Zandru's Forge (69 page)

The wagon shimmered in Carolin’s sight and then vanished. He bit off a curse. It had been an illusion to hold their attention while the real wagon was removed with Rakhal’s army.

Trumpets rang out across the field. Once more, Carolin drew upon the linkage with Romilly and the sentry bird, still hovering above the battle. He saw Rakhal’s troops wheel and flee, saw his own men pursue them for a space. The rapport with the sentry bird dissolved, and Carolin caught a last image of Romilly slumping, sickened and exhausted, in her saddle.

A
laranzu
stood on the place of the false wagon, his gray cloak blown about him. His hood had fallen back, his features unreadable. He held something in one hand, clasped against his breast.

“Hold!” Carolin cried. His voice penetrated the clamor. Men disengaged, remaining in fighting stance and yielding no advantage.

He lifted his voice, so that all might hear. “Lay down your arms, and I will grant you the king’s amnesty!”

One of Lyondri’s men shouted, “It’s Carolin himself!” and surged forward. Orain swiveled his yellow horse across the man’s path and cut him down.

The
laranzu
held his ground. Fear and despair emanated from him.

“Come no closer!” the
laranzu
called. “You know what this is and what it can do!” He lifted his hand, and Carolin saw a glass vial. Shadow and ember coiled within it.

Zandru’s
frozen
hells! Was the man willing then to immolate himself, rather than surrender?

“I ask you again to lay down what you hold,” Carolin replied. “That infernal fire knows neither friend nor foe, but consumes all life. Have you not seen the lands to the east, still barren from a war fought before either of us was born? Have you not tended the children of those who dared to venture into the wastelands? First
clingfire,
then bonewater dust and root blight and what more?
These
are the true enemy, not I, not your master, nor any other mortal man. Look about you, and tell me what defense these soldiers have against
clingfire.
I say, let them fight as men, with honor and steel. I say, use the Gifts the gods have given you for healing, not for death. If you will yield, I offer you safe conduct back to your own Tower.”

A hush fell over that corner of the battlefield, and even the men still struggling paused. Carolin’s sight blurred, as if a veil of glowing silver had fallen over him. Sunstar pawed the ground, then stood like a rock.

Chest heaving, the
laranzu
shook his head. “You will only use it against my people.”

“I swear I will not use it at all, except to see it destroyed,” Carolin said. “By the light of Aldones and the holy things at Hali, I swear it.”

The next moment, the men guarding the
laranzu
broke, some of them throwing down their swords and standing with empty hands outstretched, others running away. The laranzu carefully lowered the vial of
clingfire
and approached Carolin.

“Vai dom,
I did not believe the stories which came to us through the relays,” the
laranzu
said, “but now I have seen and heard. I have read the truth of your thoughts. Though I be exiled for it, I will make no more war upon you.”

“You need suffer no exile for such a choice,” Carolin said, “for there will always be a place for you among us. If you will go into the field and help those men who burn with this accursed stuff, I welcome you into my own company.”

One of the surrendered soldiers gasped, for this was not how Lyondri or his captains treated their prisoners. The
laranzu
bowed deeply, and then went to do what he could for the wounded. Carolin gave direction for the safeguarding of the
clingfire.

All about Carolin lay men and horses, dead and dying. Blood darkened the churned earth. Unexpectedly, the thought came to him that Roald McInery had said nothing about the stench in his
Military Tactics.

As the battle fever drained from his veins, a terrible weariness set in. All the hurts he had scarcely felt now burned as if he’d been lashed by
clingfire.
Orain swayed in the saddle, rubbing the back of his free hand across a gash in one cheek.

Carolin roused himself. The dead were beyond his help, but the living still needed him. He steeled his voice, sending renewed strength into his officers. He ordered tents set up for nursing the wounded and repairing equipment, picket lines for horses, latrine pits, and such burial as could be arranged for so many.

Ruyven and Rakhal’s
laranzu
had joined Maura, seeking out those who could be helped, while others went to give the last few dying horses the mercy stroke. The Sisters of the Sword gathered up their own.

By the time everything immediately necessary had been done, Carolin was weaving with exhaustion. Inside, he reeled with death upon death, men and horses and even Romilly’s ugly, faithful sentry birds.

Orain, who must have been even more weary, finally insisted that Carolin rest.

“How can I?” Carolin protested. “The men—and the Swordswomen, too—who fought at my command—”

“There is nothing more you can do tonight. Look, the last of the daylight is almost gone. The men will look to you tomorrow; you must be ready to lead them again.”

Carolin allowed himself to be led to his own tent, his armor and clothing stripped off. An aide brought a bowl of steaming water, soap, and towels. Carolin could not imagine how the man managed to find these things, but he accepted the ministrations gratefully. Every joint and muscle in his body throbbed. He fell across the sleeping pallet and sank into its softness. Darkness took him.

Distantly, as if floating up from a formless abyss, he sensed the presence of another person. The pallet shifted. The edge of the blanket touched his cheek. He smelled the faint fragrance of rosalys and sunlight.

Beloved, I am here.
Maura’s mental touch, as sweet as dew upon parched land, swept across him. Her arms went around him, slim cool fingers brushing his lips, his eyelids.
Rest now.

The morning after the battle, the sky opened and drenched the field with rain. Great carrion birds fed on the bloating carcasses of the horses. The healers continued their work, now aided by Orain’s grown son, Alderic, who had just arrived. Alderic had Tower training and had come to lend his skill to tending those suffering from
clingfire
burns.

Carolin met with his advisers, and it became clear that they must move camp. The rotting carcasses would soon bring disease, and, more importantly, would hamper any attempts to maneuver, should Rakhal’s forces return to strike at them again.

Though he hated to ask it of her, he sent Romilly to fly the remaining sentry bird to spy out Rakhal’s path. Romilly would not look at him, though she agreed without argument. There was something wrong with her eyes. He remembered that she had trained many of the horses slain yesterday. With her MacAran gift, she must have felt the death of each of them. Many of her Sisters of the Sword had perished also.

She is a girl, not brought up to hardship. She must have proper care, as soon as may be.
Perhaps Maura, being a woman, would know what to do.

Romilly sent the bird up and with the help of Ruyven Carolin followed it in rapport, flying in slow circles, gradually widening. The rain lightened, so that a strange watery sunlight penetrated the clouds. Before long, the bird spotted movement in the distance. Carolin recognized the pattern of Rakhal’s army, riding swiftly toward the hills.

To Carolin’s eyes, the fleeing army seemed shrunken in size. Off to the north, he spotted another body of men and horses, riding hard away from the main force. Rakhal’s men were deserting him, but not, Carolin thought, from cowardice. They had fought as bravely as any.

They knew what Rakhal was capable of, and seeing that Carolin was not easily defeated, they made their choice. Despite his weariness, and lingering sickness of heart at the carnage, Carolin’s spirits rose.

The main body of Rakhal’s army halted at the brow of a little hill, seizing the most advantageous terrain. From there, Carolin’s army would be forced to charge uphill at them. Rakhal’s horsemen quickly formed a perimeter, surrounding the foot soldiers and bowmen. They ringed the hill, so that as long as they held firm, it would be impossible to breach their defenses.

This, then, would be the decisive battle. But upon whose terms? Carolin was unwilling to waste the lives of his men in a useless charge against formidable odds. Roald McInery had described how a fortified hill could be taken, but had advised against it. Somehow, Carolin must lure Rakhal down or at the very least, break the line of defense. It would be difficult enough, charging uphill against a disordered enemy.

Orain, who had been riding a little apart, talking earnestly with his son Alderic, kneed his horse closer to Carolin‘s, so that they might speak in private.

“By your leave, my lord, I have in mind a plan, an old mountain trick. Give me a dozen or two of your men, as well as
leronyn
to cast an illusion that we are four times as many. We can deceive Rakhal into an attack, leaving the main part of his forces open. Then you can come and take him on the flank.”

“It just might work,” Carolin considered, though he did not like sending Maura and Ruyven directly into battle. Most
leronyn
did not even carry swords to defend themselves.

What had he himself said to Varzil after the assassination attempt on the way to Blue Lake?

Varzil had answered, mind to mind,
I would not live my life walled in by imagined terrors. I cannot ask my friend to do the same.
Aloud, he had added, “Once you said there were two kinds of power—that of the world and that of the Tower. We must have both, if we are to succeed.”

Then Carolin remembered Maura’s words,
There is no certain safety for any of us.
She was no plaything, to be protected from danger or given as a prize to whoever prevailed on the field. Every day, in the Tower, she took unimaginable risks, even as Varzil did. Were her choices any less honorable because she was a woman? Had she not gone out into the battle, using her
laran
against the
clingfire,
doing what no ordinary man could do?

To protect her is to diminish her.
He remembered how Alianora, who would have quailed to come within five leagues of a battlefield, had died. He had not been able to protect her, either.

“Once Rakhal’s line breaks, we must take the heights as quickly as we can,” Carolin said. “Rakhal is already desperate. He sees his own men deserting him, and we have him penned on that hill. He will not hesitate to use
clingfire
or anything else he has, if he believes all is lost.”

Orain nodded grimly, and Carolin saw this was also in his thoughts. Of all of them, Orain best knew Rakhal’s mind.

Carolin gave orders for riders to accompany Orain and positioned his forces to strike quickly at the first breach in the perimeter.

A short time later, two dozen of Carolin’s men, headed by the small band of
leronyn,
rode toward the hill. They slowed as they neared its base, circling away from the gentlest slope to the steeper, rockier ascent. Carolin, watching from the safety of his own guard, saw a cloud, dense as smoke, rise quickly to engulf them. It could not be natural dust, however, for the earth was still damp.

The cloud billowed to many times the size of the attacking party. Figures emerged, the blurred shapes of riders, not two dozen now but a hundred or more in tight formation, racing out ahead of the real men. Pennants of Hastur blue and silver streamed out behind them. Carolin had seen these very horsemen before, for they were Rakhal’s own men in flight. Orain had used the image as a mirror, this time rushing toward the defended hill.

For a time, Rakhal’s men held firm under the approaching assault. Bowmen moved to the fore and sent down a hail of arrows, using the height of the hill as an advantage. Their aim fell short, however, for they shot at the false image of the soldiers speeding toward them. They missed the real riders toward the rear.

Carolin could not see his riders, but he sensed they had drawn together, sending the illusion out in front of them. As he watched, the shapes within the cloud altered, so that they no longer resembled a company of living, breathing creatures. The horses’ heads elongated into pale bony skulls, tapering and reptilian. Their riders became skeletons lit from within with devil fire. Whips and chains, shimmering with unnatural light, lashed the air above their heads. Moving between them, the lean shapes of gigantic hounds wove in and out, their eyes glowing like red coals.

In the name of Aldones, where had Maura and the others gotten these horrific images?

Around him, Carolin’s guards muttered prayers to the Lord of Light, to Holy St. Christopher, Bearer of the World’s Burdens, even to Zandru, Lord of the frozen hells. He could not suppress a shiver of terror, for this was no ordinary foe, but a nightmare from men’s darkest primal fears. Echoing his guard, he gave silent thanks that the unholy host was racing away from him, not toward.

Loathing stirred in Carolin, as if he had touched something unclean, a pollution of the soul. He had kept his resolve not to use laran weaponry, yet how easily he had agreed to this use of psychic power, this warping of the minds of men who had no defense against it. Was this not as despicable, as horribly obscene as
clingfire?

So kings and generals thought, from the Ages of Chaos to the end of time. There would always be good reasons. Men would say,
Just this one battle, just this one time.