Crown of Vengeance

She didn’t think she’d done anything to tempt the Silver Hooves to punish her pride, but They could see into her heart, and oh, there had been a bottomless wellspring of hubris there. Child of the Prophecy. Amrethion’s Chosen. Uncrowned High King. She was being punished for every arrogant thought she’d ever had. Her meisne could not hold the enemy off until dark—each candlemark saw their losses multiply as exhausted warriors made fatal mistakes. They might survive another night in the open, but they would not be able to fight at the end of it. The Alliance could defeat her without even needing to engage: her komen would freeze to death.

Then—inexplicably—she caught the scent of smoke upon the air and heard the distant clamor of horns— retreat, retreat. The Alliance began to disengage.

She turned and looked: their camp was burning.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TO FLY BEFORE THE STORM

It is one thing to die for the High King’s cause, a second thing to know you died turning a Flower Forest to dust, and a third thing to know even that wasn’t enough.

—Iardalaith Warhuntsman,

Of the Beginning of War

“We didn’t do it,” Iardalaith said. “I wish we had. But … no.”

The exhausted army moved in sluggish retreat. Vieliessar didn’t know how long this respite would last, but they must use it while they could. A mile to the west, six thousand of the enemy—all wearing Caerthalien colors— sat motionless watching their flight, the only Alliance warriors still on the field. Someone panicked, Vieliessar thought with as much satisfaction as she could summon under the circumstances. She’d gathered her commanders to her and now rode with them on the tuathal side. This might be her only chance to give them orders and hear their reports. Too many who had gone into battle two days before were missing now. Gunedwaen, she hoped, was with some other element of her scattered troops, but she did not know.

“There’s more than one way to set something on fire,” Nadalforo pointed out, answering Iardalaith. “You can use a torch, for example. People do.”

“But why would they set fire to their own pavilions?” Prince Frochoriel asked, sounding dazed.

“They didn’t,” Nadalforo said. “At least, I’m willing to make that wild leap of imagination. The Alliance might not be outnumbered by Lord Vieliessar’s commonfolk, but it’s a near thing. And I’ll prophesy further and say none of those commonfolk wish to be returned to slavery.”

“You seem to be remarkably conversant with the mentality of farmers and Landbond,” Rithdeliel said irritably. His shield arm was bound against his side by pieces of his surcoat; the arm had been broken in the morning’s fighting, and there was neither time nor power to Heal it now.

“Yes,” Nadalforo answered blandly. “Aren’t I?”

“By whatever cause, their camp is burning. But it only buys us a little time,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Even their commanders quarreling among themselves won’t save us. There’s another storm coming. We can’t go on like this.”

“If you have any suggestions, I’ll be more than happy to entertain them,” Rithdeliel answered, exhausted exasperation shading into anger.

You won’t like it. Vieliessar bit back the words. Rithdeliel would like anything that promised a chance of victory. No komen wanted to die in battle as much as they wanted to live to fight the next one, and if Rithdeliel were taken alive, Bolecthindial would make an example of him. Rithdeliel had betrayed his sworn master, and it didn’t matter that Thoromarth had forgiven the treason. Bolecthindial would not.

“They want all of us,” she said, glancing around to include all the commanders with her and, by extension, the army. “But they want me most of all. If I make it look as if I’m abandoning you, they’ll think it’s more important to capture me than to continue fighting you. At least I can draw off enough of their force to give you a better chance.”

“You hope they want to capture you,” Rithdeliel said, without a ghost of irony.

“They do,” Vieliessar said with grim certainty. “You can’t torture a corpse.”

“At last you see reason,” Iardalaith said. “Of course they want to torture you to death. They’ll make a Festival Fair of it.”

Iardalaith’s observation gained him nothing more than a weary smirk from Rithdeliel. “You flee, they follow,” Rithdeliel said. “Well enough. Why don’t they slaughter all of us while they’re at it? It’s hardly as if they don’t have enough komen to do both.”

“They’re fighting among themselves. You know they are,” Vieliessar said. She could not believe the commander whose brilliant tactics had nearly destroyed her would have been such an idiot as to break off the battle when the Alliance was so close to victory just because there was a fire in camp. Inspiration became certainty as she spoke. “When the Alliance retreated, Caerthalien remained on the field. It looks like Caerthalien’s been directing the battle so far. I think their komen will follow me.”

“And that will set the fox among the doves,” Thoromarth said with grim satisfaction. “Who holds you prisoner holds all your lands as well.”

Nadalforo made a noise of pure exasperation. “Arilcarion War-Maker is long dead, fool! You know the rest of the Alliance won’t meekly hand the West to Caerthalien!”

“You know that and so do I,” Thoromarth said equitably. “And I promise you, it won’t stop Aramenthiali from turning on Caerthalien.”

“So if Caerthalien follows Vieliessar, Aramenthiali will follow Caerthalien?” Iardalaith asked, sounding faintly disbelieving.

“Of course,” Atholfol said, sounding surprised he was asking. “If they can fight free of Cirandeiron, of course.”

“Not that it matters,” Rithdeliel said. “They’ll easily overtake us.”

“No,” Iardalaith said, “they won’t. Leave that to the Warhunt.”

“Nor do you accompany us,” Vieliessar said to Rithdeliel. “I ride with Stonehorse and a grand-taille of the Warhunt, no more. It must appear to any who watch that you have abandoned me—or I you—in defeat.”

“Yes,” Rithdeliel said thoughtfully, nodding. “You ride south?”

“Where else, when I flee for my life?” Vieliessar said mockingly. “I shall lead them a merry chase through the southern wilderness, and we shall try the impregnability of Lord Nilkaran’s border towers.”

“Then your army rides north,” Rithdeliel answered decisively. “We’re only a half-day’s ride from Nilkaran’s manorial estates. We’ll loot them as we ride. We should reach the Great Keep no later than tomorrow’s sunset. It should be easy enough to take with Nilkaran’s army elsewhere. I hope you won’t object if, in your absence, we devote ourselves to slaughtering our enemies?”

“I’m having a hard time now remembering why I wanted to keep them alive,” Vieliessar answered sourly. She knew that for all Rithdeliel’s light words, taking Jaeglenhend Great Keep would be no easy task.

“The place may be Dispelled, but it’s still solid enough to invest while we parley for our lives.” Thoromarth sounded almost cheerful. “And if the army besieges us, we have a chance to get our possessions back. I lost a good pair of boots with that supply train.”

“Done,” Vieliessar said. It wasn’t the best possible plan, but it was the best one they could come up with under these circumstances.

“We’re still in sight of Caerthalien,” Nadalforo said. “My lord, I think this will make a better show if you ride forth with only a few knights and let Stonehorse chase after you.”

“Let it be so,” Vieliessar said.

“I go with you, and a grand-taille of the Warhunt,” Iardalaith said. “Be sure we’ll outrun them. This is the Magery we’ve been preparing all this day against the candlemark of your retreat. I shall set it upon us once we are away. Isilla and the rest will do the same for the army.”

“Then let us begin,” Rithdeliel said. “It is Harvest Moon, and I have been longing to see a good Festival play.”