Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy)

by James Mallory Mercedes Lackey

  “Where else, when I flee for my life?” Vieliessar said mockingly. “I shall lead them a merry chase through the southern wilderness, and we shall try the impregnability of Lord Nilkaran’s border towers.”

  “Then your army rides north,” Rithdeliel answered decisively. “We’re only a half-day’s ride from Nilkaran’s manorial estates. We’ll loot them as we ride. We should reach the Great Keep no later than tomorrow’s sunset. It should be easy enough to take with Nilkaran’s army elsewhere. I hope you won’t object if, in your absence, we devote ourselves to slaughtering our enemies?”

  “I’m having a hard time now remembering why I wanted to keep them alive,” Vieliessar answered sourly. She knew that for all Rithdeliel’s light words, taking Jaeglenhend Great Keep would be no easy task.

  “The place may be Dispelled, but it’s still solid enough to invest while we parley for our lives.” Thoromarth sounded almost cheerful. “And if the army besieges us, we have a chance to get our possessions back. I lost a good pair of boots with that supply train.”

  “Done,” Vieliessar said. It wasn’t the best possible plan, but it was the best one they could come up with under these circumstances.

  “We’re still in sight of Caerthalien,” Nadalforo said. “My lord, I think this will make a better show if you ride forth with only a few knights and let Stonehorse chase after you.”

  “Let it be so,” Vieliessar said.

  “I go with you, and a grand-taille of the Warhunt,” Iardalaith said. “Be sure we’ll outrun them. This is the Magery we’ve been preparing all this day against the candlemark of your retreat. I shall set it upon us once we are away. Isilla and the rest will do the same for the army.”

  “Then let us begin,” Rithdeliel said. “It is Harvest Moon, and I have been longing to see a good Festival play.”

  * * *

  The army came to a slow, swirling stop as the plan was passed in whispers. Prompted by Nadalforo, Vieliessar, Rithdeliel, and several others conducted a shouted argument filled with threats and recriminations: Vieliessar was certain they could be heard on the Western Shore, and surely by the Caerthalien meisne.

  Then she spurred poor Firthorn away from the army. Diorthiel of Araphant and a ragged handful of knights followed. There was more shouting behind her. Vieliessar’s shoulder blades itched. One single thunderbolt Called upon them from this cloudless sky and the ruse would be truth. Lords of Night, Lords of War, let this work. Manafaeren Sword-Giver, Aradhwain Bride of Battles, I am the sword in Your hands. Star-Crowned, Silver-Hooved, I beg You for this victory.

  Iardalaith and his chosen rode after her, shouting for her to wait.

  “You must assume they see everything,” Nadalforo had said, and so Vieliessar made as if to stop and let Diorthiel urge her on, crying to Iardalaith to hurry.

  Now a flurry of horns sounded from her army as Rithdeliel and the others called them to order.

  “Is it working?” Iardalaith hissed into her ear as he reached her.

  “I don’t know,” Vieliessar answered tightly. “Is it?”

  “Caerthalien is sending messengers back to camp,” Diorthiel announced, looking off into the distance. “If I were them, I wouldn’t wait for orders.”

  “If we don’t wait for Stonehorse to get here, they won’t be within the compass of our spell,” Iardalaith said.

  “Just to pass the time—before we face odds of ten to one and die—what spell is this that can save us from being taken?” Diorthiel asked.

  “You’ve heard of battle cordial, haven’t you?” Iardalaith said, with a small, exultant smile.

  Vieliessar had compounded battle cordial many times in her days at the Sanctuary. It made the fires of the body burn star-bright and star-hot, giving its user fantastic strength and endurance—but its use killed, for if the body burned itself out, even the most skilled Healer could not repair the damage.

  Iardalaith could now do with Magery what Vieliessar only knew how to do with herbs.

  “If there is such a spell, I should know it,” she said, piqued. It was a ridiculous thing to be annoyed at, under the circumstances, but … every new spell, every variation on an established spell, was brought to the Sanctuary to be taught to the Postulants, for there was no other way to transmit the knowledge of the spells than by passing them from Lightborn to Lightborn.

  “If you lived on the Western Shore, you would know how needful such a spell is,” Iardalaith said. “We had no wish to bring knowledge of Quicken to the Sanctuary only to have it declared Forbidden.”

  Vieliessar nodded. “Forbidden” spells could not be taught, and an untaught spell would be lost within a generation.

  “I hate to interrupt this collegium,” Nadalforo said sourly, as her destrier pulled abreast of them, “but Caerthalien is moving off its mark.”

  “Now,” Iardalaith said, raising his hand.

  Vieliessar felt the warm wind of the spell pass over her as if her body were bare of armor. Beneath her, she felt Firthorn’s muscles quiver with new vitality.

  False vitality.

  Their mounts would run themselves to death.

  They had no choice.

  She dug her spurs into his flanks and Firthorn leapt forward.

  * * *

  “You are fools,” Runacarendalur said, his voice flat with anger. “I had them. I had them. Are you mewling infants to panic at a few scattered coals? Your idiocy has cost us the day.”

  “Leash your hound, Caerthalien, or I will do it for you,” Manderechiel Aramenthiali said, waving a languid hand. “I do not explain my decisions to children.”

  Runacarendalur drew breath to reply. Then Bolecthindial cleared his throat, and, acknowledging his father’s command, Runacarendalur flung himself into the nearest empty chair instead. He’d told them the commons who’d flocked to Vieliessar’s banner were devious and untrustworthy. Why should anyone expect anything other than more treachery and rebellion once they were captured? But his words had been ignored. And so they have set fire to half the tents in camp! They were small fires, easily put out. It did not require the whole of the army to do it, he thought sullenly.

  “You must not be so harsh, my lord husband,” Ladyholder Dormorothon of Aramenthiali said, her tone and her words perfectly calculated to incite Lord Manderechiel further. “I am certain the young prince means well. He is only concerned, as a good son must be, over the welfare of his domain. How will Caerthalien prosper without workers to till the soil?”

  “And that touches upon a matter that concerns all of us,” Ivaloriel Telthorelandor said. “We had resigned ourselves to a winter campaign, but that was before we had the good fortune to reclaim so much of our stolen property. The passes have not yet closed. It would be sensible to send the Landbonds back into the West. It will save us the burden of feeding them.”

  “Sensible?” Runacarendalur demanded in disbelief. “They are in rebellion! Do you think they will just tamely return to their hovels and behave themselves?”

  “But their cause is lost, Prince Runacar,” Ladyholder Edheleorn of Telthorelandor said mildly. “They will have no choice.”

  “And of course we must send people with them to make certain they settle into their accustomed ways,” Lord Ivaloriel added. “We would need to do so in any event, for they must have escort through the Dragon’s Gate.”

  “Ah, here it comes,” Lord Bolecthindial said bitterly. “Just who—my lord of Telthorelandor—is to look after these spoils of war? And where are they to be resettled? Do we draw lots for them?”

  “Obviously they must be returned to the lands they came from,” Lord Clacheu of Denegathaiel said.

  “There speaks the weasel in the buttery!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel cried with deadly sarcasm. “Next you will say that Denegathaiel has suffered the greatest losses and should receive the greatest portion!”

  “And why not?” Lord Clacheu demanded. “Or are we next to hear that since Caerthalien now holds all of Brabamant’s lands, she should receive Brab
amant’s chattels as well? Perhaps you would like to add Ivrithir and Oronviel to that tally? Laeldor? Araphant? Perhaps all we have taken rightfully belongs to Caerthalien?”

  It was as if someone had dropped a torch in a pan of hot oil, Runacarendalur thought uncharitably. In the space of an indrawn breath, everyone in the pavilion was shouting, demanding the spoils of war be distributed immediately—and in their favor.

  Fools. They believe that a single victory gives them the whole of the war. Heartsick and furious, Runacarendalur rose to his feet and walked out into the camp.

  “I see your moderate words and wise counsel did not have the effect you hoped,” Ivrulion said, stepping from the door of his own pavilion as Runacar began to pass it by.

  Runacarendalur paused and regarded his brother in something like despair. Gimragiel dead in Ullilion, Thorogalas dead on the Meadows of Aralhathumindrion, Domcariel dead in Mangiralas, and I will not survive Vieliessar’s execution. Is Caerthalien to be held by Ciliphirilir after Lord Bolecthindial’s death? She would surrender it for a box of sweetmeats and a new jeweled comb! If only ’Rulion were not Lightborn.…

  But if Ivrulion had not been Called, Runacarendalur would never have been born.

  “What did you expect?” he demanded savagely. “We have barely held this alliance together as it is! It’s a sad day when it is victory that destroys us and not defeat!”

  His brother merely shook his head. “It is but a few candlemarks until the next storm strikes. They have no food, shelter, or supplies—what can they do but die?”

  “She will find something!” Runacarendalur snarled. “I know not what, but she always does! She—”

  “Come,” Ivrulion said, “take a cup of wine with me.” He took Runacarendalur’s arm and compelled him into his pavilion.

  The interior was dim, lit only by the afternoon sun shining through the green silk. Runcarendalur followed his brother through the second curtain and into an inner chamber, then dropped gratefully into a chair, holding out his hand for the cup of warmed and sweetened wine Ivrulion’s servant brought to him.

  “You always did have a terrible temper when you weren’t winning,” Ivrulion commented, accepting his own cup and seating himself close by. “Go and kill some of the prisoners if it will make you feel better. We’ve won. You know we have. We won the moment you took her supply train. Once Vieliessar is dead, we will declare her followers wolfsheads and leave the Less Houses here to hunt them at their leisure.”

  “You make it sound simple,” Runacarendalur muttered.

  “I don’t know why you insist on it being difficult,” Ivrulion answered. “Your tactics worked. She’s finished.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without your Wardings,” Runacarendalur said, his mood slowly beginning to lighten.

  “And for that we have our enemy to thank,” Ivrulion answered. “If she had not taken her Lightborn onto the battlefield, I doubt I could have persuaded the War Princes to permit me to give orders to their Lightborn.”

  Runacarendalur tossed back the rest of his wine and held out his cup for more. He frowned. “In just a handful of moonturns she’s turned the West into ghostlands. Do you suppose, ’Rulion, that she’s been what this so-called Prophecy was warning us about all along?”

  Ivrulion chuckled softly. “We shall make a scholar of you yet, Rune. If it is not true, we shall certainly say it is.” He paused for a moment in thought. “Almost I could wish to take her alive. To know how she—”

  “You cannot go in there!” From beyond the outer curtain, Runacarendalur heard the voice of Mardioruin Lightbrother, his brother’s personal Lightborn.

  “I can and I will—if Prince Runacarendalur is there! My lord prince! Are you here?” Helecanth shouted.

  Runacarendalur flung his cup to the carpet and sprang to his feet just as Helecanth pushed through the curtain. Her face was bruised from the recent fighting; her eyes sparkled with urgency. Behind her was Lengiathion Warlord.

  Runacarendalur had left Lengiathion in charge of the Caerthalien knights on the field.

  “What—” he said, but Lengiathion didn’t wait for him to ask.

  “Lord Vieliessar has quarreled with her army. She flees south with a few hundred Lightborn and mercenaries. Her army—”

  But Runacarendalur was no longer listening. “My armor!” he shouted. “Get me my armor!”

  * * *

  The chill soft wind whipped across Vieliessar’s face as Firthorn galloped, as fresh as if he had come scant moments before from the horselines. Behind her thundered her tiny army. Were they tempting enough to lure the hawk from the falconer’s glove? She must hope. If they were— If Rithdeliel could flee unopposed— If he could take Jaeglenhend Great Keep—

  “Ah, here they come!” Nadalforo cried, raising her voice so Vieliessar could hear.

  Vieliessar risked a look back. Caerthalien’s knights galloped in pursuit. They outnumbered Vieliessar’s meisne as much as ten to one, but her people had several miles head start. There was little chance they’d be overtaken. Jaeglenhend’s border was a half-day’s ride from where they’d been fighting, but they would probably reach it before sunset.

  The day darkened as the afternoon storm clouds swept over the Mystrals. And for once in recent days, something went as she hoped. She heard the distant clarion of warhorns as more knights rode from the Alliance encampment to join the chase—not because more of them were needed to capture her, but because none of the War Princes wished her to fall prisoner to any other. If I were willing to give up my life to do it, I could destroy the entire Alliance army right here, she thought gaily.

  But she must survive. And so she must find another way.

  * * *

  Mile after mile fell away beneath the destriers’ tireless hooves. Their pursuers turned back, for the storm their Lightborn had conjured to finish destroying Vieliessar’s army had fallen upon them instead. Vieliessar and her escort simply outran it. Her body ached with the battering of sitting to the gallop for so long; she knew the others must be weary as well. Her mouth was dry and her throat ached with thirst; it had been two days—more—since she’d eaten anything or drunk more than a little melted snow.

  Dusk deepened and the horses ran on, exhausted yet tireless.

  “There!”

  Nadalforo’s shout drew Vieliessar’s attention. So far eastward its shape was hidden in the tree line stood one of the border towers. She nodded, signifying she had heard, and the whole column began to turn in that direction. With luck, the tower stood deserted.

  But Vieliessar’s luck seemed to have fled with the day. Nilkaran might have drawn heavily from the border keeps but he hadn’t stripped them entirely. They were within a mile of the tower when its main gate opened and six tailles of knights rode toward her, each carrying a torch. Vieliessar’s meisne outnumbered them, but Nilkaran’s people and their mounts were fresh.

  Vieliessar drew her sword and shouted her battle cry. Then there was no more time for thought. The enemy flung their torches to the ground, making a circle of fire in which to fight, and battle was joined.

  In its first moments, Vieliessar lost nearly a dozen people. Their bespelled destriers might have been able to run for another candlemark, even two, but they were unable to follow the complex orders that turned a destrier from a method of transport into a companion in battle. Some tried and fell helpless to the ground, their limbs thrashing spasmodically. Some refused, leaving their riders vulnerable to attack. Some simply swung wide of the Jaeglenhend knights and kept running. She herself might have been dead in the first seconds of the battle had she not seized control of Firthorn’s mind. She could feel his pain and terror, his utter exhaustion, and it broke her heart to do what she must, but the stakes were too high. Ruthlessly, she crushed the spark of his will beneath her Magery. She felt him dying by heartbeats as she forced him into battle against the commander of the opposing knights. Firthorn wheeled and spun, snapped and kicked, and at last she drove her blade into her enemy�
��s body.

  In the same moment she kicked her feet free of Firthorn’s stirrups and seized the pommel of her enemy’s saddle, thrusting him from his seat as she flung herself from the back of the dying animal to the back of the living one. Around her, others were doing the same.

  The field of battle brightened as the Warhunt conjured globes of Silverlight to illuminate it. In the brief instant’s respite before she closed with another foe, Vieliessar saw that most of the Warhunt were on foot, having abandoned their palfreys. She knew they were as exhausted as she—and as cold and starved—and far less used to the rigors of battle. But Iardalaith had chosen his Warhunt Mages well: after a few moments to gather their resources, the Warhunt turned its attention to the enemy. Their destriers froze in place or fled the battlefield to buck their riders from their backs and trample them to death. The enemy knights shouted with spell-fed terror, or flung their swords from them as if they’d become venomous serpents, or simply flung themselves out of their saddles.

  The rest of the battle was brief.

  Vieliessar ran her hand down her new mount’s sweating trembling neck. Vital as her victory had been, it left the taste of ashes in her mouth. There was nothing of fairness or even kindness to it. She’d never been indoctrinated in the Way of the Sword, but to win as she had just done seemed very wrong, as if she’d stolen from someone who trusted her.

  And that made no sense: these komen did not trust her, and no War Prince would surrender an advantage that would give their House victory over another. The High King must do more, she thought with weary exasperation.

  “Give them the chance to surrender!” she shouted, as she saw one of the former mercenaries stand upon the chest of an enemy, preparing to put a sword-blade through the eye-slits of the fallen foe’s helm. “If you do not, you will answer to me!”

  “What ransom will you set, my lord?” Nadalforo rode toward her, her stolen destrier dancing fretfully beneath an unfamiliar rider. Her mouth was set in a hard line of disapproval.

  “Fealty. As always,” Vieliessar answered steadily.