Songs of Love & Death

“Knowing you as I do now?” I smiled wryly. “Noble Hector, mayhap; but I don’t like to speak of him, either.”

Rolande folded his arms behind his head. “It ended badly for most of them, didn’t it?”

“It did,” I agreed.

He eyed me complacently. “You’d have gotten away, though. Wily Odysseus, that’s who you would have been.”

I shuddered. “Let’s not speak of it, truly.”

A date was chosen, plans were made. It was decided that the command should be shared among three men: Percy de Somerville, Benedicte de la Courcel, and Rolande. Princes of the Blood, all three.

Even before we set out, folk were calling it the Battle of Three Princes. But only two of them came home alive.

WHICH IS WORSE, remembering or dying?

I cannot say.

THE SKALDI MADE their stand in a vast meadow high in the Camaeline Mountains—a green meadow in which thousands upon thousands of starry white flowers blossomed, a meadow dotted with lakes and rocky outcroppings.

Overhead, the sky was a flawless blue, and the white tops of the mountains where the snow never melted glistened.

The Skaldi awaited us at the far end, clad in furs and leather, hair braided, steel weapons and wooden shields in their hands. A handful were mounted on shaggy mountain ponies, but most were on foot.

They outnumbered us by half, but we had steel armor, better weapons, and a sizable cavalry.

The air was thin and clear, very, very clear. It reminded me of my childhood in the mountains of Siovale. I breathed slowly and deeply, stroking my mount’s withers. She stood steady as a rock beneath me. She was a good mare, sure-footed and battle-seasoned.

Rolande eyed me sidelong, eyes bright beneath the brim of his helm. All along the line of the vanguard, leather creaked and metal jingled. “Ready?”

I frowned at the uneven terrain. In private, I’d argued in favor of sending the foot soldiers out first, but the Three Princes, none of whom were mountain-born, had overridden my concerns.

Rolande read my unspoken thoughts and lowered his voice. “Anafiel, I’m not willing to give up one of our greatest advantages. If they don’t break and flee by the third charge, we’ll fall back and let the infantry engage them while we regroup. Well enough?”

I knew my duty. “Well enough, my liege and my love,” I murmured. Saluting him with my sword, I added in a ringing tone, “Ready!”

He grinned.

His standard-bearer raised his staff, flying the silver swan pennant of House Courcel. Some fifty yards to the right, a second standard was hoisted, flying the pennant of House Courcel and the insignia of La Serenissima on his uncle Benedicte’s behalf. To the left, Percy de Somerville’s standard-bearer raised the apple tree of House Somerville.

Rolande lifted his sword and nodded at his trumpeter.

One trumpet blew; two, three, ringing clear and brazen beneath the clear blue skies. At the far end of the valley, the Skaldi roared and beat their blades against their wooden shields.

We charged; charged, hewed down men where they stood, wheeled and retreated, dodging ponds, boulders and crevasses.

Once…

Twice…

I was hot beneath my armor, sweating through my padded undertunic and breathing hard, my sword streaked with gore and my sword arm growing tired. The ranks of Skaldi were growing ragged, wavering. A young lad with tawny-brown hair, long-limbed and tall for his years, rallied them, urged them to hold fast. At his tenacious insistence, they did.

“Third time’s the charm!” Rolande cried.

Cries of agreement echoed across the meadow.

One again, the trumpeters gave their brazen call; once again, we clapped heels to our mounts’ sides and sprang forward.

I KNOW WHICH is worse.

Remembering; oh, gods, by far. Dying is easier.

....

I WAS A Siovalese country lordling, and I knew mountains. I rode a sure-footed horse for a reason.

I’d made sure Rolande did, too.

Not his standard-bearer. When the lad’s mount caught a hoof in a crevice and went down with a terrible scream, left foreleg broken, there was nothing I could do but check my mare.

Uncertainty rippled down the line.

While Rolande raced to engage the Skaldi, men and horses in the center of the vanguard hesitated.

Those on the flanks, men under command of Percy de Somerville and Benedicte de la Courcel, had farther to travel.

Rolande plunged alone into the ranks of unmounted Skaldi, his sword rising and falling.

His standard-bearer’s mount rolled and squealed in agony, crushing her rider, sowing chaos. Cursing and sweating, I yanked my mare’s head with uncustomary viciousness and rode around them, putting my heels to her.

Too late.

I saw Rolande surrounded, dragged from the saddle. I saw the crude blades rise and fall, streaked with blood. His blood.

I fought.

Others came and fought, too. Too few; too late. Oh, it was enough to seize the pass, enough to guarantee a victory in the Battle of Three Princes. Still, it came too late.

As soon as the line had pressed past us, a handful of soldiers and I wrestled Rolande’s ruined body across my pommel, retreating with him. My good mare bore the burden without complaint.