by Steven Brust
During all of this, we should explain that Zerika was watching with a sort of fascinated horror, as if she had never before seen such a shedding of blood, and was appalled to consider that it was taking place, at least in part, in her name.
Another who was unhappy with the battle in its development was Tsanaali—at just about this time he made a sudden attack against his opponents, and then retreated a few steps, and used the brief space of time this maneuver gave him to survey the tactical situation as it had developed. It is very possible that, at this point, he would have broken off the engagement if he had been able to give the order—for it was clear that he was unable to make any progress against the stubborn defense mounted by Khaavren and his friends. However, he had no opportunity to give the order, as he was too closely pressed by his two opponents, these being Iatha and Ritt. The battle, therefore, continued.
Aerich, his face expressionless, continued fighting with complete coolness, waiting for opportunities to strike, and, at the same time, as a favor to Khaavren, keeping track of Piro to be certain the young Viscount did not find himself in any trouble from which he could not extricate himself.
In fact, the Viscount was having no trouble of any kind. More than surviving, he would have discovered, had he been able to take the time to make such an evaluation, he was enjoying himself tremendously. He had reached that state of mind where, on the one hand, every movement came automatically, without the need for thought, and yet, in apparent contradiction, his mind was fully engaged at the same time. He was, one might say, thinking in terms of tactics of defense; his eyes would register a low-line thrust, his body would move, his blade would adjust for a cut at his enemy’s head, and, somewhere in his mind, he would, though not consciously aware of it, consider their relative positions after the other should parry the thrust, and where he might move to be in a good position to create an opening for a thrust or a cut. In this way, not too much time had passed before he found an opening, which, after he took it, resulted in a Dragonlord who had several inches of steel run through his throat. It would, no doubt, be useless to observe that, for this individual, the battle was now over.
Next to Piro was Kytraan, who, in a different way, was as much in his element as Piro was in his. This was battle, in exactly the way that he understood battle. It was, one could say, what he had been waiting for, if not his whole life, then at least since his earlier encounter with war, in which he had developed the taste that all Dragons eventually acquire for such games. The fact that it was Dragons he was facing, of course, only increased his delight. And the fact that he had neither given nor received much in the way of wounds did nothing to diminish his pleasure.
Ibronka, a scowl affixed to her pretty face, fought in a way—had she known it—that was much the way Tazendra had fought some eight hundred years before—wild, uncontained, presenting, now and then, some danger to those next to her as well as, we must admit, not inconsiderable danger to her opponent. Her opponent, however, was himself a battle-seasoned veteran, and had fought Dzurlords before, and was quite confident, based on this experience, that, if he fought defensively, remained alert, and did not permit himself to be either unduly distracted or unfortunately disabled, she would eventually make a mistake which he could exploit. Up to this moment, she had not done so, and so they continued their duel with the utmost seriousness on both sides.
But of all of them, it was Lar who, one might say, broke the battle open. Amidst the shuffling back and forth that will inevitably accompany such a confused battle in such difficult surroundings, it suddenly occurred that he found himself without an opponent—that is, while everyone else was engaged, he was not. It seemed to him, therefore, to be a splendid time to strike someone with his cooking pot, which plan he put into effect at once, aiming a terrific blow at the head of the Dragonlord to his right, who was exchanging passes with Pel. This warrior, catching the motion out of the corner of his eye, as it were, instinctively moved his blade to parry it as if it were a normal blade. This resulted in two distinct occurrences: The first was that Pel took the opportunity to deliver a furious thrust directly through the soldier’s heart. The other was that Lar’s cooking pot met the heavy sword of the Dragonlord with a screeching, crashing sound that made itself heard well above the clashing of blade against blade, along with the grunts of efforts, shouts of triumph, and cries of pain usual on a field of battle.
Moreover, there was Pel: Still determined to reach Tsanaali and settle matters with him, he thought he detected a chance to do this very thing, and so charged forward, a poniard suddenly in his hand. He bound the sword of the next warrior in his own, and plunged his poniard viciously into her stomach. Another turned to face Pel, completely ignoring Lar, who, seeing the opportunity, and with great deliberation, struck him three solid blows to the head; although one was probably sufficient, and two most certainly were enough.
After this, matters progressed quickly. Once Lar had so effectually dropped his man, and this coming on the heels of such a thunderous and unexpected sound, the warrior facing Ibronka permitted himself an instant’s distraction, which instant was sufficient for the Dzurlord to catch his blade in hers, and, with a twist, disarm him. The warrior quickly retreated out of the way of Ibronka’s oversized weapon, and, in so doing, stumbled over the feet of the woman behind him, upon which they both fell in a heap.
This was enough; the Dragonlords required no more to understand that the day was against them. These were soldiers, not fools. They understood when a battle was lost, and when there was no point throwing away their lives needlessly. Though they did not panic, they nevertheless, as if by a spoken order, retreated in some haste, making their way back the way they had come.
Tsanaali, seeing this, understood that his fight was lost for this instant, and called for a general retreat, and those on his side withdrew as well, leaving our friends alone on the field of battle.
Pel, now seeing Tsanaali, took two steps in the direction in which his enemy had left, but Aerich said, “Come, my dear, there is nothing to be gained in that.”
“You are right,” said Pel, sighing. “And yet, we have failed to kill them all.”
Khaavren watched the retreating figures for a moment, then said, “Is anyone hurt?”
“I’m afraid,” said Iatha, “that Thong is dead.” The others of his friends gathered around him sadly, realizing that, by the flukes of combat, what had appeared to be a relatively benign cut on the cheek had somehow, in fact, caused the late brigand and now Imperial soldier to fall stone dead on the field.
“And Röaana is wounded,” said Ibronka. “And that is my fault entirely.” As she spoke, she knelt next to the Tiassa, saying, “My dear, are you hurt badly? I will never console myself!”
Röaana, who had not actually lost consciousness, opened her eyes and bravely attempted to give her friend a reassuring smile, which she accompanied by the whispered words, “I think it is not so bad.”
The others quickly gathered over her, although Khaavren, Aerich, Tazendra, and Pel continued watching around them. Ibronka drew a knife, and, removing her cloak, began to make cuts in it. Clari, who had not been involved in the battle itself, cried out, “Mistress! What are you doing?”
“Clari, you should be able to see that I am making a bandage, or have you failed to observe that poor Röaana has been injured?”
“Oh, I noticed that,” said Clari. “Only—”
“Well?”
“Your good cloak! What will your mother say?”
“But then, it seems to me that Röaana requires bandaging more than I require a cloak.”
“I do not dispute that, but you must observe, mistress, that there are dead people here. Cannot one of their cloaks be used?”
“How,” said Kytraan, in a tone of outrage. “Strip the clothing of a warrior who fell in honorable combat?”
“Impossible,” agreed Aerich.
“Unlikely,” said Tazendra.
“Unthinkable,” said Khaavren and Pel togethe
r.
“Well,” said Mica softly to Lar, “I would offer my own cloak, but, alas, I do not have one.”
“You do not?” said Lar. “Well, in fact, neither do I. We should find cloaks.”
“I agree, my friend, but I think we ought not to strip the dead to do it. It would go hard with us if we did.”
“I am convinced you are right.”
As this conversation was taking place, Ibronka, aided by Piro, was binding up Röaana’s leg.
“We ought to find a physicker,” said Ibronka.
“In these mountains?” said Tazendra. “There is none. We must do the best we can. Someone should boil water.”
“For what reason?” said Röaana, appearing somewhat more uneasy about the concept of boiling water than about the deep wound in her leg.
“I don’t know,” said Tazendra. “But it is something Sethra Lavode told me to do.”
“We must also tend to the wounded of our enemies,” said Zerika, speaking for the first time.
“As Your Majesty wishes,” said Khaavren at once.
“Do you think they will return?” said Kytraan.
Khaavren shrugged. “Who can say?”
“Alas,” said Pel, who was looking through his touch-it glass. “I fear they will not. They are re-forming, and appear about to ride away.”
“And their wounded?” said Aerich.
Pel shrugged. “Perhaps they will leave horses for them. But we have greater concerns than that, I’m afraid.”
Khaavren looked at him. “Well?”
Pel removed the glass from his eye and said, “Grita.”
Chapter the Forty-Fifth
How Some Decisions Were
Made Following the Battle of South Mountain
Khaavren and Aerich frowned, and Tazendra turned quickly to look at the Yendi. “What of her?” they said.
“She is now speaking with Tsanaali, who is the captain who led the attack against us.”
“Grita and Tsanaali,” suggested Khaavren.
“Tsanaali and Kâna,” observed Pel.
“Grita and Kâna,” concluded Aerich grimly.
“What must be done?” said Tazendra.
Pel frowned. “That is a good question, Tazendra.”
“Is it? Then I am gratified.”
“And you are right to be. Alas, however, I do not know the answer.”
“Well, don’t be vexed at it,” said the Dzurlord kindly.
“You perceive,” continued Pel as if Tazendra hadn’t spoken, “Kâna will now be told that the Orb has returned, and where it is, and he will send all of his forces against us.”
“Not against us,” said Khaavren. “Against Dzur Mountain.”
“Dzur Mountain?” said Pel.
“Exactly. We must go to Dzur Mountain as quickly as possible, and I should be astonished if he were unable to make that calculation.”
Tazendra looked around. “Must we go there? This is a strong position to defend,” she said.
“Against tens of thousands?” said Pel, smiling.
“Why not?” said Tazendra naïvely. “We did before.”
Pel stared at her, uncertain of how to respond to this enormity.
Zerika said, “I beg you to remember that we are not entirely without resources. That is to say, as you yourself have observed, the Orb has returned. Apropos,” she added to Tazendra, “my dear, the next time you attempt sorcery, or wizardry, whatever it is you are doing, you may wish to remember that there is the Orb available to you now; it may make your work easier.”
Tazendra looked startled at this remark Her Majesty had condescended to address to her, and then settled in to consider it. As she was doing so, Pel observed, “Well, what Your Majesty does us the honor to tell us is true. But then?”
“Bide,” said Zerika. She then closed her eyes, as if to concentrate, and, at once, the Orb began to pulse with a color somewhere between a pale green and a faint orange, if such a thing can be imagined. After a moment, she opened her eyes again, and the Orb’s color returned to a more pleasing azure.
“I believe,” said the Empress, “that I will soon become better at this.”
“If Your Majesty will permit a question—” said Pel.
Zerika nodded and, anticipating the Yendi’s question, answered it. “I have informed Sethra Lavode of what has happened here, and what we expect to happen next.”
“I see,” said Pel. “But, Your Majesty, is there anything she can do?”
The Empress shrugged. “She is Sethra Lavode.”
“Well, that is undeniable,” said Pel, although he did not appear to be convinced.
Ibronka finished bandaging Röaana’s leg, and said, “There. Let us see if you can stand.”
“Bah. What does it matter if I can stand? I’m convinced that I can ride.” Nevertheless, with the Dzurlord’s help, she attempted to rise to her feet only to collapse again, not so much from the injury to her leg as from weakness caused by loss of blood.
“Well,” said Khaavren, frowning, “it is not clear to me that you are able to ride after all. But this, you must see, is unimportant in any case, as I fear we have nothing to ride.”
“Our horses?” said Tazendra.
“I believe that our late opponents in combat have chosen to take our horses with them.”
“All of them?” cried Kytraan.
“So it seems,” said the Tiassa coolly.
“I am not certain how well I can walk,” said Röaana, whose position on the ground spoke more eloquently than her words. “You must leave me here.”
“After you have recovered some of your strength, we will fashion you a crutch,” said Ibronka, ignoring, as did all of the others, her offer to remain behind.
“We have no hope of catching them in any case,” said Aerich.
“Nor,” added Piro, “have we any hope of caring for their wounded.”
Pel shrugged, as if this last detail were of no interest to him.
Khaavren looked around, frowned, then said, “With Her Majesty’s permission, I think we will remain here for tonight, and rest. There is no reason to hurry, as we cannot catch them anyway. A good night’s sleep will do us all good, and we will see how our brave Röaana feels in the morning.”
“If that is your advice, Captain,” said Zerika, “then that is what we will do.”
Khaavren’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed at hearing himself addressed by this title. He started to speak, but Zerika pretended not to notice, and turned away to say a few words of sympathy to Röaana.
Khaavren said, “Your Majesty—”
Zerika turned to him. “I am speaking with another. Do not interrupt your Empress, Captain.”
As she gave him this title again, he once more opened his mouth to speak, but Zerika had already turned back to Ibronka, and was conversing with her. Khaavren turned toward Aerich, only to find that the Lyorn appeared to have become fascinated by the peculiar rock formations one can see on and from the South Mountain. Khaavren scowled and said nothing.
Piro turned to Lar. “You and Mica and . . . you,” he said, indicating Clari, “set our camp up here.”
Lar bowed and, collecting the other servants, set about doing as he was told. In the meantime, Grassfog, Iatha, Ritt, and Belly stood around their late companion, Thong, speaking in low tones. Brigands though they had been, they were offered condolences and sympathies by the others as they shared memories and respectfully divided Thong’s belongings among themselves.
“It is sad,” observed Grassfog, “that our friend here is dead, and we have no wine.”
“It is your custom,” inquired Piro, “to become drunk when a friend dies?”
“Not in the least,” said Grassfog. “I was merely making an observation about two conditions that are both true, and both regrettable.”
Aerich and Khaavren did what they could to see to the comfort of the Dragonlords who were wounded but alive, including Stonecutter, who, in spite of his opinion when struck, was not dead,
although his wound was painful and Aerich thought nothing good of it.
As this chapter of our history concerns the process of decision-making that followed the skirmish, we hope the reader will not be alarmed if we move from the scene of the battle to the place where, as Pel had observed, Grita was engaged in conversation with Tsanaali. She approached the captain boldly, riding out at a cool walk to where the Dragonlord had assembled his troop, along with all of the horses they had gathered up on the way. When she came to him, she said simply, “So you failed.”
Tsanaali shrugged. “Their position was strong, and their defense determined. We could not get through them.”
“Bah. Outnumbering them three to one—”
“Madam, if you have something to say, you may do yourself the honor of saying it. And, if the thoughts in your head are those indicated by your countenance, you may go have words with the Yendi on yonder mountain, because he has those same thoughts, and the two of you may decide the order in which you should like me to entertain you. Until you have made this decision, madam, permit me to go about my business. There are matters I must attend to. These matters may or may not be important, but I give you my word, I care about them far more than I care about your evaluation of how I carry out my duties.”
“You will be getting a message to K—to His Majesty?”
“I will.”
“And you will tell him of my service to you? Of how I warned you of the perfidy of the Yendi, and told you where to find the Orb?”
“I will tell him.”
“And, do you think he will be grateful?”
