“We will do as you feel we must,” Jolyn said. “It cannot be otherwise.”
“No, it cannot,” Alcaren said firmly. “Not now.” His gray-blue eyes fixed on Jolyn.
The older sorceress looked down after a moment.
Secca wondered if the moment had been foredestined years ago, when a tiny redheaded girl had told an heir that he was a bully and defended Anna by saying that Anna was only nasty when people made her be. Will you end up repeating that pattern, as well?
Secca looked bleakly southward as Songfire carried her toward Aroch…and a future she had never imagined, could never have imagined.
132
Aroch, Defalk
The Maitre stands on the northwest corner of the north tower, under an overcast that threatens rain at any time. Beside him, on his right, is Marshal jerLeng, and on his left is jerClayne. The Maitre surveys the hills beyond the gorge that lies nearly a dek to the north of the walls of the keep.
After a time, he points. “She will take the high ground there, and they will arrive there later this afternoon. I want to make them fight for it.” He turns to jerLeng. “Send fifteen companies over each bridge, and have them attack as soon as she nears. You should understand which tactics work.”
Marshal jerLeng looks straight at the Maitre. “You wish me to send another thirty companies to their deaths?”
“In a good cause, yes,” the Maitre replies.
The marshal does not respond.
“Do you recall what happened at Elahwa?” The Maitre glances from jerLeng to jerClayne.
“We lost,” points out jerLeng. “Only five companies survived.”
“Had jerClayne and I been there, we would not have lost. At the end, neither sorceress could sing a spell. They had to use blades to save themselves. One more charge…one more charge would have finished them.”
“That is easy to say now. We had but five companies remaining after all their sorcery, and they had three times that,” the marshal points out wearily.
“That is not the point,” the Maitre counters, his voice sharp. “They have but two sorceresses now.”
“I count three and an assistant, and possibly the Ranuan.”
“The Ranuan cannot have learned that much in a season, and it takes one sorceress and the assistant to hold their wards, just as it takes two Sea-Priests. That means they have but two sorceresses. We will transfer the wards to the three junior Sea-Priests as soon as we leave this tower. This afternoon, you will attack them, using companies in groups large enough to overwhelm their camp unless they use sorcery. I will send two apprentice Sea-Priests with you. They are strong enough to deflect any sorcery but the most powerful.”
“That will gain us some time, but little more.”
“Even with the lancers she has gained from Lords Kinor and Tiersen, she has but eleven companies, and half are understrength. Lord Robero has told her not to attack, and she will not gain lancers from him—”
“Do you believe his message?”
“He is neither that deceptive nor that willing to risk lying to us. He truly believes that we will triumph.” The Maitre smiles. “That should say much to your lancers, marshal. As for the sorceress, she lost near-on two companies from Captain jerDrall’s attack, and that attack greatly weakened the sorceresses. I can tell that from the scope of the wards.”
“We are to keep attacking until they can use sorcery no more?”
The Maitre nods. “By attacking this afternoon, we will make sure that they get no rest, and we can hold Aroch under a shield. Tomorrow, we will destroy them with fireballs and fire whips as we did those in Fussen.”
The marshal waits, as if expecting more.
“There is one other way you might break through,” the Maitre adds. “She is using sorcery that cannot strike within her own troops without destroying them. Her lancers have become used to this. That was how jerDrall destroyed nearly two companies. If you have a company with strong mounts that can sprint forward before she begins her dissonant sorcery, they might well reach her.”
“We will offer that to the captains.” JerLeng pauses, then asks, “What if thirty companies are not enough—”
“You have sixty remaining at present,” the Maitre replies coldly. “What are they for but to assure victory?”
“Yes, Maitre.”
“Do you want that…those abominations…to survive? Do you want the home isles to fall to the bitch traders of the north—or the Matriarch?”
“No, Maitre.”
“We are all that remains of the power of Sturinn, and we are all that can reclaim it. To do that, we must destroy the sorceress. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Maitre.”
“Then do your duty.” The Maitre turns and makes his way toward the steep stone steps that lead downward into the keep.
133
Secca had hoped that the skies would remain clear, but by the end of the two days it had taken them to ride around the fire and storm damage created by Alcaren’s sorcery, the winds had shifted once more. Low clouds had slid across the sky from the south, and the air was chill and damp, although it had not rained, not yet.
Ahead of the vanguard, partly visible to the left of the hill around which the road curved eastward and then south, and above the low and bare limbs of an apple orchard, were the back sides of the hills that overlooked Aroch. After finishing a vocalise so that she would be ready whenever the Sturinnese appeared, Secca stood momentarily in the saddle, then reseated herself, reflecting that a year before she’d had no idea that she would have ridden across half the continent of Liedwahr, fighting a war that would have seemed inconceivable.
She had checked the scrying mirror a little over a glass earlier. Then, the images in the glass had shown companies of Sturinnese lancers massed around the bridges, half on each side roughly, but without any columns or scouts riding farther northward. Wilten and Delcetta had sent out even more scouts to warn them of any possible attacks, and Secca had been watching the road carefully.
Almost with that thought, a rider in the crimson and blue of the SouthWomen appeared from behind the trees where the road curved and galloped northward toward the column, her speed indicating that all was not well.
Secca took a swallow from her water bottle and began a second vocalise, slowly, trying not to force anything. Riding beside her, Alcaren cleared his throat and also continued his warm-up.
Delcetta listened to the messenger but for a moment, and then the two SouthWomen rode along the shoulder of the narrow road toward Secca.
Before they reached her, Secca reined up Songfire, though the gesture took but the slightest pressure, and stood in the stirrups, signaling for the column to halt. “Chief player!”
“First players!” echoed Palian.
“Second players!” followed Delvor.
Delcetta and the messenger reined up, and the South Woman overcaptain said, “Report to Lady Secca.”
“Lady Secca, there are two forces of Sea-Priests. There are at least fifteen companies in each force. One is riding from the southeast and the other from the southwest. They are about three deks away.”
“Over each of the bridges from Aroch,” Secca said, not quite asking.
“Yes, lady.”
“We can ride up the hill to the west, lady,” offered Delcetta. “That will give us some advantage. The south side of the crest is mostly clear.”
Secca glanced to her right, noting that the hillcrest rose less than twenty yards above the road. On the left, the meadows and the unleafed orchard actually sloped downward from the road, if gently.
“That’s the best we can do,” she finally acknowledged. “Order it.” Her eyes went to Palian and Delvor, who had eased their mounts closer by circling beyond the shoulder of the road. “We’ll be setting up on the top of the hill, on the south side. We’ll have less than a half glass, if the scouts are correct.”
“We will quick-tune and be ready,” Palian promised.
Following the column, Secca turned So
ngfire to her right and urged the raider mare up the hill. Alcaren and Jolyn rode on each side of her, and the two younger sorceresses and Valya followed.
Alcaren eased his gelding almost shoulder to shoulder with Songfire. “I will do it. You must lead in the terrible spells tomorrow.”
“You cannot. You have not recovered from holding the wards so long. There are more than thirty companies coming.”
“Then, at least let us do it together,” he replied. “If I can spare you some of the effort, it will make what you do on the morrow more effective.”
“I can help,” Jolyn offered.
Secca turned in the saddle and took in the older sorceress’s still-tired visage and the dark circles around her eyes before responding. “If we need a second spell, you can support me. Alcaren will support me for the first.”
Jolyn nodded.
When Secca reached the southern side of the crest of the hill, already most of the lancers were forming in an arc by companies. Kinor’s companies were on the left flank—to the east—while Tiersen’s were on the right—beside a company of SouthWomen. Secca turned Songfire and glanced out to the south. Were there white tunics in the woods to the south beyond the large and yet-leafless orchard? She could see none, but felt that they were there and nearing quickly.
Since there was little else she could do except ready herself to sing, Secca dismounted. She looked around, half-expecting Valya to take Songfire’s reins, but the Rider heir had stationed herself to the right of Richina and Anandra, effectively acting as another guard for the younger sorceresses. With a smile, Secca handed Songfire’s reins to Easlon and stepped forward into the center of the arc formed by the first players. Alcaren also handed the reins to his gelding to Easlon and followed Secca.
“Quick-tune! Now, Bretnay!” snapped Palian.
The true tone issued forth from the violino of Kylara—the lead violinist after Palian herself. Secca found herself standing on one foot and then the other as the players tuned. Her eyes flicked to check the slope below and beyond the bare-limbed trees of the orchard, as well as to the road to the left of the orchard.
“Warm-up tune. One time through, at my mark. Mark!” announced Palian.
As the players reached the midpoint of the warm-up tune, Secca saw a rider in white burst out of the forest and began riding uphill through the wider lanes between the trees of the orchard. Others followed.
“Sturinnese below!” called Wilten.
As Secca turned to the chief player to signal that they needed to begin the spellsong, the sorceress heard a low rumbling, like thunder. She swallowed as she recognized the sound of the Sturinnese drummers. So close were they from where she had last scried them that they must have quick-trotted all the way from the bridges—or even galloped some of the way.
She wanted to shake her head, but instead just signaled to Palian.
“The players stand ready, Lady Secca,” Palian announced.
“On your mark,” Secca replied, raising her hand, and then lowering it.
“At my mark,” ordered Palian, “the third building song. Mark!”
Secca followed the beat, strong and even, and joined in at the first note of the third bar, gratified that Alcaren’s baritone came in exactly with her, and not trailing.
“Clouds to form and winds to rise
like a caldron in darkening skies…”
Although she concentrated on the melody and the spellsong, Secca could not help but sense the waves of horsemen in white who had appeared at the base of the hill and had already begun to race up through the apple trees to close the last dek between them and Secca’s forces. She could also sense the heaviness and the interference of the drums, and had to force herself to keep up the tempo as she and Alcaren began the second stanza.
“Clouds to boil and storms to bubble…”
Before they could complete the second stanza, the rumbling roar of yet another fireball grew, and then a rush of hot air whipped around the hillcrest as the firebolt whipped overhead, clearing the lancers by less than twenty yards, and plunging into the meadow beside the road less than a half a dek to the southeast.
Despite the hot wind that pushed and pulled at them, Secca concentrated on the storm spell and on the images of the storm funnels sweeping across the front and sides of the hills, as close as she dared bring the storms.
Her forehead was pouring sweat by the time the last note faded, and once the discipline of the spellsong dropped away, she found herself breathing hard, with her head throbbing and daystars flashing before her eyes, but not with great intensity or frequency. The drumming rose in intensity, and another rumbling and rushing roar was building somewhere behind them.
Secca could only hope that Richina and Anandra could hold the wards yet again.
“Third company! To the fore!” At the command, a score of lancers in SouthWomen crimson rode out in front of the players.
At a muffled sound from beside her, Secca half-turned in time to see Alcaren sway, and then start to pitch forward as his knees buckled. She jumped toward him, but only managed to grab his tunic. That was enough to swing his limp figure enough so that he landed in the damp winter-tan grass gently on his side, rather than pitching forward and landing far harder on his face.
The skies darkened, turning the sickly dark grayish green that Secca hated, and the winds rose. Then, for a moment, there was an instant of silence, and the firebolt plowed into the hillside less than fifty yards in front of Kinor’s forces on the left flank. Fragments of trees flew like spears and quarrels.
Secca shivered as four or five men and mounts in the forwardmost line went down. She hoped Kinor had been farther back.
The roaring of a funnel cloud sweeping through the orchard below followed the explosion of the firebolt. The yells of men and the screams of mounts rose with the wind and the darkness that swept before Secca, pulling and tugging at her.
She went to her knees with the force of the wind, barely avoiding her unconscious consort. She rolled Alcaren on his back, then staggered erect and ran toward Easlon and Songfire. She took the mare’s reins and scrambled up into the saddle, ignoring the daystars as well as she could.
The roaring of the winds was stronger than before, even as the funnel clouds swept away from the hillcrest, but the spell should have been that strong with the support of two voices.
A glance downhill showed Secca that at least a score or two of the Sturinnese had escaped the funnel and had been met by the SouthWomen and part of the gold company of Loiseau. There were also gaps in the defenders’ line, gaps that had been there before the attackers had reached them, Secca feared.
“To the sorceress! The sorceress!” With the yell from massed voices, a wedge of white-clad lancers burst out of the low brush and trees to the west, spurring their mounts toward the slight gap between the SouthWomen and Tiersen’s lancers, clearly sprinting their mounts toward Secca and players.
“To the right, charge!”
“Left, charge!”
At the command, Delcetta’s companies wheeled and met the charge, as did Tiersen’s lancers, but the angle and the ferocity of the charge allowed three of the Sturinnese lancers to break through the gap, leaving two or three bodies in their wake. Secca turned Songfire and unsheathed her sabre.
From Secca’s right, Valya charged the Sea-Priests. Behind her were Richina and four of the lancers acting as Secca’s guards.
The first lancer went down under Valya’s shortswords, and a second doubled over his mount’s neck with a thrown blade through his chest.
When the melee cleared, moments later, the last Sturinnese lancer was dead. From what Secca could see, neither Valya nor Richina appeared injured. Nor did Gorkon or the other guards appear wounded.
Secca turned Songfire, her sabre still at the ready, but all she could see were her own players and lancers—and a wall of black rain that was advancing up the hill in waves.
“Case your instruments! Case your instruments!” Both Delvor and Palian we
re shouting the command.
Amid the still-roaring and -rushing winds that had faded somewhat as they swept southward, Secca turned Songfire back toward Alcaren. Jolyn had helped him into a sitting position. He was drinking from a water bottle, if pale as winter ice. Beside him, on the ground, was Anandra, equally pale and drawn.
At least a score of lancers and mounts in blue and crimson and in green lay across the area just below the hillcrest, and those Secca could see all too well, even through the intermittent daystar flashes. Mixed with the Defalkan and Ranuan dead were the bodies of more than a score of Sturinnese lancers.
Secca turned away, slightly. Her head ached, and her eyes burned, as much from frustration and anger as from exhaustion.
Delcetta walked her mount toward Secca. Secca turned in the saddle and waited.
“You have destroyed yet another army, Lady Sorceress.”
“This time we lost more,” Secca said.
“A company’s worth of SouthWomen and almost as many of yours. Close to half a company each from your lords, I would judge.”
Secca nodded slowly. And we still have not reached Aroch…or the Maitre.
134
Aroch, Defalk
The Maitre is seated behind a wide desk of cherry that appears warm in the light from the lamps and the hearth. His eyes, unlike the wood of the desk, glitter like the ice of Pelara lit by the heatless sun of midwinter. His words are even colder as he beholds the two lancer officers in white who stand before the desk.
“You are telling me that you fear your lancers will not obey? Lancers of Sturinn?”
“I do not fear that they will not obey. I am telling you that they will not make another fruitless suicide attack,” replies Marshal jerLeng. “That is exactly what I am telling you.”
Standing behind the Maitre’s shoulder, jerClayne shakes his head, as if to warn the marshal against his words.
“We have lost more than fifty companies in less than a week, thirty of them this very afternoon. Every lancer and every officer out there knows that. They also know that no lancer has survived in going against the Sorceress Protector.” JerLeng smiles grimly. “My officers are not stupid, Maitre. You can do no worse to them than can the sorceress, and perhaps not so much as she has done. They will not attack again until you attack with sorcery.”
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