Arrow's Fall

by Mercedes Lackey

  Long before then, Ancar's army arrived.

  * * *

  Alberich was beginning to feel hopeful. The ranks of Valdemar's forces had been swelled to nearly double the original size by deserters—

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  partisans of Alessandar— from across the Border. The Lord Marshal was fairly dancing with glee; with the exception of the dependents, every one of the men and women who sought sanctuary with them was a well-trained fighter or Healer— and every one burned with hatred and anger for the murder of their beloved King.

  For the true tale had been spread to the countryside, from the capital westward, by a most unexpected source— the members of Trader Evan's clan.

  Evan, it seemed had taken to heart Talia's warning to flee— and done more than that. He had spread the word among the traders of his own clan as he fled; they in turn had carried the tale farther. Close to the capital, the people were cowed and afraid, too frightened to dare even escape; but close to the Border where Ancar's hand had not yet fallen so heavily, and where Alessandar had been served out of love, feelings ran high. High enough, that when two or three Border officers decided to defect to Valdemar's side of the Border, nearly the entire contingent of the regular army stationed in the area chose to come with them.

  Ancar surely had not anticipated this, nor would Ancar have any way of knowing they had gone. A small group of volunteers had remained behind at the signal towers and continued to send messages and information— all of it false.

  "They'll fade into the villages when Ancar has gone by," the Captain who had hosted Kris and Talia told Alberich. "They've got civilian clothing at hand now. If they can, they'll come across to us, but all the men who volunteered have families, and they won't leave 'em."

  "Understandable," Alberich replied. "If it is that we win this battle, we shall post watchers to guide them here at every likely crossing. If not..."

  "Then it won't matter a damn, because Ancar will have us all," the Captain answered grimly.

  * * *

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  The Lord Marshal, with his forces doubled, was in no doubt as to the outcome.

  "Randon," Selenay said anxiously, as they waited for some sign that Ancar was within striking distance, "I know it's your job to be confident, but he still has us outnumbered three to two—"

  They were standing, as they had every day since the Border had been alerted, at the top of the highest hill in the vicinity. Ancar's mages probably could mask the movements of his troops from Farsight, but they'd be hard put to eliminate the dust-cloud of their passing, or the disturbance of birds, or any one of a number of other signs of the movement of many men. From this hill there was a clear line-of-sight for miles into Hardorn. Trained watchers were posted here, but Selenay and the Lord Marshal also spent most of their time not otherwise occupied squinting into the bright sunshine alongside them.

  "My lady, we have more on our side than he can guess at. We have a thousand trained fighters besides our own that he knows nothing about.

  We have the choice of battleground. And we have the Heralds to ensure that there are no botched orders or misheard messages, or commands that come too late to be effective. The only thing I fear are his mages." Now doubt did shadow the Lord Marshal's eyes, and creep into his voice. "We have no way of knowing what they can do, how many he has, or if we can counteract them. And they may turn the day for him."

  "And Heraldic Gifts for the most part are not much use offensively,"

  Selenay added, sobered by the thought of the mages. "If only we had one of the Herald-mages alive today."

  "Lady-Queen, will I do?"

  Selenay whirled, startled. As she and Randon had been absorbed in watching the Border and in their conversation, two Heralds had climbed the hill behind them. One was Dirk, pale, but looking better than he had in days.

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  The other, so begrimed with dust that his Whites were gray, his face lined with exhaustion, but sporting a self-conscious grin despite his weariness, was Griffon.

  "I brought him right here as soon as we'd pried him off his saddle, Majesty," Dirk said. "This lout just may be our answer to the mages—remember his Gift? He's a Firestarter, Majesty."

  "Just point out what you want to go up in flames— or who," Griffon added. "I guarantee it'll go. Kyril hasn't found anything that'll block me yet."

  "That's no boast, Majesty; I trained him, I know what he can do. He's limited to line-of-sight, but that should be good enough."

  "But— you were riding circuit up North," Selenay said, dazed with the sudden turn in their fortunes that brought Griffon there when he was most needed. "How did you even find out we were under threat, much less get here in time?"

  "Pure, dumb, Herald's luck," Griffon replied. "I ran into a Herald Courier whose Gift just happens to be Foresight; her message was delivered and we were— ah— passing an evening together. That night she got a really strong vision; all but dragged me out of bed and threw me into the saddle stark naked. She took over my circuit, I rode for the Border as fast as Harevis could carry me. And here I am. I just hope I can do you some good."

  * * *

  The setting sun was turning the clouds bloody when one of the lookouts reported the first long-awaited sign of Ancar's army. Selenay prayed that the blood-red of the sunset was not an ill omen for her forces, even while she and the Lord Marshal issued the first of the orders for the battle to come. The Lord Marshal had chosen as the battlefield a low, bare hill just on the Valdemar side of the Border. It had woods to the rear and the left of it, and 258

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  open fields to the right. What Ancar couldn't know— and what even now the scouts and skirmishers heading into the woods intended to keep him from learning— was that the woods to the rear of the hill had flooded with the bursting of an earthen dam earlier this spring. Water lay two and three feet deep all through them, and the hitherto-spongy ground was a morass of mud.

  Others besides those skirmishers were moving into the woods to the left of the chosen field— the thousand or so fighters who had defected to Valdemar. In groups of a hundred or thereabouts, each with a mindspeaking Herald, they were taking positions to lie in wait past any point where Ancar's scouts would be allowed to penetrate.

  * * *

  Teren slapped at another mosquito, and curbed his irritation. The ground was high enough here that they weren't up to their rears in mud, but the stinging insects were having a rare old party— not only acres of new-made marsh to lay eggs in, but this unexpected bonus of humans as refreshments! It was dark, the air was damp, and it was chilly. Wythra didn't like it any better than he did; he could hear his Companion blowing impatiently in the darkness to his right. :Twin?: he mind-sent. :We're in position, how about you?:

  :The same,: was Keren's reply, with an overtone of exasperation, :and up to our armpits in goddamn midges!:

  :Mosquitos here.:

  :Count your blessings,: came her retort. :The midges are crawling into people's armor and you beat yourself black and blue trying to get them.:

  :They're everywhere— : That had the unmistakable overtones of Keren's stallion Dantris, and he was irritated. Unlike most other Heralds, the twins could Mindspeak as well with each other's Companions as with their own.

  :Even fellis-oil isn't helping,: Dantris concluded in annoyance.

  :Sounds like you may have more casualties from the wildlife than in battle.: Teren grinned to himself despite his discomfort.

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  :Let's all hope you're right,: his twin answered soberly.

  * * *

  "Be my eyes and ears, love," Talia had begged Dirk. "They're going to need me—" "But—" he'd protested.

  "Take Rolan; you know you can link to him. And when they need me—"

  "Not if? " He'd sighed. "No, never mind. I link to Rolan and he links to you? Gods, can't you rest for a moment?
"

  "Dare I?"

  He'd had no answer to give her. So here he waited, in the lines behind Selenay, waiting for dawn. Praying she didn't kill herself— because if he lost her, now that he'd just found her...

  * * *

  When dawn came, Selenay's forces were formed up along the top of the hill, with their backs to the woods. There was a heavy knot of Heralds in Whites at the end of the left flank, hard against the woods to the side. With them was Jeri, wearing some of Elspeth's student Grays; they were hoping Ancar would mistake her for Elspeth and drive for that part of the line. Elspeth herself was back at the Keep, ready to flee at a moment's notice if the tide turned against them. She had agreed to this reluctantly, but saw the sense in it, and she wanted to be certain if everything went wrong that Talia was not left behind. During one of her brief moments of wakefulness, the Queen's Own had soberly asked the Heir to personally be certain that she didn't fall back into Ancar's hands, and Elspeth had promised just as soberly. Although Elspeth had a shrewd notion that Talia meant she should see to it that the Queen's Own received coup de grace, the Heir was determined to bring her along even if it meant carrying the injured Herald herself!

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  * * *

  In the pale light of dawn, Selenay's original thousand looked pitiful against Ancar's three thousand. They were a shade more heavily armored than the Guard; from the way they obeyed their officers' orders, they were as well trained. About five hundred of the three thousand were still mounted; cavalry then, but light cavalry, not heavy. The good news was that their bows were all crossbows— in an open field battle, virtually useless in combat once fired, and lacking the range of a longbow.

  Selenay's forces waited, patiently. Ancar would have to come to them.

  "He's a good commander, I'll give him that," the Lord Marshal growled, when after an hour of waiting nothing had happened. "He's assessing his chances— and I hope to blazes we look like fools! Wait a minute, something's happening—"

  A rider came forward from the ranks with a white parley flag. He rode to the exact middle of the battlefield, and paused.

  The Lord Marshal rode forward three paces, his battle-harness jingling, and thundered, "Speak, man! Or are you just here to look pretty?"

  The rider, a slightly foppish fellow wearing highly ornamented plate with a helmet that bore an outlandish crest, colored angrily and spoke up.

  "Queen Selenay, your envoys murdered King Alessandar, clearly on your orders. King Ancar has declared a state of war upon Valdemar for your heinous act. Your forces are outnumbered— will you surrender yourself now to Ancar's justice?"

  An angry muttering went up along the line, as Selenay grimaced. "I wondered what sort of tale he'd concoct," she murmured to Kyril, then called to the rider: "And just what can I expect from Ancar's justice?"

  "You must abdicate and give over your daughter Elspeth in marriage to Ancar. The Heralds of Valdemar must be disbanded and outlawed. Ancar 261

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  will rule Valdemar jointly with Elspeth; you will be imprisoned in a place of Ancar's choosing for as long as you live."

  "Which will be about ten minutes once Ancar has me in his hands,"

  Selenay said loud enough for the envoy to hear. Then she stood up in her stirrups, removed her helm so that the sun shone fully on her golden hair, and called aloud, "What do you say, my people? Shall I surrender?"

  The resounding "No!" that met her question rang across the hilltop and caused the envoy's horse to start and shy.

  "Now hear me—" she said, in a voice so clear and carrying that there was no doubt that every one of Ancar's men could hear it. "Ancar murdered his own father, and my envoy as well. He consorts with evil magicians, and dabbles in blood-sacrifice, and I'd sooner set a blade across Elspeth's throat than have her spend so much as five minutes in his company! Let him beware the vengeance of the gods for his false accusations— and the only way he'll rule Valdemar is when every one of her citizens is dead in her defense!"

  The envoy turned his horse back to his own lines, the cheering that followed Selenay's words seeming to push him along before it like a leaf before the wind.

  "Well, now we're for it," Selenay said to her commanders, settling her sword a little more comfortably at her side. She replaced her helm, and patted her Companion's neck. "Now we see if our plans work, even at three-to-two."

  "And," Kyril replied, "if a Firestarter's the equal of Ancar's mages."

  * * *

  "Why are they just sitting there?" Griffon asked, his expression perplexed. "Why aren't they charging?"

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  He was far back behind the first and second lines, with the bowmen. His Gift was far too precious to risk him anywhere near the front, but he chafed at his enforced idleness.

  They found out in the next few moments as fog seemed to begin rising from the earth at a point between their lines and Ancar's. The fog was a sickly yellow, and the breeze blowing across the battle field did not disturb it at all. Then it seemed to writhe and curdle; there was an eerie green glow all about it. The breeze brought a whiff of a sulfurous stench, the whole battlefield seemed to shift sideways for an instant, and Griffon's stomach lurched— and in place of the fog was a clutch of demonic monsters.

  They were easily seven feet tall, with dark pits in their skulls in place of eyes, in the depths of which a dim red fire seemed to flicker. Their mouths were fanged: their leathery yellow hides, the color of rancid butter, seemed armor enough. They each carried a double-bladed axe in one hand, a knife nearly the length of a sword in the other. There were nearly a hundred of them. A fearful murmuring arose from the ranks of Selenay's forces— a few arrows flew in the direction of the things, but those that connected merely bounced off. As they opened their fanged mouths to roar and began advancing on the center of Selenay's lines, her own troops fell back a step or two involuntarily.

  Then, without warning, one of the demon-warriors stopped dead in its tracks, and let out a howl that caused men to clap their hands to their ears; then it burst into flame.

  It howled again, and began staggering in circles, a walking pyre. Selenay's troops cheered again; then the cheering died, for the rest of the demons were still coming, oblivious to the fate of the burning one, which had fallen to the ground, still afire.

  A second and a third ignited— and still they kept coming. They moved fairly slowly, but it was evident that they would reach Selenay's lines in a few moments.

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  And so they did— and the slaughter they caused was hideous. The demons waded into the line of fighters as a man might wade into a pack of yipping curs. They swung their heavy axes with deceptive slowness— and sheared through armor and the flesh beneath as if the armor were paper and the flesh as soft as melted cheese. There was no deflecting the blows of those vicious axes; a man in the way of one of them went down with his shield split, and his skull split as well. Incredibly, fighters pressed to replace those that had fallen, but their bravery was useless. The axes continued to swing, and the replacements joined their fellows, either in death or in mangled agony. The Guard swarmed to make a protective wall around Selenay and her commanders, but the demons were inexorably cutting through them. There was blood everywhere— some of it yellow, but precious little compared to the amount of red, human blood flowing. Men cried out in fear or in pain, the monsters roared, and under all was the screech of blade-edge meeting armor and the stink of demon-flesh burning.

  Griffon, standing far behind the lines, brow furrowed with concentration, was focusing on yet another of the demons. As it, too, went up in flames, he looked for a new target in despair. It seemed that he alone could kill these monsters— but there were so many of them!

  "Herald—" He tried to ignore the insistent voice in his ear, but the man would not go away. He turned impatiently, to see that his persistant companion was the Councillor, Bard Hyron. Hyron was
enough of a trained bowman to have warranted a place back here, alongside Griffon.

  "Herald— the tales say these things are dependent on their sorcerer. If you kill him, they'll vanish!"

  "What if the tales are wrong?"

  "You won't have lost anything," the Bard pointed out. "Look— the mage must be in that knot of people back by the standard; just to the left of the center and the rear of Ancar's lines."

  "Get me a Farseer!" Before Griffon had finished speaking, the man was off, running faster than Griffon would have guessed he could.

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  The Bard was back in an instant— too long for Griffon, who watched, sickened, as the demons carved down another swath of the Guard.

  "I'm looking, Grif—" It was Griffon's red-haired year-mate, Davan, who came stumbling up in the Bard's wake— stumbling because he had one hand pressed to his forehead, trying to "See" as he ran. "I've— bloody hell! I know he's there, but they're blocking me! Damn you, you bastards—"

  Davan went to his knees, face twisted and unrecognizable with the effort of fighting the blockage the mages were putting on him.

  "Come on, Davan—" Griffon glanced up; and swallowed bile and fear.

  The demons were continuing to advance. He concentrated, and sent the nearest up in flames, but another took its place.

  Hyron froze for a moment, then ran off again. Griffon hardly noticed; he was doing what he could— and it wasn't enough.

  Pounding hooves and a flash of white that Griffon saw out of the corner of his eye signaled the arrival of another Herald. Distracted, Griffon turned to see who it was.

  Dirk— and not Ahrodie, but Rolan!