Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 45–Stalemate

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Katun swept the battlefield with his spyglass, tracking the ebb and flow of combat through the haze of dust and smoke. All along the front, the enemy pressed hard against their lines, but to his relief, the Bretagnian soldiers held firm despite their wounds and exhaustion. The rear ranks stood like iron walls as the forward ranks fell back through them, executing the withdrawal with practiced precision. The extended center units pulled back gradually, allowing their front line to align with the rest of the formation.

Still, the Nagun’s savage assaults played havoc with their orderly retreat. Bodies littered the ground where disciplined formations had fractured under the weight of bestial charges. By late afternoon, even the Nagun’s fury began to flag. They fell back in disorder to regroup, their blood-slicked forms disappearing into the gathering shadows. The wings of the Bretagnian army seized this respite to complete their withdrawal, anchoring their flanks on the Fox River. In the center, though the Drachnorians maintained their pressure, the retreat continued with steady purpose.

* * *

Faline gripped her mount’s reins until her knuckles whitened, rage burning in her chest like poison. The plan had not worked—at least not as well as she’d hoped. Britta had taken the bait but hadn’t committed fully, and the Nagun’s surprise attack on the flanks had failed to deliver the crushing blow she’d envisioned. As much as the admission stung her pride, Britta had proven craftier than anticipated. Still, she hoped that a renewed push by the Nagun, supported by the Drachnorians, could break through. But as shadows lengthened into early evening, that possibility faded like the dying sun.

She turned to the nearest Shaitan, Parthos, his black robes rippling in the evening breeze. “Summon the rest; it is time to break the will of the Bretagnians.” He nodded and melted into the gathering darkness.

Banoch rode up to her, his uniform in tatters, sweat and blood painting dark patterns across the fabric. Beside him rode a hooded figure, its inhuman presence making the horses nervous. “We must break contact,” Banoch reported, his voice hoarse from shouting commands. “The men are exhausted and cannot fight on any longer.” He tipped his head toward the hooded Nagun chieftain.

“Mistress of the Dark,” the chieftain spoke, his words a guttural hiss. “The tribes cannot continue this in daylight. Let us try in darkness.”

Faline started to voice her displeasure but caught herself, a new plan forming in her mind like frost on glass. She fixed them with an iron stare. “Perhaps you are right. Darkness would be an ideal time to deliver the final blow. Order your units to break contact but maintain distance. Do what you need to marshal their energy. We will destroy them when the moon rises overhead.”

As she spoke, the Shaitan materialized from the shadows, some dozen black-robed figures whose gloved hands rested on the Mordblades at their hips. Yes, a cold smile twisting her lips. In the darkness, I will destroy them. Victory would open the road to Landros and deliver Bretagne into her hands.

* * *

Britta lowered her spyglass, its brass housing warm from constant use. “Yes, I see what you mean. They are falling back, but not far.” She rubbed her eyes, exhaustion threatening to cloud her judgment. “What does it mean?” she asked, though part of her already knew the answer.

Katun’s voice carried both relief and warning. “They are admitting defeat—for now. Our chances are good that we can hold them tomorrow if there are no more surprises.”

No more surprises, indeed.

They had dodged one very narrowly today, paying for that escape with Nikolas’s life. Had she ordered the army to move upon Keihl as suggested, the Nagun would have overrun their flanks, cut them off from the river, and—with the Drachnorians’ help—slaughtered them all. Thanks to her caution and Nikolas’s sacrifice, they had pulled the army’s neck from the noose.

The news of First Preytar’s death reached her only hours ago, adding another weight to her burden of command. It pained her to think his body lay abandoned somewhere on the battlefield, just another piece of war’s detritus. He had saved their collective lives—a hero, even if he had been a soldier of fortune. Britta touched the hilt of her sword in silent salute to the fallen mercenary, knowing that tomorrow would bring fresh battles and, likely, fresh sacrifices.

In the gathering dusk, the battlefield fell quiet save for the cries of the wounded and the carrion birds beginning to circle overhead. But in that silence, Britta sensed something waiting—a darkness deeper than night, preparing to descend upon them all.