Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Clouds make rain,” Runacar said stubbornly. “And if wind can blow out a candle, it can blow out a fire.”

  “I can ask my kin,” Radafa said slowly. “Such an undertaking would require the consent of the many, for it is not a thing to do lightly. The weather affects all—even the Folk of the Air and the Ocean’s Own. But I can take your request to the Ascension, if you wish.”

  Even if they agree, and agree quickly, how much can they do? It isn’t the season for rain here—something I’m sure Daroldan and Amrolion took into consideration before ordering this … abomination. Runacar ran a hand over his hair in frustration. “If only I could see what’s going on! I’d have a better idea of what to ask the Ocean’s Own to do!”

  Radafa cocked his head and regarded Runacar sideways, his beak hanging open. While the expression looked vaguely ridiculous, Runacar had learned that it meant Radafa was thinking very hard.

  “I could carry you, I think,” he said at last. “And you could see what I have seen.”

  Even in the midst of this disaster, Runacar was astounded. Whatever the Otherfolk might look like, they weren’t animals, and they certainly weren’t beasts of burden. He would no more expect to ride Radafa than he would have expected to ride Elrinonion Swordmaster of Caerthalien, had Elrinonion been here.

  “Are you sure?” he asked carefully, and Radafa emitted a harsh caw of laughter.

  “You do not weigh nearly as much as a horse or a stag,” he said, “and I can carry off either one. Sit as close to my neck as you can, and I think we can manage. Besides, I can always catch you if you fall.”

  Looking at Radafa’s long, razor-sharp talons, Runacar decided that the thought wasn’t nearly as reassuring as Radafa perhaps meant it to be.

  “Then let’s do it,” he said, beginning to remove his armor. And the Hunt spurn all cowards to the endless Dark!

  * * *

  The first lesson a young knight in training learned when he or she passed from the hand of the Swordmaster to the hand of the Warlord was that the bridle and reins their destrier wore were tools for the use of someone else. The komentai’a rode by balance and signaled their destriers with knee and heel and shifting weight. Hands were for grasping sword hilts, not reins.

  It was fortunate for Runacar that he’d been trained so thoroughly that such reflexes were as automatic as breathing, for of course Radafa wore no saddle, and there was nothing for Runacar to cling to—if he wrapped his arms around Radafa’s neck, he’d strangle the Gryphon. He thought of a hundred reasons why this was insanity, and a thousand reasons why this was the best idea he’d ever had, as he swung himself carefully onto Radafa’s back and settled his weight as near the Gryphon’s neck as he could.

  And then Radafa spread his great wings and began to run.

  On the ground, a Gryphon wasn’t very fast. They moved in a mismatched flurry of fore and hind legs, and looked both comical and clumsy—and certainly the ride Runacar experienced was the most jolting he’d had in a long life spent a-horseback.

  Then Radafa took flight.

  It began with a long, rising spiral out over the ocean, using the unfailing sea-winds to gain altitude. Runacar was dressed in nothing more than aketon and boots and expected to be cold. But the Gryphon’s body radiated heat like a furnace; Runacar was too warm, if anything.

  All there was to see was the blackness of Great Sea Ocean and the luminous vault of the heavens—he dared not risk vertigo by looking down. He’d thought he’d be buffeted by great winds here in the sky—as if he were a sort of war-kite—but despite the sense of speed, the air seemed still, for they were moving with the winds, not fighting them. The only sound was a faint whistling through the Gryphon’s great wings, the ever-changing song of its passage.

  For a moment Runacar forgot his worries, his shame, and his guilt, living only in this miraculous moment. He imagined this was how it must feel to ride with the Starry Hunt along the star road: this glorious sense of freedom and invincibility. No matter what was to come, he knew he would always treasure this moment. This gift of flight. To see the world as only hawks and eagles saw it—to soar effortlessly, even if through the exertion of another, upon the wind, riding as the Hunt Itself rode—these were treasures too great to imagine, let alone to take by force. Precious, in a way he had no words for.

  Runacar had been raised to become War Prince of Caerthalien: he had learned law and custom, war and geography—not philosophy. Even so, the thought remained: Why did the Hundred Houses and the Otherfolk fight? The Otherfolk fought because the Hundred Houses attacked, of course, but why? Where had it begun? How had it began? They had so much to offer one another …

  Radafa banked—Runacar compensated for the shift unthinkingly—and far in the distance he could see a glowing white-orange scar in the blackness. The gleam of moonshine on the familiar loop of the Angarussa told him exactly where he was.

  The Kashadabadshar grew from a faint pale line on the horizon to an endless expanse of featureless sand as they flew south. Radafa swung out over the ocean when they reached the fire. The shape of the flames was like a great clawed hand digging its talons into the Flower Forest. It was far worse than Runacar had imagined. The entire southern edge of the Flower Forest was burning. Thin pioneers of flame raced ahead, feeding on grass and brush, while stands of ancient trees held back the fire elsewhere.

  But not for long.

  If there’s a strong east wind, Cirandeiron will catch like a basket of oil-soaked rushes, just as Araphant once did because Vieliessar willed it so, Runacar thought in horror. This is Fire Season—once the fire leaps the Angarussa there will be nothing to stop it from burning everything from Cirandeiron to the Mystrals—and every living thing from the Red Sands to the Medharthas.

  He tapped Radafa on the neck and pointed downward, hoping the Gryphon would take his meaning. A moment later, Radafa banked again and spilled height in a stomach-twisting descent. The fire seemed to rush up at them, and suddenly the silence was broken by the roar of burning, and the blackness of the night by skirling sparks and red-glowing smoke. The furnace-hot updraft flung Radafa skyward again, but that brief vertiginous glimpse was enough to show Runacar what he wanted to see—and to give him an idea.

  “North!” he shouted.

  The fire receded abruptly and silence fell once more. Radafa descended until they were skimming just above the waves. Far ahead, Runacar could see a fleck of fire at the edge of the beach; Audalo must have lit a signal fire in hopes of summoning the Ocean’s Own. From a distant spark it grew rapidly in size, and then he and Radafa were earthbound again, the blaze about a mile distant.

  Runacar slipped from Radafa’s back, barely catching himself before he patted the Gryphon’s neck as he would that of a good horse. He began to walk toward the fire, moving down to where the wet sand gave firm footing. He could tell, by the faint noises behind him, that Radafa followed.

  “You’re very quiet,” Radafa said, after a time.

  “I’m wondering why the alfaljodthi and the Otherfolk ever went to war,” Runacar said, stopping and turning to look at him. Radafa’s face was not built for displaying expression, but Runacar thought he looked sad.

  “That is something not even the greatest historians of my race could tell you with certainty,” the Gryphon answered sorrowfully. He was a scholar and the entire business of war disturbed him deeply. He turned his head to gaze out over the sea for a moment, then looked back. “Did the seeing help?” Radafa asked.

  “I think so,” Runacar answered slowly. Whatever the causes of the beginning of that ancient war, this was a chance to end it. Vieliessar Farcarinon said she had come to end war by fighting one, and now here I am doing the same thing. If all of us just made a pact to kill ourselves in the same candlemark in the same moonturn, we could accomplish the whole thing much more easily.

  “They’re counting on the fact we’re a fortnight’s march away from the fire, but that doesn’t matter as much as they think it does. I need to ask the ot
hers a few questions to decide if my plan can work, but as far as the Ascension … if you can get the winds to blow south and west, it will slow the advance of the fire. And rain would help, too.” I might as well ask for miracles while I’m asking for magic, Runacar thought.

  They walked on in silence.

  “Rain here out of season will mean drought elsewhere,” Radafa said after a while. “As will shifting the winds as you ask.”

  “Do whatever you can,” Runacar said awkwardly. The vision of the Ghostwood rose up behind his eyes again. So much death …

  * * *

  Pelere and Audalo were watching over the signal beacon just as Runacar had expected. Several of the other commanders were gathered around them as they waited—Frause, Tanet, Pendor, Bralros, a few others.

  “Nothing yet,” Audalo said, as Runacar and Radafa approached. “They don’t pay much attention to the land when it’s night.”

  It was light enough now to tell sea from sky, but the morning mist was rolling in and the sun would not rise for candlemarks yet.

  Runacar turned back to Radafa. “Go now, if you can,” he said. “And return as quickly as you can, no matter what news you bring. I need to know what I’m going to have to work with.”

  “I shall,” Radafa promised. He turned away, and leapt into the air in a single graceful bound.

  Runacar turned back to the group by the signal fire. “We have to start making plans at once. If we can create a firebreak too wide for the fire to jump, it will die. The Angarussa is to the east of the blaze, and Great Sea Ocean to the west. The fire burns now at the edge of the desert, and the forest is thin there, but if it gets much farther north it will be harder to stop. And if it reaches the place where we are now, we won’t be able to stop it at all: there’s plenty in the way of orchards and vineyards to give the fire a path around any firebreak we can manage.”

  “What good is stopping it if the witches only rekindle it?” Bralros demanded.

  “Do you just want to give up?” Pelere snapped at him.

  “I want to be realistic!” the grizzled Centaur barked. “The more time we spend fighting fire with hope, the longer the forest will burn—the only way to get those rats out of the granary is to stand on their doorstep until they run!”

  “We’ll do both,” Runacar said, as Pelere drew breath for an even louder reply. “Bralros is right: as long as there’s a Lightborn left, they can start another fire. You know better than I how far away they can set a Fire spell, but it doesn’t matter—a Landbond with a torch could manage much the same. We need to put out the fire and while keeping them too busy to start another one.”

  “And I’m sure you have some hoary Houseborn wisdom on how we can do that,” Andhel mocked, arriving with another bundle of sticks for the fire. “How fortunate we are to have a Houseborn here to save us!” She flung the bundle to the ground with an angry gesture.

  “Feel free to pitch in at any time, Andhel,” Runacar answered evenly. “I could use some help. My plan is this: we go south, and help any of the folk to escape who can’t do it on their own. At the same time, we prepare to divert the Angarussa into the forest. With a little help, it will carve a new bed and flow down to the sea there, instead of north of Daroldan. We use it both as a firebreak and a way to help the folk escape.”

  “And what are your Houseborn brethren going to be doing during the many twelves of seasons you will need to turn the river?” Andhel asked after a moment’s pause. She sounded almost stunned.

  “Running from whatever else we can send against them,” Runacar answered grimly.

  * * *

  The Angarussa was said to be deep enough to drown the whole of a Great Keep, and even if it were as deep as that, it was still wider than it was tall. It was no placid water: the river rushed and roared, kicking up fans of spray where the water hit rocks, its dark surface a pattern of waves and churning currents. Anyone who fell into that water was swept away, and either drowned or battered to death. It could be neither forded nor swum, and while it could have been bridged or dammed, one of its greatest values to Cirandeiron lay in its impassibility, giving her one border as secure as if it was topped by a thousand-cubit wall. But at the same time, it was a barrier that needed to be passed, and frequently, for Amrolion and Daroldan lay on the far side.

  The solution to that problem was both simple and amazing: the western reach of Cirandeiron was riddled with caves, and so some ancient artificer had paved the bottom of the riverbed for some distance and then contrived to make an outlet through that paving that opened into the caves below.

  An outlet that could be opened or shut at will.

  Once, during the early moonturns of The High King’s War, Runacar had seen the ford opened. A counterweighted catch, sheltered by a small stone building, was released—something that required no sorcery at all—and as the counterweight swung up and back, it lifted with it a great section of the paved streambed. The water immediately began pouring into the chasm with a roar and hiss, and as it did, the level of the river dropped abruptly.

  The bed of the river was too deep simply to jump into and out of, but as the level of the water dropped, two sets of shallow stone steps were exposed, one on each side of the river and offset from each other, so that whoever crossed had to do so on a salient—and quickly, for once whatever chamber the river filled became full, the counterweight would swing back, and anyone still in the river’s bed would be swept away by the resurgent waters.

  Runacar’s plan hinged on two Brightfolk races: stone-sprites and gnomes, which he had been told of but never seen. The two races lived in stone, so far as Runacar could figure out, and were able to shape it as easily as a Lightborn might. Between that, and the secret of the Angarussa ford, there might just be a chance. If the Otherfolk could divert the river permanently, that and some weather-magic might be enough to save most of the Flower Forest and all the folk that lived within it.

  He didn’t want to think about the level of despair that had caused the Western Shore to set Delfiriathadan alight. It is true, one does not count the cost in enemy lives when one makes war, Runacar mused. But one also does not expect to expend the whole wealth of one’s domain to buy the victory. In Arilcarion’s The Way of the Sword, such a tactic was called “The Rebounding Stroke”—you won, but you might as well have lost. Were this a game of xaique, Runacar would applaud the strategy: with its army much reduced, the enemy used the terrain itself as a weapon.

  Rats in a grainary, Bralros had called the alfaljodthi, but it was Bralros and all the Otherfolk who were being treated like vermin. And when you were fumigating a grainary, you didn’t show mercy, you didn’t parley, and you did everything you could to kill them all.

  * * *

  As Runacar waited for someone to locate a group of Otherfolk who had regular dealings with the gnomes and the stone-sprites—and for the Ocean’s Own to arrive—he was far from idle: he had to meet with his commanders—he had to find his commanders, just to begin with—and discover which of their forces would be willing to continue northward, and what they would do as they marched. He would offer suggestions where he could. But most of all, he had to convince all of them that what he had in mind was a good idea.

  The first thing, obviously, was to evacuate the whole of Delfierarathadan. There were enough Flower Forests in Cirandeiron to accept the Brightfolk refugees, and even most Dryads could abandon their trees if they had to … and had enough time to. That meant finding those in the army who were best suited as envoys and messengers and sending them to warn the Brightfolk over an area larger than Caerthalien and Aramenthiali combined.

  But every time he made a suggestion, he was greeted with “Maybe,” and “Perhaps,” and “We must ask if they are willing.” With forlorn exasperation, he wished for the intricate hierarchy that characterized a High House meisne—all that was necessary to cause a thing to be done was to give the order, and it spread swiftly by twelves down to the least hedge-knight in the field. For a moment, he envied
the High King her throne—at least Vieliessar could give orders and know they would be obeyed—but he might as well wish to be High King himself as to wish for the Otherfolk to operate with such efficiency. They weren’t one people, they were a hundred different peoples, and none of them had any concept of war on a grander scale than a High Festival brawl. And if only I had thought of calling the Otherfolk to Caerthalien’s banner in the very beginning, why, I could have far outstripped Vieliessar’s draggled meisne of Landbonds and sellswords and be seated on the Unicorn Throne at this very moment.

  By the time the envoys of the Ocean’s Own appeared, Runacar felt as weary as if he’d spent a full sunturn in combat.

  Drotha had volunteered to fly out over the ocean and keep watch, and Runacar had accepted gratefully. He doubted that even the Aesalion would be able to see anything until the fog lifted from the water, but that wasn’t really as important as keeping Drotha occupied. The Aesalion was easily bored, and what he did when he got bored could have been referred to as pranks if not for the high death toll. Some of the Otherfolk, Runacar had come to accept, were people much like the alfaljodthi wearing different shapes. Others—like Drotha—were not.

  The only warning he had of Drotha’s return was a disturbance in the mist followed by a thump on the sand as the Aesalion landed.

  “They’re coming,” Drotha announced. “They’ll be here soon.”

  On the heels of Drotha’s words, Runacar heard the low moaning note of the horns the Ocean’s Own used to announce their presence. A moment later, Meraude appeared, this time riding one of the seahorses.

  “I greet you, cousins,” she said. “I already know your trouble, for Amrunor told it to me.”

  “Amrunor couldn’t help noticing,” the Sea-horse said archly, flaring his nostrils, “because I haven’t smelled such a stench since the last time a kraken died ashore. The question is, what does it mean to our little undertaking?”

  There was a long moment of silence until Runacar realized everyone around him was waiting for him to speak. So much for the pretense of him being nothing more than an advisor to Leutric’s chosen generals. He wondered if anyone had really been meant to believe it.