temperament and talent to become what he named Warhunt Mages. She didn’t know the criteria he meant to use in choosing his people, nor did she know, then or ever, if he asked anyone who refused. She left the organization of the Warhunt entirely to Iardalaith.
By the time they reached Mangiralas, the Warhunt had begun to train. Instead of robes, they wore tunic, trews, and boots of Lightborn green. On the field, they would wear chain mail and cerveliere cap. Iardalaith mounted them on Thoromarth’s swift, cherry-black racers so they could move speedily across the battle.
Some of those who followed Iardalaith were surprising: she hadn’t expected Rondithiel Lightbrother to join the Warhunt, but moonturns ago he had left the Sanctuary of the Star and sought her out. She did not know—had never sought to discover—his reasons, but whatever they had been, he had chosen to aid her in her fight.
But if Rondithiel’s membership in the Warhunt was a thing unexpected, still more was that of the three from Caerthalien: Bramandrin Lightsister, Pantaradet Lightsister, and Jorganroch Lightbrother, for Caerthalien had the most cause of any of the Twelve to hold itself insulted by her actions. But Iardalaith’s Lightborn had quickly abandoned identification with this House or that, becoming merely Pelashia’s Children again, as they had all been in the Sanctuary. In the cool twilight, when camp had been set for the day, she watched them drilling upon the field, their spells flickering like summer lightning.
And in the back of her mind was this thought: if the Lightborn could learn new ways and set aside old loyalties, the rest of her people could as well.
Isilla returned to Vieliessar when the army was halfway across Ivrithir to say War Prince Aranviorch rejected her terms, but offered others: a thousand horses, and a hundred of them to be chosen by her or by her envoy, to defer the battle for two years.
“The horse fair is next year,” Rithdeliel said. “He couldn’t fight then, anyway.”
Vieliessar sat at the table in her pavilion, her senior commanders around her. They had eaten while discussing Aranviorch’s offer, and now the maps were out.
“He thinks we’ll be somebody else’s problem by then,” Thoromarth said.
“Normally he’d be right,” Rithdeliel said.
“Still, a thousand Mangiralas horses,” Thoromarth said.
“When we’ve won, we’ll take all, not some,” Vieliessar said. “Tomorrow I send Isilla to reject his offer and call upon him to fight or to surrender. But I wish to know what is in his mind.”
“You need Lightborn for that, not warriors,” Nadalforo said. “I can guess at his strategy, though. Mangiralas is a Less House, but a wealthy one. They go to war rarely—they have what they want, and what everyone else wants, too.”
“Horses,” Princess Nothrediel said.
Nadalforo inclined her head. “And they have the Summer Truce, to which War Princes come and where tongues wag freely. Aranviorch probably knows more about what’s going on among the Hundred Houses—your pardon, my lord, the Ninety-and-Nine—than anyone else.”
“No,” Vieliessar said slowly. “The Astromancer knows at least as much. The commonfolk from every domain come to the Sanctuary. I grant you, children know little of the treaties and alliances their War Princes may enact, but they know if it has been a good year or a bad.”
“On their
“The farms tithe,” Vieliessar said. “And the nobles come to the Sanctuary for Healing, and they, too, speak unguardedly.”
“We aren’t fighting the Sanctuary,” Gunedwaen said.
“Not today,” Vieliessar agreed. “So. Aranviorch knows much. And of his knowledge, he wishes to delay battle, thinking I shall not be here in two years’ time. I refuse. What next?”
“If he meant to surrender on your terms, he would just have accepted them and been done,” Rithdeliel said. “You’re already nearly on his border. He doesn’t have time to send for help. And Mangiralas isn’t client of any of the High Houses anyway.”
“And no one attacks them,” Nadalforo said, “because of the horses. No one wants to risk offending its War Prince and being shut out of the Horse Fair.”
“Since we’re going to attack, where will they meet us?” Vieliessar asked.
“Here,” Nadalforo said, pointing to an area on the map. “The Plains of Naralkhimar, where the Fair is held. Flat, good for fighting, and a sennight from the keep. He’ll want to keep the fighting as far from there as possible.”
“Defeat him there and push him back toward his keep. The closer he gets to it, the more likely he is to surrender,” Rithdeliel said.
“A good plan,” Vieliessar said.
“It isn’t what you plan to do, is it?” Nadalforo said. She’d lingered after the others had left. “Sit on the Plains and let him hammer you while he waits for reinforcements?”
“As a matter of fact, it isn’t,” Vieliessar said. “While he’s fighting my army on the Plains, I’m going to take his keep and his horses. And then we’ll see if he’s willing to be reasonable.”
“If you can perform such a miracle, he’d be a fool not to be,” Nadalforo said.
“I shall require your help,” Vieliessar said, and Nadalforo smiled.
Three sennights later, Heir-Princess Maerengiel and Ladyholder Faurilduin, who was also Aranviorch’s Chief Warlord, met Vieliessar’s army on the Plains of Naralkhimar.
Virry and her archers stood unseen between the destriers awaiting the charge of the enemy knights. When the horns rang out and the drums thundered, the knights of Oronviel did not move.
The enemy charged anyway. Their center was mounted on black horses, all as alike as grains of wheat, and their coats were dark as shadows in the dawn light.
Closer came the enemy, and closer, and the ground shook with the pounding of hooves. Then, just as Vieliessar began to fear that Virry had left it too late, she heard a shrill whistle and the archers stepped forward, moving as one. Moving with quiet precision, they nocked arrows, loosed them, drew more arrows from their quivers, nocked, aimed, and loosed again.
The first rank of Mangiralas’s charge dissolved into chaos. Horses fell, dead or wounded, flinging knights from the saddle with as much force as if the animals had hit an invisible wall. The banner of the Heir-Princess fell to the ground.
The riders in the ranks immediately behind the lead knights collided with the downed animals. More horses fell, more knights were unhorsed. Some riders tried to jump the tangle of bodies and a few made it. Most did not. Virry and her archers turned their attention to the knights. Anyone afoot became an immediate target. Through an eye-slit, above the armored collet, through the narrow flexible plates of armor which protected the midsection, under the arm—anywhere the armor was weak, an arrow from the walking bow could pierce it to wound or kill.
The forward momentum of Mangiralas had been halted. Now Vieliessar gave the signal and Bethaerian blew her horn. The call was taken up by other knights-herald throughout Vieliessar’s army, and Virry’s infantry used those few precious seconds to begin their escape.
Then the army charged.
The Oronviel cavalry split immediately, galloping around the tangled mass of dead and wounded. If everything went perfectly, Oronviel would attack from behind before Mangiralas recovered from the shock of its disrupted charge.
