Sovereign

CHAPTER 3

Salokan, king of Haxus, rode low over the saddle. His own panting was drowned out by the panting of his horse. He peered into the dark, searching for any sign of the enemy, but all he could see was a blur of single trees and low bushes that seemed to reach out for him. His face was scratched in a hundred places, and he could taste blood trickling between his lips. He heard an arrow whistle over him and he cried out, dug his heels even deeper into the horse's flanks. It whinnied and put on an extra burst of speed. A group of infantry loomed in front of him, and for a strange second he could not tell if they were standing or lying down; then he saw the barbed shafts sticking out of their bodies and he rode over them.

Up above, the moon kept pace with him and he prayed for it to go away, prayed for its revealing light to be shut off. He passed low under a tree. A branch snagged his cloak and tore it off, almost unhorsing him. The muscles in his thighs and back were aching so badly the pain became a single mass. Another group of infantry, spearmen, and this time alive. They called to him desperately as he thundered past, but he ignored them.

And then the moon started to blink. Salokan risked looking up and saw that his horse was following a trail through a grove of thorn trees. The canopy became more and more dense and eventually the moon disappeared altogether. Salokan reined in and looked around desperately for any sign of pursuit; when he did not see any he dismounted and led the horse away from the trail until he was sure no one would see him unless they were virtually on top of him. As he caught his breath he absently checked the horse's girth straps then allowed himself a few mouthfuls of weak red wine from a leather bottle in one of his saddlebags. The horse fidgeted, and he calmed it down by stroking its muzzle.

He tried to figure out what to do next.

How long should he wait here—wherever here was? Should he try and marshal any survivors, or set out by himself in a desperate bid to reach the safety of his own Kingdom? But he could not concentrate on the future. All he could do was remember that only a short time ago he, Salokan, king of Haxus, had been looking forward to his evening meal. Although defeated in his attempt to capture Hume from the grasp of Grenda Lear, he and his army had shared some victories and were returning to Haxus intact and determined to try again at some future date. He knew he would soon be on home ground, with all the advantages that entailed, including reinforcements and internal lines of supply. It was not far from sunset, and scouts had told him there was a perfect camping site not a half-hour from their present position.

He closed his eyes, trying to get rid of the memory, but it was no good.

There had been a commotion on the left flank. At first Salokan had thought it was nothing more than a rowdy joke between some of the spearmen, but then the noise grew louder and he noticed some of the spearmen out of formation and crossing in front of him. He called out to them but they ignored him. He reined in his horse and told one of his aides to go and see what the trouble was; the rest of his retinue crowded around him, his bodyguard making sure no one got too close. He had to order them aside so he could see what was going on. Some of the infantry were still moving his way, but most were still in marching order and continuing north. It was difficult to tell exactly what was happening, though, because the sun was low to the horizon and at best he could only make out the silhouettes of his troops.

There was a distant scream, and the sound was picked up by other voices. To Salokan it had sounded dreadfully like panic. The aide reappeared, breathless and flushed. 'We're being attacked!' he said, his voice filled with disbelief.

'Who is attacking us?' Salokan demanded.

'Some of our pickets came back wounded, and then a hail of arrows fell among the infantry. We don't know who. Riders appeared out of the sun and shot at us, then disappeared.'

'Chetts,' Salokan said in disbelief. 'It can only be Chetts.'

'On this side of the Algonka Pass?' another aide asked.

It's my fault, Salokan told himself. All my fault. Sending Rendle into the Oceans of Grass had been like throwing a stone at a hornet's nest; Rendle had once been a slaver, and the Chetts hated slavers more than anything else. The magnitude of his mistake filled him with a terrible dread. What have I done?

'What are your orders?' the first aide asked.

'My orders?' Salokan looked at him in a daze.

'What do you want us to do? How do you want us to deploy the army?'

'The army,' Salokan mouthed. He shook his head to clear it; he knew what had to be done. 'Post the archers on the left flank. Get the infantry and cavalry behind them. No one—absolutely no one!—is to pursue or harass the Chetts. Let them come to us.'

The aide nodded and wheeled his horse around to give out the orders, but just then a hail of arrows fell among the king and his retinue. The aide fell from his horse, pierced through the throat. Others fell. There were cries of pain and surprise. Before Salokan could rally them more arrows plummeted out of the sky. Riderless horses bolted. His own horse started throwing its head back. He kept a tight rein and spurred his mount into a canter, leaving the dreadful confusion behind him. He tried to find one of his generals—any officer—to pass on his commands, but it was already too late. Formations were breaking up, individual soldiers fleeing in all directions. He heard a wild call behind him and looked over his shoulder. He saw a troop of Chett horse archers galloping through a gap in the marching line, loosing arrows as they went, scattering all before them.

It was then Salokan realised he had lost his grand invasion force once and for all, and he let the panic touch his own heart. He kicked his horse into a gallop and rode north, away from the terrible Chetts, away from his own disintegrating army.

He sighed heavily now and leaned his forehead against the saddle, ashamed of his own flight. How could he, King Salokan of Haxus, have allowed himself to behave like a common recruit?

Just then there was a crashing sound behind him as something heavy started moving through the vegetation. Salokan placed both hands over his horse's muzzle and froze. Then he heard voices. Although he could not make out individual words, there was no mistaking the accent. The Chetts were searching the grove for survivors. He almost panicked again, but retained enough self-control to lead his horse as quietly as possible back to the trail. The Chetts were making so much noise they could not have heard him. Once out from under the closest trees he mounted, leaned over the saddle and urged his horse into a quick walk. The sound of the search dropped behind him and he kicked the horse into a canter. And then the moon flickered back into life. He was riding out of the grove. At that moment there was a great cry ahead and to his left. An arrow magically appeared in his saddle, just a finger's width from his knee, and another caught at his hair. He dug in his spurs and the horse broke into a gallop. Salokan held on for dear life, expecting to feel an arrow in his back at any moment. He wished to God he had never left Haxus, wished to God he had never besieged Daavis, wished to God he had never sent Rendle into the Oceans of Grass after Prince Lynan. Most of all, he wished to God there were no Chetts on the continent of Theare.

The horse stumbled, managed to right itself, but it slowed down. Salokan jabbed with his heels, whipped with his reins, but the bloody animal was determined to see him killed. It stumbled a second time, fell, and sent the king tumbling onto the hard ground. He lay there winded for a long moment. A strange sound, like thrashing, caused him to sit up. His horse was on its side, two of its legs kicking in the air, the other two—broken—stirring uselessly in the grass.

Without thinking he stood up and drew his sword, bringing it down hard on the horse's neck. The animal jerked and then was still. Ever since he was a boy he had been told never to let any animal suffer. And what about met What about all my soldiers? One of the saddlebags had split open, and his war crown, a simple gold circlet, had tumbled onto the ground. His arms slumped by his side, his sword point rested on the ground. He did not want to run any more. Or fight. Or be afraid.

He sensed rather than heard the enemy gather around him. He waited for the arrows to pierce his body. The night air was cooling now, evaporating the sweat that made his face and hands shine in the moonlight. When nothing happened after what seemed a long while he lifted his head. There were ten mounted Chetts forming a circle around him.

'Get it over with,' he said haughtily, and lifted his arms so their arrows could pierce straight into his heart and lungs.

'You stayed to slay your horse,' one of the Chetts said.

'If I'd tried to run away you'd have rode me down,' Salokan answered, trying to put a sneer into his voice.

'Truth,' the Chett admitted. He nodded to the dead animal. 'Was this your horse?'

'What do you think?' he answered with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

Surprisingly, the Chett grinned and dismounted. He drew a sabre and Salokan took a step back, automatically raising his own weapon to counter any attack, but the Chett ignored the king and used the sabre to pick up the crown. 'And is this yours?'

Salokan refused to answer. He knew he was going to die, and had no intention of amusing these barbarians any further.

'My friend asked you a question,' said a new voice from behind him. Salokan turned around. He was not sure which of the Chetts had spoken, but there was something about the posture of the shortest one that drew attention to him. The Chett had his wide-brimmed hat drawn low so Salokan could not see his face.

'I am King Salokan of Haxus. I don't talk with herders.'

The short Chett slipped easily off his mount and approached Salokan, stopping no more than two paces away from him. He lifted his chin and slipped his hat off his head.

Salokan gasped. The face he saw belonged to no Chett. Indeed, there was something about the man's features that were not entirely human. The skin was as pale as moonlight and had a slight lustre to it as if it was made from carved ivory. A dreadful scar ran from the right ear all the way to the jaw. And the cold brown eyes were like those of a wolf.

'My name is Lynan Rosetheme.'

Salokan was too surprised to speak. How could this creature be a prince of Grenda Lear?

'I wish to talk to you about a certain mercenary called Rendle,' the man continued, and took a step forward.

What drove Salokan to act then was something he never completely understood, but a mixture of fear and loathing made him raise his sword arm and bring it down in a mighty stroke.

And in the next moment his sword was spinning away from his hand and into the night. Salokan gasped in pain and grabbed his hand. Blood pumped from the stumps of three fingers. The pale prince was holding a sabre. Salokan had never seen anyone move so fast.

'My hand—!' he cried, then coughed as the point of the prince's sword jabbed into his throat.

'Do you want to die, Salokan of Haxus?' Lynan Rosetheme asked.

Salokan did not want to answer. He did not want to show this strange creature and his Chett warriors how afraid he was. But the pain in his hand was overwhelming, and he could feel his blood, hot and slick, running down his arm, and he could feel the point of a sabre pricking his windpipe.

'No,' he said weakly.

Lynan Rosetheme dropped the point of his sabre and smiled at him. 'Good. I'll need a governor to look after my interests in my new province of Haxus.'