Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THUNDER MOON: RICH, BEAUTIFUL, AND CURSED

  Were the Nine Races the Hundred Houses, the Centaurs would be Cirandeiron: standoffish and reliable. The Minotaurs, Mangiralas: different from the others but dealing well with them … but the Woodwose would be Aramenthiali to the alfaljodthi’s Caerthalien: two Great Houses alike in so many ways that they would never agree on anything.

  —Runacar Warlord, A History of the Western Shore Campaign

  Few slept that night. The pyres for the dead were lit, and after that, the army fragmented, each group discussing the matter among itself. Runacar collected Hialgo and those of his possessions that had survived the previous night’s raid, and went off by himself to think. Whatever the army decided, there were certain things that must be done. Before anything, a messenger to Leutric, to tell him … whatever there was to tell him … and to ask for more help. The Folk who had not wanted to fight would probably assist a mercy mission, and if the Otherfolk were to have any hope of surviving their retreat, they would need that help. He had no idea what the Ocean’s Own thought of any of this. So far as he knew, they had sustained no losses in the fighting.

  When dawn came, he saw Riann’s Ascension land, but it was nearly midday before Keloit came to find him.

  * * *

  “They haven’t decided yet,” Keloit said without preamble, skidding to a stop in the loose sand. He dropped to a sitting position; Bearwards walked upright, but to run they used all four limbs. A running Bearward could outpace a horse over a short distance.

  Runacar turned his face toward the sun. “This is a nice place. It would be nicer if everybody wasn’t fighting over it.”

  “You aren’t listening,” Keloit accused.

  “You haven’t told me anything I didn’t know a sunturn ago,” Runacar said. “What do you think we should do?”

  “Me?” Keloit looked astounded and a little panic-stricken to be asked. “It’s not my decision.”

  “It’s not mine, either,” Runacar said reasonably. “And if one of the Rangers manages to put an arrow through my throat, it will be your decision.”

  “Mama—” Keloit began, and stopped. “Mama won’t say what she thinks we should do. Drotha says he’ll stay even if we go. Bralros says we might be able to evacuate the rest of Delfierarathadan in under a moonturn, if King-Emperor Leutric can send us more help, so Radafa’s gone to ask him. Riann says if we decide to evacuate the whole of the forest, she’ll ask the other Ascensions to join us.”

  “Meraude? Aejus? Amrunor?”

  Keloit looked truly miserable. “They say they will wait for the kraken to rouse and use it to destroy Daroldan whether we stay or go, but if we leave, they will consider any treaty we have with them at an end.”

  Runacar shrugged. “That’s Leutric’s problem, not mine. How long until the kraken wakes?”

  Keloit uttered a sharp bark of laughter. “Maybe in my grandchildren’s time.”

  “So … not immediately useful?”

  “No.”

  “And the Woodwose? Go or stay?”

  “You know Tanet’s in the south…” Keloit began evasively. The Bearward wasn’t any better at lying now than he’d been when Runacar first met him.

  “Andhel wants to leave,” Runacar said flatly.

  “No.” Keloit sighed. “She thinks your gods might help us if we make a sacrifice at the Forest Shrine.”

  “You do that already, don’t you?” Runacar asked idly. He knew the Otherfolk had gods, but he’d never wanted to know much more than that.

  “Not living things,” Keloit said simply.

  “Ah,” Runacar said.

  They sat in silence for a while. Suddenly there was a rushing sound of wings—like a flock of doves taking flight, only far louder—and winged shadows flickered along the sand. Gunyel’s Flight was racing northward. They were flying low—barely above treetop level—and were all carrying stones. Apparently they’d decided to resume the bombardment.

  “They do that deliberately,” Runacar said mildly.

  Keloit grinned at him. “Well, sure,” he said. “They’re Hippogriffs. They think anybody would want to fly if they could.”

  “And I suppose the Ocean’s Own pity those of us who cannot live underwater,” Runacar said. He watched as the Hippogriffs soared out of sight.

  “Probably,” Keloit said. “But I don’t want either feathers or fins. Fur and forest suits me fine.”

  “I can’t speak for you,” Runacar said, and heard the wistfulness in his own voice, “but I could wish for wings.”

  Suddenly Keloit’s head came up. “Come on,” he said, lumbering to his feet. “They’ve made their decision.”

  * * *

  Pelere met them as they headed down the beach to where the bulk of the army was gathered.

  “Rune!” she cried joyfully. “We’re going to fight! I mean, at least we’re going to burn the forest, but that means we have to evacuate it first, and, well, we might as well be doing something, so—”

  Runacar caught up to her and hugged her. “That’s no way to give a report, Cadet!” he said. “Who’s decided, and who is with them?” And do the Woodwose intend to sacrifice me for luck in battle?

  “Everyone!” the Centauress said, prancing in glee. “After all, if the witches are just going to keep attacking no matter what, the first thing we have to do is make sure they can’t!”

  * * *

  The mood of the Otherfolk was not as sanguine as Pelere had implied, but at least they were willing to listen to him now. Runacar carefully gave no orders—or at least, he phrased them as suggestions and indirect observations—but he had been considering what to do next ever since he’d come up with the idea of burning the Flower Forest. As each part of the plan was agreed upon, the elements of the army needed for that aspect departed to begin their work. A few candlemarks later the only people left on the beach were Runacar and a few tailles of Otherfolk, most of them the members of Runacar’s original war band.

  “You move very fast,” Riann said. The Ascension leader would be leaving at dawn to speak to the other Ascensions. Radafa and four others would remain with the northern army to keep communications open.

  “I was playing games like these while I was in the nursery,” Runacar said before he could stop himself.

  “But now you know this is no game,” Riann said gently. “I am glad.”

  Runacar turned away, unwilling to let her see his face. The flashes of purple light coming from the north—brighter now that the light was dimming—proved that the Hippogriffs were continuing to do their part, even though that part would necessarily end with the light. “The true test will come when we go against Areve,” he said briefly. “And that depends on what we do here.”

  * * *

  The night passed without any attack.

  * * *

  The following day, Runacar was in the south again. Word had come from Randin that they were ready to dam the Angarussa and put out the fire, and Runacar needed to convey new orders to the fire teams. Once again, Radafa volunteered to act as his steed; Runacar was beginning to think Radafa enjoyed showing him what it was like to fly. The Gryphon had suggested watching from the eastern bank of the Angarussa; it would have the advantage of being far enough away to not be caught up in whatever the Stonekin had planned.

  If only the Hippogriffs were willing to carry riders—and if only the Woodwose could ride. If and if and if … “Should” and “would” and “ought” are three great armies who always fight on the enemy side, so Toncienor Swordmaster once wrote. I think I would add “if” to that tally …

  Radafa crossed Delfierarathadan above the burn line, swinging wide across Cirandeiron before turning back toward the Angarussa to land. Runacar was glad he did, for this far south, the western bank of the river was an inferno. Most of the fire teams were already on the eastern bank waiting tensely to see if this gamble would work. The air smelled of smoke, and there were small burned patches on the
eastern bank where sparks had been blown across the river, but everything was wet enough from the constant downpour that no fires had jumped the river.

  It was still raining.

  Nothing had really prepared Runacar for the sight of the burning forest, not even his previous visits. Even with the breadth of the Angarussa between them and the fire, the baking heat radiating off the burning forest made the air shimmer, and it felt to Runacar as if he was standing on the hearth in a Great Hall. The sound of the burning was as loud as if he were standing equally close to a very large waterfall; so loud there was no possibility of speaking, even at a shout.

  The light from the flames made the turbulent surface of the Angarussa glitter redly. On the western bank, there was nothing but fire and scorched earth, though the width of the river had kept the Cirandeiron side from kindling into flame. The fire didn’t have neat edges; it raced ahead, gorging itself on underbrush, and lingered behind in the blackened areas, where the hearts of dead trees were filled with smoldering embers. Leaves were seared from the trees, and even where the fire had not yet touched, its baking heat had withered leaves and turned grass and moss to dust and tinder that glittered with sparks. Even with the river between him and the fire, Runacar had the uneasy feeling he was too close.

  And you mean to do this not to one part of Delfierarathadan, but to the whole of it at the same time …

  He consoled himself with the knowledge that the plan had been made to save lives—Brightfolk, Otherfolk, perhaps even alfaljodthi. If the Otherfolk army could not stop the Lightborn, the Western Shore array would cut them to pieces. And if the War Princes won … how long would Daroldan and Amrolion be content to sit and watch as an Otherfolk king-domain established itself beyond their borders?

  Suddenly there was a sudden loud resonant booming, audible even over the roaring of the fire. A clap of thunder, a sudden strike to a war-drum; there was no sound Runacar had ever heard that matched it precisely. And then …

  The level of the river before him dropped sharply, and began to flow backward, much as Runacar had seen when he had forded the river. He watched, fascinated, as the entire river drained into the hole in its bed. Where was the water going? He wondered momentarily where the Angarussa ended, and if anyone would miss it.

  Upriver, water continued to pour into the hole. Downriver the water level continued to drop, exposing mud, stones, riverweed, and flopping, gasping fish. The draining had already gone on for much longer than before; he supposed the Stonekin had dismantled the counterweight in addition to everything else they’d done. “Isn’t it supposed to come out somewhere?” Runacar asked, forgetting that no one could hear him. The moment stretched …

  And then, suddenly, from the midst of the inferno, came a high, whistling scream and a sound like a thunderclap. A dense fog, red-tinted by the flames, billowed swiftly out over the river.

  Steam. It must be, he thought. But this was not the scalding heat of steam from a kettle. This was cool, damp, and utterly impenetrable. In moments, Runacar could not even see his own hand before his face. If there were some way to reproduce this effect, to use it on the battlefield … we would not even need Lightborn to utterly blind the enemy …

  The roar of the fire and the thunder of the river became distant, muffled by the steam-fog. Above the muted roar of fire and water came a strident hissing. It was oddly familiar, but it took Runacar a moment to identify it. It is the sound red-hot metal makes when the smith quenches it.

  Then the billows parted and he could see.

  The forest floor had become a shining, silver lake. Here and there, jets of water bubbled up from below, making it look almost as if the lake was boiling. As Runacar stared in fascination, there was a glooping sound. Bubbles rose to the surface and the burnt skeletons of trees toppled over with slow grace as the forest floor fell away. Only the tops of the trees were burning now, and the fire had nowhere to go.

  A ragged cheer went up from the defenders. As it swelled and grew, Runacar looked around at the fire teams—Centaurs, Minotaurs, Fauns, Gryphons, Woodwose, other Folk whose kind he did not know—and found himself unable to see them as anything but people.

  People whom he must convince to set ablaze the same forest they had spent a moonturn trying to save.

  * * *

  “… and that didn’t work, either.”

  The War Room of Daroldan Great Keep was the highest chamber in the castel. Light entered through long barred shafts lined with angled mirrors—on all the Shore, there was no window large enough for a child of five to pass through. Where the War Princes of other domains might reserve such a space for a private audience chamber or even a withdrawing room, the business of Daroldan was war, and war did not wait for War Season.

  Palinoriel Warlord sighed, gazing down at the sandtable before him. It showed Amrolion and Daroldan’s territories, but more than that, it showed which parts of them the alfaljodthi could move through safely, which parts they had never seen, and which parts they knew nothing about—because no one who had entered them had returned alive. Daroldan and Amrolion were beautiful, and rich, and cursed by the Silver Hooves to be a forcing-ground for battle.

  “I am sorry, cousin. I could not think of what else to try.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Damulothir placed a hand on Palinoriel’s shoulder; a brief absolution. “Any season but this, it would have worked.”

  “It’s the Elves,” Ladyholder Ereneine sighed. “Hard to imagine any of our blood making common cause with those animals, but who am I to argue with facts?”

  “Vile as it is, in one way it would have made my work easier,” Swordmaster Martenil said. “Except for the fact that every soul of the two tailles of spies I’ve sent to infiltrate that mob all vanished without trace. I might as well be drowning them in my bath for all the use that’s been.”

  “And Daroldan’s spells of Farseeing and Scrying are unequaled—and still useless,” Rondithiel Lightbrother said. “Nor can any of the Warhunt approach them, no matter what illusions and stratagems we employ.”

  Belfrimrond Lightbrother bowed in acknowledgment, his mouth twitching in rueful agreement. “The Beastlings guard themselves well. I have no way, even, to know whether those Elves who march with them are captives, or cooperate freely. And before you ask, Prince Leopheine, it is as impossible to Farspeak either the High King or the Sanctuary of the Star as it has ever been, and—”

  His words were cut off by a bright flash of violet light from outside accompanied by a gonging thud.

  “And we are packed in here as tightly as fish in a net, while those darkspawn monsters drop rocks on us,” Damulothir finished wearily.

  “At least you killed the Aesalion,” his wife said. “All praise to Belfrimrond.”

  “Send and Fetch are not yet beyond my poor powers, my lady,” the Chief Lightborn said, bowing. “And we can hold Shield over Daroldan Keep for … quite some time yet.”

  “So we are trapped—alone—and embattled—alone,” Leopheine said. “That’s nothing new. Only … I do not think this battle will have a happy outcome.”

  The lords and ladies gathered here fell silent. Since the Beastling attacks had begun, every gambit they had tried had failed. They had lost more than half their Lords Komen at Amrolion Keep. The smaller assays were more successful only if you counted “success” as the survival of some of the attackers. A sennight ago, they had sent Rangers and Warhunt Mages out together, hoping to strike off the head of the army, or at least its wings. All that had accomplished was to make the army vanish. But not—apparently—to retreat.

  “My Rangers await only your command to set forth in search of them,” Tiralda, Chief of Rangers, said. “There is no place in Delfierarathadan we will not seek.”

  “We will not ask that of you, Tiralda—not yet,” Damulothir said.

  “And I’m sure we’ll see the creatures again soon,” his lady added acidly. “Whether you’ve found them or not.”

  Abruptly, Rondithiel turned toward the
door. “Fresh news,” he said, just as the door opened.

  Isilla Lightsister stepped through the door and moved quickly to the nearest chair. Her shoulders were slumped in weariness, and her face was pale with the strain of recent effort. Like nearly all the Lightborn, she had adopted Shore customs when she came here, wearing the same dappled camouflage that the Rangers wore. But today she was dressed as formally as any Lightborn in a Prince’s court: the long robe in Lightborn green, with its wide sash of the same material and color, and low soft leather boots dyed to match.

  “The news is not good,” Damulothir commented, gesturing for a page to bring Isilla a cup of wine. She downed it thirstily before she spoke.

  “No, my lord, it is not,” Isilla answered. “As you know, with all other methods of gaining information denied to us, Lord Palinoriel suggested the hawks. As Overshadow is my Keystone Gift, I made the first trial. The only good news I have for you is that it worked, and I was able to bring the hawk back to its mews. It saw no sign of the army beneath the trees, and I do not need to tell you what is in the ocean, for you can see it yourself. But in the south…”

  She took a deep breath, and in halting phrases told of what she’d seen through the hawk’s eyes. The raging fire, quenched. The Angarussa, turned from its bed.

  “I think it will remain in its new course,” she said. “Much of the forest floor collapsed when it diverted. It will run to the sea.”

  “Well, that’s one good thing about Cirandeiron having lifted up her skirts and fled,” Ladyholder Ereneine said brightly. “Girelrian won’t be there to complain of our misrule when those sea monsters take their new road into the heart of the West.”

  “There is more,” Isilla said in a low voice. Belfrimiod and Rondithiel stood beside her now, offering what comfort they could. “The Beastlings stood by to watch it happen. There were Elves with them. One rode a Gryphon. I … I recognized his face.”