Out of the corner of his eye, Aedan saw young Ghieste fall as a spear got past his guard and pushed him from his mount. Unbalanced, he went down into the milling bodies, and Aedan did not see him rise again. A moment later, the same thing almost happened to him. He saw a pike thrusting up at him, deflected it with his blade, then slashed down at his attacker, splitting his helm. The man had no time to scream.
None of the mounted fighters could maneuver very quickly now, hemmed in by the fighting foot soldiers all around them, and Aedan saw the emperor, perhaps ten yards away, hacking away like mad as he tried to reach Lord Arwyn. Arwyn, in turn, seemed intent on the same thing.
The two were separated by no more than twenty yards, and yet neither could reach the other. Aedan tried to fight his way closer. His breathing was becoming labored, and he felt the soreness in his sword arm as he swung away at his attackers. The standard was an impediment, but he could not let it fall. As Michael engaged a foot soldier who sought to slash his leg, Aedan saw a mounted knight coming up on his rear.
“Michael!” he called out. “Behind you!”
The emperor struck down the foot soldier and quickly turned his horse, barely in time to parry the sword stroke aimed at his head. For a moment, the two of them engaged in a flurry of blows, and then Michael’s sword caught the knight a blow upon his neck, and he went down.
Gylvain fought as well, dressed not in his robes, but for battle.
Magic was of little use in a melee, but Aedan noticed that no blade could reach him. As his attackers struck at him, their blades seemed to slide off the air around him, but Gylvain’s blows struck home. Then there was no time to notice Gylvain as a mounted knight bore down on Aedan. They exchanged several blows before two Anuirean foot soldiers leapt up and dragged him from his saddle.
On and on the battle went, furious and bloody, with neither side giving way. Aedan fought more from instinct than will, only dimly aware of the dampness of the sweat trickling down inside his armor, the taste of dust in his mouth, and the smell of bodies surging all around him.
From time to time, he caught a glimpse of Michael, and did his utmost to stay close to him, but it was all that he could do to fight for his own survival.
And then it happened. A momentary respite from the blades striking out at him, a brief island of calm within the storm, and Aedan saw Michael battling Arwyn, perhaps twenty yards away, their horses side to side as they engaged. In the area immediately around them, men actually stopped fighting so they
could watch. Aedan urged his mount forward, trying to get closer.
The old warlord against the young emperor. Both had unleashed their divine rage, and everyone around them watched, mesmerized, as the two combatants smashed away furiously at each other. They seemed evenly matched, and they were battering each other with such force that both their shields had buckled.
Then Arwyn struck a blow that sent Michael’s shield flying, and Aedan gasped as Michael seemed to lose his balance from the impact. He swayed in his saddle, and Arwyn raised his sword to finish him.
But in that moment, Michael suddenly leaned forward as he swayed and lunged sharply, driving his blade point first through Arwyn’s throat.
The momentum of his lunge carried Michael right out of the saddle, and as Arwyn fell back, Michael went with him, over his horse and to the ground. At once, Aedan and Sylvanna moved in to protect him, and then Gylvain was there, as well, and a group of foot soldiers who formed a ring around him. Michael got up. Arwyn never would.
Michael raised his sword with both hands and brought it down like an axe, severing the dead archduke’s head from his body. Then he raised it high and cried out, “Arwyn is dead! Lay down your arms!”
Immediately, the cry was taken up by all the troops.
It happened like a spreading ripple in a pool, moving out from where they were to the fringes of the battle. As the cry of “Arwyn’s dead!”
was echoed over and over, slowly, the fighting stopped. The THe IRON THBONE noise gradually died down, and the clash of blades diminished until everything was still. Men simply stopped fighting and stood where they were, dazed and exhausted, staring at one another, scarcely able to believe it was over.
As the dust began to settle and the only sounds upon the battlefield were the piteous moans and cries of the wounded and the dying, several mounted knights of the Army of Boeruine made their way toward where the emperor stood. Their horses came at a walk, and they held their swords by their sides.
One knight rode forward and gazed down for a long time at Arwyn’s decapitated body. Then he threw down his sword and reached up to remove his helm.
Eight long, hard years had passed since Aedan saw him last, but he immediately recognized Derwyn, Arwyn’s son, and Michael’s childhood playmate.
His face was a mask of misery. For a moment, his glance met Aedan’s, and he nodded. Aedan returned the gesture, and then Derwyn turned to Michael. For several moments, the two of them simply stared at one another as their men gathered around them. No one spoke. Derwyn held his head up high. Not in defiance, but in proud defeat.
“Derwyn . . .” Michael said, heavily He
