Shadowbred (28 page)

“Beware the priest!” shouted Enken, and the call was repeated across the formation.

“Hit him,” Lorgan said to Mennick.

The wizard hurried through an incantation and completed his spell before the priest could. Four glowing missiles of energy streaked from his fingertips and blasted the priest in the chest. The Gondsman grimaced with pain but held his footing and completed his spell. He pointed his open hand at the road behind the carriage and Lorgan saw the telltale ripple of a magical distortion move across the earth.

The road behind the carriage turned to mud in an instant. Most of Gavist and Borl’s men could not stop and rode right into it. Their mounts hit the mud and sank to their gaskins in the sludge. The abrupt stop threw the riders head over heels. Panicked and wounded horses neighed and screamed. Some of the men cursed; others shouted in pain.

Lorgan, Vors, Mennick, and the archers yanked their steeds to a halt and steered around the mire, but the spell separated them from the rest of the force.

Meanwhile, Enken and Scorral’s squads, unaffected by the mud trap, rode hard after the Saerloonians. The gap between the two groups of Lorgan’s forces yawned.

The Saerloonians suddenly went on the offensive. Twenry of the Saerloonian riders wheeled as one to the left, turned, and galloped toward Enken’s men. Scorral shouted and his squad moved to intercept them on the diagonal. Meanwhile, the remaining dozen Saerloonians and the carriage sped northward down the road.

The Saerloonian riders wore breastplates and open-faced helms, and carried round cavalry shields. They raised blades high as they closed on Enken’s men. Enken’s men responded with readied blades of their own.

“For Saerb and Endren!” shouted Enken, and some of his men echoed the lie. Lorgan smiled, pleased that his sergeant had remembered to put forth the ruse.

Flesh and steel collided with thunderous impact. Horses went down; men screamed. Blades fell and came up bloody. A handful of dead were left on each side as they parted.

The Saerloonians wheeled to their right, circled, and headed back up the road. Scorral’s squad crashed into their flank. Horses neighed and bucked. Shields collided. Men shouted and died. For a moment, Lorgan could not tell who was who.

“For Selgaunt and Sembian freedom!” Scorral and some of his men shouted.

The Saerloonians put up only a token fight and tried to speed away. Scorral’s men let them go and Scorral held up his hand to halt his squad from pursuing. Enken did the same.

“Probably enough,” Lorgan muttered to himself. They had drawn some blood and set the Saerloonians to flight. There was no need to risk his men further.

A horn sounded from up the road and a hundred or more riders thundered into view, moving down the road at a full gallop. The sun glinted off their blades and plumed helms. They bore a standard but Lorgan could not make it out.

The fleeing Saerloonians cheered. The cavalry fleeing from Scorral’s forces wheeled around as though for a counterattack.

“Who in the Hells are they?” Vors asked.

Reht shouted, “They fly Ordulin’s wheel, sir!”

Lorgan cursed. He had too small and too scattered a force to withstand a charge of a hundred cavalry. Besides, his charge had been only to hit the Saerloonians. What in the Nine Hells were Ordulin’s forces doing in the field?

“Give the Ordulins some fire, Reht!” he shouted, then hit Mennick on the thigh with the flat of his blade. “And you—earn your keep, godsdammit! You cannot even counter a Gondsman.” To the rest of his forces, he shouted, “Get the men, even the fallen, and fall back. Now. Move! Move!”

Ordulin’s forces blew another horn blast and formed a charging line.

The Saerloonian cavalry completed their turn and formed up for another pass.

Lorgan’s men retreated and scrambled to gather their fallen and those still mired in the mud.

The Ordulin cavalry shouted as it charged. The Saerloonian cavalry did the same. The carriages pulled to a stop and Saerloonian nobility emerged to watch the battle.

Reht’s archers fired a volley at the Ordulins and wheeled around to retreat. A few arrows struck home and a few of the charging cavalry went down. Mennick incanted the words to a spell and a curtain of sizzling flame appeared in front of the onrushing Ordulin cavalry. Most of the Ordulins pulled their mounts to a stop in time, but a few did not and three horses and men plunged through the flaming wall. All came out afire and flailing. The horses screamed

and fell to the ground, tolling over the burning men.

Mennick intoned another spell and pointed at the onrushing Saerloonian cavalry. A thicket of barrel-wide black tentacles sprouted from the earth in their midst. The magical appendages plucked men and horses indiscriminately and squeezed. The Saerloonian counterattack died in its tracks as horses panicked and men tried to free their fallen comrades from the tentacles’ deadly embrace.

Lorgan thumped Mennick on the shoulder. “Well done, wizard! An ale on my coin.”

Lorgan shouted encouragement at his men. “Get them up! At it! At it, men!”

In moments, all his fallen men were loaded onto horses. Behind them, the Ordulin forces wheeled wide around the wall of fire. “Ride!” he commanded. “Ride!”

The Blades kicked their heels into their steeds and tore south down Rauthauvyr’s Road. Lorgan scanned his forces and estimated the damage. He had lost fewer than ten men, but left in his wake no fewer than a dozen Saerloonians and a handful of the soldiers out of Ordulin. He would get a firm count from his sergeants once they got clear.

He turned in his saddle and looked behind him. The Saerloonians still struggled with the tentacles and the Ordulin soldiery did not appear keen on pursuing.

He let himself relax. He disliked losing men but they had accomplished what they had hoped and gotten clear. The Saerloonians believed they had been attacked and bloodied by forces out of Saerb and Selgaunt. He would circle back, disperse his force into small teams, and rendezvous with Malkur outside of Ordulin.

4 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

Nobles from nearby Yhaunn, Tulbeg, Surd, and Ornstar had been streaming into Ordulin for days to attend the moot. The city was thronged. A steady stream of caravans rattled down Tildaryn’s Road from Yhaunn’s docks, bringing grains from the distant markets of Ravens Bluff and Procampur. Perishable foodstuffs were teleported from distant locales directly to city warehouses. The city’s mills turned night and day. The markets were well stocked and prices were only slightly above average. The people cheered their new overmistress for her decisiveness. The influx of nobles and food put the citizens of the capital in an almost festive mood.

Meanwhile, Mirabeta had dispatched Elyril to supervise the arrest of any remaining nobles in the city known to be loyal to Endren. Most had heard of the warrant ahead of time and fled before the Helms could take them

into custody, but that bothered neither Mirabeta nor Elyril. Without Endren, the nobles resistant to Mirabeta’s ascension were headless. They would hole up in their manses or upcountry estates and accept whatever outcome the moot decided.

The city was firmly in Mirabeta’s hands, in Elyril’s hands, and indirectly, in Shar’s hands. The people supported their new overmistress. The ugliness that had occurred in the High Council and on the streets faded from memory.

Ringed by a dozen armed and armored Helms, Mirabeta and Elyril stood outside their carriage on the cobblestone road near Ordulin’s southern gate to await the arrival of the Saerloonians. A crowd had gathered around them, eager to see the Overmistress of Sembia, eager to see the pomp that went along with the Saerloonian delegation’s arrival. Mirabeta waved to her citizens and they cheered.

Knowing precisely when the Blades would attack, Mirabeta had dispatched a force of Helms a few days earlier to meet the Saerloonian delegation on the road. Ostensibly the Helms were an honor escort, but Mirabeta’s true purpose was to win the Saerloonians’ goodwill by providing aid either during or soon after the Blades’ attack.

“Sending out the Helms was a masterstroke, aunt,” Elyril said, rubbing her temples. She had not been able to snuff any minddust before leaving the estate and her head ached from the lack.

Mirabeta held her smile as she waved to the crowd. “Mind your tongue and feign surprise, niece.”

The Saerloonian delegation and the Ordulin Helms appeared in the distance. A rider ahead of the main body sped forward. A cloud of dust from the dry road heralded his progress. The crowd murmured in anticipation. As the rider drew nearer, Elyril recognized his green uniform as that of one of Ordulin’s Helms.

“One of Raithspur’s men,” she said.

Many in the crowd made the same observation. The murmur of the crowd grew louder when the blood on the rider’s tabard became visible. Mirabeta and Elyril, accompanied by four Helms, stepped forward to meet the man.

The rider pulled his horse to a stop before the overmistress and dismounted. Road dust covered him. He’d seen perhaps twenty

winters and had only a thin beard. He bowed to Mirabeta.

“What has occurred?” Mirabeta asked, loudly enough to be overheard.

“The Saerloonian delegation was attacked, Overmistress,” the young Helm said. “We arrived in time to aid them. Several of our men were killed as well as several among the Saerloonians.”

Mirabeta put her hand to her mouth in shock. Elyril gasped in feigned surprise, though the matter could not have unfolded better. The crowd grumbled with anger.

“Who attacked?” shouted several voices in the crowd. “Who?”

Mirabeta waved them to silence and asked the young man, “Who were the attackers, soldier?”

The soldier hesitated, then said, “They appeared to be men in service to Endren and the Hulorn of Selgaunt.”

The crowd gasped. Mirabeta appeared shocked. Elyril had to control a sudden desire to giggle. Several members of the crowd shouted expletives, cursing Selgaunt and Saerb and Endren. Others looked less sure.

“How many among you are wounded?” Mirabeta asked.

“Nearly a dozen, Overmistress.”

Mirabeta turned to the Helm nearest her and ordered him, “Summon Jemb to the gates. I want priests here on the doublequick.”

The Helm saluted her and sped off through the crowd and into the city.

The crowd watched in a hush as the rest of the Saerloonian delegation approached. Dust covered the carriages and two of them rode on bent axles. The Ordulin Helms rode in a protective circle around the Saerloonian delegation. Raithspur rode foremost. The broad, bearded captain of Ordulin’s guard spotted Elyril and Mirabeta. He spurred his horse forward and dismounted.

“We came upon the Saerloonians while they were under attack from dogs out of Selgaunt and Saerb. They fled when they saw us.”

“Did you take any of them alive?” Mirabeta asked.

Elyril tensed, touched her holy symbol.

“None,” Raithspur said. “And they collected their dead while their wizard’s spells delayed us.”

Elyril breathed out. Mirabeta said, “A pity, but well done, Captain Raithspur. I have summoned priests to the gates. Gather any that are wounded and we will see to them.”

Raithspur turned and issued orders as the delegation dismounted. The soldiers assisted their wounded fellows. The Saerloonians all eyed Mirabeta with unfeigned gratitude.

The drivers of the Saerloonian carriages stepped down from their seats, placed wooden steps on the ground, and opened the carriage doors. The Saerloonian nobles and their advisors stepped forth, glittering in their finery despite the combat. Elyril thought they looked none the worse for wear. She noted a priest of Gond among their number.

The crowd greeted their appearance with a cheer. The nobles seemed raken aback by their reception but managed smiles and waves.

Elyril recognized only one of the faces, that of Genik Ressial, a wealthy Saerloonian merchant whose family had made its fortune in spices and exotic fruits from the south. Road dust coated his jacket, breeches, and boots. His dark hair hung lank over his pale face.

He must have been the delegation’s leader because he approached Elyril and Mirabeta as soon as he recognized them. When he reached rhem, he bowed. “Overmisrress Selkirk. Mistress, Elyril. Forgive our appearance. The road has been a hard one.”

“Do not be silly, Masrer Ressial,” answered Mirabeta.

“Your troops saved out lives, Overmistress.”

“Saerloon is our friend and ally, Master Ressial,” Mirabeta answered.

“It was fortuitous that you sent out the escort, Overmistress,” Elyril observed.

“Indeed,” Genik said with a solemn nod. “We had heard the matter with Endren had reached a head, but we had not expected such treachery. This is civil war!”

“Who could have expected this?” Mirabeta answered. “The minds of traitors are impossible to fathom.”

Again Genik nodded and Mirabeta smiled.

“But now you are among friends,” she said, and touched his arm.

She looked to the rest of the Saerloonian nobles and proclaimed, “You are all among friends now. The traitors failed of their purpose as all traitors must. Your delegation is received with warmth. Welcome to the capital.”

The crowd cheered and the nobles bowed and curtsied. Elyril, too, smiled. No doubt the Saerloonians would support whatever Mirabeta wanted to do to put down the “rebellion.” As one of Sembia’s leading cities, the voices of its nobles would carry much weight in the moot.

Elyril thanked Shar and resolved to reward herself with minddust.

ŚŠŚ •€>Ś ŚŠŚ

The news of the attack on the Saerloonians burned through Ordulin like wildfire. Mirabeta hired rumormongers to stoke the flames. The news incensed the nobles who had arrived already for the moot. Mirabeta spent the day collecting oaths of loyalty and promises of troops from the nobles. Urlamspyr pledged loyalty, as did the nobles of Mulhessen. Only Daerlun remained neutral, and that mattered little. The Daerlunians were more Cormyrean than Sembian.

Elyril used enspelled rumormongers to start the call among the people that Mirabeta be elected permanent overmistress with war regent authority. She would let the sentiment stew in the heat of the city for a time before encouraging her aunt to broach the subject with the assembled nobility.