by Ellyn, Court
“There will be no need for that,” Rhorek retorted.
Keth chose to let his advice—cynical or prophetic—hang under the pavilion without apology. “Choose who will ride to Tírandon.”
“I’ll go,” said a voice from the shadowed perimeter. Leshan stepped into the lantern light. Keth took his foster-son by the shoulder. “Can you find your way in the dark?”
“I’ve ridden with the border patrols often enough, yes, m’ lord.”
“Good, then bring Helwende’s cavalry to Slaenhyll. But, Leshan, if we’ve been overwhelmed, beat a hasty retreat back to Tírandon. Get word to Lord Davhin at Ulmarr. Our host is retreat from Fiera and amass at Bramoran.”
Leshan’s black eyes were as round as the moons and his pulse thudded visibly under his jaw. “I will not fail, m’ lord.”
As Leshan bowed out the tent, his father caught him by the arm. “Son, bring half the garrison, too. No arguments, Keth.”
The War Commander gave Leshan a nod.
“Ride fast,” Kelyn urged his friend. “I need you to watch my back.”
Leshan’s eyes swept the faces flickering with lantern-light and lingered on his younger brother. Then he was gone.
~~~~
37
A cold wind came with the dawn and howled up the northern slopes of the Barren Heights. Scudding across the moor, low clouds turned blush for a moment, but otherwise concealed the rising of the sun. The rain, when it fell, fast turned to sleet. The ice pellets tinked off helms and shoulder-guards.
“Check your swords often, don’t let them freeze to the scabbards,” Keth ordered. They climbed the hill he’d chosen, one sheltered in the lee of the immense bulk of Slaenhyll. Half the squires began prying stones from the wet earth and stacked them in a short palisade along the hill’s southern rim. Keth set his twelve knights to helping the youngsters; knight and squire both complained of the blowing ice, but otherwise they seemed eager for a fight.
Keth hadn’t told them the size of the host marching toward them. Laral and the Falcon Guard were ordered to keep silent. The last thing he needed was a case of despair spreading through the ranks.
If the Fieran army had left Rhyverdane yesterday morning, then the vanguard should be nearing the headwaters of the Blythewater. Only a blind eye would miss the abandoned Aralorri camp. And if the Warlord decided that so small a force was worth the chase, his scouts would easily find the trail trampled into the mud.
Keth calculated. They would arrive about noon.
Don’t go to Leania.… Damn. Is this the disaster Etivva’s fevered brain predicted?
Maybe they’ll pass us by, Keth thought. Maybe Goryth will think we’re only a border patrol, not worth his time, and pass by. Whether or not the Fierans engaged, their presence north of the Bryna meant that Keth had to start planning a whole new war. His brain jumped ahead, strategizing Aralorr’s defense.
He glanced north into the slanting sleet. Sight of the brooding stones distracted him from his planning. Shriveled old women, they were, heavy hooded cloaks draped to their feet. The sleet gathered on their misshapen backs, melted and turned them black. They still clung to summer’s heat, Keth mused. He liked looking at the stones, though he dreaded them. Cursed ground. Wasn’t that the legend? Elven make. Were they really? He seemed unable to summon the loathing that always came when he pondered the Ancient Race. That loathing seemed so petty … empty … self-abusing. Elven make. Elven blood. Kieryn …
“Hey, Da?”
Kelyn and the other Falcons had arrived atop the hill. One at a time, they tugged their blue roans through a gap in the low stone redoubt. Kelyn had yet to receive his blue, and hadn’t sounded enthusiastic to give up his old dappled stallion. He gazed upon his father with concern. Keth managed a tight smile, squeezed his son’s shoulder, but Kelyn wasn’t fooled. “You’re worried.”
“Hush,” Keth said, then in a whisper added, “I shouldn’t have given in to him. My old friend is a fool. A man with sense would’ve heeded me and fled.”
“He’s angry. He knows what the Fierans will do when they reach the first village in their path. The same things we did to Fieran villages all summer.”
“No, Rhorek knows it’s going to be worse. And for that reason I can’t blame him for throwing himself into Goryth’s path, to slow the inevitable, but … if we’d been prepared, we might’ve stood a chance.”
Kelyn drew back, looking offended. “We are not going to fail, Da.”
“Son,” Keth insisted, “if the worst happens, ride back to Ilswythe and tell your mother we did all we could. She’ll need to hear it from you.”
“You can tell Mother whatever the hell you like.”
Keth gripped his arm and silenced him. “Just humor me, Kelyn.”
His son’s face fell, and he looked like a little boy again. He shook his head and ice fell from his hair. “I refuse to accept defeat before the Fierans even show.” He gave Chaya’s reins a tug, and he joined the other Falcons at the center of the hilltop. Watching him go, Keth envied his son for that sense of invulnerability. He gazed up at the ten slouching old crones. Yes, this was a good place to die.
~~~~
Rhorek surveyed the younger squires, Laral and Eliad among them, as they led the knights’ warhorses away behind Slaenhyll. If the knights were to make a stand inside the redoubt, they couldn’t afford to be crowded by their mounts. Rhorek had expected the Falcons’ blues to be hidden away, too, but Captain Jareg insisted they be kept close at hand, in case the king needed to be whisked away. But Rhorek had no intention of running like a hare before wolves.
Making a stand might give the rest of Aralorr time to learn of the enemy’s advance. If he could save a handful of his people, Rhorek thought his sacrifice well worth it.
He caught sight of the Lady Briéllyn climbing down the hill, and his heart leapt into his throat. Her hair glowed happily even in this wan, wet light. What was she still doing here? Rhorek didn’t like the idea of her being in danger once battle ensued.
“Eliad,” he called. His youngest son turned back, dragging two warhorses behind him. “I’ll take one of those off you.” Looking puzzled, Eliad extended one set of reins. “Now be about your business, boy.” The squire slapped a fist to his chest so hard that it made a hollow thud.
Though Rhorek was proud of his twelve illegitimate sons and daughters, he had shown less interest in them than he had in his hunting hounds. Granting Eliad his desire to become a squire demonstrated not a particular liking for the boy, but for the boy’s mother. Yet whatever qualities the Lady Mara possessed, Rhorek told himself they paled in comparison to those exhibited in the Lady Rhyverdane.
She reached the bottom of the hill and her mud-caked shoes slipped on the icy grass. She fell hard on her backside. Rhorek hurried to her side. When she saw who had taken her elbow and lifted her to her feet, her face flushed and she stammered, “Th-thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You should be long gone from this place, lady,” he said. “Take this horse, I pray you. It’s not safe for you to ride home yet, so head north. You’ll come to Lanwyk Manor, a small holding. Lord Acwyl will take you in.”
“Sire,” Briéllyn said, stopping his rush of words, and frowned at the reins he offered her, “I’m a superstitious woman. If I take that horse, it’s the same as saying his rider won’t need him after this … confrontation. Besides, how many surgeons or nurses did you bring with you? I’ll suffice. I’ve midwifed babies and burned their mothers, sewn up farmers and burned them likewise. I suppose my stomach can handle battle wounds. Just make sure they’re not yours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sire, I’ll take this stallion and follow your squires with him. If you need me, I’ll be encamped with them.”
Watching her wend a course between the hills, Rhorek heard himself chuckling. Lady Rhyverdane had assumed control of the situation as deftly as she handled the flighty warhorse, and Rhorek hadn’t realized it until she was walking away. He knew he should call her back and order her to ride to
safety. But he wanted her close, very close. Undoubtedly, the Lady Rhyverdane was too proud to consent to be just another mistress, bearing more bastards. No, she would bear princes. If Rhorek asked anything less of her, he hoped she’d spit in his face.
~~~~
Just before noon, one of the knights piling stones on the redoubt called, “Lord War Commander! Riders!” Gyfan of Blue Mountain was pointing, not toward the dim gray sheen of the Blythewater, but at a slim line of mismatched horses galloping over the vast Aralorri countryside. Twenty-four riders in poor rusted mail and hardened leather carried the banner of the Black Falcon.
“Border patrol,” announced Lander, joining Keth at the wall. “How do they know?”
The riders wound among the hillocks until they arrived below the defenses. They climbed the hill on foot.
“Captain Arqueth!” Lander called, taking the man’s hand. “How have you come to our aid?”
A veteran of the border skirmishes, Arqueth wore scars brow to chin, his bristling black beard growing in patches where the scar tissue allowed. “My men and me were on our way to Tírandon, m’ lord,” he said, voice like gravel rolling in a barrel. “We saw some activity along the Bryna. Looked like somebody tried to attach ferries south of Fort Last. But there were no signs anybody made it across alive. Meant to tell you, we did, but we crossed paths with your son. He tol’ us of your plight, and where we’d find you.”
“Bless the boy,” Rhorek exclaimed happily.
Keth wanted to slap the smile off the king’s face. Twenty-four more men to provide fodder for Fieran blades. “Captain Arqueth, I’ll place you and your men on the east side of the hill, there. You’ll need to raise your own section of wall, and be quick about it.”
While his men gathered stones, Arqueth asked, “What exactly are we up against, sir?”
“My lords!” This time, Gyfan’s shout carried a different note, one distinctly akin to fear.
The horizon was a gray blur of sleet and mist, but a darker smudge now bled over the barren moor.
“Goddess, help us,” Lander muttered.
Keth felt the eyes of knights and Falcons gravitate toward him, aiming questions and anger like arrows. He gave them no opportunity to question the order to fight. “Lords and ladies, listen well. We’re too few in number to afford our casualties the luxury of a hospital tent, and we have no surgeons. The badly wounded will be moved to the middle of the hill, here. The rest must fight on. We’ve only brush for fuel, so fires must be kept to a minimum until they’re needed for more than warming fingers. We’ll grit our teeth and lay hot blade to blood. As the Black Falcon desires, we will not let those Fieran bastards or their mercenaries cross into Aralorr without a damned good fight. We’ll give them all we’ve got, and when it’s over, you’ll know you did your best. While you live, keep your eyes open. Neither Fieran nor Zhiani is to find a way atop this hill. You see a hole in the line, fill it. You see one enemy or a hundred sweeping around to flank us, counter them. And we’ll hold out as long as we can.”
No one uttered a word. Watching his enemy approach, even Rhorek was at a loss. Did he now realize the scale of the fight he wanted to pick? Keth saw terror surface in many a face, but stoic determination in many more. Lady Ulna’s jaw clenched. “Right,” she said, buckling her helm on tighter. “Let’s do it, then.”
At her side, Gyfan whooped. “My lord, they’re dividing!”
Indeed, the slow-rolling flood split. One half turned east with the supply wagons. The other half continued straight on. Keth estimated fifty archers, twice as many cavalry, and more infantry still. They advanced beneath Machara’s banner: a crouching, winged gargoyle, black on a white field. So the Warlord himself stayed behind to fight, eh? Under a second banner, blazoned with a twisted green serpent, marched two hundred scantily clad outlanders.
Atop the hill, the Falcons and knights joined Gyfan in celebrating the division. A few tossed taunts into the wind. Rhorek encouraged them, grinning and nodding.
“Quiet down!” Keth ordered, glaring at the king. The cheers tapered off. “Unless you wish the Fierans to hear how relieved you are that they’re hitting us with one hammer instead of two? I suggest we don’t tempt the Warlord to recall the other half.”
Leaning close, Rhorek asked, “Will you refuse them every reason for high spirits?”
“What reason? The odds are still six to one, Rhorek. Unless Leshan returns with Helwende’s men and soon.”
Rhorek squeezed his friend’s shoulder, a gesture of surrender. “What prompted Goryth to divide his force, do you think?”
Below, the Fierans chose a long low hillock and began unfurling their camp. The Zhianese ripped brush from the ground for campfires. “Likely, Goryth’s scouts saw how few we are, and he isn’t about to waste time sending every man after us. I’m only sorry we can’t counter that half as well.”
In the distance, the train of wagons and strange devices left deep muddy ruts like open wounds. Ahead of them, a long line of cavalry and foot soldiers in green uniforms entered Aralorr unchecked. Lander’s villages would soon feel the sting. And then, thought Keth, they’ll march on Tírandon. Judging Lander’s drawn, wicked glare, he had reached the same conclusion.
“Guard!” shouted Captain Jareg. “Form circle.” Shields and shoulder-guards clanked as the Falcons gathered in a solid wall amid the hill. “Sire, I must insist you join us.” Lieutenant Lissah stepped aside, opening a gap for Rhorek to pass through. His Roreshan black and several of the roans had been staked on their bellies within the circle.
Keth, likewise, ordered his knights and Arqueth’s patrol into position. The redoubt was three feet high in the tallest places, so the soldiers hunkered down on their knees. Keth joined them, choosing a southern view beside Gyfan and Ulna.
“Good Goddess, they’re big bastards,” Gyfan muttered, glowering at the outlanders. “And where the hell’s their armor?”
Lady Ulna absently jigged her sword in its sheath; the steel sounded eager to jump free. “Aye,” she said, “lots there for a blade to bite into.”
Keth appreciated her twisted sense of optimism.
~~~~
Listening to Jareg’s orders with half an ear, Kelyn watched his father closely. He couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening below the hill. Craning his neck, he could see only the tail end of the Fieran host coiling about the blooming canvas tents.
“Shields up, lords and ladies,” Keth ordered, slinging his own off his back. “Goryth is about to introduce us to his archers.”
Captain Jareg cried, “Guards, knees!”
There hadn’t been time to acquaint Kelyn with the ways of the Falcon Guard before leaving Ulmarr, so he was a step behind in squeezing closer about the king and dropping to one knee. Mimicking the others, he raised his shield at an angle over his head. Rhorek’s own shield formed the roof of the wall. Kelyn peered across the circle, found Lissah. She was looking back at him, too.
“Heads up!”
From between two shield rims, Kelyn saw the arrows fly up over the hill, thick as locusts. Thud, tink, the iron heads struck shields and glanced off armor, a few at first, then a steady hail. Some found the gaps between armor plates, between shields. A horse bugled in pain, a man shrieked, then another.
As quickly as it began, the storm of arrows ceased. Kelyn peered over his shield. Da gained his feet. What did that mean? He couldn’t see, damn it! Below the hill, a gruff voice cut across the wind. “Swords!” the War Commander called.
The Falcon Guard surged up from their knees, and Kelyn ached to run to the redoubt, but Jareg ordered the Guard to stay put.
A roar wafted up the hill. Otherworldly, high-pitched cries, and the clang of swords on shields.
Da poised his old, battered blade and shouted, “Do not let them draw you beyond the wall!”
If the knights were able to hold off the charge, Kelyn wouldn’t get a chance to fight. He realized that the menacing black surcoat he wore and all this shiny armor were nothin
g but show, useful only during the direst of last resorts. But he was a knight, he was supposed to fight. Goddess curse the day he’d accepted the black.
On the eastern side of the hill, Captain Arqueth laughed. “The ice, m’ lord Commander, they can’t run up the ice!”
His patrolmen and several knights joined Arqueth in taunting the mercenaries for what must’ve been a comical advance. Da relaxed his stance for merely an instant before a handful of Zhianese leapt over the redoubt. In the lee of the weather, the southern slope proved easiest to conquer. The War Commander drove his blade into a bare belly, his shield into an unguarded jaw, and sent a pair of outlanders reeling back down the hill. Ulna and Gyfan fell upon a third. More Zhianese quickly replaced them.
To the east, Arqueth had stopped laughing. Scrambling feet had apparently worn the ice away, and the ringing of steel surrounded Kelyn now on all sides.
Though the Zhianese wore little armor, they seemed unconcerned with the Aralorris’ heavy chainmail. Their tactic was simple and effective: just below the redoubt, they raised round leather shields over their heads, and swung curved, single-edged scimitars at unguarded legs. The Aralorri defense soon amounted to hopping, kicking, and clubbing Zhianese in the head.
The knights nearest the brush fires turned the embers and passed hot daggers to bleeding neighbors. The sizzle of flesh and blood under the red heat gave rise to strangled outcries and a sickening stench that drifted away on icy gusts.
All day the fighting came in waves, with the outlanders roaring up the hill, then falling back for brief respite. Their unrelenting fervor bordered on fanaticism and, teamed with the shrieking ululations, wore down Kelyn’s sanity. He wasn’t the only one. By late afternoon, the Falcon on his right groaned and threw hands over his ears; amid the circle, the horses staked on their bellies whinnied in manic reply, and King Rhorek’s fingers caged his face. His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched. “Why don’t they give up?” he muttered through his fingers. “Even change rhythm?”
