The Horse Lord

by Peter Morwood

  There were none of the usual guards, either living or traugur undead; cu Ruruc had stripped Dunrath of men so that this time there would be no doubt of the outcome of the battle. He intended nothing less than the obliteration of King Rynert's host. Striding down the corridor, he reached the donjon's double doors and flung them open with a crash.

  The noise was echoed by the stamp of feet as the army outside slammed to attention. Soldiers choked the courtyard, overflowing through its gates in rank upon rank until they were lost to sight in the swirling mist. Vermeil banners hung above them, marked with cu Ru-ruc's winged-viper crest, rippling sluggishly in the cold grey air.

  There was a burst of cheering from his cavalry, human mercenaries since traugarin made useless horsemen, but heavy silence from the rest of his army even when he swung gracefully into his horse's saddle and raised one hand in salute. Kalarr grinned unpleasantly and passed the thin chains of the flail he carried as a baton through his fingers. "That's what I miss about commanding corpses," he remarked drily to Duergar. "The affection troops have for their general. These seem—"

  "Lifeless?" the necromancer suggested.

  "Ha…" Kalarr's gaze swept the courtyard and settled on Baiart, who had appeared at the foot of the stairs and now leaned heavily against the stone balustrade with a winecup in one hand and a brandy-bottle in the other. Baiart Talvalin was very drunk, and consequently very bold. "Hail to the mighty general," he slurred, and then looked pointedly from Kalarr to Duergar and back again. "Who… else… do you plan to kill today?"

  The Drusalan necromancer's head jerked round to stare at him, then much more slowly turned to face Kalarr. That sorcerer's features remained expressionless while he lowered his helmet into place and laced its war-mask snugly. It was probably all the unrelieved red armour which made his cheeks seem flushed with rage, because he was smiling most benevolently as he walked his big roan charger across to Baiart and stroked the drunk man's face almost caressingly with the flail's dangling chains. Baiart flinched and shivered at the contact.

  "You, perhaps," cu Ruruc purred. His commander's crest nodded above him as he leaned closer and laid the flail-haft along Baiart's nose, between his eyes. "If you're very, very lucky…"

  Gemmel leaned his weight on the Dragonwand and released a long breath which smoked away from his mouth into the fog he had created. Though the air was win-tery, he was bathed in sweat from the concentrated effort it had required. "That should hold for long enough," he decided aloud. "I've done everything I can."

  "Such as what?" Aldric was sitting in Lyard's saddle some distance away; both were in full lamellar battle armour and the young man was additionally equipped with shield and slender lance. Though the effect was probably unconscious, Gemmel felt that his foster-son was far more dangerous than any of the just-completed spells. Menace hung about him like the fog.

  "I've screened the army against death from a distance— Kalarr probably cannot cast such spells yet, but it's best to be cautious where that one is concerned. And I made sure that this fog won't lift until I do it myself, barring accidents of course."

  "Accidents… ?" Aldric echoed warily, leading the wizard's mount across to him.

  "Unforeseen eventualities, then," Gemmel expanded unhelpfully. He slapped the Dragonwand as a man might slap the neck of a favourite horse. "I should be drained of strength," he said thoughtfully, "but thanks to this I'm not even tired." He wiped one hand across his forehead and grimaced at the streaks of moisture gleaming on his palm. "Well, not very."

  The old enchanter took a box from his belt-pouch and flicked back the lid, turning the mist briefly blue as the radiance of the Echainon spellstone spilled from its confinement. Then it dimmed, as if the stone itself understood the need for secrecy, and everything returned once more to muted shades of grey. Gemmel smiled thinly and set it into the place where Aldric had long expected the stone to go: the vacant eyesocket of Ykraith's dragon-head. Though he did no more than push it firmly home, the spellstone locked there as securely as if it had been set by a master jeweller.

  "That should stop cu Ruruc causing any trouble," Gemmel muttered. A trumpet yelped and he was forced to leap aside as a small troop of horsemen came thundering out of the fog, pennons fluttering in the wind of their speed. Then he laughed. "Of course, he may have more than our whereabouts to concern—"

  "Altrou, mount up! Move it!" Aldric's yell was not in the tone of voice which suffered questions and Gemmel obeyed instinctively, vaulting into his saddle more nimbly than seemed reasonable in a man of his years. He had barely slid the Dragonwand into a scabbard meant for javelins when four of the riders came back.

  Aldric met them head-on, transfixing the nearest with his lance so that man and weapon tumbled to the ground together. A sword shrieked on his helmet as he rode through the others, bludgeoning one of them off his horse with the iron-rimmed shield as he passed.

  Lyard wheeled under the pressures of heel and rein as Isileth Widowmaker came hissing hungrily from her scabbard. Gemmel was lost somewhere in the fog and Aldric hoped the old man was all right—then, as another horseman came boring in with a flanged mace in one hand, he stopped worrying about other people and became totally concerned with himself.

  The mace-head boomed against his shield, driving it back against his body, and then rose to swing downwards at his head. Widowmaker licked out, sank half her length into the exposed armpit and wrenched free with a sucking noise. The mace flew out of sight and its owner sagged forward, coughing a fan of blood across his horse's neck before sliding from the saddle.

  Aldric grunted thickly as a blow across his armoured shoulders drove the breath out of his lungs. He lurched, recovered, warded off another stroke with his hastily-uplifted shield and kicked Lyard into motion, cursing the stupidity which had allowed this man to close. Then the mace—another mace, dammit!—smashed against the plates of his left bicep and that whole arm went numb and useless, the shield slipping from limp fingers.

  Aldric said something savage—against himself for not keeping the shield-strap round his neck—and met the man in a brief, vicious hacking match where his skill at taiken-ulleth gave him all the advantages. It ended abruptly as Widowmaker sheared away both the mace and the hand which held it, then opened the rider's unprotected throat with an adroit backhanded sweep.

  The Alban wheeled his mount again just as the man whom he had clubbed down with his shield came lunging with a shortsword towards Lyard's head. That was a mistake; with an outraged squeal the stallion reared and slashed out with one steelshod hoof, smearing the attacker's features into oozing scarlet pulp. Aldric gentled the stamping, snorting Andarran courser, trying hard to get his breath and at the same time restore feeling to his bruised left arm. Gemmel walked his own horse closer, looking not too carefully at the carnage—nor very hard at Aldric either, for the moment. The old man had never watched a kailin's training put to use before, and even from the vague and hazy images which he had seen through drifting fog, he was sure he had no inclination to see it done again.

  Aldric stared at his expression of controlled disgust for a few seconds, then smiled sardonically. "Yes. It's rather different from mere practice, isn't it, altrou-ain?" he said. Without too much mockery.

  "How did you know that they were enemies?" was all Gemmel felt inclined to ask at the moment. Aldric dismounted and recovered his shield—the lance had broken—then wiped Widowmaker carefully and slid her away.

  "I saw their armour. It isn't any Alban pattern that I know of, so I was warned. When they attacked us I was sure." He mounted, with a thoughtful look visible within the trefoil opening of his war-mask. "If Kalarr has hired mercenary horsemen, then some of his footsoldiers might be hired as well…" he speculated to himself, wondering where the thought might lead. More trumpets shrilled, some distant but one or two too close for comfort, and he put the undeveloped notion from his mind. "Forget it. We'd better go—I don't know what that troop was doing here, and I'd rather not stay to find out. Follow me, al
trou. Quietly."

  "Do you know where you're making for in this fog?" Gemmel sounded dubious.

  "I think so." Aldric grinned, almost, but not quite, with honest amusement. "I hope so. You'd better hope so too."

  On a clear, bright day the citadel of Dunrath-hold could just be seen from where King Rynert set his standards on the crest of Embeyan Ridge, but on this particular mid-morning there was nothing but a wall of grey vapour into which his soldiers faded like figures in a dream. Despite Gemmel's advice he was reluctant to deploy his forces in such small units as the wizard had suggested: instead he had resorted to a troop formation culled from the battle manuals every Alban general carried on campaign, a flexible disposition of mutually supporting staggered regiments known as a "dragon's head" on the forward slope of the ridge. Whether it would be successful was another matter, because although the regular foot soldiers could be relied on to obey their orders with precision, aristocratic kailinin and their household warriors would tend to go their own way—which, since nobody could see more than fifty yards in any direction, was something Rynert doubted would be the right way so far as he was concerned.

  There had been a brief skirmish with the enemy cavalry ap hour before; scouts, maybe a tentative probing of his defences—perhaps even those village-burning raiders. Either way they had been repulsed with heavy losses. But they had been human, not traugarin—men able to think for themselves rather than automatons. Rynert wondered if there were more, guessing in the affirmative and not liking his conclusions. Such men where they were not expected could prove a danger out of all proportion to their numbers…

  The legions rattled and clinked as buckles were drawn tight, swords eased in scabbards and helmets pulled down just that little further. Then the noises stopped and the silence returned, a vast oppressive stillness which proved just as frightening as the more normal sound of an enemy host taking up position.

  Not that such a sound had been heard on Alban soil for long enough…

  Rynert suddenly shuddered, just once but so violently that it made his armour rattle. He frowned, wondering why… and then stripped off a gauntlet, licked one fingertip and held it up. The frown deepened to a scowl and a soft, venomous oath hissed past his clenched teeth. A wind was rising. It was little more than a movement in the air, but already the threads of mist had ceased their sluggish weaving and were drifting determinedly with the breeze.

  Growing thinner even as he watched. "The fog's begun to blow away!" snapped Aldric, swinging round on Gemmel. "You told me that it wouldn't! What the hell is going on?"

  Gemmel had half-expected such an outburst, so when it came it did not cause him much concern. "Wind," he replied coldly. "An ordinary thrice-damned wind. About the only thing I didn't cast securing-spells against."

  "Why not?"

  "Have you any conception of the sort of power required to hold this fragile stuff in place?" Gemmel flared. "I doubt it! So don't ask bloody stupid questions!"

  "But…" An icy emerald-green glare from under the wizard's eyebrows made Aldric hesitate, if only for a second. "But isn't this Kalarr's work?"

  "Of course not! He'd rip himself to tatters with the strain of any such attempt. And before you ask, no! Duergar's maintaining the traugur-charm, so it's not his doing either. This is just a breeze."

  "Just a breeze." Aldric allowed himself a hollow, heavily sarcastic laugh. "So there'll be a battle anyway, despite all the plotting."

  "There'll be a bloody massacre if Rynert doesn't follow my instructions. Not that we'll be here to watch it if we're not under cover by the time this clears completely."

  "That would never do, now would it." Heeling Lyard to a canter, Aldric vanished momentarily and was smiling bleakly when he trotted back. "But you don't have to worry on that score. Over here, altrou. Quickly!"

  Gemmel did not move, but watched Aldric through narrowed, thoughtful eyes until the eijo's gaze refused to meet his own. "What score are you worrying on?" he wondered softly. "The men you killed?"

  The black helmet nodded, once, then turned so that the expression within its mask was unreadable. "Yes. A little. There was no difficulty, no risk to me. I was better armoured, better armed… It was like killing children."

  "Children don't carry maces, Aldric. They don't try to break your bones. Put it out of your mind, boy."

  "Easily said," muttered Aldric. His tsalaer creaked as he drew in a slow, deep breath, rising in his stirrups to stretch like a cat. "Yes… easily said. Follow me."

  A clump of trees congealed from out of the fog and Aldric rode straight into their shadow, Gemmel at his heels. One coppice looked very much like another to the enchanter, and he wondered what made this one different. Aldric told him briefly: seen from north or south the tree-trunks formed a cursive "tau" for Talvalin, while the east-west outline was the uncial "hai" for hala-than, the old name for a bird shown spread-winged on a crest. Such as clan Talvalin's eagle. Despite his tension Gemmel chuckled at the simplicity and deviousness of it all.

  "What is this anyway?" he wanted to know as Aldric tethered Lyard to a branch. "Dunrath's back door?"

  "Sort of. More a last-ditch exit, though. In the bad old days just after the Clan Wars, if there was any sort of risk a servant would bring horses to this area—not straight to the trees, obviously, but close enough. If he had to escape from his own fortress, a clan-lord and his family could meet here—or if necessary come up—" he leaned inside a hollow stump and pulled something with all his strength, "here!" The whole stump shifted sideways, revealing the mouth of a tunnel dropping into darkness. "Most fortresses as old as Dunrath are riddled with such passages," the eijo continued, "but they usually have just one like this—leading beyond the outer walls."

  "Who told you about it?"

  "My father, years ago. It's known only to the cseirin-born—the lord's immediate family."

  "Then won't Baiart have known about it—and betrayed it?"

  "Yes—and I hope, no. None of the retainers or vassals knew of it, so those two swine can have had no suspicion of its existence. And Baiart may have kept it secret in the hope of making his escape some day."

  "May have… ? That's flimsy, Aldric. Almost reckless."

  Clambering down, Aldric felt about with his feet for the steps he half-remembered, then nodded grimly. "I know that. But there's one way to be sure, and I'm prepared to risk it. Are you?" He descended out of sight with a scrape and rustle of black steel, leaving Gemmel alone with the disinterested horses.

  The old enchanter looked around, hoping perhaps for inspiration, but saw only that the mist was growing uncomfortably thin. Pushing the Dragonwand's inflexible length through his belt like some oversized sword, he swung his lanky frame over and down. "I'm right behind you," he called, then grinned briefly to himself. "As if there was another choice."

  By the sun, a straw-pale disc in a chilly azure sky, it was almost noon. Rynert sat uneasily on a camp-stool, baton in hand, and watched the flags and banners round him ripple in that accursed wind. At least now his fighting— or rather, his evading—would be that of a sighted rather than a blind man.

  His troops looked neat even though they had been permitted to stand down for their midday meal; this did not reassure the king much, since by all accounts Lord Santon's legion had been equally neat—before the catastrophe.

  Dewan ar Korentin, looking odd in his close-fitting Imperial helmet beside so many in the peaked and flaring Alban headgear, stood a little farther down the slope, tapping his own commander's baton against one knee in a nervous, jerky rhythm. The uneventful waiting was beginning to erode even his iron nerves, and Rynert wanted to get up, talk to the Vreijek—do anything to silence the annoyingly irregular tap-tap-tap.

  Then it stopped. More than one of the officers on the ridge turned to stare at the sudden silence, heard the distant, hollow muttering which had caused it and shifted their gaze to the ridge north of Embeyan. Dewan cleared his throat and pointed with his baton, a long, slow arc which took in th
e entire horizon. "Gentlemen, to your places," he said quietly. "Here they come."

  Helmets twinkled in the sunlight all along the crest of that far ridge, becoming a line of men who advanced at a measured pace to the sound of drums until the skyline was clear, and then stopped. Another rank of soldiers followed. Then another, and another, and another, until the ridge was black with men. A trumpet blew, its notes thinned by distance, and the line contracted, splitting into wedges faced with overlapping scarlet shields and bristling with spears. Wedges which came trundling ponderously down on to Radmur Plain.

  The Alban horns and drums were signalling now, and couriers were galloping down from the generals on the ridge. Each regiment shifted into more open order as the enemy approached, ready to repel attacks from horsemen they could kill or to avoid the traugarin they could not.

  With the advantage of height, Rynert could see cu Ruruc's host take up their own formation and grinned harshly with reluctant admiration. What he could clearly see as a wide-flanked "swallowtail" encirclement would from a lower vantage-point—such as that of a regimental commander—appear to be the classic "spearhead" of a frontal assault. As simple and as deadly as a stab in the back, thought Rynert. Quite in keeping with Kalarr's reputation. It seems he has guessed I will not meet him unless he forces me to do so.

  Drums thudded among the distant wedges and a solitary horn wailed dismally. The red shields began to lumber forward, slowly but inexorably drawing closer. Ar Korentin, mounted now, waved his baton towards Lord Dacurre's cavalry, unleashing them against cu Ruruc's horsemen. It would give the haughty, hard-to-control kailinin a chance to do something useful, whereas the likelihood of their doing something stupid increased the longer they were held in check.

  Arrows flickered between the riders as they closed with one another, then the Albans returned bows to cases and twirled out their long spears in the same movement, hefted shields high and ploughed into the enemy with a great howling crash. Men were unseated or skewered on both sides in that first shock, and suddenly the two galloping ranks had passed through one another with the trumpets on both sides already screaming recall.