Crown of Vengeance dpt-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  With enough time.

  * * *

  Nadalforo’s company retreated as planned, but even though it was outnumbered and should have waited for reinforcement, Caerthalien’s deosil line forced the battle and their tuathal line simply vanished. We’re being flanked, Nadalforo thought, but there was nothing she could do about it. They couldn’t run, so they had to fight. She hoped the Lightborn would flee—because if they didn’t, if they were questioned, all of them knew at least something of Lord Vieliessar’s plans.

  Her blade rang off the pauldron of the enemy knight before her. She sparred and feinted for a few exchanges to convince her enemy he knew what she’d do, then swung her mount wide and jammed the point of her blade directly into her opponent’s groin. Cuisses only went to the top of the thigh, and faulds to the middle of the belly. The raised pommel of the war saddle and the long chain shirt were supposed to protect the unarmored groin and lower belly. They did their job because komen were more interested in fighting beautifully than in killing their foes.

  Nadalforo gave her blade a twist as she withdrew it and saw the blood of a severed artery spray; if her foe screamed, there was too much noise to hear, but he dropped his sword and thrashed. His destrier, taking the shift in position for a command, reared, and the knight fell from the saddle. Nadalforo was already turning to find other prey.

  She heard the shrill notes of one of her company’s signal whistles calling: disengage—retreat—go right. It could only be hope, not possibility, for Prince Runacarendalur was out for revenge. He wouldn’t retreat unless his defeat was certain, and that meant she’d have to manage to kill most of his attack force.

  When she heard warhorns ring out—the foe is in sight—attack—attack—she knew reinforcements had arrived. The best her meisne could hope for was to die fighting. I’ve never thought the souls of dead warriors go to ride with the Starry Hunt forever, but soon I’ll know.

  But when the reinforcements reached the battleground, they weren’t Caerthalien’s. The newly arriving knights wore green surcoats, but the device on them was a silver Unicorn, not three gold stars. Green surcoat fought green surcoat, and the blazon of the silver Unicorn was everywhere.

  Once again Nadalforo heard the signal whistles calling for disengagement and retreat, and this time she was able to ride free of the melee.

  “I thought we were going to die fighting for free!” Faranglis shouted when she reached him. He was already moving toward the road, brandishing his sword in a signal: close up and follow.

  “Not today,” Nadalforo answered. Now it was Caerthalien that was outnumbered, but it would take Lord Vieliessar’s knights time to slay them all, and time was the one thing they didn’t have.

  They reached the road. Prince Gatriadde’s russet surcoat stood out among browned mail and green armor. Nadalforo was glad he’d managed to escape; his role in this had been vital and he’d endured danger and sacrifice to carry it out. She gave the order to form up for another attack on Caerthalien—she had no intention of letting Household knights fight Stonehorse’s battles—and as she did, she heard someone sound the call for retreat. She couldn’t tell which side was calling for disengagement.

  Suddenly the Caerthalien destriers turned and bolted, running as fast as they could. Any animals without riders fled as well, quickly passing the others. The moment Caerthalien took flight, Lord Vieliessar’s knights galloped toward the road, leaving behind them a field covered with the dead.

  The Lightborn had found a way to fight after all.

  Nadalforo spurred her destrier toward the relief force’s commander. “Making the enemy’s horses bolt seems like a convenient way to win a battle,” she said when she reached him.

  “It only wins the battle,” Thoromarth answered. “It doesn’t win the war.”

  “I don’t object to winning a battle,” Nadalforo answered. “Especially since it means I’ll live to see the rest of the war.”

  Thoromarth laughed harshly. “I never knew a sellsword to be such an optimist.”

  * * *

  One moment Caerthalien was in the middle of a battle Runacarendalur was convinced they could win. The next moment, Gwaenor—and every other Caerthalien destrier—bolted.

  Nothing the prince did slowed Gwaenor’s headlong flight. The stallion was insensible to the command of bit and spur. Runacarendalur concentrated on keeping his seat. If he fell from Gwaenor’s saddle he’d be trampled by the destriers running behind them. Riderless animals galloped past the knights, and it was a small comfort to know the riderless animals would trip any hidden traps or be the ones to break a leg in a hidden burrow. Gwaenor’s neck was covered with foam and bloody foam flew from his jaws. Runacarendalur only hoped the spell set on them was not meant to make the animals run themselves to death.

  It had taken them two candlemarks to reach the Sanctuary road. Now they covered the same distance in a fraction of that time. As they neared Aralhathumindrion, the air stank of smoke and roasting meat. They’d seen a column of smoke as they’d left the encampment, but hadn’t known what burned.

  Now they saw.

  There was nothing left of the forest but charred ground and a few charred stubs of trees. Smoke still curled up from the ash and embers of the woodland. The riderless destriers reached the burned area first and ran straight onward. Ash swirled up in a choking cloud around them, mingling with the smoke. But they swerved to avoid the now-exposed open pits, which made Runacarendalur hope the bespelling had lifted. If the horses were no longer bolting in a blind panic, perhaps they would answer to their riders’ commands.

  “Turn them!” he shouted to the rider at his side. He bawled the command over and over, until it was heard and passed back through the ranks. Simply bringing the horses to a stop wouldn’t be enough, even if they could. The others behind would run over them, or past them, and maybe spook them into bolting again.

  Gwaenor strained against the rein. Runacarendalur feared he would not be able to make the destrier turn, until from the ranks behind him, a warhorn sounded: wheel deosil—form column—wheel deosil—all knights.

  And Gwaenor turned, obedient to a signal he’d had heard every day of his life since foalhood.

  By the time they were heading back the way they’d come, Gwaenor had slowed to a canter, then to a trot. Other destriers, still moving at a gallop, passed him, but the whole force had turned in response to the warhorn. At last, the animals were all standing. Winded, blown, exhausted, overheated—but alive.

  INTERLUDE THREE

  SORCERY AND STRATEGY

  In the changeable world of Form and Time the Light had hidden the only weapon which could slay the eternal beautiful children of He Who Is. Only the arrogance of the Light had disclosed its secret, for had it not shared that secret with the Elvenkind, the Endarkened would have remained ignorant of it …

  Until too late.

  Virulan threw himself into preparations for the coming war as never before. In the World Without Sun, he made a nursery of horror, taking the races of the Bright World captive and there, twisting them to create the legions of his army. From the Fauns, he created the dwerro. From the fairies, he made goblins. Under his fell twistings, Hippogriffs became Serpentmarae, wolves became Coldwarg. From every living thing with which the Light had filled the Bright World, Virulan made a creature of the Darkness.

  He let his monsters breed.

  He withdrew his Endarkened from the lands of the Elflings, sending them across the Great Waters to hunt. Even there, he ordered them to work in secret. There would be no gathering of Brightworld clans against him, no warning for the Children of the Light of their fate.

  And he himself hunted the Unicorn.

  The creature was clever. All was as Uralesse had said: no matter what ordinary concealments of their form and nature the Endarkened used, the Unicorn could sense their presence. Finding where it laired was difficult. Capturing it seemed impossible. But Virulan was patient and clever. He considered the matter carefully, then set his a
rtisans to craft nets.

  Miles of nets.

  This time, when the creature was spotted, the sky above Shadow Mountain turned black with the flight of the Endarkened. It was a risk to enter the Bright World so openly, but Virulan was determined to solve this riddle. He did not fear the power of the Unicorn, but one must always use the proper attack against the enemy. It was such attention to detail which elevated destruction to the realm of art.

  As before, the Unicorn turned and bolted into the Flower Forest at the first sight of the Endarkened, but this time Virulan was prepared. He drove a horde of the Lesser Endarkened after it, knowing the creature would believe it could outrun its pursuers. When it exited the forest on the far side, the Endarkened were waiting. The Unicorn saw the net, but even as it turned to run along it, seeking its end, the Endarkened were drawing the net closed. The Lesser Endarkened swarmed out of the forest, encircling the net from without, holding it firm to the ground.

  Inside the circle of netting, the Unicorn stood at bay. Its silver-white coat was fluffed out, making it appear soft and harmless. But there was nothing harmless-looking about the long, spiraling horn, which glowed red.

  Virulan landed in the center of the circle, with Uralesse beside him. Virulan had a faint suspicion that being here was not a really good idea. If something unexpected happened, it might give his fellow Endarkened the absurd notion that their King did not know everything that transpired both in the Bright World and the World Without Sun. But from the moment the plan to trap the elusive creature with nets was made—and Virulan was now no longer entirely sure whose idea it had been—Uralesse had seemed to take it for granted that Virulan would of course desire the honor of the capture, or the kill, for himself. It had become impossible to say otherwise without seeming over-cautious, without according Uralesse too much honor.

  “What use is your swiftness against our cleverness, Horned One?” Virulan said, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height.

  The Unicorn’s nostrils flared as at a very bad smell. “What use are your nets against an enemy you can’t touch?” it answered. “As for ‘cleverness’ … well, that’s debatable.”

  “I shall rip that horn from your head and skewer you with it!” Virulan roared, lunging for it.

  “Oh, please do,” the Unicorn answered. It reared up, raising its head high so that Virulan’s taloned fingers missed their target and buried themselves in the Unicorn’s downy throat.

  Pain! Virulan had often dealt suffering to others, but never had he felt such an unholy agony as he experienced at touching the Unicorn’s body. The pain was so great, and so unexpected, that he could do nothing to conceal it. He roared with agony and sprang backward.

  The Unicorn … snickered.

  “Foolish Virulan!” it said, its sides heaving with its laughter. “I am purity incarnate! The touch of my horn can turn the most virulent poison into sweet water—shall we see what it will do to a creature whose very thoughts are poison?” It reared again, brandishing its horn menacingly.

  Virulan took a slow step backward. He was not foolish enough to order any of his minions to attack. If they tried and failed, such failure would kindle the ember of rebellion in their treacherous hearts. If they tried and succeeded …

  It would be not an ember, but a flame.

  He smiled.

  “Then I shall not touch it—or you. But you will die here this day. And any obstacle you might present to my plans will thus be ended.” He spread his wings and bounded into the sky. “Bind it in the nets!” he cried. “We shall see who is the greater!”

  The Endarkened hurried to obey, and in moments the Unicorn was buried beneath several hundredweight of bronze nets. When it lay crushed against the ground Virulan stepped onto the pile of nets that covered it, being careful not to let his feet touch its body—and not to let the others see his care

  “Where is your laughter now, Unicorn?” he said cruelly.

  “Still here,” the Unicorn answered, though it was gasping for breath. “You see … I am not … the only one … of my kind. They watch … even now. So I must say … King of Shadows … that the last laugh is … mine.”

  Virulan gazed around himself in horror, but he saw nothing. “Bring stones!” he screamed. “Heavy stones! Crush the life from this witless talking beast!”

  The Endarkened hurried to obey and soon there was nothing to see but a mound of stones and the twisted links of the ruined net.

  The creature was dead, but even the scent of its blood did not comfort Virulan.

  “So you see, Uralesse, it is a simple matter to slay these creatures,” he said grandly. “I shall expect you to be more efficient about it next time.”

  He held Uralesse’s gaze with his own. If this had been some concealed ploy of Uralesses’s to discredit him, it had failed. If it were not, let Uralesse be humbled by this new task his King had set him. If he succeeded, the hateful Unicorns would be scoured from the world. If he failed, then any threat he might have hoped to present would be ended as well.

  “Of course, my king. All will be as you say.”

  As he watched Uralesse attempt to pretend he was delighted at this new honor, much of Virulan’s good humor was restored. Let Uralesse plot. Let them all plot. Virulan was still the master of Shadow Mountain and all that dwelt within it.

  And the time of war—and his ultimate triumph—came nearer with each Brightworld day.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A PARLIAMENT OF GHOSTS

  The first was Prince Cirandeiron, who rode a white horse and had armor of gleaming silver. His destrier’s armor was silver, too, and there were diamonds set in his shoes. The second was Queen Telthorelandor, who rode a golden horse and had armor of brightest gold. Her destrier’s armor was golden, too, and he was shod in cairngorms and purest gold. The third was Aramenthiali, with a grey horse and jade armor, and every stitch of his harness was studded with emeralds and green stones. Each was more beautiful than the next, but Queen Pelashia was the most beautiful of all, and her horse was shod with diamonds, and her armor was of crystal, and the sword she bore was brighter than the moon and the sun …

  —The Courtship of Amrethion and Pelashia

  Candlemarks had passed since Runacarendalur and the other Caerthalien knights had led their exhausted destriers back across Aralhathumindrion and placed them in the care of Horsemaster Filioniel. Today should have been a day of triumph, even though Runacarendalur wouldn’t have been here to see it: Vieliessar dead, the Alliance preparing to march on Mangiralas and smash her army, every encampment bright with torches and lanterns, fragrant with the scent of victory feasts and joyous with songs of celebration.

  Instead, the long summer twilight saw a gathering of the lords and high nobles of the High Houses. Such an assemblage was too large for any single pavilion to host it, even if the War Princes could have agreed on who that host should be. Instead, they, their consorts, and their heirs met beneath an enormous canopy in the meadow, set, ironically, where the parley carpet had been laid that morning. Komen stood guard at the edges of the meadow so that the lords’ speech could not be overheard or interrupted.

  “What happened?” Lord Bolecthindial demanded.

  “Magery,” Ivrulion Light-Prince answered superfluously. “I believe it is possible to Ward our destriers so what happened today cannot happen again, but that will take time. And it will take more time if you want every beast in the army Warded as well.”

  “Do you think they’ll do it again?” Gimragiel asked.

  “Since it worked so well the first time, yes.” Ivrulion didn’t have to add the obvious: that Vieliessar’s Lightborn not only had more incentive to use Magery on the field, they’d almost certainly had more practice.

  “Has anyone seen little Prince Gatriadde lately?” Lord Girelrian asked archly, gazing ostentatiously about herself. “Didn’t he ride with you, my dear Prince Runacarendalur?”

  “Dead, I suppose,” Runacarendalur said, shrugging. “The carts we sent to r
etrieve our fallen and wounded should be back soon.” If there are any wounded, he added mentally. The mercenaries had fought like cornered weasels and neither side had offered quarter.

  “I only ask,” Lord Girelrian continued, “because I could not fail to notice Camaibien Lightbrother is also missing. Unless you believe he, too, was killed in the fighting?”

  “You believe this was a trap from the very beginning,” Lord Ivaloriel said calmly.

  “Well of course it was a trap—only we were supposed to be the ones who set it!” Ladyholder Dormorothon snapped. “Prince Gatriadde told us the truth. I heard his thoughts myself. And so did you, Prince Ivrulion.”

  Ivrulion bowed, acknowledging the truth of her words. “Prince Gatriadde wished vengeance. The information he provided was in accordance with the thoughts of his heart. The maps Camaibien Lightbrother drew were accurate.”

  “But you never set a spell of Heart-Seeing on either of them,” Consort-Prince Irindandirion said. “So you don’t actually know.”

  “No one set a spell of Heart-Seeing on Gatriadde Mangiralas,” Runacarendalur said, locking his gaze with Irindandirion’s. “Everyone agreed that True Speech was sufficient. If Gatriadde was not who he seemed, none of us is more to blame than any other.”

  Runacarendalur held Irindandirion’s eyes in blatant challenge. Lord Girelrian was the War Prince of Cirandeiron; Irindandirion was only her Consort-Prince. It did not make Runacarendalur’s tacit challenge any less a violation of protocol, and it meant Consort-Prince Irindandirion was more likely to accept: if Runacarendalur won, he gained nothing but Irindandirion’s personal possessions, not Cirandeiron itself.