Stronghold

by Melanie Rawn

  “I sent for the physician,” Tessalar whispered. “But he and his helpers are tending the wounded.”

  Rohannon placed the prince’s hand back on the quilt. “His grace won’t be needing . . . .” He coughed around the lump in his throat and tried again. “You’re right, Tessa—he’s gone.” He gazed down at Volog’s smooth, peaceful face, untouched now by pain or grief or fierce laughter. All of life was simply and quietly gone.

  “My lord?” It was the page, trembling in the presence of the dead.

  “Not now,” Rohannon said thickly.

  “My lord, the guards commander sent me to ask for orders—”

  With a thundering in his ears he realized that he was now the ranking highborn here. Until Arlis arrived—and how to tell him that father, mother, and grandsire were all dead?—Rohannon was master of New Raetia.

  Battle was in his blood through a score of generations. But so was rule. He had been born of a line of princes; he was heir after his father to Radzyn Keep. He repeated that to himself, remembering that he had traditions other than that of the warrior to uphold. Absolute authority tempered by wisdom; leadership; the ability to oversee everything without forgetting individual needs or losing himself in details.

  Rohannon straightened and drew a long breath. Responsibility settled silently on him, and it was not the warrior who shouldered it. Like knowing how to call Fire—capably, without having to think much about it—he began giving orders.

  • • •

  Maarken settled in the shade of Remagev’s walls, wondering how a place that broiled by day could be so bone-chillingly cold by night. Autumn brought only small swings in temperature along the coast, blessed relief after the heat of summer, but here in the middle of the Long Sand there was no moisture in the air to hold the day’s warmth. Hollis had blinked in surprise at the fire in their bedchamber hearth the night they’d arrived; Feylin, smiling, had told them they’d be grateful for it by midnight. Even with the fire, it took two thick Cunaxan wool blankets and a feather-stuffed quilt to keep them warm.

  Now he was sweating. The morning’s tour of barracks and stables had worn him out. Feylin hadn’t allowed him up yesterday, not bothering to argue that after the exertions of battle, sandstorms, and the trek across the Desert, he had to have rest. She had merely observed that to see one’s battle commander collapse on his face did not instill confidence in the troops.

  Hollis’ comment had been pithier. “Stay in bed, you idiot. Do you think you’re Pol’s age?” It was some comfort to know that Pol, eleven winters his junior, was just as wrung out. But they’d spent one day resting. Now it was time to get back to work.

  His task had been to inspect soldiers and horses to determine their readiness for another battle. Betheyn, daughter of an architect, was assigned to evaluate Remagev’s defenses. Hollis took inventory of food, Sioned of military supplies, Feylin of medical stores. Pol was Sunrunning to every court not hidden behind cloud cover, gathering information, spreading reassurance that the High Prince was safe. Rohan himself was holed up with Chay and Walvis in the latter’s office, poring over maps and planning strategy. And that madman Kazander had taken his men out to survey the terrain.

  Everyone would meet at dusk, when it cooled off. Maarken told himself to be patient and take heart from the positive report he could give. The five hundred and six who had escaped Radzyn were in cramped quarters, but alive and grateful to be so. The wounded were made comfortable and tended as their injuries demanded. And out of three hundred and seventy-four horses, they had lost only twenty.

  Maarken forbade himself to think about the hundreds more now in enemy hands. A clever foe, no doubt of it. In only ten days they had gained control of the major waterways, including Brochwell Bay; destroyed the Dorvali fleet that might have been used to transport soldiers; and gained enough mounts to speed their progress. Their hold in the south was sufficient to last through the winter, when rains would make fighting impossible. He remembered the winter of 704 as one long, gray, soggy misery. No one with any sense would attempt battle in such conditions.

  Except in the Desert, where it rained once in a hundred years.

  Well, those sandstorms ought to make them think twice, anyway. With time, Tallain and Jahnavi would come from the north. This is our land, not theirs. We know and understand the Desert. And eventually, that will be our victory. But he worried how many lives would be lost before “eventually” became “now.”

  He tried hard not to think about his people at Whitecliff. He had failed in his duty; he had not been there to protect them. He took scant comfort from the fact that his steward was a canny old man who would know how to take everyone to safety—perhaps to Stronghold, which had never fallen. But then, neither had Radzyn.

  Radzyn still had not fallen. It had been abandoned. That rankled, though he knew it had been the only choice. Had there been more warning—more time to gather troops and prepare—then Radzyn would still be theirs. But there had been no time, and now his patrimony was in enemy clutches—no sense regretting. He’d win it back. If it was damaged or even destroyed, he’d rebuild it. And Whitecliff, too, for when Rohannon Chose a wife. He owed his son what his father had given him. What fathers always owed their sons.

  A few years ago, when the family had gathered at Stronghold for a New Year, he’d sat up very late with his father and Rohan over a cherished bottle of Syrene wine. Sioned’s brother Davvi had yearly sent the finest vintages with a deliberately flowery letter of thanks in payment for a princedom—a joke among them, for he had been the rightful male heir to Syr. But Goddess help him if he didn’t send his cellars’ best; his sister took her wines very seriously. Kostas continued the tradition, though without the teasingly overdone missive. But that night had seen the last of Davvi’s bottles, and by the time the final drops splashed into Fironese goblets, the three men were slightly drunk and very sentimental.

  “Here’s to him,” Rohan had said, raising his glass. “Davvi started a minor lord and ended a prince, with sons ruling two lands.”

  “And not just by accident of birth,” Chay put in. “I remember how he fought with us against Roelstra.”

  “So do I,” Maarken said quietly. “And I remember how he gave me his new sword, given him by his son, to use against the pretender.”

  They sipped, savoring the wine. “A good man, a good prince, a good friend,” Rohan murmured. “The kind we need more of. The kind who nurtured his princedom and gave it richer to his son. Not a bad life’s work.”

  “The only life’s work worth doing,” Chay affirmed.

  “Goddess knows both of you succeeded,” Maarken commented fondly. “I hope I do half as well.”

  Memory faded into mists of wine, and Maarken shook his head. What he would give Rohannon and Chayla would have to be rebuilt. But he would do it. He must.

  He had failed his people at Whitecliff; he would not fail his children. They were worthy of everything he could give them, and more.

  His pride in his daughter was an almost unbearable ache. Chayla had worked with practically no sleep since their arrival, soothing fevers and cleaning wounds and sewing torn flesh so skillfully that there would be only faint scars. Soldiers he had worried about were sleeping peacefully, their injuries tended, their lives in no danger. She worked with calm efficiency, a physician born—and one day her art would outstrip that of Andry’s much-touted Master Evarin. Of course, he had to admit with a different kind of pride that just looking at Chayla was enough to make a sick man well.

  As for Rohannon—when they all met that evening, Pol spoke with special pride of his own about what his young cousin had accomplished at New Raetia.

  “He’s already organized scouting parties to clean up any lingering enemy patrols—like the one that killed Latham and Hevatia. The court Sunrunner says he’s running the castle as if he’d done it since birth. And not a single person has so much as lifted an eyebrow at taking orders from a fifteen-year-old squire.”

  Chay cleared his
throat. “The boy’s had good schooling on Kierst-Isel.”

  “Nice try at humility,” Walvis remarked, smiling. “Are you going to evade the truth, too, Maarken, or admit where Rohannon gets his abilities?”

  Sioned’s smile was tinged with sadness for the death of her kinsman. “Volog couldn’t have left his castle or his princedom in better hands. Rohannon has done us proud. We needn’t worry about Kierst-Isel—for now.”

  Rohan nodded. “Between him and Arlis, the island and its surrounding waters are as safe as they can get—for now.”

  “So are we,” Feylin put in. “Medical and military supplies are quite adequate. But I don’t relish the idea of having to feed all you lot for the whole winter.”

  “Gracious and noble lady,” Kazander said with a bow in her direction, “do not trouble your mind. The Isulk’im can feed armies.”

  Walvis grinned at him. “Yes, but on what? Cactus spines? I’ve dined in your tents, Kazander. Mares are for riding, not milking.”

  “I don’t know,” Rohan said casually. “I rather liked that round of cheese you sent a few years ago, my lord korrus.”

  “The High Prince’s grace is a man of rare discernment.”

  “I’m glad somebody here recognizes that. Leaving aside the problem of food for a moment,” Rohan continued, “I’d like Pol to give us a summary of what he learned today. Feylin, will you make notes? Thank you.”

  “Going west to east—” Pol put a finger onto the map spread before his father. New Raetia was secure for the time being. Arlis was outfitting ships to attack the enemy by sea. Einar and Waes were untouched, the northwestern princedoms likewise. Ostvel was waiting for the last of the Veresch levies to arrive through early snow. Swalekeep was safe; Summer River was not yet directly threatened. Tilal had just reached Kadar Water, and the Sunrunner there had kept Pol busy for a long time with her report. He’d detail it later; for now, he passed on Tilal’s opinion that Goddess Keep would be the next on the list of enemy objectives.

  “Especially considering the concentration of Sunrunners there,” he added. “The Pyrme is so far untaken, except for Allun’s place—”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, Father, I forgot about that in my first report.” Pol stared down at his hands. “Allun and his family have left Lower Pyrme with all their people. Abandoned it in advance of an attack—Cabar’s orders. I found them on the road to Athmyr. His court Sunrunner told me that they left some rather interesting surprises behind, though.”

  “Such as?”

  Pol wore his most innocent face. “Allun’s complained to Cabar for years now that he needs new flooring above the great hall. Cabar never negotiated enough new Fessenden oak to replace the old—so Allun sawed through a couple of the support beams before he left.”

  Walvis choked with laughter. “And they’ll all come tumbling down!”

  “When Allun gets his keep back, Cabar will be forced to buy him a gorgeous new floor. Goddess defend me from such clever athr’im,” Rohan drawled.

  Pol grinned back. “Always assuming they get into the castle to encounter the deadfalls. The moat was drained. It’s now thigh-deep mud—with a layer of pitch over it that the Sunrunner will Fire once enough of the enemy are trying to cross.”

  “One faradhi can’t call Fire from that kind of distance,” Sioned objected.

  “You did it to save Meath that time, all the way from Stronghold to Syr,” Pol reminded her. “With help, true. Allun’s and Tilal’s Sunrunners were trained by Andry. They’ll work together. Allun’s man is confident they can do it.”

  “I see,” she said quietly. “Go on.”

  “The rest of the news isn’t too comforting. The Catha River is lost to us up to the Faolain. The Faolain itself—that’s our major problem, but Kostas plans to take the Catha, follow it north, then come back down to Riverport—or where Riverport used to be,” he added grimly.

  “That doesn’t do poor Mirsath any good at Lowland,” Chay said.

  “No. But Mirsath isn’t Kostas’ vassal. Kostas reasons that once he’s got control of the Catha, Tilal can swing back around from Goddess Keep, meet him, then join Ostvel at the north division of rivers. Then they march down the Faolain to the sea with a force that can’t help but win.”

  Maarken frowned. “Superior numbers don’t always equal victory. Not against an enemy as tactically smart as this.”

  “There’s more,” Pol said. “Rohannon told me that during both attacks on New Raetia, the enemy wouldn’t fight female warriors. But the group at Radzyn did. Father, what you said about Mirsath observing petty rivalries—that plus this strange refusal to fight women means they’re not one cohesive whole. My guess is they’ve banded together to fight, but it’s not their natural state. The ones at New Raetia won’t fight women. Sixteen different groups are at Lowland, some of whom don’t like each other. It maks me feel much better. I was afraid we were facing one huge single-minded enemy, solid as the spire at Rivenrock. But evidence says otherwise.”

  “And yet they were efficient enough at Radzyn,” Chay mused. “Graypearl was brilliantly done.” He arched a brow at Rohan. “You always did attract the most amazing enemies.”

  Rohan’s head tilted curiously. “Do you really think it’s me they’re after? I don’t think they have much notion that I exist. We’ve ample proof that they’re here to destroy, not conquer and hold—and they’re especially interested in Sunrunners. Mirsath told Hollis what happened to the Riverport faradhi.” He turned to Pol. “If they know anything about us—or care to know it—you’ll be their primary target, not I.”

  “Bring ’em on,” Pol said, his smile turning wolfish.

  Kazander cleared his throat. “The dread Lord of Radzyn and the most excellent High Prince and his worthy Heir know this, but I will bore them with it all the same. A man’s status is measured by the quality of his enemies. Is it not obvious that the best warriors, the finest commanders, the most efficient strategies have all been used against the Desert? Why waste the strongest shafts and sharpest arrowheads against easy targets?”

  Sioned cast him a sidelong glance, amused and yet mildly irked. “I’d prefer it if they didn’t consider us so formidable. Maybe then we’d get the ones who scorn women fighters, or are too busy arguing with each other to be much nuisance to us.”

  Kazander shrugged. “The High Princess’ wisdom is as vast as her beauty and her gifts—but it is desirable to understand the enemy one faces. They sent their best against the Desert. Therefore the Desert—and its High Prince—are their primary targets.”

  “Not to disparage Rohan’s importance,” Chay said “but they took Radzyn for my horses. Horses were all they took from other places. Granted that the enemy we face is different, but—”

  “Radzyn’s horses, Radzyn’s lord—they had to get through you to get to Rohan,” Walvis interrupted. “But what grudge could they have against the Desert that it’s so essential to put their best troops here?”

  “They didn’t demolish Radzyn or Whitecliff the way they’ve done elsewhere,” Pol pointed out, contrite as Maarken exhaled in sudden relief. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that before—I’m going to have to organize my reports better from now on. Whitecliff is still standing. Untouched, in fact.”

  Maarken said quietly, “But not empty.”

  “No,” Pol replied, hesitated, then added, “I think it’s become the command headquarters.”

  “Not Radzyn?” Chay frowned.

  “The castle’s being used as a barracks,” Pol said even more reluctantly.

  Maarken made a strangled sound. “Those . . . those—in my mother’s rooms?”

  “Don’t let her know,” his father said. “Ever.”

  Kazander’s eyes narrowed. “I respectfully suggest that the mighty Lord of Radzyn consider that before he reoccupies his keep, he orders it purified.”

  Chay snorted. “What I want to know is why Radzyn and Whitecliff aren’t rubble.”

  Pol said, “They must want
the Desert intact. This is the one place they haven’t destroyed everything they could get their hands on. But why?”

  Feylin reached for another clean parchment page. “Some ancient blood-debt?”

  Maarken shrugged. “More logically, they’re laying waste to the lands of their primary enemies. Radzyn and Whitecliff may still be standing for simple military convenience.”

  “But the Desert is no prize,” Walvis reminded him. “We don’t have rich farmlands or rivers or anything else that makes for an easy life. There are two reasons for war: revenge and increased wealth. If Feylin’s wrong, and it’s not the former, then these people are insane. The Desert has nothing to offer. All we’ve got are dragons and sand. Yet they sent their best against us. What’s so special to them about the Desert?”

  “I’m inclined toward the vengeance idea,” Pol commented. “Although they could be doing as Maarken says—going after their main enemies, leaving nothing behind, and using the Desert as their base of power. After all, the High Prince does it. If the traditional centers in Syr and Gilad and so forth are gone, then other authority might be easier to set up. They could control everything from here.”

  Sioned rapped her knuckles on the table. “Let’s deal with facts before speculations, if you please. We don’t know who these people are, but we do know they’re not one tribe or clan or princedom—however they’re organized. Some of them refuse to fight women. Others have rivalries among themselves.”

  “Useful,” Rohan mused. “Not much help to us here, but certainly something Kostas and Tilal should be aware of. Inform them tomorrow. And make sure Arlis knows about the other, Pol.”

  “He already does. Rohannon suggested all the battle harness be padded so every soldier the enemy faces has curves.”

  Chay snorted with laughter. “That’s your mother in him,” he told Maarken. “No sense of anyone’s dignity but her own!”

  “Clothes—” Pol said suddenly. “That’s another thing Tilal mentioned. Two things,” he amended. “First, their clothes are different from ours—not so much in cut as in material. He’s never seen anything like that fabric. It’s not silk or linen, although some of the garments are almost as soft and thin. It’s not wool, either—although it can be rough-woven and thick. But he’s sure it’s all the same type, just like silk and wool have different weights. They have several kinds of leathers as well, some of it obviously cowhide, some of it unknown. And their boot soles are thin, but seem tough.”