Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

Bently swung the blue flag back and forth until the signal was mimicked across the field, and then the army began moving forward at a slow walk. Armies never moved at a pace that suited Hadrian. When attacking with him, they crept with agonizing slowness. But when he was defending, they seemed to race at an unnatural speed. He patted the neck of his horse, which was larger and more spirited than old Millie. Hadrian liked to know his horse better before a battle. They needed to work as a team in combat, but he did not even know this one’s name.

With the wizard riding at his right side, and Bently on his left, Hadrian crested the hill and began the long descent into the wet field. He wheeled his cavalry to the right, sweeping toward the city, riding the rim of the basin and avoiding the middle of the muck, which he left to the infantry. He would stay to the higher ground and watch the army’s northern flank. This would also place him near the city gate, able to intercept any imperial retreat. After his company made the turn, he watched as the larger force of light-mounted lancers broke and began to circle left, heading to guard the southern flank. The swishing tails of their horses soon disappeared into the rain.

The ranks of the infantry came next. They crested the hill, jostling each other, some still struggling to get their helms on and shields readied. The lines were skewed, broken and wavy, and when they hit the mud, whatever mild resemblance they had to a formation was lost. They staggered and slipped forward as a mob. They were at least quiet. He wondered if it might be because most of them were half-asleep.

Hadrian felt his stomach twist.

This will not go well. If only I had more time to drill the men properly, then they would at least look like soldiers.

Success or failure in battle often hinged on impressions, decided in the minds of men before the first clash. Like bullies casting insults in a tavern, it was a game of intimidation—a game the Nationalists did not know how to play.

How did they ever win a battle? How did they take Vernes and Kilnar?

Unable to see the Imperialists’ ranks clearly, he imagined them lined up in neat straight rows, waiting, letting his troops exhaust themselves in the mud. He expected a wall of glistening shields peaked with shining helms locked shoulder to shoulder, matching spears foresting above. He anticipated hundreds of archers already notching shafts to string. Lord Dermont would hold back the knights. Any fool could see the futility of ordering a charge into the muck. Clad in heavy metal armor, their pennants fluttering from their lances, the knights probably waited in the trees or perhaps around the wall of the city. They would remain hidden until just the right moment. That is what Hadrian would have done. When the Nationalists tried to flank, only Hadrian and his little group would stand in the way. He would call the charge and hope those behind him followed.

They were more than halfway across the field when he was finally able to see the imperial encampment. White tents stood in perfect rows, horses were corralled, and no one was visible.

“Where are they?”

“It’s still very early,” the wizard said, “and in a heavy rain no one likes to get up. It’s so much easier to stay in bed.”

“But where are the sentries?”

Hadrian watched in amazement as the mangled line of infantry cleared the muddy ground and closed in on the imperial camp, their lines straightening out a bit. He saw the heads of his captains. There was still no sign of the enemy.

“Have you ever noticed,” Esrahaddon said, “how rain has a musical quality about it sometimes? The way it drums on a roof? It’s always easier to sleep on a rainy night. There’s something magical about running water that is very soothing, very relaxing.”

“What did you do?”

The wizard smiled. “A weak, thin enchantment. Without hands it’s very hard to do substantive magic anymore, but—”

They heard a shout. A tent flap fluttered, then another. More shouts cascaded, and then a bell rang.

“There, see?” Esrahaddon sighed. “I told you. It doesn’t take much to break it.”

“But we have them,” Hadrian said, stunned. “We caught them sleeping! Bently, the green flag. Signal the charge. Signal the charge!”





Sheriff Vigan scowled at Arista. Behind her, men picked up weapons and shuffled back into position.

“I told you to lay down your arms and leave,” the sheriff shouted. “Not more than a few of you will be punished in the stocks, and only your leaders will be executed. The first has already fallen. Will you stand behind a woman? Will you throw away your lives for her sake?”

No one moved. The only sounds were those of the rain and the sheriff’s horse and the jangling of his bridle.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll execute the leading agitators one at a time if that’s what it takes.” He glanced over his shoulder and ominously raised his hand again.

The princess did not move.

She stood still and tall with Emery’s sword above her head, his blood on her dress, and the wind and rain lashing her face. She glared defiantly at the sheriff.

Thwack!

The sound of a crossbow.

Phhump!

A muffled impact.

Arista felt blood spray her face, but there was no pain. Sheriff Vigan fell sideways into the mud. Polish stood in front of the blacksmith’s shop, an empty crossbow in his hands.

Renkin Pool grabbed Arista by the shoulder and jerked her backward. Off balance, she fell. He stood over her, his shield raised. Another telltale thwack and Pool’s shield burst into splinters. The bolt continued into his chest. The explosion of blood and wood rained on her.

Another crossbow fired, this one handled by Adam. Trenchon screamed as the arrow passed through his thigh and continued into his horse, which collapsed, crushing Trenchon’s leg beneath it. Another bow fired, then another, and Arista could see that during the pause, the blonde woman had hauled crossbows out of the armory and passed them throughout the ranks.

The garrison captain assumed command of the Imperialists. He gave a shout and the remainder of their bowmen fired across the square. Men in the line fell.

“Fire!” Adam shouted, and rebel bows gave answer. A handful of imperial soldiers dropped in the mud.

“Tighten the line!” Adam shouted. “Fill in the gaps where people fall!”

They heard a shout from across the field, then a roar as the garrison drew their swords and rushed forward. Arista felt the vibration of charging men. They screamed like beasts, their faces wild. They struck the line in the center. There was no prepared weak point—Emery and Pool were dead, the tactic lost.