Every day meant a succession of tricks and guerrilla tactics, just to keep Ancar from closing with the entire force and finishing the job. With the Heralds acting as links between them, they split their forces by day, pecking away at the edges of the massive army, and rejoined by night. The individual groups, some as small as Kero’s original scout group, could dart in and out to whittle away at Ancar’s more cumbersome foot—but to offset that mobility, they were a great deal more vulnerable. Quite a few of those little groups vanished, Herald and all, when Ancar’s troops could surround or entrap them.
Every loss meant far more to them than a comparable loss meant to Ancar—if, in fact, the losses meant anything to him at all, other than the drop in manpower.
“I can’t believe this,” she muttered to Eldan, as she shaded her eyes and stared at Ancar’s army, a dark carpet of them covering the fields below her vantage point, trampling the fields of new grain into mud. They should have been ready to drop; they’d been marching at a steady pace all day, and any sane commander would have them making camp now. Yet here they were, pressing on though sunset painted the sky a bloody red. “I thought I’d planned for everything, including the very worst possible case, but these people aren’t human. No one can follow the pace we’ve set—”
“You did,” Eldan pointed out. “You set it.”
She glared sideways at him; she had a headache from wearing her helmet all day, and she was in no mood for quibbling. “Semantics. We’re on home ground; we have the advantage of local support and supply, and we know the territory. He doesn’t have any of that. He shouldn’t be able to keep up with us, much less attack every chance he gets. But he’s doing it, and I’ll be damned if I know how.”
“Because he’s willing to sacrifice everything to get you—or rather, Selenay,” Eldan said flatly. “Everything is expendable if he gets her. He’s perfectly willing to burn out every man he has to achieve that single goal.”
She shook her head, and pounded her fist on the tree trunk beside her in anger and frustration, gashing the bark with her armored gauntlet. “That’s insane. I can’t predict what a madman is going to do next! How can I plan against someone like that?”
Eldan sighed. “I don’t know, Captain. Strategy was never anything I was good at.” Then he smiled weakly.
“But you’ll think of something, I’m sure. We all believe in you.”
That was cold comfort. They believe in me. Just what I needed to hear.
Especially when she was exercising all of her ingenuity just to keep them alive a little bit longer. They’d lost track of Daren a while back, and not even the FarSeers could find him. In fact, other than the Mindspeakers, the Heralds’ powers had been frustrated or limited by Ancar’s mages. There was some kind of shield over the army that the FarSeers couldn’t break through, and the ForeSeers reported only “too many possibilities.”
There were only three possibilities that made any difference to Kero; that Daren was still on schedule, that Daren had been turned back by more of Ancar’s forces, or that Daren had run afoul of those same forces and was late. No other “possibilities” mattered.
And right now, anyway, all that really mattered was staying alive.
The question haunted her as the Skybolts stopped to salt a ford with flint shards after everyone else had passed it. The little fragments were heavy enough to stay where they were without washing downstream, small and sharp enough to lodge in hooves and slash boots and feet to ribbons. “ ‘Be careful what you ask for,’ “ she quoted to herself. “ ‘You might get it.’ I wanted Ancar to follow us. Now I can’t shake him off our trail.” When she’d consulted the Lord Marshal through the agency of Eldan and the Lord Marshal’s Herald, he hadn’t had any suggestions either. I feel like I’m letting them down, she thought grimly, as the last of the flint-strewers returned to the saddle, and the Company moved out again. They think I’m going to pull something brilliant out of my sleeve and save everyone. Not even Ardana got herself into a situation like this one. And while he lasted, Lerryn was so lucky he’d fall into a cesspit and come up with a handful of gold.
She looked back over her shoulder, checking for strays, although technically Shallan and Geyr were supposed to be in charge of that. It didn’t look as if any of her people had dropped out of the march—though if they hadn’t been mounting Shin’a’in-breds, they would have been by now. Even the Companions were beginning to look tired. So far the only luck we’ve had was that Ancar hasn’t used a mage since I took out the first one.
She pushed her helm up and rubbed a spot on her forehead where it pressed uncomfortably. That might not have been luck, though; it might have been that Need was sheltering the whole army, and it might also have been that the mages Ancar has left are required to keep his own people disciplined. She wished she knew which it was; or even if it was a combination.
The Skybolts caught up with the rearguard of Selenay’s troops, and became the rearguard themselves. Shallan and Geyr sent back outriders, while the rest spread themselves along the rear, resting their horses by staying at the pace set by the foot in front of them. Kero hoped the outriders would bring back word that Ancar had camped soon. Those poor souls ahead of her looked as though they were on their last gasp of energy.
All that work to get the entire army together, and we’re too small to do anything but run. He must outnumber us ten to one, and that’s after losses. About the only advantage we have is the Heralds. We’re too large and without the proper training to use as a specialist force, and too small to actually take a stand against him.
It was maddening, and soon enough they’d run up against the Iftel border, which would leave them with nowhere to go except into Valdemar. Was Daren back there behind them? If not—and she had to plan for the worst—if they retreated, would Selenay be able to raise enough of the common people to make a difference against trained fighters? It could be done, what had happened to the Skybolts in Seejay was proof enough of that—but it was expensive in terms of casualties, the people had to be committed to it wholeheartedly.
If only we could get him to divide his army up somehow, and arrange things so that we could deal with each segment alone.
A foot soldier in front of her stumbled and fell, saw Hellsbane practically on top of him, and blanched, scrambling onto his feet and back to his place in the wavering lines. The mare’s behavior in battle had earned her the reputation of a mankilling horse, and no one but the Skybolts wanted to be within range of those teeth and hooves.
What have we got ahead of us? I wonder if there’s some way I can force him to commit too many of his people on too many fronts? Can we use the terrain somehow?
No, that was a stupid idea. The only thing they had ahead of them was farmland and rolling hills.
She pulled off her helm and hung it on the saddlebow, and wiped the sweat out of them. It didn’t help. She’d never been so tired, not even when running from Karsite priestesses and Karsite demons.
If only my riders weren’t forced to stay with the foot....
Then again, maybe they weren’t.
If we take the Skybolts and the cavalry and circle around behind them, I wonder if we could make them think we were reinforcements ... make them think we were Daren’s lot.
The she gave herself a mental kick for idiocy. How in hell can I think that? It would leave them without support. And even if he fell for it, that would get him going in the wrong direction. That won’t work. We don’t want him going south, and we certainly don’t want him going west.
Every new idea seemed to have less chance of succeeding than the last. And none of them were going to work if they didn’t get a chance to rest!
I feel like a hunted stag, she thought—then froze as she realized that she wasn’t far wrong with that image.
She made a quick mental review of everything Ancar had done since that first encounter, and realized with a sinking heart that they had been doing exactly what he wanted them to do. Run. Run themselves into exhausti
on....
“What’s wrong?” Eldan had ridden up beside her without her even noticing his arrival.
“I just realized we made a monumental mistake,” she replied slowly, as her spine chilled. “We all thought we were leading him. We haven’t been. He’s been herding us, like stags being herded by beaters.” She looked around for one of the scout Lieutenants, and spotted Shallan’s blonde cap of hair. “Shallan!” she called sharply; the scout-leader looked back, and reined her horse around, sending him loping wearily toward them.
“I want you to send out scouts west and east,” she said as soon as Shallan was within easy speaking distance. “Send them out about a half a day’s ride, on their freshest horses. Have them take Heralds; if what I think is out there really is, I want to know immediately.”
Shallan looked thoughtful for a moment—then blanched. “We’ve been bracketed?” she asked, as her horse stood listlessly, saving his energy.
Kero nodded, and looked back over her shoulder, feeling as if she half-expected the enemy to come into view. “I think so. I couldn’t figure out where his cavalry was, and I’d just about decided he didn’t have any. But if I had his resources, why would I field only foot fighters with less than a Company of cavalry? Now I think I know where he sent them—to bracket us in either the east or the west. I’d bet east, but I want you to check inside Valdemar just to be sure. In all the confusion caused by evacuation he could have slipped someone in.”
“Astera help us, if you’re right,” Eldan said grimly as Shallan rode off to pick her scouts and send them on their way. He, too, looked back over his shoulder, with a grimace. “He’ll have us where we planned to have him—pinned between him and the Iftel Border.”
“I know,” she replied, watching as two small groups of Skybolts broke off from the main body and rode off east and west. “Believe me, I know. I’d give my arm to know where Daren is right now—and my leg to have him close enough to help.”
We must be halfway to Iftel by now. Gods, I don’t know how much more of this dying territory there is—Daren flexed cramped fingers, wiping the nervous sweat from his face with his sleeve, and stared up at the sun. He reined his gelding in a little to drop back beside one of the few unarmored riders in the group. “How far past the Valdemar Border would you say we are?” he asked young Quenten, who frowned a little, and unfocused his eyes. “Last thing I want is for Ancar’s toadies to scent us.”
“Far enough,” the mage replied after a moment. “We’re out of range of whatever it is in Valdemar, and Ancar’s mages are too busy keeping the troops under control to try looking for us. That’s devilish clever of him, keeping his mages just this side of the Border; I don’t know what that guardian is, m’lord, but it’s cursed literal-minded. Your magic can cross the Border all you like, so long as you don’t. And I ’spect that if you didn’t ever do anything magical, once you were inside, it’d leave you alone.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Daren replied. Quenten’s a good lad. Wish I knew how Kero managed to recruit him. “And I’m damned glad you went looking for us on your way back to your winter quarters. If we’d followed along the short route, we’d have lost our mages, too.”
“I didn’t want to leave them in the first place, m’lord,” Quenten said absently. “Let the gods witness it, I’d have stayed if I could! It only seemed right to track you down and warn you, and maybe come with you if you figured a way around the magic problem.” His gentle little mare glided along beside Daren’s tall hunter, the only horse he’d ever seen besides his own that could trot without jolting her rider. Daren kept silent, wrestling with the problem of how to make up the days lost in crossing over to Hardorn, sneaking through the passes and hoping the Karsites would choose to ignore this little invasion of their borders. He’d had double his usual complement of mages to cloak their movements, but who knew what the Karsite priests could and could not do.
Perhaps they had their own troubles to occupy them. Since the defeat of the Prophet there had been no more trouble from Karse; only rumors that the Temple was engaging in a war of intrigue within itself, and more rumors that the Chief Priest of the Sunlord was being challenged for his place by a woman. That was heresy enough, but further rumor had it that this woman affected the robes and false beard of a man, and styled herself the “True-born Son of the Sun.” If even half those rumors were true, small wonder Karse paid no attention to the army of her old enemy, when it was plainly going elsewhere.
But once across the border into Hardorn, Daren had been tempted to turn right around and take his chances with Valdemar and this mysterious “guardian” that drove mages mad. For from the border to a distance of three leagues within Hardorn, the land was blighted and empty.
Bad enough that entire villages lay empty and abandoned; worse came when his men poked cautiously through the tumbled-down buildings. The places had been looted, then demolished. But in the wreckage, Daren’s men found the remains of women and children—and only women and children, and only those younger than three, and (presumably) older than thirty.
Daren had thought at first that it might have been the work of bandits—but then they had encountered another village, smaller than the first, that had fared the same. Then another, and another.
After the fourth such discovery, Daren forbade his men to even go near the places. They had no priest with them, but the mages, Quenten in particular, had felt an odd uneasiness there, and the Healers had refused, in a hysterical body, to set foot inside the perimeters.
And the land itself looked drained and ill. The rank weeds that had taken over the fields were pale, with thin, weak stems. The leaves of the trees were discolored. The only birds to be seen were an occasional crow, and so far Daren hadn’t spotted so much as a rabbit moving. It had been getting worse since the first village, and now the countryside looked to his eyes like a beautiful woman lying ravaged by plague. He couldn’t imagine how his men could bear it—many of them were of farm stock, and intended to retire to little pension-farms of their own, and to see good land like this must be making them ill.
“What do you think happened here?” he asked Quenten, as they crossed a muddy, rust-colored stream. “Is it safe to be riding on this land, do you think?”
“It’s safe enough, m’lord,” Quenten said, but only after the mage gave him a peculiar look. “Why do you ask?”
Daren looked around at the withered limbs of the trees, at the yellow grass, at the diseased cankers spotting the leaves, and shuddered. “Because the place looks poisoned, that’s why. What happened at the villages was easy enough to read—that bastard conscripted the men, took the useful women and little ones and slaughtered the rest as an example—but I don’t understand this ... and I don’t see how the men can accept it as easily as they do.”
Quenten shook his head in wonder. “M’lord, they don’t see what you see. To them it looks perfectly ordinary, except that there’s not much in the way of birds and beasts.” He looked pointedly about them, at the men marching calmly up the road in front of them, and tilted his shaggy, dust-dulled head to one side, as if waiting for a response.
Daren cast a sharp glance at him, but the young mage’s expression was entirely sober. “A glamour? An illusion?”
Again the mage shook his head, but this time he stared into Daren’s face searchingly before replying. “I don’t think so, m’lord. Is there mage-blood in your family?”
“Some, not much,” he said after a moment of thought. “Of course Grandmother’s family’s been sprouting Healers every so often, and Mother’s line was supposed to be some kind of earth-priestess—”
“Ah,” Quenten said in satisfaction. “That would be it; you have the earth-sense. Many folk with the blood of the old earth-priestesses in them have it. What you’re seeing is the land revealed to you by the earth-sense, you see what lies under the surface everyone else sees with his outer eyes. This land is sick; there’s been blood-magic practiced here, too much of it for the land to absorb without ha
rm. That was the real horror back at those villages; it wasn’t just the slaughter itself—it’s that it was done to invoke the powers of blood-magic and death-magic.”
Daren remembered all the rumors he’d heard about Ancar, and suddenly they began making sense. “Blood-magic to control the minds of the ones he took?” he asked shrewdly, “Blood-magic to create a reservoir of power he can feed off?” And Quenten’s eyes widened. “Blood-magic so that the land keeps him healthy and young, at its own expense?”
“There’s not one highborn in ten that would know that,” the mage whispered. “Keep it to yourself, m’lord. There’s some that would say that knowing is a short step away from wanting. I don’t hold by that, but even the mage-schools have their fanatics.” He resumed his normal tone. “Probably, m’lord, and it’s more than the land can bear. That’s why it looks sick to you. Trust your earth-sense, m’lord. If you learn to use it, it’ll tell you more than just this.”
It was Daren’s turn to shake his head. The land cried out to him in a way—and he couldn’t help it, any more than he could bring back those poor slaughtered innocents. He wanted to beg its pardon for not healing it—to beg theirs for not being there. It was foolish—but it was very real. He understood the Heralds of Valdemar far better than his brother did. He understood how it was to care for people, even if those people were not bound to you, personally, in any way. Faram would die for his people—but not those of Valdemar. He would feel badly about the slaughters here, but he would not feel them personally, the way Daren did.
The Price Of Command v(bts-3 Page 14
