by Melanie Rawn
“Lady Betheyn,” Kazander said thoughtfully. “Has she a husband? Would she like one?”
Pol swung the huge hammer down on another ingot, laughing even harder as Kazander pitched his voice high through his nose for “Lament of the Old Man’s Bride.” They were both half-hysterical and Pol knew that when they finished he would be utterly wrung out—but he didn’t care. Anger and tension melted from him like a spring frost. He took the man’s verses, changing his voice for every suitor who offered to comfort the neglected lady, played by Kazander. Soon the korrus was laughing so much he couldn’t finish the song. When he got his breath back, he demanded to know where a gently reared and tenderly sheltered prince had learned such disgraceful songs.
“You’d be surprised,” was all the reply Pol would give. Kazander laughed again, raising his hammer as if to beat a proper answer out of him.
“Don’t aim for his head,” a dry voice advised from behind them. “He’s got a skull like rock and you’d make no impression.”
Both young men whirled. Rohan stood limned by sunlight, arms folded, leaning casually against the wall. The hammer dropped from Kazander’s suddenly strengthless hands. Pol felt the back of his neck twist with renewed tension.
Rohan shook his head. “The very least you could have done was invite me to the party.” He picked his way through the shards on the floor and hefted the abandoned sledgehammer. “May I play, too?”
Kazander bowed nearly in half. Rohan selected an ingot, tossed it onto the floor, then swung the hammer in a vicious arc. The glass shattered in all directions and he laughed aloud. Pol realized how long it had been since he’d heard his father laugh.
“Try it set sideways,” he suggested, placing another ingot on the floor.
They finished off the rest of the second crate, Kazander relaxing enough to take a smaller hammer and hack the larger pieces into splinters. The trio swung and shattered and laughed like madmen, and were exhausted when the ingots were gone, but it was a good weariness. When Rohan left them, after thanks for the fun, Pol could almost fool himself that there was peace again between them.
“Forgive me if I speak too freely, my prince,” Kazander said as they donned thick leather gloves to gather up shards for the trick ceiling, “but he’s not as old as I thought.”
Pol smiled. “I suspect he’s not as old as he thought either.”
• • •
The back of Rohan’s neck itched as if arrows—or those infuriating stones—were aimed straight at his back. He stretched cramps from his muscles, trying to regain the lightheartedness brought by the mad glass-smashing, but it was no use. It occurred to him how nice it would be to find Chay and Maarken and Walvis and get roaring drunk. But he’d learned long ago, in another war, that at such times vast amounts of wine only made him more and more sober.
A depressing thought. He rotated his left shoulder against the nagging ache in that arm and tried to look confident as he inspected the progress of arrangements for the enemy’s welcome.
There was nothing unusual for the Vellant’im outside Remagev to hear that day and evening, only the sounds of a keep making ready for siege. They camped under one flag and there were no petty arguments witnessed from Remagev’s walls, which suggested that there were no jealous factions here. Discipline and prowess had been amply demonstrated; these troops were the best the Vellant’im had. Kazander’s notion that it complimented Rohan’s reputation flattered him not at all and comforted him even less. They could have no interest in him personally. They wanted the Desert.
Tobin thought it might be because of the dragons. But the Desert wasn’t the only place dragons were found. They wintered in the Catha Hills and summered in the Veresch. They only mated here. There must be something else about his princedom that the enemy wanted. He didn’t flatter himself that it was him.
The Desert was known for three things: sand, dragons, and gold. Coveting the first was preposterous. He tended to doubt that anyone would risk so many lives and go to so much trouble for a sight of dragons. Gold was the only thing that made sense. But which gold? The legitimate mines everyone knew about—or the secret gold gleaned from dragon caves?
Had his objective been that wealth, he would have done precisely what the Vellant’im were doing. He would neutralize help from elsewhere while surging up from the south into the Desert. Radzyn had been left whole so it could be searched and used as a base. The same would probably happen at Remagev. Those mechanical arms could just as easily have thrown fire into the keep, but had not. Remagev would remain whole.
The false trails from the keep would not fool the enemy long. On realizing the tricks, they would head for Stronghold—where any idiot could walk in to Rivenrock and gather as much gold as he liked.
Only for the past three mating cycles had the dragons used Rivenrock again, after shying away from the place since 701. Their numbers had increased to levels that finally convinced Feylin they could survive even another disaster like the Plague. In memory Rohan still saw the raging flames that had cleansed the canyon. Fire called by his son in fulfillment of the Treaty of Linse: “And the Desert shall be of the House of Prince Zehava for as long as the Long Sand spawns Fire.” Ah, what it had cost Rohan’s father to wrest that from Roelstra: years of fighting the Merida, years of living with a sword in his hand. It could have cost Rohan’s life, too—at eighteen, during Zehava’s last Merida war, he’d disguised himself and marched into battle. On hearing this news, his mother had treated all of Stronghold to one of her more spectacular furies, and his father nearly had a seizure—but he’d also knighted his son on the field.
Rohan now fought another war for his princedom, but this time there was gold to protect as well, and dragons. If people climbed through the Rivenrock caves with their scent and their leavings and their fingers seizing golden sand, dragons might not return there. Without caves, unmated females would die and the population would plunge. Rivenrock was but fifty measures from Stronghold. Rohan would be leading the enemy almost into the canyon mouth. They would find it, foul it, and when the next mating year came, dragons would die.
But he had nowhere else to go.
“My prince, it’s time,” said a quiet voice at his side.
Rohan concealed a start as Walvis interrupted his thoughts. He hadn’t realized how quickly daylight had given way to evening. The courtyard was packed now, but so nearly silent that he could hear the flutter of the few torch flames in the slight breeze.
“Remagev is yours,” he said slowly. He couldn’t give the order himself. But he had to watch. He had to stand by his athri’s side, the picture of serene confidence and sly amusement at the tricks they were about to play on the Vellant’im. In all his sixty years he had never had to work so hard to hide his emotions—not even during that long summer of pretending he had not loved Sioned from the instant he saw her face in Fire.
Still, he was good at it. He’d learned hard and young. But it never got easier. He dreaded the day it did, for it should not be easy.
Horses were brought to the main steps, and he and Walvis mounted. He felt his back twinge and a genuine smile flickered over his face as sore muscles reminded him of his afternoon game. The crowd in the courtyard broke into four groups. He would lead one to Stronghold by the quickest route—both for safety’s sake and that of the horses, which had not been fed since the previous night’s purging. They’d been well watered, but there would be nothing for them to drink until Stronghold. The other three groups—whose well-fed mounts would keep the Vellant’im following after, or so Rohan hoped—would head north, northeast, and due east before turning for Stronghold. The latter group worried him most; their mounts would go without fodder longest, probably for at least three days. But he had faith in Chay’s horses. Only the strongest had been chosen for this group.
Last night Daniv had volunteered to go with those riding north under Pol’s leadership. Sioned informed her great-nephew that he would do no such thing. Rohan overruled her. Daniv was a mature si
xteen, tall for his age and eager to prove himself.
“We won’t be gone that long—two days out, one back to Stronghold. And I’ll be careful, your grace.”
“So I’m ‘my grace’ now instead of ‘Aunt Sioned,’ eh? Very proper, very dutiful—and it doesn’t fool me at all.”
“Peace,” Rohan ordered softly. “I accept your offer. Besides, Rihani is fighting in Syr with your father’s army, and we can’t let your cousin collect all the glory, can we?”
When Daniv left them, glowing with excitement, Sioned rounded on her husband. “How could you? There’s nothing glorious about war and you know it.”
“Leave him his illusions a little longer, Sioned. They’ll shatter soon enough. Illusions always do.”
So Daniv rode forward at Pol’s side to salute the High Prince. Rohan searched his son’s eyes. Yes, he’d been right to walk in on the glass-smashing scene. He and Pol were friends again. They still didn’t agree, but at least resentment no longer smoldered in the blue-green eyes.
The pair turned smartly and joined the fifty soldiers who would take a two-day journey due north. Daniv was confident, with an easy authority that proclaimed him a prince. He did not remind Rohan of himself at the same age.
Prince Velden’s nephew, Sethric, organized his hundred before making his bow to the High Prince. Four years older than Daniv, those years were the difference of a silkweight of muscle and half a handspan of height. Remagev had toughened him, given him poise. Rohan thought what a fine athri he would make when he returned home—if there was anything left of Grib to go home to.
He hid the pessimism with a smile. Goddess, but I certainly am good at this, he thought cynically; even with so many years between wars, he hadn’t lost the knack. He could still hear his asinine little speech on the day he’d joined Chay and the southern levies to fight Roelstra. Then as now he showed them a prince certain of victory—and never let them know what he truly felt. They needed and trusted him. He owed them a calm face and straight shoulders and untroubled eyes. Sethric responded as people always did, with an answering smile and an even lower bow. Yes, he was very good at this. Always had been.
Maarken, however, knew what was behind the mask. He would be in charge of the most dangerous diversion, and his journey to Stronghold would cross the enemy line of march as they tracked Pol and Sethric. His horses would have nothing to eat and precious little water while crossing the Long Sand. Of them all, Maarken understood how perilous this whole plan was, and how necessary. As he made his bow, there was limitless compassion in his gray eyes.
Rohan guided his horse to Remagev’s main gates, watching the Isulk’im ready their mounts for an insanity planned by Kazander. The korrus smiled happily at Rohan and gave the characteristic salute. Rohan returned it, privately astounded at the delight this man took in risking his neck. His men were just like him. They had accounted for ten Vellanti dead each in the battle two days ago, and taken only minor wounds.
Glancing around to make sure everyone was ready, Rohan caught sight of Sioned, Hollis, and Tobren at the doors of the main hall. His princess lifted one hand to signal that her vicious little brew had been applied within the now empty keep. Then she vanished back inside.
“My lord korrus,” he said to Kazander, “may the Mother of All Dragons keep you from harm within the shelter of her wings.”
The Isulki looked a bit startled. It was an ancient blessing, and one that few outsiders knew. Kazander bowed again and replied with an even older one.
“Most High and Honored Prince, may She be in your eyes and in your looking, in your ears and in your listening, in your hands and in your doing, in your mind and in your knowing.”
Chay would disagree with that, he told himself with a touch of whimsy. He always did say I think too much.
Walvis signaled the inner gates open. The wires had not yet been connected to the pots of Sioned’s liquid fire; Walvis would do that himself just before he rode out. Another Fire had been quenched since dawn: Sioned had summoned Air to scatter the cooling ashes of the dead. Chay had lost thirty, Walvis twenty-six. Not a high count as battles went. He remembered sitting in his father’s tent after that last terrible battle against the Merida as Chay gave the casualty report. Zehava had heard it in silence, then remarked that most people would consider five hundred dead a fair price for a princedom. Appalled at the time, it had been years before Rohan realized that his father had not included himself in “most people.” But Zehava was long dead and the apologies spoken only to the silent sky by the time Rohan finally understood. He wondered what “most people” would consider a fair price for a whole continent.
The main gates parted wide enough to let Kazander and twenty of his men ride through at a gallop. It was the korrus’ mad plan to charge around Remagev at top speed, shrieking war cries all the way. Not only would they startle and distract the enemy, but they would see whether sentries patrolled the shadows around the keep. Maarken had been of the opinion that Sunrunners could conjure Fire for a look, but Kazander grinned and said it would be more fun his way.
It certainly sounded as if the Isulk’im were enjoying themselves. Rohan could imagine them tearing around the walls as if this was Rialla race day; he didn’t have to imagine their roars of battle. Twenty-one of them, and they sounded like an army. They yelled his name and Pol’s and Kazander’s, punctuated with “Azhrei!” and bone-chilling screams. A reluctant smile came to his face as heads swiveled to follow the sounds. Yes, just like race day. Only they rode not for gold or jewels, but for lives.
One of Kazander’s men stood ready at the gates, counting to himself. Rohan felt his nerves twinge as calls went up from the Vellanti camp, rousing warriors from after-dinner indolence into battle harness. The Isulki noise grew louder and the one on duty suddenly wrenched the gate open—a split second before Kazander hurtled through alone and reined to a halt, laughing.
“Not so much as an arrow did they loose, Noble High Prince!” he exulted. “And only twenty of them scattered around the outer walls—now running to mount up and follow my men! We could leave walking and they wouldn’t catch us!”
“We’ll gallop just the same, if you don’t mind.” The young man’s cheerful enthusiasm was invigorating. Rohan began to think this might work after all.
Pol’s fifty were the first to leave. Rohan saw him give a sweeping gesture with one arm, and then lost him in the crowd thundering through the gates. At the last instant Kazander took off after them, yelling over his shoulder, “He’s lived in Princemarch too long!”
“That boy is insane,” Chay observed.
“Completely. But he’s right. It’s years since Pol spent any amount of time in the Desert. Frankly, I’m glad Kazander’s going with him—I’ve guards enough for my precious princely person, thank you very much.”
Chay made a face at him. “More fun to be had with the young dragon than the old one, anyway.” More briskly, he went on, “The quickest of the enemy will be mounted by now and following the Isulk’im to find out what the hell they think they’re doing. The next group will go after Pol when they can. Sethric, wait for her grace’s signal and take your hundred out through the main gates.”
“Yes, my lord.” He saluted again. “Until Stronghold!”
Rohan could not see Sioned on the upper walls, but he and everyone else jumped when a torch suddenly blazed nearby. Her signal. Sethric led his riders out at top speed.
Chay frowned as he glanced at Rohan. “This is the tricky part. Will they follow our diversions or wait for us?”
“I think they’re sufficiently confused, my lord,” said Relnaya, a sly smile on his face. “Lord Kazander’s men will join Lord Maarken once they’ve outrun their escort.” He snorted. “They sit their horses like chairs.”
“They sit my grandsir’s horses,” Tobren reminded him. “It may be a closer race than you think.”
Rohan hid another smile and waited for Sioned’s next signal. It seemed a long time coming. Perhaps the Vellant’im w
eren’t going for it. Perhaps too many of them were staying behind. Rohan had offered temptation; what if too few succumbed? And it was such delicate timing—how long to wait for them to saddle up before signaling the next group to leave? Rohan had hoped that chaos would break down efficiency, that warriors who worked together so well would be separated by the frantic speed necessary to follow the Desert troops. Those who were ready first would set off first, with discipline in a shambles and their only thought to overtake these crazy people who thought they could escape.
And what if he’d been completely wrong, and only token forces went after Pol and Sethric and Maarken, and the bulk of the army stayed to occupy Remagev?
He’d gotten away once. To do so again would be a slap in the enemy’s face. He reasoned that pride would send large numbers of Vellant’im into the Long Sand to foil this second escape. If this happened against their leaders’ wishes, so much the better. But he couldn’t be sure, despite his experience in dealing with barbarians.
Another torch flared to life, and Maarken dug his heels into his stallion’s ribs. The gates were flung open and hauled closed behind the last of Maarken’s group in an impossibly short time. Rohan let out a long breath and rubbed his arm absently.
Myrdal’s secret exit from Radzyn was back where the keep abutted natural stone. It was just horse-high and wide enough for only a single cart to pass through. Chay would lead, Rohan bring up the rear—over vehement protests—with Walvis leaving last of all after wiring the gatehouse and arcade. The first two torches were abruptly extinguished and the courtyard was plunged into near-total darkness. It was time.
Feylin ran up, breathless with exertion and excitement. “You should see them scrambling out there!” she cried. “Almost all the men who still have mounts and are capable of riding them are saddling up to follow! It worked!”
Not until we’re all safe at Stronghold, Rohan thought. But he didn’t say it aloud. He glanced at the line of people filing slowly through to the hidden passage—they moved in smooth order, without panic or delay, but it was going to take a long time. Those who could ride must mount; the wounded who were too unsteady to sit a horse alone must take a second rider up; carts carrying supplies and the seriously hurt had to be protected by the uninjured warriors Rohan was taking with him. When they met up with the groups who had spent the day in shelter, there would be more defenders—at about the same time as the Vellant’im caught up with them, or so Rohan was gambling. But he wasn’t sure it was a bet his wife would take; she liked better odds.
