Kerlutlian and his eighty riders made yet another circuit of Swalekeep, promoting the illusion that there were hundreds assaulting the walls rather than Draza’s mere sixty. Although one could scarcely term it an “assault,” he thought sourly. They were simply walking in.
He led his riders through the east gates when they were opened to him, and clattered along the streets frightening the populace. Swords were raised but not used; these people were not the enemy. Drawing rein in a broad, tree-lined square near the princely residence, he looked around him in disgust. Not so much as a kitchen knife did he see, only stunned and fearful faces huddling in doorways and half-hidden behind windows.
“My lord,” said his second-in-command, who served him at River Ussh as huntmaster, “I just had a look over the walls there. The prince’s guard is assembled, but making no move to attack. It’s my guess that they’ll protect the prince, but not the people.”
Kerluthan had no quarrel with that on principle, but he was sharply disappointed. At least there would have been some enjoyment in a real battle. “I think it’s time for my speech, then,” he replied with a grimace. “Here’s hoping I remember the important bits.”
But someone tall and fair had climbed up on a mounting block before a tavern, and beaten him to it.
“People of Meadowlord! People of Waes! By his banner, and by my sure knowledge of him, that is Lord Kerluthan of River Ussh, athri of the High Prince! The soldiers with him are your brothers and sisters! They’ve not come to harm you, but to ask your help against the invader!”
“Who in Hells is that?” Kerluthan muttered. “He looks familiar. Good Goddess, it’s that fellow who was with Princess Naydra. The tutor.”
Branig had drawn all attention. “Do you want vengeance on those who despoil your lands and drive you from your homes? How many of you fled here for your lives? Those of you from Waes, led to safety by Lord Rialt—you couldn’t stay and fight then, but you can now! Take up arms! Take back what is yours!”
Kerluthan was irked. He’d taken a lot of trouble learning his speech, and now this man had said it al! for him. Still, it had come from one of their own, not from him, and he supposed that was for the best. There was still one thing only he could say. Standing in his stirrups, he bellowed, “We gather at the east gate to ride against the Vellant’im for High Prince Pol! For the Azhrei!”
“What about our own prince?” someone ventured on his left. Before he could reply, Branig gave a withering laugh.
“Don’t you mean your princess! How many of you have helped load flatboats with food to be sent downriver? Your food, the winter’s stores, the work of your hands and backs! How far do you think these boats get, with the Vellant’im camped three measures away? And now that the warehouses are flooded, what will you eat? How can you hunt, with Vellant’im riding the hills and shooting down your game? Will your princess feed you from her own larders?”
A murmuring chased through the crowd as they moved out of doorways into the main square. Behind Kerluthan rose the towers of Swalekeep, the oldest princely seat on the continent. He hoped Chiana and Halian were listening.
Kerluthan raised his sword aloft. “Those of you with a will to it, come with me! Fight for Meadowlord as your prince has not!”
“But—but we’ve nothing to hand, nothing to use—“
Branig pointed west. “You’ll find swords and arrows stockpiled at breaks in the walls. Now someone ask me why there, when the Vellant’im are to the south!”
He would never give answer. Four arrows thudded into his chest. He swayed with the impact and collapsed to the cobblestones.
Chiana had been listening after all.
Kerluthan and his soldiers were protected at least in part by their leather armor. The common folk were not. They scattered HI all directions—those who did not fall, Meadowlord’s light green fletching* sprouting from their bodies like stalks of winter wheat.
Kerluthan spurred his horse and led his people down a side street, out of range of the arrows. The residence’s low stone walls would be child’s play. But he had a greater prize waiting. He could not waste time, effort, or lives here. Cursing Chiana, he wheeled around and rode back through the twisting streets to the east gate.
*
Andrev looked up at Ostvel. “The guards didn’t follow, my lord.”
“So. They have orders to protect Chiana. Damn the woman! There’s no doubt that Branig is dead?”
“None, my lord. I took another look before I came back here.”
“What’s Kerluthan doing?”
A few moments passed, and then Andrev reported, “Hfi’s checking wounds. The riders who were hurt are trading horses with those who aren’t. He’ll be short a horse or two, but it looks as if he hasn’t lost many. None dead, thank the Goddess. The ones who can will go help Lord Draza’s people, I think.”
“Amazing. I expected Kerluthan to storm the residence.” He turned to one of the couriers. “My compliments to Lord Kerluthan, and tell him I sympathize with his desire to attack Chiana. But I beg him to wait as planned. Let’s hope the people of Swalekeep were shocked enough to arm and join us. But no matter what the numbers, at midmorning he must lead the charge.”
“Very good, my lord. May I stay with Lord Kerluthan?”
“Of course. He’ll need you more than I.”
“Thank you, my lord!”
Ostvel shifted in his saddle. “Where’s that other rider, Andrev? The one who must be sent to warn them?”
Another pause. “Well away from Swalekeep, my lord. Going south at a full gallop on one of my grandsir’s horses.”
“Then it won’t take long to reach the Vellant’im. Excellent. Kerluthan is not a patient man.” He sighed and unstoppered his wineskin, taking a drink to ease the chill. “And so we sit, and so we wait,” he murmured. “I don’t much like it, Andrev.”
“No more do I, my lord.”
But for a different reason, Ostvel knew.
*
Varek’s official title was Rusadi’lel: leader who understands war. He did. After a strenuous autumn campaign, he had settled his men near Swalekeep to wait for one of three things: an attack by Prince Tilal, a command from the High Warlord to march on the Desert, or spring.
Varek had just over a thousand troops and half that many horses. His camp was on the crest of a low hill overlooking an excellent battle site. Ditches carried off most of the rain and the tents were relatively dry within—his men were used to the wet anyway and had slept in worse places. He was supplied by Princess Chiana (though much of the grain and wine was unusable, for which she would pay dearly when the time came). He had nothing to do but bide his time, improve his knowledge of the barbarians’ language, and miss his wives. He was getting bored.
So when Lady Aurar came thundering into his camp, muddy to the tops of her boots, Varek welcomed her demands. The High Warlord would be pleased to have this finished. Nothing must distract from the final victory in the Desert. He smiled at Aurar, wondering if she would be so eager to have his help if she knew that he would destroy not only Prince Tilal but Swalekeep itself by nightfall. Briefly he toyed with the notion of keeping the Ossetian prince alive long enough to tell him how unimportant he was, that all this fighting through the southern princedoms was ultimately meaningless.
Calling for seven clanmasters, he ordered them to ready themselves instantly to march. They nearly fell on their knees in gratitude at being chosen, and ran to unfurl their battle banners—not neglecting to fling superior smirks at those who would stay behind. Varek had never agreed with the High Warlord about the folly of such rivalries; the competitive spirit, once discouraged from its more murderous impulses and harnessed to a single purpose, kept the clans vying to outdo each other on the battlefield. But Varek was the first to admit that only the very personal power of the High Warlord had been able to unite them to that single purpose. What authority he himself wielded, he did in his master’s name, with fear and awe of the High Warlord obvious in his men’s eyes.
Aurar knew by now how the Vellanti army was organized. Seven clanmasters meant just over three hundred soldiers. She gasped in outrage. “We need your whole army!”
“Not so, my lady,” he told her. “To fight inside walls, horses are without use. Prince Tilal will find this soon. His men are best on horses. The men of these clanmasters are best on foot. Three hundred is good.”
She argued—as if he would be swayed by a woman. He attempted to conform to these fools’ idea of politeness, but at last was compelled to turn his back on her and walk away to inspect the assembled warriors. She followed, still raving. Varek admired the exotic beauty of the enemy’s women, but if they were all as lacking in respect as Aurar and Chiana, he marveled that their men did not cut their tongues out.
“Do you see this? Do you?” She held up the silver dragon token on its chain. “You made me a promise, Varek! I’ve supported your cause, my father died for it—“
“Lady Aurar,” he interrupted, smiling, “you have not an idea of what is our cause.” He wasted a moment appreciating her speechlessness, then beckoned for her horse to be brought. She tried to kick him as he lifted her into the saddle. “Go back to Swalekeep. You will have guards to protect you.”
To his eternal astonishment, she gave him a poison-ously sweet smile. “I certainly will. Three hundred of them, that I will lead against Prince Tilal personally.”
She rode to the head of the ranks. To a man they went rigid with insult. As amused as he was shocked, Varek murmured S9mething to one of the clanmasters. The man grinned and joined his warriors, and within moments Varek’s remark had spread, along with muffled laughter. Aurar heard and was furious, but when she started forward the three hundred marched at her heels quite willingly.
What Varek had said was, “I think that one has ambitions to be a clanmother. Whoever brings me Prince Ti-lal’s head may show her how it’s done.” His warriors had been forbidden to soil themselves on the common women here—known to be rife with disease—but Aurar was highborn, unmarried, and virgin. Had she been born a princess, she would long since have been sent to the High Warlord. But Varek had decided Chiana’s young daughter would do for that purpose. By nightfall the girl would be on her way to the Desert.
Varek gave orders that the remaining sixteen clanmasters make ready to march. Then he returned to his tent and opened the last of the bottles that had been Prince Rinhoel’s personal gift to him. It was a dark, copper-colored wine with a smoky aftertaste and a kick like a yearling colt. Halfway through the bottle, he felt equal to the coming fight; by the end of it, he felt sure he would survive it.
He had no liking for war. It was a loud, messy, dangerous business; when he could avoid it, he did. Oddly enough, this made him extremely valuable to the High
Warlord. Varek had, in fact, been chosen Rusadi’lel over men who had many more kills than he, because an army should not be commanded by a man who loved to kill. Any idiot could stick his sword through another man’s guts. Varek always knew, quite coolly, whose guts should be forfeit, and whose swords should do it, and why.
*
Kerluthan reined in so violently that his horse reared. Hundreds of enemy foot soldiers were advancing across an open field that should have been empty of everything but foraging mice. He had expected to see them, but not so soon.
He looked back over his shoulder. His cavalry had been augmented by two hundred men and women, most of them from Waes, armed with bows and swords. Some of them were mounted. None of them were trained soldiers. For that matter, few of his own people were, either. Tilal had kept the Medr’im for his own attack — three young men schooled at Remagev and sent out by Rohan as an experiment in keeping the peace. They were now TilaPs wing commanders and would enjoy considerable autonomy during the attack. But Kerluthan had only his own judgment to rely on in dealing with this problem in timing. He had been told what his part was and how best to accomplish it. He had no experience, either in theory or in practice, at changing tactics to fit the situation.
Up on the hill, Ostvel’s head snapped around when Andrev let out a gasp. He knew better than to interrupt the boy during his Sunrunning, but the wait was interminable. At last Andrev’s eyes cleared and he blurted out his news.
“They got too far too fast! Whoever’s leading their troops set a quicker pace than we thought, and they’re almost a measure closer than they should be!”
“How very uncooperative of them. And Kerluthan?”
“Leading the charge, my lord.”
“Following orders,” Ostvel muttered. “No imagination to delay until the right time. Damn! All we can do is warn Tilal.” A second courier was soon riding south for the main army. Ostvel glanced at the sky, noting a few thin rain clouds sneaking up from the horizon. “Be careful your next time out,” he warned Andrev. “I don’t want you caught in the shadows.”
“No, my lord. But I’d better have a good look now, while I still can.”
Ostvel watched him, this faradhi child of barely thirteen who might have been Alasen’s son. He wondered if Andry ever thought the same thing.
Soon Andrev was saying, “Lord Draza has things well in hand at Swalekeep. The guard still hasn’t left the residence grounds. I think they’re probably scared to,” he added frankly. “But I saw something I don’t understand. Someone else is riding to the Vellanti camp, and on Prince Tilal’s own horse.”
“One of our people?”
“Not wearing any colors, my lord, but it would have to be, wouldn’t it? The saddle is plain, but I’d recognize that Kadari brute anywhere.”
“Hmm.” Ostvel chewed his lip. “What in Hells is he doing?”
Tilal had, in fact, been using his imagination.
*
Kerluthan led his cavalry in the charge required of him, right into the middle of the Vellanti host. They fell like stalks bowing to the scythe. When he reached the rear lines, he yelled a command and swung his sword high over his head. The split into two wings wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t have to be. They weren’t showing off fancy maneuvers to sell horses at the Rialla. At least most of the riders remembered which direction they’d been assigned.
He dug his heels into his stallion and turned to the left. The enemy had their weapons at the ready now, but it was a rare being who could stand fast with forty horses galloping straight for him. Still, some of them did, and were trampled by hooves or mown down by swords.
“With luck, their lines will fall apart,” Tilal had said. “From all I’ve heard, they’re disciplined and methodical. You have to break their order. But remember that this is an experienced army. They’ll form up again quickly unless you engage them at once. Don’t let them draw you into their confusion. It could be a trick, making things seem disorganized when they’re not. Come at them in a steady assault, supporting whatever foot soldiers join you from Swalekeep. But don’t try a third charge. Whatever their state as an army, as individuals they’ll be ready for you.”
But it had all been so easy. Kerluthan led the charge, and the enemy scattered. The one problem was the thinness of the blood on his sword. The duty of a mounted knight was to break enemy lines, create fear, and kill as many as possible before the foot soldiers arrived to initiate close combat. It was Kerluthan’s opinion that he had not yet killed enough.
The shadows wavered and vanished as clouds shaded the sun. A thin mist drifted across his face a few moments later. Too bad young Andrev couldn’t go Sunrun-ning anymore, and would miss this. Kerluthan grinned and shouted for his forty riders to begin a third charge that would return them to the rear of the enemy lines. From there he intended to cut off any retreat while shoving the Vellant’im forward to be harvested by the swords of Waes and Swalekeep.
It might have worked, too. But someone was indeed ready for him, just as Tilal had warned him.
*
Draza leaned down to accept a huge cup of wine and settled back in his saddle to enjoy it. An excellent morning’s work—not many of his own wounded, none killed, and Swalekeep open and welcoming. There was the difficulty of the residence remaining, but he would wait until his people were rested and orders came from Ostvel.
After finishing the cup, he returned it to the girl who’d given it to him—redheaded, perhaps eighteen winters old, and wide-eyed with awe at the presence of a warrior athri. Draza smiled down at her, reminding himself that he was a happily married man. But it was heady stuff, to be a victorious young leader admired by a pretty girl.
He rode a casual tour of Swalekeep’s, streets, through each square and past each tidy little park, not getting lost only because one could never lose sight of the residence’s tall towers. He kept a careful distance. What did Chiana think she was about, anyway? Once Tilal marched in, it would be all over for her. Her best hope was to try an escape now, when only Draza’s people and her own held the streets. But she must be convinced her Vellanti allies would win. Failing that, Draza supposed she would weep for mercy.
Not that Tilal would show any.
Draza was receiving the profuse thanks of a wealthy merchant near the open east gates when a man on a frothing horse rode through yelling his name. A moment later, Draza learned that Lord Kerluthan was dead, and the battle near to being lost.
*
“I’m sorry, my lord. I can’t do anything more.”
Ostvel shook his head. “The rain is hardly your fault, Andrev. You’ve done exactly what was needed. I’m very proud of you.” He hesitated, then added, “And so will your father be.”
“Do you think so?” the boy asked quickly, then turned his face to hide a blush. “He said I was too young. But Prince Tilal was my age when he fought beside Rohan, wasn’t he? And Pol’s squires are even younger than I am.”
“Yes, but none of them are Sunrunners. And that’s how you’re needed. You’re too valuable to risk in the field.” He paused again to wipe the mist from his cheeks. Andrev had cut it fine. Ostvel had seen a faradhi shadow-lost once, in his long-ago youth at Goddess Keep. Timing was indeed everything. And it was time he went down to Swalekeep and dealt with Chiana.
Not a pleasant prospect. He anticipated wading hip-deep in lies all afternoon—assuming he could get past her household guard. If not, he’d have to listen from the street while she excused herself while accusing him. But he would not order an attack on the residence. Like Kerluthan, he would waste no lives on her.
Shortly before noon he and Andrev rode through the western gates, as quietly as if they’d come to have a drink in a tavern. Which wasn’t a bad idea, Ostvel reminded himself. But it would have to wait until he’d found Draza.
He found Camina instead, sitting on a bench beside a tree with a tankard in her hand and a young man crouching at her side. The wine was fortification against the pain of having her broken leg set. She looked up and greeted him a trifle drunkenly.
“Goddess blessing, m’lord—ow! Careful, you idiot!”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” Ostvel asked.
“No, my lord,” the young man said, not looking up from his work. “A clean break. It should be healed by the New Year.”
Camina winced and took a long pull at the wine. “The foot went one way and the leg didn’t agree. If you’re looking for—damn it, man, I’m not made of wood!—if you want Lord Draza, he’s out fighting.”
“Where he’s not supposed to be.” Ostvel frowned. “What went wrong?”
She drank again. “When Kerluthan was killed, Draza took as many as he could scrape up and rode out. That was a bit of a while ago. Dunno what’s happened since.”
His first impulse was to go have a look for himself. Sheer folly, with his responsibilities. He turned to Andrev. “Find someone wearing my colors. If Draza is winning, have the courier come back here to me. If he’s losing, tell him to ride for Prince Tilal at all speed to warn him. But not be seen by the Vellant’im if he can help it.”
“At once, my lord.”
Only much later did he realize he hadn’t forbidden Andrev to go himself.
*
As the last of his troops vanished into an orchard, Tilal glanced back over his shoulder at the bridge. Halian had built it using stone from Princemarch and techniques from the construction of Faolain Riverport—but it was Rohan’s work. “So my Sunrunners may cross as they please,” he’d grinned during a Rialla twelve years ago, with a wink at Sioned. Merchants had called Goddess blessings on his name for it and a dozen other broad stone spans over the Kadar, the Pyrme, the Catha, and the Ussh that eased travel and trade. No more would lives and goods be entrusted to the mercies of the currents. All part of the greater plan, Tilal mused, all meant to weave the princedoms more tightly together. He gave a mental salute to his prince and rode into the shelter of the trees, reviewing his own plans for a little mending stitchery.
Outriders had encountered no enemy scouts. It hadn’t surprised him as much as it might have; they didn’t expect him from the south, after all. Ostvel’s courier had reported the departure of three hundred Vellant’im to Swalekeep and the arming of the rest, but none of the latter appeared to be in any hurry. So Tilal considered himself as yet undiscovered.
But though he’d distracted a third of the enemy, they were still two to his one. They had relied thus far on their superior numbers, showing little grasp of tactics that secured victory with the fewest casualties possible. They simply threw soldiers against an objective until it fell from the sheer weight. Tilal was fairly certain he could outthink them—he hoped so, at any rate. But he had a problem. The Vellant’im had chosen their ground distressingly well. If he attacked, all advantage of position would be theirs. He’d wondered what he might do about that. Fingering Naydra’s little dragon, gradually an idea had occurred to him.
He had parted with the token and with Rondeg, the stallion given him at Kadar Water—Goddess, only a season ago? Only in autumn? It seemed ten years.
“Gerwen, I want you to look as scared as a Sunrunner who knows he’s about to be caught in a cloud. The token will take you into the enemy camp. A mention of Lady Aurar should get you to the commander himself.”
“And if he asks why I rode in from the south?”
“Oh, Goddess. I hadn’t thought of that. Wait—you had to take a roundabout route because of the fighting. That will do, I hope. But don’t tell him that unless he asks. After you’ve talked with him—stammer a bit, if you can manage it—tell him you’ve been ordered to return to Swalekeep. Say anything you have to, but get out of there. And keep your eyes open. You’re Medr’im, Walvis trained you to size up an enemy. You can give me information no one else can.”
Tilal now had only to wait, and keep his army still and silent in the bare orchard. It wasn’t much cover, but it would be enough if no one came looking.
Finally, someone did: Gerwen, clinging to Rondeg’s powerful neck as the stallion took the muddy fields and fences at an all-out gallop. Tilal rode a little out of the trees to meet him.
“My lord!” he gasped. “It was perfect. He’s leaving his camp—“
With the essential information given, Tilal lifted a hand to stop him—which gesture also signaled everyone else to make ready to march. “No, Gerwen, wait a moment and catch your breath.” When he no longer gulped for air, Tilal smiled. “That’s right. Now you can tell me what happened.”
“My lord, he never asked anything! Once he saw the dragon, he couldn’t do enough for me! Do you know who it belonged to?”
“He recognized it as Prince Rinhoel’s, did he? Excellent.”
Gerwen nodded vigorously, dark hair straggling around his face. “He said, ‘So you come straight from the prince himself—of course, I didn’t tell him which one,” he grinned. “He was calling the march almost before I finished talking. I thought he had me, though, when he offered a fresh horse. I nearly died trying to think up a reason to keep Rondeg. But then somebody ran up with some kind of problem that distracted him, so I got away.”
Tilal sighed complete satisfaction. “Gerwen, Rondeg is now yours. And not a word of refusal, either. My uncle Rohan always said the fun of being a prince is rewarding people with the things they deserve. And you’ll need Rondeg after all this is over and you’re back riding the princedoms with your fellow Medr’im.”
“Thank you, my lord!”
“You can tell me what else you saw while we march.” He smiled to himself, for he was about to give some other people exactly what they deserved.
*
Draza’s arrival angered the clanmasters even more than Kerluthan’s successful charges. The insult of being directly attacked—a first in their experience of these cringing barbarians—was compounded by an incomprehensible refusal to surrender once the leader had fallen. When more troops from Swalekeep pelted toward the battle, yelling their lungs out and waving swords, spears, and even scythes, the clanmasters suddenly saw themselves evenly matched in the field.
Varek had selected these particular men for one reason only: they had been at Faolain Lowland. More to the point, they had fled shrieking from Faolain Lowland. Half of those who’d failed to take the keep had marched east to swell the High Warlord’s forces, but these seven clanmasters, leading forty-five men each, had come under Varek’s command.
He hadn’t laughed at the tale of the Dragon Carved in Fire. He didn’t doubt that the accursed faradh’im had done something of the sort. He was rather dubious, however, when the clanmasters asserted that the apparition spewed poisonous flames, screamed the individual names of every man there, had a wingspan wide enough to enwrap a castle, and stood as tall as the Storm Father’s earlobe.
Other clanmasters and their warriors did laugh. Fist-fights and a murder or three occurred over questions of bravery, let alone veracity. Violence was not limited to those who had been there facing challenges from those who had not; the seven groups of clan-kin knifed each other as well, accusing hated rivals of running first, or running faster.
Varek had punished the offenders, well pleased. These were men half-crazed to prove their courage and prowess. Swalekeep was their chance, and Varek was gracious enough to allow it. They would win or have their beards hacked off and their wives given to worthier men—for what good was a wife to a castrate?
So they fought like madmen, which was precisely what Draza thought them. The invigorating exercise of the morning turned into an afternoon of fighting for his life. He knew what Tilal had ordered Kerluthan to do: keep these forces from the main battle. This was now his responsibility. But they kept coming at him, bearded men with swords who wanted him dead. If he had ever known why, he had forgotten.
His horse had been gutted early on. The pride and power of a mounted warrior so admired by that redheaded girl in Swalekeep was lost. He was only one more foot soldier stabbing and hacking with a blade that grew heavier by the moment, all the while trying to keep those other blades from his neck, his back, his vitals.
The part of his thoughts that did not babble with terror sputtered instead with outrage. ,He was Lord of Grand Veresch, an important athri sworn to the High Prince himself. No one had ever dared raise a hand to him since childhood pranks earned him a slap on the backside. Even in the practice yard when he learned to use a sword, care was taken of his precious highborn person. Now these savages assaulted him on all sides. They didn’t care who he was, what he ruled, or that he had a wife and son and daughter waiting for his safe return. These men wanted him dead.
That day, Draza found within himself two things. The first was a ferocious stubbornness that the enemy would have not a handbreadth of this ground. That it was not his ground made no difference to him anymore. It was here, and he stood upon it, and that made it his. And he would keep it.
The other was a simple determination born of recognizing a simple equation: If he killed enough Vellant’im, the killing could end.
Those who did not risk their lives in battle could speak of the causes of war, the conduct of it, the casualties and the consequences and the cost. But to the soldier in the field, war had only two truths, immediate and fundamental. Keep and kill.
So Draza kept this ground that had become his, and he killed those who tried to take it from him. And when he looked around in sudden bewilderment for more to kill, he realized there were no more. It appeared that he had won.
It felt very strange.
*
Tilal rode into the deserted Vellanti camp, resisting the urge to laugh. The Goddess had turned a shining face on him today. They had left everything behind in their haste to get to where they had been told he would be. Later he would have it all packed and taken to Swale-keep for study. He hadn’t forgotten the tantalizing clues gathered from the few Vellant’im killed in autumn. There must be something here to give him reasons for the invasion.
But for now, he had a battle to prepare.
The enemy had indeed selected their site well. The nearby pasture was awash in thick winter grasses that made a cushion against the mud beneath. It made slippery footing, but at least one would not be sucked down into viscous mire. The nearest wooded cover was half a measure away. Best of all, a road arced around the southeast field, with a ditch and fence on one side. This would slow down any advance.
It had all been meant for him, Tilal knew. A chuckle escaped as he anticipated the welcome he would give the Vellant’im back to their own chosen battlefield. He had done them a favor; he was finally where they wanted him to be.
His troops were forming lines according to plan—a frighteningly small army of not quite four hundred— bows in front, swords just behind. Mindful of the training Gerwen and his two fellow Medr’im had received from Walvis, he had given each the command of twenty horse and told them to make life difficult for the enemy as they saw fit. The remaining cavalry he would lead himself, once the archers had softened the Vellanti lines.
The gentle mist had stopped, but sunlight still flirted across the sky between clouds. He knew it was past noon, and wondered when the rider would come from Kerlu-than to tell him that part of the battle was over. At last a horse appeared from the direction of Swalekeep, so exhausted that it barely cleared the fence. Tilal was about to spur his gelding forward when the rider suddenly hauled back on the reins. After an instant’s imitation of an equestrian statue, during which time a teasing shaft of sunlight hit the gold beads in the darkness of his face, he veered across the field to the woods.
“Oh, Good Goddess,” Tilal exlaimed. “Beautiful! They lost!”
Chaltyn, longtime commander of the Athmyr guard, squinted at the fleeing rider. “You mean we won.”
“Of course. But look at the way he’s killing that poor horse. They lost.”
“Well, it won’t be long now, my lord,” Chaltyn sighed. “He’ll tell them where we are, they’ll march back, and we’ll get this over with at last.”
“A little more enthusiasm, if you please,” Tilal chided.
“If you wish, my lord. We need all the optimism we can get. They still outnumber us.”
But Tilal was peering up -at the rise again. “What the—?
Look there!”
From where the Vellanti rider had come there now appeared a small figure on a tall Radzyn mare. Tilal stood in his stirrups for a moment, then sank back down in the saddle.
“I’ll blister that boy’s bottom.” But there was little force to the threat; he remembered what it was to be a squire frantic to prove himself.
“My lord!” Andrev was breathing almost as hard as his horse. “It’s done, my lord, they’re most of them dead and the ones who aren’t are wounded, and Lord Draza will be coming as soon as he can, and—”
“What of Lord Kerluthan?”
“He was killed, my lord—that’s when Lord Draza took his people and plenty from Swalekeep and Waes to help. And now they’re coming here, I’m not sure how many but probably a hundred anyway—“
Tilal did a rapid calculation in his head and was appalled. He’d feared their casualties would be bad, but only a hundred left? Kerluthan’s eighty, Draza’s sixty, the two hundred or so reported by Ostvel’s last courier to have marched from Swalekeep. Only a hundred left?
Andrev was still gasping out his news. “—saw Lady Aurar along the way, riding back as if the Storm God was after her, so Princess Chiana might know soon at Swalekeep, my lord, but her guard is stil) inside the residence. Do you think she’ll try to escape? With all her people set against her, I mean, and ready to kill her if they see her?”
“I don’t know, and right now I don’t much care. What are you doing here, anyway? I gave you orders, Andrev.”
“I know, my lord, and I’m sorry, but—”
“No, you’re not, but we’ll discuss it later.” He saw Gerwen riding toward him, a look of tense excitement on his face. “Chaltyn, take him back to Swalekeep.”
“No! You can’t!” Andrev cried. “I fought back there. I had to, to get here! You can’t send me back!”
“ ‘Can’t’ is not a word one uses to princes. Chaltyn?
Take his reins yourself, take him across your saddle if you have to, but get him out of here.” He kicked his horse forward to meet Gerwen, already knowing what news the Medri brought.
“No!” Andrev shouted behind him. “I won’t!”
“Yes, you will, my Sunrunner lad,” Chaltyn replied, “or I will take you onto my saddle and carry you. Our prince expects his commands to be obeyed, and that’s one thing—but you are who you are, and our prince has a healthy respect for your grandmother, believe me.”
Tilal grinned at that. Neither Chay nor Maarken was much threat, but Tobin made princes cringe.
“My lord,” Gerwen said simply, “they’re coming.”
“Then let’s make them welcome.”
*
With all the noise of people and horses that filled Swalekeep, the fierce, clean howls of wolves set free were louder.
The cats screamed only once before they ran.
Their cage was larger now. The whole of Swalekeep with its maze of streets and maelstrom of smells was open to them. The first sweet burst of freedom took them beyond the residence walls in six different directions. But then buildings loomed, and carts and crates, and patches of greenery and trees. And horses. And people.
Chiana clung to Aurar’s silver dragon. Aurar no longer had need of it. She was dead—a cleaner death than Hali-an’s, but by the same hand. Rinhoel had used the bloodied knife to cut the chain from her throat. Now Chiana held the token, and so tightly that she was sure its imprint would be forever in her palm.
She had emptied her jewel coffers into a saddlebag. She had suffered herself to be wedged onto a horse in front of a burly guard who grabbed her waist so tightly in one arm so she could barely breathe. Now she shut her eyes to the dizzying passage through the darkening city and out the north gates. But she heard the enraged cries of the wolves and mountain cats, and the screams of their victims. And those sounds were her only pleasure.
*
Andrev’s furious hurt had changed to petulance by the time Chaltyn handed him over to Ostvel. Andrev was ignored. He trailed along behind Ostvel as the residence was opened to them at last.
Ostvel went directly to Princess Chiana’s private rooms. In the bedchamber he found Prince Halian. The man’s head had been smashed open by the iron poker that lay beside him. There was blood everywhere.
Andrev had seen dead people today. He had never seen a murder. A short time later, entering Prince Rin-hoel’s suite, he saw another.
This one had been done with a knife in the throat. She had bled, too. All over the thick Cunaxan carpet and her own leather riding clothes and her wind-disheveled hair.
Andrev couldn’t help it; he ran for the open door to a white-tiled room and was sick into Prince Rinhoel’s own gilt sink.
Ostvel wished he could do the same. “Chaltyn, have someone take her outside to where they’ve put Halian. We’ll burn them both tomorrow night.”
“Yes, my lord. This accounts for the prince, and Lady Aurar. Chiana and Rinhoel are long gone.”
“Yes. And a lovely ride to them, through the night with another storm blowing in.” He gave the room a last glance, then turned for the door. “We all need beds tonight. Find a steward or whoever runs this place and have it seen to, please.”
“I’ve got our own people working on making the barracks into an infirmary. And there’ll be dinner waiting when the prince gets here.”
“That’s my duty,” said a shaky voice from the bathroom door. Andrev picked a careful path around the corpse as he walked to Ostvel’s side. “I’m all right now, my lord. I’m sorry.”
“And ready to be a squire again? Good. You locate the steward, then, and—“ He stopped as a wolfs plaintive howl echoed through a nearby street. “Goddess. I thought they’d all escaped.”
“One was killed, my lord,” Chaltyn said. “A cat that mauled a little boy.”
“Have somebody herd that poor animal to a gate or a breach in the walls. Not you, Andrev. Find us a place to sleep.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Ostvel had his own search to conduct. A servant led him to Princess Naydra’s room; empty. Down the hallway were the chambers belonging to Princess Palila. The door was locked, but easily forced open. He found that rather pathetic.
Two children and an old woman huddled on a small couch beside the fire. The boy, no older than four, looked up as Ostvel entered. The woman followed his gaze, and Ostvel was shocked to see that it was Naydra. But the girl, who could only be Princess Palila, went on staring into the flames, shivering inside the circle of Naydra’s arms.
“It’s all over,” Ostvel said gently. “The enemy is gone.”
“And the Vellant’im?” Naydra asked with bitter emphasis.
He nodded.
She turned to the little boy. “Are you hungry, Polev? Why don’t you run tell the cooks to make us some dinner? Wouldn’t some soup be nice, and a good hot cup of taze?”
When Polev had left them, Naydra held Palila closer and said, “I must tell you things I don’t want him to hear. After I got back, I started searching for Rialt and Mevita. It was a long time before I found them. It was too late.”
Ostvel bent his head. “Yes. I understand.”
“I didn’t know how to tell him,” Naydra murmured. “But I didn’t have to tell Palila about—“ She stroked the tangled hair. “She saw it, my lord. She saw her brother, and her father.”
“Rinhoel?”
“She was in his rooms. I’d told her I’d put the little dragon back for her. Polev was fretting, and wanted to play with it. She’d taken it, you see. But I hadn’t put it back. I gave it to Prince Tilal.” She began to rock the girl slowly back and forth. Palila stared into the fire. “She heard Rinhoel’s voice coming from her mother’s rooms. She went in, and opened the bedchamber door a little, and saw.”
“Gentle Goddess,” Ostvel breathed.
“Polev came to get me when she returned here. She told me what happened. But she hasn’t said anything since.”
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d better stay here, my lady. I’ll see you’re not disturbed.”
“Thank you. I think that would be best. I’ll keep both of them here with me.” She looked up again. “Oh, and you’ll find a man downstairs, in the cellar. He’s dead, too.”
“He—?”
“The one who slit their throats. I was too late. He was just coming out when I—tie hadn’t even cleaned off the knife. So I killed him.” Naydra gave a chilling smile. “I didn’t even have to think about it. I know what I am. Branig told me. I called Fire, and he died of it.”
Ostvel knew what she was, too. He had always known.
“I’m afraid the body is a little messy,” she added.
He didn’t doubt it. He’d been there when Sioned had done the same thing to the corpse of Naydra’s sister.
Ostvel bowed wordlessly and left her. As he started for the cellar stairs, he wondered what Pol was going to say when he found out his friend was dead, and his aunt had discovered her power.