Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

He saw Traj, with his red face and belligerent expression, both permanent fixtures. Rint could not recall ever seeing the man smile, but his wife had loved him deeply, and together they had made four children. But now Traj was alone in his life, and no love surrounded him to soften his stony presence, and he sat as one exposed, suffering the weathering of a harsh world.

There were others, and each one he looked upon reminded Rint of his stoic marches through the village, with his sister trapped in his arms. The wounds could not be hidden and so must be worn as a child would wear them, struggling not to cry at the pain, or the shame, determined to show everyone else a strength well disguising its own fragility.

The sun stood high above them. Below, on the killing field beyond the plots of farmland, the heavily armoured Houseblades sat motionless on their caparisoned mounts. Some bore lances; others held long-handled axes or strangely curved swords. The round shields slung on their left arms were black and showed no crest. There were, Rint judged, more than five hundred of them.

There are too many. All this time, while we were away, that damned captain was building his forces, preparing for war. We sat and watched them, and pretended to be unimpressed, and not once did we take heed of the portents.

‘Refuse their charge,’ Traj now growled. ‘We part before them. Nothing changes.’

But everything has. We saw these warhorses. We even remarked on their impressive size. But not once did we see them arrayed in full complement. Now, even at this distance, to look upon them is to feel… diminished.

‘We will dance around them,’ Traj continued, as if seeking to convince himself, ‘striking and then withdrawing. Again and again. Those mounts are burdened. They will tire fast, as will their riders. See the grilled visors on their helms? Their vision is restricted. They’ll not hear commands — the battle will roar through their skulls. They’ll flounder in confusion.’ He rose on his stirrups. ‘Skirmishers, stay well guarded behind our advance — close only when and where we lock blades with them! Close in and kill the ones we unseat. Gut or hamstring the horses if you can. Scatter if they seek to charge or surround you.’

An odd way to use the skirmishers, but then I see your point, Traj. They don’t wield pikes, and there’s not enough dismounted besides, not for a square, not even a hollow one. Their only hope is if we can make this messy.

‘It’s time,’ said Traj.

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He saw Traj, with his red face and belligerent expression, both permanent fixtures. Rint could not recall ever seeing the man smile, but his wife had loved him deeply, and together they had made four children. But now Traj was alone in his life, and no love surrounded him to soften his stony presence, and he sat as one exposed, suffering the weathering of a harsh world.

There were others, and each one he looked upon reminded Rint of his stoic marches through the village, with his sister trapped in his arms. The wounds could not be hidden and so must be worn as a child would wear them, struggling not to cry at the pain, or the shame, determined to show everyone else a strength well disguising its own fragility.

The sun stood high above them. Below, on the killing field beyond the plots of farmland, the heavily armoured Houseblades sat motionless on their caparisoned mounts. Some bore lances; others held long-handled axes or strangely curved swords. The round shields slung on their left arms were black and showed no crest. There were, Rint judged, more than five hundred of them.

There are too many. All this time, while we were away, that damned captain was building his forces, preparing for war. We sat and watched them, and pretended to be unimpressed, and not once did we take heed of the portents.

‘Refuse their charge,’ Traj now growled. ‘We part before them. Nothing changes.’

But everything has. We saw these warhorses. We even remarked on their impressive size. But not once did we see them arrayed in full complement. Now, even at this distance, to look upon them is to feel… diminished.

‘We will dance around them,’ Traj continued, as if seeking to convince himself, ‘striking and then withdrawing. Again and again. Those mounts are burdened. They will tire fast, as will their riders. See the grilled visors on their helms? Their vision is restricted. They’ll not hear commands — the battle will roar through their skulls. They’ll flounder in confusion.’ He rose on his stirrups. ‘Skirmishers, stay well guarded behind our advance — close only when and where we lock blades with them! Close in and kill the ones we unseat. Gut or hamstring the horses if you can. Scatter if they seek to charge or surround you.’

An odd way to use the skirmishers, but then I see your point, Traj. They don’t wield pikes, and there’s not enough dismounted besides, not for a square, not even a hollow one. Their only hope is if we can make this messy.

‘It’s time,’ said Traj.

Rint glanced over to see his sister staring at him. Her eyes glistened and he saw once more in her face the little girl she had once been. Before things broke, before the hands trembled before all that was suddenly out of reach. Climb a tree, sister. High above all of this. You had it right back then. I know now why you fought me so, every time I dragged you back down, every time I carried you up the street and people smiled at your temper or laughed at your wretched moans.

Not all of us wanted to grow up. I should have followed your lead. I should have stayed a child with you, clinging to a high branch while everyone else aged below, aged and fell so helplessly into their futures.

Every child born sent mother and father back to their own childhoods. Like symbols of nostalgia, they were set down and watched as they made their journey away from simplicity, from the bliss of unknowing. And if, in the witnessing of this, tears came, then those tears were warm, and the sadness that joined them somehow comforted the soul, even as it reawakened old pains and old losses. To lose a child was to feel unbearable grief, as if some vital thread had been severed. Nostalgia was a bitter curse, with every memory of that journey ending in sudden loss, yielding emptiness beyond all solace.

Rint understood her now. And wished with all his heart that he didn’t.

She turned away then, gathering her reins in her left hand and drawing her sword with her right. She shifted in her saddle, firming the grip of her feet in the stirrups.

When Feren looked for that witch, her eyes lifted to the trees. And hidden up there, as my sister had known, Olar Ethil looked down with unreadable eyes. A child eager to watch.

Until I gave her fire.

Women are right to fear us. Oh, Feren…

Traj gave the command, and then they were riding down the slope.

Ivis watched the Borderswords begin moving down the slope. ‘Yalad! Signal wedge formation!’

He remained in front of his troops, listening to them assume the new presentation. Horse hoofs thumped to make a rumble of thunder through the hard-packed ground of the killing field. Dust roiled past Ivis in thin clouds, a fortunate direction for the wind, at least to begin with. ‘Centre line count right left!’

He heard voices barking the word ‘right’ and then ‘left’ in an alternating pattern down the heartline of the wedge formation. This command alone gave the Houseblades all that they needed to know for this initial engagement.