Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (58 page)

“I want to fight,” Isilla Lightsister said stubbornly.

“And we don’t have time to teach you just now,” Nadalforo snapped. “So unless you plan to strike them all dead with Magery—
go
.”

“So we fight?” Faranglis asked, sounding pleased.

“Unless you think asking them very nicely to go away will work,” Nadalforo said. “How shall we do this?”

“Knights like to charge. I say we make them chase us. We’ll get a good idea of how many they are and maybe draw them away from their reinforcements,” Faranglis said.

Nadalforo’s commanders began riding back up the column of the company, passing her orders to the warriors. Nadalforo called up her mental map of Farcarinon. To the right was a stand of trees covering what had once been a manorial estate. The terrain was treacherous for horses, filled with holes, half-buried stones, and jagged bits of wall. It would have to do.

Thank the Hunt Lord Vieliessar sent us to the parley instead of some of her pretty
komen.
At least we have a chance of getting out alive.…

The Caerthalien knight-herald blew her warhorn. The signal to charge.

*   *   *

“We have superior numbers, my lord,” Helecanth said in satisfaction.

“And we will use them,” Runacarendalur answered.

The parley knights had been joined by a grand-taille of riders in the browned armor of mercenaries. One of the green knights gestured, and the other green-armored knights, along with the Lightborn who had accompanied them, rode to Runacarendalur’s left. None of them had their helms on, and he could see their hair was cropped short. They were all Lightborn. Lightborn wearing armor.

That’s how they tricked us.

“We will accept no surrender,” he said, and Helecanth nodded. They’d need information about Vieliessar’s plans, but they could get it from the Lightborn.

The mercenaries formed ranks, preparing for battle. “Sound the charge,” Runacarendalur said, lowering his visor.

Helecanth raised the warhorn to her lips and sounded the call.

Caerthalien charged.

There was always a few moments between the clarion and the first clash of weapons that renewed Runacarendalur’s joy in battle, his conviction that the Code was a magnificent instrument that evoked all that was great and glorious in the spirits of those who embraced it. The rush of wind over his armor, the thunder of hooves behind him, the speed and power of the animal he rode—all these things conferred a transcendence not even the Lightborn could know. In the moments of the charge, Runacarendalur was one with the
komen
he led—and not merely with them, but with all who had come before them and all who would follow. It was the closest thing to immortality that any being could possess.

Then his line hit the enemy column.

The encircling maneuver he was attempting fell apart instantly. The rear of the enemy column swung to his right, but not to form an opposing line. They were running for the trees; the head of the column faded back before Runacarendalur’s assault before turning to follow those who had already fled. They meant to make this a chase, but the enemy still had to fight through the
deosil
side of the Caerthalien line to escape, and Caerthalien did not intend to let them. Wherever either side possessed a momentary advantage of numbers, it used that advantage ruthlessly. It was butcher’s work, with nothing of elegance or honor about it. Runacarendalur withdrew his
tuathal
wing rather than have it chase the enemy across the field, and sent it galloping along the back of his line. If it reached the trees first, he could keep the enemy from vanishing into them like so many rats down a rat-hole, and terrain elements blocked their retreat to the north and west. If he could keep them on open ground, superior numbers and superior skill would grant Caerthalien the victory.

With enough time.

*   *   *

Nadalforo’s company retreated as planned, but even though it was outnumbered and should have waited for reinforcement, Caerthalien’s
deosil
line forced the battle and their
tuathal
line simply vanished.
We’re being flanked,
Nadalforo thought, but there was nothing she could do about it. They couldn’t run, so they had to fight. She hoped the Lightborn would flee—because if they didn’t, if they were questioned, all of them knew at least something of Lord Vieliessar’s plans.

Her blade rang off the pauldron of the enemy knight before her. She sparred and feinted for a few exchanges to convince her enemy he knew what she’d do, then swung her mount wide and jammed the point of her blade directly into her opponent’s groin. Cuisses only went to the top of the thigh, and faulds to the middle of the belly. The raised pommel of the war saddle and the long chain shirt were supposed to protect the unarmored groin and lower belly. They did their job because
komen
were more interested in fighting beautifully than in killing their foes.

Nadalforo gave her blade a twist as she withdrew it and saw the blood of a severed artery spray; if her foe screamed, there was too much noise to hear, but he dropped his sword and thrashed. His destrier, taking the shift in position for a command, reared, and the knight fell from the saddle. Nadalforo was already turning to find other prey.

She heard the shrill notes of one of her company’s signal whistles calling:
disengage—retreat—go right
. It could only be hope, not possibility, for Prince Runacarendalur was out for revenge. He wouldn’t retreat unless his defeat was certain, and that meant she’d have to manage to kill most of his attack force.

When she heard warhorns ring out—
the foe is in sight—attack—attack
—she knew reinforcements had arrived. The best her meisne could hope for was to die fighting.
I’ve never thought the souls of dead warriors go to ride with the Starry Hunt forever, but soon I’ll know.

But when the reinforcements reached the battleground, they weren’t Caerthalien’s. The newly arriving knights wore green surcoats, but the device on them was a silver Unicorn, not three gold stars. Green surcoat fought green surcoat, and the blazon of the silver Unicorn was everywhere.

Once again Nadalforo heard the signal whistles calling for disengagement and retreat, and this time she was able to ride free of the melee.

“I thought we were going to die fighting for free!” Faranglis shouted when she reached him. He was already moving toward the road, brandishing his sword in a signal:
close up and follow
.

“Not today,” Nadalforo answered. Now it was Caerthalien that was outnumbered, but it would take Lord Vieliessar’s knights time to slay them all, and time was the one thing they didn’t have.

They reached the road. Prince Gatriadde’s russet surcoat stood out among browned mail and green armor. Nadalforo was glad he’d managed to escape; his role in this had been vital and he’d endured danger and sacrifice to carry it out. She gave the order to form up for another attack on Caerthalien—she had no intention of letting Household knights fight Stonehorse’s battles—and as she did, she heard someone sound the call for retreat. She couldn’t tell which side was calling for disengagement.

Suddenly the Caerthalien destriers turned and bolted, running as fast as they could. Any animals without riders fled as well, quickly passing the others. The moment Caerthalien took flight, Lord Vieliessar’s knights galloped toward the road, leaving behind them a field covered with the dead.

The Lightborn had found a way to fight after all.

Nadalforo spurred her destrier toward the relief force’s commander. “Making the enemy’s horses bolt seems like a convenient way to win a battle,” she said when she reached him.

“It only wins the battle,” Thoromarth answered. “It doesn’t win the war.”

“I don’t object to winning a battle,” Nadalforo answered. “Especially since it means I’ll live to see the rest of the war.”

Thoromarth laughed harshly. “I never knew a sellsword to be such an optimist.”

*   *   *

One moment Caerthalien was in the middle of a battle Runacarendalur was convinced they could win. The next moment, Gwaenor—and every other Caerthalien destrier—bolted.

Nothing the prince did slowed Gwaenor’s headlong flight. The stallion was insensible to the command of bit and spur. Runacarendalur concentrated on keeping his seat. If he fell from Gwaenor’s saddle he’d be trampled by the destriers running behind them. Riderless animals galloped past the knights, and it was a small comfort to know the riderless animals would trip any hidden traps or be the ones to break a leg in a hidden burrow. Gwaenor’s neck was covered with foam and bloody foam flew from his jaws. Runacarendalur only hoped the spell set on them was not meant to make the animals run themselves to death.

It had taken them two candlemarks to reach the Sanctuary road. Now they covered the same distance in a fraction of that time. As they neared Aralhathumindrion, the air stank of smoke and roasting meat. They’d seen a column of smoke as they’d left the encampment, but hadn’t known what burned.

Now they saw.

There was nothing left of the forest but charred ground and a few charred stubs of trees. Smoke still curled up from the ash and embers of the woodland. The riderless destriers reached the burned area first and ran straight onward. Ash swirled up in a choking cloud around them, mingling with the smoke. But they swerved to avoid the now-exposed open pits, which made Runacarendalur hope the bespelling had lifted. If the horses were no longer bolting in a blind panic, perhaps they would answer to their riders’ commands.

“Turn them!” he shouted to the rider at his side. He bawled the command over and over, until it was heard and passed back through the ranks. Simply bringing the horses to a stop wouldn’t be enough, even if they could. The others behind would run over them, or past them, and maybe spook them into bolting again.

Gwaenor strained against the rein. Runacarendalur feared he would not be able to make the destrier turn, until from the ranks behind him, a warhorn sounded:
wheel
deosil
—form column—wheel
deosil
—all knights.

And Gwaenor turned, obedient to a signal he’d had heard every day of his life since foalhood.

By the time they were heading back the way they’d come, Gwaenor had slowed to a canter, then to a trot. Other destriers, still moving at a gallop, passed him, but the whole force had turned in response to the warhorn. At last, the animals were all standing. Winded, blown, exhausted, overheated—but alive.

INTERLUDE THREE

SORCERY AND STRATEGY

In the changeable world of Form and Time the Light had hidden the only weapon which could slay the eternal beautiful children of
He Who Is.
Only the arrogance of the Light had disclosed its secret, for had it not shared that secret with the Elvenkind, the Endarkened would have remained ignorant of it …

Until too late.

Virulan threw himself into preparations for the coming war as never before. In the World Without Sun, he made a nursery of horror, taking the races of the Bright World captive and there, twisting them to create the legions of his army. From the Fauns, he created the dwerro. From the fairies, he made goblins. Under his fell twistings, Hippogriffs became Serpentmarae, wolves became Coldwarg. From every living thing with which the Light had filled the Bright World, Virulan made a creature of the Darkness.

He let his monsters breed.

He withdrew his Endarkened from the lands of the Elflings, sending them across the Great Waters to hunt. Even there, he ordered them to work in secret. There would be no gathering of Brightworld clans against him, no warning for the Children of the Light of their fate.

And he himself hunted the Unicorn.

The creature was clever. All was as Uralesse had said: no matter what ordinary concealments of their form and nature the Endarkened used, the Unicorn could sense their presence. Finding where it laired was difficult. Capturing it seemed impossible. But Virulan was patient and clever. He considered the matter carefully, then set his artisans to craft nets.

Miles of nets.

This time, when the creature was spotted, the sky above Shadow Mountain turned black with the flight of the Endarkened. It was a risk to enter the Bright World so openly, but Virulan was determined to solve this riddle. He did not fear the power of the Unicorn, but one must always use the proper attack against the enemy. It was such attention to detail which elevated destruction to the realm of art.

As before, the Unicorn turned and bolted into the Flower Forest at the first sight of the Endarkened, but this time Virulan was prepared. He drove a horde of the Lesser Endarkened after it, knowing the creature would believe it could outrun its pursuers. When it exited the forest on the far side, the Endarkened were waiting. The Unicorn saw the net, but even as it turned to run along it, seeking its end, the Endarkened were drawing the net closed. The Lesser Endarkened swarmed out of the forest, encircling the net from without, holding it firm to the ground.

Inside the circle of netting, the Unicorn stood at bay. Its silver-white coat was fluffed out, making it appear soft and harmless. But there was nothing harmless-looking about the long, spiraling horn, which glowed red.

Virulan landed in the center of the circle, with Uralesse beside him. Virulan had a faint suspicion that being here was not a really good idea. If something unexpected happened, it might give his fellow Endarkened the absurd notion that their King did not know everything that transpired both in the Bright World and the World Without Sun. But from the moment the plan to trap the elusive creature with nets was made—and Virulan was now no longer entirely sure whose idea it had been—Uralesse had seemed to take it for granted that Virulan would of course desire the honor of the capture, or the kill, for himself. It had become impossible to say otherwise without seeming over-cautious, without according Uralesse too much honor.

“What use is your swiftness against our cleverness, Horned One?” Virulan said, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height.