Bloody hell, he thought. They all have such complete confidence in me. Yeah, and sooner or later my luck will run out, and what then?
What now? Everything’s hanging on a thread, and Tylara acts like she’s afraid of me. That’s a mess that can still wreck everything.
What’s a hero? A track star with no place to run. That’s me, all right.
19
The wind moaned across the hilltop and the corpses swung from the long gallows erected there. Some of the corpses still had faces—faces as grey as the sky overhead. Tylara shivered. The wind seemed to blow through her, and the corpses seemed to beckon her to join them.
Wait a little, my friends. The gods will give their judgment soon enough. Do not do what I have done. Do not think that you know better than the gods.
“The one in chains is Carlga the Smith,” her guide said. “He tried to send warning of Lord Ajacias’ treachery, but was caught and tortured for the name of the message-bearer. He died rather than betray the man.”
And Carlga’s son rode in the Guards. He would have a bleak homecoming.
“He will be avenged,” Tylara said, the same way she might have said, “It is raining.” The Christians spoke of leaving vengeance to God, but there were some things honorable men could not entrust to God or Vothan. One was to leave Ajacias unhanged and his sty of a castle standing.
Tylara’s resolution faltered. If she submitted to the judgment of the gods, she might not live to see the Wanax’s punishment of the traitor.
That might be the only pleasure life still held for her. Yet the blood guilt on her would grow no less, and the gods’ judgment was certain. If not on her, where would it fall? Perhaps on Drantos. Perhaps it had begun when Ajacias turned traitor and allowed Prince Strymon to cross the border.
No. The blood guilt was hers and hers alone, as surely as if she had thrust the knife into Caradoc with her own hand. She alone must answer for it.
“Have them taken down and buried with reverence,” she said. “Now let us rejoin Lord Morrone.”
Her Tamaerthan archers drew around her. She turned and rode back down the hill.
* * *
Morrone had ridden ahead to scout when Tylara reached the campfire. She was eating porridge and sausage when he returned.
His grin was wide. “Either the tales that put Strymon’s host at above ten thousand are lies, or else he has divided his forces most unwisely. Our scouts have found no more than three thousand of his horse and a thousand foot. They are drawn up on the flank of Piro’s Hill. I will order our men to eat, then advance straight to battle.”
That was wisdom, if four thousand was truly Strymon’s whole strength. Seven thousand against four. A thousand of the seven were Tamaerthan archers. It promised victory. But—
“Might Strymon have hidden part of his host to tempt you into just such action, my lord? Or perhaps he can hold until reinforcements can be summoned?”
Morrone shrugged without altering his grin in the slightest. “If he can hide more than three thousand men, Strymon is a wizard greater than any starman. My scouts turn over every fallen leaf. As for his calling up his—reserves, the faster we strike, the less time he will have to do so.”
Tylara did not share Morrone’s confidence in the irregular light-infantry levies he’d brought from the south. They were certainly loyal to their lord, tough, enduring—and as good at looting inns and farms as they were at fighting. Tylara would have had more confidence in half as many Guards or Mounted Archers, but the Guards were with Rick and Ganton.
Moreover, Morrone resented the least criticism of his faithful levies. Did their loyalty flatter him out of all judgment? Tylara only knew that she had twice come close to quarrels with him over the levies’ poor discipline. A third on the day of battle would only hand Strymon the gift of a divided enemy. Morrone did her as much courtesy as she could expect by listening to her at all in matters of war.
“I await your orders, Lord Morrone.”
“I would order you to keep yourself safe, but I know what you would say to that.” Tylara forced a smile. “Your archers are on our left side. That is good. Bring them forward to extreme bowshot and harass the enemy’s infantry until my knights are set to charge, then guard our left flank. If Strymon does launch an attack from that direction, I can trust you to keep your head and not see fifty men as a five thousand.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Morrone waved to his squire and vaulted into the saddle without touching the stirrups. Another wave of his hand, and he was off at a brisk trot, followed by the cheers of everyone around the campfire.
Tylara cheered with them for a moment, then turned away. He can win the hearts of fighting men. Yet can he win battles as well as the husband I have betrayed? Or does he crave a victory of his own? Crave it so greatly that he sees nothing that he does not wish to see? And if that is so, and I accept the gods’ judgment, who will be left to lead the host of Drantos until the Wanax rides north?
No. These are only more excuses. I have sworn to submit to the gods. I broke my oath to Caradoc; I will not break this one.
* * *
The host of Drantos closed with the enemy as the True Sun touched low hills at the horizon. There was not enough time or light to lure the enemy from his chosen position, nor to maneuver behind him. The attack must go straight in, and the gods grant victory to boldness.
She led her archers forward and halted them a full three hundred and fifty paces from the enemy’s infantry. Her arm swept up, then down.
“Let the gulls fly!”
The Tamaerthan arrows did their terrible work against the enemy’s shielded warriors. Arrows flew in flights, half shot high to fall against those who raised their shields, half lower to strike those who held steady. Infantrymen fell. Some turned to run.
Rick always said that frontal attacks on a prepared enemy were wasteful, yet perhaps Vothan will favor us today. Now, Lord Morrone! A charge of chivalry has won more than one battle for Drantos.
Morrone’s forward battle came into sight. The sky was the color of old lead. The True Sun was half out of sight when the Drantos vanguard broke through the enemy’s screen of light cavalry. More trumpets sounded, and the Drantos horse parted, turning to either side to chase Strymon’s skirmishers from the field.
The main body of Drantos heavy cavalry moved forward.
The Tamaerthan archers could no longer help for fear of striking their own men, but that did not matter. The enemy infantry broke and ran. The way lay open for a single grand charge to sweep through the fleeing infantry and crush the knights who stood behind them. The day might be won in an hour.
Grant that it be so. Tylara did not know to whom she prayed, and turned her mount toward the several stades of hills and scrub oak that she and her archers watched over. There were enemies there, but in no great force, certainly not enough to break through a thousand Tamaerthan archers who could shoot a man out of his saddle at four hundred paces.
The horns signaled for the charge; Tylara turned in her saddle to watch it. The steel-clad knights rode in a solid formation, banners in line as on parade. As they lowered their lances they looked fit enough to carry all before them. The trumpets signaled the trot. Then the charge.
The steel lance points reached the fleeing enemy foot-soldiers—and suddenly half of Morrone’s line was in chaos, horses screaming and falling, knights toppling from the saddle. The enemy foot turned from fleeing rabble into deadly foes. They ran in among the horses to slash with long knives and thrust with short spears.
Pits. Morrone’s right had been lured into a chain of pits dug in front of Strymon’s shield wall. Those knights would be lucky to save their lives, let alone carry their charge home. But the left was still intact—and now Strymon’s horse were wheeling, to fall on Morrone’s left with equal numbers and the advantage of the higher ground.
No, superior numbers. Over the crest of Piro’s Hill came a solid line of horse, light and heavy mingled together but com
ing on at a good pace, with the Great Banner of Ta Meltemos in its chariot in the middle of the line.
Trumpets sang, and the Drantos left slowed, then reformed to receive charges from two directions. Morrone was not such a fool as to hope for victory now. He galloped up and down the line like a maniac. Tylara could not hear, but she could imagine what he was saying.
He might yet save much of the host.
If Morrone could stand off the first charge until his right untangled itself from the pits, he might yet manage an orderly retreat. Then superior numbers would tell—
“Ho! Archers! Look to your front! Let the grey gulls fly!”
The cry went up and down the Tamaerthan line and Tylara whirled. Light cavalry were pouring out of the scrubby oak forest. Some of the horsemen were already falling to arrows but more took their place every moment. Tylara’s mind had room for only two thoughts:
I have seen a good captain routed by a great one.
The gods have given their judgment. Now—how best to submit?
It seemed wisest to stay where she was and let the enemy come to her. Soon her archers would retreat before the press of Strymon’s cavalry; then if she rode forward only a few paces she would be beyond the protection of her own troops. So be it. The guilt is mine alone. I will take none of them with me.
Some of the enemy cavalry were horse archers. Their light bows could not match the range of a Tamaerthan longbow, but that was no handicap for Strymon’s archers. They used the cover of the scrub oaks to slip close. They can shoot from horseback, or lying on the ground, while my archers must stand. Tamaerthans fell, and arrows whistled around Tylara. If my horse is killed—
“Lady, time for ye to be out of here,” an archer captain said. He gripped her bridle and turned her mount away from the line.
“Thank you, but it is better that I stay.”
“Lady, ye’ll be goin’, if I have to—”
Tylara never knew what the archer captain would have done. An arrow pierced his face and he fell, his fingers still clutching the bridle. Tylara’s horse shied and reared.
With perfect clarity she saw herself draw her light battle-axe and strike with the flat of it until the dead man’s hand slipped from the bridle. She urged her horse forward, and the animal leaped over the captain’s body. Other archers ran toward her and she drove her spurs in hard. Her gelding bolted past the approaching archers and through the fighting line.
Tylara whirled the axe as she rode. Tamaerthan oaths and Drantos cheers came to her lips. The hail of arrows from both sides slackened as the Tamaerthans held their fire and the enemy used the pause to rally. A mass of horsemen took shape ahead of her. She settled into the saddle and rode straight at them.
Two arrows hit her horse in the flank. He reared, screaming. She kept her seat but the battle-axe slipped out of her hand and hung by the thong around her wrist. A horseman rode down on her, and she saw the gods’ judgment coming toward her in the steel tip of his lance.
“For Caradoc! Vothan!”
The lance tip drove into her horse’s chest. The gelding stumbled and she tried to throw herself clear. Too late. The stirrup leather was wound around her leg and her horse was falling. The gelding rolled over her and the eye of her battle-axe struck her on the forehead. I’ve failed, she thought, and the blackness took her.
* * *
Apelles had put his field hospital near good water, on a rise with a good view of the battlefield. He would have preferred a site that his handful of men could defend. He didn’t fear the enemy so much as Morrone’s southern levies once their lord was too busy fighting to watch them.
He cheered with the rest as the host of Drantos drove forward. After that he had a fine view of the defeat, and the horror of Lady Tylara’s fall.
Light horse from behind the hill swept around to surround the Tamaerthan archers. The clansmen drew into a square. The light cavalry charged once and were driven back by flights of arrows, then withdrew to beyond bowshot, where they stood watchful. The Tamaerthans were no longer a danger to Strymon’s main battle. Apelles wondered if they could withdraw, of if they would stand, never to leave the field unless Prince Strymon granted them quarter.
On the right Morrone’s levies were scattering. The Drantos knights formed into groups and began a more orderly retreat. Apelles hoped they would win free, but they were not his concern. He had known what he must do from the moment he saw Lady Tylara ride into the ranks of the enemy.
Her futile charge had not greatly surprised him. Thrice since the host of Drantos rode north he had seen Lady Tylara when she thought no one was watching. Each time, her eyes seemed those of one who had gazed into the Christians’ Hell.
If Lady Tylara had found what she sought, he could at least bring out word of her death, so that her kin would hear it from a friend. If she yet lived—she might think herself in Hell while still in this world. No one should have to face that alone.
“Culin!”
“Yes, Father Apelles?” That was not yet the accepted title for priests of the Dayfather, but the boy could not be broken of using it.
“I am going to go down and surrender to the enemy.”
“You cannot—”
“. . . to assure honorable treatment of our wounded prisoners. You will bear a message to Yanulf. Ask him to care for Maev and our daughter.”
“Fa—you cannot command me to do that. It would be turning my back on the enemy.” He looked indignantly at Apelles.
Apelles noticed that Culin’s eyes were now on a level with his. Soon he would be taller, if he lived. Apelles remembered the scrawny, gawky boy he’d found at a House of Vothan and taken as his servant a year ago. Now Culin could read and write, his clothes would not have disgraced a yeoman’s son, and he had his whole life before him.
He would not lose that life, if Apelles had aught to say about it.
“Culin. If you do not go to Yanulf, he will think I have gone mad. That would take honor from me. And from you as well. Besides, if Yanulf thinks I have gone mad, will he care for Maev and our daughter? Would you have them begging their bread, with the Time approaching?”
“No, Father.”
“And you have sworn obedience. Was that a false oath?”
“No, Father.”
“Then be off. I will wager you a meal in a good inn that we shall see each other again.”
“How shall I pay if I lose?”
“By selling the horse you will need to steal to reach Yanulf.”
Culin’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then he knelt, kissed Apelles’ hand, and ran off.
Apelles watched him go, glad that he had no running to do, in search of a horse or anything else. His knees seemed to lack the strength they’d had this morning. His mouth was dry, and his breath came quickly as if he’d been running.
Now he might never have to choose between his family and a bishopric in the united faiths. Certainly he would have liked to see Maev again. Or discuss the Act of Union with old Polycarp. It would be pleasant to sleep in his own bed in his own chambers once again, and drink a cup of the good wine he could never have afforded as a swineherd’s son. . . .
None of that mattered. His god had called him to Lady Tylara. He strode down the slope and never looked back.
PART FIVE
AFFAIRS OF HONOR
20
Rick reined in at the top of the small hill. Castle Armagh was visible ahead. He dismounted. Time to walk the horses. Ten minutes every hour. Every movement was an effort, and he felt as if someone had been standing on his back.
Only ten more miles, he thought. We’ve made good time from Dravan in the last week. Ten more miles. Fifteen minutes in a car. An hour in a four-wheeler with no roads. Half a day’s ride for us. Silently he cursed the Shalnuksis and all their works. But if they hadn’t taken you off that hill, where would you be, Galloway?
Dead, I expect. But I wouldn’t be responsible for saving civilization for a whole planet.
* * *
Fields of young wheat filled the valley between the road and the hills. It looked like they’d have a good crop, enough to feed the region, with a lot left over to be stored in the Caves. If we can keep Strymon’s army from trampling it. Or burning it. Or burn it ourselves, only I won’t do that. Sure, we’ll have plenty for a couple more years. But then the Time will come, and the Shalnuksis . . .
Rick couldn’t see the fields on the other side of the hills, but he knew what they held. Tangles of surinomaz—madweed, as the locals called it—tended by convicts and slaves under the watchful eyes of armed guards. I wouldn’t blame the slaves for running. Cultivating madweed’s hard work. Dangerous, too. But if we don’t grown the stuff, we’ll have nothing for the Shalnuksis, and they’ll bomb the planet just to keep it in the Stone Age. And if I tell myself that often enough, maybe I’ll believe it’s all right to be a slave master. Maybe.
* * *
As they approached Castle Armagh the gates opened and four blue-robed priests of Yatar rode out. When they were closer, Rick saw that their leader was Yanulf.
What’s he doing here? Rick wondered. His place is at Edron. Or with the Wanax. There’s not much here but mercs and madweed, and those are my job, not his.
“Hail, Lord Rick.”
“Hail.”
Yanulf gestured, and the junior priests and apprentice who’d ridden out with him drew away. “I would speak with you alone,” Yanulf said.
Rick waved his guards back and rode on with Yanulf. “Bad news?”
“The worst,” Yanulf said.
Worst. “Tylara’s dead.”
“No, my lord. Captured by Prince Strymon. Morrone lost half his force, and both he and the Eqetassa were taken.”
“But she’s alive.”
“Yes, when last we heard. But there is more you should know.”
Lord of Janissaries Page 77