Crown of Vengeance dpt-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  She’d never had any other choice. She had never forgotten her vigil in the Shrine of the Star.

  “You have come to end Us … for you are Farcarinon. Death in life. Life in death. You will be known when We are forgotten.” The Starry Huntsman had spoken, and within that vision had come another: a cold and darkling plain, a balefire burning star-pale with magic, a creature neither alfaljodthi nor Beastling standing tall and proud beside a komen in whose veins her own blood coursed. “The Land calls you. The People call you. I call you. He Who Is would return to the world, and so we summon you.”

  “And will you spill your own blood to save the land?”

  I will. The question had not been asked of her, but every day she had answered it. I will. I will.

  “I will,” she whispered aloud.

  “I still think you’re an idiot,” Thoromarth said quietly. “My liege.”

  “Think what you like; it’s too late to change my mind,” she said. “Are you ready?” she called.

  “We are, my lord,” Iardalaith answered.

  “Then let us begin.”

  There was a flare of brightness as the Warhunt cast Shield just within the fortress walls. The walls ran for a league in each direction. Twelve cubits high, three cubits thick.

  The Warhunt turned them to water.

  The spell that had made them was powerful. The one to unmake them was more powerful still. It seemed to Vieliessar that she could hear Janglanipaikharain cry out in protest, and she knew the Flower Forest did not have much more to give. For an instant, the dark stone stood solid. Then suddenly it was clear, a crystalline battlement glittering in the light of Shield.

  Then it fell, water crashing and spreading across the gutted frozen surface of Ifjalasairaet, a great wave that rolled outward toward the enemy. It spread and slowed, until the whole expanse between Vieliessar’s army and the Alliance camp sparkled like a vast mirror.

  “Drop the Shield,” she said, more calmly than she felt. “Sound the call to battle.”

  * * *

  Caerthalien held the enemy center. Both Rithdeliel and Gunedwaen thought a few of the War Princes would ride with their meisnes today, but not the Houses of the Old Alliance. So it was Prince Runacarendalur of Caerthalien who sat beneath Caerthalien’s war banner. Irony indeed if hers was the sword that killed him. Perhaps the power of Amrethion’s Prophecy would save her life when he fell.

  The enemy line was twice the length of her own. The Alliance meant its komen to sweep around her, encircling her force and driving her tuathal and deosil wings over her archers and infantry. Her strategy required them to do the opposite—she needed to trap the whole of the Alliance force within her own, pulling them away from their reserve units. That was one reason among many she’d chosen to give up the momentary advantage of meeting them in the charge.

  She took a deep breath as the signal to attack was sounded. Vieliessar felt the maddening itch of Light wash over her skin as the enemy Lightborn fought to strike at them and the Warhunt opposed them. It was as much a test of strength as anything else, for Janglanipaikharain was still a reservoir of Light, not Sealed to either side, and so superiority in the duel of Lightborn would come from tactics, not raw power. No commander can ride two horses at once, Rithdeliel had told her over and over when he moved from training her as a knight to training her as a general of armies to come. She banished the Lightborn from her mind. She must trust Iardalaith to do all she would do herself—and more.

  The enemy moved forward at a walk for a few moments, opening out the lines of close-packed destriers. Then a second signal came; the enemy moved to the trot, and the ground began to shake with the hammer of steel-shod hooves. She counted heartbeats as the first ranks moved to the gallop, pulling those behind with them as fluidly as if they were pearls on the same strand.

  Now that the Alliance komen were committed Vieliessar’s pikes and archers began to walk forward as unhesitatingly as if they did not walk into Death’s embrace. The archers began loosing arrows as soon as the enemy was in range, and horses and riders began to fall. The enemy line shifted, folded, re-formed into column. Then the flying column of Alliance komen struck her pikes. A full third of her infantry went down under the force of the impact.

  She hated the thought of riding over her own wounded. She had no choice. She flourished her sword and urged Snapdragon forward. On her tuathal hand, Rithdeliel’s force spurred their mounts forward, the wolf-howl of Farcarinon bursting from every throat. The wild ululation made her hackles rise and she found herself echoing a war cry that had not been heard since the day Serenthon Farcarinon fell in battle.

  Battle was joined.

  Her sword seemed weightless in her hands. She feinted at a neck then struck at a shoulder.

  “To make armor flexible, it must also be weak. Here are the places to strike an armored knight.”

  The breastplate could not be easily pierced. Backplates were lighter and covered only the upper back, for the Code of Battle forbade an attack from behind. Belly was protected by thin bands of metal. The underside of the upper arm was protected only by chain. The inner elbow was unarmored. The arm from elbow to wrist was shielded by a light vambrace, the hand and fingers by a studded leather glove.

  The destriers rarely wore armor.

  An Aramenthiali warhorse reared to attack. Her sword bit deep into its throat. As it fell, its rider’s head went back. She struck at the exposed jaw. Blood gushed. Snapdragon spun away.

  She shifted her weight in the saddle without thought—heel here, knee there, sit back, sit forward—and Snapdragon turned and whirled and lunged in a deadly dance, striking what she could not reach, adding his force to her blows, shielding her from danger.

  “Your destrier is your most important weapon on the field. Learn what he can teach you, and teach him well.”

  Caerthalien gold-and-green, Aramenthiali blue-and-gold, mixed with green-and-silver as the enemy column plunged deep into her line. Now the archers would retreat. Now the waiting wings would ride to flank. The events of the first moments of battle—what should be, for she could not see what was—ticked through her mind like the drops of water that had measured out her days in the Sanctuary of the Star. An enemy struck at her arm; she dropped her shoulder and the blade rang off her gorget and bounced away.

  Turn and strike. Strike and live.

  She had not ridden to battle with a standard-bearer beside her, but her green helm was banded in moonsilver, a coronet of Vilya blossoms inlaid into the lacquer. Symbol of rule, dominion, kingship. It drew the enemy to her as if she had bespelled them.

  Nadalforo forced her mount forward on Vieliessar’s tuathal side, caught a descending blow on her bracer, then struck across her saddle in a spearing motion. Her blade slid between the plates of belly armor, thrusting the knight from his saddle. Her mount lunged forward. Vieliessar spurred Snapdragon through the sudden opening.

  She had never seen, never fought, a battle as Arilcarion would have them fought—a thing of lines of retreat, negotiated abeyances, battlefields with unassailable bounds and safe places to rest an exhausted mount or change to a fresh one. The summer wars of the Hundred Houses were hedged about by a thousand rules. This was no summer war. It was a battle fought without quarter, without surrender. Any warrior who rode alone from the press of battle was hunted and slain like a deer in the spring.

  The sun climbed higher in the sky. The field shifted as the ground became clogged with dead. Tailles and grand-tailles fought free of the carnage only to regroup and attack again. The screams of the wounded and dying blended with the hammering of sword on sword, sword on armor, the blurt of warhorns relaying unheeded signals, the skirl of signal whistles, a hundred shouted battle cries. Her body ached with the battering of sound, her flesh was numb beneath the shocks of a thousand blows. There were no landmarks here except for the cliff, and she could not raise her eyes from the battle to see if it was behind her, before her, to her left or right. There was only the enemy, and surcoats ri
pped away or stained with blood. She fought toward each half-glimpsed battle standard.

  “To slay a battle captain is to slay twelve komen; a taille looks to its captain for direction.”

  She did not see Caerthalien’s banners.

  Her sword arm ached. Snapdragon’s neck was covered with foam. Riderless destriers plunged wildly through the melee seeking escape, or stood over their fallen riders until they too were slain. The moments of the battle unfolded in a thousand disjointed images. Here a warrior dragging an enemy from his destrier’s back and throwing himself into the vacant saddle as his own dying mount went to its knees. There—impossibly—one of her infantry still fighting, covered in blood, a blacksmith’s sledge in each hand. A Lightborn on a palfrey, armored only with a violet shimmer of Shield, her hands filled with hunting spears. A komen fighting afoot, standing in a ring of dead.

  The air sizzled and crackled with Magery. She saw a string of sun-bright flashes and knew someone had Called Thunderbolt. She didn’t know which side or where it struck. Her mouth tasted of blood and metal. Her throat ached with thirst. The Alliance Lightborn lashed the frozen, hoof-churned, bloodstained plain with flame, raised winds to send grassfires toward her forces, called down the lightning. The Warhunt turned the wind, wrestled each Thunderbolt away from its intended target, summoned brief sharp blizzards to quench the fires. And with every spell cast and diverted Janglanipaikharain was drained further.

  Through it all, komen fought komen with steel and steel-shod destrier. Grimly. Desperately. Soon they fought as often to capture a riderless destrier, for a moment in which they could stop to snatch precious mouthfuls of ice or clean snow for themselves and their animals, as for a victory. There were no charges of line against line any longer: Alliance komen and High King’s komen moved at a slow walk to take a new position, counting as precious the time it took for their opponent to gather their force and move to engage. They had been fighting since daybreak without rest, without water, and it was near to midday. The fighting had become a thing of slow and measured re-formations and brief vicious clashes.

  Then the Alliance called for an abeyance.

  Vieliessar heard the call in disbelief, but quickly passed the signal to honor it. It would give her force the chance to regroup and perhaps to retrieve some of her wounded. She still had most of a grand-taille with her, slowly forming up in a classic square. Barely a bowshot’s-length away, a group of the enemy were—equally slowly—retreating to their own lines. Across the field, she could see the Alliance War Princes watching. They’d begun the day with a mounted escort. The komen remained, but they’d given up their destriers to those on the field.

  “I thought you’d like to know we’re winning.”

  Gunedwaen rode up to her. One of his pauldrons had been sheared away; he’d lost his helmet and replaced it with a sellsword’s cervelière. He handed her a waterskin and she gulped its contents eagerly.

  “Winning?” she asked, her voice a rusty croak. “What news?”

  “The messengers say Celenthodiel is orderly. Your archers guard its entrance. Lord Annobeunna has placed arming pages along the length of the pass to assist the wounded who reach it. And the others.”

  The tone of his words made her glance toward him. “Others?” she asked sharply.

  “You said their komen would surrender if we helped them do so. You’re right. They are.”

  “You can’t know that,” she said. She meant it for a question, but she was too tired. The words came out sounding like an accusation.

  But Gunedwaen smiled. “I can. When I see a dozen swords lying on the ground with no bodies near them, I know it’s because their owners threw them down to surrender.”

  You cannot imagine they follow the Code of Battle upon this battlefield! she thought indignantly.

  Gunedwaen pointed and Vieliessar turned to look. Riding in the direction of the pass were eighteen knights. They were fresh and unfazed, their warhorses and their armor pristine and unsullied, and all wore blue and gold surcoats blazoned with the black horse of Aramenthiali. One even carried a standard with the Aramenthiali bannerette upon it and some personal pennion below.

  Her komen should have turned to engage, but they didn’t. The Aramenthiali komen moved past them, behind them, toward Dargariel Dorankalaliel.

  Their hands were empty.

  And yet they do, she thought in disbelief. They disarm themselves upon a field where both armies fight without quarter, trusting in my honor. The honor of the High King.

  “We’re going to win,” she said.

  “If we don’t all die first,” Gunedwaen said cheerfully.

  * * *

  They’d all known this battle would be a costly one, for Vieliessar Farcarinon could bring to this honorless field of slaughter an array nearly equal to their own by forcing the komen of the High Houses to face criminals, mercenaries, Landbonds. She had already shattered Mosirinde’s Covenant and brought the Lightborn into battle. She’d rejected Arilcarion’s wisdom to fight without decency and without honor, forcing them to do the same. Bolecthindial watched the battle begin, saw the flower of Caerthalien—yes, and Aramenthiali as well—destroyed by Vieliessar’s archers and pike-wielders. But then he had seen komen clash with komen as was right and good, offering up their lives to the Lord of the Night Wind, He Who held the destiny of all the Hundred Houses in His hands, He Who gave the gift of eternity to those who died in His service. Bolecthindial had believed in victory then.

  He believed until he saw komen wearing the colors of Teramarise, Vondaimieriel, Rolumienion, Jovadigalas—of every House of the West—throw down their swords and ride to join the enemy.

  We should never have attacked simply because she offered battle. We ought to have known better. Should and would and ought—did not Lord Toncienor, Swordmaster to my mother, tell me “should” and “would” and “ought” were three great armies who always fought on the enemy side?

  It had taken him most of the morning to get the rest of the War Princes to agree to call for abeyance. That Vieliessar had chosen to honor it did not make Bolecthindial feel any better.

  * * *

  “It is rather difficult to fight a battle if your army has deserted,” Edheleorn Telthorelandor drawled.

  Fewer than half the War Princes of the Alliance array were gathered in the golden Council tent. Those who had ridden out this morning might now lie dead or wounded, their Houses in disarray, their Lines shattered. A disturbing number of others had simply refused to come.

  Sedreret snarled at Telthorelandor’s choice of words. “My komen do not desert! The witchborn sow has bespelled them!”

  Edheleorn raised an eyebrow at that, for all knew that Ladyholder-Abeyant Dormorothon was Lightborn, and waved the protest away with a languid hand. “It does not matter what words you use. The truth remains: they do not fight for us.”

  “This is unacceptable!” Ferorthaniel Sarmiorion roared. “I name them traitors and cowards! Are you all so spineless and weak that no komen will follow you?”

  “Fine words from Sarmiorion indeed! Where is the largesse your vassal domains should have bestowed upon us?” Sedreret Aramenthiali said. “Is Sarmiorion so spineless and weak that her vassals will not obey her?”

  Ferorthaniel howled with outrage and sprang to his feet. Dormorothon rose fluidly from her seat beside her son, standing straight-backed and furious.

  “This does not solve our problem,” Edheleorn said. His voice was quiet, but it stopped the War Princes more effectively than if he had deafened them with a shout.

  “Perhaps—in your vast wisdom—you will now counsel us on how to keep our meisnes in the field?” Bolecthindial said heavily. It was only by the grace of Aradhwain and Manafaeren that Runacarendalur’s name was not numbered among the catalogue of the missing and the dead. He had stormed from the field at the head of a ragged handful of komen, too furious at the abeyance to even acknowledge Bolecthindial’s presence as he rode past him.

  “Perhaps we should
not,” Edheleorn answered.

  “I offer Telthorelandor my condolences on his sudden impairment,” Girelrian Cirandeiron said. “It must be dreadful to face a life of darkness after being renowned so long for your clear sight—or am I mistaken? Perhaps you actually are aware of the pass through the cliff after all?”

  “You cannot insult me, Girelrian,” Edheleorn said. “One can only be insulted by one’s equals. Abandon your foolishness and state your point.”

  “It should be obvious even to you, dear Edheleorn. Farcarinon retreats through the pass her Lightborn have made. Already her supply train has preceded her, for it is nowhere to be seen. Let this day come to an inconclusive close, let her follow her army, and how many of our people will join them?”

  “If they try—and we stop them—we diminish our army by our own actions. If we fight on with those of true and proven loyalty, we shall have no choice but to do battle by sending our army into Lord Vieliessar’s pass.” Edheleorn spread his hands wide. “We might as well cut their throats ourselves.”

  * * *

  The blade trembled in the air. Mage-forged and spellbound, sharp as winter’s first frost, it had been his father’s first gift to him. His hands shook. Every muscle strained.

  He could not force it against his throat.

  With a cry of despair, Runacarendalur dropped the weapon to the carpet and flung himself into a chair. The pavilion was empty. There was no one here to bring him a cup of hot wine, help him off with his filthy and blood-clotted armor, or draw a bath.

  Our arming pages and squires joined us on the field. If our servants have not fled outright, they hide, awaiting the outcome of the day.

  And all he could see when he closed his eyes was a moonsilver crown of Vilya against a green helm. “Beloved,” Runacarendalur snarled in rage.