War of Powers

by Robert E Vardeman;Victor Milan

  And his favorite of all had been one of the volunteers. Though his face remained impassive, his eyes searched for the familiar red war dog with the heavy jaw.

  A moment later he saw the dog. His lips pressed into a thin line. No rider occupied the saddle of Destirin Luhacs's mount.

  Wounded men rode double with their comrades - risky business because one rider and its own armor brought even a Highgrass charger near the limits of the burden it could carry. Others had improvised stretchers from cloaks and the coils of rope they carried by their saddle bows.

  Two dogs trotted straight for the commander. V'Duuyek scarcely dared glance at the figure slung between them. Its spired helmet had fallen off. The hair coiled about the head was matted pink with drying blood.

  'Destirin . . .' The figure stirred. The head lifted. The face was a horrid mask of blood, a black slash across the forehead. Yet the apparition grinned, teeth shockingly white against the fog-dulled red.

  'I live, Count Ultur,' said Destirin Luhacs, 'but I fear I'll have to go easy on the rum for a while. My head spins even without it.'

  Count Ultur V'Duuyek did not smile, but between him and his second-in-command passed a look of perfect understanding. With a nod, he gestured Luhacs's rescuers to bear her to the ridgetop where Sky City mages might attend to her wounds.

  Calmly, surely, he drew the oiled case of his bow from over his shoulder. Clamped firmly in place, his lance jutted from its stirrup. He undrapped the bow, felt the string for tautness and nodded. Chalowin was at the rear, behind the long ridge on which the command post had been erected. Foiled of his chance to carry out Rann's strategy, Chalovvin had given over conduct of the battle to the mercenary.

  V'Duuyek looked right and left. Messengers sat on quivering, long-legged dispatch dogs waiting to carry his commands. 'We go,' he said quietly.

  Following Rann's concepts, the Sky City army had been deployed in a way to maximize its strengths. Its fifteen hundred spear-and-shield infantry, in black iron helmets and tunics and breeches of purple and black, were ranged in three blocks of four hundred, with a reserve of three hundred backing up the army. In the left gap waited a thousand Sky City dog riders, heavily armed with bow, lance, and black-painted shield. In the right gap stood the Highgrass Broad riders. Before them, the seven hundred foot skirmishers provided a living screen. These were the half-breeds born of groundling women and of Sky Citizens on garrison duty. Their morale was not as high as that of their pureblooded comrades, but it wasn't their function to stand and fight. They harassed and delayed the foe, keeping them from seeing exactly how the army behind was set forth.

  The thousand Bilsinxt auxiliaries swarmed in nervous clouds at either side. At V'Duuyek's order to advance, they galloped forward, drawing bowstrings to ears. Like the half-caste foot skirmishers, they had no armor save for the green tabards they wore over yel low tunics. The mercenary expected no great performances from them, but they were meant only to annoy the enemy and then fall back.

  Like a curtain being raised, the mist ascended to a height of twenty feet. The top of Moriana's hill was in the clear. The ridge around which the City's men were arrayed remained cloaked in fog. Behind it, the eagles uttered dispirited cries. The unbroken blanket of fog screened the enemy from arrows fired from above; the lancers could not strike without flying along the ground itself, a role more suited to V'Duuyek's dog riders in their shiny, surcoated carapaces. A bird rider wore no armor but a conical cap of thin steel and a hornbull-leather buckler faced with metal.

  Darl rode at the head of the other army, lance held upright, Moriana's banner streaming behind him. Men and dogs growled at his back as the Bilsinxt poured around the infantry in twin streams and rode toward them. They felt their skins crawling with the need to be at their foe. But Darl did not intend to waste the momentum of his knights on mere light cavalry. The Northern army, the army of the Bright Princess as Darl had dubbed it in a poetic mood, moved forward at a stately pace, its gay colors muted by the fog.

  If the Bilsinxt swarmed like bees, they had their stingers as well. Arrows buzzed up to fall among the Northerners. Shelled in steel, the knights and their dogs were almost impervious to the missiles. A few dogs yelped as hindquarters were grazed, but none fell and no riders were injured.

  Among the lightly armored men, it was a different story. Men of Harmis, men of Thrishnor and Duth and Samazant in the Empire, men who had come from Port Zorn to fight for the beautiful Princess Moriana, from Wirix to fight Synalon, from Kolnith and Deepwater and the Sjedd to champion the cause of the Wiser Ones - men who had come from all over the Sundered Realm to find adventure, booty, or fulfillment of some pious vow, found death instead.

  Moriana's archers loosed before a second volley came from the Bilsinxt. Riders screamed and fell from saddles to be dragged across the ground by dogs maddened by pain and the bright stench of blood. The Northern infantry had only light armor and shields. The riders of Bilsinx had no protection but the speed of their swift dogs. For many, it was not enough.

  For once, Count Ultur had misjudged. Far from breaking at the first taste of death, the Bilsinxt wheeled their dogs and swept across the front of the hostile ranks for a second pass. Closer they came. Their bows were less powerful than those of a bird rider, but now the lesser range told.

  An arrow socketed itself in the gap between the brassard and breast of Sir Ottovus's armor. He smiled and pulled it free. Yet those nearby noted that its tip came out bloody. The man riding at Darl's right uttered a sharp cry and fell with a shaft jutting through the slit in his visor. Darl looked back once, face white beneath the raised visor of his own helm. Then he turned resolutely to the foe.

  With a courage as fanatical as it was unexpected, the Bilsinxt circled again and again and again inside the narrowing gap between the armies. More and more of the steel-plated war dogs fell out of the ranks to stand snarling over fallen masters.

  Glancing up from her brazier, Moriana groaned as she saw the left-hand array of knights break from the ranks and charge their antagonists. Like men freed from a geas, the Bilsinxt broke off their death ride and raced for the rear.

  The Sky City dog riders lunged to meet the knights. They hurtled forward and then broke to their right, spitting arrows into the faces of the onrushing knights. Driven by stouter bows, these arrows punched through the plate armor. Dogs began to fall, spilling their riders in the path of those behind. Confusion blunted the force of the charge.

  Darl's hand was forced. A quick sally or a blizzard of arrows might shatter Tharvus's men completely. The Count-Duke of Harmis slammed down his visor, dropped the tip of his lance, and charged.

  Sound boiled from the valley floor as the armies collided. Steel glanced from steel with sonorous bell notes. Arrows moaned like spirits of the dead. The soft thump-thump of dog's feet gave way to barks and snarls. The screams of the wounded floated over all like carrion birds.

  'I don't like it,' said Moriana, glancing from brazier to battlefield, then at Sir Rinalvus and back to the brazier again. The knight watched Ziore in fascination. He held one hand above his eyes as if shading them from the sun.

  'What do you mislike, princess?' he asked. Moriana frowned at her brazier. With senses not those of the flesh, she felt the sun pour its heat down from the sky, trying to melt away the snowy bank of cloud overhead. Since nature had provided the clouds, she would work them, keep them in a soft ceiling, a lid to trap the eagles against the earth. But it took constant effort.

  'The dog riders. It doesn't look as if there are nine hundred.' 'I know little of these things,' said Ziore, 'but wouldn't they leave some back to take the place of wounded or plug gaps in their line?'

  'Yes, but fully half their number? I'd swear there are only four hundred there, five at the most.' She squinted into the rising smoke. She felt control slipping. She took a pinch of maroon powder, scattered it on the tiny flames, and recoiled when gray smoke rolled up into her face.

  'They probably have some hidden beyond the ridge.'
Ziore sounded doubtful. Moriana realized the spirit was trying to bolster her courage and ease her fears. She felt the touch of Ziore's mind on hers, as light as down and twice as soothing.

  No! she thought so violently that Ziore winced. Stay out!She glanced up and saw the hurt look on Ziore's face. 'I'm sorry,' she said aloud. 'But I don't dare let you soothe me. I can't let you into my mind at all. It blunts my powers.' The spirit lowered her head.

  BOOM! With a rolling crash like thunder, V'Duuyek's dog riders met Darl's knights. Lance broke against shield or armored breast. Men and women were hurled down, mortally wounded. Dogs lunged at each other, toppled riders, and tore at them until fierce lance thrusts dropped them where they stood.

  Like waves, the armored riders smashed into each other and then fell back. For all Darl's prowess, the knights of the City States couldn't break through the wall of iron they faced. Time and again both groups withdrew, only to re-form and surge in again. The tide slowly turned. More dogs from the Empire bayed lament over fallen masters than those reared in the tall grass country of the east. But numbers told.

  Blood streamed down Count Ultur's face. His helmet had been torn just above his right eye by a lance. The wound wasn't serious but it bled profusely. He nocked an arrow, drew, sighted across the few yards of corpse-strewn grass separating the riders. He cursed. He was denied a clear shot at Darl.

  The count loosed his arrow. A man stiffened, struck dead as his head was turned. The man dropped. Darl saw how close he had come to hearing the Hell Call, waved the hand that still held Moriana's banner, and urged his forces on.

  The armies splashed against each other again. Moriana scarcely dared to look. Her army was winning; somehow that was harder to watch than when the outcome was in doubt. Old Rinalvus thumped on the butt of his ax and yelled himself hoarse, latic Stormcloud paced and scowled, angry at missing a fight that came closer to victory every minute.

  'Lord Iatic!' a voice cried. Moriana's head whipped up. 'Sir Rinalvus! Your Highness!' A man rode up the hill from the woods along the right flank. Moriana recognized him as a squire with the reserves, latic stared at him, holding one hand upraised and cupping the elbow with the other like a messenger of a Wise One about to deliver Law.

  'What is it, boy?' Rinalvus demanded. The youth looked from face to face as if unsure whom to address. Finally, he blurted out to everyone in general, 'We were riding through the woods, lords — uh, and lady - and we saw riders coming this way. They had streamers on their helmets.'

  'A flank attack!' Moriana cried. Without a word, Iatic spun and ran to his own mount. Shouting for his reserves to follow, he pelted down the hill. He was too canny to rush into the woods where his knights would be at a disadvantage. Instead, he readied his men at the foot of the hill where they'd be in position to strike the mercenaries as they emerged from the woods.

  'Stay clear of the fire, boy,' Moriana told the squire. 'And keep your dog away. The magic may scare him.'

  Something popped in the heart of the fire. The dog jumped, slipped on wet grass, and fell onto its side. The squire left the saddle and fell on top of Moriana. She yelped as hot metal seared the back of her hand.

  The squire bounded up as though Moriana were a mattress. 'Oh, Your Highness, forgive me! I didn't mean! O Gods, I wouldn't dare to . . .'

  Moriana didn't hear him. She was on hands and knees trying to steady herself against the waves of horror breaking over her. In her tumble she'd upset the brazier. The magic holding the cloud cover intact had broken.

  And her amulet had slipped from her gown. Moriana stared at it numbly.

  It gleamed dully on its silver chain, as black as a lump of coal. V'Duuyek's men were pushed back for what the count knew to be the final time. His gamble had failed; the troops he sent through the twisting valleys to come upon both flanks of the enemy had not arrived. His beloved regiment was being chopped to shreds before his eyes.

  Then a trumpet call drew his eyes outward. An involuntary shout escaped his lips. From first one side of the valley and then the other broke his men, streaming from the woods and a gully. The shouts of consternation among his enemies were sweet music to him.

  Darl's knights turned to meet the Grasslanders. On the far side of the field, the knights under the command of Sir Tharvus and Sir Ottovus readied for their charge. V'Duuyek sat, his short, heavy sword in hand, prepared for the final charge.

  Something made him glance up. 'Great Ultimate!' he cried. His soldiers tipped back their heads. In a moment, the knights did so, too, pausing and milling as they did.

  Breaks appeared in the cover above, revealing patches of blue. The battlefield lapsed into silence as the clouds dissipated with eldritch swiftness. Those below felt a chill, but there was no wind.

  Behind the ridge, Chalowin shrieked, 'The Dark Ones have delivered victory to us!' Like bolts shot from twelve-score catapults, the eagles surged into the naked sky.

  They fell into the roles assigned them in the master plan. Like a new fog, a hundred eagles spilled over the ridgetop and passed with a drumming of wings. Their riders raked the ranks below with arrows. The riders' aim was good. Most of their arrows found homes in Northern flesh.

  Moriana caught sight of Sir Ottovus sitting tall in his saddle, sword raised in defiance. Slowly, like a collapsing tower, he toppled to one side. Moriana saw the ugly black butt of a lance protruding from his neck.

  Beside her, Rinalvus sobbed and covered his face with his hands. A flight of bird riders made straight for the hill. Moriana felt her arms gripped. Two spearmen had stepped up and hustled her toward the pavilion she shared with Darl. They had been ordered to keep her from joining the fight.

  She recognized the emaciated figure astride the lead war bird. He shouted a command. Arrows sliced down, striking half a dozen spearmen.

  Moriana's guards let her go at the tent flap and ran to join the handful of their number who still survived. Eagles landed, their riders leaping off with javelins and short curved swords in hand.

  'Here, old one,' one said to Rinalvus, 'give over that chopper and we'll not hurt you. Don't do anything rash and you'll be in your dotard's bed by nightfall.'

  Rinalvus's answer was a deft ax-blow. The man gurgled, teeth spilling from his head like pale seeds. He died.

  Shouting their anger, his fellows closed in. Rinalvus moved with fantastic speed. He knocked a sword from a gloved hand, spun his ax to split a javelin, and lopped the arm off another who leaned in to thrust.

  'Come down, damn you!' he yelled at the sky. He looked neither frail nor wasted now. 'Come down from the sky and meet the avenger of Ottovus the Golden!'

  Chalowin screeched fury. He drew his bow and shot. The arrow glanced off Rinalvus's breastplate. The old man staggered back a step, then straightened, strong gnarled hands resolutely gripping his ax haft.

  The bird riders circled him. They shot again and again at the lonely figure on the hilltop. Rinalvus's armor, redoubtable though it was, could not withstand them.

  Moriana screamed as one sank into his chest. Another punctured his thigh. Still he stood his ground. His throat was pierced, his upper arm, his cheek. The indomitable old man stood as though the arrows were no more than insect bites.

  Moriana rushed inside the tent, picked up a bow and quiver, and stepped back outside. The bird riders still circled Rinalvus like vultures waiting for a wounded beast to drop. But Rinalvus did not stop. He stood watching them defiantly, a dozen arrows in his body.

  He turned and looked at Moriana with his sad eyes. 'My lady,' he said, though the words were scarcely recognizable. 'Forgive my failing . . .'

  He fell. Cold as the water that now ran red in the stream below, Moriana nocked an arrow, pulled, aimed. Chalowin caught sight of her.

  'There!' he shrieked, face twisted in ecstasy. 'The slut who plots the fall of Queen Synalon! Take her alive, my . . .'

  He never finished. The arrow struck him in the left eye. He gave a maniacal shriek as he backflipped out of his saddle and fell to the
ground, as limp as a bundle of rags. He fell beside the body of the ancient hero he had shot down so ruthlessly. Their blood ran together.

  Before he landed, another arrow arched upward. A bird rider screamed more fearfully than Chalowin as the missile split his groin and drove deep into his bird's neck. A third rider turned his eagle toward the princess and dived. She stepped forward and calmly loosed again. The arrow went through the eagle's neck and plunged into the rider's belly. They swooshed overhead to collide with the top of the tent.

  The remaining rider lost his nerve. Seeing the Sky Guard officer who commanded the army brought down, he fled.