“Do you think they will attack again tonight?” Helecanth asked, as if she were speaking of a tribe of Beastlings and not the army of one of the Hundred Houses.
“I don’t know,” Runacarendalur said wearily.
It was full dark now. The battlefield was lit by globes of Silverlight: he could see Oronviel’s Lightborn on it, seeing if any survived. It was a small break with custom—the Lightborn did not enter a battlefield even when the day’s fighting was over—but it was a break. Another break. He did not have fingers and toes enough to enumerate all the ways Oronviel had outraged the Code of Battle today.
His own camp looked as much like a battlefield as the ground over which they’d fought. Exhausted knights clustered around a hundred small fires, sharing the contents of their wineskins and waterskins. Four days to our border. No remounts. No shelter. Nothing along our line of march, because we burned it all on our approach.
And worst of all, he’d lost two-thirds of the army.
There might be a few more survivors found by dawn. Half the servants hadn’t come back yet, after all. But as soon as there’d been Silverlight to see by, he and Helecanth had done a rough tally. Eleven hundred of Caerthalien’s komen had survived.
Far in the distance, Runacarendalur imagined he could make out the constellation of colored lights that was Oronviel’s—and Araphant’s and Ivrithir’s—camp. For a moment he was filled with the wild desire to fling himself upon Gwaenor’s back and ride madly toward those bright pavilions. To seek out hers, to put an end to her victory celebration, to put an end to this day.
To put an end to her.
* * *
“Stop pacing,” Thoromarth said. “Anyone would think we hadn’t won today.”
“A battle—not the war!” Vieliessar answered.
“And at Midwinter I would have said we could not do even that much,” Thoromarth answered. “Yet Caerthalien’s force lies broken and ours does not. More than that, I have my Nanduil with me again, little though she values that.”
Vieliessar had expected Nadalforo to bring her the livestock from the Caerthalien camp. She had not expected to be presented with a weeping and furious princess as well. “I suppose I should be grateful that Nadalforo didn’t slay Glorthiachiel of Caerthalien,” she said reluctantly, and Rithdeliel laughed, raising his cup in salute.
“Since you wish to avoid open war with Caerthalien for the present, yes,” he said. “Though frankly, were I Bolecthindial of Caerthalien, I should not regret her loss overmuch,” he added.
Vieliessar looked around her pavilion at her allies and those of her senior commanders who had remained following her victory celebration. Oronviel had won today, and even though they would fight again tomorrow—for she meant to harass Caerthalien across every foot of Oronviel’s land—they were entitled to a moment of rejoicing.
“Araphant fought with distinction today,” she said. “I thank you for the alliance, Lord Luthilion.”
Luthilion waved the compliment aside. “Your tactics were an astonishment to me,” he said mildly. “It is true, then, what Celeharth has always told me. There are always new things to be seen in the world. Araphant has little to offer you. But you shall have all that she holds.” He bowed without rising; the battle would have exhausted a knight far younger than he, and since Celeharth Lightborn had come from the Healing Tents, he had been attempting to get his Lord to seek his rest.
“You’ve taken enough blooded livestock to mount these ‘foot knights’ of yours, at least,” Rithdeliel said. “We’ll need to wait for dawn to get a true count, but the Healers say Caerthalien’s losses were heavy.”
“They were.” Thurion stood in the doorway, his eyes distant. “Lord Vieliessar, your wounded are tended. Our casualties were light. Many injured, few deaths.”
“I would have given odds against that when I saw the red pennion,” Thoromarth said.
“I knew when Caerthalien came against us they would seek to slay all they could,” Vieliessar said, gesturing to Thurion to enter. “Caerthalien will not rest until the last of Farcarinon is dead.” For an instant the years dropped away and she was a child once more, hearing her true name and her fate from Ladyholder Glorthiachiel in Caerthalien’s Great Hall.
“If you die, my prince, it is not today,” Thoromarth said.
“No, but—” She hesitated, on the verge of blurting out the thing that had happened. She shook her head. “No, I did not die today.”
CHAPTER TEN
FIRE AND FLIGHT
“Should” and “would” and “ought” are three great armies who always fight on the enemy side.
—Toncienor of Caerthalien, The Swordmaster’s Book
“We must go. Now,” Helecanth said.
“You’re right,” Runacarendalur said heavily.
When the first of the Lightborn had returned, he’d ordered word sent to Caerthalien Keep, for little as he wished Lord Bolecthindial to know of his defeat and disgrace, the information was urgent. Once again, he glanced toward the Oronviel camp. Desire warred with desire: if he’d had the least hope he could mount a successful attack, he would have done so. But the destruction of the camp had finished the task the disastrous fight had begun. The knights of Caerthalien had no more heart for battle. We cannot be all that remain, Runacarendalur thought, and each time the idea occurred to him, it was as if it were a fresh wound.
“Come, my lord,” Helecanth said gently. “We will do this quietly.”
Runacarendalur nodded. He led Gwaenor through the shattered camp, pausing at each cluster of knights to pass the order. Gathering them to march could have been done in an instant with the signal horns, but Helecanth was right: the sound would only alert their enemy. And who knew what they would do?
Beyond the far edge of the destruction, Runacarendalur found Ladyholder Glorthiachiel and Carangil Lightbrother. Glorthiachiel was seated on a battered storage chest, a cup in her hand, and someone’s fur-lined stormcloak about her shoulders.
Trust Mother to make herself as comfortable as possible.
“Come,” Runacarendalur said. “We’re leaving.”
“So I see,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said acidly. “Slinking away like curs whipped to kennel.”
“If you wish,” he answered. “It is not as if Caerthalien has not suffered defeat before. If you wish to stay and explain to Oronviel how that is impossible, of course, I will not compel you to accompany us.”
“Would that you’d showed a fraction of such spirit in battle today,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said. She rose to her feet, handing her cup to Carangil. “My horse,” she said.
Carangil led the destrier over and assisted Ladyholder Glorthiachiel to mount. It was undoubtedly just as well, Runacarendalur thought, that Carangil Lightbrother was able to bespell the animal to docility. He didn’t doubt his mother’s ability to browbeat any living thing into submission, but the need to do so wouldn’t sweeten her temper.
Not that anything would at this point.
“You said you would bring back her head,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said, in an undertone sharp enough to etch steel. “You said the Household knights would be sufficient to rout Oronviel’s meisne and a pack of lowborn mercenaries.”
I did not know I would be facing the daughter of Serenthon Farcarinon, Runacarendalur thought. He walked beside Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s mount, leading Gwaenor. All around them, the remains of Caerthalien’s Household knights moved westward, more a disordered throng of refugees rather than an army. Some knights led exhausted destriers. Others rode. There were no horses or wagons for the servants, the Lightborn, or the arming pages. Some of the servants walked beside their masters. Some simply stood and wept as the column slowly formed and began to move—unable to believe any of this was happening, unable to believe they must retrace the distance they had come
At first he thought they would be pursued, for the movement of so many people and horses was not quiet. But to his faint astonishment, no one came. After a while, the c
olumn began to move with something resembling organization, for the knights were used to riding to war and their servants were used to following orders. To make sure no one was falling behind—though there was little he could do if they were—Runacarendalur mounted Gwaenor and forced the destrier to trot up and down the slow-moving column of servants and knights.
Gwaenor was irritable and short-tempered, snapping at anyone who was near and lashing out with his heels. It was no more than the other destriers were doing—in their experience, a battle was followed by food and rest—but it made them difficult to control and impossible to ride or lead as a close-packed group. The Lightborn could bespell them—just as Carangil had bespelled Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s mount—but that could be disastrous if they needed to give battle quickly. For now, it was enough that the Lightborn led the column and lit the way, that the remains of the army had formed up into their usual meisnes, that everyone was moving.
He would not think about what must happen when they had to stop: the Lightborn could Call water at need, but the army had no food at all.
“Prince Runacarendalur.” A voice at his side jarred Runacarendalur out of his uncomfortable thoughts.
“Nimrosian.”
The commander of the Caerthalien Household komentai’a smiled effortfully. “We have had better days, have we not, my prince?”
The wry understatement was almost enough to make Runacarendalur laugh. “Far better, old friend.”
“Yet this day is not lost, unless you and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel are lost,” Nimrosian continued. “Four days to the border—if not more. Yet if you and the lady were to ride on ahead…”
“And leave you?” Runacarendalur said, horrified. To abandon one’s command on the field was worse than foolishness. It was cowardice.
“We are of little value to Oronviel,” Nimrosian said. “Lord Bolecthindial will ransom us, should we surrender. Or avenge us, if our surrender is not accepted. But you and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel would be great prizes. The ransom Oronviel might ask would be ruinous indeed.”
“He’s right,” Helecanth said. “A small party can move fast. And a troop of horse could meet us at the border crossing and even cross the border to bring Ladyholder Glorthiachiel to safety.”
“Then you must—” Runacarendalur began.
“You are the only one of sufficient rank to curb the lady’s … courage,” Nimrosian said tactfully. “I beg you, Prince Runacarendalur. For her safety, if not for yours. Go, now. If you are well away by dawn we may be able to convince them you yet ride with us.”
He knew they were right, but it was agony to admit it. “I must have another horse. She will not permit Carangil to be left behind.”
“I will see to it,” Nimrosian said. “Will you inform the lady?”
“Yes,” Runacarendalur said, sighing.
“I will remain here,” Helecanth said, before Runacarendalur could order her to accompany him. “My armor is known to Thoromarth, and I must bear your standard. Elerosha will ride with you. I will send him to you.”
“You must—” For a moment, he could not summon words. “You must send to me, if you are captured. Not to my father.”
Even though he could not see it, he heard the smile in her voice as she replied. “I shall expect you to beggar yourself to pay my ransom. Now go.”
It seemed only the work of moments for Runacarendalur to reach the front of the column and explain Nimrosian’s plan. Ladyholder Glorthiachiel received his speech in an icy silence, giving him the barest nod of assent. Then Elerosha arrived, leading a second destrier. Carangil laid his hands upon its neck and its wild-eyed trembling subsided.
The four riders trotted into the darkness. Soon they had left the slow-moving column behind.
* * *
It was still grey dawn when her chamber-page roused Vieliessar, bringing the word of Oronviel’s sentries that Caerthalien’s army had stolen away in the night, just as she’d suspected it would. She decided to take five hundred horse to follow the remains of Caerthalien’s army and leave two hundred more to guard her supply train. The rest of her people could return to their duties, for no matter how crushing a defeat she had given Caerthalien, this attack might still be a feint to cloak another.
As they rode across the battlefield, flocks of carrion birds startled up from the tangled bodies; in the grey mist of morning she saw the low, slinking shapes of other predators ghost away until they could feed undisturbed once more. Her people would not return to the Great Keep until Oronviel’s dead had been removed from the field, but those belonging to Caerthalien would lie here until they rotted.
It was almost impossible to say where the battlefield ended and Caerthalien’s camp began. The only difference between the two was that in the camp, the wreckage of bodies was replaced by the wreckage of things: everything a princely army carried to war, shattered and spoiled.
By the time they’d passed both battlefield and camp, the day was bright and the ground was even. Vieliessar’s company moved to the trot. They had only gone a few miles when they encountered the first of the Caerthaliens. Their plain dull clothing marked them as lesser servants, those who performed menial work: setting the tents, fetching and carrying. They leaped to their feet at the sound of horses and clustered so closely around Vieliessar’s force that the knights were forced to rein their destriers to a halt.
“Vieliessar High King! Vieliessar High King!” First one, then another, spoke the words, until all of them cried her name together as they crowded forward, reaching out to touch her. “Vieliessar High King!”
The destriers began to fret and dance, unhappy at being crowded. Moved—and more than a little frightened by the power of what she had unleashed—she reached out to touch the hands of those who reached out for her. They look to me for protection now, she realized. Not because I am their War Prince but because I will be their King.
“Let us pass,” Bethaerian demanded, her voice tight with tension. “Our supply wagons follow us—you will be fed!”
“Let me pass,” Vieliessar said to those nearest to her. “I am not yet High King.”
Slowly the crowd moved away, opening a pathway through which the company could ride.
“There is a stream only a little way to the south,” Bethaerian said as they rode on. “Do they not hear it?”
“Castel servants,” another komen answered dismissively. “They have no more wits than sheep.”
“Say rather that they are in a strange place, and those lords they looked to for protection have left them,” Vieliessar corrected sharply. Gaellas ducked his head, acknowledging the rebuke, but it would take far more than a few small corrections to change the way the komentai’a thought.
This was the first group of stragglers they encountered, but not the last. Some sat unmoving at the side of the road, some fled at their approach, some continued walking, but many, seeing her banner, hailed Vieliessar as High King. Whether they wore leather and rough homespun or the silken livery of household servants, the expression on every face was the same.
Hope.
Seeing them and realizing that her promise had been heard and taken to heart even in the stronghold of her enemy, Vieliessar suddenly knew victory was possible. To all who begged for aid, Bethaerian made the same reply as before: their supplies followed.
“They will only steal all they can lay hands on and flee,” Bethaerian grumbled as they rode on.
“Back to masters who have abandoned them?” Vieliessar asked. “No. They are my people now.”
At midmorning, a cloud of dust hanging above the road before them signaled the passage of Caerthalien’s army. “Sound the call to battle.”
The enemy forces seemed to scatter in all directions at the first notes of the warhorn, but Vieliessar knew that was merely those afoot moving out of the way of the knights. When they were yet a mile distant, Vieliessar ordered Bethaerian to sound the charge, and they moved from trot, to canter, to gallop. The Caerthalien knights turned in column to fac
e them, and Vieliessar could see Prince Runacarendalur’s standard in the first rank.
But he is not here. I can tell it. She could not say how she knew, for it was not possible to see anything clearly in the moment the point of her formation struck their ranks. But she was as certain of it as she was of the count of her own fingers and toes. There was an instant for relief that she did not need to fear for her hated enemy’s safety—and anger, for he had abandoned his army and fled, perhaps beyond her reach—and then she was embattled.
She had not let herself think about what had happened on yesterday’s battlefield. The storysingers made of Soulbonding a thing that overshadowed both will and common sense, and in the instant she had seen him, she had known both were true, for from the moment the Bond had been formed, she had thought of nothing but killing him. Death would be kinder than a lifetime linked to one who embodied everything she had come to despise—princely arrogance and royal ambition. She remembered Prince Runacarendalur from her childhood: a shining, distant figure who was the embodiment of all she wished to become.
I will not be his consort. I cannot take him as mine—I cannot say to Rithdeliel and Gunedwaen and Thoromarth and all who may come to fight for me: spare Runacarendalur of Caerthalien, for if he should die, I die as well.…
She led her company to the left of Caerthalien’s center. Gunedwaen had often said a Swordmaster took the greatest hurts from his most unskilled students, simply because they did that which no training could predict. Exhaustion and desperation in the Caerthalien knights lent their attacks the same unpredictability: the blow against which one defended might go high, or low, or strike the knight beside one instead. Worse yet was the moment the back of the Caerthalien column—inspired by some masterful leader—began to swing to deosil, for if the column could turn, it might manage to bring forward a large enough force to block her line of retreat and encircle her force.
Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) Page 34
