Once the moon rose, bright and swollen just a night off her full, the lords led their men off the road and began circling to the north through the hills and ravines, good hiding from their enemies. Thanks to the carts and the pack train, they moved slowly, the carters cursing as the carts banged through the rocks and brush. Riding at the very rear, Yraen was the only one who realized that someone was following them.
As they started down the side of a hill, Yraen saw movement out of the corner of his eye, turned to look, and caught the unmistakable shape of a man on foot slinking through the tall grass behind them. He must have left his horse somewhere behind—a mistake that cost him his life. With a shout of warning, Yraen turned his horse out of line and drew his javelin in the same smooth motion. The enemy scout turned and raced downhill, but Yraen galloped after, plunging through the grass and praying that his horse wouldn’t stumble and go down. Twisting in a desperate zigzag, his prey ran for the trees at the bottom of the valley, but Yraen gained on him and rose in the stirrups to throw. The point gleamed in the moonlight as it sped to the mark and caught the scout full in the back. With an ugly shriek he went down headlong into the grass. Yraen trotted over and dismounted, but he was already dead. A couple of men from his warband rode up and circled round them.
“Good job, lad,” one of them shouted. “We’re cursed lucky you’ve got good eyes.”
Yraen shrugged in pretended modesty and pulled the javelin free with a welling up of the enemy’s blood. In the moonlight it seemed like dark water, some strange and dreamlike substance. Yraen wondered how it could be possible that he’d killed a man and yet felt nothing, not grief nor gloating.
“Just let him lie,” the rider went on. “We’ve got to get back to the warband, but in the morning, I’ll make sure Lord Oldadd knows what you’ve done.”
But apparently the noble-born already realized what had happened. When Yraen returned to the warband, the lords halted the march and had a hasty horseback conference up at the head of the line. Yraen strained to hear as Erddyr leaned over in his saddle to make his points with the wave of a gauntlet. All at once Lord Comerr laughed and gave Erddyr a friendly cuff on the shoulder. Erddyr turned his horse and trotted over to bellow at the warband.
“With their scout dead, we’ve got a chance to wreak a little havoc, lads,” Erddyr called out. “I want fifty men to risk their cursed necks. I’ll be leading you in a raid on Adry’s camp, just to stick a thorn up the bastard’s ass.”
Yraen turned his horse out of line to volunteer. As a squad assembled round Erddyr, he kept watch for Rhodry and finally saw him on the other side of the group, or saw, rather, his silver dagger, catching the moonlight with an unmistakable glitter. Although he waved, he had no idea if Rhodry had seen him or not.
Leaning forward in his saddle, Erddyr explained the situation. Comerr and the pack train were going to head for his dun in hopes of meeting the reinforcements on the road, while Erddyr and the squad tried to slow their enemies. It was going to be a quick raid—Erddyr emphasized that repeatedly—one fast sweep down, then an equally fast retreat.
“The whole point, lads, is to panic their horses, not to make kills. Go for the herd and try to scatter it. If anyone gets in your way, kill him, but leave the real slaughter for later. All we want to do is keep them busy chasing their worm-gut stock instead of chasing us.”
Erddyr sent Rhodry and some man Yraen didn’t know out in front as scouts, then led his squad back the way they’d come until the scouts rejoined them. At that point they left the road to dodge through the brush and down a narrow valley. On the far side they climbed a hill and found the camp down below, the rough circles of sleeping men and the bulky dark shapes of the supply wagons. Off to one side drowsed the horse herd. At the edge of the camp, guards walked in a circling patrol. Erddyr whispered something to Rhodry, who whispered it to the man behind him. The order made its way back: charge through the guards for the horses, then circle and wheel for the retreat before the men grab their weapons and join the fight.
Steel flashed in the moonlight as the squad drew their swords. Yraen settled his own and felt his heart pounding in his throat again, but he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever see a real battle, the sort he’d heard bards sing about, with proper armies and strategies and all that sort of thing. They walked their horses over the crest of the hill, paused for a moment like a wave about to break, then started down with the jingle of tack and the clank of armor. In the camp, the guards looked up and screamed the alarm.
“Now!” Erddyr yelled.
In a welter of war cries and curses, the squad spurred their horses and galloped full-tilt downhill. When they reached the valley, they spread out in a ragged line and swept toward the horse herd. Although the guards raced over to make a futile stand against them, the line ignored them and charged past. As he galloped past a guard, Yraen swung wildly at him, but he missed by yards. When the squad screamed and plunged into the herd, the horses panicked, rearing up and stretching their tether ropes so tight that it was easy to snap them with one swing of a blade. Yraen cursed and shrieked and made every ungodly noise he could think of as he sliced ropes and set horse after horse racing away from the attack. At last his wild ride brought him to the edge of the valley. As he turned his horse, he saw men pouring toward the raiders with their swords and shields at the ready. It was time to run.
Yraen kicked his horse and galloped back across the valley with the rest of the squad. Here and there, a panicked horse still at tether bucked and kicked. Yraen cut one last rope, then turned his attention to the men racing to stop them. All at once, one of the panicked horses slammed into the rider ahead of him. That horse reared; the rider went down, with the flash of a gold-trimmed shield that said Lord Erddyr. Yraen pulled his horse up just in time to avoid running right over him. The armed and furious enemy was charging straight for them. Yraen swung down and grabbed Erddyr’s arm.
“Take my horse, my lord,” he yelled. “I’ll guard your mount.”
“By the hells, we ride together or die together! Here they come, lad.”
Yraen set his back to Erddyr’s and dropped to a fighting crouch as the first enemies reached them. Four of them, and in the gauzy moonlight, it was hard to see their swings, impossible to detect all those subtle movements that reveal an enemy’s next thrust. Yraen could only hack and swing blindly as he desperately parried their equally blind strikes. His shield cracked and groaned; Erddyr was screaming his war cry at the top of his lungs; but Yraen fought silently, coldly, dodging forward to make a slash across an enemy’s arm, then dodging back, slamming into Erddyr’s back as the melee thickened. Screaming Erddyr’s name, the mounted squad was cutting and trampling through the mob on the ground.
In front of him an enemy feinted in close. Yraen lunged fast and got him, almost without realizing it in the bad light. He felt rather than saw his sword bite deep into something soft and stick. When he yanked it free, a man fell forward at his feet. He flung up his shield to parry a blow from the side, slashed at another man, missed, and saw him fall, cut down by a thrust from a mounted man. Erddyr was laughing aloud as riders swirled round them in a kicking, bucking confusion.
“Mount behind me, lad!” a man yelled.
Yraen sheathed his sword still bloody and swung up behind him, scrambling awkwardly onto his bedroll. The rider turned his horse and spurred it on, slashing down at an enemy in their way. Yraen leaned forward and got a cut on the same man as the horse carried them past at a clumsy gallop.
“Ride!” Erddyr screamed. “Retreat!”
Shouting, swinging, the mounted squad cut its way across the valley and headed for the hills. Yraen saw a couple of Erddyr’s men driving what was left of the enemy horses straight for the camp. Howling in rage, half the enemy line peeled out of the battle and ran for the camp to save their gear from being trampled. The squad cut grimly on. Yraen leaned and swung randomly at unhorsed men who had little appetite for a fight. At last they gained the hillside, and the hor
se stumbled wearily up toward the crest. There Rhodry rode to meet them, leading a riderless bay.
“Transfer him over,” Rhodry yelled. “We’ve got to make speed.”
As Yraen mounted the fresh horse, he could tell from the gear that it had once been Lord Erddyr’s, who, of course, still rode his own gray. Ahead, the squad was already crashing its way through the underbrush and heading downhill. As he followed, Yraen saw Lord Erddyr, rising frantically in the stirrups as he tried to count his men. They trotted across the next valley and finally assembled in a laughing, shoving mob at the crest of the farther hill.
“Where’s that lad whose horse I’m riding?” Erddyr called out. “Come ride next to me, lad, and then we’d best get our asses out of here.”
Yraen guided his horse through the warband, which showered him with good-natured insults to show their respect for the way he’d saved their lord. Erddyr waved the line forward. Carefully they picked their way along the dark valleys until they reached the place where they’d left the main column. No one ever tried to follow them. Doubtless Adry and his men were chasing horses and swearing all over the hills round their camp.
“Well played,” Erddyr called out as the warband gathered around him. “It’s a pity your lord here almost ruined the whole maneuver, but we’re born to our place, not picked by wits.”
The men laughed and cheered him.
“It’s a cursed good thing I hired this silver dagger’s apprentice,” Erddyr went on. “But we’re a bit short on time to have the bard make you a song, lad. Let’s get on our way.”
When the warband rode out, Yraen and Rhodry rode together. By then the sky was beginning to pale into gray, and in the growing light Yraen could look round and see that their squad had suffered no losses. He remembered then the man who’d fallen at his feet when he’d been defending Lord Erddyr. I must have killed him, he thought—he lay so still. He shook his head hard, wondering why nothing seemed real or even important, then looked up to find Rhodry watching him.
“Not bad,” Rhodry said. “You’ve got sharp eyes, and a cursed good thing, too.”
“The scout, you mean?”
“That, too, but I was thinking about Lord Erddyr. Well done.”
Yraen felt himself blushing like the rising sun. The fulsome praise heaped upon his princely self by his father’s weaponmasters had lost all its meaning, compared to those two words.
“That’s true, good herbwoman,” Lady Melynda said. “My husband did indeed hire a silver dagger named Rhodry, and young Yraen, too. Of course, you’ve arrived a bit late to speak with them. The army rode out in the middle of the night, you see.”
For a moment the lady’s careful calm nearly deserted her. With shaking hands she wiped tears from her eyes, then composed herself with a long sigh that came close to being a gasp. Dallandra looked round the great hall, empty and echoing with silence. Aside from a handful of male servants, the only guards the lady had were three wounded men.
“Well, my lady, before I ride on, I’ll see what I can do for these men here.”
“My thanks, but I’d be most grateful if you did catch up with the army. You see, my husband doesn’t have a proper chirurgeon with his warband, so your aid would be most welcome.”
“In the morning, then, I’ll be on my way. No doubt they’ve left an easy trail to follow.”
Since it had been some years since Dallandra had tended wounds, she was dreading the job, but once she got the clumsy bandages off her first patient’s injuries, her old professional detachment set in. The man’s gashed and bloody flesh became merely a problem for her to solve with the medicinals and other means she had at hand, rather than an object of disgust, and his gratitude made the effort well worth it. By the time she finished with the wounded, it was late in the day. She washed up, then joined the lady and her serving women at the table of honor. As they tried to make conversation about something other than the war and the lady’s fears for her husband, Dallandra found herself oppressed by a sense of dread so sharp and miserable that she knew it must be a dweomer-warning of sorts. Of what, she couldn’t say.
Just at sunset, the answer came in a shout of alarm from the servants who were watching the gates. Dallandra ran after Melynda when the lady rushed outside and saw the stableboys and the aged chamberlain swinging the gates shut. The two women scrambled up the ladder to the ramparts and leaned over. Down below on the dusty road, Lord Tewdyr was leading forty armed men up to the walls.
“And what do you want with me and my maidservants?” Melynda called down. “My husband and his men are long gone.”
“I’m well aware of that, my lady,” Tewdyr shouted back. “And I swear to every god and goddess as well that no harm will come to you and your women while you’re under my protection.”
“His lordship is most honorable, but we aren’t under his protection, and I see no reason to ask for it.”
“Indeed?” Tewdyr gave her a thin-lipped smile. “I fear me it’s yours whether you want it or not, because I’m going to take you back to my dun with me and hold you there until your husband quits the war and ransoms you back.”
“Oh, indeed?” Melynda tossed her head. “I should have known that spending all that coin would ache your heart, but never did I think it would drive you to dishonor, just to get it back.”
“There is no need for my lady to be insulting, especially when she can’t have more than a handful of men in her dun.”
Melynda bit her lip sharply and went a bit pale. Dallandra stepped forward and leaned over the rampart.
“The lady has all the men she needs,” Dallandra called. “This is an impious, dishonorable, and wretched move you’re making, my lord. Every bard in Deverry will satirize your name for it down the long years.”
“Oh, will they now?” Tewdyr laughed. “And do you claim to be a bard, old woman?”
His voice dripped cold contempt for all things old and female both. In an icy rage Dallandra swept up her hands and invoked elemental spirits, the Wildfolk of Air and Fire. In a swarming, glittering mob they answered her call and rushed among the men and horses in a surge of raw life. Although the men couldn’t see them, they could feel them indirectly, just as when a cloud darkens the sun outside and the light in a chamber dims. The riders shifted uneasily in their saddles; the horses danced and snorted; Tewdyr looked wildly around him.
“We have no need of armed men,” Dallandra said. “Are you stupid enough to match steel against the laws of honor and the gods?”
The Wildfolk chattered among the men and pinched the horses, pulled at the men’s clothes, and rattled their swords in their scabbards until the entire warband shook in fear. Turning this way and that, they cursed and swatted at enemies they couldn’t see. Dallandra held up her right hand and called forth blue fire—a perfectly harmless etheric light, but it looked like it would burn hot. She fashioned the fire into a long streaming torch and made it blaze brightly in the fading sunlight. Tewdyr yelped and began edging his horse backward.
“Begone!” Dallandra called out.
With a wave of her hand, she sent the bolt of light down like a javelin. When it struck the ground in front of Tewdyr’s horse, it shattered into a hundred darts and sparks of illusionary fire. Dallandra hurled bolt after bolt, smashing them into the ground among the warband while the Wildfolk pinched the horses viciously and clawed the men. Screaming, cursing, the warband broke and galloped shamelessly down the hill. Tewdyr spurred his horse as hard as any of them and never even tried to stop the retreat.
Dallandra sent the Wildfolk chasing them, then allowed herself a good laugh, but a pale and feverishly shaking Lady Melynda knelt at her feet. Behind her the servants huddled together as if they feared Dallandra would attack them simply for the fun of it. Only then did Dallandra remember that she was among human beings, not the People, who took dweomer and its powers as a given thing.
“Now, now, my lady, do get up,” Dallandra said. “The honor is mine to be allowed to be of service to you. It was
naught but a few cheap tricks, but I doubt me very much that they’ll return to trouble you.”
“Most likely not, but I can’t call them cowards for it.”
All that evening the lady and her women waited upon Dallandra as if she were the queen herself, but none of them presumed to make conversation with her. As soon as she could, Dallandra went up to the chamber that they’d readied for her. Although she tried to scry, the whistle stayed hidden and Rhodry with it, giving her a few bitter thoughts on the limits of the dweomer that had so impressed the lady and her household.
In the meadows behind Lord Comerr’s dun, the allies had camped their hastily pulled together army of two hundred thirty-six men. For that first day after Erddyr’s dawn arrival, the men rested while the lords conferred over the various scraps of news that scouts and messengers brought them. Rhodry spent the day in rueful amusement, mocking himself for how badly he wanted to be included in those conferences. He was used to command, and even more, he knew that he was good at it, better, certainly, than the overly cautious Comerr and the entirely too daring Erddyr. Yet there was nothing for him to do but sit around and remind himself that he was a silver dagger and nothing more. He was also more than a little worried about Yraen, who’d made his first kills by blind luck. The lad himself seemed dazed, saying little to anyone. Finally, when they received their scant rations for the evening meal, Rhodry led him away from the other men for a talk.
“Now listen, you know enough about war to know that you’re not ready to lead charges or suchlike. Every rider goes through a time when he’s just learning how to handle himself, like, and there’s no shame in an untried man staying on the edge of things. Everyone seems to have figured out that this is your first ride.”
A Time of Omens Page 30
