Riamel shook his head. “What type of men are we up against?”
“What kind, indeed?” Almgren said. “Well, Jendall, your advice has always been good. What do you think of our situation?”
Jendall paused a moment before answering. “I think we should thank the Levani that the Droken run from us. Although they nearly match us in infantry, they outmatch us in cavalry by a considerable amount. Even if the Northmarch were close enough to join forces with us, it would be an ill battle to fight.”
“Additionally,” he continued, “they have the advantage that they move through territory they have already passed through and are familiar with. We must take care that they do not use this knowledge to lay an ambush for us—and, for that reason, we are even now required to slow our march, while they increase theirs.”
Riamel sighed. “It appears that much of what we wish to learn will have to wait for another day, another battle.”
Almgren nodded. “Aye. Perhaps the Northmarch will have learned more.”
* * *
The foothills were a welcome sight for the tired Northmarchers. They had pushed to reach the hills before nightfall. The sooner they reached the protection of the mountains, the better. Now they wound their way slowly into the hills, paralleling a small stream.
The stream had apparently been much larger in times past, as evidenced by the ground upon which they rode. The thirty-foot-wide, flat section of stone was smooth, with a forty-foot bluff—the original boundary of the stream—rising to their right. The stream had shrunk in size and shifted south, leaving the smooth path that they found so convenient. Brush still choked the edge of the stream; a scattering of loose rocks was all that hindered their travel.
Lord Seabrook scanned the terrain in front of them. He had thought the scouts would have rejoined them by now. He anxiously awaited news of what lay ahead, and the scouts’ recommendation for a campsite. Another hour or two of sunlight was all they would have.
The Northmarch high commander raised his hand and, as the command was relayed along the line of march, nearly three thousand horses slowed to a halt. Commanders McFerrin and Jarviel, riding to his right and left, looked at him expectantly.
“Kirwin, what do you make of that ravine ahead of us?” he asked.
“Steep, but I believe we can make it without dismounting.”
“Jarviel?”
“I agree, my lord. We should make the top of the rise well before nightfall.”
“The scouts should have returned.”
Jarviel and Kirwin exchanged glances. “Aye,” Kirwin agreed. “The terrain is not so rough as to have hindered them this long.”
Jarviel nodded and scanned the surrounding area.
“Follow me,” the Dynolvan commander said suddenly, and he reined his horse to the right.
Lord Seabrook and Kirwin McFerrin reined in behind him. He led them to the edge of the bluff and turned toward their rearward ranks. When they had traveled a short distance down the long column, he spoke again.
“I fear there are Droken in the brush on the far bank,” he whispered.
Seabrook inhaled deeply. “An ambush. You spotted someone?”
Jarviel nodded slowly.
“We must back the men out,” Seabrook said. “I shall stay here. Feign an inspection and pass the word. When you have finished, I shall sound my horn, and we shall retreat. We will have to leave the wagons, so have the drivers jump toward the bluff. That should save them from the initial attack.”
“Surely you are not going to stay in the open, my lord,” Kirwin protested.
“I shall remain here until you have reached the half-way point. Then I shall move between yon supply wagon and the bluff.” He nodded slightly toward the mentioned wagon.
The two commanders began moving slowly down opposite sides of the ranks. Captains and sergeants straightened, and as the word was passed, riders tightened their slack reins in preparation for the retreat. Lord Seabrook hoped that the Droken lying in ambush weren’t cavalry—any good cavalier would spot the slight hand movements and know what they were about.
The commanders reached the half-way point. Lord Seabrook casually moved toward the wagon, acting as though he were also checking the ranks. He could see Kirwin, ahead of him, still moving down the long line of horses. The men were riding eight across on the wide stretch of rock.
Perhaps this will save the men closest to the bluff, Seabrook thought bitterly. He had been a fool to bring them this far without hearing from the scouts, and now his men would pay for his mistake. He had reached the supply wagon. Once behind it, he unstrapped his horn and held it loosely near his hip.
Kirwin had almost reached the bottom of the hill. Though he could not see Jarviel, he knew the relative position of the Dynolvan commander. He wouldn’t be able to get a timely warning to the Northmarchers who had not yet started up the hill—they’d have to figure it out on their own.
Seabrook raised the horn and sounded the retreat. He watched as the horses wheeled in unison. The Droken waited no longer. As he spurred his horse forward, horror clutched at him from within—it was not bows that the Droken leveled at his troops, but crossbows. The cries of horses and the screams of men mixed with the echoing thunder of hooves as they raced down the slope. He held out a hand to help a drover onto the back of his horse. By the time they’d made it half-way, tears streamed down his face. He knew their losses would be tremendous.
* * *
At the base of the hill, the Northmarchers’ cry of anger rose as though from one voice. Kirwin watched in dismay as the order for retreat was again sounded. Several captains had dismounted, and they were leading their men up the narrow, brushy southern side of the stream. Arrows rained from Northmarch bows into the brush further up the hill. As Droken screams mingled with those of the Northmarch, more Northmarchers rushed to push an attack against the better-positioned enemy.
With a growl of anger, Kirwin dismounted. For better or ill, his men had chosen to fight. He viciously hacked his way up the hill. The combat grew fierce, and the ambushers were forced to pull their swords and abandon their slow-loading crossbows.
Ahead, he could see more of his men—they’d crossed the rocky stream in an effort to reach their attackers. Their lack of discipline bothered him, but he also knew that his men had not been trained to fight battles against armies. When ambushed, usually by bandits, they had been taught to relentlessly chase down the ambushers. Thus did they follow their training, and their emotions.
He grimly noted that few of the attacking Northmarchers were corryn. It had been the Dynolvans who had been closest to the ambushers and so had felt the brunt of the attack. He allowed himself a quick glance at the opposite side of the ravine. Dead and dying Northmarchers and horses lay everywhere. Clenching his teeth, he redoubled his efforts.
* * *
“You had best rein in, Morticai,” Evadrel said as his horse trotted up beside him.
Morticai sighed and reined his horse back to a walk. He looked over his shoulder and blinked in surprise at the distance he’d put between himself and the vanguard of the joined armies.
“They’ll accuse you of stealing the kings’ bright moment,” the corryn scout teased.
“Huh?”
“Look,” Evadrel said, pointing to where the two kings rode side by side. The kings had removed their helmets and now wore their crowns. “They want to be properly attired when we join the Northmarch.”
Morticai smiled. “I’m sorry, Evadrel. It’s just that Coryden … Coryden doesn’t know …”
Evadrel nodded, knowingly. “I understand. Coryden was very upset—we all were.”
Although they had dropped back behind the kings, the two Northmarchers were still in the fore of the huge force behind them.
“What are you doing out here?” Nelerek asked as his horse trotted up beside them.
> “Morticai was trying to be the first to meet the Northmarch scouts,” Evadrel said.
Nelerek handed Morticai his newly refilled water skin.
“Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” Nelerek teased.
“Hey!” Morticai complained. Evadrel and Nelerek laughed.
“Look!” Morticai pointed ahead of them. In the distance, a small group of horsemen approached.
“Our scouts!” Evadrel exclaimed. “Stay here, Morticai. I will bring you all the news you wish as soon as the scouts have finished greeting the kings.” Urging his horse forward, he rode toward the crowd of nobility.
“Why does there have to be all this ceremony?” Morticai muttered.
Everything came to a halt as the scouts met with the kings. Soon after, Evadrel emerged from the crowd with three of the Northmarch scouts in tow. As they approached, Morticai noted their grim countenances.
“Something’s happened,” he informed Nelerek, and he urged his horse forward. He could hear the hoof beats of Nelerek’s horse coming up behind him.
“What’s wrong?” Morticai asked as he reached the group of Northmarchers.
The three scouts, strangers to Morticai, stared at his eyes in amazement. Ignoring them, Morticai turned to Evadrel. “What has happened?” he repeated.
“We were ambushed by the Droken,” Evadrel explained. “We lost Commander Jarviel and almost a third—“
Morticai inhaled sharply. “Coryden?”
“They don’t know.”
One of the human scouts found his tongue. “I know of him,” the scout told him, “and I think I saw him afterwards, but I’m not certain. I’m sorry.” He looked down, the pain in his eyes obvious, “We’re still not positive who did and did not die. I’m certain that Lord Seabrook knows; he has the list of names. There were some who rode in several hours afterward—men who had been separated from us. We didn’t spend much time in camp; we spent most of the night hunting down the Droken filth who ambushed us.”
“When did this happen?” Nelerek asked.
“Last night, just before nightfall.”
“How far is the camp?” Morticai asked.
“Just a few miles—“
“Let’s go,” Morticai said.
“Aren’t … aren’t you the one the Droken captured?” one of the scouts asked Morticai.
Morticai smiled grimly. “Yes, I am.”
“But—“
“It’s a long story, okay?” Morticai replied. “Look, what about Berret Heimrik? Do any of you know him?
“Aye,” another spoke up. “I know ’im, an’ I saw ’im last night—Berret’s alive for certain.”
“Thank Glawres!” Morticai said.
“Are you going back?” Nelerek asked the scouts.
“Aye, we are.”
“Then we’ll come with you,” Morticai stated.
“I’ll inform the Inquisitor,” Evadrel said, starting back toward the group of nobility with whom the Inquisitor was riding.
* * *
The Northmarch camp was abuzz at the news that the Dynolvan and Watchaven armies had joined. Throughout the camp, anxious faces showed relief as the news spread. Their haggard faces still bespoke the sorrow that the previous night’s defeat had laid upon them.
Evadrel threaded his way through the camp, leading Nelerek and the anxious Morticai to the spot he’d been told was assigned to Coryden’s patrol. They entered Kirwin’s camp, and at every tent along the way, heads turned to watch as Morticai passed.
“I can see this is going to be a problem,” Morticai said under his breath.
“They’ve all heard you were tortured, Dyluth,” Nelerek replied. “You’d stare too, if you’ll think about it.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Morticai admitted, “but it’s giving me the chills.”
They came to the tent that bore Coryden’s standard, only to find it empty. Fighting back the lump in his throat, Morticai sank down onto a stool that stood in the middle of the otherwise empty tent.
“I’ll find someone,” Evadrel said, leaving him with Nelerek.
Morticai closed his eyes to avoid Nelerek’s concerned stare. A moment later, he heard the tent’s door flap fall against the pole. He reopened his eyes; Nelerek had stepped outside and stood looking this way and that. Morticai stood up and stepped outside. Nelerek glanced at him briefly, and then looked away again.
The thought came to Morticai slowly, as if from a great distance: He’s trying to give me room alone to grieve.
“I’m going to check this way,” Morticai said absently. “Why don’t we go a little ways and meet back here.”
“If you wish,” Nelerek said quietly.
Morticai moved away from him, wandering slowly down the path. He was about to turn back when he spotted … “Coryden!”
Coryden spun as though an arrow had pierced his back. A bandage wound across his forehead, and a sling bore his splinted right forearm. His mouth opened and moved wordlessly.
Morticai smiled. “I know the eyes are a bit different,” he said, “but they work.”
Coryden blinked and ran up to him. He reached out to grab Morticai by the shoulders, but immediately winced and lowered his right arm back into the sling. He finally formed a word: “How?”
“Well, they say it’s a miracle,” Morticai said.
“I’ll say,” Coryden whispered, and then hugged him with his left arm.
“When I saw your empty tent,” Morticai said, “I feared you’d died.”
Coryden’s eyes clouded with tears. “We lost six,” he said, “and we have even more wounded—but I think they’ll make it.”
“I’m sorry, Coryden. I know it’s not right, but I almost feel like I’ve caused all of this.”
“No,” Coryden said, his expression fierce. “We know who caused it—the damned Droken. If you hadn’t discovered what you did, and if we hadn’t been able to warn the kings, the slaughter would have been far, far worse.”
“There they are!”
Evadrel, with Nelerek and the rest of the patrol, approached from the direction of the tent. An awkward silence quickly replaced their excitement. Despite having been forewarned about Morticai’s new eyes, they stood in awe of the actual evidence of the miracle.
It was Berret who finally spoke. “I’ve always known you were stubborn, Morticai,” he said, shaking his head, “but this beats them all.”
A crooked smile crept slowly onto Morticai’s face. That smile spread to the others, and then they all broke into relieved laughter.
It felt good to be back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Well, it looks like we made it here in time,” Morticai said. The coach stopped, its driver hurrying to help Richard unload the Inquisitor’s trunks from the top luggage rack. The Watchaven dock was crowded with passengers waiting to board the ship bound for Menelcar. Coryden and Dualas had come with Morticai to bid farewell to Rylan, Geradon, and Richard before they set sail.
Rylan clapped his hand onto Morticai’s shoulder. “It was your work that truly led to the defeat of the Droken, Morticai,” he said, somberly. “I am sorry that the kings did not give you true credit for it—you deserved more.”
Morticai blushed and glanced away. “I’m glad they didn’t,” he replied. “All I wanted was to be able to go back to the Northmarch, and they did give me that.”
“Have you had any problems from Commander McFerrin?” Geradon asked.
“No,” Morticai said with a lopsided smile.
Coryden said, smiling, “I think he’s a little unsure of Morticai, now that a miracle has been worked on him.”
“As well he should,” Rylan said. “And has your arm fully healed, Captain?”
“Yes, it seems to have,” Coryden replied, stretching out his right arm. “I know I’m still favori
ng it a bit, but that is nothing more than habit, now.”
“What have they decided to do about the Droken army?” Geradon asked. “I heard the kings talking about charging the Northmarch with the mission of searching out their homeland.”
Dualas replied, “I do not know if they will go that far. I had heard, however, that the Faith was considering giving the Northmarch the authority to investigate any Droken activities which might affect the security of the kingdoms.”
Rylan smiled. “Ah … yes, I believe that is under discussion,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I wish I could remain to see what becomes of it.”
“Maybe they’ll let you come back,” Morticai suggested.
“Perhaps,” Rylan agreed. “And have you grown accustomed to your new eyes, Morticai?”
“Yeah,” he said. “At least, I have.” He looked down. “I still get stared at a lot.”
“Much of that will pass, Morticai,” Rylan said. Then, in a more concerned tone, he said, “You will, I trust, remember everything I told you?”
Morticai looked at him blankly.
Rylan sighed. “About the Droken, and how they do not forget?”
Morticai sighed, heavily. “I will, I promise.”
Rylan nodded. “I spoke to you about that before you were captured. It is even more imperative now. You must remember everything that I told you. King Almgren may have already forgotten the role you played in saving his kingdom, but the Droken will not. The color of your new eyes will make you an easy target if you are not very careful.”
Morticai looked down. “I know,” he muttered.
Rylan looked to Coryden and Dualas. “I say this before your friends, because it is they who can most help you in future days, Morticai. Be mindful,” he told them, “that the Droken may well send another assassin after Morticai.”
Coryden glanced at Dualas. Dualas, apparently not surprised by Rylan’s warning, nodded. “We will be watching,” he said.
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