by Tanya Huff
“But that’s crazy.”
“So I told him, Highness.”
“The king can’t just go riding off with patrols in the dead of night! Did he take his Guard?”
“I believe some members of his Guard rode with the patrol, yes.”
“What if he gets killed out there, miles from anywhere?”
“I asked him that question myself.”
“And he said?”
“He was tired of strategy and tactics.”
“That’s it?”
Belkar’s lips twitched. “Except for some personal and unsavory comments about nursemaiding directed at myself, yes, that was it.”
“Oh, that’s just great.” Rael stepped past Belkar. Stopped. Returned. And threw himself back down on the tree. He had a sudden vision of what his father’s reaction would be if he took the Elite out after him. “Just great,” he repeated and thrust his leg back into Rutgar’s reach.
* * *
Now this is more like it, Raen thought, lips pulled back from his teeth, his eyes shining beneath his plain iron helm. He lifted his sword and flicked the point left. The nearest member of the patrol, a shadow against the broken shadows of the forest, nodded and passed it on, then the line moved forward.
They could hear the Melacians coming toward them—had been able to hear them for some time.
Ten, maybe twenty yards and we’ll be right on top of them. Raen ducked under a low branch and hoped his men were not advancing with the same amount of noise as the Melacians.
The Ardhan line advanced, three feet, four, then a bellow of astonishment filled the night, closely followed by the clash of steel on steel. While the Melacians dealt with the idea of an enemy patrol where no patrol should be, the Ardhans overcame their own surprise and attacked.
How in Chaos did they get so close! Raen blocked a spear with his shield, slashed low to take another man in the knees and dodged a blow that would have removed his head had it connected. He slid around a tree, taking an instant to ram his shield edge into the downed man’s throat, and bellowed the Ardhan war-cry. The rest of the Ardhan patrol picked it up and the woods rang. Dark-adapted eyes could tell friend from foe, armor differed enough that the silhouettes were unmistakable, but there was no sense taking chances. Besides, the King of Ardhan preferred a noisy fight.
So I’m old. Raen grinned as a Melacian fell, screaming at his feet. But I haven’t lost it yet.
The flash of blue light at his gut attracted his attention seconds before the pain hit. He glanced down to see a spear point, glowing eerily sapphire, pressed up against his breastplate just under his navel. Time slowed as the point, and the light, poked through the steel plate and into his belly. He grunted, the pain so intense it closed his throat, preventing a scream, and his sword dropped from spasming fingers.
The head of the spearman hit the ground beside his sword, still wearing the astonished expression with which it had greeted the blue light.
“Sire!”
As the spear was snatched away the pain lessened, becoming more a normal agony. His back braced against a tree, Raen managed to stay standing and find his voice. He tried to sound reassuring, but the words came out a powerless husking whisper. “Not as bad as it looks.” His probing fingers discovered this was the truth. His breastplate was holed but the wound beneath it was through skin and muscle only, nothing vital. He dragged his cloak forward, ripped off a strip a handspan wide and shoved the ball of fabric up under his armor.
“Sire, your breastplate . . .”
“Was obviously badly forged.” He bent and retrieved his sword, teeth gritted against the wave of dizziness. “Well, come on.” He forced his treacherous voice closer to normality. “There’re more of them out here.”
“But Sire . . .”
Raen’s eyes did not glow with the power of other worlds, as did his son’s, but the worldly power they held was quite sufficient.
“Yes, Sire. I’ll re-form the patrol.”
* * *
The surgeon stepped from the king’s tent, wiping her hands on a towel.
“His Majesty,” she said to Rael and the Duke of Belkar, “is not a young man.”
Rael winced.
“He is also,” she continued, “an idiot. Had he returned directly to camp when this happened, he would have been up and bashing heads this morning. As it is, he’s going to spend a good long time in bed.”
“He’s not going to like that,” Rael pointed out.
The surgeon glared at the prince. “Too bad,” she said, and pushed past him back to the infirmary.
Belkar and Rael watched her go, her back ramrod straight and uncompromising.
The duke shook his head, managing to be both admiring and irritated at the same time. “She’ll fight Lord Death every foot of the way and if he wins, she’ll spit in his face. I almost pity him.” He draped his arm around Rael’s shoulders and pushed him toward the tent. “Don’t worry, lad, Glinna’s the best surgeon with the army. If your father was in any immediate danger, she never would’ve left him.”
“But his breastplate . . .”
“Flawed. And it still absorbed most of the blow. You might be able to pop a spear through unflawed steel like it was paper, but that’s beyond the rest of us poor mortals.” His tone was light and reassuring, but he carefully kept Rael from seeing his face. There had been nothing wrong with the breastplate except for the hole punched through it . . . as though the steel had been paper.
* * *
Rain during the first three days on the Tage Plateau kept fighting intermittent and casualties light. The fourth day the sun shone and the killing began again. The strength of the Elite fell from fifty-five to forty men. The Duke of Cei lost half his Guard but the remainder held. The Duke of Belkar lost twenty archers when their position was overrun. The Duke of Hale lost his life.
“Then who is Hale now?” Rutgar asked, his fingers digging the tension out of the prince’s shoulders.
Rael rolled a blue glass bead between his thumb and forefinger. He’d found it near where Hale had fallen. He couldn’t imagine the duke with an unbeaded mustache. He couldn’t imagine the duke dead. “The eldest son, just ten this summer. I think his name was Etgar.”
“Was Etgar?”
“It’s Hale now.”
The Melacians died by the hundreds, but more continued to come through the pass.
* * *
“Father, are you sure you should be out of bed?”
Raen glared at his son. “I’ll not lie in bed, while my people die.”
“It won’t help them if you die as well.”
The king put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up into the saddle. “I have no intention of dying,” he growled and turned his warhorse toward the battle.
At the end of the day, the edge of the king’s surcoat was stained with blood and he had to be lifted down from his horse.
“I’m fine,” he protested as two of the Palace Guard placed him gently on a litter. “I’m just a little stiff.”
“Father!” Rael pushed through the gathered crowd and flung himself to his knees, desperately catching up his father’s hand in his.
“I’m fine,” the king insisted. He managed a weak smile, but his face was gray and slick with sweat.
Rael looked up at Belkar, his whole body begging the duke to say it would be all right. Belkar shrugged.
“The king is down,” ran the whisper through the ranks. “The king is dying.” Weapons, tools, meals, lay forgotten as the army fell silent and waited for news.
“Get out of my way.” Glinna’s voice, impatient and commanding, pushed apart the silence and split the circle surrounding the litter. The surgeon strode through the break and glared down at the king. Her mouth pursed and her eyebrows lowered. “I told you so,” was all she said, but there were several lectures worth of meanin
g in the words.
A wave of near hysterical giggles rippled outward. The king would live. No one used that tone on a dying man.
Glinna looked up at the sound. “Don’t you lot have something to do?” The crowd melted away and she shifted her gaze to stare pointedly at the prince. He stared back, the green of his eyes growing both deeper and brighter. She raised one eyebrow. “Very pretty, Highness. Now get up off your knees so we can move your father inside.”
Rael sighed as he scrambled out of the way. It’s not fair, he thought. When I want people to be impressed, they never are.
As the litter moved away, Glinna slipped her hand under the bloody surcoat.
“Madam!” Raen gasped, his eyes wide, pain mixed equally with surprise. “Try to remember, I am your king.”
“And if you want to remain my king,” the surgeon told him dryly, lifting the tent flap and standing aside to allow the litter to pass, “or anyone else’s king, for that matter, you’ll do as I say.” The flap fell behind them.
“She’s got a terrific way with her patients,” Rael muttered and started back to where he’d left Rutgar holding his horse.
The Duke of Belkar fell into step beside him. “Think of it as an incentive to stay in one piece, Highness.”
“What do you mean?”
Belkar’s voice quivered on the edge of laughter. “If you’re injured, she’ll be taking care of you as well.”
Rael shuddered.
* * *
The sun rose high over the mountains, turning arms and armor to a burnished gold, but the Melacians remained in their camp at the valley’s edge. Rael, Doan, and the remaining dukes gathered on the highest bit of ground they held; little more than a hillock but enough to give them a clear line of sight. Not that it did them much good.
“Even I can see they’re still in camp, Prince Rael.” Cei blew his nose vigorously. “What we need to know is why.”
Rael squinted, trying to bring the tiny figures of the enemy closer by force of will. Finally he shook his head and gave up. “Something’s upset them, they’re scurrying around like headless chickens. The only thing I can say for certain is that, for now, they show no interest in us.”
“Then we attack. Ride in and grind the scum into the mountain.”
With the Duke of Hale’s death, and the heir only a child, command of his forces had gone to Allonger, the senior of his two captains, a vicious fighter, a man of quick and explosive temper, who was also the dead duke’s uncle. Most of his conversation since he took command had centered on revenge.
“Too risky,” Doan grunted. “They hold the high ground. It’s got to be a trap.”
“Then we wait?” Aliston’s heir suggested.
“We wait,” Rael agreed. Allonger opened his mouth to speak but snapped it shut again as the prince continued. “It’s a pity we can’t get scouts close enough to nose out what’s going on, but there’s no cover and I’d never order a man to commit that kind of suicide.”
Belkar hid a snicker behind a cough. Doan became very interested in the space between his horse’s ears. Cei and Aliston’s heir, safely out of line of sight, exchanged amused glances. Rael looked steadily at Hale’s captain.
Allonger glared at the prince, well aware he’d been neatly outmaneuvered. A very long moment passed in silence. “Oh, all right,” he said at last. His voice was gruff, but the edges of his mustache trembled as he tried not to smile. “We wait.” He inclined his head, adding respectfully and without a trace of sarcasm, “Your Highness.”
They waited all that day, thanking the Mother-creator for the rest, and wondering what kept the Melacian army in camp. Not until the sun began to set did they find out.
“Highness!” The Messenger darted into Rael’s tent, glanced quickly around and headed for the inner room.
Ivan snagged her sleeve and dragged her to a stop. “And just where do you think you’re going, young woman? You can’t just run in here like you owned the place, this is . . .”
“Let her go, Ivan.” Rael ducked through the inner flap and smiled down at the Messenger, who twitched her sleeve free and ducked her head in a shallow bow.
“It’s the Dukes Riven and Lorn, Highness. They’re in the command tent. Milord Belkar asks you to attend them at once.”
Lorn was not in the command tent when Rael reached it moments later, but Riven sat, head buried in his hands, at the center of a milling crowd of the dukes and their captains. Voices were hushed and shoulders tense and every eye on Riven.
“They blocked the pass, Commander; Riven, Lorn, and their men.” Doan fell in at the prince’s side as he crossed the tent. “They drove wooden wedges into cracks in the rock then poured water over them until they swelled and slid a couple of tons of rock into a canyon just the other side of the border.” His voice was frankly admiring. “Couldn’t have done it better if they’d had a company of dwarves.”
“Most of the men in these parts are miners, they know what they’re doing. Where’s Lorn?”
Doan paused before answering, weighing the words to use. “They took him to the infirmary,” he said at last, his tone carefully neutral.
Just then Riven looked up. His dark hair hung in a tangled mass down his back, his face was pale and streaked with dirt, his nails were broken and his fingers were scraped raw. Blood stained his hands and clothes; much more blood than his own wounds could account for.
“He wanted to die, but I brought him back. I couldn’t leave him out there.” His throat convulsed and the sound that emerged quavered halfway between a choke and a sob.
Belkar, who stood close by Riven’s side, looked up and shook his head at Rael’s silent question. “I don’t know, lad, that’s all he’ll say.”
Rael dropped to the bench, took a goblet of wine from a hovering servant, and shoved it into the Duke of Riven’s hands. “Drink,” he commanded.
Riven sipped, coughed, then drained the goblet.
“Now, tell me,” Rael prodded gently. “What happened?”
Once, twice, Riven opened his mouth but no sound came out. The third time the words spilled free. “I, I was on the other side of the canyon. They said, his men said, one of his captains was standing too close to the edge when the rock began to fall. He tried to save him. They both went over.” Riven’s eyes went dark with memories and tears began to cut new channels through the dirt. “I got to him as fast as I could. He wanted me to kill him.”
Startled, Rael looked up at Belkar.
“His legs were crushed,” the duke said softly.
“I couldn’t kill him.” Riven turned to Rael for support. “I couldn’t. I dug him out. I brought him back.”
Rael had no idea of what to say or what to do. He reached out a tentative hand and touched the grieving man lightly on the shoulder.
Riven drew a shuddering breath. “I couldn’t kill him.” Then he threw himself to the floor and began to smash his fists into the canvas leaving scarlet smears, his blood and Lora’s mixed together.
* * *
“He carried Lorn every step of the way himself,” Doan said later as he stood with Rael looking toward the enemy camp. “The men with them say that he wouldn’t let anyone help. And during every lucid moment, Lorn begged Riven to kill him. When begging didn’t work, he tried curses.”
“Will he live?”
“Probably. But he’ll never walk again. Myself, I’m more worried about young Riven.”
Rael remembered Seven Day Festivals, when the boys who’d grown up to be Riven and Lorn had come to the palace with their families. They were only five years older than the prince. He’d watched them running and playing and fighting as a single unit. He’d envied them their closeness.
Doan shoved his hands deep behind his belt. “It won’t mean much to them now, but the two of them have ended the war. With supply lines cut, no cavalry, no new troops, and no line
to their king, the Melacians will have to surrender. It’s the only logical thing to do.”
Rael pushed away visions of falling rock and two boys who would never run together again, and brought himself back to the present. “How did the King of Melac think he could command from four hours behind the lines?”
“He may have sent up the occasional order,” Doan grunted, “but the real commanders are out there on the field.”
Over the Melacian camp a cold blue fight suddenly flickered and then darkness claimed the night again.
“Sheet-lightning?” Rael wondered aloud.
“Maybe.”
Just for a moment the captain’s eyes flared brilliantly red. Rael blinked and the moment was gone. He had the feeling Doan knew more than he was willing to tell, but after one glance at the rigid set of his jaw, Rael decided not to ask. Now that the war was over, there would be plenty of time for questions.
In the morning, the Melacians’ expected surrender turned into an all-out attack.
“This is crazy!” Rutgar yelled, tossing aside the splintered remains of his lance and drawing his sword. “They can’t possibly hope to win.”
“Don’t tell me!” Rael bellowed back, in the breathing space they’d cut for themselves. “Tell them!”
Rutgar stood in his stirrups. “You guys are crazy! You can’t possibly hope to win!”
Rael laughed and bashed his armsman lightly on the shield. “Feel better?”
Behind his visor, Rutgar’s teeth gleamed and he laughed as well. “Yeah, I do!”
When the Elite charged, crashing through the screaming chaos the enemy pikeline had become, the Melacians swarmed about them, rats turning on the terrier. The horses’ legs were soon red to the hocks. Weapons dripped and armor ran with gore.
“I don’t believe this,” Rael muttered as the press of bodies, the dead, the dying, and the living behind them, slowed the charge and forced the Pairs apart. He roared the retreat, ripping his throat raw with the sound. All around, he heard the call repeated. And then he heard the scream. Behind him.
He twisted in his saddle.
Rutgar.