The heart thumped like a drum in Liha's chest as Melish's detachment rode to battle. As Berim had asked, he stayed with the archers.
His first two shots went wild, and the third almost nicked a man of the royal guard. A human fighter proved harder to hit than a deer. Men's movements were less predictable than his usual prey's—and he lacked experience shooting from horseback.
Liha cursed under his breath and shifted his seat in the saddle. To avenge his loved ones, he had to improve. Another arrow nocked, he pulled the string to his cheekbone, aimed for a stout man threatening a guard with his halberd, breathed out and let loose. The arrow pierced the mercenary's arm with a thud. He dropped his weapon, an astonished expression on his face. The guard stabbed him, waved at Liha, and ran to the aid of a colleague.
Liha reached for a new arrow, searching for another target.
His quiver emptied fast, and out of shafts, he found he had lost sight of his friends. Other archers picked up arrows from the battlefield, so he dismounted and joined them to refill his quiver. The moment he dislodged a shaft from a horse's carcass, a shout made him look up.
"Archers, guard the crossing." On the other side of the Geai, a band of mercenaries gathered and stormed downhill towards the river.
With an armful of arrows, Liha joined the impromptu defence line the king's men formed on the bank to intercept the attackers. He jammed his shield between the one of a blonde man with piercing blue eyes and a wiry, grey-haired warrior who could have been his grandfather. They acknowledged him with a nod.
The old archer squinted and lowered his bow. "Too far. Let's wait until they are in the water."
Aside from a muttered "aye," the men kept silent until the enemy leader urged his grey into the river. The seasoned archer gave the sign.
"Now." With the shout, he let his arrow fly. The horse stumbled and fell, its rider getting carried away by the icy torrent until his head disappeared in the floods. Liha pitied the horse, but the enemies surged towards them, and he took aim.
Arrow after arrow flew into the approaching host until Liha struggled to lift his sore arms and ran out of shafts. His neighbour handed him a bunch of his. "Make them count."
Liha nodded, already aiming again. When the remaining enemies retreated downriver, the archers picked up their shields and followed, ready to install another defence line. The blue-eyed warrior brushed back his sweaty curls and smiled at Liha. "Well done. You're a master with that hunting bow."
"Thank you, but I prefer hunting deer."
The young man chuckled and bound his hair together with a leather strap. "Don't we all? Come, let's make a difference. The faster this bloodbath is over, the better." Together, they searched for stray arrows, observing the enemies on the other bank, working their way towards where the battle raged fiercest.
Liha scanned the moving masses of warriors for Berim, Melish, or Pentim—but couldn't find them when hoofbeats thump behind him. He whirled around. A front of mercenaries approached at a gallop.
"They crossed upriver." Liha's new friend nocked an arrow while Liha fumbled to pull one from the quiver—too late. He threw himself aside at the last moment, sharp hooves passing over him while he reached for his sword. His archer friend was less lucky. Around the spear point piercing his chest, his life gushed away with the blood. The sight of the dead man's broken eyes sent a wave of nausea through Liha's stomach, catapulting him back to the raid on his father's homestead. With his sister's face overlapping the archer's pale features, he fought back the bile in his throat and swung his sword to join the melee.
Forgotten were Berim's warnings stormed forward, angry tears burning in his eyes. He found a single horse, scrambled into the saddle, and pressed for the centre of the battle. Once, he thought he recognised Melish's burly figure but found it was a northerner attacking him, howling at the top of his lungs. Liha's horse danced away, battle-trained and alert to the danger, and he stabbed the man from behind. He didn't get to use his sword as Berim had taught him, but his attacker fell back.
Without bothering to check on him, Liha pressed on, losing all sense of time while he slashed and parried, his horse dancing through the madness of battle and saving him from serious injury with honed instincts. A blow shattered his shield, but he remained in the saddle, using his sword to inflict damage where he could.
When someone caught the bridle of his horse, he lunged to stab the attacker.
"Shh, Liha, it's me." Berim's calm voice cleared the crimson mist from Liha's mind. "Hold it, dragon. We defeated this group. Save your rage for the next battle."
Liha ran a hand over his eyes to clear his sight. Around them, warriors and horses stood, knelt and lay on the blood-soaked ground, some quiet, some wailing, others silenced in brutal death.
Melish pressed a hand on a deep gash in his arm, his shirt bloody. "Who would have thought our young friend had the fire of battle in him?" He let Berim bandage the wound and whistled for his horse.
Together, they rode through the field of destruction towards the king's banner. Liha glanced at the sun. It was almost noon—how was this possible? Before he found time to think about it, the fight surged their way and separated him from his friends again. Exhausted, he swung his sword, more to defend himself than to attack.
Carried by the tide of battle, he spotted Pentim crossing swords with a rider, their weapons clashing. The prince tore his horse around when an arrow pierced the beast's breast. The grey stumbled and fell, pulling his rider with him.
"Pentim." Liha smashed his sword into an opponent's shield, losing hold of it while he rushed to prevent the deadly blow to the prince, howling at the top of his lungs. The man looked up, and Liha's dagger buried in his gut before he knew he had thrown it.
Liha slipped to the ground beside the prince. "Are you alright?"
"Fine, thanks to you. Can you help me free my foot?"
Together, they shifted the dead horse's weight, and Pentim scrambled to his feet. Liha retrieved his dagger from his victim and picked up the dying man's sword when he saw the king's banner fall. "Pentim, your father."
He hopped onto his horse, pulling the prince into the saddle behind himself. Pentim spurred the horse on, and the banner rose again, the fabric torn and bloody, but the sun of the house of Diun still defied defeat.
Relief rushed through Liha's veins, but was replaced with fear when the deep sound of a horn drifted across the valley. A tide of dark warriors joined the battle on foot, swinging their spears with fervour. He gasped, not believing his eyes. "Dánirah told me the king asked for the support of her tribe. The Tannarí are here."
Pentim slapped his shoulder, laughing. "Your Tanna friend is worth an army."
He urged his horse on, but a spear hit its flank. The wounded beast whinnied and threw them off. With a sore hip and a bruised arm, Liha scrambled to retrieve his sword.
"Look out." At Pentim's call, he ducked beneath a mercenary's blade. The man rode on, and they hurried towards the king's stand on foot. Two guardsmen joined them, their uniforms bloody and bedraggled. In the safety of their small group, they stumbled across the battlefield, avoiding fights when they could. The Tannarí made a difference, but the northerners still held their place.
After a fierce exchange, Pentim wiped his face, leaving a bloody streak across his cheek. "Now would be a good time for Katim to arrive."
Liha didn't bother to answer. His sword arm felt like lead. An arrow pierced the hardwood of Pentim's shield, and another smacked into a horse cadaver beside Liha. He yanked it free and reached for his bow, searching for a target—to find the enemies dispersing. Pentim grasped his shoulder. "Katim. Do you hear the horns?" A grin split the prince's weary face, and he embraced amidst the wailing of the wounded.
Liha wanted to sit down, but the prince pressed his arm, a frown on his forehead. "We have to find my father. Are you alright?"
It was too late to answer. Liha bent over and was sick, retching. His empty stomach couldn't deal with the sight of the blood and destruction longer. Pentim held his shoulders, but let go when a pale-faced guardsman stumbled towards them.
"Hurry, it's the king."
They rushed after the guard to where the shredded colours of the house of Diun flew from a spear. The king sat on the ground, leaned against a saddle, a feathered shaft sticking from his chest. Pink foam coated his lips, and his breath rasped in his throat.
Pentim flung himself at the king, holding him up. "Please, Father." Tears mixed on the prince's cheeks with the blood and mud.
"Pentim." King Mirim opened his eyes, and the ghost of a smile passed his bearded lips. "Didn't I tell you to stay out of the battle?"
"You did. I'm sorry, Father, but we heard you were riding into a trap, and I couldn't let it happen."
The king closed his eyes. "No, you couldn't. Please tell your mother I love her. Will you do this for me, my son?"
"You tell her yourself, Father. Katim and the rearguard arrived. We won."
"Did we, then? Well, it's not my merit. I—"
The king's head slumped back, and Pentim looked up. "A healer. He needs a healer."
The guards carried the call, and only moments later, a lithe figure darted through the destruction.
"Dánirah." Liha rushed to hug her. "I'm glad you're alive."
"And you too. Who needs a healer?" Her gaze travelled to the king, and she flitted away, leaving a flame warming Liha's heart. She was alive.
He knelt by Pentim's side, unsure how he could help, until Dánirah guided two Tannarí women through the onlookers, the relationship between the two younger women apparent. The elder bowed over the king, her fingers searching for a pulse before she closed his eyes with a gentle gesture.
"Your father is dead, son of the sun. Not even shadow magic can help him now. I'm sorry. There are others I might still heal—if you allow, my lord."
Pentim stared at the Tanna with glazed, unseeing eyes. Liha placed a hand on his shoulder before he addressed the healer. "Yes, of course. Thank you, daughter of the dawn."
The woman tilted her head and smiled. "My name is Dánan. I see you, dragon of Kelèn. Dánirah, will you help us?"
Liha watched the women leave, feeling the prince's shoulder sag. He wrapped an arm around his friend. Tears ran down Pentim's cheeks, mixing with the blood and dripping onto his father's chest. He buried his head in Liha's shoulder.
The blacksmith's son wanted to tell the prince he was sorry and that things would improve, but he knew it for a lie. His family was gone, and all the killing today couldn't ease his loss. So he let the prince weep like he had wept in his wounded brother's arms the day his world broke down.
That's how Berim and Katim found them.
"King Mirim is dead. May the reign of King Pentim be peaceful and long." Berim bent his knee, and the guards followed one by one.
"My king." Liha pressed Pentim's shoulders. "You should speak to your men."
Pentim straightened and rubbed the mixture of tears and blood away with his sleeve. "I'm not ready to be king."
"I'm sure you are, Pentim of the house of Diun, king of the sun." Katim stepped forward and picked up Mirim's sword. He used his mantle to clean it from the blood and placed it over his arms, kneeling to offer the blade to the new king. "My king, I'm yours to command."
Pentim exchanged a glance with Liha, who lowered his head. "So am I, my king."
(2072 words)