A few puffy white clouds soared just above him, barely touching the mountain peaks, and somewhere in the distance, a blackbird sang. For a fleeting moment, the peace of his dream descended on him. This was so beautiful, so peaceful—his soul opened up to it.
"Dear gods," Fedor murmured. "How I hate mankind, sometimes."
Lan knew exactly what he meant by that. This peace, this loveliness, would be shattered irrevocably in a few candle-marks, and for no more reason but that one group of men desired dominance over another.
"Make yourself as comfortable as you can, Lavan," Fedor said a bit louder, shaking himself out of his melancholy. "If you look up that way, you'll see the signs that they're coming. Then—well, do what seems best to you, and what you can to hold them back." Fedor smiled weakly. "No one knows better than I how unreliable Gifts can be."
Lan was touched and terrified at the same time by the trust implied by that order. He could, if he chose, do nothing, and claim that his Gift had deserted him. Not that he would—but he could. Of course, if he didn't, more people would die, his own people—they wouldn't die at his hands, but they would die because of his neglect.
"You can depend on me, sir," he said solemnly. Fedor saluted him, and turned his Companion's head to go back down the trail.
Well, if he was going to be here a while, there was no point in sitting on a lump of ice until he became one. Once again he gathered wood, this time from among the tumbled rocks where the remains of smashed trees poked up out of the boulders, the remains of a grove of pines that had once stood here. In no time he had a fine pile of dry, seasoned wood; he made a fire, and warmed himself at it, while Kalira sidled up to the flames on the opposite side. From time to time he looked up to see if there was any sign of the enemy, but the fire had burned through the first feeding and halfway through the second before they appeared.
A moving blackness, with bright glints of metal in the midst of it, crept forward imperceptibly at the farthest range of his vision. Again, a shiver of fear crept over him. Could he do this thing? He was only one person—
:You can.: Kalira came up close to him, supporting him with her shoulder. Together they watched the enemy approach, filling the entire valley from slope to slope, announcing their presence with trumpets that frightened the blackbird into silence.
Black anger roiled sluggishly in his gut; they were a pollution, a desecration of this peaceful place. How dare they come here with their bows and swords, their warhorns and their noise? How dare they trample this pristine place, churning up the untouched snow and leaving the landscape ruined?
They poured through the valley in a sluggish stream, with no end in sight; not only were there glints from their weapons flashing among them, but bands of color from banners waving among them. And a safe distance from the front, something shining moved in the midst of them; something bright gold, reflecting the sun, that almost seemed to float on the surface of the throng, bobbing in the current of humanity.
:That's a shrine to their god,: Kalira informed him.
"Oh, really?" he responded aloud, and a spirit of angered devilment suddenly took hold of them. "Well—I think maybe they can do without it, don't you?"
A whicker and a toss of her head answered his question, and he reached out with his Gift, feeling Kalira behind him, acting as a check on his power.
The shrine couldn't be solid gold, or no one would be able to move it. There was wood, even paper, beneath that gilding—and where there was something, anything, to burn, Lan would find it.
These people bum living sacrifices to that shrine. These people sent a man that took Pol's eyes. There was less grief within him now, and more anger. Much more. He turned took a breath, and loosed the dragon within him, targeting its fury on the shrine.
For some time, the army flowed forward, and nothing outwardly happened. But Lan felt the fire catch and take hold; he held it back to let it build, and then—released it.
An entire bouquet of fire-blossoms burst forth from every opening in the shrine.
Below—pandemonium.
It looked exactly as if he had dropped a burning twig into a seething mass of ants. The little black specks that were enemy fighters surged away from the burning shrine in all directions, as Lan fed the flames in glee. A few, brave believers or full of bravado, tried to extinguish the flames by tossing snow on them, but soon gave up as the heat from the shrine drove them out of throwing distance.
Would that give them pause? Would they decide to turn back, given the defeat of their god?
No such luck.
When the shrine was nothing but ash and puddled gold, the army of dots milled uncertainly for a little while—but the echo of shrill voices reached Lan's perch, and eventually the army crept forward again.
Damn. Lan frowned, anger still controlled, but quickening. He'd hoped to finish this bloodlessly. Well, perhaps he still could. He called up all his memories of the Dark Servants at the pass, of the attack on Pol, of Ilea's despair and Elenor's grief, and let the anger build higher still.
The dragon waited, not at all restless now, for it knew he was going to let it loose again, and this time it would have everything it wanted.
Just before the first of the enemy reached the pass, a wall of flame erupted before them, three times the height of a man, stretching not only across the valley but a good way up the side of the mountains on either side. And as they recoiled from the fires, he saw something that raised the hair on the back of his neck, and made his blood boil.
In the front of the army was another line of those detestable Priests, and just behind them, a line of captives tied together by the neck, frightened fodder for their fires.
Oh, no, you won't!
With the surge in his temper, the line of fire below leapt up, rising in height and increasing in ferocity. Even the priests were forced back by the heat, and Lan had the bit in his teeth now—he'd burn the very stone of the mountains before he let them pass!
:Hold hard, beloved.: That was Kalira, a bulwark supporting him. As he exhausted the fuel available in the line of fire, he crept it forward a pace, forcing the Karsite army back again.
:There—look there'.: Without needing to be shown where to look, he glanced up on the side of the mountain below him, and saw a party of Karsites trying to establish a way around. In a flash, he sent the dragon out to chase them down again. And it looked almost as if an invisible creature was after them; fire sprang up to bar their path, then followed them down to the floor of the valley. Lan let it spread; there was plenty of dry thatch for it to feed on, and as long as it didn't threaten the Valdemar forces, he no longer cared what it did. The tranquility of the mountains was already gone, and they had trampled the beauty under their feet. There was very little he could do that would spoil the valley more than it had been.
Movement below caught his eye, and he set his chin when he realized that the priests were building their horrible bonfires, set in a line in front of the wall of fire.
Now his temper truly rose, and in a fury, he set the bonfires alight with an angry wave of his fist, then surged the fire wall forward to engulf them.
"Bastards!" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Not here—not now! Hellfires, not ever."
:Gently, Lan,: Kalira warned, but he was past being gentle with people who burned innocents to call up devils. When another party tried to find a new way along the mountain opposite, he flamed the entire mountainside and grinned to see them tumbling and falling from the trail in their haste to get away.
You won't get past me, you bastards! he crowed, giddy with intoxication. Try, and you'll fry!
And he laughed, and spread his arms, daring them to make the attempt, while little flamelets filled the air around him.
TWENTY-FOUR
POL ached from head to toe, every muscle sore from riding, walking, and riding again, but he was well aware that every other member of the army felt the same aching exhaustion. Pushed ruthlessly until they were just about to drop, allowed a bri
ef respite (which was never long enough) to plummet into sleep, then roused and pushed again, the army was, during most of the trek, composed of folk who only differed from walking corpses by having pulses. The Karsites had to cover roughly half the distance that the Valdemarans did in order to reach the next pass northward, and although their path was rougher, both armies were contending with the same winter conditions of ice, snow, and bitter cold. Cold could be as exhausting as marching. Huddled together in piles to conserve heat, wrapped in cloaks and blankets, the fighters hadn't had a great deal of rest during their rest stops. Cavalry and Heralds had it a little better, with Companions and horses to snuggle up to, but it was still so bitterly cold it was hard to sleep.
They'd gotten a full eight candlemarks of sleep in a complete camp with tents and fires at their last pause, though it had not made them into fresh men, just less exhausted ones. Now, with four candlemarks of marching to bring them to the pass before them, their energy dared not flag. They daren't come up exhausted, when no one knew what they'd face at the end of the march. Pol knew that the Commanders had some hope that they'd be able to get more rest at the unnamed pass itself, but the Karsites had put on an unexpected burst of speed, and now the army was marching at a desperate pace to meet them. The only creature with any hope of standing between the Karsites and Valdemar was Lavan Firestorm.
The Karsites were expected to reach the pass about now—early morning. The Valdemaran army hoped to arrive before noon. That was a lot of time for something to go wrong; a lot of time for Lan to exhaust himself or be captured—
:Lan will not be captured,: Satiran said firmly. :Kalira would never allow it. He is holding the pass with surprising skill. The limiting factor is the amount of fuel for his fires.:
If Lan exhausted the fuel, could he still hold the pass?
:Kalira learned strategy from me—Lan learned it from you. We have to assume they won't do anything stupid.:
Pol wished he had Satiran's self-assurance that what he had taught wasn't flawed.
:How long?: he fretted. :How long until we're there?:
Satiran raised his head from the trail, and pointed his long nose at one mountain among many piercing the clear morning sky. :That's the peak that Lan is on; I think we will be there in two candlemarks or thereabouts. Look! See the smoke?:
Lan's fires produced very little smoke, burning as hot as they did, but through Satiran's eyes, Pol saw there was a haze of smoke around the north side of the peak.
:He's holding a barrier across the narrowest part of the pass.:
Pol nodded; that was what he would have done. Depending on how long Lan could hold that barrier, and how much he had to move it when the fuel was gone, he could keep the Karsites back for more than the couple of candlemarks it would take for the army to reach him.
Candlemarks! That was too long—too long! He had to force himself to ride easily and not strain toward that far-off goal. What wouldn't I give for a way to get us all there now!
:I can't reach Kalira.: It was Satiran's turn to fret, and Pol felt his muscles straining for a couple of strides, until he realized it would be foolhardy to try and outrun the rest of the army.
:You already knew you wouldn't be able to,: Pol reminded him. :If he's holding something that large, she'll have all she can do to keep him under control. I wish they'd put Tuck up there with him, though.:
Satiran's sides heaved beneath his legs as his Companion groaned. :But when the Karsites start breaking through—and they will—Tuck is more use down with the scouts.:
Every horseman in the cavalry had a bowman up behind him, and these troops, with the Heralds (also carrying double, with the exception of Pol), were the vanguard of the army. They were already making the best pace they could. Horses would break down under the pace a Companion could set.
"Pol. I want you to relay an order to the Heralds," the Lord Marshal said, cutting across his thoughts and fretting.
Pol turned his bandaged eyes obediently towards the Lord Marshal riding on his right. "Sir?"
"Send the Heralds and their archers on ahead. I know that the Companions can make better time than this—and it may be that a few men in place early can do more than many men arriving too late." The Lord Marshal paused, and then continued, "You may go yourself, if you wish."
Oh, he wished, oh—how he wished! But blind as he was, he would be useless as a fighter, for not even Satiran could help him aim a bow—while here at the Lord Marshal's side, he would be able to relay messages directly to the leader of their forces. "No, my Lord. My place is with you. But allow me a moment—"
:Heralds!: he called, his mind-voice given strength by Satiran. :The Lord Marshal commands that you and your Companions ride ahead, carrying your archers, to hold the line until the rest of us arrive.:
A ragged cheer greeted his order, and all across the front of the great mass of riders, silver-white Companions, and blue-clad archers leaped ahead like arrows speeding from bows. There were a hundred or so Heralds racing on ahead, with as many additional archers riding pillion behind. It was a thrilling and beautiful sight, the Companions flying smoothly over the white snow with shimmering manes and tails streaming behind them. They hardly seemed to touch the snow as they ran, with their Heralds and archers bent closely down over their backs. Those archers were the finest master marksmen in Valdemar, and instead of baggage, they all carried extra quivers. As they vanished into the trees, Pol and Satiran yearned after them, sending all the strength they could spare to speed them on their way.
*
LAN gnawed his lip in anger and frustration, tasting blood but feeling nothing but rage. "Leave!" he shouted at the tiny milling specks below. "Why won't you leave?" He sneezed as a wisp of smoke tickled his nose. He'd already shed his cloak and gloves; he wasn't cold anymore. Far from it; he didn't need the fire at his side to stay warm anymore.
He'd held them in this narrow passage for as long as the fuel for his fires was there. He couldn't burn air—well, he could, but not for long—and they still weren't giving up! He knew now to the thumb's length the size of the barrier he could hold, and if he moved it either farther back or farther forward where there was more fuel, some of them would be able to get around it.
Damn! He sensed the fires below beginning to flicker, and prepared to move them—
Then—a plan flashed across his mind, whole and entire, and he grinned savagely and hugged Kalira's neck, letting her see and rejoice in it a heartbeat before he put it into motion.
He dropped the barrier altogether; gave them a flicker of time to gape in astonishment, another for their officers to order them forward. Then—with a whoosh like a windstorm—he flung up a new barrier just at the Valdemar side of the blackened, burned strip where there still fuel left to catch fire. It nearly caught the foremost ones, and he laughed savagely to see them spill backward to escape being toasted.
Kalira trembled beneath his arm in reaction to his anger, but the anger was what fed the fires, and he couldn't do this without it.
Now he made a virtue of necessity, as the fire crept back toward Valdemar, allowing a stretch of climbable slope to remain unprotected on the farther side of the mountain. Would they see it? Would they take the bait?
Only fanatics would have scrambled up those tumbled, ice-covered rocks with a fire raging in their faces, but twenty or thirty of the Karsites did just that. And Lan allowed them to slip across. There were, after all, twenty or so Valdemaran scouts on this side, just waiting for a target that they could shoot full of arrows!
But before anyone else took courage from that move, he slid the barrier over, so that the gap was now on the opposite side. But this time, it was a gap bordered by cliff on one side, and fire on the other; anyone who dared it would not be able to escape by climbing higher if the fires moved again.
No one tried it. Not all the exhortations of the officers could force Karsite fighters into the jaws of that trap. Lan chuckled with angry pleasure, as shouts came to him faintly from below. Good
! Fight among each other! The more you fight, the better for us!
Perhaps it was the presence of the Dark Servants that kept the rank and file from revolting entirely against their leaders. Despite the loss of their shrine and their execution fires, the sinister priests remained at the forefront of the army, given wide berth by the common soldiers, but an ever-present threat against desertion. Perhaps there were more of them at the rear of the army; that would explain why Lan hadn't been able to get the Karsites to retreat.
:There are,: Kalira said shortly. :The Karsites Fear their priests more than our fires. So far they have been too busy preventing desertion to call up any of their demons, but if we give them a moment of rest, they will. They don't need a ritual fire—a knife to a victim's neck will do just as well.:
More activity down below hinted that the leaders had gotten enough volunteers to agree to attempt the gap—so before they could try, Lan shifted the fire-line backward and to the side again, closing the gap, but leaving the slope open once more.
"Try it again, you bastards!" he shouted down at them, keeping his anger as hot as the fires, though his knees quaked with exertion and his hands shook. He balled his trembling hands into fists and brandished them at the men below. "Go ahead and see what you get!"
*
:POL, we're here in good time! Lavan holds the pass—he's letting small groups through, but we can take them!:
Pol clenched both hands in Satiran's mane with relief. "The Heralds have gotten to the battlefield. Lavan is holding the pass, my Lord," he said to the Lord Marshal. "Evidently he can't keep it completely blocked, but he's managing it so that only small groups are getting through at the moment, small enough that our Heralds and archers can deal with them."
Valdemar Books Page 247