Alornis reported the ballistae ready by late afternoon. As ever, working with her devices seemed to bring some animation to her features and she stood by, watching with a faintly prideful expression as the last engine was trundled into place alongside its fellows. The small corps of artisans who served the ballistae worked their various levers and windlasses until every one was armed and ready, the crossed bowstaves all drawn back, waiting.
“At your discretion, my lord,” Lyrna said to Antesh. The Lord of Archers nodded and lifted his bow above his head. The archers, arrayed immediately behind the line of ballistae, all raised their bows to a high elevation, strings drawn back behind the ear for maximum range. Antesh lowered his arm and the arrow storm began. The sky was still light enough to follow the dark mass of arrows as they rose and fell onto the temple, a black rain continuing unabated as Lyrna had ordered every possible shaft scavenged from the battlefield. She could see the blood still glistening on many of the arrowheads launched by the longbows. The archers seemed tireless, many grunting with the effort of drawing and loosing at such a rate, but their faces all set in determined hatred. Apparently slaughtering so many Free Swords hadn’t been enough to sate their vengeance.
Lyrna used her spyglass to scan the temple, seeing an Arisai fall as he attempted to run for one of the pyramidal god-houses, pierced by three arrows a foot short of shelter, two of his comrades falling onto his body a heartbeat later. They are already mad, she thought, the spyglass settling on an Arisai who shook his head in amused resignation as he regarded the two shafts protruding from his breastplate. Can they be maddened further?
The answer was not long in coming, a great shout of joyous abandon rising from the temple before they came streaming forth. All cohesion had been forgotten now and they simply charged at the line of ballistae in a disordered red tide. Lyrna waited until the leaders had cleared the steps before giving the order for the ballistae to loose, the range having been narrowed to less than fifty paces. The effect was remarkable, the leading Arisai cut down by an invisible scythe, those following tumbling over the bodies or spinning from the impact of the second volley. In some cases a bolt would pierce an Arisai with enough force to continue on through to claim one of his comrades. Despite the losses however, the Arisai’s charge retained sufficient momentum to come within twenty paces of the ballistae, at which point Antesh’s archers moved forward, lowering their aim and unleashing another arrow storm that halted the red host completely.
“Highness,” Al Hestian said, “I believe the time is right.”
She nodded and he gestured to the cluster of buglers nearby, sending them running towards the opposite flanks of the army, the call for a charge of cavalry pealing forth. Antesh walked the line of archers barking orders to cease, though some continued to loose with frenzied disregard for orders and had to be forcibly restrained. Fortunately, both archers and ballistae had stopped by the time Fief Lord Arendil led his knights from the left flank and Brother Sollis the Sixth Order and the Realm Guard cavalry from the right. The surviving Arisai met them with what could only be described as matchless valour, leaping to bring riders down, cutting the legs from under the horses, fighting to the last, voicing their joyous mirth to the end.
? ? ?
Count Marven drifted in and out of wakefulness as she sat with him, holding a damp cloth to his burning brow when his distress blossomed into weeping panic. Brother Kehlan had been free with redflower in treating the Battle Lord, his face grim when Lyrna questioned the wisdom of giving him so much.
“His spine is shattered below the neck, Highness,” the healer replied. “If he were to live, he wouldn’t walk again. And he won’t live.”
“I . . .” Marven coughed, eyes suddenly wide as they found her face, “I killed a Kuritai, Kerisha. Did they tell you?”
Kerisha, she knew, was the name of Countess Marven. “Yes, my love,” she said, working the cloth over his brow and along his cheek. “They told me.”
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, suddenly wary. “Why are you angry?”
“I’m not angry,” she said. “I am proud. Very proud.”
“You’re . . . only kind when you’re angry,” he muttered, easing a little. “A tongue that could cut silk, the Fief Lord always said . . . The queen, though.” He paused to smile in fond reflection. “You might have met your match in her. However, I think she’ll be amenable now . . . That castle you always wanted . . .”
“Yes,” Lyrna assured him. “I’m sure she will.”
“The boys . . .” His voice grew softer, eyes dimming as his head sank farther into the pillow. “You were right . . . No soldiering for them . . . There’s gold in the Reaches, lots of it . . . We’ll send them there . . .”