The Last of the Etela, Chapter 9

Dawn breaks on Valtaa, and all hell breaks loose.

Previously on THE SHIELDBREAKER SAGA…Kareva refused to accept the inevitable, instead choosing to lead his warriors to fight against overwhelming odds while sending his civilians to find refuge in a city across the desert. The warriors set up on Valtaa, waiting for the enormous, invincible Pohyor horde to meet them there, and then held them off rather impressively for the first day of the battle. Both sides regrouped overnight, while you, dear reader, took a quick detour to see how the women and children were holding up in the desert.

But now, we back. Thanks for being here. Let’s do this.

—

The moment the sun broke over the horizon, Ulav, the captain of Ersev’s elite Warlord’s Guards and the most experienced battlefield commander on hand besides the warlord himself (who, they had agreed, would not risk showing himself on this mountain until it was clear the battle could only go one way), spoke three words in a measured, even tone from his post below the archer’s ledge:

“First group, forward.”

—

The sun was in Kareva’s eyes, and he heard the enemy move before he saw them. They were trying to keep quiet. His men would do the same.

They waited, lying flat, and when enough of the enemy had gotten across the gap to make the attempt expensive for them, Kareva shouted, “Now!”

—

Inaz and Metoz were watching the enemy make their stealthy approach when they heard the roar to their left. Metoz turned to Inaz with a grin. “They don’t even have their big shie—LOOK OUT!”

There was another roar from behind them on their right side and a flash of steel—and then, part of Inaz was suddenly no longer there. A huge man with an equally huge sword was visible through the diagonal cut that he’d made through Inaz, in at the collarbone, through ribs and spine and organs, and out near his opposite hip. Metoz screamed in horror, fell backwards over himself just in time to dodge the man’s second monstrous stroke, and, reaching for the dagger in his belt, squirmed away as far as he could on his back.

He didn’t get far. The monster caught up to him and kicked away his knife as he fumbled with it. He straddled Metoz, still roaring, and slammed the point of his sword down into Metoz’s chest. Metoz never felt him pull it out.

—

A hundred paces away, Harila ul-Toruk heard a scream that sounded like it came from Metoz ul-Antaz and then a roar that sounded like it came from a wild animal, and by the time he had turned his head and adjusted to the sunlight, a quarter of his company was dead or dying.

He saw Metan ul-Metan and Emran ul-Mikal, each the son of an Ohta and both trusted deputies of his, drop their bows and draw swords before being engulfed in a throng of enormous, brutish warriors.

Fear and incomprehension washed over him for an instant. These Pohyor all must be half a head taller than the tallest Hodrir warrior, and weigh half again what the heaviest of his men weighed, and their weapons were enormous—and they were up here. It was impossible.

Then he noticed that the last few men of his disintegrating flank had turned to charge into the enemy, and he got hold of himself. He dropped his bow to the ground and stomped on it, breaking it cleanly at the handle. He’d be damned if he’d let the enemy kill any Hodrir warriors with his bow.

“Archers! To me!” he shouted at the rest of his hastily dwindling command. He drew his sword and knife and heard the men behind him do the same.

“Kill them!”

—

Kareva hit the Pohyor line at a run, whirling and twisting and slicing through man after man as the rest of his command slammed into the rest of the attackers.

The enemy turned and ran back the way they came. A man on Kareva’s right whooped madly and swung his sword through the air. “Come on! We’ve got the bastards!”

A few more men fell under Kareva’s sword as he gave chase in silent, malevolent glee, loving every part of the feeling of having turned the tables on another enemy surprise attack, of chasing the panic-stricken, of easy kills, made even easier by the lack of arrows zipping past to keep an eye out for—

Where were the archers?

He reached the beginning of the gap and felt his men coming to a stop and milling around behind him, confused at the sounds of combat above them. He squinted up at the ledge, trying vainly to get a sense of the situation through the glare of the early morning sun. “Runner!” he shouted to no one in particular.

Makava was at his side in an instant. “Oproz?”

“Go get Alakuz. Find out what the hell’s going on up above!”

And then there was another roar, and the pounding of many, many more feet as the enemy came in earnest.

“Shit. Run!” he growled to a swiftly departing Makava’s back, then raised his voice again. “Shield wall! First rank down! BRACE!”

The wedge slammed into their center at full speed and broke the first two ranks open. Kareva felt Katuz ul-Georz slump against him on his way to the ground, ducked to avoid a sword thrust at his throat, then grabbed Katuz’s shield from his body and took the big spearman’s place in the front line. He felt himself pushed to the side again; the gap was widening. He needed to get control of the situation back.

“Fall back on my count!” he roared. He thrust his sword into an enemy soldier’s throat through the gap between their shields, then shouted, at the top of his lungs, “One!”

The line moved backwards a single step, the second rank’s spears thrusting forward over the shoulders of the men in front of them. The enemy did not press their advantage.

“Two!”

The Hodrir took another step back, then another, one at a time, until the line was completely reformed. In front of them, more ranks of Pohyor materialized in the space they had left behind. Now the real killing—the ugly, grinding work Alakuz had warned him about—would start.

—

Inside the supply shelter, Alakuz could have sworn he’d just heard the sounds of battle coming from somewhere that wasn’t the front path. He was probably imagining it. But he needed to be sure.

He stepped out, sword drawn, and saw his worst nightmare become real. The enemy must have climbed the cliffside, and now the archers were doomed.

“Oh, gods.” Alakuz whirled around at the sound. One of Uskol ul-Sakara’s blackshields was standing just behind him, mouth open. “How did they—”

“Not now.” He stepped back past him and shouted into the cavern: “Dazvar-Muz! T'kar-K’veh! With me, now!” He heard the rattling of men and shields and weapons rustling into action and took three steps forward out of the cavern to give them a place to form up.

“Ohta!”

Alakuz whipped his head around to the left and saw young Makava sprinting towards him. Kareva’s line was in trouble, too. Of course they were, with no cover from the archers.

He turned back towards the cave. “Metan! Sivridi!” The two of them were in front of him in an instant, Metan still favoring his sword arm. He lowered his voice. “We’re in deep trouble. Secure the front path by whatever means necessary. Bring Mikal and his men too, and have them bring all the long spears we have left to cover the flank.”

The captains of the Pehtur saluted him silently.

Over their shoulders he saw the remainder of Uskol ul-Sakara’s blackshields and Attala ul-Marak’s T'kar-K’veh, the ‘devil-swords,’ who’d had precious little to do yesterday and whose freshness would hopefully be a slight advantage against whatever manner of superhuman bastards the warlord had the luxury of sending to climb the cliffside. His eyes turned back to Sivridi and Metan.

“Do whatever you have to do to hold the damn line.” He put arms on both of their shoulders, just for a second, and his mind raced to find words he couldn’t find.

Sivridi said it for all of them. “Until we meet again, Ohta.” Then she was off back into the cavern, shouting “Pehtur! It’s time!” as she went.

Alakuz held his mentor’s eye for a split second longer, then shouted “Let’s go!” to the men assembled behind him and took off for the archer’s ledge at a run.

—

Underneath the ledge that had caused the tribes of Hakka and Led so much trouble the day before, Ulav was giving final instructions to a second wave of the warlord’s guards on how to finish the job his first wave had started.

“We’ve got numbers now, and no archers up our asses. Press them from our left. Shove the enemy back up against that rock wall and separate them from their pathway back to the summit. Trap them. Kill them.” He looked around. “Any questions?”

—

Harila was bleeding from a half-dozen slashes and stab wounds, still hacking desperately at the big bastards on the ledge.

Who were, at least, mortal. He had proven that a few times in the last couple of minutes.

But they’d completely annihilated his company. It was just him and Antaz ul-Izaka left now, back to back, swords and knives splashing them with the strangers’ blood as they slashed and parried.

He heard a gasp behind him and knew Antaz was hit badly, then heard him crumple to his knees and fall to the ground.

He was alone. His back was exposed. It was time to warn the goddess of his impending arrival and beg for her favor.

She would need at least one more sacrifice.

He gritted his teeth, made a feint with the sword in his right hand and spun in close to plunge his dagger deep into the gut of one of the warriors surrounding him. He ripped the blade up and across, emptying the man’s belly, screaming the goddess’s name at the top of his lungs—hopefully loud enough to cut through the anguish of the dying and get her attention—and spun around to yank the blade free, only to find himself face to face with the largest human being he’d ever seen in his life.

The big man was grinning, showing his teeth. The rest of the northerners around them stepped back to give him room to finish Harila off.

He must be their leader.

Harila didn’t hesitate. He smiled back at the giant in front of him, twirling the knife in his left hand as he rushed forward to the kill.

—

Miruz had to give respect where it was due. These barbarians had no fear. The last of them came after him without a moment’s pause, twirling the little dagger he’d just used to gut…Navra? Was that his name? He hadn’t had the time or the inclination to make sure he remembered who was who before he started his climb. He figured he’d have plenty of time to drink with them and get to know them when they were done up here.

But several of them were already on the ground, mixed in with their quarry.

Miruz knew the dagger twirl was meant to draw his eye, and he was ready. As the barbarian lunged forward with his sword, Miruz stepped forward nimbly towards the man’s knife-side and swung his left arm across his body, smashing his fist into his opponent’s forearm. The sword clattered to the ground and the man’s body opened to the point of Miruz’s own sword. The man gasped as he felt it, and he lifted his other arm weakly, trying to swing at Miruz with his dagger. Then he seemed to think better of it and pulled that arm in tight to his chest so he could keep hold of a weapon as he went to his gods.

Miruz made no attempt to take the dagger. He simply stood still, holding eye contact with his opponent until the man’s gaze lost focus and his head lolled forward. He pulled his sword back and the last of the barbarian archers slid to the ground, already gone.

“More coming!”

He turned to the source of the shout and saw a hundred more barbarians racing towards them. He looked left and right to make a quick count of his numbers. Maybe thirty of his party were left, and they no longer had the element of surprise. Damn you, Ulav, hurry up and break them already.

—

Kareva saw the next several hundred enemy warriors racing across the gap. He could guess where they were going. The minute they separated his line from the ledge was the minute the battle would effectively end. He took one step back and lifted his black blade into the air to get the attention of as many of his men as he could.

“Right flank! Brace! BRACE!”

He wasn’t sure whether Katuz ul-Uzan heard him. Seconds later, the attack hit the right flank, and the men of the T'kar-Kulta standing on that line disappeared from view, shoved backwards by hundreds of enemy warriors. Kareva gritted his teeth. They didn’t have much farther they could fall back, and he couldn’t simply order his whole line to move sideways while they were all under duress. If they lost the path, he’d have to hold here, pull whomever was still standing into a shran, and pray for the gods to send a miracle.

Or Alakuz and the rest of the men. He’d settle for that.

Kareva worried for a moment that Makava had been killed before he made it to the supply shelter, then stuffed that feeling down and went about his work, hacking at the man across the shield-wall from him, drawing blood, ducking the counter-stroke, lunging, stabbing, breathing.

Suddenly he heard a roar coming from behind him on the right. Reinforcements.

He slipped his blade between the ribs of a man who’d just hacked wildly at Tarav ul-Georz on his left side, pulled it out smoothly as the man went down, and looked for the source of the sound.

And then he saw her.

—

“VEEEEEEIIIIIIIIII!!!”

Sivridi screamed the goddess’s name as she and several others ran yards ahead of the rest of the Pehtur. She hurled herself down the small expanse of hill at full speed towards the enemy, wielding two swords just like she had the day before. Her first blow slashed clean through the throat of an enemy soldier who had been foolish enough to look up at her and expose his neck. Her second sliced through his neighbor’s left leg at the knee, and suddenly their shield wall had a gap in it, and she was bursting through it, pirouetting with her arms and blades outstretched to open it wider for the men who’d volunteered to come with her.

—

From a few paces behind her, Metan saw the gap in the line open, watched Sivridi and the dozen or so men right behind her burst through it. He knew—and they knew—that the rest of the company could not follow. Kareva had to re-stabilize the line, and Metan’s men had to hold their position until they could all link up.

All around him, he heard the rest of the Pehtur take up her war cry, shouting for their patroness’ attention. They would not waste their second chance to win her favor.

Neither would he. He looked up and screamed for his goddess’s attention, feeling the wonderful, terrible name rip through his larynx and out into the sky, and added a silent prayer commending Sivridi and her companions to Vei’s service, and when he looked down again the gap in the enemy line had closed.

—

Sivridi no longer knew where her followers were. She was alone again. It was just her and her two swords and her patroness.

Just the way it was supposed to be.

The thing she had not told Kareva, that first afternoon when he asked her why she and her sisters had followed Kivli into certain death, was how wonderful it felt to be in the heat of battle, to defeat an enemy—to kill that enemy. No matter who it was.

She would never have admitted to him how much that factored into the decision. He wouldn’t have understood then. He probably did by now.

She ducked under a wild swing and dropped to one knee, sweeping her other leg to trip the man like Kareva had done to her in his father’s hall and rising effortlessly to her feet to stab another Pohyor through his throat, screaming with exultant laughter, reveling in every second of combat, utterly invincible. She barely felt the first wound through the adrenaline rush. She whipped around and slew the man who’d stabbed her in the shoulder, grinning into his face as he gurgled his life away in front of her.

Then she felt the second sword enter her back, and saw it burst through her torso, and her mind took her back to the day she woke up alone in her dark little hut in the Alley of the Unseen, without any of her sisters, without a weapon—and how, in that first moment, the thought had crossed her mind that she actually might already be dead, that perhaps she’d failed to impress Vei and this was to be her eternity.

She swung again, wildly, and struck another enemy in the neck even as a third blade punctured her heart, and she felt a well of gratitude rise up within her, and she gripped her swords as tightly as she could and threw herself into the loving arms of the goddess.

—

Kareva only caught a glimpse of Sivridi’s face as she flew into the fray. He saw her eyes light up as she made her first kill, and he marveled at her terrifying beauty.

Then, just as quickly, she disappeared into the enemy line, and he knew he would not find her a second time.

Until we meet again, Daughter of Vei. It makes me glad to know you got what you wanted.

He flicked his sword across the face of the scowling, stinking brute in front of him, making him flinch and opening him up for a thrust from the man behind him, and nodded slightly in grim satisfaction as he waited for his next victim to present himself.

—

Miruz was in trouble. His men were tired from the long climb and the sleepless night. They were making mistakes and getting killed for them. So far he hadn’t made any, but his luck had been less than perfect: his dagger had gotten stuck in someone’s rib cage, and he’d let it go instead of working harder to pull it out and leaving himself open for an extra moment.

He side-stepped a lunging warrior and his sword connected with a vicious backhand, chopping through the black-painted wooden shield and cutting deep into the arm holding it. He yanked it out, kicked out hard at the stunned, stumbling barbarian, and heard him scream as he fell over the ledge.

Then the dark swordsman appeared in front of him.

He killed the last Pohyor between him and Miruz, a man from the tribe of Ael (Miruz was pretty sure), almost effortlessly, spinning under his opponent’s wild overhead cut and ramming a curved dagger into the man’s throat at close range with a beautiful, fluid upward thrust, and calmly walked towards Miruz with his sword pointed towards him. You and me.

—

Alakuz saw the big man smile and nod and step forward to greet him, twirling the massive sword in his hand as if it were weightless, a piece of kindling.

This would be fascinating.

He went in first, shifting from side to side, holding his sword lightly in his fingers and twirling it to build up as much speed as possible, feinted high and struck low, looking to cut the monster off at the knees. The enemy’s sword met him there, and Alakuz loosened his grip slightly to let the force of the parry change his sword’s direction for him and give him a chance to keep momentum on the rebound and strike high. A huge fist hit him in the jaw and staggered him; he fell hard and only barely was able to roll out of the way as the big man grunted and chopped his sword down with all his might, hitting the dirt and rock where Alakuz had been a split second earlier. He heard his dagger skitter away over the rocks but had no idea which direction it had gone.

At least he still had his sword. He rolled up onto one knee and launched himself back at the big man, ignoring the ringing in his head and the blood in his mouth. He struck three, four, five different blows within seconds; the big man parried them all, then spun lightly around Alakuz’s blade and extended his arms fully for a vicious sideways cut meant to slice Alakuz in half at the ribcage. The vibrations rattled up Alakuz’s sword-arm as he blocked the blow at the last second, and he stepped backwards to gather himself for another lunge, expecting the big man to follow him and leave an opening.

Instead, the big man stepped back as well. Alakuz settled back into his stance, sweeping his sword up to tap his forehead gently with the flat of his blade.

—

Miruz nodded and returned the salute. The dark sword-warrior was faster than anyone Miruz had ever fought before.

He would need to do something especially clever to kill him.

His eyes swept the scene around him and he saw how few of his men were left standing, heard another one scream and fall to his knees as one of the men holding a black shield ripped his sword back and out of him, the blade flashing red. He looked down and saw how slippery the ground had become. His opponent would surely use that against him: he’d find a way to make Miruz over-balance, and that would be that.

Miruz knew what had to be done. He backed away from the archers’ ledge, leaving his party to their fate.

The dark warrior followed.

—

Ulav was a little bit frustrated, but not surprised. This battle was always going to be a brutal, bloody slog. Each of the very few wounded men who had made it down to the healing tent the day before had told him the exact same thing: that the pathway was narrow and easily defended with smaller numbers, and that the barbarians did not fear death.

Miruz’s men had done their most important job. There were no arrows raining down on his men’s backs. But they were conspicuous in their absence: they must have run into trouble after taking the archers out, and they weren’t to be relied upon any further.

Whatever became of them now wasn’t his responsibility. And he certainly wasn’t planning to rush more men into the fight on the off chance that it would save that arrogant, up-jumped brute from his own recklessness, no matter how highly Regez of Led thought of him. His one objective was to break the enemy’s line, push as many of them to the cliffside as he could, and gain the summit. Then Ersev and the rest of the horde could follow at their leisure and finish the barbarians off. And if Miruz happened to die on that ledge before that happened, Ulav would loudly celebrate his heroic sacrifice and quietly thank the enemy for taking him off the board.

And if, somehow, he failed in his objective and had to call a retreat, he’d voice his deepest regret at not being able to rescue the big man from the end he’d chosen for himself.

Ulav looked up and saw his second wave had stalled out. The enemy had long spears on the ledge and had made their ranks deeper on that side of their line: they knew where he was focusing his strength, and they were responding accordingly ahead of time.

It was time to change things up a bit. He looked back at the captains commanding his last two battalions—a total of just more than five hundred men.

“Alright. Uron-Ravat, you go first. Take your men straight down the center in a wedge. Marek-Ravat, you follow him and press at the left again. If they’re going to insist on holding that path, they’ll have to sacrifice everyone on their other flank to do it.”

He nodded, dismissing them to issue their instructions, and heard Marek shout, “This is it, boys! Whom do you serve?”

Hundreds of voices roared “Vrangar!” into the sky, and the third wave of Pohyor attackers charged into the gap.

—

In the camp below, Ersev heard the bellow of “Vrangar!” and lifted his head up. The two chieftains who’d been talking so loosely the night before, Demetar of the tribe of Barev and Karul of the Kadrav, stood next to him, nervous and silent, waiting for word of their warriors’ fate up on the mountain. They’d volunteered to lead their men up the hill themselves as proof of their loyalty, but Ersev had insisted on having them join him in his tent, to wait for news of the battle down here next to him, to make sure none of their men got the wrong idea about whose side they were on.

It was a great honor. How could they refuse?

—

Turan watched the next wave of enemy soldiers come out of the gap. He knew what would happen: they would form up, possibly into a wedge, and charge headlong at the Pehtur on the right flank again. Then they’d try to shove Metan’s men backwards, and they would find it no easier than their fellows had to make any headway, all the while suffering from Mikal ul-Zalan’s long spears stabbing down at them from the ledge.

He nodded in satisfaction as he saw the wedge form, ducking under a rather uninspired lunge from a tired, discouraged northerner across from him, feeling blood splash onto his face as Daraz ul-Maroz took advantage of the man’s fatigue—and suddenly the wedge was much closer to his part of the line, gearing up to hit their thinning center.

Oh gods, we’re about to be cut off.

He watched as the wedge smashed into the Kamar forty or fifty paces to his right. Then he saw a second mass forming and understood: the enemy would keep pressure on the right flank so no one could come rescue his men.

—

Aravan ul-Ganruz had taken his men and followed the Pehtur and the Angh-Ner to the front line without orders, just in case. He’d known just from the look on Metan’s face that every available warrior would be needed on the line sooner rather than later. He had been standing on the ledge for several minutes waiting for a moment of crisis to arise, knowing there would likely be no one on hand to give him the order to throw the Limavar into the fray.

When he saw the Pohyor wedge crash into the red-dusted men of the Kamar at the center, no one had to tell him it was time.

“We’re going in!” he shouted to his company. “Let me hear you! Let the goddess hear you! Vei! VEI!”

“VEEIIIII!” came the roar of the last reserves. The ninety men of the Limavar raced out to try to plug the gap.

—

Uskol ul-Nev saw the line snap in half, saw the Ohta of the Kamar fall and the rest of his men get overwhelmed, and he knew his own company had precious seconds before they were cut off. Without a second thought, he raced from his place in the third rank of Turan’s company straight into the gap, screaming incoherently, attacking recklessly, determined to cause as much disturbance as he could to give his friends a bit more time before the enemy organized and trapped them against the rock wall for good.

—

Daraz ul-Maroz saw the danger, too.

So did Tobiaz ul-Isav, and several others.

Within seconds, all of them were in no-man’s land with Uskol the Bastard, doing the goddess’ bidding.

The last of the Kamar broke ranks and joined them.

—

As he and the rest of his company curled in behind the chaos, fighting desperately to rejoin the line, Uskol ul-Aravan got a glimpse of his best friend’s face. They made eye contact for the briefest moment, and Uskol the Bastard grinned. Some fun, eh?

Then he was gone, and Uskol ul-Aravan and the rest of Turan’s men found themselves safely in line behind Aravan ul-Ganruz’s company.

They were silent as they formed back up and took up a position between Aravan-Ohta’s left-most warriors and the tall outcrop of rock that they’d almost been trapped against.

—

On the other side of the summit, Miruz was getting tired. He’d stepped back several paces now and was getting dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.

His enemy seemed to be coming at him from everywhere at once, feinting, slashing, twisting away from counter-strokes, all without losing the mask of deadly calm that had been on his face since they locked eyes. Nothing Miruz did was surprising him.

He was better than Miruz. Much better.

Miruz feared nothing—except heights, after last night, and maybe the warlord himself. He’d faced hundreds of men in battle, and only once or twice had he ever fought a man that he doubted he would kill. But reality was slowly setting in: he was going to die up here. Even if he killed this brilliant swordsman, he’d soon be standing alone against the rest of the barbarians who were finishing off the rest of his warriors at this very moment.

As he parried yet another attack, he began to prepare himself for the inevitable—and at that moment he saw his opening. His enemy’s left shoulder had flown open on his last cut. He let out a roar, twirled his sword out of the parry and threw down an overhand strike with as much force as he could muster without a proper windup.

And suddenly the dark swordsman was not there anymore. He was rolling to one side in front of him, and then just as quickly he was on one knee and swinging his sword up towards Miruz’s hand—

A blinding pain shot up his arm and the sword flew from his grasp.

—

Alakuz froze as he registered the huge blade wobbling through the air just over his shoulder, its tip passing inches from his right ear before landing with a resonant clang somewhere behind him.

Then he stood and lifted his sword-arm, bringing the tip of his weapon to rest half an inch below the big man’s chin.

—

Miruz lifted his now-empty hand closer to his face and noticed his fourth and fifth fingers were no longer on it, then looked down at the sword point at his throat. He stared into the dark swordsman’s eyes, swallowed hard, and nodded ever so slightly. “Do it.”

The swordsman looked down at his bleeding hand then back up at him. “You deserve to die holding a weapon. Go back the way you came,” and with that he gestured to the rope still anchored to the rock a few paces from them, “and find another one, and perhaps I’ll see you again before this is over.”

Miruz was too shocked to move for a second. It was only when the swordsman stepped back two paces that he believed him.

He turned without another word and walked towards the rope, hand throbbing, chuckling at the irony of having to face the cliff again instead of simply meeting his creator.

—

I must be out of my mind, Alakuz thought to himself.

He watched the big man fumbling with the rope with his mangled sword hand and making his first halting attempts to climb back down over the cliff, wrestling with the small voice in his head telling him to wait another minute, until he was off the ground and fully defenseless, and cut through the rope.

You don’t have that time to spare. He looked back to where the rest of his men were already starting to regroup after killing the rest of the climbers, and started on his way back towards them when another thought stopped him.

He leaned down and grabbed the big man’s enormous sword. Something this heavy might be useful if he needed to clear some space in front of him.

—

Kareva continued to kill relentlessly, mechanically. There was no joy left: he could feel the line shrinking around him, knew what it meant, knew he was losing men left and right, knew there was nothing he could do about it but hold the position as long as he could and hope the enemy lost heart before his line broke again.

On his left, he heard Tarav ul-Georz gasp, saw blood appear at his lips, and watched him fall. He felt a moment of sympathy for his two bodyguards’ father, whose company had been fighting on this line with him since dawn. That sympathy was replaced almost instantly by curiosity: was Georz-Ohta even still alive?

Then he heard a roar, and something that sounded like a stampede, and he knew even before he looked that the right flank was broken, that the enemy were taking the summit. He couldn’t let them get behind him.

He stepped back into his second rank to give himself some space, patting the two men on the back who stepped forward to replace him. Then he raised his sword as high in the air as he could and shouted the word he’d been dreading having to shout.

“SHRAN!” The star—or, more accurately in this case, a spiked circle. The last defensive maneuver he’d be able to make.

He gritted his teeth as he saw the men on his right gradually step backwards and begin to disappear from view behind him. Hopefully they’d be able to use the rock-wall to give them a bit more flexibility—a U-shape, perhaps, rather than a star. He saw the enemy start to encircle them, roaring, announcing their impending victory to the skies.

Then something flashed at the summit, and their cheers turned to screams.

Alakuz, holding the biggest sword Kareva had ever seen, and another company’s worth of warriors were retaking the summit, tearing the enemy’s salient to shreds and descending on the unprotected backs of the men bearing down on his right flank. Mikal ul-Zalan had pulled his men off the ledge, too, and suddenly the Angh-Ner were starting a counter-attack, rolling up the enemy’s overextended flank with their long spears.

Driving them back towards the gap.

Now Alakuz was in front of a newly-reformed right wing, urging them forward to support the Angh-Ner, and Kareva knew there was only one course of action. He raised his sword again, the black blade dripping with blood, and screamed “FORWARD!” with all his might.

Then he stepped back into his front rank, kicked out at the shield in front of him, knocking its boss into the chin of the man standing behind it, and thrust his sword into the open space.

—

On the Hodrir left, when they saw the sword of the chieftain and heard his second command, the remaining warriors of Turan’s company shouted “Nev!” to honor the bravest among them, and then they pushed forward next to the Limavar and the remaining members of Georz ul-Zimion’s Kaljur, giving their last strength to the counterattack.

—

Mikal ul-Zalan shrieked another falcon call, voice already hoarse from the morning’s work, and thrust his long spear into the legs of some poor bastard who was trying to shuffle backwards to hold his position in the quickly receding Pohyor line.

They were not breaking. But they were starting to fall back onto the path.

Mikal shrieked again, and his men responded to his call with war cries of their own, thrusting forward, keeping the pressure on.

—

From the ledge, Ulav saw his men begin to waver and decided they’d had enough. He tapped the man next to him on the shoulder twice. The man produced a short, rounded ram’s horn—a relic from his tribe’s home in the grassland a thousand miles and two mountain ranges north of here—and blasted two sharp notes in quick succession.

—

Ersev heard the ram’s horn and shook his head in disbelief, then shrugged and turned to his two guests. “Ulav’s judgment is usually sound. Bad luck, I imagine. I’m sure your warriors all gave a good account of themselves.”

Demetar Barev’r and Karul Kadrav’r nodded stoically, each wondering quietly to himself if he still had a tribe left to lead.

—

Kareva heard the horn as well, saw the wall of men in front of him start to recede, and kept pressing forward to speed them on their way.

He reached the beginning of the gap before any of his men, still attacking any enemy soldier that got close enough to him to become a target, then picked up a discarded enemy shield, turned it around on his arm, and slammed it down into the ground as he knelt behind it.

Another shield came down right next to it, and another on the other side. This was the front line, now. No enemy would pass it.

He waited there until he was absolutely sure the Pohyor were withdrawing before he stood up and turned to face his men. He saw how few they were, and the words he’d been thinking of died on his lips.

It was Alakuz who spoke. “Go get some rest.”

—

Ulav got to the foot of the mountain a moment before the rest of his command. He began to pace back and forth, organizing his thoughts for his report to the Khogon, when he noticed the rope a few dozen feet away seemed to be moving of its own accord.

He looked up, his eyes narrowed in suspicion and confusion. Then he turned and marched straight into Ersev’s tent.

—

“Where’d you get the sword?”

Kareva and Alakuz were the last ones left on the front line, looking out at the carnage all around them. Hundreds of dead were still strewn across the gap from the first two Pohyor assaults; now even more were lying across the ledge and the highest part of the path. There were too many to count. And too many were Hodrir.

“Took it from the man who led the attack on the ledge.”

“It’s beautiful. He must have been a big deal.” He looked up at Alakuz, who shrugged in response. “None of the archers made it?”

“Not one. I couldn’t get there fast enough to save them.”

“You saved the rest of us, though.”

Alakuz shook his head. “The next time they come up, we’ll have to retreat to the cave.”

“It was going to happen sooner or later.” Kareva looked back in that direction, and his face fell. “Oh, no. Damn it.”

Alakuz looked back too and didn’t have to ask what Kareva had seen.

The two of them hurried to where Metan sat with his back to the ledge, breathing heavily. His right arm was useless and limp at his side. His left hand was covering the hole that a Pohyor weapon had made in his abdomen.

Kareva crouched down in front of him. “Uncle.”

Metan shook his head, avoiding his chieftain’s gaze. “One of them got me.” He coughed, and bright red blood appeared on his lips.

Kareva smiled sadly. The old warrior was clearly past healing. “You’ll be back on your feet in an hour. You’re too mean to kill.”

Metan finally looked up at Kareva. “I need your help.”

Kareva met his eye. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t want to be in the way when they come back.” He winced as he reached out with his bloody left hand to grab Kareva’s shoulder. “I served your father all my life. He was my friend. I want it to be you.”

Kareva nodded. “It would be my honor.”

Metan smiled, relieved. “Thank you.”

Kareva patted the hand on his shoulder, then looked back at Alakuz, who looked positively stricken. “Get the rest of the captains. They should be here to see him off.”

Alakuz didn’t respond for a second, then snapped back into the moment. “Yes, Oproz.”

—

I am never leaving solid ground again.

Miruz got back to the ground just as the last soldiers of Ulav’s beaten contingent arrived at the bottom of the mountain, and followed them back to the tents to try to find a fire to burn his wound clean. He could deal with being short two fingers, but losing any more of his hand would render him nearly useless.

Miruz shook his head in wonderment. He and his men had done everything right, kept hidden until exactly the right moment, wrought all the havoc they could, and still the barbarians held the mountain. It was hard not to be impressed.

And by rights, he should be dead now too. Why had the dark swordsman let him go? Was it truly just a sign of respect? An attempt to build rapport?

“Miruz!”

The warlord’s incredulous face wiped the question from his mind. He was surely about to die all the same, as soon as Ersev felt he’d suffered enough.

He was opening his mouth to respond when the barber-surgeon pressed the red-hot metal to his knuckles.

—

Turan sat beside the body of his older brother Harila, staring hard at the seven wounds it had taken to bring him down. I hope I can measure up to him when my time comes. He would clearly soon find out.

A voice shook him out of his thoughts. “Ohta, Kareva-Oproz has need of you.”

Turan wiped a tear from his cheek and looked up to see Alakuz standing over him and his brother’s body.

“I saw your brother fall. His bravery is a credit to all of us. He is certainly at the feasting table with Vei by now.”

“Thank you, Ohta. You honor him.”

Alakuz patted the younger captain on the shoulder. “We have an urgent matter, or I’d leave you be. You can come back to mourn him after it’s done.”

—

Kareva sat down next to Metan while they waited for the other captains.

“Tell me about my father.”

Metan looked sideways at his chieftain. “You had years to ask me about him.”

Kareva paused for a second. “I couldn’t.”

Metan winced and leaned a little closer. “Why not? You knew where to find me.”

Kareva turned to him and didn’t say anything.

Metan understood. “Your brother.”

Kareva nodded.

“Alright. Well, no need to hash that ugliness out now. Nothing good would come of it, anyway.” Metan thought for a second. “The battle that made your father High King? It wasn’t nearly as one-sided as everyone remembers it now.” He chuckled. “The ambush went most of the way according to plan, but those Kasvir didn’t break. They were as good as we were. It could have gone either way, even after we surprised them, except for your father. He was unstoppable. He cut down both of their princes, armed with the sword and the knife you’re holding now. Broke their spirit.” His eyes shone with pride and nostalgia. “He was a killer, your father. Quick as anyone I ever saw with a blade. Fearless, too. Your stunt yesterday on the ledge? He would’ve loved that. He’d have been jealous he didn’t think of it!” He chuckled, then winced as a wave of pain hit him. “Where the hell are my witnesses?”

Kareva looked back to see Alakuz leading only five men, the tribe’s surviving Ohtar, all of them looking the worse for wear. He saw Georz ul-Zimion blanche as he got close enough to see Metan on the ground, and he saw Turan’s red eyes and knew that he knew Harila was dead. The other three—Attala ul-Marak, Aravan ul-Ganruz, and Mikal ul-Zalan—just looked exhausted.

They all did, the poor bastards.

They had come here with him knowing this was the most likely outcome—really, the only possible outcome—and they’d held the line he drew. They had stood and fought bravely for a chance to save their people and earn a place in the halls of their gods.

And they would do it again when the enemy came back; they knew no other way. But the inevitability was clearly starting to become real for them.

He looked back down at Metan, who was starting to fade. This had to happen now, while he could still hold a weapon. He waved the captains closer.

“They’re here, Uncle. Are you ready?”

Metan nodded.

Kareva reached into his belt and took out his knife. “One of you, get him his sword.”

Metan winced again. “It broke in the fight. It’s in pieces somewhere over there.”

“Shit. Someone find him a weapon.”

Without hesitation, Alakuz handed over the massive, beautifully-made sword he’d taken as his prize from the day’s work on the summit. “This belonged to the warrior who led their surprise attack over the cliff. It may be a little heavy for the likes of you, old man, but…”

Metan grinned and gripped it tight in his left hand. “You’re a pain in the ass, Alakuz. I’m proud to know you.” He looked up at Kareva. “Do it.”

Kareva knelt. He held Metan’s fist closed on the Pohyor sword, and positioned his dagger over Metan’s heart. He locked eyes with Metan. “Patroness, take this mighty warrior into your service. He has given everything for you today and earned a place at your side. In your name, we shed his blood.”

He thrust his knife downward.

He felt Metan tense beneath him for a moment as the blade drove into his chest. Then the old warrior relaxed.

Kareva didn’t take his eyes from Metan’s face until he was sure he was gone.

—

Alakuz looked down and sighed hard, fighting back tears.

Turan turned to look at him, questioning. Alakuz felt the young captain’s gaze, but his eyes stayed down as he spoke.

“He taught me how to fight.”

—

Read the final chapter.

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Read The Last of the Etela from the beginning: Table of Contents

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