by Court Ellyn
“I hope you do take Laral at his word,” said the king. “He’s one of few men who says exactly what he means. But we will not discuss him in his absence. You will have more pressing matters.”
“Yes, shall we?” Kelyn held a hand of invitation toward Tírandon’s gate. While they walked across the battlefield, reins in hand, Kelyn asked, “Were you harried along the way?”
Haezeldale shook his head. Sweat matted thinning blond hair to his forehead. “We abandoned Briar Tower some days ago. Those monsters finally grew brains big enough to burn down the palisade. We took refuge in a holding some miles to the north and west. The monsters did not pursue us. That’s where your … messenger … found us.”
“Hnh, Saffron failed to inform me you had left Briar. I shall have to scold her.”
“Are you in the habit of consorting with, er …”
“Fairies?” Kelyn shrugged. “I’m getting used to it. The world is not as it seems, Lord Haezeldale. It is far stranger, far more lovely, and more dangerous than we ever knew.”
They reached the first swath of scorched grass. Only yards beyond, blackened fissures had been blasted into the earth. Dead ogres sprawled around each fissure.
Johf nudged a corpse with his armored toe. “Do these giants have a name?”
Kelyn opened his mouth to reply, but someone hailed him. The voice sounded urgent. Where the scorched grass ended, on the western end of camp, Haldred waved an arm, bidding him come quickly. “Excuse me, sire.” He bowed a departure, climbed into the saddle, and rode to meet his squire.
“It’s Lord Mithlan, sir,” said Hal, taking the warhorse by the bridle. Kelyn dismounted. “He’s not going to make it.” A knot of Leanians gathered about someone lying on the ground. They parted to let Kelyn and Hal through. The tall grasses nodding in the wind near Rhogan were dark and wet. His right leg was severed above the knee. Someone’s belt attempted to staunch the blood-flow. His hauberk of leather and hutza rings had been torn open, and his belly inside it. The jagged work of tusks or claws.
“They pulled him off his horse,” Hal muttered. “He was trying to shield me. It’s my fault.”
“Don’t do that to yourself, lad,” Kelyn said. “Did you call for orderlies?”
One of the knights in orange and blue pointed. “They’re on their way.” All across the battlefield, orderlies in white aprons slung stretchers off their backs and carried the wounded toward the castle. They started with the soldiers who lay closest to Tírandon’s gate. Understandable. It would take a special request to bring an orderly to the far end of the field, past other men who needed help just as badly.
While they waited, Kelyn knelt beside the dying man. Recognition dawned in Rhogan’s eyes. His hand clenched onto Kelyn’s wrist. “Did we … did we push them back?”
“Yes! We won the field, my friend.”
Rhogan raised his shoulders, tried to sit. “Help me up.”
“Just lie still.”
It took barely a nudge to convince Rhogan to stay put, but he remained restless. “Where’s my horse? Kelyn? I need to tell Aisley … where’s Aisley?”
“She’ll be here soon.” No point telling him that his granddaughter was still at Ilswythe.
A pair of orderlies pressed through the knot and laid the stretcher on the blood-wet grass. “Hold on, Rhogan,” Kelyn said. “You’ll be stitched up by a queen. A beautiful redheaded queen. You don’t want to miss that.” Rhogan grinned as the orderlies eased him onto the stretcher. Most of the cavalrymen accompanied him to the castle. One led Rhogan’s horse by the bridle.
Haldred watched them go. “I tried to save him. I musta lost my head. I don’t know what happened. When I looked we were surrounded by dead ogres, and it was over.”
A glimpse at the ground showed Kelyn a ring of big corpses. Some of them were of horses, but most weren’t. Instead of the oversized mace, Haldred held a serrated sword of dark hutza limned with blood and sunlight. “I know exactly what happened,” Kelyn said, recalling the madness of the battle haze. “Where did you get that sword?”
“I clubbed that one in the head,” Hal said, pointing. He turned in a slow circle. “No, it was that one. I think. He dropped it, and I grabbed it and…” He concluded with a shrug.
Kelyn clapped him on the shoulder. “You did everything a knight should do. You fought for your brother, the man on your left and the man your right.”
Hal continued to stare at the ground, mournful. It was a startled awakening Kelyn saw in the lad’s face. He’d seen it on Leshan’s face, too, the night they took Nathrachan, and surely for a time his own face had worn it. “Is that why some men are called heroes?” Hal asked.
“The man you’re fighting for thinks so. Give me the sword.”
Hal drew his arm back. “I was hoping to keep it, as a trophy, sir.”
Kelyn flicked his fingers, insisting.
Disappointed, Hal extended his prize, hilt first. Kelyn took it and said, “Kneel.”
Haldred blinked. Puzzlement cleared slowly from his eyes. “You mean it?”
“Kneel, you big lug. I know Laral would want to be here, but we can’t always have what we want.”
Hal descended to a knee amid the churned earth and spilled blood, and a grin dispelled the gloom from his face.
“I don’t know the Fieran oath,” Kelyn said, “but the Aralorri oath is as good as any. Repeat after me…”
~~~~
Arryk eased around a swath of charred ogres, fighting the nausea rising from his belly. The stench of opened bowels and burnt flesh, the cries of wounded men and dying horses, set his head to swimming. If it weren’t for Johf’s need to catch up on a few things, Arryk feared he’d have been sick in front of his men. War was so much cleaner on the page; he hadn’t expected … this. The chance to tell Johf about ogre-kind, Elarion, dwarven armor, and Aralorri hospitality provided a welcome distraction. Can they tell I’m faking it? Can they tell I’m not as stoic as steel? Can they tell I’m not the lover of war my father was?
Daisy padded alongside him. Her nearness was a comfort. “How are troubles at home?”
Johf shrugged. “Brynduvh is in turmoil. No one can leave, no one can enter. Anyone who tries is killed within sight of the wall. People are stocking food, murdering each other for a bag of flour. Food and lamp oil will run out, and then things will get really nasty. The Lord Chancellor has enforced a curfew, and a draft among all able-bodied men. A few women have signed on, too, to help defend the gates and patrol the streets. The children are being evacuated to the seaside in small groups. The plan is to put them on ships bound for the Pearl Islands. But with the unsettled tides, well, one of the ships capsized within sight of Gildancove Harbor. At least, that’s the rumor. Parents began protesting the order to send away their young ones. Some windows were smashed and buildings burned. So children have been taken by force, but that’s your Uncle Raed for you. Do something thoroughly, or don’t do it at all. The people obey him, but they do not love him. Your city needs you, sire. We should leave immediately, all your countrymen, and see you safely home.”
“I wholeheartedly agree,” said Captain Moray.
Arryk imagined Brynduvh’s streets overrun with panicked mothers, frightened shop owners, trapped travelers. The price of bread must be a poor man’s fortune. Rats and pigeons would soon fill the meat pies sold on corners.
What good would his presence serve? The same curfew, the same draft, the same evacuation orders would be in place if his banner flew atop the castle or not. Arryk looked to Rance. His brother-in-marriage kept his mouth shut. He’d go along with whatever his king decided. If only Laral were here. What would he advise? It’s your conscience you have to live with. Yes, that’s what Laral would say.
Arryk turned to Johf. “No, we’ll not abandon Kelyn.”
“But, sire, we can free Brynduvh—!”
“How?” Arryk demanded, stopping beside the scorched ruins of a battering ram. “It is because of Thorn Kingshield that we were able to see
our foe today.” Lord Haezeldale was not one to argue openly with his king. Such unguarded panic might sweep through the rest of the knights gathered near. And from there? No telling how far the fear might spread. The gaze of the White Falcon fell on each of them. It was the same gaze his father had used on men who displeased him. It was a gaze cultivated to cower a soul. When it leveled on him, one knight came to attention. Another looked away and gulped. Johf lowered his head and waited for judgment to strike. “Listen well,” Arryk said. “Remember my words as if they are the Goddess to you. The battle for survival is here, so here is where we will fight it. And you will do precisely as Lord Ilswythe orders. I have given him command of my army. He has my full trust.”
“You trust an Aralorri to do right by us, sire?” Johf tempered the incredulity in his voice far better than Drona had.
“As War Commander, yes. As a man, Kelyn will do as he judges best for his people, as I will for mine. That is why we will not flee. We stay on the front line and make a stand. Together.”
He did not wait for affirmation. They would give it, or they would suffer the consequences. He was nearly to the outer moat when he saw a tall black horse with a white star on her forehead. At her hooves Carah crouched, helping a Leanian drink from a water skin. She had bound her dark curls into a practical braid and exchanged her silver robe for Elaran suedes. The sun burned her bare arms pink. She saw Arryk approaching with his entourage, then quickly looked away. She didn’t have time for ceremony or chit-chat, that was clear. Yet, too, she exuded a coolness that he’d never detected in her before.
Arryk almost walked on past, but he preferred to enter Tírandon after Kelyn, not before; the people mustn’t view him as a conqueror. So he paused. “I thought you were arriving with the wagons.”
“Your Majesty.” The greeting sounded flat. Daisy sniffed at Carah, sniffed at the Leanian’s wounds. Carah pushed her muzzle aside, and Rance dragged the mastiff away by the collar. “Yes, I made my escape when Queen Briéllyn wasn’t looking.” She left the Leanian and hurried to an Elari’s side. Arryk couldn’t tell the difference between the red stripes and the blood on his face. When Carah knelt, she put her back to the king. The gesture broke several rules of etiquette. Even Rance shifted, discomfited by it. Why was she determined to avoid him? Had he offended her? Perhaps the attack in the pavilion still weighed heavily on her. Perhaps she was shy under the gaze of so many Mantles and strangers. Yes, perhaps that was it. Arryk held up a hand, ordering his entourage to stay put, then went to her and knelt beside the Elari. “Let me,” he said and lifted the warrior’s head and shoulders onto his lap. The Elari was barely conscious, muttering in his own language. Carah dribbled water into his mouth. The water smelled suspiciously like wine. The Elari choked, rousing, then drank deeply.
“And how long ago did you make your escape?” Arryk asked, hoping he sounded like an admonishing elder brother.
“I didn’t see the entire battle, if that is His Majesty’s meaning.” Carah’s eyes flicked his direction. There it was, that mischievous sparkle he adored.
“Tsk, tsk. I should report you to your father.”
She raised her nose in an expertly foppish fashion. “I knew I’d be needed, and the wagons will take ages to arrive.” The knee of her suede leggings pressed into blood-soaked soil. No way to avoid it; the blood dappled, smeared, pooled in the grass as if a mad artist had flung about the contents of his paint pots.
“It’s remarkable that you have the stomach for this.”
She shrugged. “I don’t really, but someone has to do it. And who can do it better than I?”
Arryk chuckled.
Carah winced. “I didn’t mean that. I’m very impertinent. Conceited, too. His Majesty must find any company more fit than mine.” She meant it. Why the self-deprecation? Ah, yes, suddenly he understood. Why would a young lady tell a man her faults unless it was to make herself seem unattractive? Were rumors flying about? Or perhaps Arryk’s own thoughts had given him away. How mortifying.
He cleared his throat. “Not at all. Here, we’ll help you. Rance, Johf, Moray, all of you. Grab a man. Grab two.” The Mantles and knights spread out, leading their horses and lifting wounded warriors into the saddle. Some supported a second man on their shoulders. The extravagant white cloaks doubled as stretchers for soldiers unable to walk. Arryk settled the Elari’s arm around his neck and lifted him to his feet.
“You don’t have to do this, sire,” Carah said.
“With so few orderlies? Would you have us put these warriors back on the ground?”
She surrendered with an appreciative smile, but only reluctantly. Arryk swallowed a twinge of sorrow. She loved the avedra. Of course she did. Arryk was just a king. He commanded men, not the storm or the wind.
“Run ahead,” he told her. “Find where we’re to put them.”
~~~~
“Regs!” called Laniel. “Form up. Dranithion, gather!” He stooped to clean his daggers on the hide of a dead horse, then wiped them cleaner on his leggings and put them away. Motions conducted with religious attention. His hands trembled. He still couldn’t catch his breath. His heart pounded in the base of his throat, and the knot of fear uncoiled slowly from his chest.
“You look shaken, Captain,” said one of the Regs. Warriors with the red keldjek on their upper arms lined up before him.
Only shaken? Not irate? He felt the urge to strangle Dathiel, that’s what he felt. “Do I not have cause to be shaken?” he retorted. Fighting several companies of naenion at once bore little resemblance to fighting a single war band. One moment his kinsmen were all around him, battling back to back; the next, he found himself alone, surrounded, and for the first time in his thousand years, he knew he was going to die. Yes, that was the duínovan word for it. Die. But then the naenion were running, bent on trampling him in their desperation to flee. He dived out of the way and let them run.
With his forearm he wiped his face and found blood mingling with the sweat. Not all of it was bright naenion blood either. His fingers found the gash on his forehead, traced it back to his left ear. “Myol,” he swore. “I’ll kill him.” Damn Dathiel for dragging him into this.
A deep breath cleared his head. He didn’t mean it. It was Lothiar who deserved his anger, not his oath-brother.
Laniel counted the Elarion who had answered his call. Seventy-eight Regs and seven dranithion. Nathynoel and Yelindra were missing. And…
“Where’s Azhien?”
Danellys covered her mouth, smearing bloody fingerprints on her cheek. Lianthyr and Tarathien exchanged fearful looks.
“Damn pup,” Jevanyth muttered, shaking his head sorrowfully.
One of the Regs piped up. “Maybe he’s gone into the castle, sir.” Tírandon had raised its gates. Orderlies crossed the moats on the drawbridge, bearing the wounded. Maybe Azhien was among them.
“Ynora, head inside and look. The rest of you spread out. Find him. Collect our casualties and bring them back here.” ‘Here’ happened to be beside an overturned wain filled with earth. The naenion had been filling in the moats, to widen their path of attack.
Laniel found Yelindra half crushed under an ogre’s corpse. Her fist still clutched her sword hilt; her dilated lavender eyes stared up at the sun. There wasn’t much left to Nathynoel. Two or more ogres, like dogs competing over a kill, had strung him out over four or five yards. Laniel had walked the trees with these dranithion for more than two centuries. Their loss tore a deep wound inside his chest. He knelt beside their bodies, pressed a hand over his eyes. “I will see you soon, aurienen. The Light is not far away.”
“Captain!” called Jevanyth, waving an arm. “He’s here!”
Laniel leapt over ogre corpses to reach them. He envisioned finding his cousin ripped apart.
On the far side of a mound of scorched bodies, Jevanyth was helping Azhien sit up. The older dranithi shook the pup by the shoulder, spoke softly to him. Azhien responded with an unsteady nod. Relief welled like a soothing fount. L
aniel dropped to a knee to inspect his cousin. Blood matted the hair on the side of Azhien’s head. He blinked heavily, dazed, and when he glanced up, he squinted against the sunlight. Concussion, if not worse. His chest bled, too. Laniel spread the slashed jerkin; the claws hadn’t cut deeper than the breastbone. Still, the wound might turn septic. Azhien wasn’t safe yet. “I told you to stay with me.”
“I tried,” Azhien croaked. “Just too many of them. A sea of naenion. I think … I think I earned a few more … stripes.” He leaned aside and vomited.
“All right, get him inside,” Laniel said. “I’ll follow as soon as we round up everyone.”
Jevanyth helped Azhien to his feet and they limped for the gatehouse.
A shadow slid over Laniel as he stood. He found Danellys standing at his side. “Sir? We found Elyandir.” She led the way. At the foot of the smoldering trebuchet, several Regs stood around a prone figure. Laniel shouldered through them and crouched beside the ruin that had once been the proud lieutenant. Red lines like the veins of leaves blotched the left side of Elyandir’s face; others crept over the backs of his hands. Oozing blisters rose from the worst of the lines. Blood trickled from one of his ears. Breath wheezed in his throat. Was that due to the lightning that had ravaged his body or the splinter of wood lodged in his ribcage? When the lightning shattered the trebuchet, Elyandir must’ve been standing nearby; the machine’s heavy timbers were the only place this arm-length spike could’ve come from.
“Well,” Laniel said, “looks like hutza is ineffective against lightning.”
Elyandir gurgled.
Laniel offered him a tight little smile. “I’m sure the Sheannach would’ve liked to question you. Looks like he’ll have to forego the pleasure.”
Vast hatred welled in Elyandir’s face. It gave him the strength to speak. “Go ahead. Laugh! Isn’t that what you’re known for, treewalker?”
“I’m not laughing now. You make me too sad to laugh. You’re a waste, Elyandir.”