Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

  Runacar gave her a poisonous look.

  “None,” the Gryphon answered, puzzled. “At least, none wearing their robes. I suppose they all might have been Lightborn. Or none of them.”

  “And that’s what we—I!—assumed: that none of the Lightborn, or very few, had gone—because if Damulothir truly meant to hold Daroldan, he would have to use Lightborn to do it,” Runacar said.

  “But how do we know whether the Green Robes are here or there?” Pelere asked. “There’s no way to tell by looking.”

  “Unless you’re an Aesalion,” Andhel put in.

  Runacar rounded on her again. “If you have something to say, say it outright,” he said in a dangerous voice.

  “You already know you can’t use magic on an Aesalion,” she said in long-suffering tones. “And even you must have realized by now that they can’t see it being used, either. Clever Houseborn—you managed to figure out how to kill Juniche anyway.”

  The only magic used against Juniche had been to Fetch the decidedly non-magical net into place. Suddenly Runacar remembered the night the Rangers had attacked them. Andhel was right: Drotha hadn’t realized the Lightborn were using invisibility spells because they didn’t affect him. But he’d kept Drotha back from overflying the refugees because he wanted them to escape, and Drotha saw most of the world as fat mice and himself as the kitchen cat.

  “Where’s Drotha?” Runacar demanded. “Find him.”

  * * *

  “Do we get to attack them now?” Drotha asked, even while he was landing in front of Runacar. The Gryphons who’d brought him wheeled once overhead before separating, one soaring away, the other—Radafa—coming in for a more sedate landing than the Aesalion had made. “You look upset,” Drotha added mildly. “I could fix that, you know.”

  “No,” Runacar said. “But I thank you for your concern.” He was never sure how much of Drotha’s behavior was a part of the Aesalion’s skewed sense of humor, and how much was the way he really saw the world, but the last thing Runacar needed right now was to have his emotions scrambled. “Right now there’s something I need you to do for me.”

  “Bite someone?” Drotha asked hopefully, stretching and preening. “Or sting them?”

  “It may come to that,” Runacar said. “I need you to overfly the refugees, come back, and tell me what you see. And take someone with you. I want to know what you don’t see, too.”

  “Ooooh!” the Aesalion said. “Riddles!”

  “I’ll go,” Radafa said quietly. “I think I know what you’re looking for.”

  “I only hope I’m wrong,” Runacar said quietly, as the two winged Otherfolk bounded once more into the air.

  * * *

  The sun inched closer to midheaven. Runacar could tell his army to take up their battle positions—and he did—but they had not been trained in the discipline of waiting for an attack. They wouldn’t just wander off, true, but they would become bored and inattentive. Something an Elven enemy would easily and instantly exploit—if one was coming.

  If his wild guess about where most of the Western Shore Lightborn were was accurate.

  In one sense, the threat of attack did not matter. When the sun reached midheaven, he was supposed to take his position on the parley field to hear Daroldan’s words, though he supposed he could live with being foresworn and simply not showing up. But the fact remained that playing for time was almost as much in his interest as in theirs. The Otherfolk had little chance of breaching the walls of the Keep in direct assault, and if Runacar understood correctly, the earth-shaking magic Amrunor had offered was a last resort, since it would be as likely to kill Otherfolk as alfaljodthi. So whatever trap the false refugees from the Western Shore were preparing, what would follow the rejection of the terms Runacar had offered would still be a waiting game.

  He glanced at the sky. It was nearly time. Where were Drotha and Radafa?

  He saw the gates of Daroldan Keep begin their long slow opening.

  He couldn’t wait any longer.

  He put his foot in Hialgo’s stirrup and prepared to mount.

  Suddenly two thunderbolts—one bright gold and azure, one black and silver and scarlet red—plummeted out of the sky. “You were right!” Radafa said, landing in a boom of wings and a spray of sand. “We’ve been following an illusion—six people at most. Or there were,” he added, with a sidelong look at Drotha that Runacar had no difficulty decoding. “The main body cloaked themselves in invisibility and doubled back days ago. They’re a candlemark away—if that.”

  “All of them?” Runacar couldn’t imagine how castel servants, and farmers, and fishermen could be of any help in a fight, let alone a siege. Maybe they’d never left at all, and the War Princes had sent their army in disguise, all the while planning to attack from the rear when the Otherfolk began their siege. There was no way to know. Elven scouts would have been able to tell whether the refugees were servants or fighters, but the Otherfolk couldn’t.

  Wasting time fretting about what you don’t have loses as many battles as not having them. Elrinonion Swordmaster had certainly beaten that lesson into him.

  “The gates are opening,” Pelere said, trotting over to the three of them.

  “And I must go see what the War Princes have to say,” Runacar said grimly. “But pass the word as quickly and quietly as you can. Someone go tell Meraude and Amrunor. We’ll have to fight—and very soon.”

  * * *

  As he set Hialgo pacing decorously onto the parley field, Runacar wondered why he was bothering. Even if he were still Lord Runacarendalur, there was no need for him to attend upon these enemies. Though the parley truce wasn’t broken yet, he knew it was about to be, and etiquette allowed a War Prince (or his representative) to void the parley under those circumstances.

  I’m playing for time. Just as they are. Delfierarathadan isn’t ash yet, and the Lightborn with the party doubling back on us are still using magic—from what source I cannot imagine. Every moment before the truce is broken is another moment for the Otherfolk to prepare and for Delfierarathadan to burn.

  He wondered whether the War Princes truly meant to follow the Code of War to the very word and letter—in which case he’d be safe until he left the parley field—or whether they’d decided to treat him as one of the Otherfolk—in which case, they were luring him in to kill him.

  “It’s questions like these that keep life from getting dull,” Runacar said to his mount. Hialgo’s ears twitched slightly.

  Then he saw two mounted figures appear in the darkness behind the gates. When they rode out into the sunlight, Runacar could see that Damulothir and Leopheine were not in stainless white this time, and no Lightborn accompanied them. They wore full armor—save for their helmets—and rode warhorses. Leopheine’s was a big burly chestnut stallion, while Damulothir rode a mare the color of burnished gold. The mare, Runacar noted distantly, was the better animal.

  This would not ordinarily signify anything at all in terms of acceptance or rejection of terms of surrender, but considering that a good half of the population of two domains was riding hard to ambush his army from behind, Runacar did not take it as any good omen. Still, the travesty must be played out. He remembered how furious Vieliessar had always been with the niceties of the Code of Battle. For the first time, he could see her point.

  “Well met, cousins,” he said, as they reached his position. “I trust you have taken the opportunity to consider our terms?”

  “We have indeed, Runacarendalur Caerthalien.” It was Leopheine who spoke, with soft words and a smile of murderous rage. “But before we give you our answer, there is one thing I think you do not know. I would be remiss did I not repair your ignorance.”

  “And that would be?” Runacar did his best to project an attitude of bored indifference. That wasn’t Elrinonion’s teaching, but Bolecthindial’s.

  “No one on the Western Shore is a non-combatant,” Leopheine said, leaning forward as if to confide a great secret. At the same time, his ha
nd moved toward the pommel of his sword.

  Runacar reached out and grabbed his wrist. “A secret for a secret then,” he said. “I am not War Prince Runacarendalur Caerthalien anymore.”

  He shifted his weight and Hialgo reared, the motion pulling Leopheine from his saddle. As Leopheine fell, his destrier lunged at Hialgo, teeth bared, moving to drive off the attacker and protect his fallen master.

  In the distance, Runacar heard a sudden uprush of sound, as if everyone had suddenly started cheering—the attack had begun. Then abruptly all was silent as he and the two War Princes were enclosed by a violet bubble of Shield.

  “I take it this means you don’t wish to surrender?” Runacar asked mockingly. He drew his sword as Hialgo danced backward out of the bay’s reach. Two against one, and these were not High Table generals, but masters of combat itself.

  “It would be rude not to dance when one has been invited to the Festival,” Damulothir said with a death’s-head smile.

  “Then allow me to have the honor of being your first partner,” Runacar snarled, and spurred Hialgo forward. Lengiathion Warlord’s voice echoed in memory: “In battle, a komen’s weapons are three: his sword, his destrier, and himself.”

  Hialgo was a stallion any domain’s Horsemaster would have refused to train for war, for the destrier was far too excitable, and could never have been used as part of a meisne or even a taille. But unlike the destriers that faced him, Hialgo had spent his entire life being trained to exacting perfection by one hand alone. Now, horse and rider moved as if they were one body. As Runacar sought for both advantage and defense, his two attackers crowded him closely, forcing him against the spell-wall, their destriers slamming into Hialgo with punishing force. Leopheine’s mount was the weak link: a stallion past his prime, with many good years of work still in him, but no longer up to the feats of endurance required in battle. Hialgo automatically directed the majority of his attack against Leopheine’s bay, and Runacar could see the bay was flagging.

  But at the same time, the dome of Shield was shrinking. Did the Lightborn who had cast it mean to seal the three of them inside a space too small for movement? Or—more likely—did they mean to trap him here alone somehow? The thought of the poisoned net that had ended Juniche’s life flashed through his mind, and Runacar shuddered. But then, almost as if the thought had summoned him, Drotha landed on the parley ground as if Shield wasn’t even there.

  “No fair starting without me!” the Aesalion cried, lunging toward Leopheine. Leopheine’s bay warhorse shied and spun, rolling eyes showing white, and Drotha’s outspread claws missed their strike. But the lunge had only been a feint. Drotha lashed out with his tail, striking the destrier on the flank with its poison barb.

  The flesh around the wound instantly swelled and blackened. The poisoned animal went mad. It ran into the Shield barrier and attacked it as if it were a living enemy, battering itself and Leopheine against Shield over and over until the Lightborn watcher unmade the spell in an attempt to save the War Prince—but too late. The dying stallion flung Leopheine from the saddle and trampled him to death before collapsing. Sound and scent rushed in as Shield fell: smoke, the sharp tang of lightning, the indefinable something that meant Lightborn spells were being cast, and the roar of the battlefield as it shifted inexorably toward this open space.

  “I will see you buried in the ground like the refuse you are!” Damulothir shouted. His renewed attack was frenzied, as if Runacar faced a dozen warriors, and Drotha—either out of generosity or sudden distraction—had left Runacar to face him alone.

  I bargained in good faith. We would have let you go.

  Ghosts seemed to stand with him as he fought Damulothir. Lengiathion Warlord: “The terrain of your battleground is an opportunity for the enemy to make mistakes. Be sure that he does. Study your ground. And use it.”

  Elrinonion Swordmaster: “You don’t fight against a sword, but a komen. Learn your enemy, and you will inevitably defeat him.”

  Thorogalas, his eldest brother, who brought him his first toy sword when he had barely learned to walk. “Here is your inheritance, little brother. It is all you will ever need, in this life and the next.”

  Bolecthindial, kneeling before him (the first and only time) to buckle the spurs of knighthood to his boots. “Now I give your life in keeping to the Starry Hunt.”

  And slowly, slowly, Runacar backed Damulothir’s mount in the direction of the fallen destrier. It was too much to hope for that the mare would not notice the obstruction, but what he needed was the moment of inattention from her rider.

  The combat was punishing. Runacar had lost his helmet’s crest, his left pauldron, and his right upper shield to Damulothir’s blade; his armor’s enamel was chipped and its metal dented. He’d sheared away Damulothir’s left polleyn—an illegal blow, not that such things mattered now—and the vambrace on the same side. Damulothir’s surcoat hung in rags over his scratched and dented breastplate, and Runacar knew his blows had struck true. But Damulothir played a long game, bringing his attacks back to Runacar’s now compromised right arm again and again. Soon enough the armor would fail, or the bone beneath it would break, and then Runacar would be dead.

  Or his own long game would bear fruit.

  Damulothir’s mare felt something brush against her hock. Since she could not move forward, she turned to see what it was, and when she did, her hindquarters swung left. And there it was: that single blessed moment when Damulothir’s adamantine concentration broke.

  In that instant Runacar kicked free of his stirrups. Hialgo slammed into the mare’s shoulder. And Runacar booted Damulothir in the stomach with all his strength.

  With the unexpected blow, Damulothir lost his seat and fell to the ground, tumbling over the sprawled corpse of the bay stallion. The mare, her saddle empty, turned to attack Runacar.

  That was how it was done, in the blood-soaked games the Hundred Houses had once played. Every trainer of destriers trained the same forms and figures and attacks into every one of their charges. When the rider was unseated, the destrier drove off their attacker and then guarded their fallen rider. It was dishonorable to attack a riderless animal. For such an act, a komen might lose their spurs and even be outlawed. But Runacar met the mare’s rush with his sword. She wore only crinet and shanfron; her throat and chest were unarmored. Blood sprayed, and she made a terrible whistling noise as she tried to scream: his blow had severed her windpipe.

  But even dying, drowning in her own blood, she tried to do her duty, staggering toward her master’s side. She fell before she reached him, sides heaving desperately as she fought to fill her lungs one last time.

  Damulothir struggled to his feet. He was covered in blood, and his sword lay on the ground behind him. “The space between collet and gorget is only lightly armored. If it were not, young lord, a knight’s head and torso would always have to move as one, and that would make such a one clumsy…” Runacar struck that place with all his strength. Metal sheared and bent, blood spurted, and the War Prince of Daroldan fell to his knees, dying.

  Runacar looked up: the castel gates were still open, but he could see the violet glimmer of Shield deep in the shadows; the defenders must be hoping that their relief force could make its way through the Otherfolk to the safety of the castel.

  But if they meant this ambush all along, they will have kept back komen to aid in it …

  He did not dare to linger to see if he was right, for the castel Lightborn would attack again as soon as the new War Prince gave them the order. Runacar turned and spurred Hialgo in the direction of the fighting.

  * * *

  There were perhaps five thousand Otherfolk on the field. That should have put the numbers in their favor: after the Battle of the Kraken, the Western Shore had perhaps a grand-taille of komen, no more, an unknown number of Rangers, and an unknown number of Lightborn. Runacar stood in his stirrups, trying to see. Neither side wore livery, and it was impossible to tell Woodwose from alfaljodthi. His army knew how
to kill komen, and the Rangers were much less effective without the camouflage and cover denied to them by the burning forest. As for the Lightborn …

  The intolerable silver flare of Thunderbolt struck down out of the sky, momentarily blinding him. When Runacar could see once more, there was a large black circle burned into the ground where it had struck. The burned space glittered like glass. Like Ifjalasairaet in the dawn light, after Ivrulion Banebringer was struck down. A moment later, Runacar saw another strike. Each Thunderbolt killed dozens and left more maimed and burned, but the more the two forces intermixed, the less effective Thunderbolt could be, for the Lightborn would not risk killing their own people.

  The earth shook as a troop of Centaurs raced northward to engage the enemy. The bright midday sun gleamed on their swords and their armor. Pelere galloped in the vanguard, tail flagged, her gleaming hide turned to polished gold in the sunlight.

  Behind them came Minotaurs in an open column, moving more slowly but with a terrible inevitability, and chanting as they ran. At each third beat they struck at the enemy with their warhammers, the sound of the blows a punctuation to their chant. They left wounded and dying in their wake, and the Fauns swarmed over the fallen like charnel house rats, their small knives flashing, finding every chink and gap in enemy armor and leaving nothing alive behind them.

  Hippogriffs swooped low over the field, plucking riders from their horses. Some veered west to drop their captives into the sea; others turned east, dropping their burdens into the flames and using the updraft from the burning to power their next assault on the battlefield. Some merely released their victims as soon as they’d seized them, letting them fall with as great an impact as if they had been flung from the back of a destrier at the ravall.

  By setting fire to Delfierarathadan, the Otherfolk had denied the enemy any access to the battlefield but one: no matter how they had left Daroldan, they had to return by the so-called Northern Road, a route that was little more than a goat-track. Once they were west of the burning, they could enter the forest—and the Otherfolk no longer had eyes there, since it had been evacuated—and take the field at any point they chose, but there were no roads through Delfierarathadan, and if they miscalculated the speed of the fire’s advance, it would kill them as certainly as the enemy would.