CHAPTER TWENTY
Azarion wrenched the spear free from the impaled Kraelian fighter just in time to block another’s sword strike with the haft.
A thunderous snap followed by a bellowed “Look out!” from a nearby warrior made him and his opponent look up to the terrifying sight of a stone the size of a cart hurtling toward them from above.
Azarion leapt out of the way, skidding through the battlefield’s churned mud. A hard strike to his leg made his toes go numb for a moment before shooting pains ricocheted from his shin to his thigh. A spray of mud shot skyward before pelting him in a rain of droplets, and the ground shook under his feet.
The rock had grazed him as it fell, denting his greave hard enough to pinch skin and cloth at its crease. He was lucky, far luckier than the Kraelian fighter he had fended off moments earlier. The man hadn’t dodged as fast as Azarion and paid the price. All Azarion could see was a boot and part of a leg, bent at a strange angle, under the boulder.
He glanced at the ramparts where the long-armed skeletons of catapults suddenly rose above the walls. Around him, men and horses from both sides fled the field. His squadron of heavy horse, however, hadn’t yet noticed the danger. They engaged the Kraelian infantry in a vicious battle, the gleam of bright steel flashing under the morning sun as they fought each other with sword and spear.
Azarion clambered to his feet, half limping, half running toward his mount and the men under his command. “Fall back!” he shouted. “Fall back now!”
Too late. A second booming snap followed by whistling heralded another hail of crushing shrapnel, this time a mix of stones, broken wood, and nails that ripped into the clusters of fighting men and horses. Human screams joined equine squeals of agony as death fell from the sky.
Azarion covered his head and raced for his horse, stopping once to drag a wounded Savatar fighter with him. When he looked once more toward his mount, it lay in the mud, dead.
Trumpets sounded from the horde perched on the low rise above the city, and soon a swarm of horse archers descended onto the field, despite the danger from the lethal catapults. Azarion shoved the man he helped toward the rider bearing down on them. She stretched her arm out as she rode past, and the soldier grabbed hold, swinging himself up behind her, the horse never slowing pace.
The light cavalry swooped in, rescuing those in the heavy cavalry either injured or without their horses. Azarion leapt onto the back of Tamura’s horse as she nearly ran him over to save him. They raced back to the safety of the Savatar camp, where the catapults’ range couldn’t reach.
Azarion met Erakes at the entrance to his qara. “If we want to breach those gates or take down the rest of the infantry, we have to destroy those catapults.”
That the Kraelians had employed the catapults in their defense of the capital didn’t come as a surprise; still, Azarion had hoped they’d wait until the Kraelian ships arrived from the east and it no longer became necessary to engage the ground forces already defending Kraelag.
Erakes, still in half harness from his own earlier foray onto the field, motioned him inside the tent. He scowled at Azarion. “Number of casualties?”
Azarion shrugged. “It’s anyone’s guess. I’d say I’ve lost half my squadron. If we send in the other ones, the same will happen to them. Krael is willing to crush its own men in the effort to stop us. Heavy horse is useless against catapult fire.”
Erakes paced, stroking his beard in thought. “The archers can still do plenty of damage and keep the Kraelians pinned in that square of theirs. They’re mobile enough and fast enough to avoid the worst of the catapult’s projectiles. And remember, we don’t need to breach the gate. Not today. Not this battle. The treasure inside is worth warring over but not worth a defeat. We just need to fight long enough for the Kraelian ships to arrive with their eastern garrison soldiers.”
“Or until our supply of arrows runs out.”
They had brought with them a massive baggage train consisting of hundreds of horses loaded with thousands of arrows. An infantry’s best defense against horse archers was to simply wait them out until the archers used up their arrows. Erakes had made certain such wouldn’t happen with the baggage train in reserve.
They were interrupted from discussing more by a soldier. “Atamans,” he said. “You need to come see this.”
They followed him out of the tent, riding to a part of the ridge where they had a clear view of the battlefield and the city’s defended gate. The Kraelian forces were shouting, cries of “Death to the savages!” carrying over the batter of sword flats on shields. The commanders spurred their horses up and down the lines, raising their arms in victory and encouraging the shouts to even greater volume. While a number of Kraelians kept an eye on the ridge, most watched their leaders or tilted their faces up to the city ramparts.
Erakes watched the tableau for a moment before shrugging. “They just sent us into retreat by hurling giant rocks at us. Of course they’d be celebrating. Why do we need to see this?”
Azarion barely heard the question. He’d followed the direction of the soldiers’ gazes to the top of the city walls. The ringing that started in his ears almost drowned out everything else as his gaze caught on a diminutive figure standing at the ramparts, gleaming bright and golden in the sun. Black fury erupted inside him, along with a hatred so deep, it had etched itself into his bones.
He pointed to the figure. “That is Empress Dalvila on the ramparts,” he said in a voice gone guttural. He guided his new mount down the ridge’s slope, not waiting for Erakes’s reply. “Find me the best archer and have them meet me,” he shouted to the soldier who had brought them here. “Not the fastest. The most accurate.”
The man bolted back to the Savatar encampment. Erakes trotted down the hill, catching up with Azarion, his features avid with the possibility of a quick victory. “Cut off the head, kill the snake?” he asked. “What about the emperor?”
Azarion didn’t care about the emperor. Given enough time, the empress would dispatch with him. His gaze stayed riveted on Dalvila as she called down praise to her commanders. Defiant, flamboyant, she buoyed her troops’ morale with her reckless disregard for her safety. She stood partially shielded by the rampart walls but still vulnerable to a well-aimed arrow.
“The Spider of Empire,” Erakes remarked. He grinned at Azarion’s quick, surprised glance. “You didn’t know that’s what she was called? Herself has many names outside the capital. Most not complimentary.”
“They aren’t complimentary inside the capital either,” Azarion muttered.
He tried to contain his impatience as they waited for the archer to appear, and prayed Dalvila wouldn’t leave the ramparts before then.
The rhythmic thud of hooves signaled the archer’s arrival. She gave Azarion and Erakes each a quick bow. “You asked for the best archer, Azarion Ataman. That’s me.”
He waved her to follow him farther down the ridge, sheltered among a cluster of stone outcroppings where Savatar scouts kept watch and reported back to the commanders.
“They’re too far away, Azarion,” Erakes argued. “Even for the best archer.”
Azarion ignored him. He pointed to where Dalvila stood. “Can you shoot her from here?”
The archer dismounted and eyed the ramparts, squinting and pacing a short distance one way and then the other. She nocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring to take aim. More pacing and squinting had Azarion clenching his jaw to keep from hurrying her. Finally, she lowered the bow and shook her head. “They’re a good distance away, and she’s a small target. I’d have to just about stand on the field’s edge to guarantee a hit. I’ll never get an arrow in the air before I’m dead.”