Crown of Vengeance dpt-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  Rithdeliel was sworn to Oronviel. He would not foreswear himself. For oath and for honor, he would have to kill her.

  She stood facing the dais on which Thoromarth sat. “I have come at the day and candlemark appointed, Thoromarth of Oronviel, to fulfill my promise to you. Here, in the third time of asking, I challenge you in the person of your champion, for all you hold within your hands!”

  Rithdeliel saw Thoromarth smile. “Speak to me of that again, stranger knight, when my champion lies dead by your hand,” Oronviel’s War Prince called. “Begin!”

  Any reply she might have made was drowned in the cheering of the crowd.

  Rithdeliel spurred Varagil forward. There was not enough room for him to reach a full gallop, but there was certainly enough room to maneuver. Rithdeliel’s blade was poised. He had every advantage: height, speed, and a trained destrier. His first blow should shear through her armor between cullet and helm. Varagil would do the rest.

  I will make this quick, for your lady mother’s sake.

  At the last moment, just before he reached striking range, Varagil shied.

  There was laughter from the dais as Varagil crabbed sideways and back. Rithdeliel dug his spurs into the stallion’s flanks, forcing him to settle. He trotted the destrier around the circumference of the ring to settle him further: this was a strange situation, and Varagil had always been high-strung. As Varagil moved in a wide circle around Vieliessar, she turned so she was always facing her enemy. Rithdeliel pressed his heels into the stallion’s sides and shifted his weight forward. Varagil answered the command easily, cantering forward. Once again Rithdeliel raised his sword to deliver the fatal blow.

  Once again Varagil plunged sideways, carrying Rithdeliel out of reach.

  Exasperated, he snatched at the reins and hauled back savagely. Varagil reared, shaking his head, kicking out harmlessly with his fore hooves as he staggered a few steps backward.

  This cannot be Magery! Eiron stands beside Lord Thoromarth—he would sense it! This time Rithdeliel kept a tight hand on the rein, hauling the destrier’s head down as he spurred him forward.

  The outcome was the same.

  “Are we to sit here all day watching you show off, Lord Rithdeliel?” Princess Mialvialla called down.

  Without answering, Rithdeliel turned Varagil back toward the opening in the barrier. He swung down from the saddle, leaving the reins hanging: Varagil would be quiet enough if no stranger approached him.

  When he walked back into the arena, Vieliessar waited for him in silence: the Lightsister who wished to become a knight, who had struck the spark to kindle the tinder of his resentment of Farcarinon’s destruction. Rithdeliel had believed in Amrethion’s Prophecy because Nataranweiya had, and had always believed that when the day and the enemy came—if they did—the Hundred Houses would band together to face it.

  And now it did not matter. When the day came, if it came, he would not see it.

  War was the art, the duty, and the recreation of every child of the Hundred Houses. Their artificers forged unbreakable swords, crafted armor as pliant as heavy silk. A knight who wore it could run in it—as long as his strength held out—could even dance in it.

  Today’s dance would be brief.

  He expected to strike the first blow. Not to wait for the enemy to strike was the hardest lesson to teach to the young trainees. Whatever advantage you gained from learning how the enemy fought was negated by the fact that you’d taken the first hit.

  Vieliessar did not wait. As he was still walking toward her, she sprang forward. She did not bring her blade down from above as if she were chopping wood—an attack which would have given Rithdeliel precious seconds of warning—but swept it up from below as he was still registering the movement.

  He caught the blow on his shield. The force of the impact jarred down his spine. He turned the parry into an attack, aiming a midline strike at her ribs, where dozens of narrow plates gave the armor flexibility at the cost of strength. Anywhere your body flexes is where you should attack your opponent. The lecture he had delivered to thousands of children of Caerthalien, Farcarinon, and Oronviel played through his mind as his blade rang and slid over hers—parry, disengage—and each of them sprang back. Fighting mounted, the blade’s length was an advantage. On foot, it meant they could not close with one another.

  The next exchanges came punishingly fast, blade meeting blade, meeting armor, the blows ringing out like the hammer of the smith at the forge. A part of his mind registered the noise of the crowd ebbing away to silence. They had expected a swift butchery. He was Rithdeliel of Oronviel, Warlord to Thoromarth Oronviel. Bruised vanity made him redouble the speed and fury of his attacks.

  He would not think of what he had learned in these scant minutes in the arena. He was a master of war, his skills honed for centuries, honed by a thousand battles.

  She was his match.

  There are things I have not taught you yet!

  He turned to catch her blade, not on the face of his lower shield, but behind it, trapping it between the lip of the shield and his metal gauntlet. Such a maneuver was risky: the sword would shear through the bolts holding the shield in place if they took the full force of the blow. This move was nothing one would use in battle, but a duelist’s maneuver. A trick for entertaining one’s comrades. I remember Serenthon, bright as a new blade, conceding his defeat at Nataranweiya’s hands.…

  Rithdeliel had spent his life assembling miracles. Only one time had he failed. Now he caught Vieliessar’s blade, let it slip behind his shield to catch and hold, let it slide past him as he swept forward. He flung his sword into the air, and the moment it left his free hand, he struck her on the side of her helm with all the power in his clenched fist, then seized his weapon as it fell.

  She staggered backward, stunned, and her fouled blade grated free. He moved forward to press his advantage as she lowered her guard—

  Her sword whipped up. If she’d tried any conventional attack, Rithdeliel’s strike would have slammed home, but she set the point of her blade against his chestplate and shoved. There was a moment’s ear-hurting squeal as the sword’s point skated harmlessly over the surface of his armor as he staggered back. Then she was on the attack once more, her blade moving so fast—a dozen attacks, a dozen feints, a dozen counters—that it was impossible to see and assess each one. Instinct—the bone-bred knowledge of every strike that could be delivered by an armored warrior—let Rithdeliel meet each attack. But his advantage was gone now—if it had ever truly existed. She was forcing him inexorably backward across the soft loose earth of the arena. He tried to shift her, to turn her, without success. She directed her attacks to his sword-hand, so he must meet them with his blade rather than prepare a counter.

  She was magnificent. He wanted to shout to the watching crowd that this, this was how Farcarinon offered battle.

  He wanted to tell her to disengage, to flee while she could save herself, for Thoromarth had sworn no binding oath to spare her life.

  Rithdeliel must kill her. He no longer thought it would be easy.

  He dropped his blade and grabbed her sword between his metal-banded palms, keeping his hands flat, for to clasp the blade as one clasped a swordhilt was to lose fingers. He twisted the weapon as he pulled her toward him; she released her grip abruptly and Rithdeliel staggered back a half-step as she dived for his abandoned blade. It took him only a heartbeat to get his hands around the hilt of the sword he held. By then Vieliessar was on the attack again.

  In just these few moments the engagement had changed from an execution to a battle. Now it became a contest of endurance and strength. The time for flamboyant attacks and risky counters was over. She struck with the flat of her blade, not from any desire to spare him, but because the flat would deliver more force without bouncing away. Even now she did not attempt any of the conventional strikes—she struck at hip, at thigh, at shin until his body ached and his legs became treacherous. Each time he attacked, she moved inside his guard, ro
bbing his blows of their power.

  But her success could not last forever. With his last strength, Rithdeliel sprang backward and aimed a lethal, two-handed swing at her shoulder. She could not get her blade up to counter in time—she spun, turning her back to him for a vital moment in order to catch the blow on her shoulder-shield. Off balance when the blow landed, she was knocked from her feet and fell to the earth.

  He stepped forward as she rolled to her back. She would not be able to rise before he delivered the killing blow.

  She didn’t try to escape. Instead, she swept her blade sideways and struck him between greave and sabaton with all the force she could. It was a blow that could not be struck on the field, for in war, knights did not fight afoot. And so the join between leg and foot was but lightly armored, meant to be defended by the sheltering metal of the stirrup.

  Here, on the field below Oronviel Great Keep, it was a crippling blow. White-hot pain in his shattered ankle made him check his strike. Vieliessar drew her knees up to her chest and kicked out powerfully, knocking him away. The damaged ankle would not bear his weight and Rithdeliel went sprawling.

  Up, you fool—get up!

  On her feet by then, Vieliessar stamped on his wrist with all her weight, then kicked his sword away. She dropped to her knees beside him.

  “Yield!” she demanded, her voice low and urgent.

  He shook his head mutely. He was Oronviel’s champion. He could not yield.

  She dragged him to his knees, kneeling on his calves in a grinding squeal of metal against metal and wrenching his helm from his head. The sun was bright. It did not seem to have moved at all in the time their battle had taken. Her fingers clenched in his hair as she pulled his head back. He felt the whisper of her dagger at his throat.

  “I have defeated your champion, Thoromarth of Oronviel! Yield to me your lands!” she shouted.

  There was a moment of frozen silence; then Thoromarth laughed.

  “Go ahead and slit his throat if you like! You have not won until I say you have!” he called back.

  Rithdeliel braced himself to die, his only regret being he would not see how this ended. Then he felt the edge of the dagger leave his throat. A moment later he saw it glitter in mid-air. She had thrown the weapon at Thoromarth.

  There was a flare of bright violet light as Eiron Lightbrother swept up his hand to Shield his lord. Rithdeliel had seen Mage Shield cast many times in skirmishes with the Beastlings; it was permitted when the enemy was not komen.

  When it struck the Shield, the dagger should have dropped away as if it had been flung against stone.

  It did not.

  The blade hung in the air as if it were caught in a spider’s web. Around it, Eiron’s spell flared as bright as flame, but though the dagger was caught in his spell, it was not held. Dazzling amethyst fire spread outward from the dagger until the whole shape of the shield could be seen, surrounding Lord Thoromarth and trapping him in his seat. The dagger slowly slid forward.

  “I have won,” Vieliessar repeated implacably.

  “Kill her!” Thoromarth shouted.

  Rithdeliel could see the faces of all who sat within the viewing box. They could not decide whether to flee—and have to face Thoromarth’s anger when this was over—or stay where they were lest they become the next target. Princess Mialvialla rose to her feet and flung her own dagger. It veered sharply, turning in the air like a bird in flight, and buried itself in the soft earth. Magery. She uses Magery in battle … Rithdeliel thought numbly. Princess Mialvialla gave a harsh cry of fury, looking around for other weapons.

  The dagger inched closer.

  “Who are you?” Thoromarth demanded, seeing no one would—could—carry out his order. If Thoromarth’s voice held fear, Eiron Lightbrother looked as if he gazed upon his own death.

  The silver helm hit the ground a few feet away from where Rithdeliel knelt.

  “I am Vieliessar Farcarinon, and I have come to claim your lands, your armies, and your fealty—or this day I will take your life and the lives of all who will not pledge to me!”

  Thoromarth was invisible now behind the wall of violet flame, and the dagger embedded in the spell could no longer be seen.

  Suddenly the world went dim and wine-colored as a second Mage Shield surrounded Rithdeliel and Vieliessar. It flared and dazzled brightly—he did not know why, for he could see no missile, no weapon, yet it was obvious that the Lightborn standing in the crowd must have attempted to obey their lord. The metal taste of terror filled his mouth at the thought of two Lightborn battling. What spells, what horrors, would they unleash?

  “Abomination!” Eiron shouted. “You betray the Covenant!”

  “I do not do battle by the Light, Eiron Lightbrother!” Vieliessar cried out. “But I will have what I have won! Your life or your pledge, Thoromarth Oronviel!”

  She will have to kill him, Rithdeliel thought in sudden cold fear. He could not imagine what would happen then. How many would she have to kill today? Mialvialla will not give up her inheritance—

  The Mage Shield that protected the two of them crackled and flared again. And held fast.

  “I yield! I yield!” Thoromarth shouted suddenly. “I yield! You have won my domain in fair challenge!”

  The unnatural, spell-driven light vanished.

  “Come, then, and swear to me before the sight of all,” Vieliessar demanded.

  As Eiron helped the once-lord of Oronviel to his feet, Rithdeliel could see the blood that welled from the wound in Lord Thoromarth’s throat.

  * * *

  It is a good beginning. It is not the whole.

  It was nearly midnight before Vieliessar was able to dismiss Thoromarth’s servants—hers now—from her bedchamber, and with them, the last of the Court who wished to know the answer to just one question, or two, or three.

  One remained behind.

  “I would have honesty of you,” Vieliessar said to Thoromarth. True Speech could tell her the tenor of his mind, but only if he thought of what she wished to know, and Lord Thoromarth was not an introspective man.

  “I have given you honesty since I gave you my oath,” Thoromarth answered.

  “I slew your lady wife, your heir, and three more of your children,” Vieliessar said bluntly. “Your own Chief Lightborn would not accept me as Prince. Yet you seem content to follow where once you led.”

  “Am I a lackwit?” Thoromarth demanded sharply. He sighed deeply, recognizing this was not a true answer. “And my loyalty is a chain about your throat, for Eiron will not be alone in thinking I am bespelled to surrender my domain. Yet I have pledged to serve Oronviel above all things until Amrethion Aradruiniel returns, and to this oath I am faithful.”

  “Today you might have taken your death, and known Princess Mialvialla would have demanded I prove my challenge against her in turn.”

  “I have always believed that the Silver Hooves shape our fates,” Thoromarth said heavily. “Warriors die in battle gladly, knowing we will ride the night wind forever. I should have trusted Them, and taken the challenge you made. But I did not. In my heart I thought I could sacrifice Rithdeliel, who served me as faithfully as he served Farcarinon. If he died, I would then have you slain. If he lived, you would be dead, and I would still rule. And Oronviel would have peace.”

  “An odd desire for a War Prince,” Vieliessar said.

  “What do I gain from war? You will know as well as I that Caerthalien and Aramenthiali have nibbled at my borders for centuries, allying themselves with any who would aid them. As did I. As will you. And why? Because it is all we know. Let Caerthalien’s lands—or Aramenthiali’s—stretch from the shore of Great Ocean to the Grand Windsward, and what changes? Nothing. We fight for glory and for sport, and any who does not wish to do so must buy peace in the blood of his own children. My Nanduil, who should have been heir after me, lies hostage in Caerthalien. Aramenthiali sent me Daustifalal to wed, and by that marriage I secured the east for a season. Perhaps it was my hope that, in
pledging to serve you, I could make your rule an easier thing. And there would still be peace.”

  She reached out and covered his hand with her own. “I swear this to you, Thoromarth of Oronviel. Though I pledge Oronviel to war, I do not go to war for glory or for sport. When I have gained victory, I promise you peace from Great Sea Ocean to Graythunder Glairyrill.”

  “How can anyone make such a vow?” Thoromarth said slowly.

  Vieliessar smiled faintly. “Follow me and see.”

  Three days later, Vieliessar left Lord Gunedwaen to hold Oronviel Keep and rode out at the head of fifty of her new-sworn knights. She wore neither the red otter of Oronviel, crowned and garlanded as befit its War Prince, nor Farcarinon’s silver wolf. Except for the quality of the destrier she rode—an animal truly fit for a prince—she was as anonymous as any of her knights. Sorodiarn pranced playfully as Vieliessar led her knights down the road that led from the keep. She sat the mare’s back as easily as if she had been born it. So many of the things she did now came to her with ease, as if she remembered something she’d once known well, rather than as new skills she had to learn.

  She would never permit anyone to know how much it frightened her.

  * * *

  “We cannot permit this!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel spoke as if her wish could make a thing reality.

  “My lady, I am certain that—” Carangil Lightbrother stopped, as if even he could not say what he was certain of.

  “Well, don’t just stare at me, you cloudwit!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel turned away in frustration, seeking fresh prey. “We must invade Oronviel!”

  “Now?” Runacarendalur strode into the chamber, his hair still disheveled from his interrupted morning’s ride. “May I remind you, my lady mother, that it is Rade Moon, not Sword? And if you mean my lord father to invade one of our treaty vassals out of season, I think you might have summoned me to your council.”