* * *
Coryden gave a final nod to his sergeants. Luwaren, Nildan, and Berret nodded in return, and they raised their right hands. Coryden looked away from them and raised his own right hand as he watched Kirwin, who was sitting at the far end of the column.
The half-corryn captain swallowed and took one last deep breath. It had been a long time since he had performed a cavalry charge at Kirwin’s command. The Northmarch had the largest cavalry organization in the known world but, as far as Coryden knew, a cavalry charge of this magnitude had never been carried out—anywhere.
Watchaven’s force was arrayed just below the crest of the hill, one thousand strong. Dynolva’s was similarly arrayed on the backside of the hill on the opposite side of the valley. Lord Seabrook, with his own force of one thousand, was also somewhere on the other side, well out of Coryden’s sight, but within Kirwin’s, he was certain.
On the other side of the hill, most of the huge Droken army had already passed through the valley that lay between the forces of the Northmarch. Lord Seabrook had waited until fully half of the huge force had passed through the valley to give the order for his own forces to take their positions, this to be certain the Droken scouts had already passed well beyond them.
As Kirwin dropped his hand, so did every captain and sergeant down the column. Down the line, every fifth man lit a torch. Coryden spurred his horse forward, staying stirrup to stirrup with the man on either side of him.
By the time they reached the crest of the hill, he could hear nothing but the unnatural thunder caused by the hooves of a thousand charging horses. Coryden saw the Dynolvan force on the opposite side of the valley, and he felt awed at the sight, even as his horse carried him along in a unit that was just as large.
They achieved complete surprise. The Droken force beneath them looked up in horror at the charging Northmarchers, and panicked. Some of the drivers whipped their teams into motion, running down their own soldiers as they tried to flee the coming destruction. A few in the front would probably manage to escape, but Coryden lost sight of them as the Northmarchers closed in on the remainder of the supply train. He braced himself against the high-backed saddle as his lance impacted a draft horse before him.
He abandoned the embedded lance and drew his sword. He cut down two men and was heading for a third when the sound of Northmarch horns echoed above the din of swords, horses, and screams. Coryden pulled back on his reins and wheeled his steed around.
He glanced over his shoulder to see if he could spot any of his men. He could see Luwaren, but the rest were lost in the smoke of burning wagons and the dust stirred by the huge mass of horses. Spurring his horse, he charged back up the hill they had descended. There would be time to count their losses later.
* * *
Prince Luthekar carefully directed his horse through the still burning wreckage. At first, some of his men had attempted to extinguish the blazing wagons, but Luthekar had stopped them. There was no sense in it. They had lost what they had lost. The wagons had been fully ablaze within moments of the attack.
A quarter of his supplies had been destroyed. As long as nothing else went wrong, they would still have enough. He had stashed emergency supplies along the back march, should a retreat become necessary, but now it would be a long march without supplies to reach that stash—unless he ordered the army to turn around immediately.
He pushed the distasteful thought away. They were too close to victory. Never before had an army made the thousand-mile trek from Cuthaun. It had taken years to build up and train the army, and to cache enough supplies to support the long journey. It would be a disgrace to turn back now, without a single real battle fought.
Luthekar stopped and stared at a body that lay beneath a dead horse. General Wilfram, who rode a few feet away, expressed the thought that had already raced through the prince’s own mind.
“Northmarch!” General Wilfram exclaimed.
The prince narrowed his eyes and surveyed the hills to either side.
“It should not be a surprise,” Luthekar said. “No one, besides ourselves, has that many cavalry.”
“But how did they know we were here?” Wilfram asked. “If they did not know, why are they this far north?”
Luthekar considered his questions. Indeed, this would complicate matters greatly. They would need to send their scouts out in all directions. He’d have to change the marching order so his cavalry could guard the remaining, precious supplies. It would slow them when they could least afford it.
“See if you can find a Northmarch survivor,” Luthekar ordered. “Give orders to rearrange our order of march—we cannot afford to be caught so, again. I shall go back to the vanguard.”
* * *
Coryden leaned against the large rock and closed his eyes. He and his men had hardly recovered from their forced ride to the northern border when they had been given the order to break camp and prepare for the assault against the Droken army. His men had paid for that lack of rest.
Out of his thirty-man patrol, he had lost two men, both of them from Berret’s squad. Six more had been wounded, and four of them were from Berret’s squad. It was a gamble he had been forced to take, though he’d known that the odds had not been in his favor. Weary men make mistakes, and they die for it.
At least, he could thank the Levani that none of the others’ wounds had been immediately fatal. With further luck, their wounds would heal cleanly.
“Captain?”
Coryden opened his eyes. Dualas stood before him, a plate of food in his hands. Coryden sighed.
“You need your strength as much as any of us,” Dualas said quietly.
“I know,” Coryden replied and sank into a sitting position. Dualas sat before him and handed him the plate. Coryden stared at the food.
“I am afraid that will not suffice,” Dualas finally informed him.
Coryden snorted. “You’ve spent too much time around Mother Edana, Dualas.” He started eating. “How are our wounded?”
“Doing very well, I am happy to report,” Dualas replied.
Coryden nodded. “Well, that’s good to hear, at least. Have you heard anything more of the damage assessment from the attack?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“A little,” the knight said. “The scouts estimate we destroyed a little over a fifth of their supplies.”
“Is that all?” Coryden asked.
“That is a goodly amount, Coryden,” Dualas informed him. “They estimate that we destroyed over a thousand of the six thousand wagons in their train. It will not stop them, but it will certainly not give them good fortune. They have rearranged their order and slowed their march considerably. And that, you must admit, was the true objective.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Coryden muttered. “It just seems like a steep price.” He shook his head. “So, what now? Will we be hitting them again?”
Dualas tilted his head, thoughtfully. “Lord Seabrook has not yet decided, but if I were to guess, I would not think that we would strike again with our entire force. It would be much more difficult, now that the element of surprise is gone.”
“So we’re just going to sit out here?”
Dualas shrugged. “Perhaps. They could always turn to face us and lose more time.
“And if they did turn to face us?”
“I believe we would retreat. We cannot afford to face their cavalry—the scouts say they outnumber us two to one.”
“What?”
“That is what they say. It took the scouts several forays to count them all. Apparently, they had scattered their cavalry into small groups that traveled with each infantry unit. Now they are massing them together to act as a fast-reaction force.”
“That doesn’t sound good, my friend.”
“We shall see. I think it is merely a show of force, to keep us from attacking again.”
“I
hope you’re right, Dualas,” Coryden replied, shaking his head. “And to think, there was a time when I thought it a grand operation when we’d join with three other patrols to hit a band of highwaymen.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“They’re gone!” Morticai exclaimed, reining his horse to a stop.
“What?” Geradon asked. “Have they already pressed into Dynolvan territory?”
“No, no,” Morticai replied. “I’m not talking about Watchaven—they’re camped on this side of Mid-Keep and Dynolva is camped on the other side. But the Northmarch is gone!”
“Slow down, Morticai,” Rylan said. “How can you tell? How far did you go?”
Rylan, Geradon, Richard, Nelerek, and a dozen knights of the Faith sat in a circle in the tall grass. Nelerek’s hawk, having just finished eating its morning catch, perched on a nearby tree. They had taken a southern approach to Mid-Keep to avoid traveling through the already-trampled terrain left behind by Watchaven’s army.
Morticai dismounted and moved toward the small group. His horse followed him, nosing him on the shoulder.
“All right!” Morticai said in exasperation, turning toward the horse and digging through his saddlebag.
“Dyluth,” Nelerek urged him to continue.
“There!” Morticai said, ignoring Nelerek and holding out a small apple. “Now, go away, Silvia!” The horse snorted, chomping on the apple, and trotted off toward the other horses.
Morticai sat down. “As I was saying, the Northmarch is gone. Or else they’ve been killed to the last man, and I think that more than a little unlikely. Besides, I saw no sign of a major battle. No mass graves or pyres, at least. It does appear that Mid-Keep has been burned, but I think it happened a while back—there is absolutely no smoke. Both Watchaven and Dynolva are camped a couple of miles from Mid-Keep, on opposite sides of it, of course. I guess I got within two miles of Mid-Keep —“
“Morticai,” Rylan admonished evenly, “you were not supposed to get that close.”
Morticai shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rylan, but I had to get a better look at Mid-Keep to be certain there hadn’t been a battle there.”
Rylan sighed. “Very well. I understand your concern. From what you say of the two camps, it does not sound as though Watchaven and Dynolva have yet joined battle.”
Morticai nodded. “You’re right. It looks as though the two armies are just staring at each other. Maybe they’re having a spitting contest—who knows?”
Rylan asked him, “So, what do you think has happened to the Northmarch?”
Morticai shrugged. “I don’t know. I suspect they went north, since we’ve seen no signs of passage on this side of things. The only reason for them to go north, that I can fathom, would be to try to meet the Droken army, assuming Coryden got the message through. I certainly hope he did. I saw no sign of him.”
“But, if there was no battle fought there, why would Mid-Keep be burned?” Geradon asked.
“I don’t know,” Morticai replied, shaking his head. “I’m just tellin’ ya what I saw. It makes no more sense to me than it does to you.”
“Well,” Rylan observed, “we will learn no more sitting here. Shall we?” he gestured to the horses.
“Might as well,” Nelerek replied, getting up.
Rylan stretched, dreading the thought of riding again so soon. It had been a tough ride for all of them, with the possible exception of Morticai and the knights, who seemed used to the grueling pace. Rylan had worried that the activity might be a bit much for Morticai, so soon after healing, but if Morticai had been wearied by the ride, he had not shown it.
The rest of the small group rose and walked slowly to the horses. Morticai and his friend donned the helmets they had brought to wear when they rode into the Watchaven camp. Rylan had been surprised when Morticai had informed him that his friend would be coming along with them; he’d almost forbade it. There was just too much that he did not know about Morticai’s strange corryn friend—besides suspecting that he was an Arluthian. But Morticai had seemed set upon it.
Just before they’d left, the friend had arrived at the Sanctorium with complete Watchaven uniforms for Morticai and himself. Rylan could not help but wonder where he had found the uniforms on such short notice.
* * *
It was already noon. Rylan glanced at Geradon, who sat beside him. Geradon glanced at the sky and nodded. It had taken their group much longer than he had expected to pass through the perimeter of the Watchaven camp. Then, once inside, it had taken yet more time to get word to King Almgren that they had arrived and urgently needed to speak with him.
As they sat waiting under a canopy outside the King’s pavilion, Rylan wondered if King Almgren truly intended to grant the audience. The camp rumor was that a meeting was to take place that afternoon between King Almgren and King Riamel. Rylan feared that the King was too busy preparing for the meeting to wonder why an Inquisitor had ridden all the way from Watchaven.
Geradon leaned towards him and whispered, “We could try to bully our way in.”
Rylan shook his head. “No,” he whispered back, “my proof is not strong enough for that. I wish that it were.”
A guard stepped through the door of the pavilion.
“Inquisitor, his majesty will see you, now.”
“Pray for me,” Rylan whispered to Geradon, before he rose to follow the guard into the pavilion.
* * *
“Are you crazy?” Nelerek whispered. “Do you know what they’ll do to us if they catch us?”
“Hang us,” Morticai whispered back, dryly. “Believe me, it can’t be any worse than what I’ve already been through.”
The two corryn walked slowly through the Watchaven camp, their saddlebags slung over their shoulders and their helmets on their heads.
“Then for love of the Levani, Dyluth, let’s wait until dark!”
“We can’t. Prince Edris may go to his tent when it gets dark. Our best chance is now, while he’s in the king’s pavilion, listening to Rylan.” Morticai stopped walking. “There it is,” he whispered, nodding his head toward a large, yellow and tan pavilion.
Nelerek took a deep breath. “Aye. With a guard, too.”
Morticai shrugged, “Hey, as long as there’s not a guard at the back, we’ll be fine.”
Taking a winding route, they worked their way to the back of the prince’s pavilion. Several other elaborate tents had been erected nearby, leaving a narrow zigzagging path between them. Nelerek scanned the area before he nodded to Morticai.
Morticai dropped to his knees and leaned his saddlebags against the canvas. Should a passerby casually glance his direction, it would appear that he was merely rearranging its contents. He flicked his knife out and quickly set to work slicing the lacings that held the pavilion’s floor to the sidewall.
Within moments, he finished his work and looked up at Nelerek. After one last glance around them, Nelerek nodded. Morticai dropped flat, opened the slit, and rolled into the pavilion.
Once inside, Morticai lay still as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior and his ears took in the subtle sounds without. The sounds from the camp, like the sunlight, filtered softly through the tent’s walls. He sat up and removed the troublesome helmet. The tent was warm, making him wish he could remove his chain armor and padding as well.
The tent was what he had expected. The interior was not divided, and yet obviously reflected the station of the tent’s owner. A cot, covered with a thin down mattress and topped with furs made a comfortable, raised bed. A small table served as a desk; a wooden framed chair, covered with leather, sat beside it. Carpets layered the floor, and trunks abounded.
Starting with the trunk closest to him, Morticai pulled out his tools and set quietly to work. As long as he moved carefully, he could keep the chain armor from jingling, but it would slow his search. He hoped that the guard h
ad not been given orders to look into the tent at set intervals—they’d not taken the time to check that.
The first trunk contained clothes. So did the second. The third held the prince’s armor and weapons. The fourth held just more clothes … or did it? The clothes seemed too neat, too flat—that was it, they were too flat. Morticai glanced to the pavilion’s door. He had heard no movement or sound from the guard since he’d entered the tent. On the opposite side of the tent, Nelerek’s shadow slowly shifted its weight from foot to foot.
Morticai carefully unpacked the clothes. Beneath them lay wooden boards—that was why the clothes had been so even. Beneath the boards, wrapped in soft cloths, was the ivory collection that Heather had spoken of. Morticai smiled. Why would a prince take something as breakable as carved ivory on a campaign? Was he afraid he might not be able to return to Watchaven?
He unloaded the ivory, still wrapped, a piece at a time. Outside the tent, Nelerek’s shadow now rocked nervously from foot to foot. Morticai took out the last of the ivory. He had hoped to find more boards underneath the ivory, but instead he found the bottom of the chest.
Frowning, he placed his right hand on the bottom and felt down the outside of the chest. There was a space of about four fingers’ breadth between the floor of the chest and the bottom. Morticai scrutinized the inside, but could see no way to reach the hidden area. The floor was solidly attached to the sides. He repacked the ivory, boards and clothes, and then checked the outside of the trunk.
A light tap sounded against the tent’s wall. Morticai smiled and walked to where Nelerek’s shadow stood and lightly tapped back. Morticai was beginning to suspect where he’d learned the impatience that Mother Edana kept fussing about.
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