He looked sharply toward the battlefield; in the middle of the fighting, where it was at its most heated, the King's banner still waved. But—but their lines were now on the verge of the little stream, not behind it. Sendar's charge had carried the entire line of battle forward; insane as the move had been, it looked as if it might have had the desired effect.
He saw the faint movement above the heads of the milling fighters on the other side of the stream, behind the Tedrel lines, and acted on instinct.
"Shields up!" he shouted, and put his over his head as example. The others did the same.
Just in time; arrows clattered down on them, force in nowise spent by their long journey. The movement he'd seen had been the arrows arcing up to clear the battle lines from the Tedrel side.
The arrows fell harmlessly, thanks to his instincts; the shields, their armor, their mounts' armor, kept anyone from being hurt, and under the turtle, Selenay was completely safe. It sounded like being caught in a terrible hailstorm, however, and the first volley was followed within a moment by a second, a third—
:She's stopped fighting. I think the arrows have scared her.: said Kantor.
Good. One less thing to worry about.
"The turtle stay under! Shields up!" he ordered, as another rain of arrows clattered onto the upheld shields. He did not look behind him to see if he was being obeyed; he knew that even if Selenay rebelled, the Heralds would make sure she stayed put. Myste would sit on her to make certain of that.
An unfamiliar mind-voice touched his inward "ear." :For once being clumsy paid off; if I'd tried to hang onto her and pull her onto my saddle, she'd probably have gotten away from me, but she couldn't do anything about my falling off with her.:
:Myste?: He was astonished. She'd never tried to Mindspeak to him before.
:Don't worry, she can't get away from me now; I outweigh her by quite a bit. She might be a little squashed, but she can't get me off of her.: Although he was nothing like an Empath, he was astonished by the complex emotional overtones that came with her words. Amusement at her own expense, pain, anger, grief, frantic worry for herself, more worry about Selenay and Sendar, and over all, terror held rigidly in check. And yet, her thoughts were so clear, he could hardly believe it. :Even if they get this far, they'll have to get through me to touch her, and there's a lot of me to act as a shield.:
He didn't ask if she was all right; she wasn't, none of them were. :Are you hurt?:
:My lenses are broken, and I think I broke my ankle, but that's the least of our worries. Don't call anyone, and don't try and get me out of here for now. I won't be moving anyway until this is over, or unless you have to haul her out of here and run for it. Promise me, though, if that happens, make sure I get back in my saddle? I'm curious about these Tedrels, but not that curious.:
:You hove my word.: He wanted to try and summon a Healer for her, for she must be in excruciating pain, but she was right, and with luck her armored boot would hold her ankle well enough in place that no further damage would occur until they had the luxury of worrying about it. Given the kinds of terrible wounds being inflicted out there in the zone of fighting, a broken ankle counted as "minor." There was no doubt that Myste knew what the right answers were, and was giving them, even though she probably was howling inside with terror and the "right" answers were the last thing she wanted to supply.
Probably? Given the level of terror and pain he sensed, she was howling deep in her own heart, all right. Years ago, when she refused to learn weapons' work, this was the last thing he would have expected out of Trainee Myste.
And in that, he had done her a tremendous disservice....
And I'll make it up if we live.
He turned his attention back to the battlefield, and for the first time, felt his heart rise, just a little.
The tide of battle was turning.
Sendar's charge had paid off in unexpected ways. The Tedrels had given up whatever battle plan they'd originally had, and were concentrating on trying to take him down. This had the effect of concentrating all of their attention on the center of the line, and gathering in fighters from the rest of the field as they all tried to be the one to take the King. Those who had been hired or recruited were the worst, for their motive was profit, not the gain of a new homeland. Even if the true Tedrel commanders had not put a price on King Sendar's head, these men would think there was, and anticipate a golden reward for killing him.
In the meantime, pulling away toward the center meant that the Valdemaran forces were able to draw in to enclose the Tedrels on three sides. The thick press of Tedrels toward the King gave the Valdemaran archers somewhere to aim for, and they were taking advantage of that—those that were not already aiming for the Tedrel archers.
When the enemy is in range, so are you.... And there was only so much room in the King's immediate vicinity. The vast majority of those struggling to get at him could not actually fight anyone because of the press of their fellow fighters; they were tied up without being of any use. But the long Valdemaran pikes could reach them, and so could the spearmen, the archers, and the warhammers.
The sight of their King in danger was enough to put extra strength in the arms of Valdemaran fighters. The sight of the King within reach had drawn the Tedrel leaders down off their hill.
And when you are in range, so is the enemy!
The Lord Marshal was in the thick of the fighting, and so was Talamir; there was no one to ask permission of.
He hesitated. But only for a moment.
To the Hells with permission. I'll apologize later.
:Are there any Heralds with bows and the Fetching Gift left here?: he asked Kantor, with an idea so impossible, it just might be able to work.
:Ah—: Kantor paused; it was going to take a lot longer for Companion to speak to Companion in all of this mess. And he didn't want to distract anyone who was right in the middle of the melee either. He waited, watching the line of fighting swaying, slowly, like a sluggish snake. Retreating a little there, bulging a little there—
:Four. And they've pulled out of combat for the moment.:
:Have them shoot for the Tedrel commanders, and put Fetching Gift behind it.: Whether they could even do that, he had no idea, but if they could, it would be something no Sunpriest would think of guarding against, if it even could be guarded against.
If there are any Sunpriests still helping them. He had to wonder, in the back of his mind, if the reason his Gift had suddenly broken through was because the Karsite Sunpriests had abandoned their erstwhile allies as soon as the Tedrels were fully occupied with Valdemar....
He hoped so. If the priests decided to mix in with this, it would make things so much worse.
At this distance, he couldn't see anything other than the dark purple blot under the purple Tedrel battle banners; he couldn't make out individual arrows, and he wouldn't see anyone fall if they were hit, so he didn't even trouble to try to watch for it. He would know if anything happened by the tide of battle. :If there are any Animal Mindspeakers still here, ask if they can spook the Tedrel horses.: One more bit of damage; the officers were all ahorse, and even if his arrow trick didn't work, if he could drive them off, there would be less control on the battlefield.
He didn't want to interfere any more; the rest of the Heralds were the only way the various parts of the Valdemaran Army had to communicate with one another. Things were falling apart on their side badly enough as it was.
Instead, he kept his shield above his head, although there were no more hails of arrows. The Valdemaran archers were doing that much, forcing the Tedrel archers to duck under cover, or even into a full retreat. And he kept Kantor turning in a slow circle, watching not only to the front, but to the rear and the sides, looking for a suicidal charge into their ranks, assuming that there could still be an attempt to capture or kill Selenay. Of course, the Tedrels might not realize Selenay was still here; her battle banner was on the ground, dropped when Myste lunged for her, and the only white u
niform on this hilltop was Alberich's.
All the more reason to keep the four of them on the ground.
Then it came—
A flash of blue.
On the left; attackers, fresh, unwounded, and seasoned, hidden in a ditchfull of bushes and about to emerge.
It wasn't much warning, but it was enough; he turned to the left, spotted movement and shouted, pointing with his sword to get the attention of Selenay's guards.
And they just popped up out of nowhere, a band of twenty, thirty—forty?—more?—suddenly materializing as if conjured—but they hadn't been, of course; they'd found cover and slipped through the lines, avoiding detection by avoiding fighting. It was a trick he'd used himself, and so had the bandits he'd fought.
And now, at last, he had something he could vent his own anger and fear against.
His blood pounding in his ears, he howled a curse at them; Kantor didn't need the touch of a heel. Kantor was just as eager for blood as he was. What Sendar could do, he could do, and for as good a cause—keeping Selenay safe.
Buying some time for her guards to react.
Before the Guardsmen on foot could rearrange their line of defense to meet the attackers, he was racing toward the ambushers. Not so far to go, after all; ten of Kantor's long strides at most before he crashed into the first knot of them.
Lightly armored, of course, much more lightly than he, to facilitate slipping through cover.
First mistake.
He got a brief glimpse of a swarthy face beneath a light cap helm—a true Tedrel, then. This was a group sent to capture the Heir. He swung his blade at the same time as he got that glimpse of target, and he felt the shock of his sword meeting flesh as he slashed across the line of the eyes. The man fell; Kantor made a ferret-quick turn to trample him. Then he and Kantor were among them, and for the first time, he learned what it was like to fight with a Companion as a partner.
He gave himself up to it. In fact, he gave himself up totally to it, to the terrible joy of killing, for the first time in his life. He would probably be sick later, but now—
Now, these beasts, these fiends, were here to murder his friends, his brothers and sisters, to enslave his country. They were going to take or murder that sweet, cheerful girl he'd come to admire so much, who was so very old for her few years, and yet so charmingly young. They, and others like them, were killing innocent, ordinary farmers like those boys and girls he and Selenay had met around the fires, old men like Dethor and women like Myste, mothers like his—
Now he and Kantor would kill them.
He felt Kantor's rage along with his own; Kantor reveled in the shock that traveled up his arm with every good blow—he rejoiced in the impact of Kantor's hooves on flesh. They moved as one in an awful and glorious dance of death, as Kantor's white hide and his white uniform and armor were spattered, splattered, drenched in red, as red blood ran down his sword arm and soaked into Kantor's legs. Kantor danced on bodies that crunched and screamed; he reared and kicked, hooves connecting with heads and bodies, before and behind. They were surrounded; Alberich didn't care. Let them waste their force on him! He was expendable; Selenay was not.
He used his shield as a weapon as well as protection, the heavy metal frame as a club.
And his sword made short work of those too-light cap helms, when he struck them at all. Mostly he went for the faces—the eyes, those dark and fierce eyes that held no pity and no remorse, only a flicker of terror when the blade came at them. He reveled in the terror. He wanted more of it.
He howled in protest when they slashed at Kantor's rump; Kantor screamed in rage as they cut through his armor into his leg.
They fought as he had never before fought in his life, without effort, with endless strength and energy, and in a white heat of rage that slowed time and sped his reactions.
And still they fought—and continued to fight—
The briefest possible flicker of blue hazed his vision for a moment, but not even his Gift could conquer this unbridled rage.
But something was going to happen—
Something awful was going to happen—
Then a sickening blow to the soul—
—that should have sent him to his knees—
—told them both that Sendar—
—Sendar, his patron—Sendar, his King—
For a moment, just a moment, he leaped skyward, out of his body, and found himself looking down on the field of battle where tiny creatures fought and died. There he was, the sole target of a circle of Tedrel elite, who had forgotten their primary mission in the face of his attack. He continued to fight like a night-fiend, despite the fact that he wasn't "there" anymore.
Another blow, nauseating and disorienting, struck him; his attention snapped to the battle line.
Sendar was cut off from the rest of the Valdemaran forces, with only his bodyguards for protection. He fought like a demon, and so did they, but even as Alberich realized what peril they were in, three of the bodyguards went down, leaving only Crathach, Jadus, and Talamir to fight with him. There was a blur of motion just under the noses of the Companions. A shriek of pain that came from the soul of Taver as well as the body, and Taver flung up his head.
Then a burly hulk with an ax swung at Talamir.
No—not at Talamir—at Taver! At the exposed neck—
—of the King's Own Companion—
Nothing could have survived that blow to the neck, no matter how heavily armored. Taver went down, blood gushing from the severed throat, neck snapped, Talamir with him, leaving the King's right flank open.
No!
Alberich howled in protest, uselessly, silently—but suddenly Jadus was there, between the King and the axman, and the ax came down—
This time, not across a Companion's neck, but across Jadus' leg. The Companion, reacting to his Chosen's agony, shied sideways, leaving Sendar unprotected.
As if in a nightmare where time slowed to a crawl, yet nothing could be done to stop what was happening, Alberich saw a hundred fighters moving at the same time. Saw the mob close in, like a pack of rabid dogs, shoving Crathach into Sendar's side, hemming in the horse and Companion so that neither could move.
Watched as too many weapons to count pieced first Sendar's Companion, then Sendar.
Flicker of blue—and a wave of sickening horror smashed him back into his body. But he knew what he had seen was real.
Sendar, the King of Valdemar—
—was dead.
That was when a shriek of berserk rage tore the throat of every man and woman in the army, and sent them against their foes in a killing frenzy such as no Valdemaran had experienced in three centuries or more. He and Kantor rode that wave of bitter, mindless hatred, rode it and used it and let it use them, until it ran out—
—and the foes ran out—
—and left them, like every other surviving fighter on the Valdemar side, exhausted and sickened; blinking at the carnage around them, peering at death through eyes that streamed with agonized tears, in grief and mourning that would never entirely be healed.
17
THE taste of blood was in his mouth; the sweet-sickly stench of it in his throat. His nostrils felt choked with it.
He thought, vaguely, that he should be on his knees, throwing up what little there was in his stomach. But instead, all he could feel was grief and numbness.
:Selenay—: prompted Kantor, with unutterable weariness, turning his head in the direction of the Heir.
No, not the Heir, he reminded himself, with a stabbing sensation in his heart. The Queen.
He wiped blood and sweat away from his eyes, and peered though a haze of exhaustion toward her circle of protection. He hadn't prevented all of the Tedrels from getting to her and her guardians, after all—just a great many of them. Another clot of bodies marked where the Royal Guardsmen and her bodyguards had taken care of the ones that had gotten by him. Four of the Royal Guardsmen were dead, the rest wounded, two of the four mounted bodyguards were
down.
Kantor stumbled to them; he half fell out of the saddle. His leg slash and half a dozen other wounds burned with a fire of their own, but he knew from the way they felt that though they hurt like demons were poking him, they were relatively minor. He wasn't going to bleed to death any time soon, and his injuries weren't going to incapacitate him. Therefore, as he had countless times when he was injured, he would carry on, if need be, until he dropped.
Berda and Locasti were on the ground with their greathearted horses standing over them like guard dogs. Locasti sat up just as he got there, holding her head in both hands; a dented helm told him what had happened to her. It was a good helm, that, double-walled, with extra space between the inner and outer wall on the top of the head—a helm inside a helm, so to speak. Good job it was built that well; it had saved her from a cracked skull or worse.
Berda rolled over on her side, moaning, and Lotte slid down off her mount to help her; blood spewed from the knee joint of her armor. But she was still alive, and Lotte was down beside her, tearing off the thigh armor to get a belt around the leg even as he reached them. Lotte had a slash of her own down her arm that she didn't seem to notice—or else she didn't care, knowing that it was minor compared to that leg wound.
She's going to lose that leg, he thought dispassionately, looking at the joint laid half-open. Better that than her life. Much better that than losing Selenay....
:They're telling me all over the field that what's left of the Tedrels are routed,: said Myste into his mind, with a deceptive calm that overlaid hysteria. :The others are telling me that they're disengaging and scattering to the four winds. And our reserves have caught up with their cavalry and they're cutting them to finely-chopped bits. I think we can get up now.:
That was when he realized that she was Mindspeaking Keren and Ylsa—and the Companions—as well as himself. The Companions spread out, and the little armored shell at the heart of their circle opened up.
"Your guard drop not," he croaked, as Keren and Ylsa stood up, Ylsa hauling a weeping Selenay up by main force. Myste stayed where she was.
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