the next assassin to come? I will not live my life frightened of my drink and distrusting every shadow of my room. Sebastian tried to take my life. He failed. I will come for his, and I will succeed.”
Gregane shook his head.
“Very well. I have one last offer, this from Sebastian himself. Dismiss your army, and announce to the people of the North that Sebastian is still lord of the Yellow Rose. In return, milord will bear no grudge against you, ensure no assassins ever dare strike at you, and allow you the freedom to leave your Castle of Caves without fear. What say you?”
Arthur grinned, and the wolfish gleam in his eye told Gregane the answer before the lord ever spoke.
“His promises are nothing. One last chance, Gregane. The men will listen to you. Join my side. I am the eldest son, and I have come for my birthright.”
Sir Gregane saluted, even as he felt sadness pang in his heart.
“Ready your men,” he said. “It comes to bloodshed, then.”
Arthur saluted in return.
“I pray we do not meet in battle,” he said. “For no matter the victor, I will always offer my hand to you in friendship, should you ever choose to accept it.”
They rode back to their escorts.
“Well?” Nicholls asked.
“Prepare the archers,” Gregane said. “I want the whole damn woods buried with arrows.”
Nicholls shouted the order, and then the army began marching. As expected, Arthur vanished into the forest behind the many trunks and naked branches. No troops came out to meet them as they marched. It looked like they wished to fight amid the trees, but Gregane had no intention of doing so.
Once within two hundred yards, Gregane called a halt. Archers rushed to the front, forming three lines of a hundred each. Sir Gregane lifted his arm, and he looked through the trees at the line of soldiers. Somewhere in there, an honorable lord would die. Such a shame.
“Let loose,” he said.
Volley after volley sailed into the air, and in the silence following the twang of bowstrings, Gregane sighed.
The arrows hit the forest like rain. Even from their distance, Gregane could hear the sounds of pierced trunks, snapped shafts, and the screams of the wounded. Of all, it was the third that was the least. Frowning, he ordered another volley. Again the arrows fell, and Gregane struggled to see. The trees were too much cover, from what he could tell, and the men on the front lines bore heavy shields.
“What now?” Nicholls asked.
“Arrows are replaced easier than men,” Gregane said. “Empty every quiver.”
The twang of the bowstrings became a discordant chorus, the archers letting loose as fast as they were capable. Gregane did not even watch, instead turning to his troops and planning strategy. His knights would lose most advantages navigating their horses through the trees. If only he could draw Arthur’s men out somehow, and then send his knights crashing through their sides…
“Advance slowly,” Gregane said. “Tight formations, no charge. Let us see how disciplined our enemy is. And watch for traps.”
The archers fell to the back, and then the squads of footmen began their approach. Only a third were equipped with shields, and they would be the ones on the frontlines. The rest carried heavy swords and axes, the killing men that would break through once the initial clash was done. Gregane stayed back with his knights, watching for the perfect moment to send them crashing in.
The yards between them shrank, and Gregane found himself holding his breath waiting for the collision of bodies, the communal yell of a charge. It did not come, for behind him he heard the sound of an inferno unleashed.
“What in Karak’s name is that?” Nicholls shouted. Gregane spun his horse, and he felt his heart hammer in his chest at the sight.
The woods behind them were ablaze. Not just burning, not just smoking, but full ablaze, every tree consumed, every inch of the sky blotted out above it. As trees collapsed and branches fell, the grassland caught.
“The wind,” Gregane said, fighting off panic.
“It is with us,” Nicholls said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “The fire will not catch us. It’ll burn west instead.”
At such a sight, it was hard to believe. Swearing, he looked back to the fight. Most were unaware of the inferno, no doubt focused on the battle. His squads had reached the forest, which remained at a standstill. Shields locked against shields. Those with the longer swords stabbed over, and Gregane knew he was killing just as many, if not more, than Arthur. But that fire…
He glanced back, and this time saw a disturbing sight. Running low to the ground were several hundred men, racing ahead of the fire. Amid the smoke they were difficult to spot, but luck had been with him, a heavy gust pushing the smoke away so he might see. Cursing, he took stock of the new threat.
“It must be the bandits,” he said.
Nicholls turned, for a moment confused. Following Gregane’s point, he saw the group and frowned.
“I see no heavy armor,” he said. “I think you’re right. What do we do?”
The fight was not yet theirs, but they could not afford to be pressed from two directions, no matter how weak that second force might be. It seemed overkill to use his knights, but the bandits were on open ground.
“Take half,” he told Nicholls. “Wipe them out quickly, then return.”
“Right,” said the knight, drawing his sword. Calling out orders, he trotted ahead, two hundred and fifty men riding behind. Gregane turned his attention back to the forest, trusting his fellow knight to deal with the distraction. At first he smiled, for Arthur’s line had clearly broken, but then he saw his men remained in tight formations just within the tree line. They certainly didn’t look like an army giving chase.
“Find out what’s going on,” he told one of his riders. The man shot off, rode a half-circle behind the lines, and then returned.
“They built themselves a ditch,” said the rider. “Fell back, and now are killing any trying to climb across.”
Sir Gregane swore, then spurred his horse onward.
“To me!” he cried, and several nearby took up his cry to ensure he was heard over the chaos of the battle. “To me, fall back!”
His men did as they were told, and Gregane clenched his teeth as Arthur’s men launched an assault. Gregane’s footmen, torn between standing their ground and retreating as ordered, suffered terrible casualties before reforming their lines outside the trees. Those that chased turned back, vanishing into the forest. Gregane rode past his lines, estimating numbers. Hundreds dead already, if not a thousand. Still, he outnumbered Arthur, but such brutal losses…
“Get the archers,” he told his vanguard. “I want them shoving every last body into the ditch. We’ll charge across the dead, both theirs and ours. Rob, Ash, ride to either side and find out just how far that ditch goes. I want them flanked come our next charge.”
The two knights saluted and obeyed. As the archers rushed forward, and his men reset their lines, he glanced back to see how long until Nicholls returned. Instead, his mouth fell agape at the sight. The fire had spread, ignoring the wind as if it were possessed. Already a quarter mile of grassland burned. Gregane swore at whatever sorcery had to be involved. A second fire appeared to have erupted at the feet of his charging knights. Every which way he saw horses sprinting, some with riders, some without. The leather of their saddles, and sometimes their very bodies, burned. Those that had survived appeared locked in combat, though he was too far to know how that went. Amidst all this strangeness was a strong blue light. No matter where his knights rode, no matter who struck at it, the light never faded, never broke.
“Sir,” said Rob, returning from his side. “It goes on for at a tenth mile, though most of it appears unguarded.”
“They’ll shift over should they see us moving,” Gregane said, but he eyed the stretch of forest with a thought. “We have numbers, though. They can’t cover it all.”
Ash returned, the young knight telling of a similar setup. It seemed in what time they had, Arthur had done
