brother through the second curtain and into an inner chamber, then dropped gratefully into a chair, holding out his hand for the cup of warmed and sweetened wine Ivrulion’s servant brought to him.
“You always did have a terrible temper when you weren’t winning,” Ivrulion commented, accepting his own cup and seating himself close by. “Go and kill some of the prisoners if it will make you feel better. We’ve won. You know we have. We won the moment you took her supply train. Once Vieliessar is dead, we will declare her followers wolfsheads and leave the Less Houses here to hunt them at their leisure.”
“You make it sound simple,” Runacarendalur muttered.
“I don’t know why you insist on it being difficult,” Ivrulion answered. “Your tactics worked. She’s finished.”
“I couldn’t have done it without your Wardings,” Runacarendalur said, his mood slowly beginning to lighten.
“And for that we have our enemy to thank,” Ivrulion answered. “If she had not taken her Lightborn onto the battlefield, I doubt I could have persuaded the War Princes to permit me to give orders to their Lightborn.”
Runacarendalur tossed back the rest of his wine and held out his cup for more. He frowned. “In just a handful of moonturns she’s turned the West into ghostlands. Do you suppose, ’Rulion, that she’s been what this so-called Prophecy was warning us about all along?”
Ivrulion chuckled softly. “We shall make a scholar of you yet, Rune. If it is not true, we shall certainly say it is.” He paused for a moment in thought. “Almost I could wish to take her alive. To know how she—”
“You cannot go in there!” From beyond the outer curtain, Runacarendalur heard the voice of Mardioruin Lightbrother, his brother’s personal Lightborn.
“I can and I will—if Prince Runacarendalur is there! My lord prince! Are you here?” Helecanth shouted.
Runacarendalur flung his cup to the carpet and sprang to his feet just as Helecanth pushed through the curtain. Her face was bruised from the recent fighting; her eyes sparkled with urgency. Behind her was Lengiathion Warlord.
Runacarendalur had left Lengiathion in charge of the Caerthalien knights on the field.
“What—” he said, but Lengiathion didn’t wait for him to ask.
“Lord Vieliessar has quarreled with her army. She flees south with a few hundred Lightborn and mercenaries. Her army—”
But Runacarendalur was no longer listening. “My armor!” he shouted. “Get me my armor!”
The chill soft wind whipped across Vieliessar’s face as Firthorn galloped, as fresh as if he had come scant moments before from the horselines. Behind her thundered her tiny army. Were they tempting enough to lure the hawk from the falconer’s glove? She must hope. If they were— If Rithdeliel could flee unopposed— If he could take Jaeglenhend Great Keep—
“Ah, here they come!” Nadalforo cried, raising her voice so Vieliessar could hear.
Vieliessar risked a look back. Caerthalien’s knights galloped in pursuit. They outnumbered Vieliessar’s meisne as much as ten to one, but her people had several miles head start. There was little chance they’d be overtaken. Jaeglenhend’s border was a half-day’s ride from where they’d been fighting, but they would probably reach it before sunset.
The day darkened as the afternoon storm clouds swept over the Mystrals. And for once in recent days, something went as she hoped. She heard the distant clarion of warhorns as more knights rode from the Alliance encampment to join the chase—not because more of them were needed to capture her, but because none of the War Princes wished her to fall prisoner to any other.
But she must survive. And so she must find another way.
Mile after mile fell away beneath the destriers’ tireless hooves. Their pursuers turned back, for the storm their Lightborn had conjured to finish destroying Vieliessar’s army had fallen upon them instead. Vieliessar and her escort simply outran it. Her body ached with the battering of sitting to the gallop for so long; she knew the others must be weary as well. Her mouth was dry and her throat ached with thirst; it had been two days—more—since she’d eaten anything or drunk more than a little melted snow.
Dusk deepened and the horses ran on, exhausted yet tireless.
“There!”
Nadalforo’s shout drew Vieliessar’s attention. So far eastward its shape was hidden in the tree line stood one of the border towers. She nodded, signifying she had heard, and the whole column began to turn in that direction. With luck, the tower stood deserted.
But Vieliessar’s luck seemed to have fled with the day. Nilkaran might have drawn heavily from the border keeps but he hadn’t stripped them entirely. They were within a mile of the tower when its main gate opened and six tailles of knights rode toward her, each carrying a torch. Vieliessar’s meisne outnumbered them, but Nilkaran’s people and their mounts were fresh.
Vieliessar drew her sword and shouted her battle cry. Then there was no more time for thought. The enemy flung their torches to the ground, making a circle of fire in which to fight, and battle was joined.
In its first moments, Vieliessar lost nearly a dozen people. Their bespelled destriers might have been able to run for another candlemark, even two, but they were unable to follow the complex orders that turned a destrier from a method of transport into a companion in battle. Some tried and fell helpless to the ground, their limbs thrashing spasmodically. Some refused, leaving their riders vulnerable to attack. Some simply swung wide of the Jaeglenhend knights and kept running. She herself might have been dead in the first seconds of the battle had she not seized control of Firthorn’s mind. She could feel his pain and terror, his utter exhaustion, and it broke her heart to do what she must, but the stakes were too high. Ruthlessly, she crushed the spark of his will beneath her Magery. She felt him dying by heartbeats as she forced him into battle against the commander of the opposing knights. Firthorn wheeled and spun, snapped and kicked, and at last she drove her blade into her enemy’s body.
In the same moment she kicked her feet free of Firthorn’s stirrups and seized the pommel of her enemy’s saddle, thrusting him from his seat as she flung herself from the back of the dying animal to the back of the living one. Around her, others were doing the same.
The field of battle brightened as the Warhunt conjured globes of Silverlight to illuminate it. In the brief instant’s respite before she closed with another foe, Vieliessar saw that most of the Warhunt were on foot, having abandoned their palfreys. She knew they were as exhausted as she—and as cold and starved—and far less used to the rigors of battle. But Iardalaith had chosen his Warhunt Mages well: after a few moments to gather their resources, the Warhunt turned its attention to the enemy. Their destriers froze in place or fled the battlefield to buck their riders from their backs and trample them to death. The enemy knights shouted with spell-fed terror, or flung their swords from them as if they’d become venomous serpents, or simply flung themselves out of their saddles.
The rest of the battle was brief.
Vieliessar ran her hand down her new mount’s sweating trembling neck. Vital as her victory had been, it left the taste of ashes in her mouth. There was nothing of fairness or even kindness to it. She’d never been indoctrinated in the Way of the Sword, but to win as she had just done seemed very wrong, as if she’d stolen from someone who trusted her.
And that made no sense: these
“Give them the chance to surrender!” she shouted, as she saw one of the former mercenaries stand upon the chest of an enemy, preparing to put a sword-blade through the eye-slits of the fallen foe’s helm. “If you do not, you will answer to me!”
“What ransom will you set, my lord?” Nadalforo rode toward her, her stolen destrier dancing fretfully beneath an unfamiliar rider. Her mouth was set in a hard line of disapproval.
“Fealty. As always,” Vieliessar answered steadily.
“We still have to take the tower,” Nadalforo reminded her.
“You may kill all who will not swear,” Vieliessar said, turning away.
