Wizard of the Grove

by Tanya Huff

  * * *

  He had flung himself off his horse when his Half went down, not knowing he was already too late to help, and now he was trapped. The Elite were the best and he had no doubt that one man at a time he could cut his way back to the Ardhan lines. But the enemy didn’t face him one man at a time, or even two or three, there were a dozen at least. And he was surrounded. Through the bars of his visor he saw the last of his comrades break free of the battle and ride up the slope of the valley. He raised his sword in a fast salute and prepared to die.

  “Commander! Nicoli is . . .”

  “I see him.” The muscles in Rael’s legs trembled as he forced them away from his horse’s sides, forced them away from giving the order that would send the Elite charging down to rescue their fallen comrade.

  “Commander, we can . . .”

  “No.” And although he didn’t have to explain, he continued. “We couldn’t reach him in time. And I will not risk more lives to save a corpse. They’d know where we’re heading and be waiting for us.” A murmur ran down the line as his words were passed and a mutter ran back. Rael felt their eyes on him, but he sat straight in his saddle, clenched his jaw, and kept his gaze on Nicoli as he fell.

  That night, after the day’s slaughter had ended, Rael sat in the dark on his pallet seeing again the two broken suits of armor that had been retrieved from the battlefield with the other bodies. Nicoli’s lips had been drawn back in a snarl. His Half had merely looked surprised.

  He froze when Rutgar entered the tent and protested weakly when the armsman lit the lantern hanging from the center pole.

  Rutgar made no mention of the tear tracks that marked the prince’s face or of what had happened that afternoon. He merely folded long legs, sat down beside his commander, and wordlessly held out the wineskin he carried.

  Rael looked at it for a moment, as if unsure of what it was or what he was to do with it, then he took it, tilted back his head and filled his mouth.

  His tongue curled up, his throat spasmed, and he barely prevented himself from spraying the mouthful of wine across the tent.

  “What is this stuff?” he demanded, coughing and choking.

  Rutgar rescued the wineskin and took a long pull. “It’s what the men drink. A little rough for the royal palate perhaps, but . . .” He offered it again.

  Rael took it, shrugged, and drank, this time managing to relax his throat enough to swallow. He drank again, then returned it. “You may end up protecting my back from my own men,” he said at last, staring into the flickering lamplight and rubbing his palms across his cheeks.

  “They’re soldiers. Any one of them would’ve made the same decision.”

  The wineskin made another pass.

  “But they didn’t make it. I did.”

  “You’re the commander. It was your decision to make.”

  Rael reached for the wineskin. “Yes.”

  “They understand that.”

  “But they would’ve preferred a rescue.”

  “Yes.”

  Rael drank again. “Mother-creator, but this stuff is awful.”

  “It is,” Rutgar agreed. “But it does what it has to.”

  And they drank in silence until it was gone.

  So ended the Ardhan army’s second day in the valley.

  * * *

  “Commander, over there!”

  “I see them.”

  The Elite had gained the valley’s edge but had left a Pair behind in the battle. As one man, they turned their gaze on Rael. The day before, a Pair had died.

  This day Rael looked and smiled. “One squad,” he called to the First beside him, pulled his stallion’s head around and charged back down the path he’d just cut. This Pair was close enough and one was still mounted; this Pair, he could save. At the edge of his vision he saw the armored head of Rutgar’s bay and close behind he heard the thunder of a dozen heavy horses.

  The Melacian position, barely recovered from the last pass, crumbled before them.

  Rael rammed the point of his lance through an enemy visor, rode it free, and reached the lost Pair. The downed man, Payter, was pinned beneath his horse. There was only one way to get him out. Rael kicked his feet clear of the stirrups and dropped to the ground.

  Rutgar and Payter’s Half stayed close while the squad began to circle their position, forming a living barricade against the Melacians.

  The pike that had killed Payter’s horse still stuck from its chest. It had reared and come down on the point, driving it deep into its own heart, then it had dropped like a stone, giving its rider no time to get free. His legs were trapped beneath the double weight of horse and armor.

  “Leave me, Commander,” he gasped, “and take my idiot Half with you. You can’t free me.”

  Rael’s brows rose and Hale would’ve recognized the tone as he said, “Oh? Can’t I?” He squatted, shoved his hands beneath the horse, and lifted. His gauntlets slid free. The weight he’d intended to throw under the horse shifted, and he sat suddenly, nearly doing more damage to Payter in the process. Cursing under his breath, he yanked off the offending gloves and shoved them under Payter’s unresisting hands. This couldn’t take too long or the Melacian archers would begin to make their presence felt. He squatted again and gripped the still warm body under shoulder and haunch. Then he stiffened his back and straightened his legs.

  Slowly the horse lifted a foot, then two feet off the ground.

  “Can you get out?” Rael grunted, his knees braced under the saddle.

  “Uh . . . yes, Commander . . .”

  “Then do it, damnit!”

  “Yes, Commander!” The man crabbed backward on hands and elbows.

  When Payter’s feet came clear, Rael stepped back and the horse crashed to the ground. He grabbed his gauntlets, grabbed the man by the shoulders, and flung him up and over the pommel of his Half’s saddle, hoping his armor would cushion the blow. Using the dead horse as a mounting block, and completely disregarding the weight of his own armor—although something in his muscles said he’d pay for all this later, mythic parentage or not—Rael launched himself into his own saddle, set his lance, and screamed: “Back!”

  The circling Elite formed a wedge, pointed their heads toward the rest of the company, and began the fight back. Rael and Rutgar bracketed the rescued Pair and readied to move out.

  I’ve done it! Rael crowed. He beat away a spear that came a bit too close. Nothing can stop us now!

  Suddenly Rutgar threw up his shield and an arrow ricocheted off the rim. “Cover!”

  One of the Melacian longbowmen had found a bit of unoccupied high ground. He stood, safely out of range of return fire, but close enough to Rael and his men to be able to choose his targets with care.

  From a standing start it would take a moment or two to fight their way clear and get moving. During that moment they might as well have targets painted over their hearts.

  “Why, you . . .” Rael’s jaw went out and his eyes blazed behind his visor. In a single fluid motion, he stood in his stirrups, twisted, and flung his lance at the bowman.

  It seemed that both armies watched it fly, and watched it land, point buried a foot in the earth and the Melacian bowman hanging off the end.

  The squad was virtually unopposed as they rode back to join their company.

  Doan met Rael at the top of the hill. “You seem to have taken the heart out of them, Commander.”

  Rael turned to look and, sure enough, the Melacians were leaving the field, forming shield lines and retreating with the Ardhan army harrowing them every foot of the way.

  “A bit showy.” Although Doan’s tone was dry, he couldn’t stop his lips from twitching back into a smirk. “But definitely effective.”

  So ended the Ardhan army’s third day in the valley.

  * * *

  “It took them a while,�
�� Doan nudged the prince and pointed, “but they’ve finally learned. They’ve moved their pikemen out of squares and down both sides of the valley. We try to charge into that and we’ll skewer ourselves.”

  Rael raised a hand to shade his eyes and Rutgar, who was forcing a new strap through a buckle, growled low in his throat. “If you don’t mind, Commander . . .”

  “Sorry.” Rael lowered his arm and squinted instead. “I guess we’ll just have to try something else.”

  Doan and the armsman exchanged questioning glances.

  “It looks as though we’ve made them nervous,” the prince continued. “They seem to be placing a barricade of pikemen between their bowmen and the Ardhan lancers.”

  “They are.” Doan’s eyes were as good as Rael’s and he could shade them against the early morning sun.

  “The trouble is, the Melacians aren’t in possession of a rather important piece of information.” Rael turned to face his companions.

  “And that is?” Rutgar sighed, pulling Rael back into position by the recalcitrant strap.

  “The Ardhan lancers are bowmen as well.” The commander of the Elite looked down at his captain. “The strength of the Elite lies in flexibility.”

  Doan’s jaw dropped. He recognized his own words to Rael on the day the prince took command. He stared at the Melacian lines, then said: “We ride at them in ranks of three, fire, wheel, and repeat. Between the dust and the ranks of pikemen blocking their sight, they’ll never hit a moving target.”

  “And they’ll never expect it,” Rutgar added. “As far as they know . . .”

  “. . . we have no mounted archers,” Doan finished. “And when we break the line, Hale’s horsemen can lead the foot soldiers through. It just might work.”

  “Might?” Rael grinned in a way that made him look very much like his father. “Of course it’ll work. Captain, inform the Firsts. Have the Elite form up in three ranks. Today, we’re archers.”

  Doan’s salute was faultless. “Very good, Commander.” He spun on his heel and marched off to pass the commander’s orders to the officers of the Elite.

  Rael turned back to stare at the distant line of the enemy. “Well?” he asked Rutgar. “What do you think?”

  “I think,” muttered his armsman, finally cinching tight the buckle. “That you’re getting a bit cocky.” He looked up and smiled. “Commander.”

  The commander grinned and slammed an elbow into his armsman’s side with a sound of clashing kettle drums. “You’re just jealous. I tell you, it’ll work.”

  It worked.

  At the end of the fourth day, the Ardhan army still held the valley.

  * * *

  The fifth day, by throwing lives in a seemingly endless parade onto the Ardhan weapons, by making a path on their dead and dying, by washing away the Ardhan barricades with a river of blood, the Melacian army left the valley and moved the war onto the Tage Plateau.

  FOUR

  Deep in the shadow of the mountains, the armies of Ardhan and Melac slept, but eastward, in the camp that attended Melac’s king, it was dawn.

  “Still four bloody hours from the front!” The cavalry officer dropped the hoof she’d picked up and straightened with a groan. “Shopkeepers and peasants are moving up into battle and here we stick, guarding the rear.”

  “Guarding the king,” her companion reminded her with a jut of his chin toward the starburst pennant hanging limply from the center pole of the largest pavilion. His raised eyebrow reminded her that although the nearest of the King’s Guard appeared to be out of earshot, things didn’t necessarily work that way anymore.

  She grimaced but dropped her voice. “We could serve the king better by fighting.”

  “We serve the king best by doing as we’re told.”

  “Right.” She peered over her horse’s withers and added: “They’re moving out the troops.”

  Across the camp, a double line of foot soldiers began the march that would take them to the battlefield.

  “You know, I’ve never seen conscripts so willing to meet Lord Death.”

  “Lord Death is preferable to what they’ll meet if they stay behind.”

  And both pairs of eyes turned again to the largest pavilion.

  “Still, they’re only peasants.”

  He grunted in agreement and raised a hand to block the sun. “Isn’t that Lord Elan?”

  Even at that distance the lord’s stocky figure was unmistakable as he entered the tent.

  “Maybe he’s going to plead our cause with the king.”

  “Right.”

  The looks exchanged said very clearly that both knew it was not, nor had it been for some time, the king who was in charge.

  “Still,” she bent to lift another hoof, “after losing three wars in as many years, I’d follow Chaos himself if it meant we could win one.”

  * * *

  “We have taken the valley, Sire, and the battle has moved to the open area beyond.”

  “Good.” The reply came not from the king, but from the man who sat by his side. Red-gold curls fell in silken coils about his face as he inclined his head and repeated the words to the wasted body that slumped on the throne.

  Slowly, his movements a series of tiny jerks, the King of Melac raised his head. Eyes, sunk deep over axe-blade cheekbones, opened. “Good,” he echoed, then fell silent once again.

  The king’s counselor looked regally down at the kneeling lord. “Was that all?”

  “Sire,” the elderly man came as close to turning his back on the counselor as was safe, “you must send the cavalry on ahead.”

  The king ignored him. The king’s counselor did not.

  “Must send the cavalry? Do you dictate to your sovereign? Would you leave him unprotected?”

  “Sire, you are still on the Melacian side of the border. Still four hours’ hard ride from the battle. Your Guard can protect you. Without the cavalry, every foot the army advances is piled high with the bodies of the dead.”

  “If the cavalry consists of such doughty fighters, able to turn the battle by their mere presence, should they not remain here to guard against assassination?” Slender hands spread, the tracery of gold hair on their backs glittering in the torchlight. “Or do you mean to deny His Majesty protection by the best?”

  “Sire, I don’t . . .”

  “Or perhaps you don’t feel His Majesty is worth protecting?”

  “Sire, of course I . . .”

  “Then why do you deny him the cavalry?”

  “Sire, I can only repeat that without the cavalry on the field, we cannot win.”

  “But we are winning, are we not?”

  “Are we?” the lord snapped, turning at last to glare at the man beside his king. “We gain the ground, but is it winning when three out of every five men we send into the field die?”

  Red-gold brows rose. “But what better death is there, than to die for your king? There will always be more men and they go willingly to fight.”

  “Willingly? They’re driven!”

  “Really? By what?”

  “You know very well by what, you . . .”

  “Are you about to criticize me, Lord Elan?” His voice was as soft as the velvet that fell in sapphire folds from his shoulders, and rather more deadly than the dagger that hung at his waist.

  For an instant, for just an instant, Lord Elan’s jaw went out and the hatred that bubbled and seethed below the surface showed on his face. For an instant. Then the flesh sagged, the gray returned, and his eyes dropped. “No,” he whispered.

  “No, what?”

  The hand that rested on Lord Elan’s knee quivered. “No, milord.”

  The counselor smiled. Lord Elan could always be counted on for a few moments of amusing bravado. That was why he still lived. The cavalry was needed at the front, but there was no need to
rush, not when the delay kept the old lord so frustrated and entertaining. In the meantime, what difference did it make if a few more peasants died. “The cavalry stays here . . .” He paused and his smile grew mocking. “. . . to protect the king.”

  As though animated by the sound of his title, the king suddenly pulled himself erect, satin robes rustling like dead leaves. He leaned forward, pinning Lord Elan with his fevered gaze. “How many?”

  “Sire?”

  Bony fingers crabbed along the broad wooden arms of the throne. “How many have died?”

  Hope flared in the old lord’s face and he leaned forward as well. If the king could be made to care . . . “Hundreds, Sire, thousands even.”

  “Thousands . . .” He sank back into the cushions, his expression almost beatific. “Thousands. And they all died for me.”

  “All for you,” the king’s counselor agreed, and only Lord Elan heard the laughter in his voice.

  * * *

  “There are just too damned many of them!” Rutgar pulled off his helm and slicked back his dripping hair. “They’ve no need to kill us, we’ll die of exhaustion killing them.”

  Rael snorted and dropped down beside his armsman on the felled tree that served as bench, table, and occasionally surgery. “At least it’s over for today.” He dropped his own helm and began to worry at the straps of his greaves. After a moment, Rutgar slapped away his hands and began to work at them himself.

  “They’ll jam if you twist them like that,” he muttered, “and I’ll be the one who replaces the straps if we have to cut you free.”

  “Highness.”

  Rael looked up and managed a weary smile. “My Lord Belkar.”

  “I thought I should warn you that as prince and heir, you’ll be taking the council tonight.”

  “I’ll what?” Rael pulled his leg from Rutgar’s grasp and stood. “Has something happened to Father?”

  “Your father,” Belkar paused, and his voice became decidedly acerbic, “the king, has ridden out with a patrol to prevent us being flanked by the enemy.”

  “Father has?”

  “Yes.”