Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor

by Mercedes Lackey

  Flicker of blue— and a wave of sickening horror smashed him back into his body. But he knew what he had seen was real.

  Sendar, the King of Valdemar—

  —was dead.

  That was when a shriek of berserk rage tore the throat of every man and woman in the army, and sent them against their foes in a killing frenzy such as no Valdemaran had experienced in three centuries or more. He and Kantor rode that wave of bitter, mindless hatred, rode it and used it and let it use them, until it ran out—

  —and the foes ran out—

  —and left them, like every other surviving fighter on the Valdemar side, exhausted and sickened; blinking at the carnage around them, peering at death through eyes that streamed with agonized tears, in grief and mourning that would never entirely be healed.

  17

  THE taste of blood was in his mouth; the sweet-sickly stench of it in his throat. His nostrils felt choked with it.

  He thought, vaguely, that he should be on his knees, throwing up what little there was in his stomach. But instead, all he could feel was grief and numbness.

  :Selenay—: prompted Kantor, with unutterable weariness, turning his head in the direction of the Heir.

  No, not the Heir, he reminded himself, with a stabbing sensation in his heart. The Queen.

  He wiped blood and sweat away from his eyes, and peered though a haze of exhaustion toward her circle of protection. He hadn’t prevented all of the Tedrels from getting to her and her guardians, after all—just a great many of them. Another clot of bodies marked where the Royal Guardsmen and her bodyguards had taken care of the ones that had gotten by him. Four of the Royal Guardsmen were dead, the rest wounded, two of the four mounted bodyguards were down.

  Kantor stumbled to them; he half fell out of the saddle. His leg slash and half a dozen other wounds burned with a fire of their own, but he knew from the way they felt that though they hurt like demons were poking him, they were relatively minor. He wasn’t going to bleed to death any time soon, and his injuries weren’t going to incapacitate him. Therefore, as he had countless times when he was injured, he would carry on, if need be, until he dropped.

  Berda and Locasti were on the ground with their great-hearted horses standing over them like guard dogs. Locasti sat up just as he got there, holding her head in both hands; a dented helm told him what had happened to her. It was a good helm, that, double-walled, with extra space between the inner and outer wall on the top of the head—a helm inside a helm, so to speak. Good job it was built that well; it had saved her from a cracked skull or worse.

  Berda rolled over on her side, moaning, and Lotte slid down off her mount to help her; blood spewed from the knee joint of her armor. But she was still alive, and Lotte was down beside her, tearing off the thigh armor to get a belt around the leg even as he reached them. Lotte had a slash of her own down her arm that she didn’t seem to notice—or else she didn’t care, knowing that it was minor compared to that leg wound.

  She’s going to lose that leg, he thought dispassionately, looking at the joint laid half-open. Better that than her life. Much better that than losing Selenay. . . .

  :They’re telling me all over the field that what’s left of the Tedrels are routed,: said Myste into his mind, with a deceptive calm that overlaid hysteria. :The others are telling me that they’re disengaging and scattering to the four winds. And our reserves have caught up with their cavalry and they’re cutting them to finely-chopped bits. I think we can get up now.:

  That was when he realized that she was Mindspeaking Keren and Ylsa—and the Companions—as well as himself. The Companions spread out, and the little armored shell at the heart of their circle opened up.

  “Your guard drop not,” he croaked, as Keren and Ylsa stood up, Ylsa hauling a weeping Selenay up by main force. Myste stayed where she was.

  “We don’t intend to,” Keren said grimly, and put her back to Selenay, shield up, facing out.

  Alberich dropped heavily to one knee before the Queen, who stared at him without comprehension, her face contorted with grief, tears pouring down her cheeks. Perhaps it was without recognition as well; his Whites were saturated with drying blood, the white leather-and-plate armor over it blood-streaked and crusting. He must look like something out of a nightmare.

  “Majesty,” he said in a harsh voice from a throat made raw with screaming. “To your people, you must show yourself. Now. Your banner must fly. Know they have a Queen, they must.”

  He really, truly didn’t expect her to understand him. He didn’t think she would even hear him, much less realize what he had just said.

  But as Ylsa’s armored hand fell on her shoulder in a gesture as much of comfort as a hand in a gauntlet could convey, he watched sense come into her eyes, watched with awe and wonder as she somehow—out of what reserves, he could not even begin to imagine—pulled herself together. She pulled off her gauntlet and wiped her streaming eyes with the back of her hand, then straightened. “You’re right, of course,” she said, in a flat voice. “Myste?”

  “Working on it.” He saw that Myste had hauled herself to her feet—

  —no, foot, for the other one was held clear off the ground—

  —and her Companion was lying down on the ground so she could get into the saddle. She did so with a grunt of pain, leaned over and picked up the bloody, muddy battle banner by a corner of the fabric. Her Companion heaved herself to her feet, rider and all, and Myste manhandled the banner back into its socket. In the next moment, Selenay mounted Caryo, and pulled off her helm so that her golden hair shone in the westering sunlight.

  :Heralds of Valdemar—: Myste Mindcalled, the voice echoing painfully in Alberich’s skull. That was a strong Mindcall. :Behold your Queen.:

  “Alert remain!” Alberich growled to the remaining bodyguards, and dragged himself back up into the saddle, though a gray film of exhaustion seemed to fog everything.

  He made a trumpet of his hands, and shouted what Myste had called out to those with Mindspeech. He was used to bellowing battlefield orders—he put every bit of that into his shout.

  “Valdemar! Behold your Queen!”

  From that vantage, he watched as slowly, slowly, heads turned toward them, in a wave of motion starting from those nearest the group on the hill until it reached even to where there were knots of fighting still going on.

  Myste was right, though; from where he sat, there was more fleeing than fighting, and as combat broke off, those who could still move took advantage of the momentary distraction of their opponents to escape.

  There was still a pool of purple between the Valdemaran lines and the hilltop, but it wasn’t moving, and the battle banners were nowhere to be seen. Could the Tedrel High Command actually be dead?

  :I think so—: Kantor told him, after a moment. :Yes. Your idea worked. The Fetching-Heralds did it, when Sendar died.:

  He winced; for a moment he had difficulty breathing. If only they could have done it before—

  So many “if onlys.” Never had a victory felt so much like a defeat.

  :The Lord Marshal?: he asked Kantor.

  :Coming.:

  A strange silence fell over the battlefield; the sunlight glittered on helms, but there wasn’t a single raised sword or spearpoint to be seen. The pressure of thousands of eyes was a palpable force that even Alberich, in his exhaustion, felt.

  Then it began, weakly at first, but gathering strength, a sound—

  —a cheer—

  Wordless, inarticulate, torn from the throats of exhausted men and women, grew and grew from a thread to a river, from a river to a torrent, to a wall of sound that surrounded them.

  They came, walking, then running, sometimes dropping weapons, but all, all cheering; some weeping while they cheered, but all of them saluting her, their Queen—Valdemar incarnate.

  And when they reached her, they reached for her, hands outstretched to touch her, touch Caryo, assure themselves that she was alive, was real. She reached out to them, touch
ing hands, faces, and as each one of them got that assurance, he made way so that others could discover for themselves that their hope still lived.

  Caryo began to move forward, one slow and infinitely careful step at a time, taking her through the sea of upturned faces and reaching hands. Alberich and her remaining four bodyguards followed, though what they could do in this press of bodies if anything happened—

  :Let anyone so much as breathe harm on her and the army will tear him to pieces,: Kantor said. :She’s safer now than she has ever been.:

  The Lord Marshal’s horse swam through the river of humanity to meet them, and Alberich was immensely grateful to see him. Alberich knew nothing of Courts and politics, and without missing a beat, he and Kantor dropped back to ride just behind and to her right, as the Lord Marshal took the place on her left. He wasn’t sure where they were going, except farther into the battlefield, until they got there—and he was having enough trouble staying alert and concentrating on Selenay’s back to think about it.

  It was slow going, wading through that surging sea of humanity. It must have taken at least a candlemark to get from where they’d been to where they were going. And by that time, the handful of men and women who had not been pressing toward the young Queen had accomplished a great deal. . . .

  They passed through a protective ring of Guardsmen into a clear space; the men working there among the fallen stopped what they were doing and respectfully dropped to their knees. There was another pile of Tedrel bodies laid to one side—a very large pile. The bodies of several Guardsmen had been laid out respectfully in a neat row, their weapons in their dead hands clasped on their chests. And the blood-drenched, white bodies of two Companions—Idiot. Of course she’d come here first.

  Selenay slid from Caryo’s back to kneel at her dead father’s side.

  They’d already laid him on a stretcher, with his banner draped as a pall across his body. She pulled the fabric down to reveal his face.

  Alberich couldn’t watch; he felt as if he was intruding on what should have been a private moment. He wondered if she hated him for keeping her away from her father’s side; if she would ever forgive him for keeping her “safe” at the moment. But as he turned away, he caught sight of Healer Crathach sitting on the churned-up, bloody ground with Talamir’s head in his lap, both hands resting on the Herald’s forehead.

  Kantor stepped carefully to the side, to stand over them. Crathach looked up as if he had felt Alberich’s gaze on him. His eyes were haunted, but fierce.

  “He wants to die,” Crathach said, in a low voice, hoarse with shouting, screaming, and weeping. “He wants to follow Taver. But I won’t let him, not now. Selenay needs him. We can’t afford an untrained Queen’s Own, not now; she needs someone with every bit of international, Court, and political experience possible.”

  “Hold to him, then,” Alberich agreed. “Jadus?”

  “They’ve already taken him to the Healers’ tent. There’s nothing left of his leg to save, but he’ll live.” Crathach growled. “Bloody hell. Those bastards knew exactly what to do at the worst possible time. We were holding our own until they got us too crowded together for the hooves to come into play, then sent a man in to hamstring the Companions.”

  Alberich bit back an oath. No wonder the two Companions had gone down so easily! And no wonder Sendar had faltered just long enough for the fatal blow to fall. “Stand fast, can you?” he asked.

  “As long as I have to—the new Grove-Born should be coming as fast as he can; I just have to hold until he comes.” What he was saying made no sense to Alberich’s weary mind, but it was too much to try and think about. Jadus and Talamir were going to live; that was all that counted. A pair of stretcher carriers came up, then, and Crathach let them take Talamir up, though he kept one hand on the Herald’s head the whole time. They carried the Herald away, with Crathach, as it were, attached.

  Alberich found himself swaying in the saddle, and dragged his attention back to Selenay. She had drawn the fabric over her father’s face again, and now she stood up.

  “Gently bear him away, and prepare him for his journey,” was all she said, but there was a rush of volunteers, most of them still weeping, and when the stretcher was picked up there was not a finger’s width of it that did not have an eager hand supporting it.

  As the body was taken through the crowd, men fell silent, removing their helms and standing with heads bowed until it had passed them. Selenay stood looking after it, with the last scarlet rays of the sun turning her golden hair to a red-gold crown.

  Then she mounted Caryo again, summoned Alberich and the Lord Marshal with a glance, and rode from the silent field back to the encampment. For a moment, a curtain of gray haze came between Alberich and the world; it cleared up in the next heartbeat, but it was a sign he couldn’t ignore.

  Alberich signaled Kantor to drop back a pace, putting him even with Ylsa. “You and Keren—” he began

  “We’ve already figured you’re in no shape to protect anything,” the rangy Herald told him bluntly. “We’re on it. And what’s more, the minute she dismisses you, there’ll be a Healer waiting to take you off.”

  “Ah—my thanks,” he managed. Let them decide for themselves what he was thanking them for. He urged Kantor up again. They passed through the camp, and as they did, it was through another corridor of battered fighters. Some wanted to touch her or Caryo, some just saluted her respectfully. Some murmured things like “The Gods bless you, Majesty,” and others gazed in worshipful silence. A tiny shard of Alberich’s mind that was still able to think was both pleased and sorrowful at these demonstrations. Pleased, because his work with her among the fighters had born such fruit—and full of remorse because the harvest had been gathered too soon.

  They moved now through a blue haze of twilight; he was grateful, for it cloaked the injuries, hid the wounds of men and beasts in soft shadows from which the color had been leeched. And he was grateful, too, for the fact that he needed only to sit Kantor’s saddle for the moment. He wasn’t certain he was up to much else. When they reached the command tent, she paused, and did not dismount as he had expected she would. Instead she turned Caryo so that they faced the crowd of quiet men and women who had followed her.

  Someone brought torches and stood to either side of her, so that she was clearly illuminated. Her young face looked years older than it had this morning; her cheeks smudged and armor and surcoat dirtied from the struggle to escape from Myste, Keren, and Ylsa. And still she looked, he thought, every inch a Queen. “We have fought a terrible foe today, and we have won,” she said to all of them, her voice carrying across the stillness. “And it has been at a cost that none of us would willingly have paid. I do not speak of the loss of my—my father only; I do not speak of your gallant friends and comrades only. But many, if not all of you, know that our battle plans changed without warning, and that King Sendar made a strange and some might say, suicidal charge toward the enemy that ended in his death and that of many, many others. There was a reason for that, and I believe that you should all hear why my father acted as he did today.”

  She told them all then what had happened up there on the hillside; why Sendar had sent away the reinforcements, and why he had subsequently made of himself such tempting bait that the main Tedrel army threw away their own plans and strategy, and were lured into defeat. All this was new to those straining to catch her every word—and there was one telling omission. She did not say it was Alberich who’d had the visions; she let them think it had been Sendar himself.

  He was astonished, amazed—it was a brilliant stroke, for it made Sendar just that little bit larger than life, that more of a hero, while at the same time it kept Alberich’s Gift a secret among the very few that he knew could be trusted with it. If he’d thought of it himself, it was exactly what he’d have asked her to say. Since she thought of it, he could not have been more proud of her.

  “We have lost a great King this day,” she said, when the murmurs of wonder had
died away. “We have lost a King who cared so deeply for the lives of his people that he flung his own down to save them; we have lost a wise and compassionate leader, and a great-hearted man as well. And I have lost, not only a father, but my best and truest friend.”

  Her voice caught on a sob, but she stopped for a moment, wiped her eyes, and went on. “But Valdemar lives, and I live, and together, we will make certain to be worthy of his sacrifice. There is much to do now, and much that will need to be done in the future, but we have proved today that together there is no foe that can stand against us, and no matter the odds, we will prevail!”

  A great roar went up as she dismounted and gave Caryo into the willing hands of waiting aides. Keren and Ylsa were a fraction of a moment behind her, flanking her as she walked into the command tent.

  Alberich did not so much dismount as fall out of the saddle, and he had to cling to it for a moment before his head cleared. Kantor swiveled his head to peer at him, but before the Companion could say anything, more aides came to take Kantor away with the other three Companions. Alberich set his jaw, swayed for a moment, and followed Selenay into the tent, intending to stay discreetly on the sidelines. That gray haze clouded his vision, but he had fought it away before, and he would fight it away now.

  That was his intention, anyway—

  What happened was that he got three paces inside the door flap, that grayness turned to blackness, and he passed out cold at Selenay’s feet.

  He came awake all at once, and blinked up at white, sun-washed canvas.

  “It’s about time,” Myste said dryly, as he realized he was not alone and this was not his tent. “Layabout. Come on, get up and get out of that cot; they need it for someone who’s really hurt.”

  He sat up; it was a big tent, and it was full of more cots like his. He had been put in one right beside the tent wall; his nearest neighbor was—

  “Jadus—” he said.

  The lean Herald turned to face them without raising his head from the pillow, and grimaced. “In the flesh, most of it. They had to take the leg.”