The Horse Lord (33 page)

Aldric stared at his expression of controlled disgust for a few seconds, then smiled sardonically. “Yes. It’s rather different from mere practice, isn’t it,
altrou-ain
?” he said. Without too much mockery.

“How did you know that they were enemies?” was all Gemmel felt inclined to ask at the moment. Aldric dismounted and recovered his shield—the lance had broken—then wiped Widowmaker carefully and slid her away.

“I saw their armour. It isn’t any Alban pattern that I know of, so I was warned. When they attacked us I was sure.” He mounted, with a thoughtful look visible within the trefoil opening of his war-mask. “If Kalarr has hired mercenary horsemen, then some of his footsoldiers might be hired as well…” he speculated to himself, wondering where the thought might lead. More trumpets shrilled, some distant but one or two too close for comfort, and he put the undeveloped notion from his mind. “Forget it. We’d better go—I don’t know what that troop was doing here, and I’d rather not stay to find out. Follow me,
altrou
. Quietly.”

“Do you know where you’re making for in this fog?” Gemmel sounded dubious.

“I think so.” Aldric grinned, almost, but not quite, with honest amusement. “I hope so. You’d better hope so too.”

On a clear, bright day the citadel of Dunrath-hold could just be seen from where King Rynert set his standards on the crest of Embeyan Ridge, but on this particular mid-morning there was nothing but a wall of grey vapour into which his soldiers faded like figures in a dream. Despite Gemmel’s advice he was reluctant to deploy his forces in such small units as the wizard had suggested: instead he had resorted to a troop formation culled from the battle manuals every Alban general carried on campaign, a flexible disposition of mutually supporting staggered regiments known as a “dragon’s head” on the forward slope of the ridge. Whether it would be successful was another matter, because although the regular foot soldiers could be relied on to obey their orders with precision, aristocratic
kailinin
and their household warriors would tend to go their own way—which, since nobody could see more than fifty yards in any direction, was something Rynert doubted would be the right way so far as he was concerned.

There had been a brief skirmish with the enemy cavalry ap hour before; scouts, maybe a tentative probing of his defences—perhaps even those village-burning raiders. Either way they had been repulsed with heavy losses. But they had been human, not
traugarin
—men able to think for themselves rather than automatons. Rynert wondered if there were more, guessing in the affirmative and not liking his conclusions. Such men where they were not expected could prove a danger out of all proportion to their numbers…

The legions rattled and clinked as buckles were drawn tight, swords eased in scabbards and helmets pulled down just that little further. Then the noises stopped and the silence returned, a vast oppressive stillness which proved just as frightening as the more normal sound of an enemy host taking up position.

Not that such a sound had been heard on Alban soil for long enough…

Rynert suddenly shuddered, just once but so violently that it made his armour rattle. He frowned, wondering why… and then stripped off a gauntlet, licked one fingertip and held it up. The frown deepened to a scowl and a soft, venomous oath hissed past his clenched teeth. A wind was rising. It was little more than a movement in the air, but already the threads of mist had ceased their sluggish weaving and were drifting determinedly with the breeze.

Growing thinner even as he watched. “The fog’s begun to blow away!” snapped Aldric, swinging round on Gemmel. “You told me that it wouldn’t! What the hell is going on?”

Gemmel had half-expected such an outburst, so when it came it did not cause him much concern. “Wind,” he replied coldly. “An ordinary thrice-damned wind. About the only thing I didn’t cast securing-spells against.”

“Why not?”

“Have you any conception of the sort of power required to hold this fragile stuff in place?” Gemmel flared. “I doubt it! So don’t ask bloody stupid questions!”

“But…” An icy emerald-green glare from under the wizard’s eyebrows made Aldric hesitate, if only for a second. “But isn’t this Kalarr’s work?”

“Of course not! He’d rip himself to tatters with the strain of any such attempt. And before you ask, no! Duergar’s maintaining the
traugur-charm
, so it’s not his doing either. This is just a breeze.”

“Just a breeze.” Aldric allowed himself a hollow, heavily sarcastic laugh. “So there’ll be a battle anyway, despite all the plotting.”

“There’ll be a bloody massacre if Rynert doesn’t follow my instructions. Not that we’ll be here to watch it if we’re not under cover by the time this clears completely.”

“That would never do, now would it.” Heeling Lyard to a canter, Aldric vanished momentarily and was smiling bleakly when he trotted back. “But you don’t have to worry on that score. Over here,
altrou
. Quickly!”

Gemmel did not move, but watched Aldric through narrowed, thoughtful eyes until the
eijo’s
gaze refused to meet his own. “What score are you worrying on?” he wondered softly. “The men you killed?”

The black helmet nodded, once, then turned so that the expression within its mask was unreadable. “Yes. A little. There was no difficulty, no risk to me. I was better armoured, better armed… It was like killing children.”

“Children don’t carry maces, Aldric. They don’t try to break your bones. Put it out of your mind, boy.”

“Easily said,” muttered Aldric. His
tsalaer
creaked as he drew in a slow, deep breath, rising in his stirrups to stretch like a cat. “Yes… easily said. Follow me.”

A clump of trees congealed from out of the fog and Aldric rode straight into their shadow, Gemmel at his heels. One coppice looked very much like another to the enchanter, and he wondered what made this one different. Aldric told him briefly: seen from north or south the tree-trunks formed a cursive “tau” for Talvalin, while the east-west outline was the uncial “hai” for
hala-than
, the old name for a bird shown spread-winged on a crest. Such as clan Talvalin’s eagle. Despite his tension Gemmel chuckled at the simplicity and deviousness of it all.

“What is this anyway?” he wanted to know as Aldric tethered Lyard to a branch. “Dunrath’s back door?”

“Sort of. More a last-ditch exit, though. In the bad old days just after the Clan Wars, if there was any sort of risk a servant would bring horses to this area—not straight to the trees, obviously, but close enough. If he had to escape from his own fortress, a clan-lord and his family could meet here—or if necessary come up—” he leaned inside a hollow stump and pulled something with all his strength, “here!” The whole stump shifted sideways, revealing the mouth of a tunnel dropping into darkness. “Most fortresses as old as Dunrath are riddled with such passages,” the
eijo
continued, “but they usually have just one like this—leading beyond the outer walls.”

“Who told you about it?”

“My father, years ago. It’s known only to the
cseirin-
born—the lord’s immediate family.”

“Then won’t Baiart have known about it—and betrayed it?”

“Yes—and I hope, no. None of the retainers or vassals knew of it, so those two swine can have had no suspicion of its existence. And Baiart may have kept it secret in the hope of making his escape some day.”

“May have… ? That’s flimsy, Aldric. Almost reckless.”

Clambering down, Aldric felt about with his feet for the steps he half-remembered, then nodded grimly. “I know that. But there’s one way to be sure, and I’m prepared to risk it. Are you?” He descended out of sight with a scrape and rustle of black steel, leaving Gemmel alone with the disinterested horses.

The old enchanter looked around, hoping perhaps for inspiration, but saw only that the mist was growing uncomfortably thin. Pushing the Dragonwand’s inflexible length through his belt like some oversized sword, he swung his lanky frame over and down. “I’m right behind you,” he called, then grinned briefly to himself. “As if there was another choice.”

By the sun, a straw-pale disc in a chilly azure sky, it was almost noon. Rynert sat uneasily on a camp-stool, baton in hand, and watched the flags and banners round him ripple in that accursed wind. At least now his fighting— or rather, his evading—would be that of a sighted rather than a blind man.

His troops looked neat even though they had been permitted to stand down for their midday meal; this did not reassure the king much, since by all accounts Lord Santon’s legion had been equally neat—before the catastrophe.

Dewan ar Korentin, looking odd in his close-fitting Imperial helmet beside so many in the peaked and flaring Alban headgear, stood a little farther down the slope, tapping his own commander’s baton against one knee in a nervous, jerky rhythm. The uneventful waiting was beginning to erode even his iron nerves, and Rynert wanted to get up, talk to the Vreijek—do anything to silence the annoyingly irregular tap-tap-tap.

Then it stopped. More than one of the officers on the ridge turned to stare at the sudden silence, heard the distant, hollow muttering which had caused it and shifted their gaze to the ridge north of Embeyan. Dewan cleared his throat and pointed with his baton, a long, slow arc which took in the entire horizon. “Gentlemen, to your places,” he said quietly. “Here they come.”

Helmets twinkled in the sunlight all along the crest of that far ridge, becoming a line of men who advanced at a measured pace to the sound of drums until the skyline was clear, and then stopped. Another rank of soldiers followed. Then another, and another, and another, until the ridge was black with men. A trumpet blew, its notes thinned by distance, and the line contracted, splitting into wedges faced with overlapping scarlet shields and bristling with spears. Wedges which came trundling ponderously down on to Radmur Plain.

The Alban horns and drums were signalling now, and couriers were galloping down from the generals on the ridge. Each regiment shifted into more open order as the enemy approached, ready to repel attacks from horsemen they could kill or to avoid the
traugarin
they could not.

With the advantage of height, Rynert could see cu Ruruc’s host take up their own formation and grinned harshly with reluctant admiration. What he could clearly see as a wide-flanked “swallowtail” encirclement would from a lower vantage-point—such as that of a regimental commander—appear to be the classic “spearhead” of a frontal assault. As simple and as deadly as a stab in the back, thought Rynert. Quite in keeping with Kalarr’s reputation. It seems he has guessed I will not meet him unless he forces me to do so.

Drums thudded among the distant wedges and a solitary horn wailed dismally. The red shields began to lumber forward, slowly but inexorably drawing closer. Ar Korentin, mounted now, waved his baton towards Lord Dacurre’s cavalry, unleashing them against cu Ruruc’s horsemen. It would give the haughty, hard-to-control
kailinin
a chance to do something useful, whereas the likelihood of their doing something stupid increased the longer they were held in check.

Arrows flickered between the riders as they closed with one another, then the Albans returned bows to cases and twirled out their long spears in the same movement, hefted shields high and ploughed into the enemy with a great howling crash. Men were unseated or skewered on both sides in that first shock, and suddenly the two galloping ranks had passed through one another with the trumpets on both sides already screaming recall.

Rynert watched, trying to remain dispassionate as a general should be but aware of a racing pulse and sweaty hands. Other commanders gave way to their excitement with shouts and waving of batons, leaping from their seats for a better view or hammering iron-clad fists on armoured knees. The king extended his own baton, signalling his foot-regiments to fall back and concentrating on their disciplined manoeuvres in an effort to push the drama of the cavalry duel to the back of his mind. Then he heard somebody swear harshly and looked up, not believing what he had heard. Although it was true.

A troop of Kalarr’s horsemen came jinking wildly towards Embeyan Ridge with Dacurre’s crack household troops hard after them, bows drawn and shooting as they rode. The
kailinin
were clearing saddles at almost a hundred yards and yet still were not gaining enough.

Because these mercenaries were coming for the king.

A glow of fox-fire hung around Ykraith’s uplifted point, mingling with the shimmer of the Echainon stone to give enough light to see by—if only just. “I’d like to see a little better myself,” Gemmel replied in answer to Al-dric’s complaint, “but I keep thinking of others who might then see
us
as well.”

Aldric did not argue further; the silent darkness had begun to play tricks on him, producing footsteps from inside his head and shapes which turned out to be no more than the witch-light reflecting off pieces of quartz, drops of water and even once from the tips of his own eyelashes. He had been along this tunnel only once before, and that was fourteen years ago. In consequence his memories were hazy, and what he did recall reminded him inevitably of the Cavern of Firedrakes. That in itself was enough to make him feel uneasy.

The passage turned a sharp corner and they stopped suddenly, their way blocked by a wall of dry-laid stone, “Your move, I think,” said Gemmel and held the Dragonwand aloft, letting his power flow into it until the fox-fire swelled and grew, driving back the shadows so that Aldric could see whatever it was he had to do. “Where does this open on to, by the way?” the wizard put in quickly. “If it’s somewhere that might now be the guardroom, I’d like to hear about it rather than find out.”

Aldric showed his teeth in a sour smile. “No need to worry over that, at least,” he said, and pushed one of the stones back into the wall. Muffled rattling told where counterweights were drawing down long-unused chains, and a doorway ground slowly open. Aldric permitted himself a sigh of relief. “It would have been my luck for the thing to have rusted to pieces,” he muttered, and made for the doorway. Then he laughed throatily, stepped to one side and bowed low in a bitter mockery of manners. “I bid you welcome to my house, Gemmel-
altrou
,” he said, and waved the old enchanter through the door.