The cries faded, largely replaced by the clash of steel on steel, by shouts and screams as men killed or died. Abruptly she realized the gates were swinging out. And she could not see! Kicking her feet free of the stirrups, she clambered up to stand on the high-cantled saddle. The gray shifted nervously, unaccustomed to being a stepstool, but not enough to disturb her balance. Birgitte muttered a particularly pungent oath, but the next moment she was standing on her saddle, too. Hundreds of crossbowmen and archers were pouring out of the Far Madding Gate, but were they her men, or the renegade mercenaries?
For answer, archers began firing at Arymilla’s massed cavalry as fast as they could nock and draw. The first crossbows went up and loosed a volley. Immediately those men began working their cranks to rewind their crossbows, but others rushed past them to loose a second flight of bolts that cut down men and horses like scythes reaping barley. More archers spilled out of the gate, firing as fast as they could. A third rank of crossbowmen ran forward to fire, a fourth, a fifth, and then men wielding halberds were pushing past the crossbowmen still running out of the gate. A halberd was a fearsome weapon, combining spearpoint and axe blade with a hook for pulling men out of the saddle. Horsemen with no room to charge their lances, their swords out-reached by the halberd’s long haft, began falling. Men in red coats and burnished breastplates were galloping out of the gate now, Guardsmen swinging to left and right to find another way to get at Arymilla’s ranks. The flow of them went on and on, unceasing. How in the Light could Dyelin have so many of the Guards? Unless. . . . Burn the woman, she must have scooped up the half-trained men! Well, half-trained or not, they would be anointed in blood today.
Suddenly three figures in gilded helmets and breastplates rode through the gates, swords in hand. Two of them were very small. The shouts that rose when they appeared were thin with distance, but still audible over the din of battle. “The Black Eagles!” and “The Anvil!” and “The Red Leopards!” Two mounted women appeared in the gate, struggling until the taller managed to pull the other’s horse back out of sight.
“Blood and bloody ashes!” Elayne snapped. “Conail’s old enough, I suppose, but Branlet and Perival are boys! Somebody should have kept them out of that!”
“Dyelin held them back long enough,” Birgitte said calmly. The bond carried bone-deep calm. “Longer than I thought she could hold Conail. And she did manage to keep Catalyn out of it. Anyway, the boys have a few hundred men between them and the forefront, and I don’t see anyone trying to make room for them to squeeze forward.” It was true. The three were waving their swords impotently at least fifty paces from where men were dying. But then, fifty paces was a short range for bow or crossbow.
Men began appearing on the rooftops, first dozens then hundreds, archers and crossbowmen climbing over the roof peaks, working their way across the slates like spiders until they could shoot down into the packed mass below. One slipped and fell, his body lying atop the men in the street and jerking as it was stabbed repeatedly. Another suddenly reared up, a shaft sticking out of his side, and toppled from his perch. He also lay atop the men in the street, twitching as he was stabbed again and again.
“They’re jammed together too tightly,” Birgitte said excitedly. “They can’t raise a bow much less draw one. I’ll wager the dead don’t even have room to fall down. It won’t be long, now.”
But the slaughter continued for a good half-hour before the first shouts of “Quarter!” rose. Men began hanging their helmets on sword hilts and raising them overhead, risking death in the hope of life. Footmen stripped off helmets and held their hands up empty. Horsemen flung down lances, helmets, swords, and raised their hands. It spread like a fever, the cry bellowing from thousands of throats. “Quarter!”
Elayne sat down on her saddle properly. It was done. Now to learn how well it had been done.
The fighting did not stop immediately, of course. Some tried to fight on, but they fought alone and died or were pulled down by men around them who were no longer ready to die. At last, however, even the most diehard began shedding weapons and armor, and if not every voice cried for quarter, the roar was still thunderous. Weaponless men shorn of helmets and breastplates and any other armor they might have worn began staggering through the line of Guardsmen, hands above their heads. Halberdmen herded them like sheep. They had something of the stunned look of sheep in a slaughter yard. The same thing must have been being repeated on dozens of Low Caemlyn’s narrow streets, and at the gates, because the only shouts she heard were for quarter, and those were beginning to dwindle as men realized it was being granted.
The sun lacked no more than an hour of its noonday peak by the time the nobles were all separated out. The lesser were escorted inside the city, where they would be held for ransom. To be paid once the throne was secure. The first of the greater nobles to be brought to her, escorted by Charlz and a dozen Guardsmen, were Arymilla, Naean and Elenia. Charlz had a bloody gash down his left sleeve, and a dent in his shining breastplate that must have been made by a hammer blow, but his features were composed behind the face-bars of his helmet. She heaved a huge sigh of relief to see the three women. Among the dead or among the captives, the others would be found. She had decapitated her opposition. At least until Luan and the others arrived. The Guardswomen in front of her at last moved aside so she could confront her prisoners.
The three were garbed as if they had intended to attend Arymilla’s coronation that very day. Her red silk dress was sewn with seed pearls on the bosom and embroidered with rearing white lions marching up the sleeves. Swaying in her saddle, she had the same stunned look in her brown eyes that her soldiers had. Naean, slim and straight-backed in blue with the silver Triple Keys of Arawn climbing her sleeves and silver scrollwork across her bosom, her gleaming black hair caught in a silver net set with sapphires, seemed subdued rather than numb. She even managed a sneer, though it was weak. Honey-haired Elenia, in green elaborately embroidered with gold, shared her glares between Arymilla and Elayne. The bond carried equal measures of triumph and disgust. Birgitte’s dislike of these women was as personal as Elayne’s own.
“You will be my guests in the palace for the time being,” Elayne told them. “I hope your coffers are deep. Your ransoms will pay for this war you’ve caused.” That was malicious of her, but she felt spiteful all of a sudden. Their coffers were not deep at all. They had borrowed far more than they could repay in order to hire mercenaries. And bribe mercenaries. They faced ruin without any ransom. With, they faced devastation.
“You cannot believe it ends this way,” Arymilla said hoarsely. She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “Jarid is still in the field with a considerable force. Jarid and others. Tell her, Elenia.”
“Jarid will try to preserve what he can of Sarand from this disaster you’ve forced us into,” Elenia snarled. They began shouting at one another, but Elayne ignored them. She wondered how they would enjoy sharing a bed with Naean.
Next to appear under escort was Lir Baryn, and moments later Karind Anshar. As slender as a blade, and as strong, Lir wore a thoughtful expression rather than defiant or sullen. His green coat, embroidered with the silver Winged Hammer of House Baryn on the high collar, bore the marks of the breastplate he was no longer wearing, and his dark hair was matted with sweat. More glistened on his face. He had not gotten so sweaty watching other men fight. Karind was garbed as grandly as the other women, in shimmering blue silk heavy with silver braid and pearls in her gray-streaked hair. Her square face looked resigned, especially after Elayne told them about their ransoms. Neither had borrowed as heavily as the other three so far as she knew, but that ransom would still cut deep.
Then two Guardsmen appeared with a woman a little older than Elayne, in simple blue, a woman she thought she recognized. A single enameled brooch, a red star and silver sword on glittering black, appeared to be her only jewelry. But why was Sylvase Caeren being brought to her? A pretty woman with alert blue eyes that held steady on Elayne�
�s face, she was Lord Nasin’s heir, not the High Seat of Caeren.
“Caeren stands for Trakand,” Sylvase said shockingly as soon as she reined in. The bond echoed Elayne’s startlement. Arymilla gaped at Sylvase as if she were mad. “My grandfather suffered a seizure, Arymilla,” the young woman said calmly, “and my cousins fell over themselves affirming me as High Seat. I will publish it, Elayne, if you wish.”
“That might be best,” Elayne said slowly. Publication would make her support irrevocable. This would not be the first time a House had switched sides, even without the death of a High Seat, but best to be certain. “Trakand welcomes Caeren warmly, Sylvase.” Best not to be too distant, either. She knew little of Sylvase Caeren.
Sylvase nodded, accepting. So she had at least a degree of intelligence. She knew she would not be fully trusted until she demonstrated her loyalty by sending out the proclamations of support. “If you trust me a little, may I have custody of Arymilla, Naean and Elenia? In the Royal Palace, of course, or wherever you choose to house me. I believe my new secretary, Master Lounalt, may be able to convince them to throw their support to you.”
For some reason, Naean gave a loud cry and would have fallen from her saddle if a Guardsman had not grabbed her arm to support her. Arymilla and Elenia both appeared ready to sick up.
“I think not,” Elayne said. No proposed conversation with a secretary produced those reactions. It seemed Sylvase had a hard core to her. “Naean and Elenia have published their support of Arymilla. They’ll hardly destroy themselves by recanting.” That truly would destroy them. Smaller Houses sworn to them would begin falling away until their own House dwindled in importance. They themselves might not survive as High Seats much beyond announcing that they now stood for Trakand. And as for Arymilla. . . . Elayne would not allow Arymilla to change her tune. She would refuse the woman’s support if it were offered!
Something grim entered Sylvase’s gaze as she glanced at the three women. “They might, with the proper persuasion.” Oh, yes; a very hard core. “But as you wish, Elayne. Be very careful of them, though. Treachery is in their blood and bones.”
“Baryn stands for Trakand,” Lir announced suddenly. “I, too, will publish it, Elayne.”
“Anshar stands for Trakand,” Karind said in firm tones. “I will send the proclamations out today.”
“Traitors!” Arymilla cried. “I’ll see you dead for this!” She fumbled at her belt, where a dagger’s scabbard hung, jeweled and empty, as if she intended to see to the matter herself. Elenia began to laugh, but she did not sound amused. It sounded almost like weeping.
Elayne drew a deep breath. Now she had nine of the ten Houses needed. She was under no illusions. Whatever Sylvase’s reasons, Lir and Karind were trying to salvage what they could by cutting themselves loose from a lost cause and hitching themselves to one that suddenly appeared to be rising. They would expect her to give them preferment for standing for her before she had the throne while forgetting that they had ever supported Arymilla. She would do neither. But neither could she reject them out of hand. “Trakand welcomes Baryn.” Never warmly, though. Never that. “Trakand welcomes Anshar. Captain Guybon, get the prisoners into the city as soon as you can. Armsmen for Caeren, Baryn and Anshar will be restored their weapons and armor once the proclamations have been sent out, but they can have their banners back now.” He saluted her and wheeled his bay, already shouting orders.
As she heeled the gray toward Dyelin, who was riding out of a side street followed by Catalyn and the three young fools in their gilded armor, Sylvase, Lir and Karind fell in behind her and Birgitte. She felt no disquiet having them at her back, not with a hundred Guardswomen at theirs. They would be watched very closely until those proclamations were sent. Including Sylvase. Elayne’s mind was already casting itself ahead.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Birgitte said softly. “You’ve just won a great victory.”
“And in a few hours,” she replied, “I’ll learn whether I have to win another.”
CHAPTER 34
A Cup of Kaf
Furyk Karede pressed his gauntleted fist to his heart, returning the sentry’s salute, and ignored the fact that the man spat as he rode past. He hoped the eighty men and twenty-one Ogier behind him ignored it, too. They had better, if they knew what was good for them. He was here for information, and a killing would make getting it more difficult. Since his manservant Ajimbura had planted his knife in a Standardbearer’s heart over a perceived insult to his master—in truth, a real insult, but Ajimbura should have held his temper the way he himself had—since then, he had taken to leaving the wiry little hill-tribesman in the forest with the sul’dam and damane and some of the Guards to watch over the packhorses when he entered a camp. He had come a long way from Ebou Dar chasing the wind, almost four weeks of haring after rumors, until the news brought him here to this camp in east central Altara.
The neat rows of pale tents and horselines stood in a forest clearing large enough for raken to land, but there was no sign of raken or fliers, no ground company with its wagons and raken-grooms. But then, he had not seen a raken in the skies for some time now. Supposedly almost all had been sent west. Why, he did not know and did not care. The High Lady was his goal and his entire world. A tall thin message pole cast its long shadow in the early morning sun, though, so there must be raken somewhere about. He thought the camp might contain a thousand men, not counting farriers and cooks and the like. Interestingly, every last soldier he could see wore familiar armor from home rather than those solid breastplates and barred helmets. Practice was to pad out most forces with men from this side of the ocean. It was interesting that they were all armored, too. A rare commander kept his soldiers in armor unless he expected action soon. From the rumors he had picked up, that might be the case here.
Three flagstaffs marked the command tent, a tall, walled affair of pale canvas with air vents along the peak that doubled as smoke holes. No smoke issued from them now, for the morning was only a little cool, though the sun hung not far above the horizon. On one flagstaff the blue-bordered Imperial Banner hung in limp folds, hiding the spread-winged golden hawk clutching lightning in its talons. Some commanders hung it from a horizontal staff so it was always visible in full, but he thought that ostentatious. The other two banners, on shorter flanking staffs, would be of the regiments these men belonged to.
Karede dismounted in front of that tent and removed his helmet. Captain Musenge emulated him, revealing a grim expression on his weathered face. The other men climbed down too, to rest their horses, and stood by their animals. The Ogier Gardeners leaned on their long-hafted, black-tasseled axes. Everyone knew they would not be staying long.
“Keep the men out of trouble,” he told Musenge. “If that means accepting insults, so be it.”
“There’d be fewer insults if we killed a few of them,” Musenge muttered. He had been in the Deathwatch Guards even longer than Karede, though his hair was unbroken black, and he would suffer insults to the Empress, might she live forever, as gladly as insults to the Guards.
Hartha scratched one of his long gray mustaches with a finger the size of a fat sausage. The First Gardener, commander of all the Ogier in the High Lady Tuon’s bodyguard, was almost as tall as a man in the saddle, and wide with it. His red-and-green lacquered armor contained enough steel to make armor for three or four humans. His face was as dour as Musenge’s, yet his booming voice was calm. Ogier were always calm except in battle. Then they were as cold as deep winter in Jeranem. “After we rescue the High Lady we can kill as many of them as need killing, Musenge.”
Recalled to his duty, Musenge flushed for having allowed himself to stray. “After,” he agreed.
Karede had schooled himself too hard over the years, had been schooled too hard by his trainers, to sigh, but had he been other than a Deathwatch Guard, he might have done so now. Not because Musenge wanted to kill someone and almost anyone would do. Rather it was because the insults he had walked away from
these past weeks chafed him as much as they did Musenge and Hartha. But the Guards did whatever was necessary to carry out their assignments, and if that meant walking away from men who spat on the ground at the sight of armor in red and the dark green most called black, or dared to murmur about lowered eyes in his hearing, then walk away he must. Finding and rescuing the High Lady Tuon was all that mattered. Everything else was dross beside that.
Helmet under his arm, he ducked into the tent to find what must have been most of the camp’s officers gathered around a large map spread out on a folding camp table. Half wore segmented breastplates lacquered in horizontal red and blue stripes, the other half red and yellow. They straightened and stared when he walked in, men from Khoweal or Dalenshar with skin blacker than charcoal, honey-brown men from N’Kon, fair-haired men from Mechoacan, pale-eyed men from Alqam, men from every part of the Empire. Their stares held not the wariness often tinged with admiration that he had always been used to, but very nearly challenges. It seemed everyone believed the filthy tale of Guards’ involvement with a girl pretending to be the High Lady Tuon and extorting gold and jewels from merchants. Likely they believed that other, whispered tale about the girl, not merely vile but horrific. No. That the High Lady was in danger of her life from the Ever Victorious Army itself went beyond horrific. That was a world gone mad.
“Furyk Karede,” he said coolly. His hand wanted to go to his sword hilt. Only discipline kept it at his side. Discipline and duty. He had accepted sword thrusts for duty. He could accept insults for it. “I wish to speak to the commander of this camp.” For a long moment the silence stretched.
“Everybody out,” a tall lean man barked at last in the sharp accents of Dalenshar. The others saluted, gathered their helmets from another table and filed out. Not one offered Karede a salute. His right hand twitched once, feeling a phantom hilt against his palm, and was still.
The Wheel of Time Page 1003
