The Lion Returns f-3

by John Dalmas

  Macurdy sent Tigers out to round up what horses they could catch, and to bring up pack strings. Pack loads were rearranged, and some goods cached, to free up additional horses for transporting wounded. Dwarves don't ride well on full-sized horses; even mounting is difficult. But pack strings and ingenuity provided transportation for dwarven wounded, two per horse.

  Macurdy talked with Strongarm awhile, applauding the dwarves' performance, but not overdoing it. They'd played their role superbly, and the hithik army had taken a drubbing. But it wasn't a show suited for repeat performances. The crown prince could replace his casualties. Strongarm couldn't.

  They agreed that Strongarm's legion should turn west, cross the Deep River, and help the ylver when the voitar attacked westward again. Tossi Pellersson Rich Lode was on his way with two cohorts from the Diamond Flues. If both tribes agreed, they could fight together as a legion.

  ***

  As evening advanced, Macurdy and most of the Tigers headed west. Behind them they left the dwarves and the Tiger wounded. Along with three companies of Horgent's long cohort as escorts, and to handle the strings of "ambulance" horses.

  As usual, the dwarves would draw on the Web of the World for warmth and energy. The Tigers couldn't, and the night threatened to be bitter cold again. Especially if it turned windy, Macurdy wanted them sheltered in the forest, where deadwood could be found for fires. When Horgent and his advance companies reached the forest, they'd cut firewood, and wait for the dwarves. When Strongarm was ready to go on, Horgent's men would escort them to the ylvin lines.

  Through the great ravens, Macurdy notified the ylvin high command of the battle, and told them to expect the wounded. Then he led his 1st Cohort northwestward, to make camp in the forest. From there they'd head north, and join in the raiding.

  ***

  At his headquarters, Crown Prince Kurqosz reviewed the battle. When he finished, his mood was foul. It was then he decided on decisive action. Extreme but decisive.

  Certain conditions were necessary, and it was impossible to predict them more than two or three days in advance. But they would come. He'd already seen them several times in this miserable land. Meanwhile he'd continue to deal with the problems as he found them.

  35 Prisoners of War

  "A new raider force?"

  "Without a doubt, Your Majesty, and they're not ylver. They don't have the same uniforms, and their tactics are different. If they qualify as tactics."

  Kurqosz's communicator, Captain Gorvaszt, reached to the appropriate memory track, taking the crown prince's attention with his own. The viewpoint was that of a voitik wagon master. This one preferred to stride alongside the first wagon in the train. Some fifty yards ahead was his advance platoon. Somewhere farther ahead, out of sight, were scouts.

  In between, the road curved to pass a cedar swamp. From its dense green cover, horsemen exploded, charging the advance guard at close range. The platoon had no chance to meet them at a gallop; its horsemen were ridden down like straw figures in a tableau. Howling like lunatics, the raiders hurtled on toward the wagon train. Meanwhile the wagon escorts stayed in place, to protect against the expected attack from the flanks.

  The voitu's bodyguards braced themselves, sabers bared. The voitu himself vaulted onto the first wagon, where he crouched low, taking refuge behind flour barrels.

  It almost worked. The raiders, still howling, split into two streams and careened by, attacking the escorts. Thinking they were past, the voitu raised his fur-capped head above the barrels, to see. What he saw was a laggard raider, who without slowing, leaned impossibly to his right and struck with his saber. The voitu tried to duck away, and the raider's blade missed his neck, taking him across the side of the face, driving halfway through his head. There was blackness, a sense of duration without sight or sound. Then the voitu saw and heard again, briefly and without focus, while he strangled on his blood.

  Kurqosz jerked free. This was, he thought, intolerable. One of the problems was already clear to him: the hithik scouts had stayed on the road. Afraid of what they might find if they left it.

  He sent Gorvaszt away, with orders not to disturb him for half an hour. Then he had his orderly bring lunch, and while he ate, mentally reviewed the overall situation. Henceforth, he decided, he'd settle for oral reports. It was unwise to repeatedly visit such events in the hive mind, even without melding. It gave emotionally disturbing views without context. After all, he held all of the Eastern Empire that was of much use. Adequate supplies still got through, and casualties were modest, given the size of his army. The only real battle had been with the dwarves, and while his casualties had been high, the dwarves had surely lost a higher percentage of their force than Trumpko had.

  Meanwhile, he told himself, I will send strong infantry escorts with the supply trains-spearmen and crossbowmen. Along with the cavalry. Let's see what the raiders think of that! Orovisz could work out the details.

  He'd just finished dessert-a cream tart with a sweetened form of some astringent ylvin beverage-when there was another knock at his door. "Who is it?" Kurqosz snapped.

  "Captain Gorvaszt, Your Majesty. The half hour has passed, and I have an item you may find intriguing. From the Deep River Line. An ylvin page has contacted a flank post at the mouth of Piney Gorge. His master, an ylvin lord, wishes to speak with you personally."

  "An ylvin lord? What about?"

  "He didn't say, Your Majesty. Apparently something his master doesn't want his government to know. He may be our first ylvin traitor. The page claims to have crossed Deep River above the falls, then ridden south. I get the impression that his master may also have crossed, and is waiting in the forest."

  "Hmh! Have him bring his master to the flank post. By supper. Is that feasible?"

  "Just a moment, Your Majesty. I'll ask Captain Brellszok at the post." Kurqosz waited. "He says his master can be there before dark. He will come by cutter with six personal guards and a hostage."

  "A hostage?"

  "Not one of our people, Your Majesty. Brellszok asked. It's one of his own."

  Kurqosz frowned down his arched nose. Confusing, he thought. "Make sure they are thoroughly searched. He is to bring the hostage, but no guards. Tell him I guarantee his safety. And Gorvaszt, I want a look at this 'ylvin lord' when he arrives at the flank post. But do not let him know."

  Gorvaszt acknowledged the orders and left. I'll send Tsulgax to fetch him, Kurqosz decided. He is naturally suspicious, and has a nose for treachery.

  ***

  Raien Cyncaidh's cohort had suffered enough casualties that he'd consolidated its five fully-manned companies to four short companies, which operated in pairs. The voitar had beefed up their escorts. The voitik command kept changing how they did things, and Cyncaidh tried to outguess and outmaneuver them with changes of his own.

  With two of his companies, he'd positioned himself along a stretch of what he'd dubbed Road C. His bird had told him a major supply column, this time of sleighs, was coming west on it, having detoured from Road B, the major and most used road. With luck he'd get away with some sleigh-loads of hay and grain. It wasn't something he'd done before. Wagons weren't suited to off-road hauling.

  The raiders had waited half a mile back from the road, for their bird to approve the situation. When they'd gotten clearance, they'd moved up. Then Cyncaidh had positioned his force far enough back in the woods to escape detection by the hithik scouts on the road.

  Cyncaidh sat listening intently, his deputy and trumpeter beside him. Their horses' faces, necks and manes were white with rime from their own breath. His eyelashes were beaded with frost, his eyebrows crusted with it. They were at the east end of his assault line, where they'd be the first to hear the column. And nearer the road than the rest of his force was-less than twenty yards from it-screened by hemlock saplings growing on a large old windfall.

  He didn't like waiting in such cold. It was hard on men and horses. Most of his ylver could manipulate their metabolism and circulat
ion to some extent, to keep warm, but it drained their energy reserves. So they were under orders to use the technique only to keep their fingers warm, and in emergencies, their feet.

  And just now their ears, for they'd turned their earflaps up, listening for the enemy's approach. Still, despite the general silence and his acute hearing, the sound of the column sneaked up on him. Suddenly he was aware of the plop-plop of hooves on packed snow. The advance guard, he supposed. Quietly he drew his saber. The hithar passed in front of him, well enough screened by the hemlocks and roadside undergrowth, that all Cyncaidh saw of them was movement. Then came the chink of trace chains, and the squeak of runners on packed snow in forty degrees of frost. He couldn't hear a thing from the teamsters. They were, he supposed, too numb to talk.

  For long minutes the sleighs passed. Cyncaidh had tensed. His right wing would attack the advance guard at any moment. Then he'd…

  He heard shouts from the head of the column, and spoke a low word of command. His trumpeter blew a long shrill note, and all along the road the ylver charged, Cyncaidh with them. But as they plunged through the roadside undergrowth, the column's escort surprised them, meeting them not with the usual sabers, but with seven-foot spears. A few of the raiders reacted too slowly, and the horses were stabbed in head or neck, but most reined back, briefly confused. At the same time, soldiers arose on the wagons, out of the hay or from beneath tarps, crossbows in hand.

  Cyncaidh felt a bolt slam through his Cuirass, and into his upper left chest.

  The escort had never intended to fight with their spears. They'd served mainly to halt the charging ylver, making them more susceptible to crossbow fire. Fighting in the saddle at a near standstill, spears were not the weapon of choice, and the escort dropped them. Before most of the raiders could recover their wits, the hithar engaged them with sabers.

  The ylver fought furiously and skillfully. Some killed or wounded or unhorsed their opponents, some forced them back. Others died. In the melee, the crossbows had largely stopped. Cyncaidh's trumpeter and deputy had hung back, as they were supposed to. They saw their wounded commander defending himself against a soldier. Then, deflected by Cyncaidh's blade, a powerful saber blow slammed his helmet, and he fell from the saddle.

  The deputy saw the hithik rear guard charging up, shouted an order, and the trumpeter blew the quick notes of retreat. As best they could, the ylver disengaged and galloped back into the forest, crossbowmen sending bolts after them.

  Nearly a hundred bodies lay in the snow, more raiders than escorts. Not all of them were dead.

  ***

  The Younger Quaie and his party had met with a voitik officer the evening before, at the flank post. There'd been no actual negotiations. The voitu had asked questions, then presented terms. Quaie had accepted. He had nothing to negotiate with except his services, and at any rate he felt optimistic. He usually was, manically so, despite the mental abuse visited on him by his famous and sadistic father. Just now, in fact, he felt positively exhilarated; he would soon have the respect he desired and deserved. This voitik prince needed someone who knew the people, politics, and power sources of the empires and the Marches. And he was that man. As time passed, the voitu would rely more and more on him. He'd have rewards, power, people subject to him, whom he could do with as he pleased.

  ***

  They spent a second night in the rude cabin assigned to them, and slept late. When Quaie awoke, his exhilaration had faded. Breakfast was more spare than he'd expected. After eating, he said good-bye to his bodyguards. That was the hardest part of the bargain-harder even than being searched. Then his new driver led them outside, and watched while they got back in the cutter.

  Quaie felt alone now, exposed and anxious. His driver was a large, hard-looking, frightening man with a face seeming carved from pale, scarred stone. Even the voitik sublieutenant who would accompany them spoke courteously to the creature.

  For days, Quaie's hostage had traveled gagged and hooded, nearly hidden beneath heavy furs. After they'd crossed the river, Quaie had removed the gag; they would no longer encounter ylvin couriers and other travelers. Now, as the cutter moved smoothly away into the forest, he smirked at her. "Soon you will meet your new husband," he taunted. "And if you please him well enough, who knows? He may not share you out."

  She didn't answer. The Younger Quaie was well known as susceptible to taunts, but infuriating him could have no good result.

  ***

  The cutter was drawn by excellent horses on packed snow, and moved briskly. Here the countryside was a fertile till plain, but very stony. Thus it was largely forest, with occasional farm settlements rich in stone piles, rough stone fences, and stone foundations topped with the charred remains of buildings. The voitu loped tirelessly ahead of them, eating occasionally from his pocket as he ran. The creature impressed Quaie greatly; his only stops were to turn his back to the cutter and relieve his bladder. Quaie wished the voitu wouldn't turn away. He wanted to see what the creature had.

  Twice they met large mounted forces patrolling the road. They wore uniforms like his driver's-quite different from those of the hithik soldiers at the flank post-and their men looked dangerous. The fabled rakutur, Quaie told himself. They must be.

  The sun had set, and dusk was thickening, when they rode into a large cleared area, perhaps a mile square. Here there were no stone piles. Along the road were only the stubs of hedges cut since the last snow, and the charred remains of brush piles. In the southeast quarter of the clearing were buildings, a hamlet's worth, with lamp- and candlelight burning in windows. He was, Quaie realized, almost to the next phase of his great adventure, his new life.

  ***

  As she got out of the cutter, Quaie threw the fur hood back from Varia's head, exposing her face. Then he gripped her arm needlessly. His strength surprised her. He'd always seemed smaller than he was. Now she realized his seeming weakness had also been an illusion. But not his mental problems; they were genuine.

  Their tireless voitik sublieutenant entered the stone manor house ahead of them. Their driver herded them from behind. Varia found the rakutu disquieting. There was a sense of cruelty about him, and more unnerving, hatred.

  The entryway opened into what had been a large parlor. Now it was a reception and office area, with numerous administrative personnel, and guards. As she entered with Quaie, eyes turned to them, but they were not challenged. They'd been expected.

  The interior was rustic but well-constructed, with heavy, rough-hewn beams, and hardwood floors. The sublieutenant led them up a staircase. At the top, they turned down a hallway to a guarded door at the end. The voitu knocked. The door was opened by another voitu whom Varia realized was in early adolescence; a page or orderly she supposed. The sublieutenant ushered them in-Quaie first, then herself.

  She knew at once which of the several voitu there was the crown prince. Even for a voitu he was tall, and his charisma struck her at once. Like the other voitar, his aura was strange, but it was a ruler's aura nonetheless. Like Raien's and Curtis's, and Sarkia's, but more intense than any of them.

  He looked first at her, taking in her red hair and green eyes, then at Quaie, then at the sublieutenant. "Yes, Lieutenant?" he said.

  The young officer bowed, a short half-bow. "Your Majesty, I have brought the ylvin Lord Quaie. And his captive."

  "Ah." Kurqosz turned. "Lord Quaie. Remind me why you have come here."

  Varia had already been impressed with the voitik fluency in Yuultal. She'd long since read of their hive mind; perhaps when one of them learned a language, it was accessible to all. All they'd need to do was practice using it.

  "Your Majesty," Quaie said, "I am volunteering my services to you. I am expert in ylvin government and politics, and of course in the ways and attitudes of my people. In fact, during my fifty-seven years of life, observation, and study, I have learned much about all of Yuulith and its peoples. I can advise you and your generals on the most effective ways of dealing with them. And when your
conquest is complete, on administering them with the greatest profit and least aggravation for Your Majesty."

  "Hmm. Interesting. But as a person of power and position, why ally yourself with an enemy?"

  "Why, it's clear that you will win. In Duinarog, the pessimism was so thick, you could cut it with a knife."

  "Indeed? And your gift to me?" He turned to look again at Varia. "Why did you bring her?"

  "As a token of my respect, and to demonstrate my knowledge and ability. She is the wife of Lord Raien Cyncaidh, you see, the Western Empire's most powerful duke, and the emperor's chief advisor. Yet I stole her without difficulty." He smirked. "She's very beautiful, don't you think? You may find her useful as a hostage. Or for your royal pleasure. Or both."

  There was a sharp rap at the office door and, scowling, the crown prince turned to it. "What is it?" he said sharply.

  The answer was in Hithmearcisc. "Your Majesty, an ylvin prisoner has been brought in. By his insignia, a general. He was wounded and captured while attacking a supply train."

  Kurqosz responded in Vismearcisc, seemingly for the benefit of his visitors. "A general? Leading raiders? Interesting. Is his wound serious?"

  The man at the door switched to Vismearcisc to fit the crown prince's pleasure. "Your chief physician is with him now, Your Majesty."

  "Your Majesty," Quaie interjected, "it is quite possible I can identify him for you." He had no doubt the prisoner was Cyncaidh.

  "Can you now? Hmm." He turned to the door again. "Bring him in when Agr: Ucirc; x has finished with him. I want to see this general who leads his men instead of sending them. Either he has a poor opinion of his importance as a strategist, or a very high one of his importance as a fighting man."