Crown of Vengeance

War was like xaique: a master player chose the desired outcome before the game began. On this xaique board there were no good choices left. Vieliessar could seal herself, the commons, and a few thousand of the komen into the Vale of Celenthodiel and lose her bid for the Unicorn Throne. She could stand and fight—and die.

There was no third choice. They’d tried over and over to kill Ivrulion. Spells didn’t touch him and no warriors could get close. Rithdeliel had even called up one of the rangers to try the forester’s bow: Terandamil Master Ranger himself had come. Three tailles of dismounted knights had accompanied Terandamil to keep him alive until he was within range of his target.

Terandamil had loosed a dozen arrows. All had been whipped away by the wind. Terandamil and all but six of the komen who had stood with him were now mazhnune, and Rithdeliel knew it was useless to keep trying. Every failure armed the enemy further.

In the last moments before the new assault, Rithdeliel walked up and down the line, offering quiet words of encouragement and issuing final orders. He made it to the far end of the line without seeing Thoromarth, but Thoromarth might have taken an element of the line and moved forward. When the mazhnune concentrated on the center, the flanks did all they could to regain ground; when the flanks were attacked, the center moved up. They fought endlessly over the same few yards of ground, but the alternative was to lose.

The mazhnune were close enough now that faces, surcoats, and armor could be identified. There were groans and muffled curses all along the line as warriors recognized their dead comrades among the ranks of the enemy. Rithdeliel recognized more than one of the attackers, but his rage and despair were too deep for speech.

Thoromarth of Oronviel advanced toward Rithdeliel’s position. He wore no helm. The broken shaft of a spear protruded from between the bands of his faulds. The hilt of a dagger glinted in his eye socket.

Rithdeliel tightened his grip on his swordhilt and prepared to fight on.

* * *

Vieliessar did not know how long it was before the world righted itself again. She forced herself to open her eyes. Better to know the worst at once. She was almost surprised she could see.

“Praise Sword and Star—I thought we had lost you,” Aradreleg said in a shaken voice.

“Not yet.” Vieliessar blinked at the fabric blocking her sight of the sky. An unfamiliar pavilion. “Where…?” she croaked. Her tongue felt thick and her mouth tasted foul.

“We did not wish to place you in one of the Healing Tents, lest the people worry. This tent is mine.”

“I am in Celephrandullias-Tildorangelor,” Vieliessar said, and Aradreleg nodded.

“I had been seeing to the wounded who came through the pass, making a tally of the Alliance komen who surrendered, so we might know if any were of sufficient rank that they must swear to you. Then the sky…” Aradreleg swallowed hard. “The sky went black. A candlemark later, Lord Rithdeliel brought you. He said to keep you here, then went back to the fighting.”

“Rithdeliel must ever believe himself to be my nurse,” Vieliessar said dryly. “Where is my armor?” she asked, for she had been uncased as she lay insensible.

“I—Lord Rithdeliel said…” Aradreleg said desperately. Her thoughts swirled, making them difficult to read.

“Send someone for it. And I will need a destrier,” Vieliessar said. “And find someone who can tell me what’s going on out there.”

It was Atholfol of Ivrithir who came, with Dinias Lightbrother beside him. Dinias was hollow-eyed and pale, so weak Atholfol gave him support as he walked, though Atholfol was missing his sword arm from the elbow downward.

“Sit quietly, my lord,” Atholfol said as he entered. “For the news is bad and you must hear all of it.” He gestured with the bandaged stump. “I am grateful to see you alive, my lord. They say I can be made whole again, but that I will sleep for a sennight afterward. I say this is no time for sleeping.” Aradreleg’s tent was but a single chamber. Atholfol lowered Dinias to the chamber’s only stool and passed Vieliessar a flask. The tea it held was cold and sour, but no chilled cider had ever tasted so sweet.

“I will show myself once I have heard your report,” she said. “Then I must return to the fight.”

“You must not,” Dinias blurted out. “And I don’t think you can. None of us can—Lightborn, I mean. Those of us who were on the field…”

“Screamed as if poisoned,” Atholfol said, “and fell insensible to the ground when they stopped. I had just put Dinias over my destrier’s saddle when I took this hurt. And yet I account myself fortunate.”

Vieliessar waited in silence, for Atholfol’s telling of his tale would shape his thoughts to make them more easily read. When he had finished, she regretted her Gift of True Speech, for it had showed her more than he wished her to know. Two candlemarks ago Atholfol had been on the field, watching the Alliance array gather as the abeyance ended. Dinias had ridden to his side with fresh orders, for much of the Warhunt was acting as messengers. Atholfol’s meisne was ordered up the field to support Thoromarth’s force. He had given the order for them to regroup and form column when he saw two men—one of them Lightborn—walk out from the Alliance lines.

“I did not mark them, beyond calling them fools, for any cloudwit could see the Alliance was preparing to take the field. Then the bane-storm came, turning day to night, and Dinias fell. I think many—all the Lightborn—were struck down in that moment. I rode to him and slung him over Penstan’s saddle…”

And one of the dead lying nearby rose to its feet to strike at him.

“The horses went mad,” Atholfol said grimly. “Dead were rising up everywhere. I grabbed Penstan’s stirrup. He dragged me from the field. I ordered retreat. I do not know if anyone heard me.”

“I came to myself in the pass,” Dinias said, taking up the telling of what had happened. “I stopped Lord Atholfol’s bleeding. Dargariel Dorankalaliel was filled with retreating komen. We had no choice but to go all the way to Celenthodiel. After the first wave, they started bringing in the Warhunt. Those they could reach. Everyone wasn’t affected equally. It seemed like the stronger you were in the mind magics, the worse it was. But I went back as soon as I could.” He shuddered, and swallowed hard. “My Keystone Gift is Transmutation. Some Lightborn talk to horses. I talk to rocks. Even so … it was bad. One step past the border stones and you feel that all over again. No one’s made it even ten paces past the border stones before being overcome. I tried. Isilla too. I can’t even sense Janglanipaikharain anymore. Tildorangelor is still safe—for now,” he said, wiping his eyes dry with his fingers. “We are helpless.”

“Mazhnune,” Vieliessar said. The misplaced dead. It was something from a nursery tale: Heir-Princess Berendriel of House Notariel fell in battle, and when the Starry Hunt came for her, she refused to go with them. And so Berendriel of Notariel became mazhnune, unable to live again or to truly die.

“A counterspell—there must be something—” Vieliessar said.

“It doesn’t matter what we try—Dispell, Rot, Storm, Thunderbolt, Overshadowing, Fire—nothing happens. They walk through Shield as if it is not there. Whatever the spell is that has raised the mazhnune, it devours all magic. Isilla said we were only feeding it on Tildorangelor’s power.…”

And without Magery to stop them, only her army lay between the mazhnune and the pass. If they broke through that cordon, they would carry the spell of their raising with them, and so destroy the protection of the boundary stones. They would consume Tildorangelor as they’d devoured Janglanipaikharain.

“How far can you retreat from the entrance to the pass?” Vieliessar asked.

“We have not yet had time to map the vale,” Aradreleg said. “Many miles.”

“That much is good,” Vieliessar said. She forced herself to stand, to walk to the door of the tent. The sky above was dark, black clouds glowing green with sullen flares of lightning.

“Bring my armor,” she said. “And a horse.”

The destrier they brought for her was a stallion whose coat was the pale silver of a swordblade. The ostler who brought him said his name was Winter. She swung herself into his saddle and looked around.

Her people had set up the encampment about a mile from the entrance to the pass. A cloud of Silverlight hung over it, bringing its tents and people into sharp focus. The once open space at the mouth of the pass was clogged with komen and destriers—even at this distance, she could see that most of