Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  Yaella could still hear men shouting from within the castle. Dark smoke billowed into the night sky, reflecting the light of torches and ward fires and the flames of battle. She heard the clang of steel above her. Soldiers were fighting on the castle walls; the siege wasn’t over yet.

  She found Rouel just inside the gate, his face begrimed with soot and dirt and sweat. He had a cut on his shoulder and another on his thigh, but otherwise he appeared unhurt.

  “You sent for me, my lord?” Yaella asked, stopping in front of him.

  “How are the wounded?”

  She shrugged, swallowing. “Some are better than others, my lord.”

  “Are there many of them?”

  “Yes.”

  The duke took a breath, glancing over his shoulder at the sound of voices from the far side of the ward.

  “How goes the fighting, my lord?”

  He faced her again, nodding and baring his teeth in what she took for a grin. “Kentigern’s men are putting up a battle. They know the lay of the castle better than we, so it may take some time before we prevail. But we’re in, thanks to you and your friend. They’ll be hard-pressed to push us back out.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I sent for you because the smoke from these fires is drifting to the north and east, right toward Aindreas and his men.”

  She glanced up into the darkness. He was right.

  “Can you make a wind that will drive it back toward Mertesse, or out to sea? Anywhere else will do.”

  She nearly laughed aloud. Had she not been bone-weary, had she not poured so much of herself into the mist that concealed their advance, she still would have been incapable of summoning such a wind. She was a lone Qirsi, she wasn’t Morna.

  “No, my lord. My power doesn’t go that deep. I’m sorry.”

  He frowned, raising his eyes to the sky. “Aindreas will see that smoke, and he’ll know what’s happened.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “We were wise to wait an extra day.”

  “Yes.” But abruptly her mind was elsewhere. The prevailing wind in Kentigern, as in Mertesse, blew inland from Amon’s Ocean. The smoke should have been drifting toward the fen and the Caerissan Steppe, not toward Heneagh. It almost seemed that someone or something wanted Aindreas to know. Perhaps this was Morna’s doing. Or the Weaver’s. For his powers did go this deep, and no one wanted war between Eibithar and Aneira more than he.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  North edge of Kentigern Wood, Eibithar

  Almost from the moment Aindreas led his men from Kentigern, nothing went as he had hoped. Just after the ringing of the midday bells on that first day, as Villyd finished readying the men to march, the skies appeared to brighten, despite the rain that still fell on the castle. The duke convinced himself that the weather would break before they left, or at least by dusk. It didn’t. If anything, the rain began to fall harder just as he led the army from the castle gates down into the city.

  He had decreed that all Kentigern’s people should be out in the streets to see the army off, and, of course, no one in Kentigern dared to defy him. But they had to wait some time for the army to emerge from the castle and wind down the steep road from the castle, all the time standing in that cold, driving rain. By the time Aindreas and his soldiers reached the first of them, Kentigern’s people were soaked, and their cheers sounded hollow and forced. Nor was Aindreas the only one to notice this. Rather than drawing strength from the throng that filled the lanes, the army appeared to grow grim, almost angry, as if they resented being forced to march to war under such conditions.

  Once they were out of the city, on the broad road leading toward Kentigern Wood, Aindreas began to push them harder. What else could he do? They had to reach the Heneagh before Hagan and the men from Curgh. But on the wide plain that lay between the city and wood, he could see that the sky looked grey and dark in every direction. The road had been turned to little more than a strip of reddish brown mud that was so thick in places as to be almost impassible. He allowed his soldiers to break formation and take to the high grasses rather than have them tramp through that muck.

  The wagon horses, however, had no choice but to stay on the road. Their carts sinking deep into the mud, the horse teams strained to pull them forward, snorting loudly, their great muscles quivering. Two of the carts threw wheels and had to be fixed in the waning light of day. None of the provisions spilled when the wagons failed, but that was the only good fortune they enjoyed that day. It was almost dark before they even entered the shelter of the wood.

  If Aindreas entertained any hope at all of being able to rest that first night, it died on the road. They had so far to go, and they had covered so little ground. There was no moonlight, of course. They had to march by the glow of their torches, but march they did. The rain still fell, but the trees blocked most of it. Still, even if they weren’t getting any wetter, the air was too heavy for them to dry off. Aindreas tried to tell himself that his men were better off than he was. At least while walking, they would keep warm. He was cold and miserable atop his mount, so much so that he finally dismounted and began to lead the beast on foot. A moment later he heard Shurik do the same.

  The duke glanced back at his minister and gave a small smile, which the Qirsi returned, though it vanished almost immediately. Looking beyond Shurik, Aindreas frowned at what he saw on the faces of his men. He didn’t expect them to look happy. He was no fool. But they didn’t even look angry or resentful. Their expressions were utterly devoid of expression, as if they cared nothing for their cause, or their duke. None of them spoke. The only sounds in the wood were the trudging of a thousand pairs of feet, the occasional nicker of a horse, and the incessant drip of rain on the leaves above them.

  “Do you know any war songs, Shurik?”

  The minister looked at the duke as if he had just asked the man to fly. “No, my lord. None.”

  “We need a war song. These men look like they’re marching home from a rout, rather than to a great battle.”

  He searched his memory; his father sang them all the time when Aindreas was young. In truth, the duke hated them. But that was beside the point.

  We walk with the goddess to glory and song,

  Our steel it is gleaming, our quivers are filled;

  Our loves lie behind us, the journey is long,

  But there’s battles to win, and there’s legends to build.

  It was called “Orlagh’s March,” for the goddess of war. It was one of his father’s favorites, and one of the few war songs Aindreas had ever really liked. The duke glanced back once more. A number of his men had looked up from the ground to stare at him, several of them smiling. When he began to sing again, his wasn’t the only voice to rise above the rain.

  Through forest and hillside, o’er rivers and field,

  By the warm sun of day or the lovers’ bright glow;

  We’ve faith in the goddess, she lends us her shield,

  And the steel of her blade, strikes bold at our foe;

  We fight for our kingdom, not silver or gold,

  And we’ll give up our lives to save land and king;

  We fear not Bian and his realm dark and cold,

  For Orlagh walks with us, of her glory we sing.

  By the time they reached the last verse, the wood rang with their voices. And when the song was done, his soldiers cheered so loudly he was certain they could be heard in Braedon. In spite of all that had gone wrong that day, Aindreas couldn’t help but smile.

  “That was well done, my lord,” Shurik said quietly, walking beside him now.

  “It was nothing,” he said. “I shouldn’t have had to do it at all. It’s the damn rain.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The man paused, but only for an instant. “Will we be stopping soon, my lord?”

  Aindreas looked at the Qirsi. He looked wan and tired, as if he had been taxed well beyond endurance. It was hard to believe that such awesome magic could exist in bodies so pale and slight
and weak.

  “No,” he said. “Not soon. We lost a good deal of time between the city and the wood. If you’re weary, I suggest you ride the rest of the night. Let your mount do the work.”

  The minister made a halfhearted attempt at a smile. “Yes, my lord. Perhaps I will.”

  Shurik might have been suffering, but the rest of the men seemed to have been revived by their singing. The rest of the night passed quickly. The rain didn’t stop, and they walked for hours more, but at least the men were talking and laughing again, as warriors should.

  They rested only a short while in the last hours before dawn, long enough for a small meal and perhaps a quick nap on the damp ground. When the wood began to brighten with the first grey strands of daylight, they resumed their march.

  It wasn’t until late in the morning that the rain finally slackened. Still, the cloud cover did not break, and as the day dragged on, Aindreas realized they would have to do without the moons again that night. If they were to march past sunset they would need light, and he didn’t want to use all their oil for torches. The first minister looked somewhat better this day than he had the night before, but as they continued on through the wood, taking only the briefest of rests, he appeared to wilt in his saddle. Aindreas was reluctant to ask him to expend any more power than was necessary. Once more, however, the weather left the duke with few options.

  He slowed his mount to ride beside the Qirsi. “When night falls, First Minister, I’ll need you to illuminate the wood for us. We can’t afford to burn torches for another night.”

  Shurik looked at him. “Of course, my lord. I’ll do what I can.”

  The duke heard nothing unusual in the man’s tone. But for the merest instant before Shurik spoke, Aindreas thought he saw a look of utter contempt and malice flash across the man’s pale features. A trick of the light, no doubt, an illusion born of the grey shadows of the wood. He was weary himself, as they all were. Yet Aindreas couldn’t help but stare at the man, as though waiting for the expression to return.

  “Is there anything else, my lord?”

  “No,” the duke said, shaking his head. “We’ll be grateful for whatever light you can provide. When you tire, we’ll stop for the night.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Aindreas clicked his tongue at his mount, riding ahead of the Qirsi again, and telling himself that he had imagined it.

  When night finally crept through the wood, Shurik raised his dagger and drew forth a bright golden flame that balanced on the blade and shone like a beacon among the trees. The men walking at the back of Kentigern’s column still had to light torches, but only half the number that the army had used the previous night.

  It wasn’t long before the first minister’s face shone with sweat and the hand holding the flame began to tremble. After a time he switched hands, the way a servant in the kitchens might move a plate of food from one palm to the other. But his weariness grew more apparent by the moment.

  Once more the duke steered his horse to the minister’s side.

  “Do you need to stop, First Minister?”

  “Not yet, my lord. But soon.”

  Aindreas heard the strain in the man’s voice and he didn’t expect the minister to last more than another few minutes. In the end, though, they managed to cover over half a league more before Shurik finally let his flame die out.

  The duke would have liked to keep going, but he knew that his men needed rest. He did, too. If he pushed himself or his army much further, they would be in no condition to fight even if they did beat Curgh’s men to the river. They still hadn’t covered as many leagues as he had hoped they would by the second night. But they had managed to make up some of the time they had lost the day before.

  The following morning dawned grey and cool. The rain didn’t return, but the clouds showed no sign of breaking up. Standing in a small clearing in the wood, staring up at a patch of leaden sky, Aindreas let loose with a string of curses. After all he’d been through, why wouldn’t the gods be with him in this war? He deserved better than this.

  He had the army moving again within an hour of dawn. Even with the time they’d lost, he felt certain that they could reach the north edge of Kentigern Wood before they slept again, and he told Villyd to have the soldiers maintain as fast a pace as the swordmaster thought they could endure. The first minister looked better than he had since before they left the castle. A night’s rest had done him some good. Perhaps the Qirsi could provide light again that night, if they needed it.

  As it turned out, they didn’t, but for all the wrong reasons. As the duke had hoped, they managed to reach the end of the wood just as the last silver light of day was starting to fail. But from within the shelter of the trees, they could see the Curgh army making camp on the open plain that lay before them. They had already crossed the river and had put enough distance between themselves and its banks to have the advantage in any fight on the plain. The army of Kentigern would be too close to the wood when the battle began to have any chance of flanking them. Aindreas could try to lure Javan’s men into the wood, where the fight would be on more equal terms, but Hagan wasn’t likely to cooperate. He’d bide his time, waiting for Aindreas to make the first assault.

  Their best hope lay in the woods. Shurik had said a few days before that in a battle among the trees, Kentigern’s army would have the advantage. Seeing the Curgh army before him, at least a thousand men strong, their helms and swords glittering in the dying light, Aindreas wasn’t so certain. But at least they would be on equal footing, which was more than he could say about the plain as the armies stood now.

  He briefly considered pulling his army back a league or so into the wood and lying in wait for the men of Curgh. Hagan’s scouts hadn’t seen them yet, and if they could surprise the Curgh army in the forest they certainly would have the upper hand.

  An instant later, however, that possibility vanished as well. Two scouts burst from the wood, one a short distance to the west of Kentigern’s men, the other an equal distance to the east. Both men were on horseback, riding their mounts at a full gallop. They shouted as they rode, and even from this distance, Aindreas could see men of Curgh turning to look toward the wood.

  “Archers!” Villyd shouted almost immediately.

  Several bowmen ran forward, their arrows already nocked.

  “Hold!” Aindreas called to them.

  The swordmaster looked at him. “But, my lord—”

  “It’s too late. Let them go.” He would have liked to kill the two scouts with his own hands. But Javan’s men were already fighting for their duke—actually their king, as they saw it. There was nothing to be gained by giving them two deaths to avenge as well. At that moment, he would have given his sword for a flask of wine.

  “They know we’re here,” Aindreas said, looking first at Villyd, then at Shurik. “What now?”

  The swordmaster cleared his throat. “They hold better ground than we do, my lord.”

  “Demons and fire, man! I can see that! I’m asking you what we should do about it.”

  “Talk to them,” Shurik said, his voice low. “Find out how confident they are. They hold the plain, but they don’t have their duke. We do. We also have MarCullet’s son. They may not want to fight us, in which case the advantage is still ours.”

  The duke nodded. A parley made a good deal of sense right now. “See to it,” he said.

  The Qirsi took one of the blue-and-silver banners carried by Aindreas’s soldiers and rode with it out onto the plain, his white hair flying loose behind him. He rode a good distance toward the Curgh army before reining his horse to a halt, dismounting, and driving the banner’s pole into the ground. Then he climbed back onto his mount and rode back toward the wood. Behind him the banner of Kentigern stirred in the light wind.

  Shurik returned to the duke’s side and together they watched for Curgh’s reply. It took several moments, but at last a lone rider rode out from the opposing camp carrying the gold and brown flag of C
urgh. The rider was Eandi, with light brown hair—it might very well have been Hagan himself. He stopped a short distance from the Kentigern banner and placed the Curgh flag in the ground as well, so that the two danced together in the breeze.

  The lynx and the bear. Not long ago, barely more than a single turn, the two houses had been on the verge of an alliance. Now they were readying for a parley of war.

  “Shurik, Villyd. I want the two of you with me. And four bowmen.” He would have felt safer with more, but four was customary.

  “Yes, my lord,” the swordmaster said. “Do you wish to ride forward now?”

  Aindreas shook his head. “Wait until they come out.”

  “They’ll be waiting for you, my lord,” Shurik said quietly. “You requested the parley.”

  They’re marching on my castle! he wanted to say. Doesn’t that count for anything? Instead, he just nodded. “All right. Then let’s get this over with.”

  Daylight was slipping away quickly, though it was brighter on the plain than it had been among the trees. To his credit, Hagan didn’t keep him waiting long. Before Aindreas and his company had reached the Kentigern banner, Curgh’s swordmaster was already riding forward to meet them, accompanied by the duchess, a thin, balding Qirsi whom Aindreas had never seen before, and four archers.

  “Your army looks small, Hagan,” Aindreas said as the swordmaster reined his horse. “You had hoped to topple my castle with so few men?”

  Hagan bristled, but said nothing.

  Rather it was the duchess who spoke. “You’ll address yourself to me, Aindreas. In Javan’s absence, this is my army and my banner.”