Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (80 page)

And failed.

*   *   *

“What’s he doing?” Sedreret Aramenthiali demanded. His voice was a conspiratorial whisper despite the fact that Ivrulion and Huthiel were much too distant to hear him.

“A Great Spell,” Ladyholder-Abeyant Dormorothon said. Her tone, arch and patronizing, managed to imply that Ivrulion had consulted her for advice and now acted at her direction.

The War Princes were gathered near the place they had stood all day to watch the course of the battle. It had fallen by lot to Bolecthindial to give the signal for the charge—a twisted acknowledgment of their bargain—but when he had seen Ivrulion on the field, he hesitated.
I am tired. I think too much,
Bolecthindial told himself. He wanted to be home, on his own lands, dealing with matters he understood.

The wind began to rise. In the distance, Bolecthindial saw Huthiel fall to his knees. He turned to give an order—Caerthalien to the field, to strike Ivrulion down—when Dormorothon screamed and flung herself from the padded bench where she’d been sitting.

Sedreret was shouting, demanding Healers and servants to attend his mother. Bolecthindial ignored him, his attention fixed on Ivrulion. The army was disordered, confused, its elements jostling one another as this meisne sought to move forward, that to stand.

And on the battlefield, there was movement where there had been stillness.

“Oh, that fool,” Edheleorn Cirandeiron said in a flat stunned voice.

It is you who are the fools,
Bolecthindial thought numbly.
You did not ask Ivrulion how this miraculous victory he promised was to be achieved.

“
Mazhnune
,” Consort-Prince Irindandirion said, sounding awed and delighted. “He has raised up an army of
mazhnune
to fight for us.”

All across the field, dead things staggered to their feet. Bolecthindial saw Vieliessar’s army dissolve into chaos as every animal in it fought to escape. “Sound the retreat,” Bolecthindial said.

His knight-herald shook out the pennion banner and raised the warhorn. But before he could signal, Irindandirion snatched the warhorn from his hands and put it to his own lips.

Charge. Charge at the ravaal.

Before the notes had died, the first ranks spurred their destriers forward. The terrified, overexcited animals went from trot, to gallop, to ravaal in heartbeats, pulling the rest of the army after them. As they neared Ivrulion, the destriers began to veer sharply to avoid him, moving directly into the riders beside them. Horses and riders fell in a widening wave. Ivrulion stood transfixed, arms spread wide, in the center of a churning column of dust.

The sky above him was turning black.

Bolecthindial spurred his mount forward. If it had been his Kerothay, Bolecthindial could have ridden him into the Star-Forge itself, but Kerothay was dead. This mare shied violently before he had closed half the distance to Ivrulion, and Bolecthindial had to fight her to a stand before he could dismount. When he released the reins, she bolted. Bolecthindial drew his sword.

One moment he was running forward, his sword raised. The next, the hilt was forge-hot in his hands and every piece of metal he wore was a live coal burning through leather and cloth and skin. He roared with pain as he fell to hands and knees.

He sucked air and coughed, gagging on the dust.
The grass is gone,
he thought in vague surprise. All that remained was a pale, soft dust, so fine-grained it was slick as oil. He coughed again and blood spattered the backs of his gauntlets. He would not admit fear, but the sight of his own blood galvanized him, and he clawed his way to his feet. He took a step, slipping and staggering as if buffeted by stormwinds. Pain made him gasp and shudder and fall again. Ivrulion seemed farther away than before. The rings on Bolecthindial’s fingers had charred through the gloves beneath them, the jeweled clip in his hair had burned through it.

I cannot die before I make right what all of us set wrong out of fear and greed and ambition,
Bolecthindial thought vaguely. Those were the tools all of them had used against others all their lives. Double-edged tools, like the swords they gave their sons and daughters while they were still children, before sending them off to war.
We should not be surprised our children become sharpened blades as well.…

Blisters welled up on his skin, and broke, and bled. He gasped for air, but there was nothing but soft dust, stifling him, strangling him. He made one last attempt to get to his feet. But what rose and walked long moments later was no longer Bolecthindial Caerthalien.

*   *   *

“Fall back!” Rithdeliel shouted, hoping he could be heard. Horses screamed as they were pulled down by
mazhnune
wearing
komen
plate or sellsword chain or the leather of infantry. Strike off head or limbs, and what remained kept fighting. Worst were the
mazhnune
destriers, who trailed their spilled guts across the ice or galloped with broken necks flopping limply. The living destriers feared them more than they feared the
mazhnune alfaljodthi
.

The first ranks of the
komen
were fighting on foot now—even if there had been enough horses, they were impossible to control close to the
mazhnune
. When the
mazhnune
began attacking, they’d scavenged whatever infantry weapons they could find to arm themselves—you couldn’t kill something that was already dead, but at least you could hold it in place while your comrades chopped it into enough pieces that it stopped moving. The Lightborn were the easiest, for they’d worn little or no armor. The horses and dogs were hardest—the dogs were small and fast, and while the horses could be stopped by striking off their legs, it was nearly impossible to do that without suffering losses.
We can’t afford losses,
Rithdeliel thought bleakly.
Every living thing that dies on Ifjalasairaet rises again as an enemy.

The
komen
knelt, one knee raised, each holding a pike or a spear. They might have been waiting to receive the charge of a maddened boar, a bear, a stag—winter was a time for hunting, just as summer was a time for war. Or had been. The seasons had all run together. It was winter, and they stood on a battlefield … being hunted. Rithdeliel watched bleakly as the lines of defenders shattered instead of retreating. Only about a third of them were retreating to regroup. The rest had become monsters.

“Rithdeliel! Hurry!” Gatriadde shouted, staggering as he ran past him. Rithdeliel turned and followed. Gatriadde had anchored the
tuathal
center of the outer defense. He couldn’t remember now who’d been on the
deosil
edge. Thoromarth? Atholfol? It didn’t matter. Whoever had been there had let some
thing
approach too closely, thinking it was still alive.

Thinking it was some comrade.

He reached the next line of defenders. On the battlefield things burned, adding smoke to the dust that filled the air. Desperate for light, the
komen
had set fire to everything that would burn. The burning wreckage gave barely enough light to show the
mazhnune
walking slowly and with terrible patience toward the defenders. Perhaps it was a mercy that it was too dark to let Rithdeliel easily distinguish the surcoats they wore. Soon enough the deathless enemy would reach their lines, and they would fight, and lose, and retreat again. They were dying by fingerswidths. Half the Alliance was fighting at their side now, and half the High King’s army had become
mazhnune
.

The sounds of battle were strangely distorted, for only the living cried out. Somewhere in the darkness Rithdeliel could hear the high frantic yelping of a terrified dog; he felt shame at wanting it to go on suffering so the
mazhnune
would not gain another warrior.

Somewhere behind him, Rithdeliel heard
komen
shouting wildly. For a panicked moment he thought the
mazhnune
had broken through. Then he heard hoofbeats and saw a destrier charge across the battlefield at the gallop. Another of the defenders, heart and spirit broken, had been driven mad by the bright torches of the Alliance encampment. The sight of it mocked the defenders with the promise of warmth and light and safety: the
mazhnune
were not attacking them.
Yet,
Rithdeliel thought grimly, but for once thoughts of vengeance did not comfort him.

The deserter managed to force his mount through the first line of
mazhnune
before it threw him. He got to his feet and ran on toward the travesty of sanctuary. Rithdeliel had seen what came next too many times tonight; he pulled his gaze away from the running figure. The horse was galloping wildly around the battlefield, seeking escape but shying away from the clusters of
mazhnune
. Eventually it would exhaust itself or fall into one of the traps and break a leg, but in the end, the outcome would be the same. Nothing left Ifjalasairaet alive.

The lone
komen
was pulled down and the screaming began. For an instant, Rithdeliel permitted himself to close his eyes. Every bone and muscle ached. He had no idea how long he’d been fighting.

War was like
xaique
: a master player chose the desired outcome before the game began. On this
xaique
board there were no good choices left. Vieliessar could seal herself, the commons, and a few thousand of the
komen
into the Vale of Celenthodiel and lose her bid for the Unicorn Throne. She could stand and fight—and die.

There was no third choice. They’d tried over and over to kill Ivrulion. Spells didn’t touch him and no warriors could get close. Rithdeliel had even called up one of the rangers to try the forester’s bow: Terandamil Master Ranger himself had come. Three tailles of dismounted knights had accompanied Terandamil to keep him alive until he was within range of his target.

Terandamil had loosed a dozen arrows. All had been whipped away by the wind. Terandamil and all but six of the
komen
who had stood with him were now
mazhnune
, and Rithdeliel knew it was useless to keep trying. Every failure armed the enemy further.

In the last moments before the new assault, Rithdeliel walked up and down the line, offering quiet words of encouragement and issuing final orders. He made it to the far end of the line without seeing Thoromarth, but Thoromarth might have taken an element of the line and moved forward. When the
mazhnune
concentrated on the center, the flanks did all they could to regain ground; when the flanks were attacked, the center moved up. They fought endlessly over the same few yards of ground, but the alternative was to lose.

The
mazhnune
were close enough now that faces, surcoats, and armor could be identified. There were groans and muffled curses all along the line as warriors recognized their dead comrades among the ranks of the enemy. Rithdeliel recognized more than one of the attackers, but his rage and despair were too deep for speech.

Thoromarth of Oronviel advanced toward Rithdeliel’s position. He wore no helm. The broken shaft of a spear protruded from between the bands of his faulds. The hilt of a dagger glinted in his eye socket.

Rithdeliel tightened his grip on his swordhilt and prepared to fight on.

*   *   *

Vieliessar did not know how long it was before the world righted itself again. She forced herself to open her eyes. Better to know the worst at once. She was almost surprised she could see.

“Praise Sword and Star—I thought we had lost you,” Aradreleg said in a shaken voice.

“Not yet.” Vieliessar blinked at the fabric blocking her sight of the sky. An unfamiliar pavilion. “Where…?” she croaked. Her tongue felt thick and her mouth tasted foul.

“We did not wish to place you in one of the Healing Tents, lest the people worry. This tent is mine.”

“I am in Celephrandullias-Tildorangelor,” Vieliessar said, and Aradreleg nodded.

“I had been seeing to the wounded who came through the pass, making a tally of the Alliance
komen
who surrendered, so we might know if any were of sufficient rank that they must swear to you. Then the sky…” Aradreleg swallowed hard. “The sky went black. A candlemark later, Lord Rithdeliel brought you. He said to keep you here, then went back to the fighting.”

“Rithdeliel must ever believe himself to be my nurse,” Vieliessar said dryly. “Where is my armor?” she asked, for she had been uncased as she lay insensible.

“I—Lord Rithdeliel said…” Aradreleg said desperately. Her thoughts swirled, making them difficult to read.

“Send someone for it. And I will need a destrier,” Vieliessar said. “And find someone who can tell me what’s going on out there.”

It was Atholfol of Ivrithir who came, with Dinias Lightbrother beside him. Dinias was hollow-eyed and pale, so weak Atholfol gave him support as he walked, though Atholfol was missing his sword arm from the elbow downward.

“Sit quietly, my lord,” Atholfol said as he entered. “For the news is bad and you must hear all of it.” He gestured with the bandaged stump. “I am grateful to see you alive, my lord. They say I can be made whole again, but that I will sleep for a sennight afterward. I say this is no time for sleeping.” Aradreleg’s tent was but a single chamber. Atholfol lowered Dinias to the chamber’s only stool and passed Vieliessar a flask. The tea it held was cold and sour, but no chilled cider had ever tasted so sweet.

“I will show myself once I have heard your report,” she said. “Then I must return to the fight.”

“You must not,” Dinias blurted out. “And I don’t think you can. None of us can—Lightborn, I mean. Those of us who were on the field…”

“Screamed as if poisoned,” Atholfol said, “and fell insensible to the ground when they stopped. I had just put Dinias over my destrier’s saddle when I took this hurt. And yet I account myself fortunate.”

Vieliessar waited in silence, for Atholfol’s telling of his tale would shape his thoughts to make them more easily read. When he had finished, she regretted her Gift of True Speech, for it had showed her more than he wished her to know. Two candlemarks ago Atholfol had been on the field, watching the Alliance array gather as the abeyance ended. Dinias had ridden to his side with fresh orders, for much of the Warhunt was acting as messengers. Atholfol’s meisne was ordered up the field to support Thoromarth’s force. He had given the order for them to regroup and form column when he saw two men—one of them Lightborn—walk out from the Alliance lines.