The Lord of Castle Black: Book Two of the Viscount of Adrilankha

by Steven Brust

  It should come as no surprise to the reader that, of all of them, it was Khaavren who first observed the approach of a well-disciplined troop, and coolly remarked to Zerika, “I believe they are coming for us.”

  “How many?”

  “A hundred, or perhaps a hundred and fifty, with more on either flank.”

  “I see. This was not what we had anticipated.”

  “No,” said Khaavren. “It is fewer.”

  “And that is all to the good,” said Her Majesty.

  “On the contrary.”

  “It is not fewer, or it is not all to the good?”

  “It is not good. They are not attacking, they are searching.”

  “And this means?”

  “That there are many, many more than we had thought.”

  “Ah. You do not appear startled.”

  “My son, Piro, warned me that we might have been overheard when making our plans.”

  “I see. And so they changed their plans?”

  “Your Majesty has understood the situation exactly. It was for this reason that I had us leave the horses saddled and everything prepared for a sudden withdrawal.”

  “Well, what is your suggestion, Captain?”

  “Let us withdraw.”

  “In what direction?”

  “As they are approaching from the northeast, let us move southeast, in the hopes of finding their flank, and skirting it. Moreover, if I recall correctly the map which Your Majesty did us the honor of sketching, we may be so fortunate as to strike a small village, called Nacide, or Nacine, or Naciter, or something similar. In such a village it is possible that we will find places in which to conceal ourselves until we can formulate another plan.”

  Zerika frowned, evidently displeased at the notion of retreat, and more displeased at the notion of concealing herself. “What would be the alternative plan?” she said.

  “The alternative would be to do what my friend Aerich is preparing to do.”

  “And that is?”

  “To die gallantly in defense of the Orb.”

  “I see. Well. Those are the alternatives, as you see them?”

  “They are, Your Majesty.”

  “Then I choose the first of them.”

  “Very well,” said Khaavren coolly, as if the decision had been a matter of complete indifference to him.

  And, with no more ceremony than Morrolan had indulged in when ordering his charge, they abandoned the plans they had made so carefully, mounted upon their horses, and set off at once in attempt to avoid the overwhelming force moving inexorably toward them. Khaavren led the way, with the sharp-eyed Pel next to him. Directly behind was Zerika, with Aerich on her right and Tazendra on her left. The others came behind, with Piro and Kytraan bringing up the rear.

  Over the course of the next half hour, they twice very nearly ran into the enemy, but both times Pel warned them, and Khaavren was able to lead them in a direction that offered some concealment, and they were not found. At the expiration of thirty or thirty-five minutes they struck a narrow road that led into Nacine, and Khaavren at once set them on it.

  By this time, Morrolan had been through his first engagement, which he had found to be, more than anything else, confusing. The reason for this confusion we will explain at once, because it was not, in fact, because of the usual confusion that can come about the battlefield, especially for a commander who has put himself directly on the lines—rather, it was because none of the enemy would come near him. On the contrary, the instant he drew his weapon—his “black wand”—from its sheath, every enemy he drew near turned on his heels and ran. In a skirmish on as small a scale as this, the effect was decisive.

  “We seem to hold the field, my lord,” reported Fentor.

  “So we do,” said Morrolan. “Casualties?”

  “Nine injured, one perhaps fatally.”

  “Well, and enemy casualties?”

  “We have taken a dozen prisoners, and there are six bodies which we have stripped according to custom. I cannot say how many of the enemy were wounded.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Morrolan, “as you have said, we do hold the field.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think we ought to do with it?”

  “My lord?”

  “We have the field, well, shouldn’t we do something with it?”

  “According to your plan, my lord—”

  “Well?”

  “We should press forward at once.”

  “Very well, let us do so. Let us find where the enemy concentrates, and see if they react as these fellows have. That would be best for us, I think.”

  “Yes, my lord. I will give the orders.”

  And even as Fentor was giving his orders, Saakrew, who had observed the results of the engagement, was giving his. He summoned an aide and, through him, sent a message to his commander reporting on what had occurred, asking for instructions, and requesting reinforcements. This done, and anticipating that the enemy, having achieved a certain victory, would find no reason to stop, expected, on the contrary, that his troops were about to have the honor of receiving another attack. Accordingly, he arranged them as best he could in defensive positions, and had the drummer sound the call known informally as “Mind Your Manners,” and officially as “Prepare to hold your position against an expected enemy attack.”

  The attack came without delay, with results we are about discover to the reader.

  Morrolan, we should say, found himself transported into that peculiar world of the Dragon warrior. It was a sensation he had never before experienced, nor had any warning of, as he had, as the reader recalls, been raised far from any other of his House, and so had no one to tell him what to expect. But his blood was high, and his vision at once narrowed and expanded, so that all he saw was the battle around him, yet he saw that in its entirety; indeed, the oft-repeated claim that a Dragonlord in battle grows “a crown of eyes around his head” has never been more true. But even beyond this was the experience of Morrolan discovering, as countless Dragonlords had discovered before him, that he was “made for battle.” There was his sword—that is to say, his black wand—which, itself, was created for such moments. Morrolan was never aware of how he came to be afoot: whether he dismounted, was thrown, or jumped from a stumbling horse; but on foot he was, spinning and thrusting and cutting and yelling like a veritable dragon of the mountains, at length coming to a stop, frustrated by the gradually growing awareness that there was no one else to fight, for all of his enemies were dead, or had left the field.

  And the rest of the engagement? The reader may assume, from the fact that Morrolan eventually ran out of enemies, that it was his side which gained the victory, and in this the reader would be correct. The matter was more hotly contested than the first had been, and casualties on both sides were accordingly higher, but in the end, Saakrew’s forces were unable to withstand the onslaught, and had to give way, grudgingly, it is true, and without panic, but, when Morrolan was once more able to receive communications, Fentor, who now looked at his liege with an expression of respect not unmixed with fear, was able to report that the enemy had been driven away.

  “Then we will continue at once,” said Morrolan, with no hesitation. “What casualties have we taken?”

  “Forty-one dead, perhaps three hundred wounded.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “We are still gathering and regrouping those who were scattered in the fighting.”

  “And the enemy?”

  “We do not know. At least thirty dead—most of whom, my lord, fell to you personally—and nearly a hundred prisoners. Of course, we cannot know how many of the enemy sustained wounds, for they are unlikely to be polite enough to tell us.”

  “Very well.”

  “My lord—”

  “Well?”

  “It will take some time before we are able to move forward again.”

  “How much time?”

  “An hour.”

  “That is too much.” />
  “My lord—”

  “We will advance in three-quarters of an hour. See to it.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Fentor went off to see to it, muttering under his breath about lack of cavalry.

  By this time, it was nearly mid-day, and, as the reader has no doubt observed, the bulk of Izak’s army had yet to become engaged in the conflict. Indeed, Morrolan’s attack had an effect very similar to that of a buzzbirch flying about the ears of a dzur—and, though neither Morrolan nor Fentor were aware of it, they had by now quite flown into the dzur’s mouth; that is to say, he had come forward so far that Izak’s army, busily concentrating and preparing for battle, was now on three sides of his small battalion.

  It must also be observed, however, that Saakrew had no knowledge of this either. This fact may, in part, account for his reaction when, as he was attempting to organize and rally his twice-defeated force, he received word, sent several hours before, to withdraw and avoid bringing on a general engagement.

  “Avoid an engagement?” he cried, glaring at the messenger, who had had no part in the matter. “Now I am told to avoid an engagement? After all of this, my troops demoralized, more wounded than the field physickers are able to cope with, and all of our food and supplies in the hands of the enemy”—which was not true, but only because Morrolan’s forces had not observed how close they were to Saakrew’s encampment—“now he wishes me to avoid an engagement? The Gods! I should very much like to have avoided an engagement! But more, I should like to have the support I requested two hours ago!”

  The messenger, who had some experience in running errands during a battle, listened patiently enough, serene in the knowledge that, eventually, he would be either given a message to deliver, or dismissed without any actual harm being done him. On this occasion, it was a message—to wit, Saakrew gave a brief summary of the engagement as he understood it, and requested relief, or, at any rate, instructions that would be more to the point. The messenger bowed and went on his way.

  By the time Morrolan was ready to move forward again, Zerika had entered Nacine—the first village she is considered to have entered as Empress (the stop in Barleytown being either forgotten or ignored by most historians), which fact is not only noted in the town records, but much is still made of the event. Indeed, it is celebrated each year with a parade and a mock battle, with the Queen of the Harvest taking the role of the Empress and riding with great ceremony down the main street. On this occasion, the real Empress, instead of riding down the main street, crept in between a chandler’s shop—unmistakable for its smell—and the abandoned dispatch station. There happened to be few people in town that day, and none of them aware of the battle outside, and so the Empress’s party attracted no special notice—a fact which today’s residents choose not acknowledge, and we apologize to anyone from that fair town who might read this, but we are unwilling to stray from the truth, however damaging that truth might be to the self-love of certain individuals or the civic pride of certain municipalities.

  Khaavren was looking about for a place in which they could conceal themselves (he of course at once dismissed the dispatch station to which we have just alluded; he knew that nothing is as subject to immediate search as an abandoned building) when Aerich cleared his throat. Khaavren turned to him at once, giving a look of inquiry.

  Without saying a word, Aerich gestured toward a place on the other side of the main street and rather far to the right, or east (our friends having entered the village from the south). Khaavren frowned, and said, “Well? I see only a few small houses and—ah! Yes. We are not so far ahead of pursuit as I had thought. There seem to be twenty or thirty of them, and there must, therefore, be many more at hand. We must either abandon our horses and attempt to hide somewhere in this town, or else attempt to outrun them.”

  “Well, Captain,” said Zerika. “Which of those would you suggest?”

  “I am no more partial to hiding than is Your Majesty,” said Khaavren. “And, moreover, I have become rather fond of this horse.”

  “Very well,” said the Empress, as if these reasons were sufficient. “As we have not yet dismounted, we need only turn the heads of horses, and continue on at whatever pace you, Captain, think is reasonable.”

  “The horses,” said Khaavren, after taking a moment to study them, “are tired, but not yet exhausted—as, I might add, are we. Therefore, I will led us at a brisk trot. Come.”

  And with no further discussion, the captain (whose rôle, we are obliged to observe, is entirely neglected in the annual parade, replaced by some nameless general who seems to represent Morrolan, or Fentor, or both; neither of whom was present in the town) led them back out of Nacine. After only a few minutes, Khaavren called a halt, saying, “My dear Pel, would you be so good as to direct those sharp eyes of yours back behind us, and let us know if we are pursued?”

  “With pleasure,” said Pel.

  Khaavren and Pel rode to the top of a bluff, dismounted, and, lying flat, studied the surrounding area with the aid of a touch-it glass, Khaavren looking forward, Pel looking back.

  “As of now, I see nothing,” said the Yendi.

  “I wish I could say the same,” remarked Khaavren. “More, I wish I had some understanding of the meaning of what I see.”

  “Well?” said the Empress. “Tell me what you see. It is possible that I can make some sense of it.”

  “Does Your Majesty think so?”

  “Well, if you see what appears to be several thousand armed men in conflict, then, in fact, I have some idea of what it means.”

  Khaavren stared at the Empress in silent astonishment, until Zerika, smiling slightly, said, “Does my captain forget that his Empress has the Orb, and that, through the Orb, I am able to communicate?”

  “The Horse,” said Khaavren. “I had forgotten this circumstance. Then I take it Your Majesty has had a communication?”

  “This very instant, and from none other than Sethra Lavode, who is, as you recall, more than a little concerned in these matters.”

  “I remember that very well. And will Your Majesty condescend to give me the gist of this communication, that I might be able to make better decisions as to our next tactical movement?”

  “I will do so this very instant. In fact, I am about to.”

  “Then I am listening.”

  “The Enchantress tells me that the Lord Morrolan is engaged with Kâna’s forces, even as we speak. If you have seen a battle—”

  “I have.”

  “Then, no doubt, that is what it is.”

  “Very well, but—”

  “Yes?”

  “Who is Lord Morrolan?”

  “Oh, as to that—”

  “Well?”

  “I have not the least idea in the world, I assure you.”

  “But he is on our side?”

  “He is a Dragonlord who has chosen to defend the Empire, although whether from loyalty to me, to the Empire, to Sethra Lavode, or simply a dislike of Kâna, I do not know.”

  “That, then, is sufficient, I think. Is there more?”

  “Nearly.”

  “Well?”

  “He is terribly overmatched.”

  Khaavren nodded. “So it seemed, from my brief observation. Then we cannot expect him to gain the victory.”

  “That is true.”

  “However, perhaps we can use this battle to gain safety, at least temporarily.”

  “Yes. If we can reach Dzur Mountain, they will not find it easy to dislodge us.”

  “That, then, is the plan.”

  “Very well, Captain, let us then put it into practice at once.”

  “As Your Majesty wishes.”

  Khaavren led his small command, which included no less than the Empress herself, around the fighting, and as straight as he could toward Dzur Mountain, even as Morrolan was facing defeat for the first time in his career.

  It had come about quite nearly by accident, although, to be sure, the disparity of forces had
made something similar almost inevitable. But it was not, in fact, the brigades sent in response to Saakrew’s urgent pleas, but, rather, some of a group of those who were searching for Zerika who came upon Saakrew’s command just as Morrolan was advancing once more. Saakrew knew opportunity when he saw it, or, rather, he understood that if these four or five thousand additional troops were permitted to leave then there was nothing to stop his enemy from continuing his advance. He therefore, after a certain amount of discussion over precedence of orders and command, prevailed upon the leader of these companies to regroup them and fall upon the flank of those advancing.

  This was done with considerable success, and it was only Fentor’s quick realization of what had happened, and his ability to prevail upon Morrolan, even in the delirium of battle, that prevented his small army from being completely destroyed. Morrolan himself led the retreat, breaking through an opposing force attempting to complete the encirclement, and, after having done so, he returned to lead a delaying action to discourage the pursuit.

  By the time he was able to rest, it was past the second hour after noon, and he ought, by all logic, to have been exhausted—yet, because of some strange power granted him by his Goddess, or because of some attribute of his remarkable weapon, or because of the peculiar nature of a Dragonlord in battle, or perhaps because of all of these things, he, according to all witnesses, showed no signs of fatigue as he consulted with Fentor upon what ought to be done next, as they regrouped on top of a hill not far from where they had launched their first attack (a hill which is today called Battle Hill under the mistaken impression that the battle was actually fought there).

  Morrolan’s first word was the simple question, “Casualties?”

  “I don’t know, my lord. We have suffered badly. Killed and captured, I should say at least two hundreds, with a similar number of wounded, though many of the wounds are light.”

  “Very well. How much time have we before we are attacked again?”