“Used to fighting us,” Meraude said silkily.
“—used to fighting you,” Runacar agreed, with a small smile. “But while the Keeps can’t be taken by force—perhaps you know that better than I—they’re still vulnerable. No matter how many resources they have, a siege will starve them out eventually. I am hoping it does not come to a siege, because we want them to run—at least, we want some of them to. There’s another keep, inland, and with enough refugees fleeing to it for safety, its defenses will be weakened, and we shall take it as well. Once it falls, the power of the alfaljodthi in the West is ended forever.”
“And you think they will run?” one of the sea-horses asked.
“I think you underestimate how very afraid of you they are,” Runacar said quietly.
“Well, fear is all very well,” Meraude said briskly, “but kraken cannot dance. What of their witches?”
“I will match my power and that of my sisters against the Houseborn witches—and we will win!” Frause said firmly. The gems and talismans on the necklaces she wore glittered in the bright spring sunlight.
Aejus looked politely skeptical. “You have never done so yet,” he said at last.
Frause glanced toward Runacar, and curled her upper lip in a Bearward smile. “Ah, but we have never had a Master of War to lead us before,” she said. “You will see.”
* * *
The Ocean’s Own agreed to permit the war to take place, and to harry the enemy if the Folk of the Land could entice them down to the ocean’s edge. There was a discussion of what kinds of magics they could provide; those seemed to be concentrated on weather, illusion, and—surprisingly—healing. Runacar was grateful for Spellmother Frause and his apprentices—it meant he did not have to involve himself in another discussion about magic.
They spent three days discussing tactics—once the strategy had been agreed upon—and sharing information. Aejus said that the Ocean’s Own could summon up a waterspout if the landfolk could lure the enemy close enough to the water for it to be effective. Once it had been explained to Runacar what a waterspout was, he agreed that this would prove a useful tactic. It was one the Shore Domains had seen before, but they probably wouldn’t be expecting one in the middle of a land attack. Meraude said that if they were lucky, they might be able to use a waterspout to awaken the kraken. Nobody explained to Runacar what a kraken was, and he did not ask.
The Ocean’s Own were also able to give the army a great deal of useful information on what the Western Shore had been doing while Runacar had been scouring the Western Reach. Meraude told them that the Shore Domains had not been strengthened beyond the meisne of Warhunt Lightborn that the High King had sent nearly a decade of years before, and that as soon as Leopheine Amrolion realized no more help would be coming, Amrolion had made a fighting retreat northward to join with Daroldan, leaving most of Amrolion deserted except for frequent patrols in force. Since Runacar had been expecting to face a combined meisne, the news did not worry him much, but it was a sobering reminder of how hard it would be to make the two War Princes run. Both Western Shore Domains had the same motto: Isterya Adzab. “I hold.” The High King had only gained their fealty by promising them she would not ask them to send komen to her army so that they could continue to do so.
When the discussions were over, the army marched northward.
* * *
To be perfectly fair, the only thing accurate about that statement was the direction of their travel. Aside from the Centaurs, who had taken easily and happily to the discipline and organization of a traditional army, the rest of Runacar’s force might be best described as a collection of hostile individuals ambling vaguely in the same direction. Since he didn’t expect anything else, Runacar was not disturbed when elements of his forces made detours into the Flower Forests or vanished entirely for a day or two. Some of the Ocean’s Own—usually the sea-horses, accompanied by the usual pack of nixies—were paralleling the landward army’s course along the coast, and Radafa carried messages back and forth between the groups. The shore-apes had lost much of their fear of this new invader, and trailed the army close to the water’s edge, barking and scolding, and running when anyone took a step toward them. Aside from some of the Fauns blundering into snares in Delfierarathadan, they hadn’t found an enemy force to engage, but by now Runacar could make a good guess about when and where the first attack by the domains would come—and why.
Runacar had received many reports that Amrolion Great Keep still stood, seemingly untouched and undefended, and that would have made the Keep a tempting target for any previous Otherfolk sortie. It was almost certainly a trap. None of his people disagreed. Runacar hoped that the trap had been baited and set for what Amrolion had expected: a great-taille or so of Otherfolk raiders, not an army of thousands. To make use of the trap against the present force, Amrolion would have to drive the invaders into it—and that meant attacking them only when the Keep was close enough to seem a safe haven for retreat.
And so for a sennight, the Otherfolk marched northward unopposed.
* * *
By the time Vieliessar gained the Unicorn Throne, the war had stripped the Western Reach of its armies. Damulothir knew there was little aid the High King could send, but he asked anyway, because he was her pledged vassal, and because his people needed help.
She was more generous than Damulothir could have imagined, but by the time Rondithiel Lightbrother arrived with his Warhunt Lightborn, the foretellers of Damulothir’s court were speaking of Beastlings rising like a vast army of darkness, led by a warrior cast out by the Starry Rade, a warrior who had torn his own heart from his chest in return for power …
Most of it, as Damulothir told Leophrine Amrolion, was absolute and utter nonsense, except for one thing: the Beastlings somehow had found a general who could wage war. Reports—and a few desperate refugees—came from the Western Reach to say the Beastlings were scouring the land and toppling the Great Keeps with terrifying efficiency. Nine Wheels of the Year passed, and upon the tenth, that dead-alive general at last turned his attentions to the Western Shore.
The Western Shore made its plans accordingly.
* * *
The attack came late in the afternoon. There was almost no warning. One moment Runacar’s attention was caught by a flicker of light on metal in the underbrush edging the forest. The next, a meisne of knights rode out of concealment, aiming for the fantail of Runacar’s army. The knights’ charge was a feint, cover for mounted Lightborn and foresters armed with walking bows.
* * *
Hialgo wheeled automatically to attack as the enemy knights charged. Runacar imagined more than heard the high singing sound his sword made as he drew it from its sheath and flourished it in a signal to the Ocean’s Own who should be watching offshore. He knew he could not control the battle. There were no drums and war-horns, no inviolate messengers, no rules. All he could do was what he had already done: make certain that everybody in the army knew what the objective was and how to achieve it.
The Centaurs moved to take the brunt of the komen’s attack; they were armored and equipped with hammers and maces, and their targets were the warhorses, not the knights. Runacar spurred past them, giving them time to set themselves against the charge of the enemy.
The enemy komen let him get far too close—they think I am one of their own—before belatedly realizing that no matter what Runacar looked like, he was the enemy. Only after he struck the first blow did they turn to close with him.
Runacar was glad he couldn’t see the faces behind their helms.
Hialgo began a whirling spinning dance as three attackers—two in the blue and silver of Amrolion, one in Daroldan’s grey and gold—tried to find an opening in his defense.
More attackers appeared out of the forest. The air was filled with magics: Runacar saw Shield and Lightning deployed in the first few moments—other spells, he well knew, would leave no visible trace.
And all the time, the Otherfolk were being herded t
oward Amrolion’s Keep.
“Show a man a thing, even a thing disguised, and he will expect it to behave in accordance with the thing he knows.” So Elrinonion Swordmaster had taught Runacar long ago, and been—as he so often was—correct. The Western Shore had been fighting Otherfolk for centuries, and were very good at what they did. But Runacar hadn’t shown them a roving band of Otherfolk—he’d shown them an army, and so, irresistibly, they had responded as if it were an army. Amrolion and Daroldan’s combined force expected Runacar’s to stand its ground, and counted every ell of ground they dispossessed it of as a victory—and not a tactic.
When the Hundred Houses had still existed, running battles such as this were rare, for the battlefield was determined ahead of time by negotiation. But that did not mean Runacar was any stranger to such battles, for there was always a need to hunt down bandits and outlaws, and after the Scouring of Farcarinon—an extensive campaign of itself—the number of raiders had increased twelvefold.
A running battle was the sort at which his new army excelled.
It was as if several completely unrelated battles, with differing objectives and different tactics, were taking place on the same spot. Only one thing remained constant: the battle was, like all battles, very loud. The most conventional Otherfolk element involved was the Centaurs, who had no ability to use magic, though they could be affected by it. They charged the mounted knights, killing and crippling both men and horses. Those they did not finish off, the Fauns scampering among them did.
But if he had expected a mage-duel between Lightborn and Otherfolk, Runacar was disappointed. The Spellmothers and the Earthdancers were focusing on the Ranger archers, while the Bearward berserkers, led by Keloit, charged the Lightborn in hopes of stampeding their horses. Oddly, the horses did not react to the Bearwards at all.
Radafa led a wing of Gryphons in a low pass over the fighting with no more effect than the Bearward charge. It was clear that the Lightborn had bespelled the horses so that they saw and heard only what their riders wished them to see and hear.
Fight your own battle or you will not live to know how they have fought theirs!
Feint and turn. Hialgo lunged tualthally as Runacar leaned far out in the opposite direction. At the full extent of his reach, he set the point of his sword against his foe’s breastplate and pushed. Hialgo finished his turn just as the knight swayed off balance. Setting his forefeet, the destrier kicked back strongly. The other destrier staggered at the blow and the knight toppled from the saddle.
Destriers were trained for war almost from birth. In melee they were an extension of their rider’s will; if the knight was unhorsed, their mount became their guardian. The riderless destrier quite properly took a position over its downed rider, prepared to defend its position with teeth and hooves—and in doing so, it became an obstacle for Runacar to exploit. He backed Hialgo and the other two attackers followed eagerly. Then Runacar did the unthinkable.
A knight was a mounted warrior first, last, and always. Elven armor might be as flexible as fine buckskin, but that was to aid the knight in the saddle, nothing else. Runacar had learned better. He remembered a favorite saying of the High King’s: “The purpose of war is to win.” He intended to win.
He cued Hialgo with his heels, and as the grey stallion reared, Runacar vaulted from the saddle. Leaping forward, he grabbed the reins of one attacker’s mount, hauling down as hard as he could. A dagger buried in the side of its neck gave him a convenient handhold as he forced his way into its saddle and flung its rider to the ground. The komen he’d originally unhorsed was on his feet now, and Hialgo was doing all he could to force his riderless destrier away from him. As he did, Runacar used his borrowed mount to stamp its rider to death.
Now the two Amrolion destriers were trying to attack each other, and Runacar caught the third and last of his attackers between them as Hialgo, still riderless, herded Runacar’s mount forward. The three horses were too close together for the mounted knight caught between them to be able to use his sword against Runacar, but Runacar was not so encumbered. He turned in the saddle and brought his sword around in a great sweeping blow, catching the knight just below the backplate, where his body was shielded only by the vulnerable tasset-plates. They crumpled as if they were made of paper, and the knight began to thrash agonizedly in his saddle, dying.
Arilcarion would call that an illegal strike, Runacar thought absently.
Hialgo appeared beside him. Runacar kicked free of the stirrups of the wounded destrier and jumped back to the saddle of his own warhorse.
The engagement had taken mere heartbeats.
He rode free and took a moment to catch his breath. The air felt thick with Magery—he didn’t know what was going on, but he hoped the Lightborn were getting the worst of it. He glanced seaward. The sky and the ocean were both still clear, and his heart sank.
“Where in the name of the Rade is my waterspout?” If Aejus and Meraude couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do what he expected of them, this battle would not end as Runacar intended. He turned Hialgo and galloped back into the thick of the fighting.
* * *
At the same time most of Runacar’s force “fled” toward Amrolion Great Keep, a good portion of it was disappearing into the forest. It should look like desertion to the foe, but in reality the Otherfolk were sweeping the Flower Forest for enemies and preparing to attack the enemy’s rear guard. They couldn’t do that until the enemy was reduced in numbers, and the enemy would not be reduced in numbers if that damned waterspout he’d been promised didn’t arrive. The enemy had exposed the majority of its force to fight this pitched battle, just as Runacar had hoped. If the Ocean’s Own did not do their part, Runacar’s force would be cut to pieces.
The Otherfolk were in the outer precincts of the castel now—the outbuildings and false walls that led up to the drawbridge and the main entrance. Warlord Challaron of Amrolion would have designed his trap with the assumption the enemy knew Amrolion Great Keep had been deserted … but oh how temptingly, how seemingly accidentally, the chains upholding the drawbridge gangway had snapped, leaving the way open into the inner precincts.
This Keep was constructed in a style far different from those of the West and the Uradabhur: squat, smooth, monolithic, and large. Rather than a dazzling and complicated curtain wall meant to confuse and entangle Lightborn spells of Farseeing or Fetch, this outer wall was smooth and seamless, the viewing slits in it so well recessed that they were nearly invisible: a fortress that expected to have to face assaults of strength, in strength, with depressing frequency.
And before another candlemark had passed, most of the Otherfolk were going to be penned inside it or crushed against its walls if the Ocean’s Own had abandoned them.
* * *
By now the battlefield looked like nothing Runacar could once have imagined calling a battlefield. A riot. A rout. A nightmare. A thousand instants imprinted themselves on his mind:
A Minotaur, one great horn broken away, body studded with arrows, reached an Elven Ranger, impaling the body on his remaining horn as he sank to his knees in death.
Two knights, one unhorsed and clinging to the stirrup of the other, trying to flee the field.
A Hippogriff, its wings chopped away, head thrown back in agony, flailing as it died.
Four Centaurs caught in what must be a Lightborn spell, bleeding out from every pore and orifice.
Woodwose swarming a mounted knight as if they were rats, hacking knight and horse to pieces with their knives.
Madness.
War.
And the Otherfolk were winning.
Runacar jerked Hialgo to a stop as one of the two Aesalions—he thought it must be Drotha—landed amidst the taille of knights harrowing them northward. Runacar hadn’t dared count on the Aesalions remembering to join the battle instead of watch it, and was only glad they seemed to remember from sunturn to sunturn which side they were fighting for. Drotha laughed as he disemboweled a horse with one swipe of his
back claws and skewered its rider with the poisonous barb in his tail, then reared up on his hind legs, wings fully extended. He emitted a deafening roar and every destrier that could still move fled mindlessly, for no amount of Lightborn spellbinding could be enough to ward an animal against an Aesalion’s ability to project any emotion it chose. Runacar was only glad he and Hialgo was spared the effect.
“It’s a pity you can’t do that to the whole army,” Runacar said, as Drotha bounded gleefully up to him.
The Aesalion grinned toothily. “I could try,” he said. “But I won’t have to. Look.”
Runacar looked seaward. Far on the horizon, there was a smudge of black. The waterspout?
“They’ve taken too long!” Runacar cried in frustration.
Drotha laughed. “You’ll be surprised at how fast it moves.”
* * *
He was.
* * *
By the time Runacar fought his way to the vanguard of his army the waterspout had gone from a distant smudge of black on the horizon to an enormous, churning column. It moved faster than a running horse and made a roaring sound that rendered both hearing and being heard an impossibility, but that didn’t matter. No orders needed to be given. No one who knew the Western Shore wanted to be anywhere near that waterspout.
The enemy began to disengage. Instead of rushing toward the safety of the Keep, the Otherfolk turned as well, heading toward the safety of Delfierarathadan. To reach the forest’s edge they had to scale a long rise covered with slippery sea-grass. It would have been suicidal—Arilcarion warned constantly against attacking a foe who held higher ground—save for the fact that the other part of Runacar’s strategy was working. The elements of the army of the Western Shore that were gathered at the forest’s edge to drive the Otherfolk into Amrolion Great Keep found themselves set upon from behind. As their foe vanished from before them and appeared behind them, the Elven army realized that the Otherfolk had taken the Flower Forest from them.
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