by Jenna Rhodes
Even the sullen sunlight made him squint against the brightness as Sevryn crawled out of the dark. Nutmeg sat tumbled on the ground. Rufus stood with a great popping of joints, his age betraying him. They looked down on the trampled river plain strewn with fallen bodies and writhing horses and a hound here and there, while those still fighting surged around them, following bannered leaders and drummers. They could see the bones of the dry bed of the Revela and the wide blue ribbon of the Ashenbrook, and the struggling troops within their borders. Dead and dying lay everywhere. She scrubbed at her eyes. “Where is he . . . where is he?”
Sevryn put his hand to the back of her neck. “Down there,” he said, and pointed, to the line of ild Fallyn archers and bowmen on horseback, following the command of a man in a chariot.
“There,” she whispered in soft echo and fisted one hand tightly. “What about Rivergrace?”
“If I could spot Diort, I might know.” Sevryn hunkered down on a flat rock. “Where would he be, Rufus?”
The Bolger swung his head in a slow shake. “Not see. White-haired chief leads.” He pointed a callused finger toward the white-tailed helm of Bistel Vantane, as distinctive as if the warlord were without a helmet. Bistel headed a wing of infantrymen, cutting a path before him.
“We might be here before them.” Sevryn patted himself absently, counting the weapons he still had left about him. “Can you get down to Diort?”
“I can. Not you.”
“Will he trust you over Tiforan?”
Rufus snorted as if Sevryn asked a stupid question. Sevryn waved him off. “All right, go. And keep your head down. And . . . may we meet as friends after this.” He offered Rufus his hand.
The Bolger cracked a grin and shook his hand mightily. Then he leaped down the face of the crag as if he were a young goat.
“You’re . . . you’re not going with him?”
“I haven’t a chance on that side of the lines. Rufus will find her and get her out of the fray. I trust him for that. He has a love for her like a father for a daughter.”
Nutmeg stared down, watching the Bolger’s form grow smaller as he picked his way through rock and shrub. “How do you suppose that happened? ” Rivergrace never talked about her life before she was pulled from the river. Not the small things, although one could hardly count Rufus as small.
“Before you found her, when she and her parents were slaves in the mines and forge, she shared what little she had with another starving slave. She was a child and recognized his hunger as sharp as her own, his hurts as painful. She gave him what she could, him, a Bolger, a stinker, without regard for what he was or how savage he could be. He never forgot.”
“Even then,” mused Nutmeg softly, “she was like that.”
“Aye, even then.” Sevryn set her on her feet. “Now we go down to our side and tell them an army of ruffians is headed their way. Out of this mountain, somewhere, somehow, just like us, the rock will spit them out.”
“Will they believe us?”
“Lariel, perhaps not if she were here, but Bistel will.”
Nutmeg nodded as she brushed past him, hopping down the rocks much as Rufus had. Sevryn watched her go. “I hope,” he added under his breath.
Tiforan found his lord in a small copse of sere, dry trees, drawing lines in the dirt, discussing how to take out a Vaelinar-held position where the Revela seemed to be dammed. The din of the battle could not muffle his warlord’s voice nor the chill of the day take the edge off it. Tiforan approached quietly, one hand still holding a great tankard of wine flavored with a bit of water that an aide below had pressed on him before showing him where his lord could be found, and he went to one knee before Diort. Moving through the encampment at the battle’s edge had been a trial but nothing compared to what they had already survived. Pride filled his chest. Lyat followed, dumping his captive without ceremony on the ground. She sat up, sputtering, but Diort put his hand up for silence and she, like the others, obeyed. Tiforan could only wonder at that, for the woman had screeched like some demonic wind god since awakening over Lyat’s shoulder. Abayan Diort was the master of men (and women) in ways Tiforan could only hope to emulate some day. The air stank of leather and burning and blood and sweat. His eyes threatened to water.
“Tiforan. You were successful, I see, in more ways than one.”
“The Pathways of the Guardians are myriad, Warlord, and time flows in them like a river, sometimes in full tide and sometimes even eddying in reverse. I thought we might be lost in them, but with the words you entrusted to me, I accomplished what you asked of me.” Tiforan inclined his head and watched the ground, waiting for his praise. “You need only ask it of me, and I will show you the entrance to the pathway that delivered us. If things . . . if there is a need . . .” he stopped. “If the warlord should require . . .”
“If I need a retreat, I know whom to ask,” Diort stopped him. “I sent you with two men, you return with one. What happened?”
“We took the prize you requested from the halls of the Warrior Queen herself, but a man followed, the one known as the Queen’s Hand. He came after with all intent of either rescuing Lady Rivergrace or destroying her, failing rescue. Rufus gave his life preventing that.” The scribe Lyat stayed silent, staring at the ground, as Tiforan spun his story.
The captive sputtered only to stop as Diort gave her a look, and she put her hand over her mouth at the glint in his jade eyes.
“It seems to have gone above and beyond the duty I required of you.”
Tiforan lifted his gaze. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Oh, don’t thank me. Yet. Is what he says true, Rufus?” And Abayan Diort looked behind him, to a pile of threadbare blankets tossed aside on the hillock, as the old Bolger rolled out from under them. Rivergrace let out a joyful, unfettered noise then.
“No,” said Rufus flatly, and crossed his arms over his chest, standing bowlegged in anger.
Diort nodded slowly. “I’ll have further discussions with you, Tiforan, and you, Lyat, later. The first thing I will ask is why you neglected to tell me that others move in the Pathways, Ravers and perhaps worse, and then we will move onto outright lies.” He made a gesture and the two men were grabbed before they could even stand, and dragged down the hill to where a few supply wagons were tethered and the wounded were being tended.
He looked to Rivergrace. “So now I have you, but I gather you’ve little use as a hostage.”
She cleared her throat and took a shallow breath, for her ribs hurt like fire despite the binding upon them. “At this moment, I have reason to think Lariel hates me as much as she hates you.”
“But why does she hate me?” Diort considered her gravely, the sun which burned through clouds that it ought not to have shredded lent a glow to his bronzed skin, glinted off the diadem that held his hair back, and made shadows of the tattoos and carved scars of office and heritage in a face that might otherwise be handsome.
Rivergrace would not tell him of Lariel’s vision; she would not give him anything he might use against the Vaelinars. She picked carefully among the truths she did know. “You conquer those she feels ought to have a choice.”
“Was she there? How does she know I didn’t give them a choice? Does she know they are worse off under my watch and care of them?”
“I don’t know more than that. I can’t tell you why she thinks what she does.” Rivergrace shook her head helplessly. “I’m not Vaelinar,” she told him. “I wasn’t raised by them, I’ve spent nearly my whole life with Dwellers. I know their history through tales and their politics not at all.”
“But she hates you.”
She nodded. She would not pretend to have a worth she didn’t. Either this man would let her remain alive, or he wouldn’t. She was done with being a pawn. She could feel the eyes of Rufus upon her. If he lived, Sevryn did and Nutmeg. She was not in the enemy’s camp alone.
Diort took a step toward her. He touched her brow and then the bandages about her torso. “Who gave you
injury?”
“I fought a Raver in the tunnels.”
His eyebrows flew up. “With Rufus and the others?”
“By myself. At first.”
“You’re a Warrior Queen then, like Lariel. She fears a competitor.”
“Oh, no. Not me. I can fight, but I’m not a warrior.”
He touched her bandage again. It was wet with her blood, she realized, and it hurt when he touched her. She winced, and he withdrew his hand. “I . . . I had my back in a corner. It could only come at me one way. That—that helped.”
He watched her solemnly.
“And then Sevryn came from behind and killed it when I had it down.”
“And you say you are not a warrior.”
She shook her head emphatically. “I don’t kill. It’s not what I do, it’s not in me. Not like others.”
“Mmmmm.” Diort’s mouth twisted a little. “Perhaps not. She has enough to fear from the bitch of the ild Fallyn.” He took a breath. “Then what do you do, Lady of the Grace of Rivers? Why would Daravan think you of value to me?”
She hesitated but a moment, flicking a look to the stoic Rufus and back. If this Galdarkan knew of Tressandre as a thorn in Lara’s side and the quest for the river Andredia, then he’d heard of what the tales said she could do. Did he ask for proof? She had no idea.
Tiforan had left his watered wine on the ground. She picked up the tankard. Dipping a finger in it, she hummed a few notes of the song that knitted her soul to her flesh, her memories to her present, her magic to her use. The water cleared as it purified. She handed the tankard to Diort who took it, smelled it, and then drank.
“Wine to water. There are those, milady, who would prefer the transformation in the other direction.” He handed the cup back to her and watched as she drank, too, quenching a thirst she’d almost forgotten she had.
“Much of my kingdom is wasteland. I won’t pretend that those who can find water aren’t precious and those who can tell me if the water is good are even more so. But the Kernan have water witches who can do the same. I don’t need to risk a kingdom to hire one of them.”
“No, Warlord, you don’t.”
“The question I need answered, then, is one I should put to Daravan. It is he who stirs the pot, I think.” Diort beckoned to Rufus. “Guard her well. There may be a use for her yet, and she becomes my guest until I am no longer fit to protect her.”
“Then she my guest.”
Diort looked askance at the Bolger before giving a short, dry laugh. “Then she is yours.”
He gestured to an aide. “Get down there and spread the word to every commander that we may have an attack from the rear. I want the army ready to turn on my signal if necessary. Make it clear.”
Rufus enfolded her hand in his and moved her away from the warlord as he pulled his scouts back into conference, their voices low and quick.
“Where is Nutmeg? Is she all right? Sevryn?”
“Little one talk much. All time. Very noisy. And fierce.” Rufus skinned his lips back and made a tiny, kittenish growl.
Grace laughed in spite of her worry. “Yes! Yes, she is.”
“Tiforan lucky Diort have him.”
She laughed again and it made her side hurt, so she grasped it as she did. Rufus frowned as she winced. He leaned down and picked her up, cradling her in his arms against his broad chest and leather apron. He stank, but she counted it as one of the strong, good smells in her life.
“Sevryn with her. Finding white hair. Much danger to both armies.”
“Ravers, then?”
Rufus shrugged. “Many. Not know all. Quendius lead.”
The wind skirled around them, chill and with a hint of ice despite its dryness. “What will Diort do?”
Rufus made a noise deep in his throat. “He warrior.”
Rivergrace closed her eyes briefly. Wherever Rufus carried her, she could hear the moans and soft cries of the wounded growing louder. The sounds pierced her to the bone.
Chapter Fifty-Five
THE HORSE SCREAMED in raw agony as it bolted from the cave. It made three great leaps before the Raymy brought it down. Pitching awkwardly, its hindquarters collapsed, throwing Garner free of the attacker and Tranta over its shoulder. At the sound of the stricken beast, all of the Vaelinar circled their mounts around, weapons whipping out. The Raymy tore lose from the horse and bounded to its feet, dancing away from the kicking hooves as the poor animal thrashed. It drew swords in each hand and went after Tranta with a hiss. The blade Garner had sunk into it jutted out from its armpit, only the hilt visible.
Tranta dragged himself away from the flailing horse and fumbled for his blade. He stilled the horse’s cries in a single, deep slash with a spurt of crimson, and came up on one knee in time to meet the Raymy’s assault. Garner threw himself at the thing’s legs, but it saw him coming and leaped straight up, blades whirling at Tranta. Garner came to rest against the horse’s quivering carcass and stayed as the Warrior Queen charged.
It did not have a chance with Lara bearing down on it. It must have known that, but it came down lightly and balanced itself in a fighting stance, meeting Tranta’s cuts and then whirling about to face Lara. It staggered back a step when Bistane’s feathered bolt struck it in the chest and it let out a defiant whistling hiss like a hot kettle as Lara leaned from her saddle, sword swinging. Its hand and weapon went flying. Tranta dove under its guard then, plunging his sword point deep into its torso before tearing his weapon free. Entrails exploded from the wound, and still it keened at them, its face grimacing in anger.
Lara pivoted her mount and took its head in the second pass even as it tried one last time to cut Tranta in two. The head rolled and bounced, its lips slicked back in soundless fury.
“Gather that . . . up,” Lara ordered. One of her lancers threw her cloak down and did as commanded. A stench lay over the corpse as she dismounted where Tranta tried to clean his sword on the bruised and sere grasses. “Are you hurt?”
“Bruised. Garner, though,” and Tranta swung his head about, blue-green hair trailing across his shoulders. “You are torn.”
“Looks worse than it hurts.” Garner sat in a pool of horse blood, fingering himself. “A few rips. The horse took the worst of the attack.”
Lara toed the headless form. “It took four of us to bring it down.” She pulled Bistane’s arrow loose and handed it to him, then pried out Garner’s sword. “We’ve no time to waste.” She looked into Tranta’s face. “Even to avenge brothers.”
Bregan’s pale face watched Garner as he retrieved his sword from Lara, and another lancer gave him a leg up while Tranta mounted behind Lariel. Deep lines etched the trader’s face, and dark bruises shadowed his eyes. His lips parted as if he would say something to Garner, but it was lost as Lara snapped her reins and they took the downhill run at breakneck speed. The bugler of the company unslung his horn and winded it, heralding them.
Lara never slowed her horse as she took it through the lines. She ripped at her chain mail, tearing loose her soft white chemise underneath. Right hand knotted in the pale silk, she held it up like a banner, over her head. With left hand laced with her horse’s reins and a hank of mane to steady her, she stood in the stirrups and rode through the fighters. She cried, “To me! To me! Truce!” as she rode. Her company flanked her, but they could not protect her from all harm. She rode into the heart of the battle as if the white makeshift flag was the only guardian she needed.
Bistel heard slowly. The scream and clash of fighting surrounded him, filled his ears and mind, muting even the bugle calls. He had not ordered what he heard, and as the sound sank in, he turned his head, chin strap of his helmet chafing his neck, to see what Vaelinar countermanded the attack. Irritation flooded him. He had wedged his way slowly but steadily toward Diort who had come down off his high ground, and the two could just see each other over the surging waves of their infantrymen. While the Galdarkan would undoubtedly kill him if they came to blows, Bistel held a different objec
tive. Now his attention was demanded. Across the bloodbath, across the wounded and fighting and the fallen, their eyes met, his and Diort.
Then he tore his gaze away to see what bore down on him.
Diort entered the fray because he could feel the Vaelinars weaken. Whatever entrapment the queen had planned, it had not materialized nor had the queen herself. Lara’s absence made her troops falter, her army second-guess their presence on the field. He could sense the disheartening and feel it grow. He knew the spirit of a fighter, he could feel it like a flame, and that flame had begun to gutter and flicker in the men and women they faced. That was when he took the field. The Lion of the Galdarkans, they cheered the moment he rode from his overlook, took shield and spear from the nearest man who would surrender it to him, and he took his place among them. As the sun arched and rose in the winter sky, he could see the general of the Vaelinar—White-hair, Rufus called him—the legendary Bistel Vantane working his way toward him.
To bring down Bistel would likely turn the battle into a rout. He had no stomach for the senseless killing of soldiers when a decisive blow could stop a war. He turned his horse’s head toward Bistel and began to edge his way through. Before the sun set, he would reach his goal and the warlord would die.
A trumpeting winded over his drummers. He thought the winter gusts, always cruel, had come up again although they did not usually rise until dusk. Then he caught the notes, high and strident, as the Vaelinars quieted. The fighting seemed to slow, and the army parted as if a tide rolled through it, and he saw the Warrior Queen come at last to her battlefield, her right arm high in the air with white silk unfurling from it. His first thought was that she had finally come to spring her trap upon him, and his second thought was that if he could take her, he would never have to worry about his kingdom again, and his last thought was the realization that she carried the color of truce. He recognized that last reluctantly before putting up his own hand to signal his drummers. The rhythm stopped, then began a ponderous, different beat.
The fighting stopped. Warriors stepped back, falling back to their own lines, chests heaving, weapons at parry, eyes narrowed in suspicion, but they retreated until Lara rode into an empty circle manned only by Bistel and Diort. She dismounted between them, still holding her silks high. At her gesture, her lancer threw a bloody bundle on the ground and the Raymy head fell free. Death had not softened its fierce expression or settled the lips back over its many sharp and pointed teeth.
