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men dealt out deadly wounds as well as suffering them. Here an axeman hewed
down first horse and then rider, splashing friend and foe alike with gore.
There yet another northerner, already bleeding from a dozen wounds, pulled a
Videssian from the saddle and stabbed him before falling in death.
In front of Krispos, the combat was footsoldier against footsoldier, Haloga
against Haloga, as the warriors who followed Harvas met those who had given
their allegiance to the Avtokrator of the
Videssians. As in any battle where brother met brother, that was the fiercest
fight of all, a war within the greater war. The Halogai swung and struck and
swung again, all the while cursing one another for having chosen the wrong
side. Once hatred was too hot even for weapons, as two Halogai who had been
screaming abuse as they fought threw aside axes and shields to batter each
other with fists.
The northerners who had taken Videssos' gold never wavered; Krispos knew shame
for having doubted them. All because they'd sworn they would, they battled and
bled and died for a land that was not theirs, with a courage few of its native
sons could match.
"How do we fare?" Krispos shouted to Mammianos.
"We're holding them," the general shouted back. "From all I can tell, that's
better than Agapetos or
Mavros Phos keep them in his light ever managed to do. If the wizards can keep
Harvas from buggering us while we're looking the other way, we may end up
celebrating the day instead of cursing it."
Most of the wizards, by now, clustered behind the imperial line, not far from
where Krispos sat atop
Progress. They gathered in a tight knot around Zaidas; if any of their number
could sense Harvas
Black-Robe's next move, the young mage was probably the one. Krispos hoped his
skinny shoulders could carry that weight of responsibility.
Even as the thought crossed Krispos' mind, Zaidas jerked where he stood. He
spoke rapidly to his comrades, who burst into action. Krispos noted what they
did less closely than he ought have, for at that same moment he was afflicted
by a deep and venomous itch. Put any man in armor and he will itch
sweat will dry on his skin, and he cannot scratch. Rather than go mad, he
learns to ignore it. Krispos could not ignore this itch; it was as if
cockroaches scrambled over the very core of him. Of themselves, his fingertips
scraped against his gilded shirt of mail.
And he was not alone. Up and down the Videssian line, men clawed at
themselves, forgetting the foes before them. Harvas' warriors were not
afflicted. In the twinkling of any eye, a score of imperial soldiers went
down, too distracted by their torment even to protect themselves. The
Videssian line wavered.
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Ice ran through Krispos, chilling even his itch for an instant.
If this went on for long, the army would fall apart. Even as first blood
welled from beneath torn nails, his head turned toward the wizards. Led by
Trokoundos, they were incanting frantically. Those not actually involved in
shaping the spell scratched as hard as anyone else. The ones who were casting
it needed their hands for passes; the discipline they required to carry on
would have made Pyrrhos jealous.
All at once, as if a portcullis had fallen, the itching stopped. The imperials
looked to their weapons again and cut down the Halogai who, confident they
would not be able to resist, had thrust forward into their line.
"A cheer for the mages of the Sorcerers' Collegium!" Krispos yelled. His
soldiers took up the cry and made it ring out over the field. From behind the
enemy line, an answering scream rose, a scream of such hatred, rage, and
frustration that for a moment all other war cries, Videssian and Haloga alike,
tremblingly fell silent. That, Krispos thought, was the voice of the man if
man he still was who wanted to rule
Videssos. He shuddered.
Harvas' northerners seemed for a moment dismayed at the failure of their dark
chieftain's magic. But with or without Harvas, they were warriors fierce and
bold, men who had grown used to winning glory by always crushing their foes in
combat; they would have been ashamed to be deprived of it now through defeat
at the hands of Videssians. So they fought on, giving no quarter and seeking
none.
The Videssians had been more hesitant at the start of the fight. Some had
experienced Harvas' sorcery in the campaigns of the summer before. All had
heard of it, nor had the tales shrunk in the telling. Only now were they
beginning to see, beginning to believe their wizards could counter Harvas,
leaving the outcome
of the battle to them alone. Battle against merely mortal foes held only
terrors they already knew. They pressed against the Halogai with renewed
spirit.
Krispos realized Gnatios had done the Empire a great service by discovering
Harvas' nature. He hoped for the patriarch's sake that his response to
Rhisoulphos would prove benign. If it was not, Gnatios would answer for it, no
matter what aid he had rendered in the fight against Harvas.
A fresh charge from Harvas' men yanked his mind back to the immediate. The
Halogai seemed to have inhuman endurance, to be as strong and uncomplaining as
the horses the Videssians rode. They were roaring again, their blue eyes wide
and staring, their faces blood-crimson. By their set expressions, many of them
were drunk.
The imperial guards met their cousins breast to breast, defied them to advance
a foot. As one guard fell, another deliberately stepped forward to take his
place. Fewer ranks stood between Krispos and the enemy than had been in place
when the fight began.
The shrieks of the wounded began to drown out war cries on both sides. Some
hurt men staggered away from the line, clutching at themselves and biting
their lips to hold back screams. Comrades dragged aside others, not least so
they could reach over them to fight some more. Healer-priests, gray-faced with
fatigue, did what they could for the most desperately hurt. No one helped the
horses, whose screams were more piteous than those of the soldiers.
Krispos saw, surprised, how long his shadow had grown. He glanced toward the
sun. It had sunk far down in the west. The battle went on, still perfectly
balanced. Though night was near, neither side showed any sign of giving way.
Krispos had an uneasy vision of the fight coming down to a duel between the
last living Videssian and his Haloga counterpart.
Suddenly the wizards stirred again. Krispos ground his teeth. Harvas
Black-Robe had his own notions of how the battle should end, and the strength
and will to bring those notions to reality. For just an instant, Krispos'
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