I think they will have sent their komen as the vanguard, with that force following the Northern Road, and left their Rangers and Lightborn to find their way through the forest. It is what I would do. They lure our army north, while the komen at the Keep, and the enemy infantry, cut our force in half.
And there is no one I can tell of this, and no orders I can give to adapt our tactics. And I do not know what good it would do us if I could.
There was no discipline, no order—it did not look like a battlefield at all, save for the dead. There was—he realized with a sudden flash of insight—no goal here, on either side, nothing to be gained beyond each army murdering the other. The Elves knew they could not rebuild their domain with the Flower Forest gone, and the Otherfolk could only claim the victory—and gain safety—if all the Elves were dead.
There was nothing either side could do except kill as many of the enemy as they could.
* * *
In Sword Moon of the Wheelturn Vieliessar became High King, the Warhunt reached the Western Shore. They had crossed a Western Reach in turmoil, rulerless and anarchic, and—far worse—learned that the Sanctuary of the Star could not be relied upon to do anything but advance Hamphuliadiel’s personal ambitions, for Harwing Lightbrother had gone to discover the Astromancer’s intentions and had vanished as if he had never been.
The great-taille of Lightborn led by Rondithiel Lightbrother had gained Daroldan Great Keep with no further losses, and there they had awaited news that the High King’s army marched west.
She did not come, and after Harvest Moon, there was no way to ask her why she did not, for the full moon at Harvest brought the beginning of what the Lightborn of the Shore named The Great Silence. Before they had left Tildorangelor, the Warhunt knew that the Sanctuary of the Star did not answer their attempts at Farspeech, but after Harvest Court, it was no longer possible to use Farspeech anywhere, even within the Western Shore, for attempts to do so brought only disorientation and nausea.
And so they abandoned such attempts, for there was sufficient work before them. Amrolion and Daroldan were both embattled by Beastling raiders bolder and more numerous than ever before in living memory. All the Warhunt Lightborn could do was add their strength to that of their brethren. And wait. And hope.
As the Wheelturns passed, Scrying and Farseeing brought news of a Western Reach slowly coming to order, but it did not make good hearing, for it was an order imposed by the Beastlings. The Shore’s defenders spent a decade of Wheelturns preparing for the inevitable day of their invasion, as, with inexorable ferocity, the Beastlings scoured the West of the folk left behind by the Grand Alliance, until Amrolion and Daroldan—and perhaps the Sanctuary of the Star—stood as the only remaining strongholds of Elvenkind in all of the West.
From the moment Amrolion fell to an unlooked-for alliance between the Sea-Beastlings and those of the land, the destruction of the Domains of the Western Shore had seemed inevitable, but the defenders had not despaired. Even when they discovered that the nightmare army was led by the brother of Ivrulion Banebringer and that alfaljodthi fought in its ranks, the combined domains of Amrolion and Daroldan fought on indomitably, for their Warlords agreed they might still gain the victory.
As the enemy force drew close, the Warhunt, along with eight-twelfths of the army, left Daroldan Great Keep. They took with them the flocks and herds of the Shore in order to make it look to the enemy as if Daroldan prepared herself for siege by sending away all of its Fisherfolk and Farmfolk and Craftworkers. But those who fled did so only to return.
At the end of a sennight’s march, a handful of Lightborn were chosen by lot to continue westward with the livestock, and the rest gathered up Delfierarathadan’s Light to cast two illusions: one, to feign that this tiny group was the whole of the supposed refugees, and two, to Cloak those who retraced their march in impenetrable invisibility. The Lightborn left behind at Daroldan kept in touch with them by spellbird, so that they would not show themselves until the trap was ready to spring, but no one expected the Beastlings to set the entire Flower Forest ablaze.
If the Warhunt had not disenchanted every Border Stone it found during its journey from the Mystrals to the Shore, the hope of victory would have been lost in that moment, for the conflagration meant a detour that added sunturns to their march. But even with Delfierarathadan burning there was Light to draw upon, and the defenders did all they could to delay the final attack, even pretending to make parley with the Beastlings and their treasonous commander.
There was no thought among the Cloaked army of stopping to make camp, or to catch more than a few candlemarks of rest, for if Daroldan fell, its Beastling attackers would not stop until every alfaljodthi in the West was dead. As soon as Delfierarathadan would let them, the Lightborn and the Rangers turned south, leaving six great-tailles of komen to make all possible speed along the Northern Road.
And when they reached the battlefield, they attacked.
* * *
Runacar galloped onto the battlefield, doing all that he could to rally his fighters, but he had lost control of the field before the battle began. In the maelstrom of battle, the Otherfolk were returning to their traditional modes of attack—small groups, gathered by race and clan, each reacting only to the immediate threat. Even when their captains rallied them, there was no enemy strongpoint to send them against. When the reserve demi-taille rode from Daroldan onto the field, the Bearward berserkers rushed it in a body, but their numbers were too few to drive the komen back, and the destriers were too maddened by the scent of blood to be affected by spellcraft. In desperation, the Gryphons began bombarding the Keep with stones once more, but the Lightborn simply cast Shield over it again. Shield made it impossible for archers to use the Keep as a platform from which to loose arrows upon the battlefield, but it also made it impossible for the Otherfolk to storm the castel.
The komen were outnumbered five to one—and they were still winning. The Otherfolk fought well and valiantly, but despite their willingness, their bravery, and their skill; despite the disadvantages the enemy labored under … the conclusion of the battle wasn’t really in doubt. Skill and training had no chance against a Thunderbolt, any more than a komen’s skill counted against a Ranger’s walking bow. The two armies might as well have retreated to opposite sides of the battlefield and simply killed a hundred of their own people every quartermark.
Runacar told himself he’d been in larger battles, and more vicious ones. The Battle of the Shieldwall Plain had involved nearly every komen in all the Fortunate Lands—and a number of fighters who were not komen. The Code of War had been only sporadically observed there, for many of Vieliessar’s combatants were mercenaries, outlaws, and Landbond. The two armies had fought through the night like beasts, with no goal save that of personal survival.
Just like this.
* * *
Runacar shook blood from his sword and wheeled Hialgo in search of a fresh target. He was desperately thirsty, and he knew Hialgo was suffering as well. The battle had begun at midday, and now the sun was westering. There was no possibility that the fighting would cease at nightfall: it would go on by firelight and Silverlight, and there was no place for either army to retreat to. The fact that their own forces were intermixed with the enemy was the only thing keeping the Lightborn from deploying even more devastating spells.
We are losing.
That realization tasted of blood and metal, horrible beyond grief or fear. His people were dying, and there was nothing he could do to save them. The beautiful mask of Code and custom had been stripped from the face of War, and all Runacar knew was that he never wanted to see that face again.
We are losing.
Runacar yanked Hialgo’s head around and dug spurs into the destrier’s sides. Hialgo danced for a moment and began to run, carrying Runacar away from the fighting.
We are losing this battle.
* * *
Few of the Western Shore Lightborn had ever seen a war, much less taken the f
ield in one. The Shore was a place of constant skirmishes, raids involving a few hundred enemies at most. Not like this. Not like today.
Rondithiel Lightbrother had marked the reigns of seven Astromancers before he first fought on a battlefield, but he had ridden to war a thousand times in those Wheelturns, for no War Prince had ever ridden to battle without Lightborn to Heal them at the end of the day’s fighting. Rondithiel had been hardened to the waste and pain of war long before Vieliessar was born, and he joined her in hope of something better. It was a black joke such as only the Silver Hooves could relish that he would surely end his life on the field of a war that was not a war, never knowing the fate of she for whom he had renounced so much.
He had gathered at his side those who would only be liabilities on the field itself. They guarded their position with Shield as they loosed every spell that might gain victory for their comrades. Transmutation, to turn earth to water and then to stone. Fetch, to fling a sword or a dagger through a Beastling body. Thunderbolt, to kill a hundred at a time.
Silverlight, to illuminate the field so the killing could go on.
Each time the wind shifted, smoke from the burning forest rolled over the battlefield like a noxious fogbank. The air was filled with the screams of injured horses, dying Beastmen, and the boom and crackle of spells. Even when the air was clear of smoke, it stank of blood. Shield flickered intermittently between Rondithiel’s position and the field itself. The Beastlings knew where they were and were doing their best to overrun them, and a wasteland of black glass marked where the Lightborn had Called Thunderbolt to drive them off. It glittered in the evening light and steamed where fresh blood fell on it.
A komen, afoot and half uncased, flung herself frantically across the glazed earth toward the Lightborn gathered around Rondithiel. In her arms she carried a Ranger, his body feathered with Beastling arrows, his flesh blackening with poison.
“Save him—Lightborn,” she gasped. Her words were inaudible in the bedlam, but it did not matter, for her meaning was clear. She felt to her knees in the sea-grass where Rondithiel and his fellows knelt, clutching her dying comrade to her chest.
Rondithiel placed his hands upon the boy, summoning the power to Heal even as the death-song of Delfierarathadan keened in his bones. If Isilla and the others could save a fragment of the Flower Forest …
He shook his head, banishing the thought. There was no time to hope for what the future might bring. He would save who and what he could for so long as breath remained in him.
Perhaps his people could save Daroldan as well.
* * *
The Shore Road ran south from Daroldan Great Keep, skirting the sea-cliffs and leading past the remains of Fisherfolk huts and half-burned piles of drying nets until it vanished in the sand of the shore itself. To the west, the sea was churned to a red froth by the Ocean’s Own, and those of Daroldan’s defenders who came within their reach died in heartbeats. The tide line swarmed with nixies, their high voices like the calling of gulls, cheering on the slaughter as they waited hopefully for some unwary komen to come close enough to kill. In the deep water below the castel cliff, Meraude and her court attacked the Shielded Great Keep, watching eagerly for a moment’s inattention from the Lightborn above.
When Shore Road became seashore, Runacar galloped Hialgo into the water, heedless of who he trampled to get there. “Aejus!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Amrunor! Meraude!”
One of the sea-horses turned toward him and he shouted again, every name he knew. One of the Nisse at the edge of the group saw him coming; she turned and spoke to another. He drove Hialgo onward until the stallion was swimming. For a moment Runacar thought he and Hialgo would drown here—madness to ride into deep water in full armor—but then Amrunor and Meraude appeared at the edge of the press of bodies and swam strongly toward him.
“Runacar!” Meraude said, looking surprised but unworried. “The battle has begun,” she added, as if he might be unaware of that fact.
Amrunor slid his tail beneath Hialgo’s barrel and lifted the destrier out of the water. The stallion panted, near exhaustion, legs still churning reflexively.
“Yes,” Runacar answered, as calmly as he could. “And we are losing. Daroldan did not send refugees eastward—he sent his army. They hid themselves with Magery and returned to fight.”
“But their warriors are few, and yours are many,” Meraude said, clearly puzzled. “And their witches have no power now that you have set the forest alight.”
“Burning Delfierarathadan didn’t work,” Runacar said. “The Lightborn have another source of power. I don’t know what it is, but they are using it to slaughter us—and they will win.” And with the forest in flames, we have no place to retreat to. They will leave no survivors. I could not have arranged matters better for Daroldan and Amrolion were I their ablest Warlord.
Meraude said nothing.
“Amrunor, you told me once that you had a sorcery that would give us victory,” Runacar prompted. He heard the pleading note in his own voice, the desperate hope that these most magical of the Otherfolk could still save the day.
“At an unknown loss of life,” Meraude pointed out coolly.
“It can be no greater than that which our enemies will inflict,” Runacar said grimly. “They’ll kill us all. No mercy, no quarter. The Code of War does not apply to … monsters.” He felt a hot flush of shame—he had been supposed to teach the Otherfolk, to lead them, to give them the victory. All he’d done was turn the Western Shore into a barren wasteland and lead Leutric’s army to the slaughter. He’d failed.
Again.
“Then go,” Meraude said decisively. “We shall do our part.”
Without waiting for a reply, she swam away. Amrunor regarded Runacar steadily.
“Get as many of the Folk as you can down to the shoreline. Go as far south as possible,” the sea-horse said. “And if you think your Gods will listen, Star’s Child—pray.”
Amrunor withdrew his support from beneath Hialgo, and Runacar turned the stallion silently landward. He knew Hialgo was exhausted, but Runacar could not afford to let him rest. He took the most direct path back to land, and when Hialgo staggered ashore, Runacar headed him toward the edge of the burning forest.
* * *
She had been Ladyholder of Daroldan when the sun rose this morning, and now, by Caerthalien treachery, Ereneine of Daroldan was Ladyholder-Abeyant. She prayed to the Silver Hooves that she might live long enough to claim Lord Runacarendalur’s life in payment.
By miracles of warcraft, Ereneine had kept the taille of Daroldan komen she led alive and by her side through the candlemarks of fighting. When they had first planned this battle, Warlord Challaron had said that the komen must do their best to force the Beastlings south and away from the Keep. The Lightborn worked to douse the burning forest to the north, but only there—if the army could push the Beastlings south and regroup, then it could drive them into the forest where they would burn to death.
Her armor was battered and her surcoat was so blood-sodden the grey and gold of its sea and flowers could no longer be discerned. She had been unhorsed so many times she no longer knew the name of her mount. But Ereneine fought on. Tonight she would join Damulothir among the Starry Hunt or the Western Shore would be swept clean of vermin at last.
“My lady—look there!” Princess Valliane of Amrolion said. She pointed to where a troop of Centaurs had surrounded a group of unhorsed komen.
Ereneine raised her sword in the signal to charge.
“Isterya Adzab! Isterya Adzab!” she screamed, roweling her destrier’s flanks with her spurs.
* * *
Runacar knew he had no hope of being heard if he rode directly into the fighting, and the folk caught up in the heat of battle would not be able to heed him, even if they wished to. But if he could get those at the edge of the fighting to retreat …
Hialgo stepped mincingly over the body of a Faun riddled with arrows as Runacar looked for someone to whom
he could deliver Amrunor’s message.
“Meraude says retreat! Get to the shore!”
Time after time he forced Hialgo into a cluster of embattled Otherfolk to help them fight off the enemy and to shout out his message. If it had any effect, Runacar did not see it. Then—shockingly, suddenly—Hialgo went to his knees, dead before he fell, a Ranger’s arrow quivering in his flesh. Runacar leaped free, looking automatically in the direction of the shot. He met the eyes of a Daroldan Ranger who tipped him a mocking salute before nocking another arrow. Runacar fled into the melee to escape, wondering why he still thought one death was better than another.
It was sunset now, and the light was as red as the fires to the east. The dimness of the dying day made it hard to see clearly, or even to distinguish friend from foe. Events took on a dreamlike, episodic quality; moments strung like pearls on a cord, each one self-contained, but all of much the same type. He found himself helmless, holding one of the long shields the Centaurs used. Carrying it made his arm ache, but it was an effective defense. He slashed and cut and kicked mindlessly: any being who wore his form and face was the enemy.
Moments.
A Ranger standing, his face sheared from his head, the red ruin fountaining blood, but still on his feet.
A Lightborn, only a green armband to proclaim what he was, sitting on the ground, his lap full of his own entrails.
A Minotaur, wielding an Elven leg as a club.
A Gryphon, its wings and beak sheared away, screaming in agony as hammer-wielding Elves battered it to death.
The flare of Thunderbolt, here, there, everywhere, somehow never striking him, a column of white fire that vaporized bodies where it struck and turned the blood-soaked earth to sizzling glass. The smoke of the burning forest and the smoke of burning flesh mingled in the air.
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