Wardin shut them out of his heart. He would be stone. He would be ice.
He wished he could channel what he’d taken into his own soldiers and sages on the ridge; they would need it more than any of them. But they were too far away. Instead he sent that life into those around him, his fellow magicians and the crossbowmen, imbuing them with strength, vigor, even courage.
The contrivers sent tricks through the barrier, creating illusory cries, commands, holes in the road, rocks falling down the ridge, even eagles swooping in to attack, incongruous as that was. Anything that might distract the enemy and throw them into chaos.
The battlemages brought their own brand of turmoil. In the months since the clash at Pendralyn, most of them had mastered Wardin’s fear spell. They had no potion to make the enemy susceptible this time, but the Harths needed little encouragement to be afraid. The conductors’ spells were sending horrified shrieks resounding through the pass.
One of the new conductors was obliged to stop after only one spell. Another was unable to do it at all, under the less than ideal conditions outside the practice yard, and fell back on the battlemagic she’d been using all her life. Wardin and the other two kept casting, pausing between spells, as they’d arranged to do earlier, to take stock of themselves and their balance.
None of them were any match for Corbin. He was a sight to behold, grim, great, and terrible. Again and again he moved up and down the line, wreaking havoc on the other side of the wall while strengthening his fellows. Despite the dangers of going too far, he seemed tireless.
Where gaps did open in the wall, crossbowmen were ready. Before long the noise on the other side became a bit more muffled, a bit more distant. Bodies would be piling up, providing gruesome reinforcement to the barrier.
The shouts and cries they could hear were growing more frantic and disorganized by the second. Wardin could picture the scene: the men packed against a wall of death and fear, struggling to get by—or get back. Some would be magically compelled to flee, or imagining themselves chased by an illusion. Some would fall into the chasm. Some would be trampled.
All as Wardin had planned.
But in a group of thousands, most would be well away from the barricade and unaffected by the spells. It was inevitable that someone—perhaps the king himself—would get them under control, regroup, and take some coordinated action. With no idea how many rebels were behind the wall, or where they were standing, the Harths would almost certainly deploy archers.
As the noise receded and the banging on the barricade ceased, Wardin shouted another command, waving for those who could not hear him, signaling his own people to take shelter as close against the wall as they could, away from any holes.
It wasn’t long before the anticipated rain of arrows came. Those that came over the top landed harmlessly, most of them a good distance away. Those that found gaps in the wall were more dangerous, but even so, Wardin did not lose a single one of his people. His heart tried to leap.
We’re going to win.
He wouldn’t let it. He must be stone. He must be ice.
The appearance of archers was the signal to those on the ridge. It was time for the second phase of the rebel attack. Wardin had lacked the cavalry to counter longbowmen at Mindoral, and still did, but here at Bering Pass, he had other resources at his disposal. He would not be caught off guard and defenseless again.
Come on, Joan.
The surly magister did not disappoint. Within minutes of that first wave of arrows, the ground began to shake. And not with the footsteps of thousands of soldiers, this time.
The noise rose to a roar as boulders, smaller rocks, dirt, even tree trunks came hurtling down the ridge and blasting into the Harths. More cries were added to the din as some were knocked into the chasm, into each other, into the barricade. Many must have been buried.
Such a tremor and torrent could not be precisely controlled, and did not distinguish friend from foe. The rebel magicians and archers were forced to scramble for safety as part of the wall collapsed. The damage was enough for the Harths to break through, if they turned their attention in that direction again. But despite his earlier warnings, none of Wardin’s small team retreated. He himself saw no need.
For a while they stood behind the cover of their ruined barricade and watched the chaos unfold, as the sages bombarded the length of the Harthian line.
Finally, when Bramwell’s men—what remained of them—were foundering, mired in debris and the corpses of their own, in some cases even hacking through one another to escape the press of bodies, Quinn and his infantrymen attacked.
They came down the ridge along what stable paths could be found between the wreckage the sages had caused. There were less than seven hundred of them, but to the enemy, in their panic and confusion, it must have looked like thousands as they materialized seemingly from nowhere, or perhaps sprang from the earth itself.
Many of the Harths fled. Some backed away from their advancing foes—directly into the chasm. But a few stood to fight.
Wardin and his companions rushed forward to meet them.
17
Wardin
While the other magicians calculated sums, cleaned weapons, saw to the wounded and the horses, or recited the names of the stars, Wardin sat back against a tree, heaved a contented sigh, and looked up at those same stars without a care for their names. Only rest and time would restore a conductor’s balance. He’d encouraged the others to find a bit of solitude, as well. He found it helped.
Besides, it gave him a moment to gloat privately, alone where nobody would see him looking smug about it. He couldn’t help it. They’d managed an astonishing thing.
Thousands.
They didn’t know exactly how many had retreated, but by any reckoning, the Harthian deaths numbered in the thousands. Wardin would put it somewhere around three, at the least. Likely more.
Three thousand fewer men in Bramwell’s great army. Three thousand enemies who would never plague them again, never face them across a field, never defend Eyrdish soil to which they had no claim and no right.
And the Eyrds had done it with just eight hundred of their own.
According to Wardin’s scouts and those who’d watched from the ridge, the king himself had fled, along with the rest of his cavalry. At some point during the battle they’d ridden to the back, where they had more room to maneuver, to act as rearguard. When the worst of the rockslides cut them off from most of the rest of their army, they chose to salvage what remained and withdraw.
“You’re laughing.” Erietta approached quietly, hands folded in front of her.
Wardin ducked his head, a bit embarrassed, but he couldn’t hide his grin. “Why shouldn’t I be? It’s healthy to vent all those pent-up feelings after a battle. And surely we’ve a right to celebrate such a victory?”
She gestured over her shoulder. “Most of them are celebrating a bit closer to the fires. It’s chilly, for spring.”
“Come sit beside me then, and I’ll lend you my cloak.”
Erietta flapped the edge of her own cloak at him. “I’ve got one.” But she sat nonetheless, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.
“Is it the thought of your brother, and how many words he’ll have to eat when we get home, that’s making you look so glum?” Wardin elbowed her lightly. “Might do him some good, you know.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, I don’t suppose it would hurt him to be taken down a notch or two. He’s awfully sure of—”
“No, I mean why do you say he’ll have to eat his words?”
Wardin huffed as he gestured at the camp, at their people—who numbered nearly the same as when they’d come to Bering Pass. “Because conduction saved the day, obviously! Or at least, it helped an awful lot. You can’t deny that.”
Erietta sighed. “No.”
“And I didn’t even lose my balance. Nobody did, as far as I know. Well, perhaps Maude, a bit. But you can see A
run was exaggerating the danger.”
She stared at him, eyes wide. “Wardin … have you not seen your face?”
“How would I have seen my face? It’s not as though we have a bunch of mirrors around.” He touched the dried crust that had formed over his cheeks, his sticky beard. “I’ll concede I’m not the cleanest, but it got muddy toward the end, with all that dirt flying around.”
Erietta swallowed. “War. That’s not mud.” She gave him a pitying look, as though speaking to a student who was frightened or ill. “It’s blood.”
He met her gaze with equal sympathy. Was she really so squeamish? Of course battle was a horrid, brutal thing, but it wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen fighting before. And he’d never known her to be delicate. “There was a bit of that flying around, as well,” he said gently. “Etta, do you need to rest?”
She snorted—loudly, even for her. “No, but I think you might. That blood did not fly onto your face. You put it there.” Erietta shook her head, hard. As though warding off something awful. “I saw you. You reached inside the wound of a man you’d cut down. And you painted your face with his blood.”
“I … don’t recall doing any such thing.” Wardin closed his eyes for a moment. A throb was starting at his temples.
He had used conduction again, in the last of the fight, and it was true that he probably shouldn’t have. But in doing so he saved the lives of three—no, four—of his own people. Surely their husbands and wives would agree that was worth a bit of risk to his balance. And he never lost control.
Or his mind. He could recall everything with perfect clarity. Nearly everything, anyway. “That sort of violence can do strange things to a man, though. Bloodlust. So they say. Isn’t Hart himself depicted in battle with blood painted on his face, sometimes?”
“You were laughing while you did it.”
Wardin set his jaw. “That doesn’t mean—”
“And singing.”
He scowled at her.
Erietta raised a brow, unflinching. “A lullaby.”
“So you’ve come over here to be sure I’m not a madman, is that it?” Wardin leaned forward, forearms on his knees, and turned his head to give her a full view of his face in the light of the lantern hanging from a branch above. “Well, what do you say? Am I speaking coherently enough for you?”
“Hmph. Stubborn and grumpy, neither of which I’d call unusual.”
“There you are, then.”
She looked away. “War, I don’t think you should use it anymore.”
He stared at her. “Now you’re the one who’s gone unbalanced! Etta, we all wobble a bit when we’re using magic in battle. It’s taxing. You yourself, when you were casting that Graddoc illusion at Pendralyn—”
“This is different. You know it is. I can cook a meal and clean a few swords to get right again. You have no way of getting that balance back.”
“It is not different. Because as you can see, I’m perfectly fine now.”
“And a lucky thing it is, too. But your luck won’t hold out forever. What about next time? Sounds to me like you get closer and closer to the edge every time.”
“Or, I’ll get better at it, and it will actually get easier, and you’ll see you’re being a nag.”
Erietta narrowed her eyes. “Or, the damage is actually permanent, and it’s stacking ever higher each time you use it.”
Wardin glared at her, then nodded at the camp, which was showing definite signs of high spirits. “Funny, nobody else seems worried that their prince has become unfit. No strange looks or whispers about dark arts now. Do you know I’ve already had half a dozen people ask me if they could join the conduction lessons? Amazing, what delivering a stunning and absolute victory will do.”
“Conduction did not deliver that victory. You did.” She squeezed his arm. “Don’t underestimate yourself. You don’t need it.”
“You’re wrong.” His eyes slid away from hers. “I do need it.”
“War … have you considered the possibility that the treachery Odger predicted is you betraying yourself? You’re putting yourself in the worst sort of danger. Needlessly. Because you refuse to trust yourself.”
“Is that so? Because this looks an awful lot like you not trusting me.”
“If you would just—”
“There you are.” Joan came stomping over, arms crossed.
Wardin suppressed a groan. Just what he needed to make things worse. And here he’d actually thought he might steal a moment to celebrate.
“Good, you’re both here. I received a message from Awly,” Joan said, referring to the one sage they’d left with Pate.
Wardin sat up straighter. “About time. And?”
“And, Commander Forthwind wants you to know you shouldn’t bother marching back south. They made a small effort at Corghest, but they retreated before their losses got too great.” Joan’s chilly gaze moved from Wardin’s confused face to Erietta’s stricken one. “The Dords did not come.”
* * *
“You left the feast before dessert.” Arun set a plate on Wardin’s table, then pulled a cloth off the top to reveal four tall golden cakes sparkling with silver glaze.
Wardin pushed Rowena’s questing nose away and bent to inspect them himself. “Not honey cakes?”
“No, they’re made with wine, if you can believe that, and they’re filled on the inside.”
“With what?”
“Dolberry jam. Apparently they were just invented for the celebration. You’re quite the hero, getting his own special cake. Although I’m not sure rathcake sounds very appealing. Or warcake.” Arun shrugged as he bit into one. “They’ll have to work on a name,” he said through a mouthful.
Wardin ran a hand through his hair and sat down, shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure we should be celebrating at all, let alone inventing new cakes for the occasion.”
Arun’s face sobered. “Etta says they’ll come.”
“I know she does. But there is no ship slow enough to still be sailing for Corghest, not if they left when they said they did. And I don’t think we can assume an entire fleet was lost in a storm. It’s more likely that Iver betrayed her. Us.”
“She’s certain he wouldn’t.” Arun finished his cake, then went to pour them both some mead. “She won’t tell me why she’s so certain, but she claims this alliance is just as important to Iver as it is to us.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Wardin picked at the edge of his own cake, then popped a small piece into his mouth, considering as he chewed. “Don’t you think she acts a bit odd, whenever the discussion turns to him? Something happened between them.”
Arun crossed his arms. “And by something you mean …”
“Nothing like that.” Wardin waved the hand that held his cake before taking a larger bite. It really was quite good. “At least, I don’t think it’s anything like that.”
Arun snickered. “Or you can’t bear the thought that it is. Jealous of the handsome Dordrine king, are you?”
“Who says he’s handsome?”
“I thought Etta did.”
“Not to me.” Wardin scowled when Arun opened his mouth to speak again. “Stop joking, I’m serious. I think she gave him something in exchange for his support. Or promised him something. And she doesn’t want to tell us what it is.”
“Well, I guess it won’t matter, if he never comes to collect it. Anyway, don’t be so glum about it. You can’t go around looking morose and leaving your own feasts before dessert. Even if our situation is back to being as dire as you think it is, you can’t let them know that.”
Arun gestured toward the nearest window, arm swinging wide enough to encompass all of Pendralyn. Perhaps all of Eyrdon. “They aren’t just celebrating this one victory, you know. They’ve decided it’s only the first of many. With what you managed to do, with so few, they think you can find a way to win the war with just the soldiers and magicians we have, whether the Dords come or not.”
“Yes, well, perhaps
I can.” Wardin stood and walked to the same window, Rowena following so closely she almost tripped him. He absently handed her the rest of his cake as he looked out at the gathering clouds. They seemed more appropriate—to his circumstances as well as his mood—than the merrymaking below. “But you won’t like what it will take to do it, and I’ve had about enough of fighting with you and your sister over it.”
There was silence behind him for a few moments, before Arun cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. For what happened before you left.”
Wardin turned to face him, brows raised. “Oh? Are you suddenly a supporter of conduction, now that you see what it can do for us? Which, by the way, is no more than I’ve been telling you all along it can do for us.”
Arun’s jaw tightened. “No. Frankly I’d much rather you outlawed conduction at Pendralyn, and then in Eyrdon once you’re king. I’d be delighted to never even hear the word again.”
“Then why the apology?”
He looked away. “I didn’t like how we left things. And I shouldn’t have said the things I said. About Odger.”
Wardin snorted. “Never mind what you said. You shouldn’t have thought the things you thought about Odger.”
“You’re right,” Arun said simply. “It was unworthy of me. It was unworthy of you. Which brings me back to I’m sorry.”
Wardin waited several moments for the word but to come out of his friend’s mouth, and a lecture to follow, before he realized that Arun was finished.
“Apology accepted, of course, and I appreciate it. That was good of you.” Wardin grinned despite the specter of Odger Arun’s words had conjured. “You can have an extra cake.”
“Always the benevolent prince.”
They ate and drank in a silence that was blessedly no longer awkward. “Now then,” Arun said when they’d finished the cake. “We’ve gotten the apology part over with, and the cake part. I’d say it’s time for the important part.”
“More important than cake? I don’t suppose you’ve gotten my inkwell working properly again?”
A Dark Reckoning Page 19
