A Man Rides Through (102 page)

"Shit, yes." The champion appeared to be chewing his lip below the rim of his visor's opening. "Pythians had us on the run when I got snatched. Plasma beams like I've never seen." He indicated his damaged armor.
"Scourge'll
be long gone."

"So I can promise you nothing," King Joyse concluded, "except that I will use you as hard as I can—and serve you as faithfully as I am able.

"Will you help us?"

Elega's chest hurt for air, but she kept holding each breath as long as she could, hoping that her father's candor wouldn't drive Darsint away.

The champion didn't take long to make up his mind. "Oh, well," he sighed like a disappointed nightingale. "Myste warned me. She's still the only friend I've got. And you're her father. She thinks you're worth saving.

"Too bad I can't do it." The twisting of his face resembled a grin; he may have been indulging in a piece of UEF humor. Elega wasn't sure: his features were as hard to read as stone. "Weaker than I look. Like you. Handguns don't have the range you need—or the capacity. There's a limit to the number of people I can strangle personally. Can't stop what you've got coming." Inside his helmet, he nodded toward High King Festten's army. "And my rifle's about discharged—"

The blaring of the sackbut interrupted him.

At once, six catapults started winding back their arms.

Simultaneously, the wardrums began to beat their rhythm into the valley.

With a sharp look in that direction, Elega saw the Cadwal front advancing, preparing itself to pour through the breaks in the ridge. Too soon: the King and his champion weren't ready. And she hadn't had a chance to learn how Myste and Darsint and the Termigan came to be here—how they came to be together.

"But I'm not helpless." By degrees, it became more obvious that Darsint's expression was intended as a smile. "Might have enough charge left to take care of those toys for you." He gestured up at the siege engines. "Might even put a little God-rotting fear into your God-rotting enemies."

He stopped as if he were waiting for someone to catch the joke and laugh.

After a moment, King Joyse did laugh—a short, hard chuckle, not of humor, but of recognition. '"A little God-rotting fear.' I like the sound of that. Someday you must explain 'God-rotting' to me. I suspect it is a phrase Castellan Lebbick would have enjoyed, if he had known it.

"Please do 'take care of the catapults." King Joyse considered the Cadwal position, the readiness of the engines. "As soon as possible."

Still grinning that twisted, beaky grin, Darsint pulled his rifle off his back.

Involuntarily, a number of the guards and soldiers retreated a step.

Elega wished that Prince Kragen had dismounted, that he stood beside her. Like the Termigan, however, he stayed on his horse so that he could ride into battle at an instant's notice.

The champion checked a blinking red light on his strange weapon, thumbed a button. "Range isn't a problem." When he spoke softly, his voice sounded more than ever like birdsong. "Not against wood. But I'd have to get closer—if I weren't such a good shot."

Elega distinctly saw him wink at Myste.

For some reason, his wink reminded her that he was responsible for the burn-scar on Myste's cheek, the mark which seemed to transform Myste's expression from dreamy romance to decisiveness.

The wardrums picked up their pace.

Abruptly, Darsint raised the rifle to his shoulder, sighted along it.

During the space between one heartbeat and the next, his weapon let out a straight burst of fire.

Elega and Terisa and Geraden and everyone anywhere near the pennon turned in time to see one of the catapults catch the burst and fly to pieces. Chunks of timber and strands of rope sailed soundlessly off the rampart, shedding flames as they fell.

Elega thought she heard the hammering of the wardrums falter. Maybe she had imagined it.

"One," Darsint announced flatly.

He aimed again, fired again.

Its legs broken, his target leaned forward, started to topple; then its arm snapped under the stress.

"Two."

With some difficulty, Elega restrained an impulse to cheer. Everyone else was silent, clenched in awe and suspense.

Frowning, Darsint rechecked his rifle; he fired again. A blazing line sped as straight as a die toward the next catapult.

Apparently, the team of Cadwals at the engine panicked. They tried to throw before their catapult was ready. A load of scattershot sprayed harmlessly down the wall as fire reduced the catapult to wreckage.

"Three."

This time, there was no question about it: the wardrums faltered. A moment later, they stumbled into confusion as their drummers lost the beat. Instead of reorganizing themselves, resuming their insistent drive, they stopped altogether.

Several of the guards cleared their throats and began to cheer hoarsely. A ragged shout of approval, raucous with urgency and relief, spread out across the valley.

Well done, Darsint! Elega crowed to herself. By the stars, we will teach High King Festten what it means to oppose us!

The champion fired again; another engine collapsed.

"Four."

Frowning harder, Darsint peered at his rifle, pushed buttons, thudded the stock with the heel of his hand.

Through the mounting cheers, Prince Kragen called, "Darsint, is it wise to empty your weapon now? This battle has hardly begun. You will need your strength."

The champion gave another twisted grin. "It's never wise to take low ground and let enemies throw rocks at your head."

He lifted his rifle; from its muzzle came another shot of flame.

"Five."

Over the tumult came the sackbut's blare, sounding retreat. The Cadwal front began to withdraw. As if they were already victorious, the King's guard and Prince Kragen's soldiers cheered more ferociously.

Nevertheless everyone around the pennon had seen how Dar-sint's fifth shot sputtered and fizzled. When he shrugged, aimed at the last catapult, and tried to fire, his weapon produced nothing except a spray of sparks, quickly gone.

He shrugged again, tried again: nothing. Automatically, he re-slung the rifle across his back. To no one in particular, he said, "Anybody got a portable cyclotron I can adapt to charge this thing?"

Smiling, Myste moved close to him and put a hand on his armor as if to congratulate or console him.

By degrees, the cheering died as everyone realized that the last catapult wasn't going to fall.

If King Joyse felt any disappointment, however, he didn't show it. "That was well done, Darsint," he asserted, "well done indeed.

Let the High King beware. His fortunes have begun to turn. Now he and his allies will know that you are here, and that you are with us."

"They will also know," put in the Prince, "that his weapon has no more force."

"But they cannot know how many weapons he has," Joyse retorted confidently, "or what his capabilities are. They will wait now. They must. High King Festten and Master Eremis will consult together. When they strike again, they will attempt something extravagant—a sign of growing desperation."

Her father was amazing, really, Elega thought. Trapped in this valley, hugely outnumbered, with Darsint's resources effectively exhausted, and the Congery's as well, he somehow made everyone who heard him feel that he couldn't be beaten.

"In the meantime, my lord Prince," he continued, "we have a good opportunity to strengthen our defenses. We must make the best use we can of every obstacle to the High King's advance."

Prince Kragen nodded once, grimly ready. "As you say, my lord King." His manner was severe: only the particular brightness of his gaze betrayed his pleasure in the things he and Elega had planned and hoped for together, in the validation of the risks he had persuaded the Alend Monarch to accept. "I will undertake the matter."

Gripping his reins, he turned his horse.

"I'll come with you," said the Termigan before anyone else could speak. His flat eyes and dour expression gave no hint that he had ever considered the Prince an enemy. "I didn't ride all this way to sit around watching other people work."

"My lord Termigan." King Joyse's tone made both the lord and Prince Kragen stop. "You have not yet told us how you happen to be here, or why. And I have not had a chance to thank you. For bringing two hundred men to my side, I am grateful. For bringing Darsint and my daughter here safely, I am forever in your debt."

The Termigan jerked at his horse's head. "Sternwall is lost," he snapped. For the first time, Elega noticed the froth on the beast's mouth, the exhaustion in the beast's eyes. "I had no intention of coming. Geraden told you that. I held on as long as I could. But when I lost Sternwall I didn't have anywhere else to go.

"You're the only hope my Care has left—you, and your Imagers"—he looked like he wanted to spit—"and your alliance with Alend." Forcibly, he seemed to recollect that he was talking to his King. "My father practically built that city with his bare hands. I'm sorry I don't have better manners."

His mount stumbled as he wrenched it around. Nevertheless by simple willpower he pulled the beast into a trot as he rode away toward the foot of the valley.

King Joyse and Prince Kragen met each other's eyes. "Use him carefully," murmured the King. "I have lost two good lords already and have no wish to lose another."

The Prince replied with a bleak smile. "In Alend, old soldiers still talk about what a terrible thing it was to do battle against the lord of the Care of Termigan. I will use him carefully."

Bowing to the King, waving to Elega, Prince Kragen followed the Termigan.

Elega wanted him back. The knowledge that he was in no immediate danger didn't comfort her. At the same time, however, she felt a small shiver of eagerness because she knew that now she would get to hear Myste's story.

While the forces of Cadwal waited, and Prince Kragen did what he could to shore up the King's defenses, Elega and Myste withdrew to the Tor's tent, looking for a quiet place to talk. Terisa and Geraden were with them—and King Joyse as well, which surprised Elega because she expected him to be busy with matters of battle, and pleased her because it demonstrated that he trusted the Alend Contender, son of an old foe.

Darsint accompanied them also. In a way that made the mere idea of refusing him seem unimaginable, he insisted on staying with Myste.

Outside, the remaining catapult threw at intervals: a stubborn assailant, and quite useless. For the most part, the King's men were able to stay out of the engine's range. Eventually, it became clear that the catapult's only real purpose was to remind the guards and soldiers that High King Festten intended to destroy them.

But Elega wasn't thinking about destruction at the moment. She was marvelling at her sister, who had somehow become a force to be reckoned with in the struggle between kingdoms. Like Torrent, she had found a way to make a difference.

Elega was keenly proud of her.

"Did you really threaten your sister?" King Joyse asked as soon as everyone was settled. "Did you really threaten to unleash Darsint against the whole Alend army?"

The light of lanterns dimmed Myste's beauty. Inside the tent, she seemed less sure of herself, more easily embarrassed. A bit shamefacedly, she answered, "I fear so. I made an effort to be careful— to say less than I meant, rather than more. But I am certain Elega understood me."

Happily, Elega nodded. "I was glad of it, however—when I recovered from the shock. I needed as many arguments as possible to set before the Alend Monarch."

No doubt about it: Myste was definitely blushing. "Still I am relieved you did not put me to the test. My threats became hollow almost at once. As soon as we parted—as soon as you helped me from the Alend camp—Darsint and I left. We were not there to take any action against you."

"No?" Elega was surprised. "I would have sworn you were watching everything I did for days afterward."