Justi hacked at a spear thrust toward him, hewing off the hand that held the weapon, and the man’s lifeblood spurted out as he screamed and fell under the hooves of Justi’s horse. Justi began to strike blindly, at anything that moved wearing silver and black. Around him, his chevarittai tore through the Firenzcians like a plow through earth, blood and death in their trail. They were deep behind the lines now, and the Firenzcian chevarittai had noticed the banner of the Kraljiki and were pushing toward them. “Kraljiki!” Justi heard Sergei shout from behind him. “You’re too isolated here! We must fall back to our own line!”
“No!” Justi shouted over his shoulder. “I will not be called a coward!”
He struck at the nearest man, heard a howl as glittering red spattered his sword arm. He pushed forward. He heard the challenge of the enemy chevarittai, and he shouted back at them defiantly.
They came.
Justi managed to take down the first chevaritt who reached him-a man whose face was vaguely familiar, a ca’ who had perhaps once been at the court or to whom Justi had been introduced on one of his so-journs to Brezno. He didn’t know the man’s name, only knew that his own sword was growing heavier even as their blades met and he thrust hard into the space between helm and chestplate, finding flesh above the collar of the man’s surcoat. Justi tried to pull his sword back as gore splashed over the surcoat’s embroidered crest, but his blade was snagged on bone or armor. There was no time to think; another chevaritt was on him and he could not defend himself. He let go of the sword (the chevaritt tumbling from his saddle) and brought up a hopeless arm, hoping the steel of the vambrace could deflect the blow. . but ca’Rudka’s horse slammed hard into Justi’s attacker, the commandant’s sword slicing through the Firenzcian’s hauberk. The chevaritt slid to the ground under their destriers with a scream.
“Kraljiki-” Sergei started to say, but there was no time. They were caught, snared in the press of foot soldiers and chevarittai. The young chevaritt holding Justi’s banner was down. To his left, Justi saw ca’Montmorte borne under, skewered on a spear, his surcoat and hauberk feathered with arrows. Near ca’Montmorte, the Numetodo ci’Vliomani gestured and fire exploded, but his war-fire was pale and ineffective.
Everything was chaos: screaming and shouting and movement. Pain lanced Justi’s right leg and he cried out in shock, glancing down to see his greave rent and blood streaming from the gash in the metal. Hands clutching at him, threatening to pull him down.
Justi knew that he was about to be captured, if not slain outright.
If either happened, this war was over. Any parley for his release would include his abdication. He struck at the hands with a dagger pulled from his belt, kicking at his destier’s side. But the destrier was hemmed in and though he saw Sergei still fighting desperately at his side, they were surrounded now in a sea of black and silver.
Justi screamed in fury.
Karl ci’Vliomani
He had nothing left. The spells he had prepared so carefully before the battle were gone, and it would take too long and he was far too exhausted to call up new ones. His arm was already exhausted from using his sword- and swordplay was hardly his strength, in any case.
He wondered what death was going to feel like. He wondered-briefly-what he might say to Cenzi if He were there in the afterlife.
He heard the Kraljiki scream and saw the man surrounded, about to be borne down.
But the earth answered the Kraljiki’s scream.
The ground erupted as if some demon of the Moitidi had risen from the depths: an explosion of mud and trampled wheat tossed away from them anyone in black and silver, though it left the Kraljiki, the commandant, and the remaining chevarittai of Nessantico untouched.
And Karl.
For a moment, there was silence.
Karl saw the commandant grab for the reins of the Kraljiki’s horse; the Kraljiki himself swayed in the saddle, clutching at his leg.
“Retreat!” ca’Rudka shouted to the others. “Retreat while we have the chance!”
Ca’Rudka yanked at the reins of the Kraljiki’s mount. Karl kicked his own horse into movement, dropping the useless sword to better hold the reins. They galloped back toward the Nessantico lines through the tumbled bodies.
Black and silver merged into blue and gold: they were through and behind the lines as the sounds of battle arose anew behind them. “We need a healer!” Sergei shouted to a page as they halted. The commandant was helping the Kraljiki down from his saddle; Sergei slid from his own horse to aid him, but the commandant nearly fell himself with his own wounded leg. The Kraljiki was moaning and fighting their hands; Sergei saw blood pulsing from the wound in the man’s thigh. He and ca’Rudka looked at each other as they lay the Kraljiki on the grass and mud. Sergei was already stripping off his coverlet, ripping the cloth and stuffing it into the wound. “Get his greave off so we can bind the wound,” he said to Karl. “Quickly.”
Karl cut the straps of the plate mail with his dagger and pulled it free of the torn links of the mail leggings underneath. More blood gushed over his hands. The spear, he saw, had come in at the top of the plate and pierced deep into the muscle. He glimpsed white bone before Sergei packed the wound and bound another strip above the gash. The flow of blood slowly subsided, though the Kraljiki’s face was pale and he’d lapsed into unconsciousness.
“He may lose that leg, if not his life,” the commandant said to Karl as the healer arrived, and ca’Rudka stood up, watching as the healer fussed over Justi. “This was so unnecessary. The Archigos, though, she might be able to help.”
Karl shook his head. “Ana has no strength left. The Kraljiki is in the hands of the healers for now.”
A nod. The commandant was looking back, toward the line of battle. The gloom of twilight was beginning to deepen, aided by the dark fan of a storm front. A few large drops of rain were beginning to fall and the wind had picked up. “We’ve done all we can do,” the commandant said, glancing up. “The city is safe for another day, at least.” He gestured to a nearby page. “Find the horns. Have them call ‘Disengage.’
Tell the a’offiziers to fall back toward the city. I doubt the Hirzg will follow this time.”
He looked down again at the Kraljiki. Karl watched him shake his head.
Jan ca’Vorl
“They’re pulling back all along the line,” ca’Linnett said to Jan. The Starkkapitan’s face, like Jan’s own, was spattered with mud and blood smeared by the driving rain, and the edge of his sword was badly nicked. “If we press, they will turn and fight; if we allow them, they’ll retreat.”
Jan grunted. He wiped at sodden eyes. He was surprised that therain did not hiss like water dropped on heated steel as it struck him, the anger burned in him so hot.
The carriages had come forward as the line of battle had pushed on toward the city. Allesandra, wrapped in an oilcloth against the wet, was at his side again, looking up at him as ca’Linnett gave his report. U’Teni cu’Kohnle stood by ca’Linnett, his hair plastered to his skull and dripping with the rain; he looked as if he’d not slept in a week, drained by the efforts of his spells. Ca’Cellibrecca was present as well-unsoiled, untouched, protected from the rain by a large umbrella held by an e’teni, yet somehow managing to look as if he’d suffered worst of all.
This was not a victory. At best this was a draw. Jan stared at the men in black and silver laying unmoving in the field as the rain pummeled them. This was a defeat. He knew it. The Numetodo illusion had wasted their war- teni’s efforts, and they’d been unable to counter the war-fire that had been sent after them. The Garde Civile had fought like madmen rather than halfhearted conscripts, and the chevarittai of Nessantico had shown their worth. Jan had felt some hope when he’d glimpsed the Kraljiki’s foolish advance beyond his own lines, but another unusual spell-was it the Numetodo again, or the false Archigos? — had saved the idiot.
Now darkness threatened and the rain poured down on them.
“Pursue,” he said, furious. “I don’t care. I will rest tonight inside the walls.
“Hirzg,” ca’Linnett persisted, “they’re not fleeing in panic. Their retreat is orderly and slow, and they
