Daughter of Blood (50 page)

“Everyone has their orders, Faro. I expect you to follow yours.” Ignoring the boy's face of protest, he donned the helmet and slung the shield across his back before striding from the tent.

The two wyr hounds guarding Lady Myr's tent lifted their heads as he passed, and one of Nimor's sentries alerted someone inside the Sea pavilion. Otherwise the rest of the camp was asleep as Kalan and Aiv headed for the earthworks. Except Orth and Kelyr, Kalan amended, seeing them by Palla's command post. Both Sword warriors looked around, but for once Orth failed to glower before returning his attention to the plain. The two hounds with Kalan joined the six along the perimeter, their growling a low, constant reverberation. The night insects had fallen silent, and the wind had died away. Behind Kalan, Madder stamped and tossed his head, rousing the other mounts. Several whinnied, but no horse replied out of the Gray Lands.

It's too quiet, Kalan thought. “Rouse Jad and Tyun,” he told Aiv. “Tell them to stand the camp to arms, but quietly: no alarm sounded and no lights. Let's keep whoever's out there guessing.” He looked toward Kelyr and Orth, who had been put under Jad's command. “Time to join your company. I want everyone in their appointed place.” Kalan turned back to the plain, but although he saw Kelyr's shrug from the corner of his eye, both Sword warriors obeyed the order.

“They could still be trouble,” Palla muttered.

“Only if there's not enough fighting to keep them occupied,” Kalan replied. Palla grinned, although without much mirth, and remained silent as the camp stirred to life and defenders mustered along the perimeter. The caravan did not contain enough bows for everyone in it, but each company could muster a double row of archers, with pikes and spears drawn up behind. The remainder of each unit carried
a mix of swords, axes, and staffs. Those in support—who would resupply the fighters and drag clear the wounded, run messages, and fight fires—had at least a dagger for their defense. The latter teams comprised those too old or physically compromised to fight effectively, together with the camp's youngest: the scullions and horsegirls and errand runners, most of whom were little older than Faro.

Young or old, veteran or inexperienced, the tension in the camp stretched tight as Kalan dispatched runners to each of the newly formed companies, reiterating his orders to maintain silence, hold position, and only fire on his command. He still heard the stir of bodies and occasional mutter, but the unnatural silence continued as the night crept toward dawn—until a long line of were-hunters loped out of the Gray Lands' dark.

One moment the night was still, the next the plain was filled with advancing shadows and flaming eyes. The extent of the line told Kalan the attack must comprise multiple were-hunts: as many, if not more than had besieged the hill fort in northern Emer. He could also perceive the magical shimmer that would shatter spears and deflect arrows, exactly as those who experienced yesterday's attack had described. At the battle of The Leas, he and the other Oakwarders present had used a dispersal spell to counter the effect. Now, Kalan intended relying on his shield-wall to counteract the were-hunters protective magic once they reached it, enabling the defenders to fire into their ranks at point-blank range.

“Hold your fire!” he roared as an arrow flew, followed by a ragged volley that either fell short or disintegrated. “Wait for my order!” He could hear Nhal cursing the panicked archers, because the camp could not afford to waste arrows, and because Kalan was relying on the exiled honor guards to hold their companies in check. And on my shield-wall working, he reflected grimly, acknowledging the risk in allowing the attackers to get so close. The camp had not contained sufficient stakes for a closed palisade, so Sarr had spaced what they had for a cavalry attack—which meant the were-hunters could slip between them and onto the dike. Yet given
the attackers' numbers, every arrow should hit home at such close range. And if Kalan's shield-wall worked, both rows of archers should be able to loose volleys before the were-hunters abandoned their magic for a purely physical assault. After that, it would all depend on the damage done by the volleys . . .

Life is a risk, Kalan thought, and so—watching the were-hunters pick up speed—is death. “Hold until they reach the stakes!” His voice would carry to the attackers as well, but he doubted they could hear anything beyond the rush of their own momentum. “Then fire at will.”

He could smell the fear rolling off the defenders, and someone nearby was praying to Mhaelanar, the Defender—although once the god's name had been uttered, the invocation seemed to be mainly
“please, please, please.”
Which could mean anything, Kalan knew, from please don't let me fail, to please let me live. He noted, too, that it was Mhaelanar the prayer called on, rather than Kharalth with her fistful of skulls. A sideways glance showed him Darrar, one of Sarr's assistants. From what Kalan could see, the young farrier's face was as white as his grip on his bow. Beside him, Baris was equally pale, and while Aiv appeared composed, a muscle beside her mouth was spasming.

“Hold,” Kalan commanded again. And all along the perimeter the defenders did, although the were-hunters were terrifying at close range. It was not just their numbers, but their size and speed, together with the bestial heads and savage maws. Their eyes flamed vermilion, carnelian, and orange, answering the wyr hounds' silver glow. Their expressions, to the extent Kalan could read them, suggested they expected to leap both stakes and dike, rolling over the defense like an incoming tide. Now their wavefront was just three strides away from Sarr's stakes, then two, then—

“Loose!” Kalan yelled. Several hundred bowstrings twanged, releasing a deadly thicket of arrows, and the defenders shouted, as much from the release of tension as triumph when the volley found targets. Everywhere, were-hunters went down, some crumpling in midleap and falling back
onto the stakes below, while others collapsed at the foot of the palisade. Some of the wounded pulled themselves clear, or else regained their feet and came on—with many going down again as the second rank of archers loosed their volley.

Despite the holes in their line, the were-hunter vanguard continued to press forward, while a second wave of attackers rolled in behind them. The camp's archers fell back as the pikemen advanced to defend the thornbrush rampart and the dike became a welter of leaping, snarling were-hunters, thrusting pikes, and screamed war cries. Kalan, who had withdrawn with the other archers, now drew the black blades and led the hand-to-hand fighters forward to cover the pikemen—although if the black blades sang, the sound was lost beneath the furor.

A were-hunter crashed through the thorns in front of him, and a wyr hound sprang to meet it as a second attacker sailed over the top. Kalan thrust the longsword into his assailant's chest, driving the short blade through the open maw of the beast that followed. Then Palla was there, her shield covering them both as the combat swayed back and forward, across and through the thornbrush barricade. The camp's line was holding, Kalan thought, as Palla cut down another were-hunter—and then as swiftly as battle had been joined the assault was over. The attackers broke off and retreated into the thinning dark, stopping only to pick up their wounded. The dead were left where they had fallen.

Dawn was imminent. Kalan could sense it as soon as his vision cleared and he recovered his breath. Despite having dead and wounded of their own to deal with, he forbade torches, which would aid archers outside the camp. A swift survey showed their losses were far less than he had feared and that none of the exiles had fallen, although scything claws had torn mail to rake Nhal's arm. The wounded were already being ferried to the Bride's pavilion, now the camp's infirmary, and Jad had squads checking underneath and within the wagonbeds for stragglers. One of the wyr hounds had a gash in its shoulder, while another's ear had been torn off, but otherwise they, too, had survived the encounter.

“Do we stand down?” Aiv asked.

“No.” The attack might have failed, but Kalan doubted the assault was over. “We'll take what's left of the darkness to recover arrows and use the dead, theirs and ours, to reinforce the barricade.” In the Emerian hill fort, wary of decomposition and disease, the Normarchers had dug a pit for the dead—but that fort had walls and a gate they could blockade. Later, on the way to Caer Argent, Ser Raven had discussed other assaults he had experienced, including one in Lathayra where a corral, with dead bodies used as sandbags, was the only perimeter.

Darrar, still white faced, looked shocked, while Baris swore beneath his breath before Palla ordered them both into a detail. The marines, whose reserve force had not been needed, provided cover for the defenders sent to retrieve arrows, while Jad's company ensured the fallen were-hunters were dead. Kalan was unsurprised to see Orth in the forefront, slicing ears from every corpse before Jad stopped him. “There's no time for that,” the Blood guard said. Orth scowled, but accepted Jad's authority, and Kalan returned his attention to subtly shielding those outside his shield-wall. The camp's desperate activity, together with the defenders' relief at surviving the attack, helped mask the power use, and by the time everyone was back within the dike the world had grown gray.

The cooks began preparing a cold breakfast, which their assistants brought to each company in turn as the dawn wind riffled in off the Gray Lands. Someone among the enemy was using it to scry: Kalan could feel the seeker probing for weakness along his barrier. When the light brightened, he saw that yesterday's haze had thickened overnight, and he resisted the temptation to extend his psychic shield further out, just to see what brushed against its edge. The scrying, together with the wyr hounds' behavior, had already told him enough. The hounds were intent on the plain, as though they could detect whatever the haze concealed, which perhaps they could. Yet even Kalan's keen sight showed him nothing, except on the stream side of the camp. There, the air wavered
like heat haze in an Emerian summer, reminding him that a great deal of Swarm magic could not cross running water . . .

“Haze's clearing,” Palla said, as the first pale sunlight broke through. Kalan nodded, concentrating on a shadowy outline that looked like banners stirring beyond the murk. A few seconds later the haze thinned further. “Nine preserve us!” Palla whispered, as a deep mutter of fear and dismay ran among the defenders.

They may have to, Kalan thought bleakly, remembering his dream of surreptitious movement in the night. The enemy must have used concealing magic, because what encircled the camp now was not a raiding party, or even a war band, but a legion, and there was no other way they could have gotten this close without being detected. Kalan scanned their ranks, registering massed pikes and archers, cavalry with the jagged helms he remembered from Jaransor, and a whole wing of were-hunters. But no major demons, as far as he could detect, and no sign of siege engines. He would take what comfort he could from that.

The camp had fallen silent, stunned perhaps, or despairing. Both were reasonable reactions, Kalan thought, given the size of the opposing force. He and Malian had known the Wall of Night was failing: the attack on the Keep of Winds six years before, the subsequent pursuit into Jaransor, and the Swarm's fomenting of unrest from Ij to Ishnapur had told them that. Yet incursion at this level made those events pale by comparison.

Because this, Kalan told himself grimly—a Darksworn legion in the Gray Lands, apparently undetected until now—means that somewhere the Wall has failed completely. This is breakout.

K
alan's initial reaction was that Malian must be told, but he clamped down on his instinct to hurl a mindcall as far across distance as he could reach. Regardless of either the sensibilities of the camp, or the psychic divide between the Wall and Haarth, keeping the enemy guessing meant being circumspect with his use of power for as long as possible. “What's this?” Palla muttered, as the opposing ranks parted and a troop of mixed horse and foot, around one hundred strong, advanced into the place of honor and danger at the center of the enemy line. A collective hiss rose from the camp as the defenders recognized the armor of the caravan's Honor Guard—and deepened from groan to curse as the wind opened out the newcomers' pennant, revealing Kolthis's personal device.

“Treachery,” Palla whispered, and Kalan heard the word repeated, the sound a wind through fallen leaves, as the exile turned her head aside and spat. “Kolthis,” she said, as though the name itself were bile. “I always thought he was no plagues-rotted good.”

“
Is
it the Honor Guard?” Darrar asked. “I mean, their visors are down so it could be anyone . . .” His voice trailed off, but Kalan knew he and many others would be remem
bering the patrols that had never returned, even before the final disappearance of the remaining guards. We're looking at around half the original guard, he thought, and guessed those who could not be suborned would have paid the same price as Rhisart. Darrar was right, though. They could not be sure who was really behind those Blood visors, whether facestealers, turncoats, or—remembering his thoughts about possession—something altogether other.

“The traitors show their contempt for us and for Blood.” Sarr spoke from his place in Jad's company, and although he was not shouting, his voice had the depth to carry along the earthworks. “Just as Kolthis did on the road here, because we're farriers and grooms, cooks and drivers, not keep garrison or Honor Guard. Now he thinks he'll sap our will with Blood armor and his traitor's banner, so we'll lie down and die before the fight is joined. But I say we show them the meaning of honor and what it means to be Blood. I say we make this a fight!”

“We fight!” those around him shouted. “For Blood!” First Palla's company on one side, then Rhanar's on the other joined in, until finally all the defenders were stamping their feet and clashing weapons against shields as they chanted: “Blood! Blood! Blood!”

Well done, Kalan thought, raising a hand to acknowledge Sarr as the Darksworn war horns sounded, followed by a long rumble of drums. He only hoped, as the enemy advance rolled forward, that the defenders' resolution would withstand the coming assault. The steady tramp of the foot soldiers shook the ground, kicking up veiling dust, but the were-hunters were advancing ahead of both. Their magic shimmered across the length of the attacking line, and Kalan knew he could not wait this time before letting his archers shoot. With the numbers they were facing, and lacking the element of surprise, the camp would be overwhelmed if he did.

“We'll have to shoot high and drop our arrows into the ranks behind the were-hunters,” he told Palla. He glanced back to where Nimor and Murn stood with Tyun and the reserve, carrying their tall staffs and watching him as much
as the enemy. Kalan hoped they could follow his lead, as they had with the shield-wall, when he initiated the Oakward's dispersal spell. Nimor inclined his head, an indication they were prepared to try. With luck, too, the enemy would not recognize the working, which might delay a counterspell. “We'll shoot as soon as they're in range.”

Kalan dispatched runners with the order, and assessed the enemy advance again. The Darksworn cavalry had massed behind the foot soldiers, but he doubted they would charge until either enough of Sarr's stakes were down for riders to force a way through, or they could take advantage of the ground fighting to dispose of the palisade altogether. To hold the cavalry back and prevent that happening, the camp's archers would have to continue firing after battle along the dike was joined.

They had discussed all this, he and Jad and Tyun first, and then with the company commanders and their seconds, but not in the context of an attack of this magnitude. Now, the sheer weight of the force rolling toward them made all planning seem futile. The advance was right on longbow range now, the enemy archers preparing to fire. “'Ware, arrows!” Kalan shouted, a split second before the first volley arrived. The defenders yelled, ducking under cover or raising shields, and several voices cried out sharply. Kalan nodded to Palla, who lifted her horn and blew the exiles' own signal to loose arrows.

Bowstrings sang, and Kalan linked his psychic sense to the arrows' flight. The weatherworkers' power came in smoothly, supporting his as he wove the Oakward's dispersal spell, and the defenders' volley arched high over the were-hunters and down into the following ranks. Darksworn warriors fell, and in places their line grew ragged, but recovered swiftly. For a few furious minutes the flights of arrows crossed each other, but the Darksworn attack continued rolling forward. Kalan fired one last arrow as the were-hunters reached his shield barrier, but although their magic dissipated as it had before, their claws and jaws were also weapons. Behind them, the pike and crossbow companies came steadily on.

“Keep the archers firing,” Kalan told Aiv, as their own pikemen engaged. Then he and Palla were running forward, and the morning blurred into hewing and hacking, blade against blade and muscle straining against muscle. When the weight of the heavily armored Darksworn infantry crashed into the defenders' line, the fighting along the earthworks wavered back, but the exiles rallied their companies and the defense steadied. At one point the enemy roared and pushed into a widening gap, before Tyun and the reserve reached them and the breach closed. All the same, Kalan thought—in a brief, clear moment when a pike spitted the assailant immediately in front of him—we'll be hard-pushed too hold. His archers were still firing, keeping the cavalry back, but the defenders' line was stretched and the opposing force kept pressing the attack.

Gritting his teeth, Kalan drove forward again, and this time he heard the black swords hum as he decapitated a were-hunter in midleap. The wyr hounds belled, leaping forward beside him, and Palla was shouting out a battle song that echoed the black blades' refrain. Others took it up, and the chant spread from company to company until the dike reverberated with its fierce rhythm. The defenders' line inched forward—and then, however impossibly, the attackers were falling back.

The retreat was a withdrawal in good order, not a rout. Yet why fall back at all? Kalan asked himself, as the Darksworn's covering fire eased and his own archers lowered their bows. The enemy had taken losses, but not nearly so many as the defenders. Another few minutes even, Kalan thought, and they might have had us. He shook his head, puzzlement still hovering as the roar of blood and breath began to ease, but he made himself focus on the damage taken by the camp. The wounded and dying were strewn the length of the perimeter, their cries replacing the clangor of battle. Further along the barricade, where the reserve had last seen action, a horse was screaming, but even as Kalan turned that way the sound abruptly cut off.

Someone must have put the animal down. Kalan, watch
ing the orderlies and support teams labor to lift the wounded clear, knew the mercy stroke would be all that could be done for the worst injured. There were so many more dead this time, so many faces he could not name as he moved from company to company, even where the bodies had not been savaged by were-hunters. And too many of the fallen were the errand runners and scullions and horsegirls, their half-grown bodies smaller still in death. Among those Kalan knew, Tyun was down, wounded in the reserve action, while three of his marines, together with several more horses, were dead. Jaras was also dead, as were two of the wyr hounds: one pierced by a pike, the other torn apart by were-hunters.

“It was the strangest thing,” Aarion told Kalan. Both wyr hounds had fallen in his quadrant of the dike, where the were-hunter attack had been particularly fierce. “When they fell, a light rose out of their bodies and went into the nearest living hound.” He shook his head, wonder momentarily banishing grimness. “None of us have ever seen or heard of anything like it.”

“And the traitors?” Dain asked, joining them. He indicated the bodies in Honor Guard armor that had fallen along the dike. “We should see if they're really our own.”

Yet when Kalan checked, every face was known to him from the Honor Contest. So at least I know they're not face-stealers, he thought, straightening from his scrutiny of the last dead face.

“I thought we were dogmeat when they came against us here,” Aarion said, “despite Sarr's fine speech. My ragged company against Honor Guards.” He shook his head, unease coloring his tone. “But as soon as they reached the dike they fell to pieces, like puppets with their strings cut.”

Once they passed my shield, Kalan thought, his lips pursed. “Let it—and them—lie for now,” he replied. “Our chief business is preparing for the next assault.” The exiles nodded, their expressions almost relieved as the discussion switched to attrition and resources.

“Arrows are my main concern,” Dain said, dropping his voice. “We won't be able to retrieve 'em this time, not
with their archers deployed. And although the caravan's well equipped for the usual dangers of the road, its reserves weren't meant for this level of attack.”

Kolthis's defection guaranteed the enemy knew that, too, Kalan reflected. When he turned toward the inner camp, the oriflamme was a line of fire against the early morning sky, the Bride's former pavilion ghost white beneath its shadow. He stopped to speak with Jad, leaving him in command of the perimeter, and met Tehan as he crossed the inner barricade. She confirmed that the envoy and Murn had returned to Sea's tent, and that Tyun had several broken ribs. “So I'll be acting captain, with Reith taking over as second. Tyun also says that if we're to hold through another assault, we need you leading the mounted troop.” Tehan's expression lightened briefly. “On your roan terror, he said.”

Reflexively, Kalan scrubbed a hand across the crest of his helmet as he would his hair, but he had already reached the same conclusion, not least because it would give him a better overview of the action. “I take it Tyun's still conscious, then?”

Tehan nodded. “Lady Myrathis says he should do well enough, so long as infection doesn't set in.”

“Lady Myr?” Kalan queried. But he was thinking that Manan, the Normarch healer, would say that in a makeshift camp, amidst this desolation of dirt and wind, it was all too easy for wounds to become infected.

“Apparently she knows some healing,” Tehan replied. “She's been working with Kion and the orderlies since the first attack.”

Of course, Kalan thought, remembering how she had cleaned and stitched Dab's wound. But he was still taken aback when he saw her assisting Kion in the pavilion, both her clothes and head covering spattered with blood. The Sea physician had an area screened off from the rest of the tent and was amputating a defender's arm below the shoulder. Lady Myr was pale but composed, her hands steady as she followed Kion's directions. Kalan, watching from the pavilion entrance, felt as though he were truly seeing her for the first time.

He did not intrude on their work, but recognized the unconscious amputee as Rigan, the driver who had been on watch when the exiles first rode in. He called us real honor guards, Kalan thought, but still we could not save him. Now, even if the caravan survived, Rigan would have lost his current place in Blood together with his right arm, unless he could learn to drive with the left alone. Another place would be found for him, as was the Derai way, but it would be meaner and Rigan's place in Blood's halls lower, because that was also the custom in the warrior Houses.

Studying the rest of the pavilion, Kalan picked out Faro, fetching and carrying for the orderlies along the rows of wounded. The boy paused when he saw Kalan, but hurried on almost at once to a brazier where water was boiling. Kalan stepped outside briefly, to check that the perimeter was still quiet, before reentering the pavilion to speak with those who had sustained lesser injuries. He heard the murmur of “Storm Spear” and “the captain” run ahead of him along their rows, and those who could sat straighter, or maneuvered to watch his approach. Among them, Kalan recognized the woman who had been reluctant to speak, putting out yesterday's wagon fire. “We held them off, Captain,” she whispered. “I didn't think we could, but we did.”

“There's nothing wrong with my arms.” The groom beside her had raised himself on one elbow. “I can fire a crossbow if I'm propped someplace useful, once this leg's been seen to.”

It might come to that, Kalan knew, and sooner rather than later. “I can still run, too,” a boy put in, from the groom's far side. He was an errand runner, and a were-hunter's talon had raked one side of his face. He held a bloodsoaked cloth clamped against it, and Kalan could see from the rest of his face that he had been crying. “I'll be up again soon, you'll see.”

“Not before I've taken care of that wound,” Lady Myr said, in her gentle way, from behind Kalan. She and Kion must have finished their work, and she had washed her hands and arms clean. Her eyes were shadowed, but she smiled fleetingly at Kalan as she knelt to inspect the boy's wound.
Whatever she thought as she lifted the cloth, her expression remained steady.

“You're in good hands,” Kalan said, stepping back.

“We'll be back with you, Captain, as soon as we're done here,” the groom promised, and several of those around him echoed the pledge. Kalan wondered if they realized their nurse was the Bride of Blood, since most would never have seen Lady Myr at close quarters, let alone wearing anything like her current bloodstained garb. He would have spoken to her but saw she was intent on the boy's wound, so he left to seek out Tyun.