First Lord's Fury

“First Spear,” Isana said. “You need such talents here. Or better yet, helping my son.”

“They were helping your son,” Fidelias growled. “That’s how all of them wound up in healing tubs in the first place.”

A trio of vordknights came zipping in from one side, with the risen sun behind them, and the Knights Aeris on the roof didn’t redirect their windstreams in time. Fidelias moved on pure instinct, grabbing the First Lady and taking her down to the stone of the roof with as much speed and as little harm as possible. He stayed there, shielding her body, as the swords of Araris, Aldrick, and half a dozen Windwolves leapt clear of their scabbards.

Bits and pieces of vordknight, divided in perfectly neat lines, scattered to the roof around them.

Fidelias lowered his voice for Isana’s ears alone, and said, “My lady. We ca

Isana’s eyes were a little wide, but her expression was controlled. She took in a deep breath as Fidelias rose and Araris helped her up.

“Captain Aldrick,” she said.

Aldrick gave a slight bow of his head, “My lady?”

“This Legion is short of their company of Knights. I wish you to deploy your men to support them.”

Aldrick said nothing for a moment. His eyes shifted, left and right, toward the waiting wind coaches and the vord outside the steadholt, respectively.

The fingers of his right hand, his sword hand, flexed slowly, as though being loosened up for action. Fidelias had a flash of insight. Though Aldrick might be a mercenary, he wasn’t inhuman. None of them were. And no Aleran could look at the vord destroying their world without realizing that there was no way to remain safely out of this fight. You could only decide whether to make a stand beside your fellow Alerans—or delay the moment of reckoning until you faced the vord alone.

“Say yes,” Odiana said, her lovely eyes eerily bright. “Oh, say yes, my lord. I’ve been waiting ever so long to see you kill vord.”

The mercenary glanced over his shoulder at Odiana, then turned to Isana with a second bow of his head. “Aye, my lady,” Aldrick growled.

Wolfish smiles spread through the men behind him, along with growled words of agreement.

Aldrick stepped forward to overlook the battle below, and Araris went with him.

Aldrick grunted. “Earthworks?”

Araris nodded. “Little elevation will make a big difference.”

“Odiana,” Aldrick said.

She was still hanging on to his belt. “Who?”

“Antillar and his brother. We need them.”

The woman turned and hurried from the roof.

“Where is she going?” Fidelias asked.

“Wake up your sleepers,” Aldrick replied.

Fidelias shook his head. “You can’t watercraft someone back to consciousness.”

“She can.”

Isana stepped forward. “It is possible. But it’s somewhat insane.”

Aldrick almost smiled. “Sanity. Huh.”

Isana frowned after Odiana. “It’s dangerous. For patient and healer alike.”

Aldrick shrugged. “Dangerous for the vord to run those scythes through you a few times while you’re lying there unconscious, too.”

Isana’s mouth compressed, and she nodded once. “I’ll go with her.”

Fidelias touched her arm as she began to turn. “Lady,” he said quietly, “you need not do this.”

She blinked at him as if surprised. “Of course I must. Excuse me, First Spear.”

She left the rooftop to follow Odiana, and Fidelias turned to Aldrick. “The Antillan brothers could get us a ditch around this place—it’s mostly soil here. I assume that’s what you had in mind?”

Aldrick nodded. “Get your best seven or eight engineers, too. We’ll give them each a Knight Ferrous escort to cover them.”

Araris nodded. “It would be best if there was some way your Knights could drive them back for a moment,” he added. “Buy the earthcrafters a few seconds in the clear.”

Fidelias nodded slowly. Then he turned to the courier stationed on the roof near him, and said, “Ask Master Marok if he would please come speak to me.”

In the five minutes it took to line up the desperate plan, the First Aleran suffered more losses than it had during the entire campaign in the Vale and Canea combined. Men screamed and were dragged back to badly overworked healers. Men fell and were dragged out into the horde. Swords shattered. Shields were rent asunder. Vord died by the hundreds but never relented.

On the flanks, the Free Aleran fared little better, for all that they were in what amounted to a backwater, in terms of enemy presence. Perhaps a double tithe of the vord in the battle wrapped around to the sides of the beleaguered Legions, but the Free Alerans’ inexperience meant that they were hard-pressed. The only thing that kept some of the cohorts from bolting was the certain knowledge that there was no escape. Only victory—or death.

And victory was nowhere in evidence.

Marok stood with Fidelias calmly, looking out over the battle. Then he said, “You never asked me to lower the mists. I expected you to do so.”

“Nothing to be gained by it,” Fidelias said. “Except to show us exactly how many of the bloody vord are out there. The men fight better when it isn’t hopeless.”

Marok nodded. “As do our own warriors. But if I lowered the mists, the Canim units would see our plight.”

“The mission wasn’t for them to come rescue us. It was to kill sleeping vord. All of them. As long as we have the vord coming for us here, there are that many fewer in the field to oppose the others. They can kill twenty helpless vord in the time it takes to down one of the things while awake. It’s worth it.”

“Even if it means the death of everyone here?”

“That’s right.” Fidelias glanced aside as the courier waved a hand at him. The man gave him a thumbs-up. “They’re ready.”

Marok nodded slowly, and said, “The more vord attack your people, the fewer attack my own. Let us keep their attention.”

Then he lifted his dagger and cut deeply into his left forearm. Blood began to patter to the stone roof. The Cane growled, then began chanting something full of snarls and coughing growls. A moment later, Fidelias saw the mist about five feet in front of the first rank of legionares begin to thicken. As he watched, it darkened, becoming opaque, and a moment later the shrieks of dying vord began to echo across the Legions. A hideous stench filled the air.

Teams rushed out in pairs, each with one of the Legion’s best earthcrafters. Antillar Maximus looked hungover, but he wore his armor and moved under his own power. Beside him, the silver-ski

Marok kept on snarling and muttering to himself. The old Cane’s eyes were closed. His blood ran steadily.

Even before the earthcrafters all reached their positions, those who had gotten there began their work. The earth swelled and heaved like an ocean before the wind. Then it began to fold upon itself. Fidelias was reminded of the way a sheet would ripple and fold when one snapped it to get it spread out over a mattress.

Within moments, the crafting was complete. The earth rose slightly in a short ramp before the Legion lines, rising perhaps eighteen inches—but the far side of the ramp sloped down sharply, to a ditch seven or eight feet deep and twice as wide. Centurions began to shout orders to their units, and the Legions advanced to the lip of the ditch, dressing their ranks and changing out weaponry, to ply their spears against the vord as they tried to climb out. It was not by any means an ideal defensive structure—but it was also far, far better than nothing.