“True,” Runacar said encouragingly. “But she might come here. What then?”
“Wouldn’t she win?” Keloit asked tentatively. “She has more knights than there are stars in the sky—Mama says—and witches, too. The Green Robes.”
“Witchery won’t save anyone from an arrow through the throat,” Tanet said, touching the quiver at his hip. “Or a dart—if it’s poisoned.” The Woodwose fought in forests, from ambush; their weapons were sling and dart-pipe, bow and bolo, javelin, garrote, and sharp curved dagger.
“But this is where they come from,” Pelere protested. “All the Green Robes come from this place.” She looked hopefully at Runacar, but he would not give her the answer. His apprentices had to learn to find the answers for themselves.
“It’s a bower-bird nest!” Keloit exclaimed. “You know: they build them with all the prettiest flowers they can find, as big as they can. That’s what this is! Only what does he want to come?”
“Not us,” Pelere said firmly. “But bandits won’t attack Green Robes,” she said, dutifully reciting her lessons. “And we won’t, because King Leutric says we are not to show ourselves within a hundred leagues of this place, and so we haven’t. The High King isn’t here. So there is no threat.” She stamped her hoof again and frowned. “Only he doesn’t know we won’t attack…”
“That’s right,” Runacar said encouragingly. He glanced at Tanet, but the Woodwose’s face was expressionless. “Hamphuliadiel means to hold the Sanctuary against you—us—and perhaps against the High King if she comes. For that he needs an army. He cannot summon one, for the Astromancer has no such authority. But he can lure one with this display of wealth and order.”
And he has the only Lightborn between the Shore and the Mystrals, so he has something everyone needs …
“Do you think it’s worked?” Tanet asked archly.
Pelere grinned bloodthirstily. “Let’s find out.”
“Soon,” Runacar said. “For now, we’ll go and tell the others what we’ve learned. What is the first lesson every scout learns?”
“Never risk losing what you have learned of your enemy before you can tell it,” Pelere and Keloit chorused. Tanet merely grimaced.
* * *
The war band’s camp at Araglion Flower Forest was tiny by the standards Runacar had once known, but immense by the reckoning of the Otherfolk, for there were nearly a hundred souls gathered here.
Andhel appeared from nowhere less than a quartermark after his party entered Araglion. She stood blocking their path. There were a number of Woodwose with the war band, but Runacar had never deluded himself that they followed him—none of the Woodwose trusted him. Tanet was their leader, and most of them pretended Runacar was invisible—except for Andhel. The Woodwose was one of the camp sentries—running away, Andhel said, was a prized skill when you were a sentry or a scout. Like Tanet, she wore painted buckskin, but hers was stitched and appliquéd with horsehair and feathers, artful trailing ribbons and tattered scraps of cloth. Her long straight hair was dyed the green of forest moss, and her face was painted with an elaborate design of dots and spirals.
“So, Great Prince Runacar, what did you find?” Andhel demanded. She seemed to take an unfailing delight in mocking him at every possible opportunity. And while Tanet actively wanted to learn what Runacar had to teach, and confined himself to occasional moments of snark, Andhel took a passionate delight in baiting his temper. He wasn’t sure why she had joined his experimental Free Company in the first place.
“That Hamphuliadiel has decided to become War Prince,” Runacar said shortly. Usually he found her bickering entertaining, but not today.
She snickered. “That’s what you all want, Houseborn.”
“I have said—” Runacar began.
“That you are Runacar-of-no-House,” Andhel singsonged, “but its stones will be in your bones until you die, Houseborn.” She smirked at him triumphantly.
“Yes, if you say so, Andhel, I am certain it is Pelashia’s own truth,” Runacar said. “I have stones for bones. Now, where is Audalo?”
“Where else?” she answered, pointing deeper into the forest. Runacar looked—he could not see the camp from here—and when he looked back, Andhel had vanished.
“Why doesn’t she like you? Tanet likes you,” Keloit said. Runacar had long since discovered that Keloit liked everyone, and was always surprised to discover his view of the world wasn’t everyone’s.
Tanet said nothing very loudly.
“Tanet hopes that someday Runacar will become Woodwose in his soul,” Pelere said. “And then he can declare victory over all the Children of Stars.”
Tanet smiled. “Ah, I see someone has figured me out, pretty one.”
Pelere tossed her head and ostentatiously looked away from Tanet. Runacar shrugged and walked in the direction Andhel had indicated. Pelere and Keloit followed.
“No,” Runacar said, swooping up the Faun who’d darted from cover to grab at his boot-dagger. He tossed the little creature up into the air and plunked it on Pelere’s back.
“Hey,” she said, turning to look over her shoulder. The Faun grinned at her.
It was a creature the size of a young child, with long, tufted, pointed ears, tiny golden nubs of horns, and disconcerting brown-red curls on its head. Above the waist, at a distance, it might be mistaken for one of the alfaljodthi. Below the waist, it was goat-like, in the way Centaurs were horse-like and Minotaurs bull-like.
“Flary likes you,” Runacar said hopefully, as the Faun began trying to search Pelere’s pockets.
“Flary likes anything shiny,” Pelere said. She plucked him from her back and tossed him gently to the ground. “Run along,” she said kindly. “You don’t want to play with Runacar today. He’s in a bad mood.”
Flary scurried off. Runacar suppressed a scowl. At the moment, he thought he’d give a great deal for someone—someone other than Andhel or Tanet—who was in a bad mood. Or at least properly worried. The Otherfolk were fighting for their lives. He knew it. They knew it. But—
They don’t think like Elves. They don’t fight like Elves. And you miss people who do. Even the Woodwose didn’t think like his people. No matter what they looked like, they thought like Otherfolk.
* * *
The encampment was scattered among a dozen clearings. Audalo was sitting on a tree-trunk in the central one. He’d stayed behind on the scouting expedition because there was simply no way for a Minotaur to skulk.
Beside Audalo, insubstantial as smoke, stood a Dryad. She was speaking to Audalo, but Runacar couldn’t hear her. He stopped where he was, watching. She was beautiful.
He thought of the twisted, wooden bones in the Ghostwood and gritted his teeth.
If we’d known … would it have made any difference? I keep asking myself that, and it’s always the same answer: no. Because we did know. And we killed them anyway.
Her report finished, the Dryad faded away. Runacar glanced around the clearing, trying to figure out which tree was hers.
“Runacar! You’re back!” Audalo rose to his feet in greeting, his leather creaking. Like most Minotaurs, Audalo went barefoot, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dressed. Wide leather bracers covered his arms from wrist to elbow, and again from elbow to shoulder, their surfaces elaborately painted, carved, and studded. His tunic was of good heavy linen, dyed with a pattern of bars and swirls in grey and green—the design looked purely ornamental until Audalo vanished into the forest without taking more than a step or two. It fell to mid-thigh and was secured with a wide belt holding pouches and weapons. His great ivory horns were gilded in a spiral pattern interwoven with small red and blue dots: Minotaurs were known for their decorative skill and their main trade items were decorated pottery and designs, which others could translate into cloth or other woven goods.
“We had to make sure we weren’t followed from the Sanctuary. But I saw some things there that will interest you,” Runacar said.
“By that he means you sh
ould be worried,” Keloit said irrepressibly.
“Bah!” Audalo scoffed. “With Leutric for our King and Runacar to lead our armies, we are certain of victory!” He smiled to show it was meant in jest, and indicated Runacar should sit beside him. “What have you learned?” he asked.
Audalo was Runacar’s apprentice in the art of war, but he was also King Leutric’s heir. Runacar concentrated for a moment, organizing his report in his mind, just as he would have given it to Lengiathion or Elrinonion, or even to Bolecthindial, when Caerthalien still stood. “The Sanctuary of the Star is going to be a problem.”
Audalo cocked his head in inquiry, a gesture that still mesmerized Runacar every time he saw it. The first time, he’d wondered why the Minotaur simply didn’t fall over, pulled by the enormous weight of his horns. It still seemed so likely that he might.
“The drawings I made for Leutric are no longer true,” Runacar said. “What I thought was there was something we might easily have ignored while we took the Shore. But now—”
He told all of what he remembered and what he guessed of what Hamphuliadiel had done. The Sanctuary itself, made defensible. The land for leagues around put under plow, and a great village built to hold those workers.
“It will keep growing,” Runacar said. “Any Landbond who didn’t go running after that damned— To join the High King’s army—or who we didn’t chase over the Mystrals or into Delfierarathadan—wants protection. Keloit suggested Hamphuliadiel was building a lure to entice the surviving masterless komen to join him. I think he’s right—we haven’t seen much of them east of the Sanctuary, and we should have. The Astromancer means to build an army.”
“What do you think he means to do with it?” Audalo asked, after a pause.
“I don’t know,” Runacar admitted. “What I do know is this: we’d better find out. And that means trying his defenses. If we do not know what he has, and what he plans, we will once again find ourselves caught between hammer and swordblade.” He had long feared a leader rising up to unite what was left of the Western Reach. If Hamphuliadiel was that leader …
“See the brave Houseborn fleeing from shadows!” Andhel said scornfully, stepping to Audalo’s side.
“See the brave Woodwose who has never faced Lightborn in battle!” Runacar answered caustically. “Let us see how Hamphuliadiel will defend what is his before we make our plans.”
* * *
It was a few candlemarks after midnight. There was nothing to see but a few lights burning within the Sanctuary itself. The village was dark. The moon was a tiny sliver, giving no light.
Runacar had planned and led raids and skirmishes most of his life. He’d been the favored son, the Heir-Prince, meant to rule over Caerthalien when his father went to ride with the Starry Hunt. There was no reason to be nervous, he told himself.
The difference was that this time, he would not be leading the raiders. He wouldn’t even be a big part of the fight. Without a horse, he could not keep up with the Centaurs or even the Bearwards. And the initial attack depended on speed.
Runacar did not intend to attack the Sanctuary itself. Even if he’d possessed ten times the numbers at his current command—and even assuming he were able to instill anything approaching field discipline into them—it would be an affront to the Silver Hooves to attack Their shrine. The village beside it was a different matter.
The plan Runacar had made was simple. It had to be. The Otherfolk were strong, fast, and smart, but they did not wage war as Runacar understood war. Lengiathion and Elrinonion would laugh themselves to scorn to see me now. But Lengiathion would also say that the warrior fits himself to the war, and not the other way around. If these are my knights, then my tactics must serve them as well as they can.
He tried to push the feeling of wrongness from the surface of his thoughts. Every instinct told him he should be astride a destrier, in full armor, the heavy weight of a helm on his head to match the weight of the sword at his hip. To ride forward into the eternal dance that was half prayer, half promise, its every move an offering to the Silver Hooves and the Starry Huntsman. An offering of the beauty of war to Those Who watched and judged.
It was something he would never have again, thanks to his destined and unbeloved Bondmate. Now he wore leather armor and Centaur-made chain. His sword was short, something that would not impede a man on foot. He carried a small round shield, its weight and heft awkward and unfamiliar.
Around him, behind him, stood his war band, waiting.
He took a deep breath. Remember who you were, he told himself fiercely. He forced calmness over his thoughts, and his hands were steady as he opened the gate of the tiny dark lantern. One—two—three pulses of light. It was the signal.
There was another moment, in which Runacar imagined a thousand things to have gone wrong. Then, suddenly, there was a blaze of light as the Centaurs whipped their torches aflame. The ground trembled with the thunder of hooves as two tailles of Centaurs charged from the woods. They had sixteen furlongs of open field to cross before they reached the town. Plenty of warning for anyone on guard.
That was the point.
“Archers, move up,” he whispered. To whisper was reflex only: he could have shouted without betraying their position, for the Centaurs were howling their battle cry, a sound that struck chills down his spine. “Do not loose until I give the order.”
“Does it feel good to give orders, Houseless?” Andhel asked, as she stepped to his side. She carried a walking bow nearly as long as she was tall: the archers were the first line of defense.
“Ask me again when we’ve won,” he answered, and Andhel laughed soundlessly as she moved beyond the tree line to take her position. The archers were in the first rank, backed by the rest of the Centaurs.
The running Centaurs had nearly reached the village. The windows of the Sanctuary began to fill with light, one by one, like slow fireflies.
“Radafa.”
Runacar stepped back as the Gryphon came forward. Radafa stepped into the open space and began to run, a gleaming shape in the darkness, his feet soundless over the plowed earth. Runacar heard the sharp sound as his wings unfurled, the muffled drumbeats of them as the Gryphon clawed for altitude.
The Centaurs thundered through the village. Light flared as their torches kindled thatch and timber. There were screams, as the villagers awoke to their peril.
No watch, Runacar noted automatically. Hamphuliadiel doesn’t defend the village; there might be a sentry somewhere inside the Sanctuary, but they don’t know what they’re watching for and they’re too slow to sound the alarm.
He drew his sword and began to run.
The rest of his War Band followed.
An alarm bell began to ring at last, jangling instead of tolling, its rope pulled too fast by panicked hands. A rush of Silverlight spilled into the Sanctuary courtyard. The Lightborn were coming and neither Code nor Covenant prevented them from using their spellcraft against Otherfolk. It had been done for centuries.
But not by these Lightborn, Runacar thought with a wolfish grin. All the Lightborn willing or able to fight are east of the Mystrals or west of Delfierarathadan. That’s why we’ll win.
Keloit and the other Bearwards passed him, running full out.
Runacar could see the Sanctuary entrance clearly now. He saw green-robed figures come racing through the gates. A cloud of Silverlight cast its radiance over them as if they stood in full moon’s light. A few stopped just outside the gates—probably the ones casting Shield in front of their fellows. But Shield was a stationary spell; the wall before the running Lightborn appeared, vanished, appeared a few paces further on, over and over, a pale flicker against the glow of the fires. Half the town was burning now.
Runacar counted under his breath: a hundred count, no more, from the first torch thrown to the retreat.
The sky began to boil. Someone was about to summon Lightning.
The Centaurs appeared again, fleeing the way they’d come. This time they were
visible against the firelight. They scattered, no longer a compact group, but wide-spaced running figures.
From around the far edge of the town came a band of mounted riders. Chain shirts and palfreys. Guardsmen, perhaps. Not komen. Two or three tailles at most. Clever, Runacar thought approvingly. A horse can outrun a Centaur over a short distance.
A wall of Shield appeared before the fleeing Centaurs, cutting off their retreat.
And Radafa dove out of the sky, screaming—a raptor larger than an ox, with a wingspan wider than the length of a Great Hall. Foreclaws with razor talons longer than a komen’s arm and a cry like a stormwind. The gathered Lightborn screamed and scattered, flinging themselves prone to avoid Radafa’s presumed attack. The violet wall of Shield vanished. The clouds began to roll away.
The horsemen were having enormous trouble controlling their mounts in the presence of the Gryphon; when the Bearwards reached them, the animals simply bolted. Some left their riders behind on the ground. Runacar saw one of the horsemen rise to fight, only to be struck down by a single, open-handed Bearward slap.
The Lightborn had regrouped, but they were running toward the burning village and a task they understood. The flames guttered and died with unnatural speed.
The Bearwards followed the Centaurs back to the safety of the woods.
Now came the thing Runacar had hoped for. The sound of a war-horn. The thunder of destrier hooves.
Hamphuliadiel had gathered komen to his banner after all. Eight of them. Runacar saw the flash of the war-horn in the leader’s hand, and felt a terrible clutch of grief at the sight of what he’d once been and no longer was.
Their tabards were purple and gold—Haldil’s colors—barred with a slash of Lightborn green. More proof of Hamphuliadiel’s princely ambitions. The komen came up past the Sanctuary gates. Probably quartered at the old manor farm. And I know to the heartbeat how long it takes a komen to armor and arm.
Audalo charged past Runacar and stopped, striking a pose. Making sure the komen saw him. The enemy is in sight. The enemy flees. Pursue. The sound of the war-horn was sweet and wild. Audalo turned and ran. The komen followed.
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