He stood, dragging his gaze from Alucius’s body as the Seordah swept past them on either side, tearing through the hastily assembled ranks of Free Swords, cutting their line apart. Some fought, hacking and stabbing with their short swords at the too-swift, silent phantoms that assailed them, their blades finding only air as they fell by the dozen. Others fled, sprinting away through the ruins or throwing themselves into the harbour, willing to risk drowning rather than face such an onslaught. Here and there Kuritai could be seen, managing to strike a blow or two before they were clubbed down. Beyond the slaughter Vaelin could see a dense formation of Volarians building in the more open ground near the warehouse district, neat ranks of Varitai falling into place with their uncanny precision.
“They’ll fall back to the palace.”
Vaelin turned to find Lakrhil Al Hestian regarding him with a vacant frown, his voice dull, listless. “There are fire-traps surrounding it. They could hold out for days.”
He looked down at Alucius once more, bent to retrieve the dagger still clutched in the poet’s hand, and raised it towards his own throat. Vaelin’s punch jabbed into the nerve cluster below Al Hestian’s nose, leaving him unconscious on the stones.
“Muster your archers on the quay,” he told Reva, nodding towards the dense ranks of Varitai, now attempting a fighting withdrawal into the city, the Seordah continually harrying them with volleys of arrows from their flat bows. Despite their retreat he knew this was far from over; he could see more Volarian formations moving through the ruins, battalions forming in the northern quarter with more to the west. He saw Nortah a short distance away, mustering his fighters amidst the remnants of a Free Sword company, sword bloody from end to end.
“Move towards the north gate!” he called to him. “Stop them joining up. I’ll send the Realm Guard to join you when they dock.”
Nortah nodded, then drew up short at the sight of something towards the east, laughing and pointing his reddened blade. “Perhaps that won’t be necessary, brother.”
Vaelin heard them before they came into view, a great, cacophonous clatter of steel on stone. Clearly the Volarian commander heard it too as he attempted to switch companies to his left flank, all too late. The knights tore into the Volarian ranks, longswords and maces rising and falling as they hacked their way through the Varitai, cutting the formation in two. The Seordah charged in to complete the destruction, a fine red mist of mingled blood, breath, and steaming horse sweat rising to cover the raging carnage. The Varitai, unlike the Free Swords, didn’t know how to flee and fought to the last.
Vaelin ordered Nortah to join up with Reva’s archers and sweep towards the palace. “There’s still half a division to kill,” he told them. “Take no chances, keep them divided and let the archers do their work.”
He waited for the Realm Guard to come ashore, the Wolfrunners the first Regiment to arrive, now commanded by a former corporal Vaelin vaguely remembered from the Alpiran war. “Set guards on this man,” Vaelin ordered, pointing to Al Hestian’s unconscious form. He took a final glance at Alucius, knowing he would have to be the one to tell Alornis and feeling like a coward for hating the duty. “And secure this man’s body,” he said. “The queen will wish to say words when we give him to the fire.”
He walked through the scene of the Varitai’s defeat, a dense carpet of bodies breasting the wharf from end to end. A broad-chested knight on a tall charger trotted up to him, trampling bodies and breaking bones under hoof. He pushed back the red-painted visor covering his face, greeting Vaelin with a forced laugh. “Quite the spectacle, eh, my lord?”
“Baron.” Vaelin bowed. “I had hoped it would be you.”
A young, bare-headed knight guided his horse to Banders’s side, his bright gaze alighting on Vaelin for a moment before scanning the quayside with intense scrutiny. “Where is he?” he demanded, hefting a gore-covered longsword.
“Arendil, my grandson,” Banders explained to Vaelin. “He’s keen to meet Lord Darnel.”
“Back there, young sir.” Vaelin pointed over his shoulder. “Quite dead, I’m afraid.”
The young knight slumped in his saddle, sword arm sagging. His face betrayed as much relief as disappointment. “Well, at least it’s over.” He brightened at the sight of a group of people approaching along Gate Lane at the run, raising his hand in a welcoming wave. Vaelin initially took them for some of Nortah’s fighters but soon realised they were an even more unusual mix, varying greatly in age and garb, including a girl of no more than sixteen, a Lonak woman of impressive stature . . . and a muscular young man with an Order blade.
