Begone! I banish you in the name of the Light! He seemed to hear his own voice echoing through the etheric like a tidal wave of sound. The image froze, then shattered, bursting into a thousand slivers like a glass bowl dropped from high onto a stone floor. He heard the priestess’ answering scream of pure terror, looked down to see her swaying in the saddle, lowering her arms as she screamed again and again.
She nearly fell, but clutched at the mule’s mane just in time to right herself. The child leading the mule nearly tumbled off as the pony reared in terror. The army paused in the road, their auras shrinking, turning greenish-gray, billowing again blood-red. The shards of the image were scattering, melting, falling in the etheric like transparent rain.
Another sound drifted up to Salamander: the shouts and war cries of the waiting Deverry and Westfolk men, the pounding of hooves on the road as the Horsekin charged. Salamander realized that he was utterly drained. He turned and followed the silver cord back to his body waiting on the walls of the temple compound. He hovered over the slumped form, then sank down, heard a rushy click, and felt sudden pain. He was back, aching in every muscle, panting as if he’d run a long, long way.
"I’d hardly call a bruise a wound, Your Highness!” Gerran said.
"I would when it’s that serious a bruise,” Prince Daralanteriel said. “Clae tells me it bled a fair amount.”
Gerran scowled at the page, who was studying the ground at his feet. “The skin just split or suchlike,” Gerran said. “It’s not like a proper cut.”
“Well, Ridvar brought a chirurgeon with him. After this scrap you’re going to have him look at it.” Dar leaned over his horse’s neck to speak to the lad. “Clae, my thanks. You’ve done your master a service today. Now get back into the temple compound where you’ll be safe.”
Clae bowed and ran back uphill to disappear into the gates.
“No taking it out on the lad later,” Dar said.
“I’d not stoop to such a thing, Your Highness,” Gerran said, “but truly, I’m—”
“Truly, you’re staying back here with me as part of my escort. Here comes Calonderiel.”
Faced with a direct order, Gerran could do nothing but obey. They were both mounted, waiting to ride down closer to the battlefield. On a golden gelding, his hunting bow slung across his back, Calonderiel trotted up to join them. He held his reins in one hand and, in the other, a silver horn.
“The archers are in position,” Cal said. “Here, Gerran, your silver dagger told me you’d been wounded and shouldn’t fight.”
“Not wounded,” Gerran snapped. “Merely bruised.”
“But not fit to lift a shield,” Dar said firmly. “He’s staying with me.”
“Good,” Cal said. “Here, if the Horsekin break through our lines, you’ll both be fighting anyway.”
With a wave of the silver horn, Calonderiel turned his horse and trotted back downhill to rejoin his men.
The two princes and the gwerbret had disposed their men, all mounted, across the road and the field beside it in a typical Deverry formation. Massed at the center of a crescent-shaped line were the best swordsmen from every warband, armed with javelins as well as their blades. The rest of the riders spread out to either side. At both of the splayed ends of the crescent rode mounted archers. Up on the flanks of the hill a small squad of unhorsed longbowmen stood on either side of the gates, in readiness to guard a retreat into the temple compound should one prove necessary. The two princes, the gwerbret, and a small escort sat on horseback about halfway up the temple hill and several hundred yards away from the actual battle lines.
The plume of dust announcing the Horsekin army was coming closer, a little faster, then abruptly paused. Daralanteriel rose in his stirrups to survey it, then sat back with a pleased little grunt.
“We outnumber the hairy bastards,” Dar said. “And somewhat seems to be troubling them as well.”
“Not troubled enough, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “Here they come.”
To the sound of brass horns, the oncoming Horsekin charged down the road in a sprawling, disorganized formation. Deverry javelins and Westfolk arrows arched into the air, fell whistling among them. Riders screamed, horses reared, neighing, pawing the air, then fell. Horsekin pitched over their mounts’ necks and tumbled to die among the dying horses as the arrows came again and again, a deadly slither through the air.
Gerran had never before witnessed a battle from the viewpoint of the commanders. From this distance, he felt detached enough from the rage-frenzy of fighting to feel as if he’d never seen a battle at all. The glory had evaporated like summer mist on hot stone. Watching men die while he faced no risk himself sickened him. Yet he couldn’t turn away, transfixed as if by a javelin at the sight.
The sound of Calonderiel’s horn floated over the shrieks and the battle cries. The archers fell back. The remaining Horsekin desperately tried to form some sort of line, but the mounted swordsmen charged, bursting in a thunder of hoofs and war cries into the midst of the enemy. Swords flashed, the dust rose high, and the battle became nothing more than slaughter. Two and three at a time the Deverry men and Westfolk mobbed the raiders and cut them down like cattle. A few Horsekin managed to pull out of the mob and try to flee. Westfolk arrows killed them before they’d gone twenty yards.
Gerran glanced around and saw Voran and Ridvar sitting as calmly on their mounts as if they were at table, their faces utterly expressionless. Prince Daralanteriel, however, looked sick at heart. When he noticed Gerran watching him, he shrugged.
“It’s daft,” Dar said, “all of this, them and their cursed goddess. She doesn’t exist, and yet they’re dying for her sake.”
“True spoken,” Gerran said. “Daft is a good word for it, Your Highness. The cursed thing is, some of our men are dying because of it, too.”
Slowly the mob thinned as more and more Deverry men pulled back. Slowly the shouting and the screams died away. In a vast litter, spread across the road and meadow, the dying men and their dying horses lay on blood-soaked ground. Other horses, some wounded, some merely terrified, stood quivering in the midst of the carnage or wandered back and forth at the edge, as if they were trying to understand what had happened.
Yelling orders, Calonderiel and the two Deverry captains rode forward. The Westfolk began to round up the living horses. Most of the Deverry men dismounted and began to search for wounded men. They slit the throats of any Horsekin still alive. The Deverry and Westfolk casualties, what few there were, they carried up the hill to the temple compound where Ridvar’s chirurgeons waited. Most of the men were looting as they worked, but Gerran’s silver dagger found a greater prize than a few foreign coins or bits of jewelry.
Nicedd rode up leading a white mule and its rider—a woman, Gerran realized, dressed in a long leather tunic bunched up over a pair of leather leggings. The painted bow and arrow emblem of Alshandra the Huntress decorated the front of the tunic. She rode slumped over, her hands clutching the pommel of her saddle.
“Is she wounded?” Dar said.
“I don’t know, Your Highness,” Nicedd said. “I don’t speak a word of her ugly language. I saw her just sitting there at the edge of the field, and when I rode up, she didn’t even try to get away.”
The woman raised her head and looked at them, a young woman, barely more than a lass, with dark eyes under angled, bushy brows. Across her face lay blue-and-green tattoos. Daralanteriel urged his horse up close to hers so he could face her.
“Are you hurt?” he said. “Bleeding? Hurt?”
She seemed to be about to speak, then suddenly lurched forward over the mule’s neck and snatched the dagger from Daralanteriel’s belt. Gerran shouted and spurred his horse forward, thinking she was going to attack the prince, but she turned the dagger to her own throat. Dar grabbed at her arm, but before he could stop her, she plunged the blade hard into the big vein at one side of her neck. The wound spurted and whistled—she’d cut into her windpipe, too. Without a cry or moan sh
e fell forward, her eyes turning skyward, and rolled over the neck of her mount. The mule began to bray, then panicked, rearing and kicking.
Gerran dismounted fast, but by the time Nicedd managed to get the blood-streaked mule under control, the lass was dead.
“Daft,” Gerran whispered. “Ah, horseshit and a pile of it!”
Gerran took the prince’s dagger from her flaccid fingers. The hilt sported carved roses, blooming red now with her blood. Gerran wiped the blade off on the side of his brigga, then handed the prince the dagger. He mounted up again just as Salamander came riding out of the temple compound. When the gerthddyn joined the clot of men around Prince Dar, Gerran noticed that his face had gone pale with exhaustion, and under his eyes livid bruises throbbed.
“Ye gods!” Gerran said. “Are you wounded?”
“Merely tired.” Salamander’s voice rasped in his throat. “I’ve been fighting after my own fashion.” He leaned forward in the saddle and stared at the dead woman lying on the ground. “Ye gods, who killed the priestess?”
“Is that what she was? She slit her own throat.”
“Ai! There was a child with her.”
“The little lass?” Nicedd urged his horse up to them. “She was dead, slain by an arrow, when I got there, and her little pony, too.” He shook his head hard. “It ached my heart, a lass that young! Why would they bring a child to a battle?”
“They expected an easy victory, the bastard-born scum,” Gerran said.
“It’s more than that.” Salamander’s voice rasped again. “They thought their goddess would protect them.”
“Well, she didn’t,” Nicedd said. Suddenly he laughed, the choked laugh of a man who’s refusing to weep. “The arse-ugly demon-get fools!”
All afternoon the work continued on the field of battle. The Deverry men dug a trench and slung the dead Horsekin into it, but they put the priestess and the little lass into a proper grave some ways apart. The Westfolk tended what wounded horses they judged they could save and put the rest out of their misery. After they scavenged the horse gear, they left the dead mounts for the ravens and foxes. While the men worked, the commanders held a council back in the temple compound. When they met for dinner at Gerran’s tent, Gerran told Salamander, his page, and his silver dagger about their decisions.
“As far as we know, none of the Horsekin escaped to get back to the contingent holding the siege,” Gerran said. “Which means no one’s going to tell them the evil news. It’s close to twenty miles from here to the dun, so the besiegers won’t be expecting their men to ride back tonight.”
“Good,” Nicedd said. “Then we’ve got a chance to fall on them before they realize who we are.”
“Just that. Voran’s going to mount some of his men on the horses we saved, put them at the head of the line of march, just to fool them for a little while longer.” Gerran glanced at Salamander, who was staring slack-mouthed into the distance. “Are you well?”
“Um?” Salamander forced out a grin. “In perfect health, my thanks, just making sure that indeed, no Horsekin are riding from here to Honelg’s old dun.” He took a bite of flatbread and spoke with his mouth full. “They’re not.”
Nicedd made the sign of warding against witchcraft with his left hand.
“If naught else,” Gerran went on, “we can drive them off and rescue their prisoners. They’ve doubtless rounded up the farm women around here for slaves.”
“Doubtless,” Salamander said. “The fate of one woman in particular aches my heart. She and her man used to hold the farm just north of here. She was captured by the cursed Horsekin once, then rescued, and now they’ve probably got her again.”
“Well, if the gods are willing, we’ll rescue her again,” Gerran said. “Here, Nicedd, when you were helping bury the dead, did you see any of those Boarsmen you spoke of?”
“I did, my lord, and I meant to tell you, too.” Nicedd paused to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. “Three of them, and I know they were Boars because they had their blasted pig tattooed right here.” He pointed to his right cheek. “Must have hurt, that. And speaking of hurt, my lord, how’s the shoulder?”
“It’s just a bruise.” Gerran spoke through gritted teeth.
“In a most vulnerable spot.” Salamander waved a piece of cheese in his direction. “Do you truly want to fight without a shield?”
Gerran bit into his flatbread.
“Ignore me all you want.” Salamander was grinning at him. “But Dar told me to ensure that you went to one of the chirurgeons tonight. So hurry up and eat.”
The chirurgeons had set up their gear and supplies on the tail-gates of several wagons in front of the temple. By lantern light a stick-thin fellow that Gerran recognized from Dun Cengarn examined his bruised shoulder. Raddyn grunted to himself, then shrugged and poked at the bruise with a finger.
“That hurt?” he asked.
“A bit,” Gerran said through gritted teeth.
“No doubt. It doesn’t look good, but it’s too shallow for me to stitch. Wear your padding tonight when you try to sleep. If it’s still bad on the morrow, come to me in the daylight when I can see better.”
“I’ll do that, and my thanks for the advice on the padding. I wish I’d thought of that last night.”
With Salamander’s help, Gerran put his shirt back on. They left the chirurgeon to tend to the badly wounded and walked back through the camp.
“Told you it was just a bruise,” Gerran said.
“That is not precisely what the fellow apprised you of, not that I have much faith in him,” Salamander said. “I’ll wager Prince Dar keeps you out of the fight on the morrow, too.”
After another near-sleepless night, Gerran woke early. When he stood up, the shoulder ached, but even more, it itched. He reached over the shoulder with his good arm and got his hand under his shirt and padding, but his fingers couldn’t quite reach the bruise. The entire area felt hot to the touch. He managed to scratch around the edges, although he cursed himself for doing so as soon as he took his hand away. Dried blood caked under his fingernails, and fresh blood stained his fingertips, streaking his dirty hands. Worst of all, the itch resumed, twice as strong. I’m as bad as that blasted dragon, he thought. I’d best leave it alone.
Much to Gerran’s annoyance, Salamander proved right about the prince’s orders. When the army broke camp, Daralanteriel put Gerran in charge of the baggage train. Along with the provision carts, Gerran would command the servants, the wounded, and an escort of fifteen swordsmen and five archers. Gerran disposed the escort along the line, then took up his position just in front of the first wagon with his page and his silver dagger. When the main body rode out, the baggage train creaked along behind them. After a mile or so, the fighting men ahead had ridden out of sight.
“It won’t be so dusty now,” Clae announced. “That’ll make the ride better, won’t it, my lord?”
Gerran didn’t bother replying.
“Is somewhat wrong, my lord?” Clae said.
“He’s sulking, lad,” Nicedd said with a grin. “Well, begging your pardon and all, my lord.”
Gerran thought of a few choice insults, then decided that it was beneath his dignity to voice them.
Here and there stood coppices or a straggle of second-growth woodland, but mostly the road ran through fields of sprouting winter wheat and meadows fenced with stone walls, although they passed not a single cow or sheep. No doubt the Horsekin had taken the lot. Since no one remained to harvest the grain, the local deer would have a good spring feed. In a couple of miles, Gerran’s slow procession passed the burnt ruins of a farmhouse and barn. A man with pale hair was searching through them, poking here and there with a long stick into the blackened wood and ashes, while his roan horse waited, tied up to a nearby sapling.
“Salamander!” Gerran yelled. “What in all the hells are you doing?”
Salamander tossed the stick away and started for his horse. Gerran halted the baggage train while the gerthddyn mounted up
and trotted over.
“Looking for someone,” Salamander said, “to see if he needed burying. He’s been pretty much burnt, though, and a lad died with him. All I found were scorched bones.”
“That’s a sad thing, then. Friend of yours?”
“Not truly. He’s the husband of that woman I told you about, the one who was taken by the Horsekin once before. Seeing if he needed burying just seemed a decent thing to do.” Salamander sighed and looked away, his face pale, his eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight. “What’s going to be interesting, Gerran my lad, is the fate of the other farms and the village along the way. The folk there all worshiped Alshandra.”
“Interesting, indeed. Let’s go.”
The next farm they passed, some miles along, stood unburnt though deserted. Salamander rode over and searched it while the baggage train plodded on. He caught up with them again in a mile.
“Not a soul there,” he said. “Either they took their livestock and fled to the woods, or they’ve gone along with the Horsekin army.”
“As slaves?” Gerran said.
“Or as compatriots.”
“Huh. If so, they’ve got a surprise coming their way.”
“And a very unpleasant one, at that.”
The village Salamander had mentioned turned out to be a straggle of houses roughly arranged around a well. Silence lay upon it like fog—not so much as the bark of a dog or the cluck of a chicken greeted them when the baggage train pulled up in the road beside the village. Salamander dismounted and walked over to the well. When he called out a greeting, only silence answered him. He strode over to the nearest house and peered in, then turned away with a shrug.
“It’s been stripped,” Salamander called out. “No furniture, naught.”
“You’d best get back here,” Gerran called back. “We need to get moving.”
Salamander trotted back and mounted up, urging his horse up close to Gerran’s.
“Stranger and stranger,” Salamander said. “These were the people whom the ill-fated Lord Oth saved from being drawn and hanged last summer, the Alshandra worshipers among the servants in the dun. So I’d wager they went along willingly.”
The Shadow Isle Page 30