The Price Of Command

enough to set off their own return signal. Whpever it was, she blessed him.

The first line of archers bore down on the lines, followed by Selenay’s heavy cavalry and the Skybolts’ light mixed with Heralds and Selenay’s light. Dust rose in a blanket from beneath their horses’ hooves, making a yellow haze over the battlefield, and making it hard to see anything. Kero counted under her breath; waiting for the archers to reappear.

At the count of one hundred, they came charging up out of the cloud, turned their horses, and prepared to charge again. Kero strung her bow, made sure the quiver at her saddle-bow was full, and spurred her horse to join them just as they made the turn.

She lost Eldan immediately as he vanished in the chaos; she trusted to Hellsbane’s sure feet to keep them from going down. They sent arrows up over the solid dam of milling bodies, and hoped they wouldn’t hit anything friendly.

Then it was time for sword-edge, as a running line of foot hit them from either side with a shock. Kero cut down at a pikeman trying to hook her out of her saddle; Hellsbane reared and bashed in the skull of another as he hooked her neighbor, a Valdemar regular. A sword came out of nowhere and she parried it, then kicked its owner in the teeth.

Five men converged on her; she got two, and Hellsbane got one—but one got underneath her, because the melee was so thick the mare couldn’t maneuver. Kero saw it coming, the same move that had gotten one of Hellsbane’s predecessors—and she could do nothing to stop it.

The mare screamed as a sword sought her heart—then collapsed, as the blade found it.

Kero launched herself out of the saddle as the horse buckled under her, rolled under another set of hooves, and came up looking for anything with four legs and no rider.

There—a flash of something pale, yellow—no saddle, but that had never mattered to her. Must be one of ours; couple of the scouts ride bareback—The horse seemed to sense her need; it plunged directly toward her, trampling fighters in its way, and stood still long enough for her to seize a handful of mane and drag herself up onto its back.

And just in time—

Daren stuffed the message into the cylinder, and Quenten sent the skinny little dog Kero’s Lieutenant had left with them off across the field. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw how fast the the beast moved; like a streak of gray lightning.

I hope to hell she gets that, he thought, Quenten said one of the mages was going to put directions in the dog’s head—

Never mind. Either she gets it, or she doesn’t.

“Are you ready?” he asked the putative leader of the nameless men. The man nodded curtly. “Good luck to you, then,”

“’Tisn’t luck we be lookin’ for,” the man replied, and rode out to the head of his troops. Daren shuddered. He hadn’t liked what he’d seen in the man’s eyes.

There’s someone who is not coming back, and doesn’t care, and the gods help whoever’s in his way.

At an unspoken signal, the troops rode out, with Daren, the officers, the Rethwellan foot coming behind. Those riders would be the first thing that Ancar’s men saw—and they should assume that they were their own allies, coming up along the wrong flank. That should confuse and anger the officers, who would assume that the cavalry officers were ignoring their orders.

They passed the orchards that had screened their approach from the enemy, and as Ancar’s lines came into view, Daren saw that the plan was working. The officers couldn’t see what was behind the lines of horse, and they were shouting something at the lead riders.

This was what was happening at three points on Ancar’s line: southeast, due south, and southwest, with Daren’s foot hiding behind the eastern riders. Daren waited, and the riders kept their beasts at a slow walk, waiting for the signal.

It came, in a burst of colored fire overhead and to their rear. The riders broke into a gallop, skeining away into the west like a flock of birds, leaving behind the foot that they’d hidden. They would go on to attack the western and southern flanks, leaving the east to Daren.

Daren’s trumpeter blew the charge, and while Ancar’s men were still staring in confusion, the infantry, weary from having been carried on horseback all night, hit their lines with a clash of metal-on-metal.

They were too tired to make it much of a charge, but they were much better off than they would have been if they’d come all this way on foot, instead of being carried pillion or sharing one of the riderless horses. Daren