The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (28 page)

“I’ll guard your right!” Lord Anasyn called out. “Owaen’s directly behind the prince.”

“Splendid!” Branoic called back. “You bastard!”

This last was for the trapped Boarsman, who in desperation had grabbed a javelin, his last weapon, and was trying to couch it in one arm like a spear. Branoic slapped the point hard and flipped it away from him, then leaned in and stabbed. Just in time the Boarsman flung up his shield, but Branoic’s blow cracked the wood. Branoic slashed back at him and caught the shield again. Half of it fell away. When the Boarsman wrenched his horse’s head around, Branoic’s next blow caught him across the back. With a grunt he slumped forward, but his horse kept moving, shoving itself toward safety as other Boarsmen opened their line and engulfed him. Branoic had to let him go.

Once again the Boars’ line surged forward. Branoic returned to the hard rhythm of defense. Keep them off, keep them back—no room to maneuver, no glory for him—just the endless parry and dodge, duck and strike to drive away, not kill. As long as he lived, they’d never reach the prince. Horns were sounding, but whose he neither knew nor cared. The Boarsmen fell back a little and were gathering for another surge when a squad with the blue shields of Glasloc slammed into them from the side. Cackling with laughter, Gwerbret Daeryc was slashing as he rode, and his men were screaming warcries as they struck. The Boars’ line fell back, but only briefly. When Branoic risked a glance around, he saw the regent’s own guard riding to the Boar’s aid. He knew them by the green wyverns on their shields.

“Hold, hold!” Caradoc was shouting. “Silver daggers, to me!”

From across the field silver daggers answered. Branoic could hear voices he recognized screaming warcries as they tried to cut their way to the prince. The fighting went on while the last of the dweomer-clouds broke up and blew away in a rising wind.

From his position among the beeches, Maddyn had a distant view of the battle. Nevyn had lain himself down on his back in the grass, with a folded-up cloak for a pillow, but his restful pose had proved an illusion. As soon as he’d fallen into a deep trance, he began to move. At first he merely twitched, and his lips worked as if he were talking in his sleep. All at once he flung one arm straight up into the air. His head flopped from side to side. Maddyn crouched next to him and wondered what he should do. Since Nevyn was smiling, it seemed that he was safe enough, but suddenly he jerked his legs and let his arm flop down to the grass.

For a long while he lay so still that Maddyn risked getting up and looking around. In the valley below the regent’s position, he could see the prince’s army spreading out. Maddyn felt a twist of fear. A charge up that slope would cost a heavy price in lives. He stood shading his eyes with one hand and watching until the Red Wyvern army came to a halt. They had formed up in ragged lines five riders deep.

Behind him Nevyn suddenly spoke in a loud and ringing voice.

“Lords of Air, hear my plea!”

Maddyn spun around to find Nevyn spreadeagled on the grass, still in his trance. He knelt beside him just as the old man sat up, called out an incomprehensible word, and flopped down onto his back again. After a long moment, he fell motionless in a sleep that seemed nearer death. He could have warned me, Maddyn thought with some bitterness. Curiosity bit too hard for him to stay at Nevyn’s side. He got up to look at the battlefield in time to see the unnatural storm forming over Regent Burcan’s army. A wind slammed into the beeches and made them rustle as it tore past, heading across the valley to the ridge.

“Lords of Air, indeed!” Maddyn said aloud.

He stood watching as the clouds thickened and the thunder boomed in the sky. The air around him, far away though he was, seemed charged with some strange force or power, as if the very elements themselves quivered with excitement. When he rubbed a hand on his wool brigga, little blue sparks snapped and tingled. He wondered if the same was happening to Burcan and his men. When the rains started, he felt a small stab of pity for the enemy, trapped between the prince’s army and dweomer as they were, but the pity vanished when the prince charged. Without thinking he yelled aloud to cheer them on.

From his distance Maddyn saw embattled armies whole for the first time, as if they were entities that had life and identity. Thanks to the wet ground, no dust cloud rose over the fighting. It was a greater marvel even than the dweomer-storm to see in the clear what had so often trapped and overwhelmed him. He watched fascinated as the Red Wyvern rushed uphill to leap upon the Green, which broke apart and seemed ready to shatter, only to recover itself and countercharge. Off to the flanks of the battle he could see fragments of the Green army running away. A few turned back to rejoin the fighting, but most eventually passed out of sight behind the sheltering downs.

“They’re on their own,” Nevyn remarked from behind him.

Maddyn yelped, then collected himself.

“Ye gods, but you startled me! I’ve been cursed near entranced, watching.”

“My apologies. I could clear the ridge for them, but the prince will have to win the actual battle. It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?”

“It is. I just wish my friends weren’t in the middle of it.”

“That does take the bloom off.”

For a long while they stood together, watching the battle sway this way and that along the crest of the ridge. Over it the dweomer-clouds broke up and dissipated as quickly as they’d formed. When Maddyn glanced at the sky he realized that the day stood well past noon.

By then the entire Red Wyvern army had advanced up the slope from the flat and taken the crest. The fighting spread to the north as the prince’s men drove the regent’s from the high ground and scattered them down the other side. More and more riders fled the field in a disorganized scatter.

“Maryn is going to claim the victory here,” Maddyn said at last.

“So it seems,” Nevyn said. “We’d best get back to camp. I need to get ready for the wounded.”

The sun hung well past its zenith by the time that the last of the regent’s forces broke and fled. By then the brunt of the fighting had shifted away from the prince. As his allies from the rear lines forced their way onto the crest, their fresher warbands drove the exhausted units in Burcan’s army away from Maryn and the banners of the Red Wyvern. In this lull Branoic lowered his shield and allowed himself to pant for breath. Beside him, Lord Anasyn was doing the same. A flower of red blood bloomed on the lord’s cheek and a bruise was swelling around it.

“Naught serious,” Anasyn gasped when Branoic pointed. “Just a flick of a blade.”

Branoic nodded, then returned to watching the field. Around them the battle had broken up into little clots of fighting between the victorious Red Wyvern forces and men who could neither flee nor hold their position. Branoic rose in the stirrups and with his height got a good look round. Most of the regent’s army was retreating with the Boars falling in to guard its rear. Not far from the silver daggers’ position, though, one Boarsman rode slowly alone, lurching back and forth in the saddle. When his horse stumbled, he dropped his shield; silver trim caught the sunlight and flashed.

“Oho!” Branoic said as he pointed him out. “I think that’s some lord of the Boars.”

“Some lord?” Anasyn snapped. “By the hells, it’s Gwerbret Tibryn himself.”

They exchanged a glance, grinned, then kicked their tired horses to a lope and charged after the gwerbret. Anasyn rode round in front to guard while Branoic grabbed Tibryn’s horse’s reins. Tibryn had lost his helm, and blood sheeted down the side of his face from a wound that had half-torn his scalp off. A flap of hair and flesh both hung grotesquely over one ear. He stared at them both as if he had no idea who they were or where they all might be.

“Let’s get him back,” Anasyn said. “Before they come after us.”

At his voice, Tibryn clutched his saddle peak with both hands to steady himself and peered at the Ram shield.

“Traitor” was the only word he spoke.

By the time Nevyn and Maddyn rode into camp, the battle had long since ended. Exhausted men led exhausted horses out to tether; others carried wounded friends to the chirurgeons; those who’d come through unscathed were heading for the carts to fetch food for the rest. Down at the river’s edge men and horses alike waded out into the cleansing water to drink their fill after the thirst of battle. Nevyn rose in the stirrups to look around for the prince, but a servant came running up to him.

“My lord! Caudyr sent me to you. They’ve got a prize, and they’re trying to keep him alive.”

Nevyn dismounted, flung his reins to Maddyn, and hurried off after the servant. At Caudyr’s station Branoic stood watching while Caudyr himself stitched a wound in the right thigh of a man lying on the wagon gate. Caudyr had already wrapped the fellow’s head tightly with bandages, but blood was oozing through. Their prize lay mercifully unconscious, a middle-aged man with a broad face that seemed familiar.

“That’s not Burcan, is it?” Nevyn said.

“It’s not, my lord,” Branoic said. “His brother.”

Nevyn washed his hands in the bucket of water Caudyr had ready nearby, then took a place on the other side of the gate.

“It looks like you’ve done what you can for him,” Nevyn said.

“No doubt.” Caudyr looked up, then paused to wipe the sweat from his arm on his shirtsleeve. “I mostly wanted your opinion. Think he’ll live?”

“How much blood has he lost?”

“A hellish amount. And this wound here goes deep. A javelin caught him just below the skirt of his mail, I’d say, and then he probably pulled it out himself.”

“What about that head wound?”

“He must have lost his helm and been thrown to the ground. It looks to me like a glancing kick from a shod horse tore part of his scalp off.”

Nevyn winced. He leaned down and listened to Tibryn’s breathing: shallow and ragged. When he laid a hand on his face, he found the gwerbret’s skin clammy and cold.

“Fetch a blanket, Branno!” Nevyn snapped. “He’s lost all his fiery humors with the blood, and the imbalance will kill him if we don’t keep him warm.”

With his wounds tended, and him wrapped in blankets and laid near a fire for good measure, Tibryn fought for his life all that afternoon. Whenever he drifted into consciousness, Nevyn got him to drink as much water as he could take and a few sips of herbal medications as well, but he could see how little good they were doing. Tibryn’s face stayed hideously pale, and his lips were bluish, as was the quick of his fingernails. The pain of his torn scalp at times made him moan; it seemed to drain what little strength he had.

Not long after sundown Nevyn realized that the gwerbret was about to die. He knelt down beside him and laid a hand on his face—as cold and clammy as an eel. Tibryn’s breathing came in big gulping gasps. Briefly he woke, opening his eyes and staring at Nevyn.

“Braemys,” he whispered.

“Who’s that, my lord? Your son?”

Tibryn closed his eyes and drew a long hard breath.

“Tell Burcan,” he whispered. “Tell him Braemys lives. I sent him home with fifty.” Again a long pause. “Tell him—”

He choked once, spasmed, and died. Nevyn closed Tibryn’s eyes and drew the blanket over his face, then rose to find Anasyn standing nearby.

“Braemys is Burcan’s son,” Anasyn said. “Tibryn’s nephew.”

“I see,” Nevyn said. “And what do you think he means, sent him home with fifty?”

“Fifty men, most like. Sent him back to Cantrae for some reason.” Anasyn considered, frowning. “Well, if Tibryn even knew what he was saying.”

“I think he did, though it seems he thought he was among friends. Here, has anyone tended that cut on your face?”

“It’s naught.”

“If I can see it by firelight, it’s somewhat. Come along, lad. I want to wash that out, and then we’ll take Tibryn’s last words to the prince.”

In the morning, just after dawn when the astral currents had steadied down, Nevyn scried out their enemies from the etheric. He found the Green Wyvern’s army camped about five miles north of the battlefield. With his etheric sight, he saw not their bodies but their auras, egg-shaped clouds of light, most a grim reddish color, some so dark and small that Nevyn knew they’d not live out the day. Counting them was next to impossible, but Nevyn could tell that the regent’s army had shrunk far more than its casualties would account for. When he returned to the camp, he brought the prince the news straightaway.

“Desertions, my liege,” Nevyn said. “I’d wager that a good many lords have pulled out and taken their men with them.”

“Good. Here’s hoping Burcan’s got a dispirited army on his hands.”

“He’s got a battered one. I’ll vouch for that.”

“Are they staying in their camp, then? They’ll need to lick their wounds.”

“No doubt, Your Highness, but they’re moving out anyway. I suspect they’re running for their dun like rats for a hole.”

Maryn nodded, considering.

“Maybe that explains about Braemys,” the prince said at last. “If Tibryn was in his right mind, that is. Tibryn might have seen the desertions and wanted Braemys safe so he could rally the lords later.”

“That’s a good guess, Your Highness. No doubt we’ll find out all in good time.”

“No doubt.” Maryn allowed himself a wry smile. “But we won’t worry about it until the gods dump it into our laps. We need to ride out fast if we’re going to catch Burcan on the road.”

“Just so. We’re only a bare score of miles from Dun Deverry.”

But moving quickly proved impossible. The Red Wyvern army had taken its own losses and suffered its own wounds. None of the warbands except the silver daggers had gotten itself ready to ride. With Caradoc, Nevyn, and Oggyn in tow, Prince Maryn walked through the camp to find lord after lord, then persuade them to get their sound men mounted and ready to chase the regent’s army.

“I should have held the council of war last night,” Maryn said. “I don’t care how tired we all were. Every now and then I have this dishonorable wish, Nevyn. I wish I could just give an order and have them all obey me without our having to discuss every cursed word I say.”