Crown of Vengeance

sight-line for the watch towers and where the terrain had forced the ancient builders of the border keeps to set the strongholds far apart. Three thousand horse weren’t inconspicuous, and Runacarendalur knew his army would be seen, but his strategy relied on the two nearest watchtowers—Hawkwind and Highstone—sending incomplete and useless information to Vieliessar. It also relied on the Border Lords being unwilling to engage a force so much larger than theirs: between them Hawkwind and Highstone could put perhaps three hundred knights into the field, and that only if they had been lately fortified.

As they crossed Caerthalien’s eastern border, his advance scouts encountered a taille in Ivrithir colors. Runacar’s scouts turned and galloped back toward the army and the Ivrithir knights followed. When Ivrithir saw the main force, the taille turned and fled, but Runacarendalur had organized a vanguard that would be ready to chase down Vieliessar’s bands of roving komen the moment any were spotted. Fifty against twelve offered little sport, and Runacarendalur did not even get to fight, but there were other compensations. He spread his army into a long line of skirmish—madness against an equal force of enemy horse, efficient when you meant to destroy as much that lay in your path as possible.

The border steadings will entertain my troops and the terrified refugees will spread panic.

But the people of the border steadings weren’t terrified. They fought back with bow and spear and sling. It should have been a futile, unequal battle. Unequal it was, but the border farmers had the advantage of surprise and while most of their weapons could not pierce armor, the walking bow could. Runacarendalur lost four knights and a dozen horses in the first clashes.

There were no terrified refugees to spread panic, because there were no survivors.

And worse, the smoke of the burned steadings alerted the Border Towers.

He’d expected no trouble: they were greatly outnumbered, and should have stayed in their keeps and passed warning messages. Instead, the Border Knights sallied forth to ride along his line of march, close enough to tempt the vanguard into giving chase, distant enough they consistently managed to escape without being caught. At night, they harassed his camp—riding through it, pulling down pavilions, setting fire to anything that would burn—so half his army needed to be awake all night to keep watch and guard their horses.

By the fourth day of their advance into Oronviel, the Border Knights had been joined by several of the knight- patrols.

On the fifth day, Oronviel’s army arrived.

* * *

It is not possible, Runacarendalur thought. He saw the red-and-white of Oronviel, the tawny-and-black of Ivrithir—and, unwelcome shock, a small cluster of knights in the sable-and-green of Araphant. He estimated the enemy to be three thousand horse. Half of Oronviel’s full array. They should not have been able to muster so many on a few days’ notice. He’d expected to be a full sennight or more into Oronviel before any part of Oronviel’s army could take the field. He’d counted on it, because he’d counted on provisioning his army along the march.

If he’d faced a force of the size he’d originally anticipated, he would have considered simply going around them, forcing them to follow and do battle nearer to the center of the domain. That would allow him the opportunity both to provision his army and to do more damage to Oronviel. But it would not be possible to flank three thousand horse.

At least it’s too late to fight today. He glanced at the sky. Nearly midday, so they’d have most of a day to prepare to meet the enemy and scout the terrain over which they would fight. Though this was not a field he would have chosen—it sloped slightly upward, and was littered with debris to trip or lame a destrier whose rider was unwary—it would do well enough. He wheeled his palfrey about and went to give the order to make camp.

* * *

“Why do we stop so early in the day?”

The servants had barely finished setting his pavilion before Ladyholder Glorthiachiel strode into it, glaring at her son. “Is it not enough that we move at such speed one would assume we carried vital messages? Now you propose to sit and do nothing!”

“And how is my betrothed? Sick with joy at this return to her homeland?” Runacarendalur asked.

“Were there anyone else in the Line Direct I could trust upon Oronviel’s throne, I would slit her throat rather than listen to another moment of her complaints,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said. “At least Nataranweiya’s brat never whined. Now. Why do we stop?”

“Why, so I may engage Oronviel at dawn,” Runacarendalur said, waving vaguely in the direction of the enemy. “Thoromarth has brought, if not Vieliessar’s army, then an army. You will be pleased to know Oronviel has made alliance with Araphant as well.”

“Impossible!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel snapped.

“Possible,” Runacarendalur replied, “and fact. Unless you believe Thoromarth has somehow stolen the War Prince’s banner from Old Luthilion and garbed a dozen Oronviel knights in his colors.”

Ladyholder Glorthiachiel regarded him through narrowed eyes for a long moment, then gestured peremptorily to a servant to bring her a chair. “Wine,” she said, seating herself and shaking out the folds of her voluminous riding skirts. Runacarendalur served her himself; the pavilion was set, but nothing was unpacked yet. He located the chest he sought, took possession of a bottle and two goblets, filled both cups, handed one to Ladyholder Glorthiachiel, and seated himself on a chest.

“How many ride against us?” she asked after she’d tasted her cup and silently let him know the drink was not to her liking.

Runacarendalur hesitated, but any knight in the camp could estimate the size of Oronviel’s force as easily as he had, and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s personal guard would tell her if he did not. “Our forces seem equally matched,” he said reluctantly.

“And yet, when you proposed this expedition, you said Oronviel could only bring two thousand—at most—to the field,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said.

“Obviously Elrinonion Swordmaster should have tried harder to get scouts across Oronviel’s border who’d report back,” Runacarendalur retorted. “The army is there. We can fight, or we can run away.”

“Do not say to me I have given birth to a coward,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel answered haughtily. “Thoromarth is beguiled by that Sanctuary-bred monster. Atholfol’s forces will flee the field rather than fight for Oronviel. And Araphant we will deal with in due time.”

Runacarendalur inclined his head. “It will of course be just as you say, Mother.”

* * *

One candlemark passed, then two, as Oronviel’s army continued to advance. It moved—as did any army on the march—at a slow and measured pace in order to spare the destriers’ strength.

But it did not stop.

Runacarendalur sat his riding palfrey, watching the enemy advance. Only a couple of miles now separated the front of their column from his camp. Two of the banners the knights-pennion carried signified War Princes on the field: Araphant’s and Oronviel’s. Runacarendalur had never faced Lord Luthilion—Luthilion had last taken the field in Runacarendalur’s greatfather’s time—but the gleam of his white hair was unmistakable as he rode beside Araphant’s standard. Runacarendalur glanced at Ivrithir’s banner, but Lord Atholfol was not on the field. Why do his knights ride here if he does not lead them? Runacarendalur wondered. He frowned, puzzled, then set the thought aside for now. And here is Oronviel. Thoromarth was a familiar sight in pearl-white armor, mounted on his grey stallion. Runacarendalur frowned again. Thoromarth was riding his destrier, not a palfrey. Everyone in the front rank was.

Between Thoromarth and Luthilion, on a bay so pale its coat was nearly golden, rode …

Her. That must be Vieliessar.

At first he’d thought the woman might be Thoromarth’s standard-bearer, until she leaned sideways in her saddle to touch his shoulder with the easy familiarity of a ruling prince to a favored knight. Thoromarth said something in return and she laughed, gesturing at the army that rode behind them.

I did not expect her to come armored as a knight to this battlefield.

His mother had been sure Vieliessar was merely a mask for Thoromarth’s ambition, and even if she were not, it was inconceivable she would ride to war. Yet here she was. She wore silver-enameled armor and the white