Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  “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.

  :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 bands, 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!

  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 flag. He rode to the exact middle of the battle, 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 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?”

  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 xxx.

  They found out in the next few moments as fog seemed to begin rising from the earth at a point between their fines 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.

  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 persistent 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.

  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!

  Dirk slid off the stallion’s bare back, and took Davan by the shoulder, shaking him. “Break it off, little brother—that isn’t going to get you anywhere,” he shouted over the noise of battle. “You two—don’t argue. Link with us—”

  Griffon did not even bother to think, much less argue. He linked in with Dirk, as he had so often done as a student—

  To find himself, not in a four-way linkage, but a five.

  Dirk was linked to Rolan—who in his turn was linked to—Talia? Yes, it was Talia.

  Dirk’s ability at Mindspeech was limited, but urgency made it clear and strong. :Davan, follow her. Mage uses death to raise power—pain, despair—She can track it to him. Grif, follow Davan—I hold here.:

  Davan caught that; they all remembered how Talia had used Ylsa’s dying to lead Kris’ Farsight to where her body lay. The thread of Talia’s sending was faint, but unmistakable. Davan caught and followed it, and Griffon, linked in as closely as he dared, was hot on his “heels.”

  :Yes—yes, I’ve got him! I See him! He’s dressed in a bright sky-blue velvet robe—Grif, strike now, through me!:

  Clear in Davan’s mind, Griffon saw a wizened man in a robe of vivid blue just a little to one side of the knot of people around Ancar’s standard. And that was all he needed.

  With hatred and anger he hadn’t known he could feel, born of the horror he felt watching his fellows being slaughtered, he reached—

  And found himself blocked, as he’d never been before.

  He strove against the wall blocking him, fighting his way through it with every ounce of energy he possessed, fueled by his rage—

  He felt it yield just the tiniest amount, and dragged up new reserves of energy—from where, he neither knew nor cared.

  There was an explosion in Ancar’s lines. And a tower of flame rose next to Ancar’s standard—

  And the demons vanished.

  Griffon’s eyes rolled up into his head, he fainted dead away, and Davan went with him; Hyron and Dirk caught them as they fell.

  When the demon-warriors vanished, Selenay’s forces let out a cheer of relief. Selenay cheered with them, but wondered if they were being a bit premature.

  When no other arcane attacks manifested, then she truly felt like cheering. There must have been only the one mage, and somehow the Heralds had been able to defeat him.

  “Griffon and Davan found the mage and burned him,” Kyril said at Selenay’s glance of inquiry. “They both collapsed, after. Griffon’s still passed out, but it doesn’t look as if he’ll be needed again in a hurry.”

  No, it didn’t; for now Ancar’s regular troops were charging Selenay’s line. The bowmen showered them with arrows—no few of which found their marks. Ancar’s own crossbowmen had long since expended their own bolts—uselessly, it might be added—and had switched to charging with the rest, swords in hand. Selenay’s Guards-folk braced themselves for the shock, for now the first step of their battle plan was about to take place.

  When Ancar’s line hit Selenay’s with a clangor of metal on metal and cries of battle-rage and pain, most of their force was concentrated on the middle, where Selenay’s standard was. She waited, ignoring the sight and sound of her people killing and being killed, for several long moments—for she, not the Lord Marshal, was the field commander. Her Gift of Foresight was not a strong one, but it was an invaluable one, for it operated best on the battlefield. It would not tell her what was to happen, but given that there were plans already made, it would tell her when the exact instant occurred that those plans should be set into motion.

  She waited, listening for that insistent inner prompting. Then—”Tell the left to pull in,” she said to Kyril.

  He Mindsent, with a frown of concentration, and almost instantly the troops on the lefthand side of the standard began making their way toward the center.

  As she’d hoped, Ancar sent his cavalry to the left, with foot following—supposing that he could encircle their line at that point, or even capture the supposed Heir.

  “Wheel—” she told Kyril. And relayed by the Heralds with each group, the entire force pivoted on the center, with the leftmost end being on the very edge of the swamp, where some of Ancar’s cavalry were even now discovering the two and three feet of water and mud.

  She waited another long moment, until all of Ancar’s forces were between her line and the woods on the left.

  Then—“Now, Kyril! Call them in!”

  And pouring from the woods came the troops that had hidden there all night—fresh, angry, and out for blood; the defectors from Alessandar’s army, and the Heralds that were their link to the command post. The defectors looked a little odd, for each of them had spent a few moments of his hours in waiting cutting away the sleeves of his uniform tunic so that the sleeves of the white, padded gambeson showed. There could now be no mistaking them on the battlefield for Ancar’s troopers.

  Caught between two forces, with a morass in front of them, even Ancar’s seasoned veterans began to panic.

  After that, it was a rout.

  Griffon was the first to reach the Keep, half-blind with reaction-headache. He had stayed only long enough to assure himself that the victory was indeed Selenay’s, then pulled himself onto his Companion’s back and sought the Healers.

  “We did it; we pulled it off,” he told Elspeth, downing a swallow of headache-potion with a grimace. “Those extra troops from Hardorn turned the tide. By now what’s left of Ancar’s army is probably being chased across the border with its tail between its legs.”

  “What about Ancar himself?”

  “Never got into the thick of battle; probably he’s gotten away. And before you ask, I do
n’t know if Hulda was with him, but I’d guess not. From what I’ve been able to pick up from you and Talia, I’d say she isn’t one to put herself at any kind of risk. She’s probably safely back at the capital, consolidating things for her ‘little dear.’”

  “What about—”

  “Elspeth, my head is about ready to break open. I think I know why Lavan called the Firestorm down on himself—it probably felt better than his reaction-headache! I’m going to go pass out for a while. Thank Talia for me. We couldn’t have done it without her. And you stay ready; they’ll be bringing battle casualties back any minute now. The Healers will need every hand they can get, and there’ll be plenty of fellows eager for the privilege of having the Heir listening to their boasts while they’re being patched up.”

  So it proved ... and Elspeth learned firsthand of the aftermath of battle. She grew a great deal older in the next few hours. And never again would she think of war as “glorious.”

  Selenay remained on the Border, as fresh troops came to help with mopping-up, but Elspeth, the Councillors, the wounded, and most of the Heralds (including Talia and Dirk) returned to the capital.

  Just before the Councillors left, Selenay called them all together.

  I must remain here,” she said, feeling gray with exhaustion. “Elspeth has full powers of regency; in my absence she heads the Council—with full vote.”

  Lord Gartheser looked as if he was about to protest, then subsided, sullenly. The Councillors who had been Orthallen’s advocates—with the exception of Hyron—were angry and unhappy and would be Elspeth’s first problem.

  “You have no choice in this, my Councillors,” Selenay told them, fixing her eyes on Gartheser in particular. “In war the Monarch has right of decree, as you well know. And should there be any trouble ...”

  She paused significantly.

  “Be certain that I shall hear of it—and act.”

  Elspeth called a Council meeting as soon as they were all settled, but sent messages that it would be held in Talia’s quarters. With the more aged or slothful of the Councillors grumbling and panting their way up the stairs to the top story, the meeting convened.