Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

  When he had made his meal, he filled his pockets with more apples, slipped another loaf inside his tunic, picked up a jug of wine, and ascended to the top floor of the tower. Here was the commander’s chamber with its tightly-shuttered windows. It held a curtained bed, a brazier, a desk, and a chair. The desk was still covered with scrolls and tally sheets. He saw the seal of Jaeglenhend on one scroll-case; Caerthalien’s upon another. Both gone. Both erased.

  In the corner of the commander’s chamber was the storage for the silver-and-crystal signal mirrors and the ladder for the trapdoor to the roof. Runacar set the ladder, ascending cautiously, and opened the trap. On the roof stood an unlit brazier, charged with oil-soaked wood and covered against the weather. It was as if the garrison had left sunturns ago, not moonturns. Everything stood ready for use. All the tower lacked was defenders. Tight-drawn with unexamined emotion, Runacar paced the circumference of the tower, looking out over its low wall.

  East: the low hills and the silent land beyond. No trace of smoke in the sky to say that here stood a farmstead or there a manor house. South: the forest through which he had come. Pale green with new leaves, dark green with stands of greenneedles, the Ghostwood far beyond sight. West: the Mystrals and the Dragon’s Gate. A thick sheet of ice spilled from the entrance and cascaded down the mountainside all the way to the foothills: the widened pass would have filled with snow that melted and re-froze and packed down over the winter.

  The Pass will take at least another moonturn to clear, he thought. Longer than ever before. We should have thought of that before we asked our Lightborn to make us such a broad smooth way. But we did not think of it. Between us, Vieliessar’s army and mine have broken the world … It was an uncomfortable thought, and he quickly banished it. Vieliessar started this war. We only did what she forced us to.

  He went back down inside the tower.

  * * *

  “Hello,” an unfamiliar voice said.

  Runacar was shocked instantly awake. The bed curtains blocked his view of the room. He grabbed for his sword, only to find it wasn’t there.

  “I’m not stupid, you know,” the voice said.

  Runacar sat up, yanking the curtains back and looking around. A figure stepped out of the shadows. He—it!—was shorter than Runacar, but twice as wide. The high domed skull and the whole of its body was covered with thick red-gold fur. It held his sword in large thick-fingered black-clawed hands.

  I was wrong, he thought dazedly. There are Bearwards in the Uradabhur …

  “You’re the first of the Children of Stars I’ve ever seen,” the Bearward admitted, wrinkling its blunt muzzle in an expression Runacar could not decipher, “but I know about your kind. Always killing and hurting. Of course I took your sword.”

  “I should expect such cowardice from a Beastling,” Runacar snarled. Fool, to think yourself safe even here! Now he would die. An unarmed knight was no match for a Bearward. He looked around for a weapon. There was nothing within reach but the cup and wine-jug he’d taken with him to bed.

  “I’m not a coward,” the Bearward said reasonably. “If I’d left you the sword, you’d hit me with it. And then I’d yell, and Radafa can’t come down, but he’d tell Audalo and Vorlof, and they’d come up here, and…” the Bearward wrinkled its muzzle again. Its teeth were very sharp.

  Runacar could make no sense of the outlandish names, but they told him the beast was not alone. “Then kill me,” he said sullenly.

  “We don’t want to kill you,” the Bearward said patiently. “We want to talk to you. That’s why we’ve been following you.”

  “Beasts don’t talk,” Runacar said, with an increasing sense of the surreal. Beastlings did, of course, but after all, that was why Elves killed them. He reached out for the cup at his bedside, and then the jug beside it.

  “They do if—”

  Runacar flung the jug. It was still half-full, and very heavy. Without waiting to see whether it hit, he flung himself out of bed, caught up the small table at the bedside, and attacked. It was useless, but at least he’d die fighting.

  The brawl went much as he expected it to, except for one thing: when he shook himself back to his senses, he was neither dead nor dying. He dragged himself painfully from beneath the desk the Bearward had flung him against.

  “What did you do that for?” the Bearward demanded, stepping back and brushing at its fur. It didn’t even sound angry.

  “Elves. I told you—all they know how to do is fight,” a new voice said.

  The speaker stood in the doorway—a Centaur; a hideous melding of misshapen horse and misshapen Elf. It stood taller than the Bearward, though not by much. Its horse-limbs were stocky and heavy boned, and its face was flat and wide; the fur tunic it wore blurred the place where its ill-assorted body joined. I would not ride an animal with such lines, Runacar thought giddily. Behind it on the stairs—but still towering over the Centaur—stood a creature Runacar had never seen in the flesh, though he recognized it instantly. Minotaur. Its shoulders were so wide they brushed the sides of the staircase, and its neck was as big around as Runacar’s entire torso. Its hide was black as a bull’s was black, but just as the Bearward’s face was not quite that of a bear, the Minotaur’s face was blunter than that of the animal it so nearly resembled. If it had stood within the chamber itself, the massive horns that jutted from its brow would have brushed the ceiling. It wore leather armor, and it was carrying a sword.

  “Are you all right, Keloit?” it asked. Its voice was a deep rumble.

  “I’m fine!” Keloit must be the Bearward; it was he who spoke. “It just startled me.”

  “It’s a ‘he.’” The Centaur spoke with assurance. “A male. So, Elf. Fighting doesn’t work. What are you going to try next?”

  I don’t know. The realization was enough to make the room revolve slightly around him. He was frightened and faintly sick and he ached where he’d been smashed into the wall, but most of all …

  I am tired.

  Tired of running, of fighting, of trying to counsel those who would not listen, of seeing all his plans and ideas and hopes dissolve into ash. Of living in a world where Vieliessar also lived, of knowing he must preserve her life to preserve his people. He righted a stool that lay on the floor beside him, and sat down upon it to retrieve his clothes.

  “I am going to get dressed. Then I am going to see to my horse. Assuming you haven’t eaten her,” Runacar said wearily.

  * * *

  Half a candlemark later, Runacar led Nielriel out into the sunlight and then slipped off her halter. He left the heavy door to the tower open wide, and he’d tipped the feed-bin to spill out on the floor. Until he’d seen the fourth member of the Beastlings’ hunting party, he’d hoped these things might give Nielriel a chance to survive—then he looked up, and saw the Gryphon—Radafa—peering down from its perch. At least now he knew who had opened the tower from above.

  Gryphons eat horses. She’ll probably be dead by noon.

  The Gryphon (Runacar remembered how eagerly their feathers had been sought as ornaments by the Elves) was a colorful sight. Its chest, underwings, and throat feathers were an intense blue, while its crest and the back of its wings were a golden bronze. Where feathers turned to fur, it was white on the belly and tawny above. Soaring over the Grand Windsward, it would be nearly invisible both to prey and to other predators.

  The wind shifted, and Nielriel’s head came up, nostrils flaring. Whatever scent she caught must not be the Gryphon’s; she tested the wind for a few minutes then ambled a few feet away and began to graze.

  Runacar walked back inside.

  “What now?” he asked the other three.

  The Centaur—Vorlof—and the Minotaur—Audalo—had preceded him down to the stable floor. Keloit had remained above, saying unhappily that Elven horses didn’t like him.

  “Now you talk,” Audalo rumbled.

  “You could tell us your name,” Keloit said, hurrying down the stairs. “You know ours.”

>   “Because you told him, little magpie,” Vorlof said in long-suffering tones. “It isn’t as if he asked.”

  “If I waited for people to ask me questions I’d never get a chance to tell them things!” Keloit said reasonably. “And I bet he’ll tell you more things if you know his name.”

  If Runacar merely closed his eyes, he could imagine they were people. The thought unsettled him. He looked back at Keloit, who somehow seemed much younger than either the Centaur or the Minotaur. Keloit’s ears folded and lowered, and Runacar was abruptly reminded of a hunting hound he’d once had. It would turn its ears just so when it was attempting to pretend it hadn’t done what it just had. Once it had wandered away and found a henhouse …

  “My name is—” he stopped. Who was he? Lord Runacarendalur? Heir-Prince Runacarendalur of Caerthalien? Runacarendalur Caerthalien, War Prince of Caerthalien? No. He was no longer any of those things. “Runacar,” he said at last. “My name is Runacar.”

  “Short name for an elf with a sword and fine boots,” Audalo said. He looked up at the ceiling as if its presence was a personal affront. “Come outside. If we talk in here, we’ll just have to say it all again for Radafa.”

  Audalo bent nearly double as he squeezed carefully through the door. Vorlof followed. Runacar looked from Keloit to the open door and shrugged. If he slammed the door and bolted it, he’d be in here with a Bearward. Not much choice.

  He walked out into the sunlight.

  “You came from the southeast,” Vorlof said, when they were all standing outside. As soon as Keloit had come outside, Nielriel had broken off her grazing to canter further away. Now she stood watching them, her ears flickering back and forth. She didn’t know what she smelled, but she knew she didn’t like it.

  “Yes,” Runacar said.

  “Your people have been going east all winter,” Vorlof said. “Everyone is.”

  “Not in the Goldengrass.” The new voice was a high harsh whisper, surprisingly loud. The Gryphon had spoken. “In the Goldengrass, the Elves come west. They cross the mountains, the High Desert, more mountains. Always west.”

  The Grand Windsward, the Feinolons, the Arzhana, the Bazhrahils—Runacar matched familiar names to unfamiliar descriptions.

  “The South is ours. Now you come there and kill us,” Audalo said.

  “No!” The denial was automatic, even though Runacar couldn’t imagine what use it was. “We only want to kill each other.” He laughed bitterly; certainly either army would happily have slaughtered Beastlings as well, if they’d seen any. “Wanted. Until the High King won.”

  “Amretheon the Betrayer has been dead a long time,” Vorlof said, switching his tail in irritation. “Lie less insultingly, Elf.”

  The Betrayer?

  I must be going mad to expect sense from a Beastling. Perhaps if I tell them what they want to know they’ll go away.

  And perhaps this is a dream from which I will awaken to discover I am High King.

  “Amretheon Aradruiniel was High King long ago,” Runacar said slowly. “There is a new one.”

  “A new High King?” Radafa demanded, his voice a whispering scream. “The Children of Stars have a new High King?”

  The news seemed to upset Vorlof and Audalo, too. Keloit just looked … well, if Keloit had been an Elf, Runacar would have said the Bearward looked puzzled.

  “Would you like to go and pledge fealty to her?” Runacar asked waspishly. “She’ll probably take it.” Light knows she’s taking fealty from outlaws and Landbonds already.

  Audalo and Vorlof moved away, apparently to argue. Keloit came toward Runacar.

  “Do you know her name?” he asked.

  “Vieliessar,” Runacar answered, not even trying to keep the anger from his voice. “Vieliessar Farcarinon. Child of the Prophecy.”

  “Oh,” Keloit said quietly. “That’s bad.”

  “Why?” Runacar asked, despite himself.

  “Oh, er, um, well … prophecies. Prophecies are generally bad things. My mother always says so.” Keloit wasn’t a very good liar. Even Runacar could tell that.

  “So now the High King makes war on us?” Vorlof and Audalo had returned.

  “I doubt it,” Runacar answered shortly.

  “Don’t lie! She’s already begun! Thousands are dead!” The Minotaur rushed forward threateningly and Runacar recoiled despite himself. The stone of the tower was hard and cold against his back.

  “We want to know what she did to the Flower Forest,” Vorlof said.

  The Ghostwood. Runacar thought of dead trees, grey dust, strange tiny skeletons glittering like crystal. The thing Ivrulion had made. For a moment he thought of saying: Yes, yes, this was the High King’s work, she believes Amretheon’s Prophecy means her to be the instrument of your destruction and this is her first step …

  It would be so easy. Vieliessar needed time to consolidate all she’d won; deny it to her and her king-domain would shatter like crystal dropped upon stone.

  “No,” he said. “It wasn’t her. It was my brother.”

  He closed his eyes and waited for death. Again, it did not come.

  “Why?” Keloit asked forlornly.

  Because he was rotted through with madness and ambition. Because he was supposed to become War Prince of Caerthalien and became Lightborn instead. Because something went wrong, long before he, or I, or even Vieliessar Farcarinon were born.

  “He took its power to cast a spell,” Runacar finally said.

  “He took more than that,” Vorlof said harshly. “He took lives. Mosirinde Truefriend promised us: never all. Never enough to kill.”

  Trying to make sense of this gabble of twisted half-familiar names was like being back in school again, and Runacar wished they’d just kill him, or leave, or do whatever they meant to do. “Mosirinde Peacemaker made the Covenant for the Lightborn. Ivrulion broke it.”

  “For himself—or for all?” Radafa demanded, as if that were important.

  “I don’t know,” Runacar said, eyes still closed. “I don’t care. Ask the High King.”

  More silence. More shuffling. Vorlof and Audalo must have gone away to argue again. His eyes flew open when he felt a touch upon his arm. Keloit was right in front of him. Even if he wanted to flinch away, there was nowhere to go.

  “If everybody’s going to join the High King, why are you going the other way?”

  He’d always thought Bearwards must stink the way bears did, of musk and blood and animal. All he could smell was warm clean fur. He stared into Keloit’s eyes for an uncomprehending moment. They were brown like an animal’s, but no true animal’s eyes had ever held such an expression of worry and curiosity mixed.

  “I don’t like her,” Runacar said simply.

  “I am not going back to Leutric and telling him I don’t know because I forgot to ask!” Audalo’s bellow was loud enough to make Runacar wince and Radafa added his own piercing scream of objection to the noise. That, as much as anything else, told Runacar how deserted Jaeglenhend was. Keloit retreated from Runacar’s side hastily.

  Vorlof trotted back to where Runacar stood. “All right,” he said, as if some decision had been reached. “You’re coming with us.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Runacar asked. The Centaur smiled coldly.

  Runacar shrugged in surrender. The very concept should revolt him to the roots of his being, but it didn’t. He was no one, and there was nowhere else for him to go.

  * * *

  He’d been allowed to pack everything he wanted to take with him (except weapons, of course). He’d only been limited by what Nielriel could carry, and since the others would be on foot (or, in the case of the Gryphon, on the wing), he’d chosen to use her as a packhorse (for which he apologized to her sincerely, to the apparent amusement of the Beastlings). They’d followed the Southern Pass Road at a punishing pace, and each night, after he fed, brushed, and hobbled Nielriel, he fell gladly into his bedroll to sleep. He hadn’t tried to escape. He was too tired, and besides, the Gryph
on would have caught him easily.

  Radafa hunted for them as well as for itself—Runacar had been surprised to find that all of them but the Gryphon ate cooked food—but though the scent of the meat made his mouth water, the thought of eating something a Beastling had touched nauseated him. When his bread and cheese ran out, he’d been willing to heat water over their communal fire, but tea and porridge were a poor substitute for meat. His pride survived another day or two, and then he joined his captors at their fire and ate what they did.

  Just before they reached the Southern Pass, something spooked Nielriel in the night, and she bolted. Keloit had wanted to chase after her immediately. Vorlof said no. Audalo said that there were predators in the woods (something Runacar doubted), and Radafa (as always) wasn’t there to comment (Runacar supposed he must sleep in a tree). None of them got much sleep for the remainder of the night, and in the morning, Radafa found Nielriel and led the others to her.

  * * *

  Nielriel’s body lay in the clearing, utterly despoiled. Runacar knelt beside her, placing a hand on her cheek. Birds had already pecked out her eyes, and her gaping jaws were tongueless. You deserved better than this, he thought sorrowfully.

  “And you will lay this death at my door,” the Gryphon said, in its harsh toneless whisper. Runacar could not guess what Radafa might be thinking, for neither the Gryphon’s face nor voice was particularly expressive. Runacar remembered his Master of Hawks saying one must never think of birds of prey as being Elven—they had no compassion, no love, and no loyalty. He wondered how different Gryphons were, if at all.

  “I’d like to,” he said evenly. “But I can’t.” He got to his feet.

  “Why not?” Keloit asked, clearly wanting to know.

  “Look at her wounds, and the ground around her,” Runacar said. Keloit obligingly did, but seemed to see nothing that would answer its question. Runacar sighed.