Page 212 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“I know you lead the charge here, Lemierre,” Valdir called again. “Show yourself. Let us speak man to man and decide whether these fields see needless blood.”

Duncan exchanged a brief glance with Brannoc, then swore under his breath and pressed his knees to his mare’s sides. The silence tightened as he rode forward.

“Kryovarre.” Through clenched teeth.

“A fine morning,” the duke replied, admiring dawn as though not presiding over a host of hollowed soldiers. “What is your opinion of my army?”

“It is extensive.”

“Then you understand the odds before you.” Kryovarre’s grin appeared pleased. “As my numbers are considerably greater than yours, I advise you to yield Ardor today.”

“I fail to see how that benefits me,” Duncan mused, incredulous.

“It spares the lives you claim to value,” Kryovarre replied, a sneer slipping into his tone.

“Consider a different solution,” Duncan said. “You and I. A duel. Only one life lost.”

Valdir barked a laugh that echoed over the still field. “That is precisely where we differ. I would never spill my own blood when others are available.”

“Then we are at an impasse,” Duncan said evenly. “I will not surrender Ardor.” He paused, studying the man’s face in a futile search for a thread of decency. “I have no interest in granting House derDobroiov easy passage back to the imperial throne.”

Something uncertain—perhaps surprise—flickered across Kryovarre’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Duncan cut him off.

“What does interest me, however, is why Oorlon agreed to help you.” He fixed Valdir with a pointed look and did not wait for the denial. “Yes, I know of that too. You attempted to dominate the iron trade and failed. What do you have to offer him now?”

Valdir’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. He lowered his voice so only Duncan could hear. “Once the Empire is mine, I will control iron entirely.” His posture regained some of its bravado. “Oorlon respects ambition. He and I are alike in that regard.”

“Alike in sitting upon thrones that were never yours,” Duncan declared. “You are a fool to believe his aid would be so easily offered. I doubt his purposes end where yours do.”

Cool calculation entered Kryovarre’s gaze. “I grow tired of this,” he said. “I have extended to you the opportunity to lessen the bloodshed. You decline. Again. What follows is your wish.” He turned his horse sharply and rode back toward his ranks, cloak snapping behind him.

Duncan wheeled his own mount and returned to Brannoc in the command line.

“That went spectacularly poorly,” Brannoc observed.

Duncan snapped his helm closed. “Are the men ready for the oblique advance?”

“Aye,” Brannoc said, aiming for optimism. “Ready to strike at the diagonal, then rotate men in and out. We’ll hold longer than numbers alone ought to allow.”

Duncan nodded, though a cold prickle crept along his spine. He glanced across his line. Osric, Cairon, and Garric waited with their contingents, mounted and ready. He picked out banners from Lemierre and Ardor, even a few from Duskmere farther down the formation, reminding himself that numbers alone did not decide a war.

It was a narrow hope.

But enough to keep a man standing—or so Isander would have said were he here.

The thought gave Duncan a measure of comfort.

Brannoc shifted in his saddle. “Shall we charge?”

A drumbeat flared abruptly, tearing through the stillness. The enemy surged forward—a rolling wall of bodies and steel.

“Yes,” Duncan said, snapping back to the present. “Immediately.”

“ALL YEH FOR VAELCLAIR, ADVANCE!”

Their line thundered in a slanting wedge, the entire formation angling across enemy ranks instead of rushing forward in a straight front. The heart of the oblique advance: one wing striking the enemy’s edge first while the rest followed in staggered waves.

The clash came like a breaking wall.