His horse comes over the water flying, He feels the water on His legs and then they’re across on the opposite bank, throwing themselves into the camp, the others are behind Him, can’t keep up, for a few glorious heart beats He’s alone going forward at them, His horse rears and comes down with blood on its hooves, the camp is in confusion, men running, shouting, they don’t know what to think, what to do, He hears, incredulous, the words “treachery,” “traitor,” He almost wants to laugh at what they’re saying.
Now His men are across. He feels the shock of the horses meeting the unarmed men, the shock of pleasure uncoiling as the swords come down. Pleasure at the killing. Pleasure at being killed. He takes a man at a run, drives His sword through; it’s so easy, back to this cutting of unarmed flesh, severing it, taking a man apart into pieces and showing him look, that’s you, that’s what you are, stinking meat and bone. There’s no glory, no wonder in the human form. Men are not gods. Look at your shit filled entrails spilling out on the ground: that’s you, that’s all you are. Meat and shit and it’ll be gone, all gone, your life nothing, worth nothing, nothing to remember, a fool’s lie.
There. Gone.
He aims higher next time, gets His man in the face. He likes cutting faces. The man’s alive for a moment after the sword peels his skin back, flays him open, showing him red and white down to the bones of skull. Noseless mouthless lump. The jaws work gurgling before the man falls. He rides on past, going so fast He’s come to the bounds of the camp already, the washing place they’ve dug, the latrine pit downriver, the horse lines. Shit again, stinking in the wet air. And memories: digging latrine pits for Skie and Tobias, nothing man, boy they laugh at, piss weak butt of their jokes. Men are running, struggling down into the water, He cuts one down through the back of the neck, cuts another’s head right off. It’s almost a shame there aren’t more of them, He thinks, it’ll all be over so quickly, He can hear the roar of the fighting behind him, His men killing. Only a hundred of them, the enemy has five times that, but they cut them all down. They will. They must.
His men reach the horse lines and wheel back, more of a fight now, a few are even mounted coming on towards them. He meets one fighting, the white plumes on the bronze of his helm show he’s a commander, his sword has a curved blade like a hook. It crashes down hard on His arm, the curve of it pulls Him, drags His sword arm so He has no control. It has tiny, serrated teeth at the tip that sting. He twists and jerks His arm away, there’s blood on Him, the plumed helmet hisses out “Traitor! Betrayer!” as His own stroke is parried wide. Something crashes hard into the flank of His horse, making it stumble, He wards off the curved blade, another sword smashes into Him. Feels the blade tear at His armour and His skin. He whirls round again, brings His sword round hard into the weak area of the neck where the bronze helmet doesn’t quite meet the bronze plated coat. The impact jars His arm. A glorious, wet-sand crunch of flesh. Hot blood in the rain. He licks His lips and it tastes iron and lovely, the taint underneath of quicksilver: they drink quicksilver, the Ithish, the nobles, the gods alone know why.
But He can’t enjoy it, the other batters at Him, He feels pain in His left shoulder, throws Himself round twisting like storm water, His horse shrieks finally reaching the point almost beyond His controlling, the dead man’s horse tries to bite at Him before it flees. He makes His horse turn and turn, fighting with it too for a moment, gets His sword up and down, parries, hacks, smashes hard into His opponent’s right arm. The plated cloth gives, it feels strange the softness of it, thick wadding yielding almost like the feel half forgotten of killing a child. A scream.
He feels almost guilt. But it had to happen like this: it surprises Him, wounds Him, that they call Him “traitor” as He kills them. Couldn’t they see, clear and plainly, that this had to happen? He is king. Amrath returned to them. He will not have allies and alliances and aid.
What did Amrath do?
He killed things.
He kills another couple of them. On foot, stupid ones who never made it to their horses. Gods, He wouldn’t have wanted these men anyway, not if they couldn’t even make it to their horses in time to defend themselves. He kills another who is mounted, already wounded, the man fighting left-handed with his right hand a glossy mass of red. His horse crashes through one of the cook fires they have burning, wood and ash scatters with a cloud of sparks, the hot charred smell where a body has fallen into the fire, blood smothering the flames. He feels hooves trampling into the ashes, the rain and the blood are putting the fire out.
The sounds of battle are dimming. The ground no longer shakes with the stamp of horses’ hooves. He pulls His horse to a stop and looks.
The camp is taken. His own men are standing their horses, panting and looking around, laughing. Ten or so are down—no, a couple more, maybe twelve or fifteen. Foot soldiers are coming up, making a final check to secure the field. He watches as one of them finds one of the wounded, looks about quickly to see who’s looking, stabs him fast in the neck. “Doctoring,” as Tobias used to call it.
Osen and Yanis Stansel ride over to join Him. Osen’s face is flushed with pleasure, his eyes glow. Yanis looks weary. Blood streams from a cut on his cheek. His left hand, too, is bloody. But it hardly seems fatal. Servants hurry over, unstrap Yanis and lift him down from the armoured frame that holds him on his horse, carry him to his wheeled chair. Yanis’ horse snorts and shakes itself. Osen dismounts, kneels, holds out his sword. The bird bone hilt clotted with blood.