously. He scowled down at the battlefield.
“It’s over, Commandant,” ca’Montmorte said. “They’re through the defenses. We can’t hold them here any longer.”
Sergei hadn’t expected to prevail, but he’d also not expected to be routed so quickly. “I know,” he nearly shouted at ca’Montmorte. The angry words tasted like bitter, unripe sunberries in his mouth. “Tell the offiziers to fall back,” he grunted, and the pages snatched red flags from the ground and began waving them frantically, the horns changed their call. The cry went up from around the field.
The Nessantico war-teni turned to different spells; now they covered the field with a thick, dense fog to confuse the inflow of the Firenzcians and cover the retreat. The chevarittai reluctantly turned their mounts; the foot soldiers gave way and the archers tried to slow the enemy troops that filled the vacated space.
Faintly, Sergei heard the Firenzcian horns. He’d hoped that the Hirzg would let them retreat, so that the Hirzg could lick his own wounds and set the army for the final thrust toward Nessantico. That was the way of polite warfare: when the outcome of the battle was decided, the the triumphant side allowed the loser to draw back, perhaps to exchange prisoners and recover the bodies of any important ca’ or cu’ who had fallen.
But the horns across the field weren’t sounding halt, but pursuit.
Ca’Montmorte spat onto the grass. “The bastard. .” Sergei shook his head. He pulled on the reins of his horse.
“Regroup the chevarittai with the Kraljiki’s troops near the Fen Fields,” he told ca’Montmorte. “Send a runner to the Archigos; we’ll need all the war-teni to try to stop them there. Tell the Kraljiki to be ready. The Hirzg wants his city today.”
Sergei glanced once more at the battlefield wreathed in spell-fog.
He shook his head and kicked at his destrier’s sides.
Jan ca’Vorl
The pages rushed about, carrying news from the front lines and relaying orders from Jan and Starkkapitan ca’Linnett as the attack began. Well back from the front line and protected, Allesandra was with Jan, as were Archigos ca’Cellibrecca and Starkkapitan ca’Linnett. From the cover of the trees, they watched as war-fire arced away from the teni toward the defenders of Nessantico. But the sense of destiny and power faded almost immediately. Jan cursed and Archigos ca’Cellibrecca gaped in shock as the spell-fires were countered, as the blazing suns were extinguished or-far, far worse-were sent back toward their own lines. There were cries of alarm from across the field of battle, but the overwhelming terror that Jan had been assured would be the result was lost. “They’re using the Numetodo. .” the Archigos muttered. He made the sign of Cenzi, as if to ward off evil.
Jan was merely furious. “Archigos, I’d remind you that both you and U’Teni cu’Kohnle assured me that our war-teni would send our enemies running back to the city. It seems to me that nothing of the sort has happened, and that, in fact, you’ve just caused the death of many of our own men.”
“The counter-spells came impossibly quickly, my Hirzg,” ca’Cellibrecca answered nervously.
“Impossible, Archigos? I
Ca’Cellibrecca bowed his head. “I’m sorry, my Hirzg. But it’s obvious the Kraljiki and the heretic cu’Seranta have made a pact with the Numetodo.” Ca’Cellibrecca clenched his hands and made the sign of
Cenzi. “They deserve everything Cenzi will bring them. Everything.”
Allesandra answered him. “My
“We’ll deal with this failure later, Archigos,” Jan told him. “Numetodo or not, and despite the performance of your war-teni, we
Ca’Linnett bowed and barked orders: cornets blared, and with a great cry, the army surged out from the trees, the chevarittai leading the way with banners of black and silver flying.
