Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (63 page)

The Alliance had remounts available—some of them Vieliessar’s, taken as spoils of war.

In the distance, she could see the pavilions of the enemy. For a moment she dared to hope: what Lightborn could see, they could affect, and Fire was the first spell every Postulant learned. But even Tangisen Lightbrother, who swore he could kindle a stone into flame, could not set the enemy’s tents alight.

She could feel failure and defeat prowling around the edges of the battle like wolves starved by winter’s cold. She didn’t think she’d done anything to tempt the Silver Hooves to punish her pride, but They could see into her heart, and oh, there had been a bottomless wellspring of hubris there. Child of the Prophecy. Amrethion’s Chosen. Uncrowned High King. She was being punished for every arrogant thought she’d ever had. Her meisne could not hold the enemy off until dark—each candlemark saw their losses multiply as exhausted warriors made fatal mistakes. They might survive another night in the open, but they would not be able to fight at the end of it. The Alliance could defeat her without even needing to engage: her
komen
would freeze to death.

Then—inexplicably—she caught the scent of smoke upon the air and heard the distant clamor of horns—
retreat, retreat
. The Alliance began to disengage.

She turned and looked: their camp was burning.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TO FLY BEFORE THE STORM

It is one thing to die for the High King’s cause, a second thing to know you died turning a Flower Forest to dust, and a third thing to know even that wasn’t enough.

—Iardalaith Warhuntsman,
Of the Beginning of War

“We didn’t do it,” Iardalaith said. “I wish we had. But … no.”

The exhausted army moved in sluggish retreat. Vieliessar didn’t know how long this respite would last, but they must use it while they could. A mile to the west, six thousand of the enemy—all wearing Caerthalien colors—sat motionless watching their flight, the only Alliance warriors still on the field.
Someone panicked,
Vieliessar thought with as much satisfaction as she could summon under the circumstances. She’d gathered her commanders to her and now rode with them on the
tuathal
side. This might be her only chance to give them orders and hear their reports. Too many who had gone into battle two days before were missing now. Gunedwaen, she hoped, was with some other element of her scattered troops, but she did not know.

“There’s more than one way to set something on fire,” Nadalforo pointed out, answering Iardalaith. “You can use a torch, for example. People do.”

“But why would they set fire to their own pavilions?” Prince Frochoriel asked, sounding dazed.

“They didn’t,” Nadalforo said. “At least, I’m willing to make that wild leap of imagination. The Alliance might not be outnumbered by Lord Vieliessar’s commonfolk, but it’s a near thing. And I’ll prophesy further and say none of those commonfolk wish to be returned to slavery.”

“You seem to be remarkably conversant with the mentality of farmers and Landbond,” Rithdeliel said irritably. His shield arm was bound against his side by pieces of his surcoat; the arm had been broken in the morning’s fighting, and there was neither time nor power to Heal it now.

“Yes,” Nadalforo answered blandly. “Aren’t I?”

“By whatever cause, their camp is burning. But it only buys us a little time,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Even their commanders quarreling among themselves won’t save us. There’s another storm coming. We can’t go on like this.”

“If you have any suggestions, I’ll be more than happy to entertain them,” Rithdeliel answered, exhausted exasperation shading into anger.

You won’t like it.
Vieliessar bit back the words. Rithdeliel would like anything that promised a chance of victory. No
komen
wanted to die in battle as much as they wanted to live to fight the next one, and if Rithdeliel were taken alive, Bolecthindial would make an example of him. Rithdeliel had betrayed his sworn master, and it didn’t matter that Thoromarth had forgiven the treason. Bolecthindial would not.

“They want all of us,” she said, glancing around to include all the commanders with her and, by extension, the army. “But they want me most of all. If I make it look as if I’m abandoning you, they’ll think it’s more important to capture me than to continue fighting you. At least I can draw off enough of their force to give you a better chance.”

“You
hope
they want to capture you,” Rithdeliel said, without a ghost of irony.

“They do,” Vieliessar said with grim certainty. “You can’t torture a corpse.”

“At last you see reason,” Iardalaith said. “Of
course
they want to torture you to death. They’ll make a Festival Fair of it.”

Iardalaith’s observation gained him nothing more than a weary smirk from Rithdeliel. “You flee, they follow,” Rithdeliel said. “Well enough. Why don’t they slaughter all of us while they’re at it? It’s hardly as if they don’t have enough
komen
to do both.”

“They’re fighting among themselves. You know they are,” Vieliessar said. She could not believe the commander whose brilliant tactics had nearly destroyed her would have been such an idiot as to break off the battle when the Alliance was so close to victory just because there was a fire in camp. Inspiration became certainty as she spoke. “When the Alliance retreated, Caerthalien remained on the field. It looks like Caerthalien’s been directing the battle so far. I think their
komen
will follow me.”

“And that will set the fox among the doves,” Thoromarth said with grim satisfaction. “Who holds you prisoner holds all your lands as well.”

Nadalforo made a noise of pure exasperation. “Arilcarion War-Maker is long dead, fool! You know the rest of the Alliance won’t meekly hand the West to Caerthalien!”

“You know that and so do I,” Thoromarth said equitably. “And I promise you, it won’t stop Aramenthiali from turning on Caerthalien.”

“So if Caerthalien follows Vieliessar, Aramenthiali will follow Caerthalien?” Iardalaith asked, sounding faintly disbelieving.

“Of course,” Atholfol said, sounding surprised he was asking. “If they can fight free of Cirandeiron, of course.”

“Not that it matters,” Rithdeliel said. “They’ll easily overtake us.”

“No,” Iardalaith said, “they won’t. Leave that to the Warhunt.”

“Nor do you accompany us,” Vieliessar said to Rithdeliel. “I ride with Stonehorse and a grand-taille of the Warhunt, no more. It must appear to any who watch that you have abandoned me—or I you—in defeat.”

“Yes,” Rithdeliel said thoughtfully, nodding. “You ride south?”

“Where else, when I flee for my life?” Vieliessar said mockingly. “I shall lead them a merry chase through the southern wilderness, and we shall try the impregnability of Lord Nilkaran’s border towers.”

“Then your army rides north,” Rithdeliel answered decisively. “We’re only a half-day’s ride from Nilkaran’s manorial estates. We’ll loot them as we ride. We should reach the Great Keep no later than tomorrow’s sunset. It should be easy enough to take with Nilkaran’s army elsewhere. I hope you won’t object if, in your absence, we devote ourselves to slaughtering our enemies?”

“I’m having a hard time now remembering why I wanted to keep them alive,” Vieliessar answered sourly. She knew that for all Rithdeliel’s light words, taking Jaeglenhend Great Keep would be no easy task.

“The place may be Dispelled, but it’s still solid enough to invest while we parley for our lives.” Thoromarth sounded almost cheerful. “And if the army besieges us, we have a chance to get our possessions back. I lost a good pair of boots with that supply train.”

“Done,” Vieliessar said. It wasn’t the best possible plan, but it was the best one they could come up with under these circumstances.

“We’re still in sight of Caerthalien,” Nadalforo said. “My lord, I think this will make a better show if you ride forth with only a few knights and let Stonehorse chase after you.”

“Let it be so,” Vieliessar said.

“I go with you, and a grand-taille of the Warhunt,” Iardalaith said. “Be sure we’ll outrun them. This is the Magery we’ve been preparing all this day against the candlemark of your retreat. I shall set it upon us once we are away. Isilla and the rest will do the same for the army.”

“Then let us begin,” Rithdeliel said. “It is Harvest Moon, and I have been longing to see a good Festival play.”

*   *   *

The army came to a slow, swirling stop as the plan was passed in whispers. Prompted by Nadalforo, Vieliessar, Rithdeliel, and several others conducted a shouted argument filled with threats and recriminations: Vieliessar was certain they could be heard on the Western Shore, and surely by the Caerthalien meisne.

Then she spurred poor Firthorn away from the army. Diorthiel of Araphant and a ragged handful of knights followed. There was more shouting behind her. Vieliessar’s shoulder blades itched. One single thunderbolt Called upon them from this cloudless sky and the ruse would be truth.
Lords of Night, Lords of War, let this work. Manafaeren Sword-Giver, Aradhwain Bride of Battles, I am the sword in Your hands. Star-Crowned, Silver-Hooved, I beg You for this victory.

Iardalaith and his chosen rode after her, shouting for her to wait.

“You must assume they see everything,”
Nadalforo had said, and so Vieliessar made as if to stop and let Diorthiel urge her on, crying to Iardalaith to hurry.

Now a flurry of horns sounded from her army as Rithdeliel and the others called them to order.

“Is it working?” Iardalaith hissed into her ear as he reached her.

“I don’t know,” Vieliessar answered tightly. “Is it?”

“Caerthalien is sending messengers back to camp,” Diorthiel announced, looking off into the distance. “If I were them, I wouldn’t wait for orders.”

“If we don’t wait for Stonehorse to get here, they won’t be within the compass of our spell,” Iardalaith said.

“Just to pass the time—before we face odds of ten to one and
die
—what spell is this that can save us from being taken?” Diorthiel asked.

“You’ve heard of battle cordial, haven’t you?” Iardalaith said, with a small, exultant smile.

Vieliessar had compounded battle cordial many times in her days at the Sanctuary. It made the fires of the body burn star-bright and star-hot, giving its user fantastic strength and endurance—but its use killed, for if the body burned itself out, even the most skilled Healer could not repair the damage.

Iardalaith could now do with Magery what Vieliessar only knew how to do with herbs.

“If there is such a spell, I should know it,” she said, piqued. It was a ridiculous thing to be annoyed at, under the circumstances, but … every new spell, every variation on an established spell, was brought to the Sanctuary to be taught to the Postulants, for there was no other way to transmit the knowledge of the spells than by passing them from Lightborn to Lightborn.

“If you lived on the Western Shore, you would know how needful such a spell is,” Iardalaith said. “We had no wish to bring knowledge of Quicken to the Sanctuary only to have it declared Forbidden.”

Vieliessar nodded. “Forbidden” spells could not be taught, and an untaught spell would be lost within a generation.

“I hate to interrupt this collegium,” Nadalforo said sourly, as her destrier pulled abreast of them, “but Caerthalien is moving off its mark.”

“Now,” Iardalaith said, raising his hand.

Vieliessar felt the warm wind of the spell pass over her as if her body were bare of armor. Beneath her, she felt Firthorn’s muscles quiver with new vitality.

False vitality.

Their mounts would run themselves to death.

They had no choice.

She dug her spurs into his flanks and Firthorn leapt forward.

*   *   *

“You are fools,” Runacarendalur said, his voice flat with anger. “I had them.
I had them.
Are you mewling infants to panic at a few scattered coals? Your idiocy has cost us the day.”

“Leash your hound, Caerthalien, or I will do it for you,” Manderechiel Aramenthiali said, waving a languid hand. “I do not explain my decisions to children.”

Runacarendalur drew breath to reply. Then Bolecthindial cleared his throat, and, acknowledging his father’s command, Runacarendalur flung himself into the nearest empty chair instead. He’d told them the commons who’d flocked to Vieliessar’s banner were devious and untrustworthy. Why should anyone expect anything other than more treachery and rebellion once they were captured? But his words had been ignored.
And so they have set fire to half the tents in camp!
They were small fires, easily put out.
It did not require the whole of the army to do it,
he thought sullenly.

“You must not be so harsh, my lord husband,” Ladyholder Dormorothon of Aramenthiali said, her tone and her words perfectly calculated to incite Lord Manderechiel further. “I am certain the young prince means well. He is only concerned, as a good son must be, over the welfare of his domain. How will Caerthalien prosper without workers to till the soil?”

“And that touches upon a matter that concerns all of us,” Ivaloriel Telthorelandor said. “We had resigned ourselves to a winter campaign, but that was before we had the good fortune to reclaim so much of our stolen property. The passes have not yet closed. It would be sensible to send the Landbonds back into the West. It will save us the burden of feeding them.”

“
Sensible?
” Runacarendalur demanded in disbelief. “They are
in rebellion
! Do you think they will just tamely return to their hovels and behave themselves?”

“But their cause is lost, Prince Runacar,” Ladyholder Edheleorn of Telthorelandor said mildly. “They will have no choice.”

“And of course we must send people with them to make certain they settle into their accustomed ways,” Lord Ivaloriel added. “We would need to do so in any event, for they must have escort through the Dragon’s Gate.”

“Ah, here it comes,” Lord Bolecthindial said bitterly. “Just who—my lord of Telthorelandor—is to look after these spoils of war? And where are they to be resettled? Do we draw lots for them?”