Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor (45 page)

Nods all around, each of them looking as if they were hearing this for the first time, even though it was hardly news to any of them.

“But we have what
they'll
never have,” she continued, holding her young head high, her pride in
them
showing in every word. “
They
don't have a home and they don't want to trouble to build one for themselves; they want to steal ours.
They
don't have families, even, so Alberich says,” she gestured at Alberich, who contented himself with looking somber. “And I'd feel sorry for them, I'd even invite them to come settle if they'd just
asked
us! That's what we're all about, is Valdemar—we
don't
keep people out if all they want is peace! That's the way we've always been, haven't we?”

Murmurs of assent, with a growl under it.

“But since these Tedrels don't
want
peace, don't
want
to build, and only want to steal our land and homes from us—there's only one way we can meet them,” she continued, with a look of fierce pride that would have been incongruous on such a young face, but for the circumstances. “We didn't begin this war, but by all that is holy, I swear we will
end
it!”

It wasn't the best speech he'd ever heard, but it did exactly what Alberich wanted it to; it galvanized them. Partly it was Selenay's personality, partly it was that they
wanted
to find a figurehead for their cause. They cheered for her, and that was what counted; she thanked them in a way that made them cheer for her again, and when she mounted Caryo, she was glowing with enthusiasm and flushed with pleasure.

Then it was off in another direction, to another campfire, wandering in a random fashion, skipping some groups that seemed to be intent on some business or entertainment of their own, going on to others who might need her speech more. Selenay was beginning to run out of energy and wilting a little when Alberich called a halt to the visits for the night, and led her and her guardians back to her tent.

“Did I—” she asked quietly, as the encampments quieted and the fighters around them let their fires die down and sought their bedrolls.

“Well, you did,” he assured her. “Very well. And tomorrow, again you will do so, and the next night, and the next. Each time, a different direction, a different set of fires. And know, all will, that their Princess cares for them, and thinks of them, and their King cares for them and his daughter sends to see they are well. So for you they will fight—”

“Not for me!” she exclaimed. “For Valdemar!”

“But Valdemar,
you
are,” he countered. “A face they need, upon the idea. That face, you are.”

She might have continued to voice her objections, but they had reached her tent, and he bundled her inside without standing on ceremony as soon as she had unsaddled Caryo and rubbed her down. “Sleep now,” he told her. “Think and argue on the morrow.”

And there he left her, too tired, really, to do more than he had told her to do. She let the tent flap fall shut behind her, Caryo ambled into the lean-to that served as her stable, and he mounted Kantor again.

:She has the spirit in her,:
he told his Companion with intense satisfaction as they reached his tent, and he dismounted to free Kantor of his burden of gear.
:And she found words enough that were right to do the job.:

:Caryo helped. But you're right. And this is something that's needed.:
Kantor flicked an ear back in his direction.
:She's putting heart in them.:

He heaved the saddle onto its stand, and hung the bridle up beside it, taking up a wisp of straw to give the Companion a quick rubdown.
:And they in her.:
That was the beauty of the thing; even as she gave them something tangible to fight for, they gave
her
confidence, and helped her to find her courage. The more courageous
she
felt, the more heart she'd put in
them. :There. That should hold you until morning.:

The Companion gave himself a brisk shake, and walked into his own lean-to.
:You're wasted as Weaponsmaster,:
Kantor said thoughtfully, from out of the shadows under the canvas.
:You should have been a Councilor.:

:Vkandis forbid!:
he exclaimed indignantly.
:I would rather muck out stalls!:

:There—it's a similar occupation,:
countered Kantor, and his mental chuckle followed Alberich all the way to his bed.

F
OR days, there had been nothing but drill and drill for the men, plan and replan in the commanders' tent. Every day Selenay sat at her father's side and listened, putting in a word or two that was always apt, always to the point. Every night she and Alberich and her bodyguards went out to another set of campfires, talking to another set of fighters. He tried to see to it that she had words with every sort—from the young Knights of the heavy cavalry to the archers and pikemen, from the half-wild hill folk serving as scouts to the massive brutes of the heavy foot. He had his own ears to the ground, and he was satisfied with what he heard—as he'd hoped, the men and women she spoke with
talked,
and soon it spread like wildfire across the entire army that the King and his pretty daughter were “right folk” worth fighting for, who knew their people and
cared
for their people and would be right in there slogging it out
with
their people when the day came. The mood in the army shifted imperceptibly and took on a focus.
That
was what he wanted; Selenay had helped to make it happen. Now there was a sense of the rightness of the cause, and a certainty of purpose.
Now
their leaders were not some impersonal images somewhere. The King and Heir had personalities and faces, and were well on the way to becoming “beloved.”

“Beloved” was excellent; men (and presumably women too) fought fiercely for something that was “beloved.” And should anything happen to Sendar, his daughter stood a fighting chance of being able to take up the reins without a pause or hesitation. Nor, should the worst happen, was there now any chance that another contender could take the throne away from her—not that any Herald would try, but he had to operate on the assumption that there could always be someone willing to attempt a coup. Certainly, the common people, the Guard, and the army would support her without a second thought, should a would-be usurper appear. He hadn't revealed
that
part of his plan to anyone, not even Kantor—though he had the feeling Kantor had guessed it and approved. As Sendar would approve, if he ever learned it himself.

Selenay, of course, would be horrified, which was why she would never hear of it.

Now he sat in Kantor's saddle, under a clear, summer sky, with dew still wet on the grass. The planning was over; it was too late now to wonder if they had overlooked anything.

For now it all came down to this: two massive armies, both rested, facing each other across firm ground. The Tedrels had taken their time getting here, and they seemed unsurprised to find the Valdemaran Guard waiting for them. “Seemed” was the operable word, since there was no way of knowing for certain if they were surprised or not; when the Tedrels began to move, Sendar ordered the spies out and back home.

(And they made it; somehow, they all made it, though not entirely intact. A couple were injured escaping, but escape they did, and the last of them had come over the Border two days ago.)

Alberich hoped that was a good omen. He could use a good omen, for he was not at all confident about this final confrontation. Of all the times to have some handle on the future, this would have been the best, for the sake of his own spirits, if nothing else—so of course, he got no inklings at all. If the Tedrels, or the Sunpriests, were blocking ForeSight, they were doing a good job of it, if he couldn't even get a
hint
of what this day would bring. All he
felt
was akin to having an enormous wave cresting a furlong above him, about to crash down on him, and the sense that nothing he could do would get him out of the way. Which was, in a figurative sense, exactly what was about to happen. He wouldn't describe the feeling as “impending doom” precisely, but it certainly was a sense that events were about to overwhelm him.

Last night, the Tedrels had camped just over the horizon; the glow of their campfires had been clearly visible from the edge of the Valdemaran camp. It had made for an uneasy night on this side of the Border. Alberich doubted that anyone had gotten very much sleep. There had been scouts of all sorts out all night, and double the usual guards—the Tedrels were not altogether predictable, and a night attack had not been out of the question. A lot of people had slept (or tried to) in their armor.

This morning, there they were, having marched into place in the predawn, deliberately arranging their ranks on the other side of the valley, quite as if they were setting up for a review or a parade, looking as if they'd shown up for an appointed meeting.

It might just as well have been an appointed meeting. Alberich had no doubt that they had known since they began moving in this direction exactly where the Valdemaran army was. There was no reason why the Tedrels should not have spies of their own, and every reason why they should. Alberich had done his best to find them, but he doubted he'd made more than a significant dent in the population.

And, when it all came down to cases, it was rather difficult to hide the movement of the entire Valdemaran army from much of anyone in a country that had as much freedom as Valdemar; the Tedrel spies had no doubt counted most of the Valdemaran troops and reported them on the move. Alberich could only hope that the Tedrels believed those troops were made up of old men and inexperienced boys and girls—basically, the last possible lot of conscripts left out of a depleted population.

Working in Valdemar's favor, of course, there weren't many options open to where the Tedrels came across the Border, given where they had made their base, deep in the hills. The fact that Valdemar had known
where
that base was, and had moved to block the only real access point right at the Border itself, might (he hoped) have come as a slight surprise.

Or not. If the Tedrels really, truly thought they had superior numbers, there was no reason why they should care where the battlefield was as long as neither side had a critical advantage.

Alberich surveyed the Tedrel nation from his place at Selenay's side, and hoped that his sinking heart didn't make itself known in his expression. They filled their side of the battlefield, from one side of the valley to the other, and there seemed no end to them. A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand? More?

Surely not more.
Sunlord help us if it is.

Beside him, with Selenay's silver-and-blue battle banner streaming above her, Myste sat stock-still, the mask of her lenses making it impossible to tell what she was thinking, but her skin was nearly as white as her Companion's hide. Myste had volunteered to take Selenay's banner, and Alberich had agreed, given that it was unlikely Selenay's party would see real combat—and if they did, it was because they were fighting their way to retreat.

Talamir had the King's battle banner, much larger than Selenay's; both were affixed in a socket behind the saddle and didn't need a free hand the way Karsite banners did.

It was easy to tell which were the real Tedrels and which the mere recruits. Behind those shock troops, whose mounted officers had to constantly ride their lines to keep them in their places, the
real
Tedrels had formed up, rank on rank of them, unmoving and unmoved, silent, waiting. Their armor glittered in the morning sun, each man a minute scale upon the body of some massive beast, poised to claw and rend its way to Valdemar's heart. So far away as to be just barely visible to the naked eye, fluttering above the heads of the enemy at the top of the next ridge, were the purple battle banners of the Tedrel commanders.

Alberich hoped that the King and Lord Marshal were proud of
their
fighters, who stood rock-steady in the face of so numerous a foe. Two or three moons ago, many of these young people had been following plows, sweating at a forge, or tending beasts—or hauling nets, tending shops, working at a craft. Now they stared at the enemy, knew they were about to fight for their lives against battle-tested and hardened mercenaries, and did not flinch.

There was no sign of Sunpriests. Alberich strained his eyes in every direction to be sure, but they simply weren't there, and his heart, which had sunk down into the soles of his feet, rose as far as his ankles.
Thank you, Lord Vkandis, giver of life, awful in majesty. . . .

“Sire?” the Lord Marshal said quietly, at Sendar's right. “Your orders?”

“This side of the valley is Valdemar; that side is Karse,” said Sendar in a low but clear voice. “We will not provoke this fight. Though they have attacked us every summer for the past three years, we will not provoke them, and we will not cross the Karsite Border. If they insist on having this confrontation, they must break the peace and the Border, for we will not.”

Sendar sounded completely calm, quite composed, as if he did not care whether the Tedrels came or not. Alberich glanced at Selenay's Six; all were mounted, surrounding her, the Guards on ordinary horses rather than Companions.

Well, not
quite
ordinary horses; these were the big, ugly, fighting horses out of Ashkevron Manor, trained by horse-talkers who were trained by Shin'a'in, or so it was claimed. Knights of Valdemar dreamed of being able to own a single one of these beasts in a lifetime, and Alberich had never seen more than three in all of the time he'd been in Haven, but Ashkevron Manor had sent enough of their finest to mount every one of the bodyguards that wasn't a Herald. They carried their armor, a set of hinged plates that protected vulnerable head, chest, and flank, as if it weighed no more than a bit of barding. Each of the Guards had been schooled by one of the horse-talkers in how to handle their brutes and had not just learned to ride them, but had bonded in a sense with them; the results were impressive. They were pleasant enough in corral and under saddle, but Alberich pitied the man who met them in a fight. A single touch of the knee and a shouted command, and an enemy would be pulp. And if the horses were attacked first, their attacker would be pulp
without
the signal or the command.