The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus
Page 148
“How’re ye holdin’ out’?” Grinner edged his piebald gelding up alongside Fynn’s charger, showing his teeth to the scowling knight holding the alphyn standard under which they would ride. “It ain’t too late t’ change yer mind, ye know.”
Fynn shot him a stern look. “We’ve been through this, Grinner. I won’t sit in a turret while the rest of you go off to fight in my name.”
“But if you tol’ the wizard…”
“That I’m a coward?” Fynn said, keeping his voice low. “I already have, and he dismissed the idea.”
Grinner looked affronted. “I weren’t goin’ t’ say that!”
Fynn exhaled a long breath. “No, I know that. I don’t feel like I’m going to be sick—at least not yet. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’d much rather be in Langmerdor, riding along the strand, than riding out onto a field of battle. And that is completely cowardly of me, not to mention disloyal to my mother.”
“How’d ye reckon that?”
“She ran away from Langmerdor to raise me among the Helgrins, and here I am, longing to be back at the place she’d thought to leave behind forever.”
Grinner snorted. “Teca tol’ ye—yer ma run away because she didn’t want t’ be married t’ an old man, no matter he were a king. And from what ye’ve tol’ me about yer life over th’ sea, ye was nev’r truly one o’ them Helgrins. ’T’were the same wit’ me, after I lost me sister. I didn’t belong nowhere—not ’til I found ye. An’ now, ye’ve found your people.” He waved his hand to take in all those around them. “This is where ye belong, Fynn.”
Fynn wanted to believe this, and he’d have to have been blind not to read the devotion in many of his followers’ expressions. But he’d done nothing to deserve that devotion. He didn’t even know most of their names, these men and women who had taken vows to serve him, just as he’d knelt before their temple gods and sworn to protect their realms and deliver justice.
They’re only here because of the blood flowing through my veins. Is that enough to make me belong to them—and they to me?
“Enemy troops approaching!”
Master Morgan rode up from the ranks behind him, and leaned close to Fynn’s ear, his saddle creaking in the sudden hush.
“It’s time to address your army, my lord.”
The wizard had not prepared him for this duty, and now Fynn tried to recall how Aetheor had readied his men for war. He’d spoken of booty and thralls, and of the glory of killing the enemy. That sort of speech would not do for a battle between men who shared a common bond of nationhood, and in some cases, bloodlines.
Before he could lose his nerve, Fynn spurred his charger onto the field and trotted down the lines, meeting the eyes of as many men as he could. When he reined in to face his troops, his heart was pounding, but he had decided what he was going to say.
“Each one of you,” he called out, “does my late father, Urlion Konigur, great honor by offering your swords to see his wish fulfilled—his wish that I succeed him on the throne. All the same, I can’t say that I’m happy to be here today, and I don’t imagine you are either. To unseat a king through civil war… is a grave undertaking. So before we engage in this fight, we will call for a parley with Lord Vetch, and bid him ask Roth Nelvor to step down so as to avoid bloodshed.”
Fynn shifted his gaze to Halla and Baldo astride their horses, with the å Livåri force ranged behind them. They would fight as a separate unit, for although none had said so in his presence, the rovers were not trusted by all. But his next words were for them first and foremost, and he raised his voice to make sure he was heard all the way at the back of the lines.
“But if we must fight, then we will—for our right to live, every one of us, as free and equal folk under the law.”
A cheer rose up from the å Livåri, and when the others followed, Fynn felt encouraged to go on.
“If we must fight, then we fight as Drinnglennians, whether we be native-born or not. We fight to preserve the unity of the Isle. We fight so that no one realm shall have dominion over the others!”
The troops roared their agreement, and Fynn raised his sword in salute, then cantered back to his place behind the foot soldiers, whose shouts rang round him.
As if only awaiting this moment, the Nelvor army hove into view over the rise, and Whit, Sir Nidden, and Lord Grathin rode out under a parley flag to meet Lord Vetch.
The royal Lord Commander was easily identifiable amidst the host streaming up the road, with the High King’s standard waving over his silver-plumed helm. But before the wizard and his companions were halfway to him, Vetch signaled an archer forward. The arrow he sent across the field struck the earth not five yards ahead of Whit’s horse. Its message was clear: there was to be no parley.
After a swift consultation, Fynn’s delegation turned back. Whit came to his side, while Sir Nidden and Lord Grathin positioned themselves behind their own archers in the front line. The infantry were directly behind the bowmen, with the cavalry, their horses stamping, on the wings.
Vetch’s army began their advance under a covering volley of arrows that plunged into the ground halfway across the field. It seemed to Fynn to be an extravagant waste of artillery. Master Morgan had told him to wait until the Nelvor army came within range before signaling his own archers to loose. Worried that he would misgauge the timing, he cast an uneasy glance at Whit.
“Not yet, my lord,” Whit murmured.
The oncoming pikemen marched in tight formation, their shields closely aligned around their jutting spears. There was no jeering, no taunts from the defenders as the silver cloaks advanced. Only the piercing shriek of a lone hawk circling overhead punctuated the tense quiet.
Fynn raised his right arm, then let it fall.
“Nock!” Sir Nidden shouted.
Beside Fynn, Grinner gave a low growl.
“Draw!”
A sudden swarm of crows pelleted out of the forest and swooped after the hawk. In the span of time it took the birds to overfly the castle, Vetch’s pikemen had faltered.
“Loose!”
A score of Cardenstowe arrows found their marks in the first line of enemy infantry. The second line surged forward to take the fallen men’s places, their shields raised over their heads. The Konigur foot soldiers were already on the advance, their shield wall set to repel the oncoming polearms. They trotted at a steady, measured pace to ensure that the longbows had time to fire a few volleys over them before they engaged with Vetch’s force.
Another storm of arrows rained onto the silver cloaks, but this time there were no crows to distract their pikemen and archers. In answer to the horn sounding at their backs, Vetch’s archers dropped to one knee and sent an answering torrent sailing toward Cardenstowe.
Fynn braced himself for the crashing of wood as the two shield walls met. But instead of ramming into Vetch’s wall, where they risked being skewered by the silver cloaks’ pikes, the Konigur soldiers grasped hold of their attackers’ poles and pulled the royal soldiers up against their own shields. And when the shields came within reach, the defenders grabbed hold of these as well, then drove their swords and spears over and through the enemy with brutal force.
Another horn blared, this one from the Konigur side, and the cavalry to Fynn’s right surged forward. Grinner’s piebald answered the call as well, trotting out of the central lines onto the empty field.
“Grinner!” Fynn shouted. “Wait!”
But his friend kept advancing.
Fynn spurred Morvark, his horse, after him, glancing left as he did so to see if the Cardenstowe shield wall still held. It did, but from behind the enemy wall pressing against it, silver cloaks raced to its outer edges, trying to outflank the defenders. A considerable number managed to get round, and Wren, Whit, and the Cardenstowe defenders, who had been thundering after Fynn, were now forced to engage with these riders.
“To me, Grinner!” Fynn shouted.
His friend reined in and looked around as if only just then realizing the second line of defense was still far down the field.
Fynn dug his heels into Morvark’s flanks, only to feel his mount suddenly lurch under him. A javelin, thrown by one of the riders bearing down on Grinner, protruded from his horse’s heaving chest. The destrier took two more stumbling steps before dropping to his knees, sending Fynn flying over his head.
Fynn hit the ground with a thud, then rolled onto his back, struggling to get his breath. His shield was nowhere to be seen, but he still had his sword, and he tugged it from its sheath as he pushed himself to his feet and ran toward Grinner—only to have his way barred by an enemy horseman. Their blades clashed, then Fynn darted under his attacker’s sword and the rider swept past. Another silver cloak, this one on foot, lunged at Fynn, but he managed to parry the man’s sword thrust and deliver one of his own, his blade sliding between the man’s ribs. As the light of life left the silver cloak’s eyes, Fynn was reminded of the staring eyes of the fish he’d killed with Aetheor on the banks of the Ylve in another world, another time.
Then he looked up and, for an instant, met Grinner’s eyes. The å Livåri had been forced to his knees by one of Vetch’s knights, whose sword tip was at Grinner’s throat.
“Leave him!” Fynn shouted. “I’m the prize you seek!”
He ran at the man, seizing Grinner’s discarded shield from the ground as the knight raised his sword. Their blades met with an impact that knocked Fynn to the ground, and he flung up the shield to repel the blade descending on him a second time. He scrambled to his feet and planted them to ward off the next attack, which he parried before swinging at his attacker so ferociously that the silver cloak lost his balance. Before the man could steady himself, Fynn smashed his shield into the man’s face, then plunged his blade into his gut. Crimson blood spurted from the knight’s flattened nose, while darker fluid from the fatal wound spread across his tunic.
Even as Fynn swallowed the gorge rising in his throat, another silver cloak came at him. Fynn killed the man with a single slash to the neck. Then his sword seemed to take on a life of its own, the blade flashing with silver fire as it pierced the armpit of the next man, the throat of another.
Grinner seized the opportunity to rearm himself with one of the dead men’s weapons, then stabbed away at Fynn’s side with a devilish fury. And in the next moment, Whit and his men thundered up to join the fray, forcing the silver cloaks to wheel around to engage the newcomers.
All around Fynn, soldiers thrashed at one another, their horses squealing and snorting. As he crossed swords with a towering knight on a chestnut destrier, a stream of arrows arched overhead, followed by a blast of horns signaling the archers to fall to the flanks so as not to injure their own in the chaotic melee that had taken over the field.
In a sudden lull between assaults, Fynn surveyed the battle. The enemy were slowly but surely losing ground. And when a Nelvor horn blared, sounding retreat, the silver cloaks trampled over their own fallen as they ran before the defenders of Cardenstowe. The Konigur cavalry, in hot pursuit, whooped and yelled as they cut down the fleeing enemy.
A cheer rose up from the men around Fynn, and he felt his heart swell. It seemed he had acquitted himself well enough in the fight after all.
As if reading his thoughts, Whit rode over to his side. “Your first battle ends in victory, my lord! The news of your success could well sway Lorendale and Glornadoor to our cause.” Then he sobered. “It was a terrible risk you took, though, riding after Grinner like that. You were halfway across the field before I realized it was you out there all on your own. I must admit, I didn’t know you were such a swordsman.”
“I’m not,” Fynn said. “Or at least, I wasn’t until today. Usually I sicken at the sight of blood. But today was… different, somehow.”
“Lucky fer me,” Grinner said. Blood dripped from a gash on his cheek, but he appeared otherwise unharmed.
Master Morgan, his cloak streaked with gore and his eyes steely, trotted over. “I don’t know whether to berate you or congratulate you, Fynn Konigur! Your rash decision to ride after your friend could have cost you your life, and Drinnglennin her salvation.” Then his expression softened. “But it seems good fortune chose to shine on you this day.”
Fynn grinned. “It all happened so fast. Is the battle truly over?”
“For this day. Vetch expected us to be fewer, I think, and our men performed valiantly. He won’t make the mistake of misjudging us again.”
Whit frowned. “So you think he’ll come back?”
“Not to Cardenstowe. He’ll return to the capital to report to his master regarding the strength of our army, which should work to our advantage. The sooner Roth knows how many lords have come to our side, the sooner he’s likely to consider treating with us. If his Tribus serves him well, they’ll advise him to do so at once.” Master Morgan’s lips formed a grim line. “It is perhaps optimistic to hope he will heed their counsel, but in any case, we must seize this opportunity.”
“What opportunity, master?” Fynn asked.
“To ride on to Drinnkastel, my lord, and prepare to take the throne that is rightfully yours.”
Chapter 37
Maura
Maura and Yasiha were met at the gates of the Gralian barracks by a delighted D’Avencote. But Maura’s relief over bringing Yasiha safely through them turned to despair when the aide shared what had transpired after they’d fled the Censibas.
“Borne’s in the Zindan?” She turned to the princess and saw her own horror reflected in Yasiha’s eyes.
“Comte Balfou will do all in his power to see that the commander is released,” D’Avencote assured them. “Please, my ladies. It’s best if I take you to his chambers to await him there.”
When the door to Borne’s room swung open, his great hound surged to his feet, looking expectantly past them for his master. Then he gave Maura’s hand a sniff, and perhaps remembering their first encounter on the high meadows of Branley Tor, resumed wagging his tail.
Yasiha was terrified of the big dog, so Maura bade him lie down in the corner while the princess seated herself stiffly at Borne’s desk. Maura, casting about for a way to comfort her friend after the shocks of the past hour, spied the leather-bound journal on the desk, within which he had recorded his paeans of love for his betrothed. She picked up the slim volume and lifted its cover. Then, though it cost her an effort not to weep at the power of Borne’s passionate words, she read a few of the poems before turning to her friend.
“I think you should see this, Yasiha. It seems your sarbon is a poet! These are surely meant for you.”
She forced a bright smile as she placed the book in the princess’s hands, then she settled on the floor to stroke the dog, wishing she could drown out the echo of each beautiful line indelibly etched on her heart.
Yasiha opened the book with trembling fingers, and her rose-stained lips moved slowly as she read the lines written in Drinn. Her smile, at first bright, slowly faded, and she began to turn the pages more quickly. At last she set the journal aside, holding herself so still she seemed hardly to breathe at all.
Abruptly she rose and moved to the door. “I must have some air.”
Maura got to her feet as well. “Yasiha? What is it? I’ll go with—”
“No.” Yasiha raised her palm in firm refusal. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Maura nodded mutely, wondering how the poetry had failed to delight the princess. Of course, the devastating events of the day had to be taken into account. She knelt down beside Magnus, murmuring to him as she smoothed his dense coat. But at the click of the lock, both she and the dog got to their feet. The key
that had protruded from it was gone. Yasiha had locked them in.
At first Maura assumed the princess had secured the door as a safeguard; after all, they were two women alone in a barracks full of men. But when a quarter of an hour had slipped by without Yasiha’s return, she called out for help, and the hound, sensing her distress, began to bark.
It took some time to draw a passing soldier’s attention, and more still before D’Avencote could be found. After hearing what had occurred, he sent someone to see if they could find a spare key.
“I’ll go now to organize a search for the khadin,” D’Avencote assured Maura through the closed door. “In the meantime, you’ll be safest remaining where you are.”
“Are you saying you won’t let me out?”
“I’m saying I’m afraid it will take some time to find another key, Mistress Maura. I fear Princess Yasiha may have left the grounds. I gave my word to Ser Borne I would see you both safely out of Olquaria, so until I can ascertain her whereabouts, I must respectfully request that you accept your current circumstance.”
His use of her true name stunned Maura into silence. And short of commanding the aide to break down the door, she didn’t see that she had a choice but to remain where she was. Listening to the sound of D’Avencote’s retreating footsteps, she cursed herself for neglecting to inquire if there had been any news of Borne.
Long hours passed while she sat petting the dog and restraining herself from reading again the poems that were so enticingly close. When at last a key clicked in the lock, she leapt to her feet, but the gruff soldier who opened the door to set down a tray of food and drink told her he was under orders to keep watch over her in his commander’s room. Before briefly taking the dog off to be fed, he granted her the kindness of informing her that as yet there was no further news of Ser Borne, and no trace of Princess Yasiha.
Thus Maura was forced to spend the night in Borne’s bed—a torture for her, for his scent lingered on the sheets. At some time in the small hours, she awakened to the sound of heartrending sobs, and it wasn’t until she felt the dog’s wet nose against her cheek that she realized those sobs had been her own. Sleep evaded her after that, as she couldn’t stop thinking of Borne locked away in the dreadful Zindan, so she rose and lit a candle. Ignoring the siren song of Borne’s journal, she instead slid a slim volume entitled The Craft of War from the bookshelf, hoping its dry contents would put her to sleep.