The Horse Lord (35 page)

Aldric pressed flat and shut his eyes.

“If Aldric and the old man are going to do anything they had better do it soon,” Dewan muttered to the king as he stared at the encircling shields. Rynert mumbled something under his breath. “What I wouldn’t give for a clear charge across the plain,” the Vreijek went on. “I’d scour that far ridge clean of Kalarr and—”

“Dewan, old friend, stop dreaming.” Rynert’s face was grim. “We’re finished, and you know it. If the fog hadn’t blown away… if Andvar hadn’t broken ranks… if—”

“If you give up now, you might as well use your
tsepan
, king. And you’re too modern in your outlook for such foolishness. We’ll not be beaten until cu Ruruc can ride across this slope without fearing for his dirty life. And he can’t do that just yet.”

The ranks contracted a little more, swords and spears flickering about the iron-rimmed shields. Arrows slashed spasmodically through the air, and Kalarr’s host drew their noose another notch tighter. More of the king’s men died.

Rynert settled his own shield on his arm, then drew his
taiken
and made to throw the scabbard away. Instead, with a wry grin, he set it carefully across his camp-stool. “I’ll collect this later,” he told Dewan. “I wouldn’t want the lacquer to get chipped…”

The mercenary captain’s smile evaporated as he turned to look for more approval on Kalarr cu Ruruc’s face. His master’s features were pale and pinched like someone sick or starving and the sorcerer’s mouth moved soundlessly. “My lord… ?” the mercenary ventured. “My lord, are you unwell?”

Kalarr jerked like a man awakening from nightmare and stared at the soldier with wide, wild eyes. “Something’s wrong,” he breathed. “I can feel it. Finish them off! Hurry!” His voice rose to a scream of fury. “I won’t lose this time! Not again! I
won’t!”

Trumpets shrilled and war-drums thundered while messengers galloped across the plain with orders to hasten the killing. Kalarr watched them—at least his eyes followed them, though by their glazed dullness they seemed to see other things and other places. Then he reeled In the saddle, recovered himself and twisted round to glare towards Dunrath. “Talvalin…” he hissed. “So there you are! Trying to cheat me…” An imperceptible shiver passed through the
traugarin
and they seemed to falter momentarily. “No…” cu Ruruc moaned, swaying as his charger fretted.

“My lord!” The mercenary captain grabbed his arm, thinking the sorcerer about to fall, then flinched back from the snarl of feral rage which bared his master’s teeth. “My lord,” the man yelled hoarsely, “what in hell’s the matter?”

Kalarr ignored him. He rode unsteadily to the crest of the ridge and stared at the distant spike-edged shadow of the fortress. “The chant,” he mumbled. “Continue the chant. The charm is failing, damn you! Ignore Talvalin…Duergar, you are betraying me…” Kalarr’s roan stallion reared and squealed as its rider sawed savagely on the reins, filled with a sudden need to hurt. “Renew my host, you Drusalan bastard!” he shrieked, and rode like a storm for the citadel.

Aldric lifted his head in the sudden shocking silence and looked from side to side before he dared stand up. Duergar stood on the dais, Gemmel in the centre of the floor. Neither moved, but both had their open hands raised before them and the
eijo
could see a dancing, shimmering haze in the air. He did not need to be told that the first man to weaken would die in that same instant.

Then Gemmel spoke. His voice was weak, almost inaudible through the high, eldritch howl of power, but Aldric heard him clearly enough. “This is… your fight now,” he gasped. “Take Ykraith… use it. Knowledge… will come…”

Aldric started to protest, then looked more closely at the old man’s face; thin, drawn, streaked and mottled with blood from a score of splinter-cuts, it pleaded mutely with him to do as he was told. Without any questions—just for once.

Aldric did, and as he scooped the Dragonwand from the ground where it had fallen all other enchantment seemed to stop. Duergar was able to extend his hand and pronounce the Invocation of Fire, but Aldric made an instinctive parrying gesture with Ykraith and the billow of flame splashed impotently against an invisible shield yards short of where he stood.

“Duergar…” the Alban said gently.

The necromancer cringed as if he had been threatened with a whip, then lowered his arms resignedly to his sides. “Aldric…” he replied, and licked his lips. The
eijo
stared at him through slitted, vengeful eyes and raised the Dragonwand above his head in both hands as if it was a
taiken
, then swung the talisman down in a great slow curve until its crystal flame was levelled at the Drusalan’s chest.

“I bring you a gift.” Aldric’s voice was flat and dispassionate. “Something you have cheated and defied for far too long. I bring you death.” He uttered no word of power to give life to Ykraith—but the talisman took his hate and focused it until it became a dazzling pulse of force which hummed across the hall to enfold Duergar Vathach in its white-hot embrace.

“No!” he wailed. “You cannot do this to me… !” And then the energy enveloped him. His skin split and blackened, peeled away until the bones showed through, and his charring skull gaped its jaws in a soundless shriek of anguish while a tongue of living flame licked past his calcined teeth.

The fierce glare dimmed and faded into nothing. A twisted, flaking charcoal thing lay shrivelled in a puddle of its own still-molten grease. It was no bigger than a doll, and it sizzled faintly, sounding and smelling like meat too long in the pan. Duergar…

Aldric took a deep breath, flinching from the horribly savoury odour which clogged his nostrils as he did so. The Dragonwand dropped with a clatter to the floor. He felt drained, sick and unspeakably fouled by what he had done. The taste of revenge had been sweeter by far in the anticipation than in the event. He wondered if it was always so.

Radmur Plain was heavy with the silence and the stench of death. Rynert’s legions were still drawn up in a tight mass at the top of Embeyan Hill, because to move from their positions would have meant walking ankle-deep in the morass of deliquescent corpses which Kalarr’s army had become between one swordstroke and the next. Dewan ar Korentin tied a cloth around the gash in his left arm, then secured another over his mouth and nose.

“I thought something like this might happen, king,” he said. “Kill their master and the puppets die.”

“He did it then.” Rynert fingered his nose tenderly, wondering if it was broken or not. The last few minutes of the battle had been a savage brawl very different from the dignified and elegant combats outlined in his war-manuals. “Something about this whole business stinks, Dewan—and I don’t mean just because of that filth out there.”

“You’re being suspicious again, king. Aldric
-arluth
took an oath to destroy the necromancer and he has succeeded. That’s all.”

“Perhaps…” If Rynert noticed the use of Aldric’s proper title, he gave no sign of having done so. “But I think we should get to Dunrath as quickly as we can. Kalarr’s gone, and he’s heading for the fortress. I’m sure of it.” A retainer brought up the king’s horse and Rynert climbed into his saddle. “Don’t forget what I said about Baiart Talvalin, either.”

Dewan nodded, then issued rapid orders about disposal of the carrion which fouled the hilltop; wood from Baelen Forest and oil from Dunrath featured largely in his instructions, to prevent some other necromancer at some other time from finding the same supply of raw material as Duergar had done. “If old Overlord Erhal had done this in the first place—” he began to say, then fell silent. “But he was killed, of course.”

“So were many people,” Rynert said. “It’s a hazard of life.”

“Aldric… ?” The voice was not Gemmel’s and, coming from behind him as it did, made the
eijo
whip Isileth from her scabbard as he turned. “Go right ahead,” said the man in the doorway. “I would welcome your edge.”

“Baiart…” Aldric breathed, and lowered his
taiken’s
point to the floor. To his own secret shame, he did not yet feel inclined to sheathe it. “Baiart—before Heaven,
why
?” The word came out sounding like a whimper of pain.

Baiart walked forward and smiled grimly in the smoke-diluted sunlight coming from the shattered windows. “Why indeed? To tell you properly would take me far too long, little brother. But… I wanted to live, Aldric. They caught me when I came back from Cerdor that first time; gave me the choice of life as their figurehead or… Or undeath as one of Duergar’s creatures. I chose life. Existence, rather. I’ve been dead for years, except that Kalarr never chose to confirm it. He even laid a charm on me so that I could not use my
tsepan
. I was not even able to kill myself, Aldric. He took away the only privilege that I had left…”

Widowmaker’s blade gleamed as Aldric returned her to the scabbard at his hip; then he saw the longing in his brother’s eyes and shuddered.

“Aldric,”—and this time the voice was Gemmel’s— “he has the right to die by his own hand. You know that.”

The
eijo
blinked and shook his head. “No… I won’t. I
cannot
Not my own brother.”

“You don’t have to. Give Baiart your
tsepan
—or would you rather watch his execution?”

“His
what
! He’s
kailin-eir
, and entitled to—”

“To do something you won’t allow, Aldric,” Baiart pleaded. “Please…”

The younger man had no memory afterwards of handing either the dirk to Baiart or his longsword to Gemmel. But he must have done both, for the old enchanter came back moments later with both weapons in his hands. “It’s over, Aldric,” he said gently. “And Widow-maker’s still clean,” he added when the
eijo
seemed reluctant to touch her braided hilt.

“Can I see him,
altrou
... ?”

“I don’t think—” Gemmel began, then reconsidered. “Very well. If you wish. There can be no harm in it.”

Baiart had been covered to the chin in one of the few wall-hangings to survive the sorcerous combat of… was it really only ten minutes before? The dead man’s eyes were closed, his limbs had been straightened and his face had relaxed from whatever pains had twisted it, into something very close to peace. Aldric gazed down at his brother and knew himself to be alone at last. Utterly, irrevocably alone. The thought no longer frightened him as once it had done. Stooping, he lifted one corner of the tapestry and laid it over Baiart’s face—lightly, as if trying not to waken him.

“Is everyone in this damned fortress dead or deaf?” snapped an irritated voice. Gemmel and Aldric jerked round to face this new intrusion, though neither was really sure what to expect. The speaker was a tall man, in full battle armour covered by a leather
cymar;
his helmet had been pushed back and its war-mask hung from loosened laces at his neck, revealing a heavily moustached, sweaty face: the face of a man who has been hurrying. A light flail was tucked through his belt and a
taiken
was slung across his back—which meant that something was missing, if only Aldric could remember what…

“Who are you,
kailin
?” the
eijo
demanded. “And where do you come from?”

“I am a courier,” the warrior responded shortly, “and I come from the battlefield. Rynert has the victory, and cu Ruruc is dead.” He smiled at that.

His news gave Aldric little satisfaction. The manner of Duergar’s passing had made him sick of slaughter, and with Baiart’s suicide following so soon after, it was little wonder that the young man’s mind was dull and introspective.

“This place is—or was—Duergar Vathach’s citadel,” the courier stated. Steel rang ominously as he drew the flail clear of his belt and looped its strap round his left wrist. “So where is he?”

“Dead!” retorted Aldric. “I killed him. As I promised.” He felt Gemmel tap his heel surreptitiously with the Dragonwand and made a tiny gesture of acknowledgment with one hand, knowing what was troubling the old enchanter. It was worrying him as well; things were falling rather too neatly into place, and the alarms were screeching in his mind. As they had been from the moment he first saw this man. A small superstitious shiver crawled up the
eijo’s
spine as he realised that under his blue leather over-robe the courier wore vermeil-lacquered armour. All the associations of that colour fought for prominence in his racing brain, each one uncomfortably close to the reality he faced.

No horseman could have covered the distance between Radmur Plain and Dunrath if he had left when the battle had been won. Even riding his mount into the ground, this warrior had to have left—Aldric calculated hastily—at least ten minutes before he could be sure which way the battle was going. And why was he wearing that flail instead of an honest
tsepan
... ? The
eijo
felt sure he could put a name to their visitor now.

“You must be Talvalin,” the man said as he walked slowly up the hall, glancing from side to side at the extensive and still-smoking damage. There was a well concealed ugly edge in his voice which provoked a nervous whisper of warning from Gemmel Aldric ignored it, but braced his feet a little wider and waited for events to develop, flicking wary glances towards the flail swinging lazily from the “courier’s” wrist. “I’ve heard about you,
ilauem-arluth
,” he continued as he stopped two arms’-lengths away and bowed fractionally.

By rights the use of his full and proper title should have drawn a much lower bow from Aldric, but nobody except Gemmel knew the rank was his. Apart, that is, from someone who guessed the significance of the honourably laid-out body on the floor. Someone like the scarlet-armoured
kailin
facing him.

Someone like cu Ruruc.

“I have wanted to meet you for a very long time, Lord Aldric. To give you my commiserations; to give you my compliments; and to give you—
this
!”

Though he had anticipated such a move, the flail slashing at his face almost took Aldric by surprise. Almost… but not quite. In his eagerness Kalarr had misjudged his distance and had come too close.