The War Princes were gathered near the place they had stood all day to watch the course of the battle. It had fallen by lot to Bolecthindial to give the signal for the charge—a twisted acknowledgment of their bargain—but when he had seen Ivrulion on the field, he hesitated. I am tired. I think too much, Bolecthindial told himself. He wanted to be home, on his own lands, dealing with matters he understood.
The wind began to rise. In the distance, Bolecthindial saw Huthiel fall to his knees. He turned to give an order—Caerthalien to the field, to strike Ivrulion down—when Dormorothon screamed and flung herself from the padded bench where she’d been sitting.
Sedreret was shouting, demanding Healers and servants to attend his mother. Bolecthindial ignored him, his attention fixed on Ivrulion. The army was disordered, confused, its elements jostling one another as this meisne sought to move forward, that to stand.
And on the battlefield, there was movement where there had been stillness.
“Oh, that fool,” Edheleorn Cirandeiron said in a flat stunned voice.
It is you who are the fools, Bolecthindial thought numbly. You did not ask Ivrulion how this miraculous victory he promised was to be achieved.
“Mazhnune,” Consort-Prince Irindandirion said, sounding awed and delighted. “He has raised up an army of mazhnune to fight for us.”
All across the field, dead things staggered to their feet. Bolecthindial saw Vieliessar’s army dissolve into chaos as every animal in it fought to escape. “Sound the retreat,” Bolecthindial said.
His knight-herald shook out the pennion banner and raised the warhorn. But before he could signal, Irindandirion snatched the warhorn from his hands and put it to his own lips.
Charge. Charge at the ravaal.
Before the notes had died, the first ranks spurred their destriers forward. The terrified, overexcited animals went from trot, to gallop, to ravaal in heartbeats, pulling the rest of the army after them. As they neared Ivrulion, the destriers began to veer sharply to avoid him, moving directly into the riders beside them. Horses and riders fell in a widening wave. Ivrulion stood transfixed, arms spread wide, in the center of a churning column of dust.
The sky above him was turning black.
Bolecthindial spurred his mount forward. If it had been his Kerothay, Bolecthindial could have ridden him into the Star-Forge itself, but Kerothay was dead. This mare shied violently before he had closed half the distance to Ivrulion, and Bolecthindial had to fight her to a stand before he could dismount. When he released the reins, she bolted. Bolecthindial drew his sword.
One moment he was running forward, his sword raised. The next, the hilt was forge-hot in his hands and every piece of metal he wore was a live coal burning through leather and cloth and skin. He roared with pain as he fell to hands and knees.
He sucked air and coughed, gagging on the dust. The grass is gone, he thought in vague surprise. All that remained was a pale, soft dust, so fine-grained it was slick as oil. He coughed again and blood spattered the backs of his gauntlets. He would not admit fear, but the sight of his own blood galvanized him, and he clawed his way to his feet. He took a step, slipping and staggering as if buffeted by stormwinds. Pain made him gasp and shudder and fall again. Ivrulion seemed farther away than before. The rings on Bolecthindial’s fingers had charred through the gloves beneath them, the jeweled clip in his hair had burned through it.
I cannot die before I make right what all of us set wrong out of fear and greed and ambition, Bolecthindial thought vaguely. Those were the tools all of them had used against others all their lives. Double-edged tools, like the swords they gave their sons and daughters while they were still children, before sending them off to war. We should not be surprised our children become sharpened blades as well.…
Blisters welled up on his skin, and broke, and bled. He gasped for air, but there was nothing but soft dust, stifling him, strangling him. He made one last attempt to get to his feet. But what rose and walked long moments later was no longer Bolecthindial Caerthalien.
* * * “Fall back!” Rithdeliel shouted, hoping he could be heard. Horses screamed as they were pulled down by mazhnune wearing komen plate or sellsword chain or the leather of infantry. Strike off head or limbs, and what remained kept fighting. Worst were the mazhnune destriers, who trailed their spilled guts across the ice or galloped with broken necks flopping limply. The living destriers feared them more than they feared the mazhnune alfaljodthi.
The first ranks of the komen were fighting on foot now—even if there had been enough horses, they were impossible to control close to the mazhnune. When the mazhnune began attacking, they’d scavenged whatever infantry weapons they could find to arm themselves—you couldn’t kill something that was already dead, but at least you could hold it in place while your comrades chopped it into enough pieces that it stopped moving. The Lightborn were the easiest, for they’d worn little or no armor. The horses and dogs were hardest—the dogs were small and fast, and while the horses could be stopped by striking off their legs, it was nearly impossible to do that without suffering losses. We can’t afford losses, Rithdeliel thought bleakly. Every living thing that dies on Ifjalasairaet rises again as an enemy.
The komen knelt, one knee raised, each holding a pike or a spear. They might have been waiting to receive the charge of a maddened boar, a bear, a stag—winter was a time for hunting, just as summer was a time for war. Or had been. The seasons had all run together. It was winter, and they stood on a battlefield … being hunted. Rithdeliel watched bleakly as the lines of defenders shattered instead of retreating. Only about a third of them were retreating to regroup. The rest had become monsters.
“Rithdeliel! Hurry!” Gatriadde shouted, staggering as he ran past him. Rithdeliel turned and followed. Gatriadde had anchored the tuathal center of the outer defense. He couldn’t remember now who’d been on the deosil edge. Thoromarth? Atholfol? It didn’t matter. Whoever had been there had let some thing approach too closely, thinking it was still alive.
Thinking it was some comrade.
He reached the next line of defenders. On the battlefield things burned, adding smoke to the dust that filled the air. Desperate for light, the komen had set fire to everything that would burn. The burning wreckage gave barely enough light to show the mazhnune walking slowly and with terrible patience toward the defenders. Perhaps it was a mercy that it was too dark to let Rithdeliel easily distinguish the surcoats they wore. Soon enough the deathless enemy would reach their lines, and they would fight, and lose, and retreat again. They were dying by fingerswidths. Half the Alliance was fighting at their side now, and half the High King’s army had become mazhnune.
The sounds of battle were strangely distorted, for only the living cried out. Somewhere in the darkness Rithdeliel could hear the high frantic yelping of a terrified dog; he felt shame at wanting it to go on suffering so the mazhnune would not gain another warrior.
Somewhere behind him, Rithdeliel heard komen shouting wildly. For a panicked moment he thought the mazhnune had broken through. Then he heard hoofbeats and saw a destrier charge across the battlefield at the gallop. Another of the defenders, heart and spirit broken, had been driven mad by the bright torches of the Alliance encampment. The sight of it mocked the defenders with the promise of warmth and light and safety: the mazhnune were not attacking them. Yet, Rithdeliel thought grimly, but for once thoughts of vengeance did not comfort him.
The deserter managed to force his mount through the first line of mazhnune before it threw him. He got to his feet and ran on toward the travesty of sanctuary. Rithdeliel had seen what came next too many times tonight; he pulled his gaze away from the running figure. The horse was galloping wildly around the battlefield, seeking escape but shying away from the clusters of mazhnune. Eventually it would exhaust itself or fall into one of the traps and break a leg, but in the end, the outcome would be the same. Nothing left Ifjalasairaet alive.
The lone komen was pulled down and the screaming began. For an instant, Rithdeliel permitted himself to close his eyes. Every bone and muscle ached. He had no idea how long he’d been fighting.
