by Ellyn, Court
“Fall back and regroup,” said Morach.
Kelyn feared that’s what he’d say. Worse, he feared he had no other choice. Every attempt his soldiers had made to press toward Brengarra had been repulsed. Casualties mounted. Enthusiasm waned. “How did your men react when they learned Lady Drona sustained injuries?”
“They were pleased,” said Davhin.
“Glad she won’t be leading her own army for a while,” Morach added.
“And yesterday, when they learned Garrs had destroyed the bridge at Ca’yndale?”
“My knights drank a toast to him,” said Genna.
“We all did,” Morach said.
Kelyn lowered the spyglass. “If we give up and run back to Nathrachan, we abandon Garrs, we tell Lander that his victory at Athmar made no difference, and the dwarves are on their own, to no good end. None of those things are going to happen. So get back to your people and bolster their courage. Go!”
Watching these older veterans jump at his word and scurry off toward camp, Kelyn prayed that he wasn’t making a grave error. Would his father have ordered fallback instead? Would his father have dared attempt what he attempted in the first place? He raised the spyglass, telling himself that his host would have its break soon. On a distant hill, the Fieran camp stretched out under its own plumes of funeral smoke. The black tor and yellow lightning bolt on the banners of Brengarra flapped dully against a damp sky. A line of armored horse formed on the eastern side of the green tents. Knights in half-plate mounted up. Kelyn swore and hurried after his commanders. “Heavy cavalry,” he told them, catching up. “Looks like they mean to attack the south end of our line. Genna, Lunélion’s cavalry rides with me. Hurry.”
At the livery, a squire saddled the gray stallion of a fallen knight, and Kelyn raced off to join Genna’s formation. Dust rose from the fields as Fiera’s heavy horse charged Aralorr’s fortifications. Kelyn swept his sword and one hundred of Lunélion’s finest galloped down the main thoroughfare of Ulmarr Town.
Horns blared. Arrows streaked high from behind trenches and mantlets, glimpsed for an instant over broken rooftops before plummeting toward the Fieran charge.
Emerging from the confines of town, Kelyn saw the line of infantry begin to crumble under the onslaught. Knights in Brengarra gray smashed through the mantlets, leapt the earthen redoubts, and slashed low at Aralorris scrambling from the trenches. One sergeant valiantly shouted for his men to stand. A wall of bristling pikes formed. A Fieran warhorse toppled, but a dozen more surrounded the pikemen, and their resolve shattered. Men in blue tabards turned and ran toward town, some even threw down their pikes.
Kelyn urged more speed from a horse not built for it.
Discovering the Aralorri counterattack bearing down on them, the Brengarra knights regrouped into a pair of long lines. Helms and naked swords gleamed sharply in the late morning sun.
From the east rose a roar of many voices, surprising Kelyn and his foes both. Light cavalry, perhaps half a hundred, in what looked like plain leather armor, charged the Fieran formation. A cerulean banner flapped madly over them. Kelyn recognized the black and silver chevrons of Tírandon. A knight in a blue surcoat led the rough riders. Deciding that Lander had abandoned his post at Midguard, Kelyn grit his teeth against a flush of anger.
The new arrivals fell upon the Brengarra knights before they had time to rethink their defense. Horses screamed, men fell. Kelyn swept his sword to the left, to the right, ordering Lunélion’s cavalry to divide and sweep around their enemy from both sides. He led half in thundering leaps over the trenches and around Brengarra’s south flank. With his shield, he pummeled a Fieran in the back of the head, and slashed at another who seemed to be trying to wheel and retreat. Many a knight in gray broke past, cutting down Lunélion men in a desperate attempt to escape the Aralorris closing around them like talons. The rough riders pursued. Only their commander held back. The ghostly moonstone gargoyle atop the greatsword Contention grinned over his shoulder, but it wasn’t Lander peering from the helm.
“Leshan, you mad dog,” Kelyn exclaimed. “You’re the last person I expected.”
“You like them?” he asked, gesturing at the roaring, hooting fighters tearing after Brengarra’s knights. “Cottars don’t like it when Fierans burn their farms. Peasants all. I trained them myself.”
“We’ll take them, brother.”
Cheers rose from the trenches. Aralorri infantry surged onto the high ground to watch the chase, waving their helms and banners. Seeing a ripe opportunity, Kelyn called to Lady Genna. “Ride with Leshan’s men, the rest of us will catch up shortly. Harry Brengarra’s rear, if you see the chance to charge their fortifications, take it.”
Leshan and Genna led Lunélion’s cavalry after the rough riders. Kelyn galloped around the west side of the trenches, calling, “Form ranks! Today’s the day.” All the way back through Ulmarr Town he roused the soldiers from hiding and left them gathering their numbers for the push west. Riding onto the highway, he met Morach and Lady Ulna leading the knights of Ilswythe, Bramoran, and Wyramor. Lord Davhin rallied his archers from the trenches. On the hill of ruins the Falcon Guard surrounded the king, who watched Lunélion’s charge and the rousing of Aralorr’s great beast through a spyglass.
Kelyn had to admit, Leshan’s people were a wonder to behold. When tongues of fire began spouting from nozzles, the rough riders knew to bail from the saddle, roll under the flames, and attack the bags of bile first. Well trained, indeed, and as fearless as Leshan had been fearful. Kelyn suspected these bold farmers and herders were good for his foster-brother.
~~~~
Shortly before nightfall, Brengarra’s gray and yellow banners slunk away toward the Crossroads. Zhianese covered their flight with sporadic gouts of flame, unwilling to retreat themselves until their last man was slain. Aralorr’s host moved in to occupy the Fieran trenches. “Two miles,” Kelyn mused, shaking his head. “Two bloody miles that were harder to cross than a continent.” From his position atop a hill, he watched orderlies and squires separate the casualties. Fierans and Zhianese were laid out in one line, Aralorris in another, the wounded taken back to the hospital tent. A grievous number of bleeding men filled the transport wagons.
He’d received the report that Lord Brengarra had been wounded as well. One of Leshan’s rough riders had battled him upon this very hill and either bashed his helm in or nearly severed his leg. The reports varied. Though Leshan said that’s when the Brengarra host lost its spirit and began to give ground.
Kelyn scrutinized his foster-brother. Halfway down the hillside, Leshan crouched with Contention on his knee, an oil cloth polishing the blood and filth from the blade. Sane but grim, he revealed no joy in his victory, nor did he celebrate with his rough riders. Joining him, Kelyn said, “If you hadn’t shown up, we’d be stuck at Ulmarr for another season.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Leshan scrubbed splashes of gore from the moonstone gargoyle. “They could push us back still.”
True enough. Given the right motivation, the Fierans might come surging up the highway at any time. He needed to remember to tell his commanders not to get too comfortable. They’d be marching west by noon tomorrow. “Your father let you carry his trophy?”
Leshan slid Contention into a broad leather scabbard and stood to buckle it onto his back. “Let me? He doesn’t know. Lander left it in a chest of things he salvaged from Tírandon. I’ll put it to better use.”
“I’m … surprised …”
“I failed myself, Kelyn,” Leshan said brusquely, “more than you ever did. It won’t happen again.” Without waiting for dismissal he ambled on down the hill and joined his rowdy fifty. Looking closer, Kelyn recognized old men and boys who’d been too young to fight when the war began, and several women who looked tough enough to take down an angry ox. Though some had sustained wounds and burns, none had been lost. Astounding.
To make sure Rhorek received an accurate report, Kelyn rode back to Ulmarr by the light of the moo
ns. Dismounting outside the broken wall, he heard someone call to him from the dark. A party of riders entered the light of the torches. Kelyn recognized the orange sun on a dark surcoat and his uncle’s beaming, bearded face. “About time you rejoined us, Uncle.”
The other riders appeared to be the honor guard of Leanian cavalry who had escorted the dwarves to Graynor, and four of King Bano’en’s royal guard in bright orange surcoats and gleaming silver helms. The person they guarded was far too small to be Bano’en, however. The child was gagged, his hands bound to the saddle. Was he doubled over in pain or merely asleep?
“Brought a surprise for you,” Allaran said, lifting the boy down. The cotton gag stifled a groan. His scrawny legs tried to buckle, but Allaran held him up and shuffled him into the torchlight. “May I present Nathryk, Crown Prince of Fiera?”
Kelyn glanced sharply at his uncle. “Oh, sod off. That is not amusing.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
Eyes as black as shadow scowled from a slender, pale, travel-smeared face. “He doesn’t look anything like the White Falcon.”
“Oh, he’s Shadryk’s progeny, all right, as he’s only too eager to remind us.” Allaran delighted in telling Kelyn the story of how his own daughter helped capture Fiera’s heir. “Is it too late to deliver the prince to Rhorek?”
“Late? I’m sure he’s still awake, it’s been quite a day. Even if he sleeps, he’ll want to wake up for this.”
~~~~
After ten days in the saddle, Nathryk’s arse was bruised, his shoulders and legs ached, and his skin was chafed raw. Sliding gingerly into the leather camp chair, he was grateful to have that wad of cotton out of his mouth. His tongue was swollen and sore from rubbing against the gag for so long, and his lips, cracked and bleeding, felt as stretched as a toad’s. A goblet of watered-down wine refreshed his mouth and throat. Lord Wyramor was a cruel man, pushing his men and his prisoner to ride day and night, past exhaustion. For a while, Nathryk was so relieved to be off the horse and inside a warm, luxurious pavilion that he didn’t care that he was surrounded by enemies.
Near the flaps, Lord Wyramor spilled the tale in rushed whispers to a stern blond woman in a black surcoat and an unkempt man who claimed to be the Black Falcon. There was precious little majesty in the man’s wild untrimmed beard, wrinkled surcoat, and muddy boots. He looked old, tired, dirty, and nothing at all to be feared.
The one Nathryk shied from was the young man who called Lord Wyramor ‘uncle.’ A red-plumed helm fixed to his sword belt, he stood with his arms crossed, watching Nathryk with hard, cold eyes. Blood was splashed across his bright blue surcoat; blood smeared his face; blood filled the creases of black leather gloves and darkened the leather-wrapped haft of the sword on his hip.
Some decision must’ve been reached, for Lord Wyramor departed, the woman in black dispersed several guards with sharp orders, and the Black Falcon approached. He folded himself into a second camp chair and braced his forearms on his knees. His eyes were hazel and they stuck to Nathryk like mud. “There’s much to be said for your spirit, if not your foresight, young man. Your father must be worried about you.”
“Only if my grandmother had the guts to tell him I escaped. Which I doubt.”
“Lady Eritha?” the Black Falcon asked. “She was a brave fighter. Keen eye with a bow, better with a shield and spear.”
Nathryk snorted. “That’s a different Eritha.”
“No, we faced off at the Battle of Hills, she and I. She routed my men.”
“Chicken hawk’s a liar.”
The blood-smeared young man shifted forward. “What did you say?”
Nathryk raised his chin, trying to look fearless. “That’s what Goryth calls him. The chicken hawk.”
The Black Falcon chuckled. “Well, Lord Machara is known for his brawn rather than his wit.”
“Goryth is a genius! He’s going to win this war. He’s going to cut off your head and give your crown to my father, and he’s going to win. Then I’ll be king of all Westervael, and you’ll be …” he paused, searching, took a cue from that evil lady captain, “… you’ll be just a messy bag of bones.”
“Is that so?” asked the Black Falcon, looking unconvinced.
“You all will! Prince Saj’nal is going to burn you to pieces and bugger your corpses, then burn your houses down and your barns and your castles. And you’ll all be dead!”
“And you’ll be king over that wasteland?”
“It won’t be a wasteland! It will be better than ever without all you Aralorris living on it. When I’m king, I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done! For stepping foot in my kingdom and destroying my castles and killing my people.”
“You love your people, do you?” asked the Black Falcon, though he picked at his fingernails as if Nathryk’s threats bored him.
“They can rot. As long as they do what I tell them and kill Aralorris, I’ll be nice to them.”
The Black Falcon slouched back in the camp chair and nodded. “You’re not as subtle as your father, are you.”
Nathryk didn’t know what that meant, so he said nothing, though he detected an insult somewhere.
Indecision or anguish drove the Black Falcon to his feet. At a trestle table, he poured a goblet of wine for himself and said to the scary young man, “Plenty of spirit, no foresight. And foresight is a sign of wisdom.” The young man looked less scary now; behind the blood of battle, he seemed sad as he gazed down at Nathryk. Were they pitying him? Mocking him? Nathryk couldn’t tell, but he hated them both more than ever. The Black Falcon perched on the edge of the trestle table and gazed into his goblet as if he were divining the future. “You’re a boy yet, Highness, but your character is clear. You are the tyrant my people need to fear.”
“That’s right!” he declared, pleased that this king was not as blind a fool as he looked.
To the blood-smeared young man, the Black Falcon said, “This … sad little creature, more than Shadryk, is the reason we must secure our boundaries and establish our dominance north of the river. I thought Keth was rash for urging war, but perhaps he was right, after all. Foresight. Your father had that in abundance, Kelyn.”
“Thank you, sire.”
“I’m only sorry so much blood must be shed to prove the point. Some people have to learn the hard way, I suppose.”
Names clicked inside Nathryk’s brain. “Keth? The War Commander? Your father? You’re the boy commander?” Lip curling in disappointment, he added, “You’re not a boy.” Even the rumors lied, it seemed.
“Thank you, Highness. You’re one of the few who’s noticed.”
Lord Wyramor ducked through the flaps with a wooden bowl steaming with stew. Nathryk’s mouth watered. “Getting acquainted, are we?”
“Yes, I’ve heard enough,” said the king. “Once he’s eaten, take him away. I don’t want him anywhere near me. He breaks my heart. I had hoped for peace in my son’s time, but I doubt this wretch will allow it.”
“Wretch? Who are you calling a wretch, you mother-loving sod licker!”
The young War Commander surged forward, a hand raised, but Lord Wyramor stepped in front of him and shoved the bowl into Nathryk’s hands. “Stick the spoon in your mouth, Highness, or I’ll tie it shut.”
“If we’re lucky,” the War Commander said, reining in his anger, “someone will tire of his mouth and slit his throat before we have to worry about him sitting a throne.” The malice in those blue eyes suddenly made swallowing a chunk of carrot impossible. Much can happen to a boy before he’s grown …
“That’s not for us to decide, Kelyn,” said the Black Falcon.
“I don’t like the idea of giving him back either,” said Kelyn, scrubbing the back of his neck with a bloody glove. “Peace first. Then he can go home.”
“If then,” the Black Falcon agreed. “Letting Bano’en keep him as a ward might not be a bad idea.”
“No!” Nathryk cried, rising and flinging the bowl of stew at them. “I won’t go b
ack to Graynor! My father wouldn’t stand for it.”
“No?” said Lord Wyramor, tugging Nathryk’s shoulder until he was forced to sit down again. “He suffered you to remain a ward of Éndaran, didn’t he?”
The young commander’s fierce blue eyes pinned him as effectively as Lord Wyramor’s fingers. “You’re the price for peace, Highness, and you’d better pray your father accepts the terms, or you’ll never see home again.”
~~~~
Laral searched the camp by the light of the cookfires. Few soldiers bothered raising tents. The War Commander said they wouldn’t be here long, so most slept under the stars for a few hours. Still, laughter and rowdy voices rolled across the trenches and into the fields. There was too little meat to feed so many mouths, but boiled oats aplenty. Laral finally found the rough riders on the southern edge of camp, spooning thick globs of oats into tankards. He stood outside the ring of the firelight they shared, staring at his brother as if at a ghost. Leshan spoke brusquely to his people when he spoke at all, which wasn’t often. The fifty rough riders jibed and jostled all around him, comfortable with his presence, but didn’t try too hard to engage him in their talk. Though Leshan led them, he wasn’t one of them.
“Hey, kid, what d’you want?” One of the rough riders emerged from the dark, a sentry’s spear on his shoulder. He had broad hands for pushing a plow.
Leshan spared Laral a cursory glance, went back to eating. Had he really changed so much?
Laral told the sentry, “The War Commander told me my brother had arrived and saved the day.”
“Sure you’re looking in the right place?”
“Aye.”
Rising to remove the pot of burning oats from the fire, Leshan glanced at the newcomer a second time, and a grin brightened his humorless face. “Laral, you cur, look at you!” He dropped the pot, and strong hands gripped Laral by the shoulders. “I never would’ve recognized you. Goddess, look how tall you’ve grown.”
“Taller than you, sir.”
