He gained the ridge just as the rain lessened to a drizzle. In the captains’ camp, Horsekin were trotting back and forth, but purposefully now, pulling things free of the muck, rounding up comrades, calling out to one another in normal voices. Inside Hir-li’s tent, lanterns glimmered, and the shadows of Horsekin moved back and forth on the walls. As Tren approached, he could hear angry voices snarling back and forth. He ducked under the tent flap and slipped in.
Saber in hand, Hir-li stood at the far end, while in front of him rakzanir jabbered and shoved one another. The high priestess was not among them. For some moments, Tren stood unnoticed in the shadows while he tried to pick up the drift of the talk but failed. Finally, Hir-li saw him and bellowed out an order. The Horsekin captains fell still long enough for Tren to make his way through to the warleader’s side; then they started their arguing again.
“What do you think of the vision, Lord Tren?” Hir-li bent his head and bellowed the question above the noise. “Some say it’s but an illusion brought about by our goddess’s enemies. If our priestess can bring down the rain, they say, surely Alshandra’s power remains great.”
“What does the warleader say?”
“That dweomer folk work their spells from their own power, not from the gods.” Hir-li showed fang in what might have been a smile. “And now, what do you say?”
Tren considered, unwilling to end up spitted upon the warleader’s saber if he argued the wrong side of a theological question.
“I wouldn’t presume to interpret the vision,” Tren said at last. “The high priestess is the only one who can do that.”
When Hir-li swore and spit onto the carpet, Tren stepped back, ready to dodge a blow. The warleader grinned, all fangs now, and grabbed his arm.
“Come out the back, where it’s quieter.”
Half-dragged, Tren had no choice but to follow. He was glad enough, anyway, to get outside. Although the rain had stopped completely, the air was still fresh and clean. Light seeped through the canvas and gleamed on the charms braided into the warleader’s mane.
“Where is the high priestess, my lord?” Tren said.
“No one knows. Her maidservants told me that there are things missing from her tent. She had a special cloth sack in which she could carry ritual implements when she became the sacred raven avatar. That sack is gone.”
“Are the ritual things gone, too?”
“They are not.” Hir-li let go Tren’s arm. “Only a few clothes. That stupid silver dagger. Some jewels. Those are missing. I’d say she’s deserted us, except—” He waved his hand at the sky. “She did send the rain.”
“A last favor?”
“Do you think so?”
Tren rubbed his bruised arm, considered tact, then cursed that to the hells along with their false goddess and her priestess both.
“I think, Rakzan Hir-li, that whether the priestess is gone or no, there’s not much left for us but death in battle.”
Hir-li nodded, making the charms jingle and chime.
“I think the same, Lord Tren, but I see no reason to tell the other officers this. Instead, I will tell them that the priestess told you she’d return by dawn.”
“Very well. But why lie?”
“Because, Lord Tren, I do not wish to die alone.”
The Deverry army stood on alert, watching the Horsekin camp burn, until the unnatural rain burst from the sky. Soaked and grumbling about dweomer, noble-born and riders alike milled round the camp. When the rain stopped, someone managed to get enough fire going to light a couple of torches that had been in his tent and thus were still dry. By their flickering light, Drwmyc addressed the men, or as many as could hear him, anyway, as he stood on the back of a supply cart.
“Men, we have dweomer on our side, too. You’ve seen it fly over you, haven’t you? None of us thought there was such a thing as a dragon, much less one who could talk, but here she is, on our side and fighting for Deverry and the High King. What in the name of all that’s holy is one puny rainstorm compared to that?”
The men closest cheered him; the ones in the middle distance repeated what he’d said to the ones at the rear, who cheered in turn. With a double guard set round the camp, the army went off to sleep as best they could before the fighting on the morrow.
Rhodry, however, walked behind their lines and found Arzosah, lying as if on guard in front of the tent he’d been issued. He should have been sharing it with Yraen. They should have been standing there together, wondering what Jill was going to say on the morrow when they gained the victory.
“What’s wrong?” Arzosah rumbled. “You stink of sadness.”
“What do you mean, what’s wrong? Yraen’s dead, Jill’s dead. What more needs to be wrong?”
“You could be dead yourself. Or worse yet, so could I.”
Rhodry managed a brief twitch of a smile and came over, reaching up to scratch the ridges above her eyes. She rumbled, letting her head droop low.
“My heart aches for you, losing your friends,” she said at last. “It truly does.”
“My thanks, then. I’ll not be able to mourn them properly till they’re avenged, though. This is no time for tears. I want blood.”
She rumbled a little louder in approval. He walked round her head and scratched the other ridge. All at once, she swung her head up so fast that she nearly knocked him over. She sniffed the wind, peering through the darkness, then hissed. Trailing a faint silver light, Evandar came strolling up to them.
“I owe you thanks,” Rhodry said, “for saving my life and Arzosah’s as well.”
“Most welcome.” Evandar glanced at the dragon. “You’ve done well, you know. You’ve been a good if somewhat scaly little lass.”
She growled, trembling with rage. In the light that hung round him, her eyes glittered more steel than copper.
“Peace, peace,” Rhodry broke in fast. “How do you fare, Evandar? Alshandra’s gone. Do you mourn her?”
“Why should I? She infuriated me.”
“Well, true, but didn’t you love her once?”
“Oh.” Evandar considered for a long moment. “I hadn’t thought of that. Since I don’t feel particularly mournful, I couldn’t have loved her much,”
“Hah!” Arzosah snarled. “I doubt me if you’ve ever loved anyone but yourself.”
“Indeed? And I suppose you did?”
“Have I not mourned my mate, all these long years? Isn’t it love that makes me drive these stinking Horsekin to their deaths like cattle to the slaughterer’s pen? That’s true love, not milksop sniveling.”
Evandar growled like a dragon himself.
“Enough!” Rhodry said. “We have a thing or two to talk about. That whistle. I carried it once, so I remember it well. What did you mean, they made it from his bones?”
“That sound! We dragons know, we dragons hear. It cries in his voice still.”
“It looked like a finger bone,” Rhodry said. “But it was too long for a human bone or elven either.”
“From the tip of his wing, then.” She threw back her head and snarled. “It drew me like a lure.”
“And is that why they wanted the thing so badly?” Evandar put in. “I’ll wager it was. Alshandra knew I’d drawn the dragon into this, and she wanted the whistle to use against her.”
“If she weren’t dead already, I’d kill her,” Arzosah growled.
“But she is, she is.”
“And Jill with her.” Rhodry heard his voice hang small and still in the night air.
For a long moment, Evandar considered, his head cocked to one side, the smile gone.
“Oh, stop it!” Rhodry spun on his heel and looked away, out over the silent camp.
“My heart aches for you,” Evandar said. “My apologies.”
Rhodry let out his breath in a long sigh.
“I’ll have vengeance on the morrow.”
“So we all will,” Evandar said. “Here. Do you want to know who killed Yraen?”
“With all
my heart and soul.”
“Very well, then. That I can do for you.”
Rhodry turned back to find Evandar staring at the sky, still dark with the unnatural clouds.
“Ah, I see it,” Evandar whispered. “The man that killed Yraen is the man that has the longbow. He’s a blond fellow, tall and rather slender, with a face as sharp as a knife.”
“Oh, is he now?” Rhodry felt a smile growing beyond his power to stop it. “Then maybe I’ll see if I can blunt it for him on the morrow. If I can find him, if the gods are willing.”
“Then I’ll wish you the best of luck.” Evandar shivered like a man who feels a cold draft down his neck. “The iron is starting to ache my bones. Fare thee well, Rori, till tomorrow.”
With a shimmer like moonlight on water, Evandar disappeared.
For the rest of that night, they laid Jill’s body out on an improvised bier in the great hall. Though there were no flowers to be had, a weeping Lady Labanna put candles all round to light her way to the Otherlands. Jahdo sat crouched in the curve of the wall and watched while Dallandra, her wounded arm bound, chanted an elven prayer over her friend’s corpse. Carra was sobbing so hard that she couldn’t stand, while the other women cried silently nearby. A few at a time, the men came through to pay their respects and to drink a toast in her honor. Gwerbret Cadmar himself came last and stopped to say a word to the boy.
“There, there, Jahdo, the siege will be over on the morrow. We’ll find a place for you here in the dun, the stables or suchlike.”
“My thanks, Your Grace. You do truly be kind, to think of me now.”
The gwerbret laid a comforting hand on Jahdo’s head, then hobbled off, leaning on his stick. I’ll never see my Mam and Da again now, Jahdo thought, and thinking that, he began to weep himself. Dallandra finished her prayer and came over, holding out her hand.
“Come say farewell, Jahdo, and then we’ll all go upstairs. You can sleep in my chamber tonight. We’ll put a mattress on the floor.”
“My thanks, my lady.” He scrambled to his feet and felt his head sway. “I’m so tired.”
He had to summon courage to look at the body, but when he did, he was glad he’d done it. This wasn’t Jill, not this frail old woman, this broken thing of bones and skin. He turned away and buried his face against Dallandra, who put her arm round his shoulders and led him away.
“Truly, she’s gone, isn’t she?” Dalla said. “She’s gone back to the Light, Jahdo, where we’ll all go in the end, every one of us, to dwell in the Otherlands with the Light.”
Although he didn’t understand what she meant, the tone of her voice soothed him like music. That night, he slept as if all battles were done, but before dawn, the sound of silver horns woke him.
With no one to banish them, the unnatural clouds lingered, lowering over dun and camp. In light as gray as steel, Rhodry unrolled Arzosah’s harness, then considered her as she crouched, waiting. All round them, the camp was coming awake, as the men gobbled down a hasty meal and began to arm.
“I wonder,” Rhodry said. “When the riders from the dun sally, you’re going to terrify their horses. They’ve never even got a good look at you.”
“A good smell of me, you mean.” Arzosah yawned.
“Doesn’t matter which. What does matter is Evandar’s dweomer, and he’s never cast it on them. I’ve been thinking. As soon as they start to sally from the dun, you’d best leave the battle.”
“Good. I’m tired.”
“But I’ll have a horse here waiting. I want that archer.”
Lord Erddyr gladly gave Rhodry a warhorse, a sturdy-looking roan with a deep chest, who’d lost his rider in yesterday’s fighting. As Rhodry saddled it up, he could feel his berserker’s grin biting into his face. At last, he would be able to fight the kind of battle he knew rather than some misty thing of dweomer. Ah, Jill, Jill, he thought to himself, I wish to every god we could celebrate this victory together when the night comes! All at once, it occurred to him that just maybe they might, though in some great hall in the Otherlands. He laughed, making the roan toss up its head and dance a few steps.
“You’ve never carried a berserker before, have you, lad?” Rhodry patted its neck to soothe it. “Well, you won’t hear me over the battle noise.”
He left the roan in the charge of a carter, then returned to Arzosah. They took to the air just as the gwerbret drew up his men and led them out of camp. The dragon circled, making a lazy turn over the dun and town. Far below and tiny with the distance, Cadmar’s warband stood beside their horses at the south gate, ready to join the battle once the Horsekin had been cleared away. Behind them, in a disorganized mass, stood the town militia, ready to loot and dispatch the Horsekin wounded. Rhodry figured they’d earned every coin or trinket they could find. Arzosah passed over and flew on, swinging round over the northern hills, fluttering a moment, then starting her long glide down.
When she reached the Horsekin camp, she roared a signal for the battle to begin. In terror, the cavalry, already mounted, leapt forward and lunged for the gaps in the earthworks. Since the riders were urging them to run, the horses stayed sane this time, bursting out like arrows from a bow into the Deverry line. Dust plumed up as the two lines met in a howl of war cries, tearing the air. Arzosah leveled, then flew upward again, flapping hard and swinging toward the west. Over the river where Jill had died, she pivoted round and came at the Horsekin cavalry broadside. This time, panic broke out like the fires of the night before. Caught by the press of battle, the heavy chargers could neither run nor turn. Instead they reared, kicking and bucking, while the Deverry riders pressed forward on steady mounts.
Arzosah roared, dipping down, down, dangerously down. Rhodry could see the faces of the Horsekin warriors that scattered away from her, smell the acrid sweat of terrified horses as she skimmed the army. He felt a jolt, heard a shriek. Suddenly she swooped up, flapping hard to gain height, because in her claws she held a Horsekin warleader. Dressed in cloth of gold buckled over his armor, he screamed and writhed in her talons as they gained height, hundreds of yards now above the Horsekin line. His finery shredded and billowed round him while she rumbled in laughter.
“For my mate!” she hissed.
And dropped him. With a long shriek, he fell, spinning down and down, to land among his own men like a stone from a catapult. Rhodry heard the cavalry shriek in pure horror when he struck. Although he twisted round to look back, Arzosah was flying away from the battlefield, and he could see nothing.
“They’re sallying,” she called out. “I’ll land now.”
Rhodry twisted back and looked toward the dun. The gates were swinging open and Cadmar’s warband was racing out, four abreast. The dragon flew south until they found the carts and servants, waiting a safe distance away. Rhodry slid down from her back and ran to his new mount, the waiting roan.
“Watch out for that blasted archer!” Arzosah bellowed.
“I will.” He set his foot in the stirrup and mounted. “I know what a longbow can do.”
As they trotted that last mile back to the battlefield, Rhodry saw black smoke plume into the sky. So, they’d gained the Horsekin camp and fired it once again, had they? Fearing he’d be too late, he drew his sword and smacked the roan to a run, but when they burst over the last rise, he saw below him a battlefield in chaos. He pulled up to let the roan catch its breath while he oriented himself. Although the main thrust of the cavalry had been smashed and routed, all over the muddy field riders paired off or mobbed each other in clots of three and four. Horses were slipping and falling, their riders falling again over the corpses and the wounded, or struggling to their feet covered in bloody muck to search for a loose horse.
Out on the center of the field, the infantry was making a stand, drawn up in ragged squares, three shields deep on a side. Around these hedges of spears, the Deverry riders milled, half-helpless. Every now and then, a rider would charge in, only to pull off at the last moment from the steel-tipped pikes. Behind the fie
ld, the enemy camp burned, but badly, as the fire set in haste by the men sallying smoldered in wet canvas and soaked wood. Black smoke poured out to mingle with dust and hang in flat sheets over the battle.
Shouting broke out on the left. The dwarven axmen were attacking the largest square. In dead silence, they moved forward, axes swinging low, slicing like scythes below the line of shields. Since the spearmen had set their weapons at a high angle for horsemen, they began to lose their wall as they scrabbled to change position. The waiting horsemen could charge, slamming into the break from the side while the dwarves went on cutting from in front. At first, Rhodry couldn’t find the Westfolk archers; then he realized that they’d dismounted and gone to their longbows. Up like deadly rain, the arrows flashed in the murky light and fell among the spearmen. Yelling and cursing, they swung their shields up to catch the shafts. The dwarves kept coming, and the Deverry men charged again. The curses turned to screaming as the shield wall broke.
Rhodry started down, letting the roan pick its way through the dead and dying while he rose in the stirrups, searching for the enemy archer. All round him, little eddies of mounted combat swirled; infantrymen ran for their lives while horsemen charged after, cutting them down with no mercy. Rhodry dodged and swore and kept clear, swinging round the fighting with no shame. He’d risked his life to bring them the dragon, and the dragon had brought them the victory. Now, for reward, he wanted vengeance.
He headed toward the east ridge, looking—always looking—for the archer even as he came to feel the search hopeless. Evandar had told him only a sketch of words; he’d never seen the man himself. What he couldn’t know, of course, was that the archer was looking for him, his futile bow laid aside. For that reason alone, they met. As he rode toward the trampled, smoldering remains of tents below the eastern hills, Rhodry saw a human rider in Deverry gear, mounted on a gray, trotting straight for him. Thinking him an ally, he paused the roan. His shield still hung at the saddle-peak.
Days of Air and Darkness Page 38
