Crown of Vengeance

then jumped again, quickly, to clear a body in armor lying nearly at his feet. Some of the knights thrown from the saddle were getting up. Others lay motionless, sprawled on the grass. They were tangled, komen and horses both, in uprooted stakes and thin coils of painted rope. Tripwires. They strung tripwires. They knew we’d break the parley truce! Knowing Vieliessar had expected betrayal infuriated him. If she’d known it wasn’t going to be a true parley, why agree to it at all?

The rain was slacking off. He wondered if the enemy thought nobody would be willing to follow them into the trees.

I’ll follow wherever you go. Lead me to Vieliessar and I’ll kill her myself.

* * *

Nadalforo and the Lightborn galloped for the trees. It had taken a dozen Mages to cast and hold the glamourie that gave her the seeming of Lord Vieliessar, more to give the horses they rode the seeming of destriers. The bespellings would have been discovered had Isilla Lightsister not Overshadowed the Lightbrother who would have revealed the truth.

The storm started right on time. Strung low ahead were a staggered series of trip-lines—and if their pursuers continued the chase after running into them, the woods were filled with beast-pits that held sharpened stakes at the bottom. And if there were some still foolish enough to pursue after that, there were more traps waiting. There was only one safe way across the meadow and through the woods, and you needed Mage-sight to find it. Nadalforo was no Mage, but the helm she wore was bespelled, and through its eye-slits the markers she needed to see glowed with blue fire.

The moment they burst out of the trees, a hand-picked cadre from her old Stonehorse Free Company rode from cover to join them. First Sword Faranglis was leading Nadalforo’s destrier; she vaulted from the back of the palfrey and flung herself into the destrier’s saddle. Faranglis handed her a sword, which she slipped into the empty scabbard she’d been wearing.

“What news?” he asked.

“Some of them will be right behind us,” she said.

“Torch the forest,” Faranglis said. “Lightborn can make anything burn.”

“Tangisen. Your Keystone Spell is Fire. Do it,” Isilla Lightsister said.

The Lightbrother turned back toward the stand of woods and seemed to simply look at it. Nadalforo was about to tell him it was taking too much time, when every tree in the wood—and every leaf upon the ground, every twig, every bush, every burnable thing—suddenly burst into flame. The wave of heat rolled over them with the force of a blow. The palfreys shifted nervously.

“There were people in there,” Tangisen said quietly.

“And now they’re dead people. Come on,” Nadalforo said.

They crossed Farcarinon’s derelict fields, moving south at a steady, ground-covering pace. The plan called for them to ride until they struck the southern Sanctuary road and then head east. If Prince Gatriadde and Camaibien Lightbrother had managed to escape in the chaos, they’d head for that road as well. If they hadn’t, they’d be with the Alliance army that marched on Mangiralas. They’d escape then and find their way east. Or they’d die.

They’d ridden until the burning woodland was far behind them and the last of the Mage-called storm clouds had drifted away, when Nadalforo saw a flicker of brightness through the trees ahead and reigned in. “We may have trouble,” she said quietly.

A moment later, the enemy came into view. Green surcoats with three gold stars. Caerthalien. Some of the Caerthalien destriers wore caparisons, indicating they and their riders had been part of the honor guard. Most didn’t.

“I make it three hundred horse,” Faranglis said quietly.

“That we can see,” Nadalforo said. “Caerthalien musters twenty times that.”

She glanced at the twenty-four Lightborn with her. Some looked worried. Some looked terrified. All of them had shed every part of their armor they could safely remove while riding, but they were still wearing too much of it to look like anything but knights. “Go there,” she said, pointing toward the right. “If anyone comes near you, surrender at once and say you’re Lightborn. It might save you.”

“I want to fight,” Isilla Lightsister said stubbornly.

“And we don’t have time to teach you just now,” Nadalforo snapped. “So unless you plan to strike them all dead with Magery—go.”

“So we fight?” Faranglis asked, sounding pleased.

“Unless you think asking them very nicely to go away will work,” Nadalforo said. “How shall we do this?”

“Knights like to charge. I say we make them chase us. We’ll get a good idea of how many they are and maybe draw them away from their reinforcements,” Faranglis said.

Nadalforo’s commanders began riding back up the column of the company, passing her orders to the warriors. Nadalforo called up her mental map of Farcarinon. To the right was a stand of trees covering what had once been a manorial estate. The terrain was treacherous for horses, filled with holes, half-buried stones, and jagged bits of wall. It would have to do.

Thank the Hunt Lord Vieliessar sent us to the parley instead of some of her pretty komen. At least we have a chance of getting out alive.…

The Caerthalien knight-herald blew her warhorn. The signal to charge.

* * *

“We have superior numbers, my lord,” Helecanth said in satisfaction.

“And we will use them,” Runacarendalur answered.

The parley knights had been joined by a grand-taille of riders in the browned armor of mercenaries. One of the green knights gestured, and the other green-armored knights, along with the Lightborn who had accompanied them, rode to Runacarendalur’s left. None of them had their helms on, and he could see their hair was cropped short. They were all Lightborn. Lightborn wearing armor.

That’s how they tricked us.

“We will accept no surrender,” he said, and Helecanth nodded. They’d need information about Vieliessar’s plans, but they could get it from the Lightborn.

The mercenaries formed ranks, preparing for battle. “Sound the charge,” Runacarendalur said, lowering his visor.

Helecanth raised the warhorn to her lips and sounded the call.

Caerthalien charged.

There was always a few moments between the clarion and the first clash of weapons that renewed Runacarendalur’s joy in battle, his conviction that the Code was a magnificent instrument that evoked all that was great and glorious in the spirits of those who embraced it. The rush of wind over his armor, the thunder of hooves behind him, the speed and power of the animal he rode—all these things conferred a transcendence not even the Lightborn could know. In the moments of the charge, Runacarendalur was one with the komen he led—and not merely with them, but with all who had come before them and all who would follow. It was the closest thing to immortality that any being could possess.

Then his line hit the enemy column.

The encircling maneuver he was attempting fell apart instantly. The rear of the enemy column swung to his right, but not to form an opposing line. They were running for the trees; the head of the column faded back before Runacarendalur’s assault before turning to follow those who had already fled. They meant to make this a chase, but the enemy still had to fight through the deosil side of the Caerthalien line to escape, and Caerthalien did not intend to let them. Wherever either side possessed a momentary advantage of numbers, it used that advantage ruthlessly. It was butcher’s work, with nothing of elegance or honor about it. Runacarendalur withdrew his tuathal wing rather than have it chase the enemy across the field, and sent it galloping along the back of his line. If it reached the trees first, he could keep the enemy from vanishing into them like so many rats down a rat-hole, and terrain elements blocked their retreat to the north and west. If he could keep them on open ground, superior numbers and superior skill would grant Caerthalien the victory.

With enough time.

* * *

Nadalforo’s company retreated as planned, but even though it was outnumbered and should have waited for