At that, he glanced at the man, a grateful smile on his lips. “Thank you, Ewan.”
They rode slowly, keeping pace with the soldiers, who were on foot. Still, it wasn’t long-not nearly long enough, as far as the duke was concerned-before they were in the heart of the city, making their way past a burned-out smithy and a tavern that seemed eerily quiet. The marketplace was completely empty, save for a stray dog that sniffed about for scraps of food. They saw no signs at all of the enemy.
Ewan had appeared composed as they approached the city, but once on its lanes, he had grown increasingly tense. He was frowning now, shaking his head.
“I don’t like this at all,” he said under his breath. Renald wondered if he was keeping his voice down for the sake of his men, or to keep the empire’s soldiers from overhearing. “We should have seen them by now.”
“You’ve said all along that you were surprised they left so few men in the city. Perhaps they saw how large a force we brought, and retreated to their ships.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” the swordmaster said, but Renald could tell that he didn’t really believe this, that he was merely humoring the duke. He continued to glance about anxiously, as if expecting an attack at any moment.
In the next instant it came. An arrow buried itself in Ewan’s shoulder, tearing a gasp from the man. Before the duke had time to act a second barb hit Renald in the thigh, the pain stealing his breath. An instant later, arrows were whistling all around them. It was as if they had disturbed a nest of hornets.
“Shields!” the swordmaster roared through clenched teeth. “Take cover!”
The men broke formation, scattering in all directions. And even as the arrows continued to fly, Renald heard the ring of steel and saw that the enemy had been waiting for his army to do just this. Abruptly he was surrounded by a melee. Everywhere he looked, men were fighting and falling. Soldiers in Braedon’s gold and red pressed toward him, and he hacked at them with his blade, making his horse rear again and again so as to keep them at a distance. Ewan battled as best he could, though he had taken the arrow in the right shoulder and so was forced to fight with his weaker hand.
Another arrow struck the duke’s shield and others streaked past him, making him cringe repeatedly. He would have liked to jump off his horse-as it was he presented Braedon’s bowmen with an inviting target-but he didn’t dare descend into the maelstrom of steel and flesh that swirled all around him. All he could do was fight, clinging desperately to his mount with his legs, the wound in his thigh screaming agony, his back and buttocks aching, his sword arm flailing at the enemy time and again until the muscles in his shoulder seemed to be aflame. Time came to be measured by the rise and fall of his blade. He thought nothing of the realm or the throne or the renegade Qirsi. He cared only for his own survival, not for years to come, nor even for this night, but for each moment as it passed. Would he live long enough to kill this man in gold and red who sought to pull him off his mount? Would he survive the next volley of Braedony arrows? Would the next pulse of anguish from his leg make him fall to the street?
He had thought to lead Galdasten’s army into battle, but there was nothing for him to do other than live and fight; there was no command he could give, no plan he could follow. All around him, men fought and died. They would decide the outcome of this conflict; in pairs and skirmishes they would write the history of Galdasten’s war. Even in pain, in battle fury, in this madness that passed for war, Renald had the sense to see that it had always been thus, that his forebears who claimed war’s glory as their own had done little more than live to declare victory. The realization sobered and humbled him, made his struggle more bearable even as it forced him to admit that its outcome mattered little. And still he fought on.
After a time that shaded toward eternity, it occurred to the duke that there were fewer men around him, that he had more room in which to turn his mount, and that the clashing of swords and cries of dying soldiers had somewhat abated.
Ewan was still beside him, his face damp with sweat, his skin ashen and his lips shading to blue. The arrow was still in his shoulder and a second jutted from his right side, blood staining his shirt of mail. His grey eyes had a glazed look to them, and yet he continued to fight, turning his horse in circles, looking for more of the enemy to strike.
“Swordmaster!” Renald called. And when the man stared back at him, seeming not to recognize his face, he said, “Ewan.”
The man blinked and looked at him again, tottering in his saddle. “My lord,” he said, his voice weary and hoarse.
“You need a healer.”
“No, my lord. I’m all right.”
“I think it’s ending. I can’t tell who’s won, but the fighting appears to have ebbed.”
Ewan glanced up and down the street, nodding. He sat a bit straighter in his saddle, the color returning to his cheeks. It almost seemed that he drew strength from the mere suggestion that the fighting might be over. “We’ve won.”
“You know this?”
The swordmaster faced him again. “You and I are alive. We wouldn’t be if your army had been defeated.”
Indeed, the arrows had stopped flying, and now soldiers began to wander back into the lane, all of them wearing the bronze and black of Galdasten. One of the captains approached Renald and the swordmaster, a deep gash on his upper arm, and several smaller ones on his face, hands, and neck.
Ewan sheathed his sword, grimacing at even this small movement. “Report,” he said.
“Most of the enemy are dead, sir. Those who still live have fled to their ships. Some of our men pursued them-there’s still fighting at the piers.”
“And our losses?”
“I don’t know for certain yet. If I had to guess, I’d say several hundred, but fewer than half.”
“All right, Captain. Go back to the piers. Tell the men there to let the rest go. We’ve won already; I don’t want to lose any more men. Then get yourself to a healer.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked at the duke and bowed. “For Galdasten, my lord.”
Renald nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”
“You need a healer, too, my lord,” Ewan said, as the man walked back toward the quays.
“No more than you do.”
“Shall we go together, then?”
“That would be fine. Pillad can minister to us both.”
Ewan grimaced again. It took Renald a moment to realize that he was grinning. “Yes, my lord.”
They found a soldier who had come through the fighting relatively unscathed and sent him back to the castle to fetch the healers.
“Assuming that your captain was right,” the duke said after the man had gone, “and that we lost several hundred men, how long will it be before we can march to the Moorlands?”
“It depends upon how many men you wish to take, my lord. If you’ll be satisfied to take seven or eight hundred, we can leave in three days. Perhaps two, if the quartermaster works quickly.”
“Then let’s plan on that.” Renald glanced down at the arrow protruding from his thigh. His leggings were soaked with blood, and the wound throbbed mercilessly. He could hardly believe that he was already contemplating his next battle, but what choice did he have? For better or worse, at long last, he had become a warrior.
Chapter Eight
On the morning following their capture of the emperor’s palace, Dusaan sent Nitara and several of the other ministers to Curtell City with instructions to scour the inns and taverns and marketplace for all the Qirsi they could find.
“For now, you’re simply to tell them that the emperor’s high chancellor wishes to speak with them,” he said, sitting in the middle of what had been Harel’s imperial chamber.
Nitara had stared back at him, her pale eyes wide, still so afraid of giving offense. “But Weaver, they know
