Morticai's Luck (33 page)

No—a glance behind him showed someone mounted on a black charger, galloping recklessly down the crowded side street. Morticai looked about desperately for an avenue of escape. He leapt toward the mouth of an alley as the wagon passed by. His breath was knocked from him as he slammed into the side wall of the alley. He ignored the pain in his side and scrambled to his feet to sprint down the alley.

He made a turn and … suddenly, the old cobbled streets disappeared. He ran through an open field, and he could see trees in the distance. With fear clutching at his chest, he looked behind him. A group of horsemen, wearing black Droken robes, had gathered on the far side of the field. In the forefront of the group stood the black charger. The armored knight on its back carried a lance, point lowered toward him. He could see that its tip glowed red-hot.

He ran. He could hear the sounds of the hoof beats behind him. There were the trees, not far; he should be able to make it. Then, abruptly, he was running among the trees. He dove beneath a bush, and, after a few moments his breathing quieted, and the fire in his chest cooled. He had done it! He had gotten away!

He lay back with a sigh of relief. Thank Glawres! Suddenly, a human’s face appeared above him. No! Not a human—a corryn. The face began to change until it became Luthekar’s. And then it changed even more, until it was the hideous design that had been ornamented on Luthekar’s mask. He tried to move, but found that he could not. The brush had wrapped around his wrists and held him tight. Luthekar’s mask smiled as the lance’s glowing point came toward him.

He woke up screaming.

* * *

Morticai fidgeted with the lacing on the pack, finally pulling it loose and starting over.

“That’s the third time you’ve pulled that lace out, Dyluth,” Nelerek said. “What’s wrong with it?”

They sat with their backs against a tree, just outside their tent. The Watchaven camp, now two days north of Mid-Keep, lay in a sprawl about them. They’d not
had tents when they’d come from Watchaven, but King Almgren had insisted their party be provided with tents and the additional gear they’d needed.

“Oh, I don’t know why they use such poor quality leather in these things,” Morticai muttered, once again starting to lace the thong through the pack. “I can’t get it to lie flat, and if it doesn’t lie flat it won’t make a tight seam, and if it rains my gear will get wet.”

“Oh,” Nelerek replied. The Arluthian went into their tent and returned a moment later with a long piece of leather lacing. He dropped it into Morticai’s lap.

“Where’d this come from?” Morticai said, looking up at him.

“Supplies for my hawk. I brought it in case I needed an extra jesse, but I don’t think I will.”

“Thanks.”

“Shouldn’t Evadrel be back by now?” Nelerek asked, glancing northward.

Morticai followed his gaze. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

“Do you think something’s happened?”

“I don’t think so—at least, I hope not. I’m not certain he should have gone out scouting so soon after riding here with news of the army, but,” he shrugged, “Evadrel’s always been careful.”

“So, if you’re not worryin’ about Evadrel, what’s the matter?”

Morticai stared at the half-laced pack. “Just tired,” he said. “Tired, and worried about the Northmarch. That’s an awfully big army up there.”

“I noticed you didn’t sleep much last night,” Nelerek remarked.

“Yeah,” Morticai admitted softly. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“Me?” Nelerek shook his head, “I was already awake when you decided to wake the rest of the camp. You never went back to sleep, did you?”

“No.”

“Look! There’s Evadrel.” Nelerek waved.

Morticai straightened. “News?” he asked the approaching scout.

Evadrel smiled. “Well, we’re within a day’s march of them.”

“The Northmarch?” Morticai asked.

“No—the Droken,” he replied, shaking his head and sitting down.

Morticai sighed.

“I’m certain we’ll meet with them soon, Morticai,” Evadrel said. “They would have had to flee when the Droken turned around. It will take time for them to circle back to us.”

“What of the Droken?” Nelerek asked. “Are we going to catch them?”

Evadrel shook his head again. “I doubt it. They are a large force, but we move no faster than they do. We will not be able to catch them unless they turn and face us, which does not appear to be their plan.”

“That’s just fine, if you ask me,” Nelerek said. “I’m no soldier, and I’d prefer not to become one.”

“Evadrel,” Morticai said, “should we head out on our own?”

Evadrel looked at him, blankly. “You mean, go out to meet with the Northmarch? Just us, alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Dyluth,” Nelerek said, “we can’t do that!”

“Why not?” Morticai asked.

“Why not?”
Nelerek echoed. “Because it’s dangerous out there!” He gestured northward.

Evadrel smiled. “I’m afraid I agree with him, Morticai. The Droken have too many scouts of their own. We may not catch the main Droken army, but we
have
crossed swords with their patrols. I think it would be very difficult to get pass them. Do not worry, friend,” he said, “we shall join with the Northmarch soon enough.”

* * *

Lord Jendall strode into the command tent.

“They simply have too great a lead,” King Riamel said to King Almgren. “We cannot catch them, and even if we did, they outnumber us. We could defeat them if we could bring them to battle, but winning such a battle would cost us more than we could bear.
”

“I know, I know,” King Almgren replied. “I hate just letting them go! I want to know where in the name of the Dark One they came from!”

“Indeed,” Jendall said, “it appears that only the Dark One holds that information.”

Almgren snorted. “I suppose that means we still have not had any luck capturing one of their scouts?”

“I am afraid you are correct, Sire,” Jendall answered. “We have come close on several occasions, but each time the scout killed himself ere he could be captured.”

Riamel shook his head. “What type of men are we up against?”

“What kind, indeed?” Almgren said. “Well, Jendall, your advice has always been good. What do you think of our situation?”

Jendall paused a moment before answering. “I think we should thank the Levani that the Droken run from us. Although they nearly match us in infantry, they outmatch us in cavalry by a considerable amount. Even if the Northmarch were close enough to join forces with us, it would be an ill battle to fight.”

“Additionally,” he continued, “they have the advantage that they move through territory they have already passed through and are familiar with. We must take care that they do not use this knowledge to lay an ambush for us—and, for that reason, we are even now required to slow our march, while they increase theirs.”

Riamel sighed. “It appears that much of what we wish to learn will have to wait for another day, another battle.”

Almgren nodded. “Aye. Perhaps the Northmarch will have learned more.”

* * *

The foothills were a welcome sight for the tired Northmarchers. They had pushed to reach the hills before nightfall. The sooner they reached the protection of the mountains, the better. Now they wound their way slowly into the hills, paralleling a small stream.

The stream had apparently been much larger in times past, as evidenced by the ground upon which they rode. The thirty-foot-wide, flat section of stone was smooth, with a forty-foot bluff—the original boundary of the stream—rising to their right. The stream had shrunk in size and shifted south, leaving the smooth path that they found so convenient. Brush still choked the edge of the stream; a scattering of loose rocks was all that hindered their travel.

Lord Seabrook scanned the terrain in front of them. He had thought the scouts would have rejoined them by now. He anxiously awaited news of what lay ahead, and the scouts’ recommendation for a campsite. Another hour or two of sunlight was all they would have.

The Northmarch high commander raised his hand and, as the command was relayed along the line of march, nearly three thousand horses slowed to a halt. Commanders McFerrin and Jarviel, riding to his right and left, looked at him expectantly.

“Kirwin, what do you make of that ravine ahead of us?” he asked.

“Steep, but I believe we can make it without dismounting.”

“Jarviel?”

“I agree, my lord. We should make the top of the rise well before nightfall.”

“The scouts should have returned.”

Jarviel and Kirwin exchanged glances. “Aye,” Kirwin agreed. “The terrain is not so rough as to have hindered them this long.”

Jarviel nodded and scanned the surrounding area.

“Follow me,” the Dynolvan commander said suddenly, and he reined his horse to the right.

Lord Seabrook and Kirwin McFerrin reined in behind him. He led them to the edge of the bluff and turned toward their rearward ranks. When they had traveled a short distance down the long column, he spoke again.

“I fear there are Droken in the brush on the far bank,” he whispered.

Seabrook inhaled deeply. “An ambush. You spotted someone?”

Jarviel nodded slowly.

“We must back the men out,” Seabrook said. “I shall stay here. Feign an inspection and pass the word. When you have finished, I shall sound my horn, and we shall retreat. We will have to leave the wagons, so have the drivers jump toward the bluff. That should save them from the initial attack.”

“Surely you are not going to stay in the open, my lord,” Kirwin protested.

“I shall remain here until you have reached the half-way point. Then I shall move between yon supply wagon and the bluff.” He nodded slightly toward the mentioned wagon.

The two commanders began moving slowly down opposite sides of the ranks. Captains and sergeants straightened, and as the word was passed, riders tightened their slack reins in preparation for the retreat. Lord Seabrook hoped that the Droken lying in ambush weren’t cavalry—any good cavalier would spot the slight hand movements and know what they were about.

The commanders reached the half-way point. Lord Seabrook casually moved toward the wagon, acting as though he were also checking the ranks. He could see Kirwin, ahead of him, still moving down the long line of horses. The men were riding eight across on the wide stretch of rock.

Perhaps this will save the men closest to the bluff,
Seabrook thought bitterly. He had been a fool to bring them this far without hearing from the scouts, and now his men would pay for his mistake. He had reached the supply wagon. Once behind it, he unstrapped his horn and held it loosely near his hip.

Kirwin had almost reached the bottom of the hill. Though he could not see Jarviel, he knew the relative position of the Dynolvan commander. He wouldn’t be able to get a timely warning to the Northmarchers who had not yet started up the hill—they’d have to figure it out on their own.

Seabrook raised the horn and sounded the retreat. He watched as the horses wheeled in unison. The Droken waited no longer. As he spurred his horse forward, horror clutched at him from within—it was not bows that the Droken leveled at his troops, but
crossbows
. The cries of horses and the screams of men mixed with the echoing thunder of hooves as they raced down the slope. He held out a hand to help a drover onto the back of his horse. By the time they’d made it half-way, tears streamed down his face. He knew their losses would be tremendous.

* * *

At the base of the hill, the Northmarchers’ cry of anger rose as though from one voice. Kirwin watched in dismay as the order for retreat was again sounded. Several captains had dismounted, and they were leading their men up the narrow, brushy southern side of the stream. Arrows rained from Northmarch bows into the brush further up the hill. As Droken screams mingled with those of the North
march, more Northmarchers rushed to push an attack against the better-positioned enemy.

With a growl of anger, Kirwin dismounted. For better or ill, his men had chosen to fight. He viciously hacked his way up the hill. The combat grew fierce, and the ambushers were forced to pull their swords and abandon their slow-loading crossbows.

Ahead, he could see more of his men—they’d crossed the rocky stream in an effort to reach their attackers. Their lack of discipline bothered him, but he also knew that his men had not been trained to fight battles against armies. When ambushed, usually by bandits, they had been taught to relentlessly chase down the ambushers. Thus did they follow their training, and their emotions.

He grimly noted that few of the attacking Northmarchers were corryn. It had been the Dynolvans who had been closest to the ambushers and so had felt the brunt of the attack. He allowed himself a quick glance at the opposite side of the ravine. Dead and dying Northmarchers and horses lay everywhere. Clenching his teeth, he redoubled his efforts.

* * *

“You had best rein in, Morticai,” Evadrel said as his horse trotted up beside him.

Morticai sighed and reined his horse back to a walk. He looked over his shoulder and blinked in surprise at the distance he’d put between himself and the vanguard of the joined armies.