It was Dewan who answered. Once an Imperial officer, he had seen such things before he knew the twisted reasoning behind them. "To discourage us," he said bleakly. "It must have been Duergar Vathach's suggestion. This is a Drusalan tactic—it's supposed to take the heart from an advancing army when they see their enemies care nothing for human life."
"In the Empire, maybe." Aldric's voice was flinty. "This is Alba."
"I've lived here long enough to know it," Dewan returned. "All this will be repaid with interest, never fear."
He watched the young man and said nothing more, knowing that however sincere he was, his words sounded like the most insipid platitudes.
"Leave this place, kailin-eir" Rynert advised gently. "Brooding about it will do no good."
"As you wish, Lord King." Aldric saluted again, bowed carefully and then rode Lyard towards the roads, towards the army—anywhere, so long as it was away from the village and its dead.
Rynert watched him go, then looked across at Dewan. "A young man who lives his life most intensely, I think," he said. "And he feels the loss of the girl, despite what you told me. You were wrong there, Dewan my friend."
"I did not use the word infatuation, king. She did. But perhaps we were both wrong."
"What's your opinion of him?"
Dewan considered briefly. "Whoever chose the kourgath-cat for his crest knew what they were doing." Rynert raised one quizzical eyebrow but let Dewan continue without interruption. "He's arrogant, more self-sufficient than I think he knows himself. He's very intelligent, well-educated in… in a most interesting variety of subjects. He's foul-tempered when the mood's on him, dangerous, sometimes ruthless, sometimes pitiless—"
"But not all the time, Dewan. Not now, at least."
"I noticed that. He's a strange one. My wife likes him though, whatever Tehal Kyrin was telling her. Lyseun does not usually approve of people who take me away from her, as you well know. But he can be friendly when he wants to be, I suppose…"
"You sound almost jealous, captain."
"I don't suffer from it, king."
"Would you trust him now?"
"With my life."
"And with your wife… ?" The king was mocking gently, as he sometimes did with people close enough to be almost family. Dewan and his lady were part of that very small, very select group, which was why the Vreijek felt able to grin broadly.
"I'm not a jealous, possessive husband, king. It would depend entirely on what Lyseun said. But yes, I'd trust young Aldric with her. He's an honourable gentleman." Dewan's face went suddenly very serious. "That's what makes him so dangerous."
"I'll bear that in mind. Now, Baiart: if he's taken alive, he is not to be permitted tsepanak'ulleth. I intend to execute him."
Dewan was momentarily aghast, and seemed to find difficulty in closing his mouth. "You intend—then you'll seize the Talvalin lands by forfeiture? But Aldric…"
"I don't need the lands for myself; but they will be useful as something to give or withhold. When I return them—which I'm not obliged to do—my magnanimity will perhaps engender a little gratitude in that young man. It won't hurt him to feel something more human than duty and respect."
"If he doesn't feel it, king, somebody else will definitely be hurt. I admire your cleverness, but in this case I wish my formal objections to the scheme placed on record. Young Talvalin's already quite human enough to resent such a… such a trick if he ever finds out about it. Rynert… be careful."
"I will be." The king let Dewan's use of his name go by without any comment. "But at least it will remind him that he can't gain everything by his own efforts. I prefer such a clan-lord to be under obligation to me."
"As you wish. I still—"
Ar Korentin broke off as three horsemen in the orange plumes of couriers came clattering towards them. All had the look of men who had ridden hard and fast, but even so the most senior of the messengers leapt from his skidding steed before the beast had halted and went down on one knee while the others dismounted in more restrained fashion.
"Sire," the man announced breathlessly, "we have found Lord Santon!"
Endwar Santon told his tale to a ring of grim-faced, silent men, and if they looked like mourners at a funeral he looked like the corpse. His armour and weapons were gone; he had been wandering for more than a week, eating what little he could scavenge—and with Duergar's raiders out that was little indeed—while he made his unsteady way south to the road where some friend would eventually pass. And there he had waited.
Even at a forced march, the king's host could not cover six hundred miles in less than three weeks. Santon had been a fortnight without food or shelter before the first outriders came sweeping up ahead of the army; a fortnight of brooding and of black despair, of days darkened by his memories and of nights made bright with the flames of burning cottages.
Rynert's army was now less than four days' march from Dunrath, but their strength of some fourteen thousand was no longer enough to obliterate cu Ruruc's forces—not since these had been reinforced by some six thousand additional men. Only Gemmel gained some small, grim satisfaction from what Kalarr had done; he knew that there was no longer any risk of some awesome spell devastating the entire host while he was unable to protect it. There would be small magics, inevitably, but they would do no more damage than spears and arrows could. Step by step, Duergar and Kalarr were moving up to lay their heads on the block—and neither of them knew it, he was sure.
"He said I could not die until I spoke to you, Lord King," Santon said with difficulty. "I do not know if he mocked me, or laid a charm on me—without a tsepan I could not find out…" He croaked a low, ugly laugh. "I even threw my sword away, so that I could not fall on it as they did in ancient times. I wanted to die, but I had to tell you everything myself. Now I have done so." Santon laid down the cup of fortified wine someone had given him, uncoiled from his sitting position on the ground and knelt in First Obeisance. "And now I can die, if you will permit me, Lord King."
Rynert hesitated; he had been expecting such a request and trying to work out a polite means of refusing it ever since the messenger had first spoken half an hour before. Then he realised there was only one response after all, and nodded his assent.
The preparations were swiftly completed; a modicum of privacy was granted by making screens from the great clan war-banners, and Santon was left alone with one of the priests who always accompanied the legions. Aldric and several of the other younger lords stood around in a sort of horrified fascination, though few of them knew that Aldric himself had been within a tsepan's length of the same situation. Then King Rynert beckoned to him and Aldric felt his mouth go dry.
"I would ask you to act as Endwar's second, Aldric-an," the king said in a low, private voice, "but since he was your father's friend it would be unseemly. Dewan is acting for him instead. Might I ask that he be allowed to use your sword?"
Aldric thought sombrely that Widowmaker was once again justifying her name, but he nodded consent and unhooked the sheathed blade from her slings. Dewan approached, wearing a formal overmantle marked with the crests of his rank, and accepted the taiken with a deep, courteous bow before securing it to his belt. Then he backed away three paces, his face an emotionless mask, and bowed again respectfully before turning to vanish behind the makeshift screens. Rynert watched the Vreijek go, then looked at Aldric. "Do you wish to witness this?" he asked.
The young eijo hesitated, then forced a small, ironic smile onto his lips. "I don't wish to, Lord King," he confessed. "But Endwar Santon was my father's friend and a hearth-companion of clan Talvalin. My absence would dishonour us all. I will be a witness."
After it was over, everything went very still for a moment; then the witnesses bowed in unison, rose and departed without a backward glance. All except Aldric. He waited quietly for the various rituals which had to be completed before Dewan could return his sword, then strapped the taiken back in place, secretly grateful that she had not been needed aft
er all. Like much else in his life, Lord Santon had required no one's help to leave it. Aldric gazed at the huddled form covered now with a scarlet cloth, then turned to Dewan. "What will they do with him?" he asked. "There's not enough wood to give him a proper funeral."
"There is. You're forgetting that we carry fuel for the cook-fires—but I for one will eat my food cold if I must, to do him honour." Dewan rubbed his hands together; he was not Alban, had not been brought up with tsepanak'ulleth and found that the rite disturbed him. "Such courage deserves more than just a hole in the ground."
"I wonder will Baiart be as brave?" Aldric murmured, thinking aloud rather than asking a question. Dewan realised that just in time to stop the words which crowded on his tongue.
"I… wonder indeed," he said very softly.
Ten
Deathbringer
"Lord King, I have been trying to speak to you these three days past!" King or no king, Gemmel made no effort to keep the acerbity from his voice, though fortunately for him Rynert was more disposed to amusement than anger.
"I have been somewhat busy, Gemmel-an. An army to command, a kingdom to rule at second hand—little things I know, but time-consuming." The enchanter simmered gently, trying hard to keep his temper in check, until Rynert decided that enough was enough and became businesslike. "What do you want, anyway?"
"This concerns your battle strategy, Lord King:"
Rynert lifted his eyebrows; there were some things which he considered unwarranted interference and this was one of them. "Oh. So you're a military commander on top of all else?" he said sarcastically. "Imperial service, no doubt?"
"I am an enchanter, Lord King."
"At least we have that clear. So what business is it of yours what strategy I adopt, eh?"
"Because of what you will be fighting. Traugarin, Lord King—not men." Rynert said nothing, and Gemmel interpreted this—correctly—as permission to continue. "You're not dealing with an Imperial Lord-General, but with a necromancer whose army has been dead for a long time. Some were resurrected from the old Baelen battlefield, others from the destruction of Lord Santon's legion. The numbers are equal on both sides, so far as I can judge— except that Kalarr's men cannot be killed. Yours can."
"That had not occurred to me, wizard," the king said softly after a pause.
Gemmel smiled slightly. "Precisely why I raised the question in the first place," he purred with some small satisfaction in his voice.
"So Duergar must be killed before his spell is broken. Is that it?"
Better, mused the old man to himself; you are actually starting to think things out for yourself again. Aloud he said: "Aldric Talvalin is oathbound to perform that act. I'll ensure that he survives to do it."
"And what about my army? You told the council that you would protect it. Are you failing in your promise?"
What promise did I give? Gemmel almost snapped, but spoke differently. "Of course not, Lord King. I can lay enough protective charms over the host to turn most spells—"
"Most?" Rynert's voice was suddenly sharp and suspicious.
"The spells I cannot turn are those of the High Magic, such as the charm used against Lord Santon Like necromancy, those must be stifled at source—but I shouldn't worry overmuch. Cu Ruruc is hardly strong enough to use them yet—not without causing himself the most appalling damage."
"I know that much." Rynert was not merely bluffing to save a little face, he knew all about the merciless rules of high sorcery, and about the warping pressures they put on mind and body—which was why the most powerful wizards were never shrivelled ancients but men who might well pass for warriors.
"Also," Gemmel put in silkily, "cu Ruruc wouldn't want to defeat you by any other means than combat if it can be managed. He'll get more Alban allies that way."
By the expression on Rynert's face this also was something he had not considered. "There are kailinin whom I asked to join the hosting, both at Erdhaven and since; men who made excuses though they promised support later…"
"Watch them, Lord King."
"Oh, I will… Damn it, wizard, will you stop meddling in affairs of state!"
"I beg pardon."
The apology did not sound especially sincere, but Rynert was in no mood to press for more. "Then what is it you wish me to do, Lord General Gemmel?" he asked, only half jesting with the title. "Run away? Because we're less than a day from Dunrath."
"No. Not run, anyway." Gemmel stopped perforce as cavalry clattered past the king's pavilion, drowning his words for a few seconds.
Rynert got to his feet and looked out through the tent's door-flap. "Dawn patrol," he observed absently. "Riding point for the column. We'll be moving soon." Picking up his leather leggings he began to buckle them on himself, deciding in view of Gemmel's conversation not to summon any servants until he had to do so. "Well, man, carry on."
"As I said, don't run—but don't meet cu Ruruc head-on either. Skirmish. Duck and weave and sidestep. You know now that a set-piece battle is out of the question, so break your troops into small formations, units of two hundred at most, and disperse them. Your purpose should be to keep the enemy busy—because you can't destroy him. And the busier you keep Kalarr, the better chance Aldric and I will have of slipping unnoticed into Dunrath."
Rynert grunted; it might have been an opinion, or just the effort of tightening a buckle behind his knee. Then he straightened up and gazed at the enchanter. "What's to stop cu Ruruc dealing with each small unit one at a time?" he asked purely as a matter of form, since it was fairly certain Gemmel would already have an answer.
He had, of course. "Two things: first, I'm going to destroy the spies which have been keeping us under constant surveillance, and second, I'll lay a fog over the army before the spies can be replaced. That way—to be quite brutal about it—you'll lose two hundred men at most in any one engagement."
"It is brutal. But also good sense. When will you deal with the spies?"
Gemmel twirled the Dragonwand in a spear-fighter's flourish which made King Rynert smile a little. "Your host is preparing to break camp, so they'll be watching. Now seems as good a time as any."
Rynert shrugged into his plate-and-meshmail sleeves and followed the enchanter outside, tightening their lacings as he went. The king could not have said whether he worked at the armour with the intention of making it comfortable, or merely because he had no desire to seem interested in the practice of magic, despite being in fact interested to the point of fascination. Gemmel was muttering something under his breath and Rynert moved a little closer in order to answer him—then realised with a slight start that the old man was actually addressing the Dragonwand.
"Abath arhan, Ykraith," he murmured. "Acchuad eiya ilearath dua'hr." There was a deep, melodious thrumming sound, like an echo of the bass register on a zither, and a translucent shimmer enveloped the crystal in the carven firedrake's mouth. Rynert felt its pressure just as he would have felt the heat from an uncovered brazier, and was conscious of a great stillness settling over the camp. All that moved were the crows which spiralled lazily high above. Gemmel favoured them with a poisonous smile and raised the Dragonwand above his head; everyone who saw him do so instinctively ducked. The enchanter's smile grew more cheerful. "There's nothing to worry about," he called.
Then he spoke a single harsh phrase which unleashed the spellstave's leashed-in force. It lit the cold blue sky with a blizzard of orange sparks, which burst in a great expanding hemisphere from the Dragonwand's crystal tip and lashed with blinding speed across the camp, piercing each changeling-crow as if on a thousand red-hot skewers. The birds spewed smoke and singeing feathers, then tumbled from the sky to leave it cleaner than it was.
"Nothing at all," Gemmel corrected primly, "unless you are a crow!"
Kalarr cu Ruruc stared at his magic mirror, drumming armoured fingers on the black ebony of his table's top. The obsidian glass obdurately refused to show him anything but his own darkened reflection. He strode across the chamber flo
or and back again, noisy in his carapace of scarlet-lacquered steel. There was still no image in the volcanic scry-glass even when he touched it and let some of his own inner power flow through its substance. Finally he swore viciously and smashed the thing to fragments with a single blow of his clenched fist.
Duergar looked round with a jerk at the sound of shattering. "That won't help," he said reprovingly. The window behind him showed greyness and the drifting skeins of fog which had grown thicker in the past half-hour. "Not even your flying eye could see through that murk."
"I know that well enough!" cu Ruruc snarled. "But it should at least show me what it cannot see through. Something's wrong with it. Something's hurt it."
"Then make another," said the necromancer simply.
"I have already told you that I can't," Kalarr grated through clenched teeth, leaning forward pugnaciously with his fists on the table. "There is a limit to that kind of shaping-spell. It's a penalty for the thing's usefulness."
"Usefulness?" Duergar laughed nastily. "What use have we made of it? Now my changelings—"
"Yes, your changelings! When did one of them last report, eh? Not since just after dawn, and now it's almost noon."
"Can't you dispell the mist?" Duergar asked, sidestepping further argument on the spy subject. Kalarr straightened with a gusty exhalation of breath.
"No I can't! As I've already told you!"
"You didn't," Duergar insisted, seemingly determined to annoy. Kalarr refused to react, merely smiling like a shark at his companion.
"All right, perhaps I didn't," he conceded. "I've more to do than remember every word spoken. But clearing away that spell-born fog is beyond my powers at present. You know what the attempt would do to me. Unless that's what you want, of course… ?"
"I could try to summon up a witch-wind," suggested Duergar evasively.
"No. Put all your power into keeping the traugarin strong. They must not die until I've finished with them— and with the Albans."
Kalarr picked up a helmet and left the chamber, clattering down the spiral stairs with Duergar at his -heels.
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