Stronghold

by Melanie Rawn

  “Hurry!” Rusina shouted.

  Andry leaped for the horses behind him, yanking the ropes free and grabbing Tibaza’s reins. He was in the saddle instantly, his cheek pressed to the pale hide as he urged the stallion forward.

  The Vellant’im were rooted to the damp sand by terror. All but one of them. A knife gouged through the flames into Rusina’s breast. She staggered, sobbing her agony in tortured gasps. Andry snagged her wrist, trying to drag her up into the saddle. He looked down at her and shuddered. It was not given to most men to see their own eyes in death.

  All the light was suddenly gone and the other horses surged past, screaming for their freedom. Tibaza was pulled along with them despite Andry’s frantic efforts. Rocks dug into Andry’s left leg as it was crushed against the cave wall, tearing bone-deep.

  Abruptly he was outside. He pushed himself upright, vaguely startled to find he sprawled on the sand. Tibaza was long gone with the other horses, racing down the beach under a cloud-pale night sky backlit by the moons.

  Andry stumbled on his injured leg back toward the cave. Every thought brought an ache, centered in a throbbing at the back of his skull. Bracing himself against the rocks, he conjured a fingerflame with terrible difficulty and sent it into the darkness.

  A moan of pain found echo deeper within the cave. Andry followed the little Fire cautiously, and called Rusina’s name.

  Not that he expected any answer.

  By moonsfall he had tied the wrists and ankles of the two men left alive. Rusina lay frail and lifeless near the Fire he’d called to work by. The knife wound that had killed her and the brutal evidence of hooves were hidden beneath his white cloak. He stood gazing at her, swaying a little, telling himself he ought to start back for Goddess Keep now, bring people here for the dead and the prisoners, and have someone do something about his leg and the horrendous pain in his head.

  But it only got worse as he tried to tell his feet to move, and he supposed he’d better sit down . . . rest for a little while . . . .

  Chapter Twenty-two

  By means of heroic effort, a safe-conduct through Vellanti lines, and a little horse-stealing, Birioc made excellent time back to Cunaxa. On the way down to Swalekeep he’d come through the Great Veresch Mountains of Princemarch. But on the way back, a token given him by Lord Varek—a tiny silver dragon with enameled green wings—enabled him to cut across the Vere Hills and through the Desert. The only potential danger had been a distant sight of troops riding west to Stronghold. A red-and-orange banner floating on the slight breeze like a flame proclaimed them under the command of Lord Maarken of Whitecliff; Birioc fled to a convenient rocky dune and huddled there until nightfall. It cost him half a day and a bellyful of regret that his escort was too small to dare a raid, but soon, he promised himself. Very soon.

  On reaching Cunaxa, he did not go to his father at Castle Pine. He rode straight to his own manor of Catchwater, where his Merida uncles waited. After reporting success, he slept from sundown of one day to noon of the next and rose to find that an army of over three hundred had been assembled almost overnight.

  “Riders have gone to the other holdings,” said his eldest uncle as Birioc wolfed a meal of cooked grains, venison, and wine. “And to Castle Pine, to empty the armory. Miyon will have no choice but to join us.”

  “I hope somebody explained to him that I’m to be made his heir—in writing, with all his seals.”

  Urstra shrugged. “If not at once, then certainly after Tuath is taken. He may suspect that your half-brothers will die of Cunaxan and not Desert steel, but once they are dead, what can he do?”

  “You don’t understand my father. Now that we’re grown, the only hold he has over us is the fact that he hasn’t named his heir. He thinks we’ll behave ourselves because of it. I may end up being the only one left, but unless he sticks to the law and does it properly, I won’t be secure.”

  “Rohan’s law!” Urstra spat. “Who will dare argue with the acclamation you’ll receive as the victor of Tuath and Tiglath?”

  “My half-sister Meiglan’s children at Dragon’s Rest, that’s who. Or, rather, people on their behalf. And don’t tell me it won’t matter because Pol will be dead—he’s got plenty of powerful kinsmen who’ll go to war for them. I want it done legally. I want to be named Miyon’s heir.”

  Urstra shrugged. “Very well. Are you finished? We cannot march until . . . .” He rubbed the scar on his chin meaningfully.

  Birioc dressed in the brown and yellow of his mother’s people. In front of the Merida warriors assembled he stripped off shirt and tunic and extended his arms straight out to his sides. In one fist was a sword; in the other, a handful of Desert sand. He welcomed the sting of the ritual glass knife and the drip of blood onto his bare chest, and especially the roar of his name that rose from more than three hundred throats.

  But what he expected to hear next was not forthcoming. As he mounted a fine Radzyn warhorse to lead his people to victory at Tuath, he cast a dark glance at his uncles. Urstra correctly interpreted the look.

  “We’ll wait for Miyon’s legal choosing—as you desired,” he said with a tiny smile. “Then we’ll see if the circle fits.”

  Birioc clamped his teeth shut over a sharp answer and nodded. His own fault, he told himself angrily, that the ancient crown did not rest on his brow today. Rohan’s damned laws had affected even Merida ways of thinking.

  • • •

  Sionell could hear her brother’s cold fury even though the words had been filtered through two faradh’im. Jahnavi intended to slaughter every last one of the Merida host now riding for Tuath, and if Tallain wanted in on the action he’d better hurry. Jahnavi wouldn’t wait for him.

  “Will you go, my lord?” the Sunrunner asked after finishing the report.

  “Certainly. I wouldn’t miss it.” Turning to Sionell, he added, “Your little brother inherited your mother’s temper.”

  “He’s not so little anymore, Tallain.”

  “I’m reminded every time we cross swords in the practice yard.” He smiled, but his eyes were shadowy. “Vamanis, is there an accurate count of Merida yet?”

  “I’ll ask, my lord.”

  While he worked, Tallain drummed his fingers on the wooden balcony railing, intricately carved and painted in Tiglath’s blue and yellow. Crystal finials glittered in brilliant sunlight that did not, unfortunately, shine on Stronghold. Haze obscured the keep. He and Jahnavi were on their own, with no chance of advice from Rohan or Chay. But he trusted his instincts and his training at their hands.

  “Three hundred, my lord, with half that number setting out from Castle Pine. They can’t all be Merida, can they? Lord Walvis wiped out most of them thirty years ago.”

  “Thirty years is time enough to breed an army. Well, well. Four hundred fifty. Jahnavi’s got less than a third of that—but he also has Tuath’s walls.”

  “He won’t settle for a siege,” Sionell said quietly. “I know him. He’ll lead the charge himself.”

  Tallain nodded. “Downhill, tomorrow morning, with the sun glaring in the enemy’s eyes. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Do you mind if I worry just a little?” she asked tartly.

  “As long as it’s just a little. Vamanis, my compliments to my wife’s brother and a promise to be there with my hundred and fifty tomorrow morning.”

  When the Sunrunner left them, they lingered on the roof, gazing out at their city. Tiglath had prospered under Tallain’s rule and that of his late father, Eltanin. Flatboats plied the shallow cove that was the Desert’s only northern harbor, enabling Dorval’s great merchant ships to anchor out in safe waters while trade goods were brought to them. The Cunaxans paid dearly for the privilege of shipping this way rather than by caravan through the Veresch. With this wealth, Tallain and Sionell had indulged themselves—not with expensive trinkets, but with schools, a scriptorium, an infirmary, and modern drainage and refuse systems. The last were at Sionell’s insistence, for she had a sensitive n
ose.

  “I’m glad the Dorvali left yesterday,” Tallain said suddenly. “Chadric’s restlessness was beginning to worry me.”

  “Do you think he would have gone with you to fight?”

  “I would’ve had to find some tactful way of preventing him. He still can’t accept that there was nothing else he could do except leave Graypearl. Or that Ludhil’s only choice was to stay behind.”

  Sionell looked up in surprise. “You mean he’s ashamed? That’s absurd! Nobody could have stopped them.”

  “Meath seemed to think he could have. Or should have. Or something.” Tallain sighed. “The Goddess was good to me when she made me neither Sunrunner nor prince. I like life simple.”

  “If going to help Jahnavi break Merida heads is your notion of ‘simple,’ spare me anything complex.”

  Tallain pulled her to him. “War is simple, compared to rule. But being prince or faradhi—I don’t envy Pol, who’s both.”

  “He’s fool enough to thrive on it.” She rubbed her cheek against his tunic. “I’ll miss you.”

  “It’ll only be a few days. Rohan says he avoids wars because he hates not sleeping in his own bed with his wife. I know what he means.”

  “And on such selfishness, the fate of princedoms turns! All right then, a few days. Send them back to Cunaxa where they belong.”

  “No, love,” Tallain said gently. “They must die. All of them. And then—orders or no—I’m going to Stronghold with all the troops that can be spared from protecting the north. Rohan’s going to need everyone.”

  Sionell was silent for a moment. “Send Jahnavi. He’s my brother and I love him, but he’s young and impulsive, as you said. Yours is the cooler head. He can follow orders, but I’d rather trust the defense of the north to you.”

  “Once the Merida are crushed, regular patrols will suffice here.” He gave her a quizzical smile. “Or is it that you don’t like not sleeping next to me?”

  “You, who come to bed with frozen feet I’m supposed to warm?”

  “It’ll only be a few days,” he said again, bending to kiss her lips. “A little longer at Stronghold. If Kostas heads east soon to retake the Faolain, they’ll be caught between.”

  “If.” She shook off the bleakness and smiled. “Very well, go save Stronghold single-handed. I promise not to gloat too much. It’s unseemly.”

  • • •

  Andry woke in his own bed. How he had come to be there was a total mystery solved only when Valeda crept in, saw he was conscious, and sat beside him on the bed, holding his hand.

  “Tibaza came back all sea-wet and sandy. That was three mornings ago. We searched the coastline and found you and Rusina toward noon. You’ve been lying here half-dead ever since.”

  Andry nodded, then regretted it as the movement set up a pounding in his head. “Goddess!” he breathed. “Give me something for this—”

  She gave him a cup of drugged wine. He drank, sank back, and shut his eyes.

  “We found Oclel, too,” she murmured. “He and Rusina burned together last night.”

  “You should have waited.”

  “We couldn’t. Oclel . . . had already been partially burned, but what remained had been lying in the forest for too long.”

  The wine threatened to come up again. Andry gulped it back down. He made brief, bitter work of what had happened, and finished with, “What about the Vellant’im?”

  “The dead at the cave we gave to the sea. One of the others died this morning. The other is still alive, but—”

  “Keep him so,” Andry ordered grimly.

  Her hand tightened on his. “I’ll do my best. You should sleep now, Andry.”

  “Later. Who knows about this?”

  “No one outside these walls.”

  “See that it stays that way. Bring the prisoner to me for questioning.”

  “He won’t answer. He was trampled by half a dozen horses. Torien tried to get sense out of him, with Jolan translating. It was no use.”

  “Then all he’s good for is executing. Tomorrow, Valeda,” he said as the wine started to muddle his tongue. “Tomorrow assemble everyone . . . outside the walls . . . Sunrunners and common.”

  “Yes, of course. Tomorrow or the next day. Sleep now, my Lord.”

  • • •

  It was a long climb up spiral stairs to the top of the Flametower, but from there one could see halfway across the Long Sand—or at least as far as the small Vellanti encampment halfway to Rivenrock. Kazander found the view breathtaking and said so. Chayla merely shrugged.

  “Sometimes I’ve seen the Sunrise Water from here. You should come up when there’s no overcast.”

  “But only by night,” he said, wiping his brow. “We use the fire as a beacon, but I never considered that it turns this room into an oven.”

  Staring out at the little enclave of tents, sweat trickling down her back from the heat behind her, she was quiet for a time. Kazander respected her silence; for all that he chattered in the most outrageous language most of the time, with her he held his tongue unless he had something important to say.

  He and Pol had come back with their souvenirs, Sethric with his, and Lord Maarken with plenty more. But they knew only a little more about the Vellant’im because of them—mainly that some of the older warriors carried little dragons of wood, ceramic, or enameled metal, possibly further tokens of valor or rank. Rohan now had a collection of twenty-seven, all different, all exquisite. The enigmatic beasts stretched their wings on his desk; Chayla had caught him staring at them this morning. As if they could speak to him the way Azhdeen spoke to Pol, she thought. As if they could tell him how to defeat this puzzling enemy.

  Chayla watched them go about their business within their outpost: polishing swords, readying the evening meal, exercising their horses—Grandsir Chay’s horses, she reminded herself. How long would it be before the main army arrived from Radzyn and Remagev? It was Walvis’ opinion that the deadfalls set into the latter had convinced them that it was a place worth thorough investigation, which would take time. The longer the better; once the levies from Tuath and Tiglath arrived, they would have a fighting chance.

  The inevitable results of battle reminded her of why she’d wanted to speak with Kazander in the first place. Abruptly, wanting to get it over with, she said, “Your man Hevlain. I’m sorry, my lord, but there wasn’t anything more we could do for him. He died this morning.”

  His dark head bent for a moment, and then he nodded. “I will send his ashes to our family.”

  “He was a cousin?”

  “My mother’s brother’s wife’s sister’s son, and wed to my father’s father’s sister’s granddaughter.”

  Chayla frowned, trying to puzzle out the relationship. “A cousin,” she said at last.

  “In your terms, yes. But then, so are you and I, my lady.”

  She glanced up. “Let me guess—your six-times great-grandfather’s half-brother’s wife’s brother’s son married my five-times great-grandmother’s sister’s granddaughter!”

  Kazander’s eyes glinted with humor. “Something like that. But we are kin, you know. Zehava acknowledged the relationship when my grandfather fought at his side against the Merida. I could even style myself athri, though I have no walls to be lord of. My holding is the Desert itself—but perhaps I do have walls.” His voice changed, became dreamy with thoughts of his home. “My walls are bright wool sewn with silver thread, and at their gates are chimes made of sand-jade so the Desert may speak to us, sing to us, warn us. My keep is made of silk woven of sunlight. Within are lamps that turn darkness to gold and roses, a light soft as dawn.”

  “I’d like to see all that one day,” she said impulsively. “It sounds so free, Kazander—no walls, no responsibilities . . . .”

  “I would like you to know these things. The Desert you have never seen or heard, the heritage of our shared blood.”

  It was suddenly cooler, as if the fire behind her had been gentled by the hand of the breeze t
hat caressed her brow, her lips. She felt herself drifting like a feather on that breeze, although she was positive she had not moved except to close her eyes.

  “Look,” Kazander said, breaking the spell. “Riders.”

  She squinted into the haze. “Oh, Goddess—if the Vellant’im see them, they’re dead. Come on!”

  Their timely warning saved the four men. Sethric led a mounted contingent down from Stronghold to the sand, which discouraged enemy interest in the new arrivals. The young Gribain was disappointed that there was no skirmish, but Meath—for that was who rode in, filthy and exhausted, with an escort of three Dorvali—thanked him profoundly.

  “If you hadn’t outnumbered them so handily, they might have risked it. And I’m much too old for that sort of thing. You must be Lord Sethric—I’d heard you were at Remagev, and I recognize the Gribain curls,” he added with a tired smile and a glance at the young man’s riotous black hair. “I’ll express my gratitude more fully later, my lord, but for now I need to see—ah, Sioned, here you are!”

  She was enveloped in his embrace and when he let her go, leaned up to kiss him. “Meath! It’s good to have you safe. Did Chadric make it to Skybowl all right?”

  “As far as I know. If the sky clears tonight I’ll have a look.” He hugged her to him again. “Goddess blessing to you, too, Sunrunner. There’s a lot to tell, but I’m starving and I stink.”

  He gave her the most important news on their way upstairs. “Tiglath’s walls have been fortified and all the levies are assembled. Tallain’s just waiting for word from Rohan to be on the march. I left Chadric about fifty measures from Skybowl—he ought to have arrived yesterday at the latest, even considering the trouble some of his people are giving him.”

  “What trouble? Here’s your room—food first, or a bath?”

  “Food!” he replied urgently; she laughed and gestured to a servant outside in the hall. Meath continued, “The trouble is that some of the merchants regret the wealth they’ve lost more than they’re grateful for the lives they’ve still got. Audrite deals with them mostly, but every so often they get to Chadric and it nearly crushes him, that he failed to protect them.”