Crown of Vengeance dpt-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  “And the Landbond? Who will till your fields if you fill their heads with dreams of knighthood?” Luthilion demanded, his black eyes sharp. Before she could answer, he raised a hand. “Celeharth, oblige me if you would.”

  The Lightbrother rose to his feet, and poured tea into three delicate cups. “In my youth,” Luthilion said, “a heart for war was measured by the graces of peace. It was not enough to ride well and fight well—one had to dance gracefully, play harp or flute or cithern, compose poetry and copy it out in a fair hand, or craft tea. That art is lost, I fear. Today they rip some weeds from the kitchen garden, boil them into an undrinkable mess, and call it the heritage of Mosirinde Peacemaker.”

  “They still teach the art at the Sanctuary,” Vieliessar said, holding the cup so she could inhale its fragrant steam. “Vilya,” she said in surprise, smelling the unmistakable perfume.

  Luthilion radiated pleasure, though his face remained impassive. “Had we met some time ago, and in a different way, I believe I might have made a proper knight of you, Oronviel. Yes, there is Vilya in this blend. The fruit, not the flower. I thought it somehow appropriate for our meeting.”

  “It is a fruiting year everywhere but the Sanctuary gardens,” Vieliessar commented dryly.

  “Hamphuliadiel cannot expect whatever trick he has used to endure for long,” Celeharth said. His eyes flicked to where Vieliessar’s knights stood. “Some say he wishes to make the Sanctuary into the Hundredth House, to replace Lost Farcarinon, thinking by that means to avert the Curse of Amrethion Aradruiniel.”

  “If it were so easy to avert our hradan, High King Amrethion would not have needed to prophecy at all,” Vieliessar answered. “But I would answer Araphant concerning my Landbonds.”

  Luthilion waved that away with faint irritation. “I know already you arm them. But what next?”

  “I take the High Kingship,” Vieliessar answered simply. She did not believe her arguments would sway Lord Luthilion. He was less interested in knowing what she meant to do than in knowing her, for she could see in his mind he meant to pledge Araphant to her alliance simply to leave Aramenthiali and Caerthalien a greater thorn in both their paws than Araphant could be otherwise.

  She did not have time to hear him say so.

  “My lord! A messenger!” Against all proper protocol and courtesy, Komen Janondiel burst through the doorway. “We are attacked! Caerthalien attacks!”

  * * *

  The battle standards carried by the Caerthalien force each flew a narrow red pennion as well the Caerthalien banner, signifying that the army would accept neither surrender nor truce from the enemy. The best thing about going to war in this fashion, Runacarendalur decided, though it was not so much true war as it was the chance to lead a raiding party of truly stunning size, was that he did not have to wait. War itself was a thing of temporary truces, of parleys, of days spent doing nothing more exciting than moving the army and the camp to the next battlefield and waiting for the enemy to arrive. There was no need for any of that in this expedition against Oronviel. The only thing he’d had to wait on were the travel wagons of Ladyholder Glorthiachiel and his recent betrothed. It had been a very long time since Mother rode on campaign, and as for Princess Nanduil … treaty hostages were not encouraged to develop any useful skills.

  Runacarendalur had chosen as his entrance point a place along Oronviel’s border where there was no clear sight-line for the watch towers and where the terrain had forced the ancient builders of the border keeps to set the strongholds far apart. Three thousand horse weren’t inconspicuous, and Runacarendalur knew his army would be seen, but his strategy relied on the two nearest watchtowers—Hawkwind and Highstone—sending incomplete and useless information to Vieliessar. It also relied on the Border Lords being unwilling to engage a force so much larger than theirs: between them Hawkwind and Highstone could put perhaps three hundred knights into the field, and that only if they had been lately fortified.

  As they crossed Caerthalien’s eastern border, his advance scouts encountered a taille in Ivrithir colors. Runacar’s scouts turned and galloped back toward the army and the Ivrithir knights followed. When Ivrithir saw the main force, the taille turned and fled, but Runacarendalur had organized a vanguard that would be ready to chase down Vieliessar’s bands of roving komen the moment any were spotted. Fifty against twelve offered little sport, and Runacarendalur did not even get to fight, but there were other compensations. He spread his army into a long line of skirmish—madness against an equal force of enemy horse, efficient when you meant to destroy as much that lay in your path as possible.

  The border steadings will entertain my troops and the terrified refugees will spread panic.

  But the people of the border steadings weren’t terrified. They fought back with bow and spear and sling. It should have been a futile, unequal battle. Unequal it was, but the border farmers had the advantage of surprise and while most of their weapons could not pierce armor, the walking bow could. Runacarendalur lost four knights and a dozen horses in the first clashes.

  There were no terrified refugees to spread panic, because there were no survivors.

  And worse, the smoke of the burned steadings alerted the Border Towers.

  He’d expected no trouble: they were greatly outnumbered, and should have stayed in their keeps and passed warning messages. Instead, the Border Knights sallied forth to ride along his line of march, close enough to tempt the vanguard into giving chase, distant enough they consistently managed to escape without being caught. At night, they harassed his camp—riding through it, pulling down pavilions, setting fire to anything that would burn—so half his army needed to be awake all night to keep watch and guard their horses.

  By the fourth day of their advance into Oronviel, the Border Knights had been joined by several of the knight-patrols.

  On the fifth day, Oronviel’s army arrived.

  * * *

  It is not possible, Runacarendalur thought. He saw the red-and-white of Oronviel, the tawny-and-black of Ivrithir—and, unwelcome shock, a small cluster of knights in the sable-and-green of Araphant. He estimated the enemy to be three thousand horse. Half of Oronviel’s full array. They should not have been able to muster so many on a few days’ notice. He’d expected to be a full sennight or more into Oronviel before any part of Oronviel’s army could take the field. He’d counted on it, because he’d counted on provisioning his army along the march.

  If he’d faced a force of the size he’d originally anticipated, he would have considered simply going around them, forcing them to follow and do battle nearer to the center of the domain. That would allow him the opportunity both to provision his army and to do more damage to Oronviel. But it would not be possible to flank three thousand horse.

  At least it’s too late to fight today. He glanced at the sky. Nearly midday, so they’d have most of a day to prepare to meet the enemy and scout the terrain over which they would fight. Though this was not a field he would have chosen—it sloped slightly upward, and was littered with debris to trip or lame a destrier whose rider was unwary—it would do well enough. He wheeled his palfrey about and went to give the order to make camp.

  * * *

  “Why do we stop so early in the day?”

  The servants had barely finished setting his pavilion before Ladyholder Glorthiachiel strode into it, glaring at her son. “Is it not enough that we move at such speed one would assume we carried vital messages? Now you propose to sit and do nothing!”

  “And how is my betrothed? Sick with joy at this return to her homeland?” Runacarendalur asked.

  “Were there anyone else in the Line Direct I could trust upon Oronviel’s throne, I would slit her throat rather than listen to another moment of her complaints,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said. “At least Nataranweiya’s brat never whined. Now. Why do we stop?”

  “Why, so I may engage Oronviel at dawn,” Runacarendalur said, waving vaguely in the direction of the enemy. “Thoromarth has brought, if not Vi
eliessar’s army, then an army. You will be pleased to know Oronviel has made alliance with Araphant as well.”

  “Impossible!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel snapped.

  “Possible,” Runacarendalur replied, “and fact. Unless you believe Thoromarth has somehow stolen the War Prince’s banner from Old Luthilion and garbed a dozen Oronviel knights in his colors.”

  Ladyholder Glorthiachiel regarded him through narrowed eyes for a long moment, then gestured peremptorily to a servant to bring her a chair. “Wine,” she said, seating herself and shaking out the folds of her voluminous riding skirts. Runacarendalur served her himself; the pavilion was set, but nothing was unpacked yet. He located the chest he sought, took possession of a bottle and two goblets, filled both cups, handed one to Ladyholder Glorthiachiel, and seated himself on a chest.

  “How many ride against us?” she asked after she’d tasted her cup and silently let him know the drink was not to her liking.

  Runacarendalur hesitated, but any knight in the camp could estimate the size of Oronviel’s force as easily as he had, and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s personal guard would tell her if he did not. “Our forces seem equally matched,” he said reluctantly.

  “And yet, when you proposed this expedition, you said Oronviel could only bring two thousand—at most—to the field,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said.

  “Obviously Elrinonion Swordmaster should have tried harder to get scouts across Oronviel’s border who’d report back,” Runacarendalur retorted. “The army is there. We can fight, or we can run away.”

  “Do not say to me I have given birth to a coward,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel answered haughtily. “Thoromarth is beguiled by that Sanctuary-bred monster. Atholfol’s forces will flee the field rather than fight for Oronviel. And Araphant we will deal with in due time.”

  Runacarendalur inclined his head. “It will of course be just as you say, Mother.”

  * * *

  One candlemark passed, then two, as Oronviel’s army continued to advance. It moved—as did any army on the march—at a slow and measured pace in order to spare the destriers’ strength.

  But it did not stop.

  Runacarendalur sat his riding palfrey, watching the enemy advance. Only a couple of miles now separated the front of their column from his camp. Two of the banners the knights-pennion carried signified War Princes on the field: Araphant’s and Oronviel’s. Runacarendalur had never faced Lord Luthilion—Luthilion had last taken the field in Runacarendalur’s greatfather’s time—but the gleam of his white hair was unmistakable as he rode beside Araphant’s standard. Runacarendalur glanced at Ivrithir’s banner, but Lord Atholfol was not on the field. Why do his knights ride here if he does not lead them? Runacarendalur wondered. He frowned, puzzled, then set the thought aside for now. And here is Oronviel. Thoromarth was a familiar sight in pearl-white armor, mounted on his grey stallion. Runacarendalur frowned again. Thoromarth was riding his destrier, not a palfrey. Everyone in the front rank was.

  Between Thoromarth and Luthilion, on a bay so pale its coat was nearly golden, rode …

  Her. That must be Vieliessar.

  At first he’d thought the woman might be Thoromarth’s standard-bearer, until she leaned sideways in her saddle to touch his shoulder with the easy familiarity of a ruling prince to a favored knight. Thoromarth said something in return and she laughed, gesturing at the army that rode behind them.

  I did not expect her to come armored as a knight to this battlefield.

  His mother had been sure Vieliessar was merely a mask for Thoromarth’s ambition, and even if she were not, it was inconceivable she would ride to war. Yet here she was. She wore silver-enameled armor and the white surcoat with the red otter that marked her as a knight of Oronviel. The bay destrier she rode danced and fretted beneath her hand, yet she controlled him effortlessly.

  When the advancing column finally stopped, Runacarendalur was relieved. He watched as it split, then split again, spreading and reforming behind the first line as gracefully as if the whole of the army danced. They do not wish to be caught unawares while they make camp, he decided.

  Then Thoromarth spoke again and Vieliessar took up her helm and slid it over her head. Runacarendalur could not say why watching her give her helm the small back-and-forth twist to lock it into place made him feel so uneasy. It was something he’d done himself a thousand times. More.

  And so has she. Runacarendalur frowned. Why does she helm if they are to make camp?

  Then—impossibly—he heard the mellow dangerous song of warhorns.

  Right flank: wheel. Left flank: hold. Center: advance.

  Against all sense and custom, Oronviel was attacking.

  Now.

  He spurred his palfrey and galloped back to the camp, shouting for the alarm to be sounded, for his knights to arm themselves. Some had heard the enemy warhorns. Most had not. And only a handful were in armor. This is madness! Runacarendalur thought in outrage. The Code of Battle demands challenge be made and answered before the engagement begins! Not a random attack the moment you catch sight of your enemy! This is none of Thoromarth’s doing! Vieliessar fights as if she is a hedgerow bandit!

  He reached his tent and flung himself from his saddle. Helecanth’s pavilion was pitched beside his own, and she’d come running at the sound of his horse. Runacarendalur noted with despair that his guard captain was as unready to fight as his entire army.

  “My lord?” she said.

  Runacarendalur opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again as the first of the Caerthalien horns sounded: To horse, to horse, arm yourself, to battle …

  “I shall bring Gwaenor,” she said, and took off for the horselines at a run.

  “My armor!” Runacarendalur shouted as he entered his tent. If they had reached us before the camp was set it would have been a disaster, he thought numbly. Only the flanks and the vanguard had been riding in armor, and no one had been riding destriers. But they meant to attack the moment they saw us.

  Nithiach, his chamber page, came rushing out of the pavilion’s inner chamber, a polishing cloth in his hands. Runacarendalur shouted again for his armor and began stripping off his clothes. He struggled with his boots for a moment before sitting down on a chest to yank them off.

  His arming page was nowhere to be found. Nithiach would have to serve; there was not time to find Arnarth. As Nithiach returned with Runacarendalur’s aketon and padded leather trews, the booming of the war drums overlaid the discordant and clashing sound of the horns.

  Lengiathion Warlord always said battles could be won or lost by the speed a knight could arm, and I never believed him.…

  He struggled into the complex elements of his armor, swearing at Nithiach in his desperate need to be armed, to be away. He nearly shouted at Helecanth to leave when she entered, followed by her arming page.

  “They advance.” She had to shout to be heard over the uproar: horns and drums and knights shouting and the clatter of metal and the screams of overexcited horses. “I have ordered Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s guard to move her wagon back and to keep her and Princess Nanduil inside, even if they must tie them hand and foot and nail the doors of the wagon shut.”

  “They’d probably rather face Oronviel,” Runacarendalur muttered. “Good. How many—?” How many can we send against them at once?

  “Five hundred,” Helecanth said grimly. “Enough to hold them until the rest arm. They will stand—if you are there.”

  Runacarendalur settled his helm on his head. As he gave it the small twist to lock it into place, the vivid image of Vieliessar doing just the same filled his mind.

  * * *

  War was a thing of beauty. Runacarendalur had always believed this. The clash of two lines of knights meeting at full gallop, the moments of bravery and skill that were the fruit of a lifetime of training, the joyful dance of death when two knights fought each other as if no one else existed—He was a prince of Caerthalien, a knight, a warrior: he carried the honor of his House u
pon his shoulders each time he rode into battle.

  But today was different. He’d been given no time to scout the battlefield, to meet with his commanders, to tell each where they must stand and where they must go, to settle the signals that would allow him to deploy hundreds of knights as easily as he flexed the fingers of his hand. Instead, he galloped from camp with barely a sixth of his army and only one thought in his mind: push Oronviel back and buy his komen time to take the field. He shouted orders to Helecanth as Gwaenor and Rochonan galloped side by side, and Helecanth put her warhorn to her lips and relayed them to the knights that followed: Break for the tuathal flank. Force it back into the center.

  It was a proven strategy, especially when the enemy could not call up reserves to replace his losses. Since Thoromarth had not been able to position his reserves off the field, effectively he had no reserves—all his force was committed at the same time. The flanking positions were traditionally a fast moving force, meant to sweep an enemy’s fighters into the center where they could be hammered by heavy cavalry. If Runacarendalur could force Thoromarth’s tuathal flank into the body of his main force, he could not only destroy the flanking force but attack the center at a weak point. The main body of the column would have no place to go: if it retreated, the deosil wing would be behind it.

  It should have worked.

  Instead, as soon as Runacarendalur’s advance force was fully committed to an attack on the tuathal side, the whole of Thoromarth’s force spun as if it were a millstone turning on its axis. The tuathal flank was not forced against the center: the center swung right as the tuathal flank retreated in good order and the deosil flank elongated and galloped across what had—seconds before—been the center. In another few moments Runacarendalur’s advance force would be trapped between the two flanking forces while the former center line—now an enormously over-full deosil flank—continued its inexorable advance on his camp.

  It was a stunning innovation in tactics.

  Thoromarth could not have done this, Runacarendalur realized, even as his troop spun and struck the wing of Oronviel’s army that was coming up behind them. He could no longer see the whole of the battlefield. In moments, it had become a dizzying blur of knights and flashing swords.