Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (56 page)

After that, disaster followed disaster.

The Windsward Houses proclaimed their independence from the West for the second time in a scant half-century.

The Houses of the Arzhana recalled their levy knights.

The Houses of the Uradabhur fell silent, refusing to answer demands for information, for troops, for supplies.

In the west, a score of Less Houses—among them Ullilion—declared for the High King. The Twelve could neither outwait them nor attack each of them in turn, for with their declarations, their War Princes summoned their teind-levies home: craftworkers and Landbond and even, sometimes, Lightborn and knights. The commons didn’t matter—most of them were running off anyway—but the loss of troops and Lightborn dealt the Twelve a crippling blow.

And so Caerthalien rode against Ullilion not for its own enrichment, but in aid of Cirandeiron, for Cirandeiron was attempting to hold Less House Brabamant, and, unable to extend itself further when Ullilion also declared for Lord Vieliessar, had called upon Caerthalien for aid.

And Caerthalien gave it.

Unthinkable even in the days of the Old Alliance. But if the Less Houses of the West succeeded in joining forces with Vieliessar, she would at last have what she’d sought from the very beginning: an army large enough to take the field against all four of the greatest High Houses—and win.

We should have killed her,
Runacarendalur thought bitterly.
We should have bribed the Astromancer to kill her. What does she know of war, of ruling, of caring for the lands on which you were born so you may pass them on in sacred trust to your own child?

Nothing.

The shame of knowing this
creature
was his destined Bondmate was worse than knowing he would never rule Caerthalien. With his own death, he could end her life instantly. A blade in the night silence of his chambers. A moment’s deliberate inattention on the battlefield. He should have—he knew that now. But by the time she’d taken Laeldor, it was too late. The rot of her preachings had spread like summer wildfire and suddenly the High Houses were fighting for their very survival.

Caerthalien
was fighting.

“Skill makes up for strength. As it is in a
komen,
so it is in a House. The High Houses are strong, so they need not be clever. The Less Houses are weak. They can afford no imprudence—in battle or in alliance.”

Elrinonion Swordmaster had said those words to Runacarendalur long ago: then they had puzzled him, but during this terrible War Season, he’d had their truth proved to him over and over. Lengiathion Warlord approved no tactics that had not been used by his greatfathers. Caution and superior numbers did not win battles, but Lengiathion’s strategy at least prevented the losing of them.

Against War Prince Vieliessar these tactics would be a disaster.

None of his siblings possessed Runacarendalur’s skill in warfare. His House needed him. Runacarendalur of Caerthalien would serve his House to the last beat of his heart. Whether it wanted that service or not.

*   *   *

“Fall back!” Runacarendalur shouted. He stared wildly around himself. His meisne was scattered and Helecanth was nowhere in sight. “Fall back!” he bawled again, striving to make himself heard over the roar of battle. Ullilion had regrouped and Caerthalien couldn’t stand additional losses.

Hating his own necessity, Runacarendalur struck at the destrier of his enemy rather than at the rider. His sword bit into the side of the animal’s neck. Blood sprayed and Runacarendalur urged Gwaenor forward. He could feel the stallion laboring for breath, just as he was, for the air was thick with smoke. Ullilion’s Lightborn had called Lightning down against Caerthalien’s army early in the day. If Ivrulion had not already ordered the Caerthalien Lightborn onto the battle lines, their losses would have been unimaginable. Shield had protected them, but it could not protect the grass and the trees, and the summer was a dry one.

His fury at being forced to fight this unclean battle gave strength to Runacarendalur’s aching muscles, and his opponent could not defend himself while trying to control his wounded destrier. Runacarendalur bludgeoned him until he fell from the saddle and Gwaenor battered his armored body into ruin.

For a blessed moment no one was attacking him. Runacarendalur tried to orient himself, but they’d had to abandon the war banners because Ullilion’s Lightborn had been using them as targets. He wasn’t sure where he was on the field or whose meisnes were beside him. The wind shifted and smoke poured directly over the Caerthalien line. Runacarendalur tried to shout again and choked instead. His ribs ached from blows taken and from the coughing spasms brought on by smoke.

Suddenly—as welcome as a dipper of cool water—came the mellow call of a Caerthalien warhorn. The smoke skirled and thinned and Helecanth appeared. Her white destrier was grey with smoke, and her surcoat was charred in a dozen places and filthy with blood. But she led a dozen knights of Caerthalien. When she saw Runacarendalur she gestured, using handsign because even if she could be heard, her voice was undoubtedly as raw as his.
What orders?

Retreat,
Runacarendalur signaled.

Quickly they gathered the scattered line of Caerthalien knights for an orderly retreat. They’d been the
deosil
wing of the army. Prince Gimragiel had the center, though Runacar had argued long and loud against that, for ’Ragi was quick to anger and reckless on the field once he lost his temper. The plan of battle the senior commanders had settled among them the night before had survived barely halfway into the first charge across the battlefield. Now Runacarendalur didn’t know where Caerthalien’s center was or if either of his brothers yet lived.

His plan was to retreat to his own lines, collect his reserve force, and try to locate the rest of the army. It would have worked if he’d actually known where his own lines were. Instead, he led the company directly into a force of Ullilion knights.

*   *   *

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ivrulion said.

“Tell that to Father, I’m sure he’ll believe you,” Runacarendalur snarled.

The pavilion smelled of wet cloth, wet leather, and grease. The rain made everything worse. Ullilion’s Lightborn had worked the weather to douse the last of the fires and wash the smoke from the air.
And spoil their harvest. If anyone cares about that,
Runacarendalur thought furiously.

He’d barely managed to fight free of the Ullilion knights they’d run into. The wind had freshened and sight-lines had cleared, so he and his knights had headed for the tree line. From there, he’d managed to orient himself and lead his force back to their own lines. By then the day’s fighting was nearly over. Just as well, since most of his surviving knights were injured.

“Ullilion’s Lightborn cast Confusion on the center of the field. It is a minor spell of Overshadowing, bound to an object. We must give thanks their Lightborn are as incompetent at warcraft as ours are—as many of their own knights were bespelled as ours,” Ivrulion said. As he spoke, he carefully sponged the blood away from the cut on his brother’s thigh. If there were a piece of metal or leather left in the injury after it was Healed, wound-rot could set in.

“Oh, stop that!” Runacarendalur snapped irritably, swatting at Ivrulion. He tried to get to his feet but sank back onto the chest with a hiss of pain. The wash water was infused with AllHeal and Night’s Daughter, but they only dulled the pain a little. The gash was the worst of his injuries; the locking-pins holding his right cuisse in place had been sheared through by a previous blow and he was lucky the second strike hadn’t cut through the bone.

“I can certainly take my Magery elsewhere,” Ivrulion said. “But if this isn’t seen to, you won’t be fit to fight for the rest of the season.”

Suddenly there was the sound of a scream, loud enough to be heard over the drumming of the rain. Runacarendalur again tried to struggle to his feet.

“Sit still,” Ivrulion said. “It’s nothing. Dom is torturing the prisoners for information.”

“It makes more work for our Lightborn,” Runacarendalur said uneasily. He’d watched adherence to the Code of Battle slip a little more each War Season since the end of the Long Peace, but he’d never been comfortable with it. He’d made an oath to the Starry Hunt to uphold the Code on the day his father gave him his sword and spurs, and the Silver Hooves spurned oathbreakers.

“No, it doesn’t,” Ivrulion said. “We can’t afford to waste Healing on the enemy and we can’t let Ullilion ransom them. I’ve told him he’s wasting his time questioning them about ’Ragi, but you know how stubborn he is.”

Runacarendalur sighed. “’Ragi still hasn’t come back?”

“No. He might be on the field, but nobody’s going to find him in this rain. We’ll search again in the morning.”

“Wine,” Runacarendalur said, and Serogon jumped to his feet to bring the pitcher. “It’s freezing in here,” he muttered after drinking. “Take some for yourself,” he said to the body servant. “At least it’s something.”

“When my evening’s duties are finished, Prince Runacarendalur,” Serogon answered.

“No one listens to me,” Runacarendalur complained.

“That’s because you have a foul temper when you’re injured,” Ivrulion said. “At least you started that gash bleeding strongly enough that I think it’s clean. Now hold still and shut up.”

Ivrulion placed both hands flat against Runacarendalur’s skin and closed his eyes. There was the familiar flash of panic Runacarendalur always felt at being Healed, the moment of heat that seemed to start at his bones and radiate outward, and then it was done. There was fresh blood still on his skin, but the skin itself was whole and unbroken once more. He leaned over to pluck the cloth from the basin and wipe the skin clean to see.

“You always do that,” Ivrulion said. “Don’t you think I know what I’m doing?”

“Of course,” Runacarendalur said. He yawned. The other thing he hated about Healings was the flat feeling of exhaustion that followed. “It’s just that—” He yawned again.

“Get some sleep,” Ivrulion said.

“Soon,” Runacarendalur promised. He stood, cautiously testing his leg. It was always strange to expect pain that didn’t come. “I need to see Lengiathion first.” He snapped his fingers, and Serogon hurried over, carrying boots and a robe.

“He won’t have answers for you,” Ivrulion said.

“Then at least I can make his life as miserable as everyone else’s,” Runacarendalur answered.

What should have been a long summer twilight was dark with out-of-season rain instead. Globes of Silverlight made the pavilions glow like colored lanterns and more pale azure globes hung in the air above the streets of the camp, but they seemed to give less light than usual. It didn’t matter. Runacarendalur could find his way among the tents blindfolded.

He reached his destination and ducked under the pavilion’s awning, tossing his dripping cloak to a waiting servant. Inside it was as damp as every other place in camp, but Lord Lengiathion had managed to arrange for braziers, so at least his pavilion was warm. The senior commanders were all gathered here: Rolason, Gambrinian, Livarre, Meralastant, even Elrinionion. Caerthalien had sent her finest to this battle.

“Has there been any word?” Runacarendalur asked, walking over to the nearest brazier.

“No.” Lengiathion shook his head. “The servants are out on the field, of course, but—”

“It’s dark and it’s wet,” Runacarendalur finished wearily.

There was another scream, fainter with distance.

“I told him it’s useless,” Elrinionion said. “We could barely mark our own companies on the field today, and after the first charge, no one carried banners. Why does Prince Domcariel think Ullilion’s
komen
will know where Prince Gimragiel lies?”

“Because he wants them to,” Runacarendalur said. “If we aren’t waiting for anyone but Dom, I will not delay our meal longer. Ivrulion will be some time yet in the Healing tents.”

They seated themselves and the servants brought in the first course. The talk ran much as it would in the evening after any battle, save that tonight it turned upon the Magery used by Ullilion.

“If everyone is going to start throwing thunderbolts at each other, why take the field at all? Just stay home and have your Lightborn reduce your enemy’s keep to slag,” Lord Livarre said irritably.

“I say the Lightborn should keep the beer from spoiling and make my
komen
ready to fight each day and leave the rest to us. They don’t understand war. Why should they? Your brother is an exception of course, Prince Runacarendalur,” Lord Rolason said, nodding in Runacarendalur’s direction.

“If they’re going to throw thunderbolts at us, we need to throw thunderbolts at them,” Lord Lengiathion said. “Will you speak to your brother, Prince Runacarendalur?”

“I can speak to him,” Runacarendalur said. “But he’ll tell you what he told me: we need to think carefully before we overturn ancient customs. Do we really wish to do things just because Lord Vieliessar does them? And we cannot expect the Lightborn to fight all day and then Heal all night. They are stretched thin as it is.”

“You must decide whether you wish to slay your enemy by Magery or have
komen
on the field,” Ivrulion Light-Prince said, stepping into the pavilion. “My Lightborn cannot do both.”

He walked over to the table and sat down beside Runacar. His hair and robes were as dry as if he hadn’t walked across the camp in a rainstorm and Runacarendalur spared a moment for wistful envy. There were a few spells of Magery he wouldn’t mind being able to cast.

“Yet Vieliessar Oathbreaker’s Lightborn seem to have no difficulty doing so,” Lengiathion said. “Oronviel took Laeldor by Magery—and Mangiralas too.”

“And many
komen
died in Mangiralas who might have lived had she not,” Runacarendalur said with a sigh. “My lords, this wrangling gains us nothing. What of tomorrow’s battle?”

“I shall send for the maps once we have eaten,” Lengiathion said. “Let us see if we can manage not to get the rest of our
komen
killed. The purpose of war is to inconvenience the enemy, not ourselves.”