Hmm. Better make some things plain—like we aren’t miracle workers. “I’ll tell you this honestly, your—Selenay,” Kero replied. “If you’re expecting us to turn to and help with everything except training green recruits, we’ll be able to do what you want. But if you thought we could take plowboys and make specialist cavalry out of them in less than a fortnight, you might as well just send us straight out to where you expect Ancar, because we can’t do it. Nobody can.”
Selenay nodded quickly, as if that was what she had expected Kero would say. “I realize that. What I’d like your people to do is work with the mounted troops we’ve gotten from some of the highborn, privately recruited, maintained, and trained. I expect some of them will be dreadful; I’d like the dreadful ones weeded out and put somewhere harmless. Some will be marginal, and those we’ll put with the mounted Guard units, the ones I had out chasing bandits. The good ones I’d like you to train as much as you can, so that they’ll work together without charging into each other.”
“Which is what they’re doing at the moment,” Talia added from behind the Queen. “If the situation wasn’t so bad, I’d advise keeping them around for entertainment.”
Kero managed to keep her face straight.
Selenay’s mouth quirked up at one corner, but she did likewise. “Keep the Lord Marshal appraised on a daily basis; I’ve appointed a liaison for you.”
Kerowyn was impressed and relieved, both. Selenay had a good grasp of what was possible and what was not, and was willing to settle for the possible. That made her job that much easier.
“Can do,” she replied, relaxing. “Who’s my liaison to the Lord Marshal?”
“My daughter, Elspeth,” Selenay said, and Kero’s heart sank. Just what I need, a know-everything princess at my heels. I wonder if I can convince Anders to charm her and get her of my way—with those big, brown eyes, the beautiful body, and all the rest of it, he should—
A rap on the door to the Queen’s quarters interrupted them, and as Kero turned, startled, another slim young woman in Whites slipped inside, a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl with a startling resemblance to Faram. “Mother, I’m sorry I’m late, but there was a—” she stopped instantly as Selenay held up her hand.
“You’re here now, and you can tell me what delayed you later. Elspeth, this is Captain Kerowyn. Captain, your liaison, my daughter.”
The girl’s eyes went round with surprise, and she crossed the room quickly, to take Kero’s hand in as firm a clasp as her mother had.
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Captain,” she said in accentless Rethwellan. “If I’d known you were arriving today, I’d have arranged things differently. We Heralds have to spend our first year or two acting as arbitrators and judges under the supervision of a senior Herald—normally that’s outside Haven, where we can’t run home to mama when a thunderstorm hits, but since I’m the Heir, they won’t let me do that. Go out in the Field, I mean, not run home to mama.”
Kero blinked. Well, this is amazing. First highborn child I’ve ever met who wasn’t either spoiled or convinced rank alone conferred wisdom. “I can understand the constraints,” she replied, in Elspeth’s tongue. “All it would take would be one stray arrow.”
Elspeth sighed. “I know, but the problem is that since I’m not out of reach, the Weaponsmaster seems to think I have all the time I need for lessoning and practice, and Herald Presen keeps assigning me to another city court and I still have all the Council meetings as Heir—and Mother, Teren said to tell you that—”
“I have the War Council, I know. So do you, and I’m bringing the Captain along.” Selenay smiled fondly on her offspring, and Kero didn’t blame her. Kero echoed the smile. There wasn’t going to be any trouble in working with this one.
Then, out of nowhere, Need roused, for the first time since crossing the Border—focused on Elspeth—
And for one moment, sang.
Kero felt as if someone had dropped her inside a metal bell, then hit the outside with a hammer. She and the sword vibrated together for what seemed like forever, with everything, everything, focused on Elspeth, who seemed entirely unaware that anything was going on. She kept right on with her conversation with her mother, while Kero tried to regain her scattered wits.
There was no doubt in her mind that Need had found the person she wanted to be passed on to.
But—now?
She thought that question at the sword as hard as she could, but the blade was entirely quiescent once more, as if nothing had happened.
Blessed Agnira, Kero thought, mortally glad that Selenay and her daughter were still deep in conversation. Is that what the thing did to Grandmother the first time I showed up on her doorstep? No, it couldn’t have. For one thing, she wasn’t wearing it at the time. But I’d be willing to bet this is how that old fighter that passed it to her felt.
Well, at least the stupid thing wasn’t going to insist on being handed over immediately. Maybe it sensed that Kero was going to require its power in the not-too-distant future. And surely it knew—if it was aware—that she’d fight it on that point until this war was over.
Fine, she decided, as Selenay turned away from her daughter, and gestured that the two of them should followed her out the door. I’ll worry about it later. We all have other things to worry about—and I’ll be damned if I’ll give this thing to a perfectly nice child like Elspeth with no warning of what it can do to her!
And she thought straight at the blade—So don’t you go trying your tricks on her—or I’ll see that she drops you down a well!
Twenty-two
Spring is a lousy time to fight, Kero thought, peering through the drizzle, as droplets condensed and ran down her nose and into her eyes. She wiped them away in bleak misery. And if that fool is going to attack, you’d think he’d pick better weather than this. Fog and rain, what a slimy mess.
She stood beside the mare on the only significant elevation in the area. Though it stood well above the surrounding countryside, it wasn’t doing her any good. This miasma had reduced visibility to a few lengths, and the only way she was going to find anything out was through the scouts and outriders.
Hellsbane shivered her skin to shed collected water droplets. Kero wished she could do the same. If Selenay’s people hadn’t insisted that here and now was where Ancar was going to make his first attempt, expecting no resistance, she’d have gone right back to the tent where it was warm. Her hands ached with cold, and there was a leaky place in her rain cloak just above her right shoulder.
But the tent was already packed up, and the Heralds with the Gift of ForeSight hadn’t been wrong so far.
The only troops on the field today were the Skybolts in Valdemar colors. To them would fall the task of harrying Ancar for the first couple of engagements, of wearing him out before he ever encountered real Valdemar troops, and of confusing him with tactics he wouldn’t have expected out of regular army troopers.
They’d staged their defense with an eye to making him lose his more mobile fighters early on. The troops Ancar would meet for the next several days were all mounted; the foot troops would meet up with them farther north. At that point, hopefully, his foot soldiers would be exhausted from trying to keep up with the horse, while their foot would still be fresh.
Kero’s plan was to make every inch of ground Ancar gained into an expensive mistake, and to lure him northward with the illusion of success, when all the time he was only moving along his own border.
When Kero had explained, as delicately as possible, her Company’s other specialty, Selenay had given her another pleasant surprise. “You mean you’re saboteurs?” she’d exclaimed with delight. “A whole Company of dirty tricksters? Bright Astera, why didn’t you say that before? For Haven’s sake, if anyone questions your tactics, send them to me, I’ll back you!”
So now Kero and the Skybolts had carte blanche to do whatever they needed to. Which was just as well, really, since they would have done so anyway.
I thought some of
the things we’d run into before were odd, but this is stranger than snake feet, she thought, recalling her presentation to the War Council once she’d finally worked out a general plan based on the tentative one she’d put together with Daren. First, the “watchers,” whatever they were—then the fact that it’s like driving nails into stone to talk to people around here about magic—but then there’s the business with Iftel. It’s like the country was invisible from inside Valdemar. It’s on the map, but their eyes slide right by it....
“We basically have to get Ancar in a pincer, and leave him with only one avenue of escape. Our best bet right now is to get him right up against the Iftel border, and trap him there,” she’d said to the War Council.
And they had, to a man and woman, looked absolutely blank.
Finally, “Iftel?” faltered Talia, as if she had trouble even saying the name. “Why Iftel?”
“Because of what I’ve been told by the Guild,” Kero had said to them all. “That Iftel protects itself—by making you forget it exists, and keeping you out if it doesn’t want you in. I think you’ve just confirmed the first, which makes me think the second is true, too.”
“Iftel is—strange,” Selenay admitted. “I do have an ambassador there, a non-Herald. They—how odd, they didn’t want a Herald there at all. Yet they have never, ever threatened us in all our history, and they have signed some fairly binding treaties that they never will. From all accounts, though, the country is just as strange as the Pelagirs, and that is very strange indeed.”
That matched with what Kero had been told by the Guild. They didn’t have a representative there, but it wasn’t because they’d been barred from the place. It was because every time they’d sent someone in, he’d nearly died of boredom. Iftel had no bandits. Iftel had its own standing militia, organized at the county level. Iftel hired no mercenaries—because Iftel needed no mercenaries. Occasionally young folk got restless enough to leave, but that was the only time the Guild ever got members from Iftel, and they never went back home.
Iftel took care of itself, thank you.
Well, that made it a good place to take a stand; Ancar’s forces would be squeezed against the Iftel border to the north, Valdemar’s forces would be to the west, and Rethwellan’s—hopefully—would be coming up from the south.
Kero wiped rain out of her eyes, without doing much good. She still couldn’t see past the bottom of the hill. But somewhere out beyond in the fog, the specialists had been at work, and if the ForeSeers were right, in the next candlemark or so, Ancar’s forward troops would run right into something nasty that wasn’t supposed to be there.
The skirmishers stirred restlessly below her, waiting for their chance. Today was likely to be the only easy day of the campaign, which was why Kero had wanted only her Company in on it. They knew that a war is neither lost nor won in the first battle, and they knew very well that one easy day is the exception, not the rule. But if Selenay’s greener forces were in on this, when the going got rougher and rougher, they might see every day after the easy one as a constant series of defeats, and lose heart. In fact, Kero hoped she wouldn’t lose a single fighter this first day, but she knew as well as anyone on the field that engagements like that came once in a career and never again.
So we’re due one.
The sound of muffled hoofbeats came through the fog; years of practice had enabled Kero to pinpoint where sound was really coming from on days of rotten visibility.
It’s from the ambush site. I think we’re about to get some action. One of the scouts materialized out of the drizzle and pelted up the hillside, his horse mired to the belly. “They’re coming on, Captain, straight for the trap.”
Her heartbeat quickened, in spite of years of experience. “Good,” she replied, and the Herald beside her silently relayed that on to the rest of his kind—which included Selenay and Elspeth. “Tell the rest that if it looks like he’s straying, tease him into it.”
“Sir.” The scout saluted, and pelted off again, vanishing back into the mist like a ghost.
The “trap” was a swamp—a swamp that hadn’t been there a week ago. But last month Kero’s experts had diverted a small river from its bed, several leagues away, and had confined its waters behind an earthen dam just above the flat, grassy meadow the ForeSeers said Ancar was aiming for. Then, two nights ago, they had broken the dam.
Now the place was two and three feet deep in water and mud, all covered by the long grass growing there and the luxuriant, green, mosslike scum floating on the top. One of Kero’s Healers had a remarkable ability with plants ... and, much to everyone’s surprise and delight, the Heralds were able to feed him energy. Between the scum they’d cultured with tender care on the temporary lake for the past month, and the accelerated growth of the past two nights, they now had the kind of cover that normally took half the summer to grow. It looked just like solid land—until you tried to walk on it.
Now was when Kero missed her mages the most. They would have been able to create illusions of solid land—and phantoms of Valdemar forces along with those illusions. That would have lured Ancar’s people into a charge right into the worst of the muck. And once the charge had started, the momentum of the troops behind the front line would have driven the rest even deeper. Whole wars had been won with blunders like that.
Instead, she could only wait for his front line to wander into the swamp, and bring her skirmishers around to harry him deeper into the mire. Supposedly there was a Herald out there also diverting water from a nearby spring to come up behind him, so that he’d have muck on three sides, but she wasn’t counting on that.
Hoofbeats again in the mist, but this time the scout didn’t bother to gallop up the hillside; he just waved, and turned back. That was the signal Kero had been waiting for. She vaulted into her saddle, and whistled.
Below her, the skirmishers moved out at a careful walk, so that every part of the line stayed in contact with the part next to it. Fighting in conditions like these was hellish—and it was appallingly easy to fire on some vague shape out there, only to discover that it was one of your own.
“Friendly fire isn’t.” That was one of Tarma’s Shin’a’in sayings, succinct, and to the point. We haven’t lost a Skybolt to friendly fire yet, she thought, as she sent her horse carefully picking her way down the slick, grassy slope. I don’t want to start now.
The Herald and his Companion followed her, silent as a pair of ghosts, and hardly more substantial in the mist. For once that white uniform was an advantage. She urged Hellsbane into a brief trot at the bottom of the hill, then reined the warsteed in once they caught up with the skirmishers. She was anchoring the westernmost portion of the line, the place where Ancar’s men might get around them if they weren’t vigilant.
They sure as hell can’t go south.
Another reason not to have Valdemar regulars on this action: most of the ground to the south was booby-trapped, and Kero didn’t want the green troops to wander into it. Any place horses or foot could get through was thick with trip-wires, pit-traps—and gopher-holes. One of the Heralds, it seemed, had a Gift of “speaking” to animals, and he must have called in every mole and gopher for leagues around to undermine those fields. No horse could ever get safely across those fields, and it was even risking a broken ankle to try if you were afoot. Regulars might forget that. The Skybolts would sooner forget their pay.
So the south was booby-trapped, then came the swamp on the west. The only “safe” ground was to the north, which was exactly where they wanted Ancar to go. That was the side they’d contest, and they were going to have to make it look as if they’d come upon Ancar by accident.
If he thought they were a small force of Selenay’s Guard—
Which we are, small that is—
—backed by nobody—
Which we aren’t—
—depending mostly on the treacherous terrain to protect this section of the Border, he’d be on them like a hound on a hare. Meanwhile, they’d try and
stay just out of his range (“If the enemy is within firing range, so are you,” Tarma’s voice croaked in her mind), and pick as many of his men off as they could before he extracted them from the mire. That was the heart and soul of Kero’s strategy in this first engagement.
Up ahead in the mist, and far to her right, Kero heard a wild horn call; it sounded exactly like a young bugler in a panic, and she mentally congratulated Geyr on his imitation fear. That was the signal that the right flank was up even with the edge of the swamp, and the enemy was in sight. She took Hellsbane up to a fast walk, and the rest followed her lead.
Then the mare planted all four feet and snorted; she whistled, and the line stopped moving. They’d planted the edge of the bad ground with wild onions, and the moment Hellsbane had smelled one, she’d known to stop. Right at this point, it wasn’t marsh, but it was waterlogged and soft, and not what any of them wanted to take a horse through.
Besides, in a few moments, the enemy would come to them.
The mist muffled noise, but as Kero strained to hear past the sounds of her own people, she made out faint cries and things that sounded like shouted orders and curses, off to her right and ahead. And they were coming closer with every moment. She whistled again; the signal was repeated up and down the line, and as if they were reflections of a single man, every Skybolt slipped his short horse-bow or crossbow from its oiled case, strung or cocked it, set one arrow on the string, and put another between his teeth or behind his ear.
The Price Of Command v(bts-3 Page 11
