Crown of Vengeance

reinforcement, Caerthalien’s deosil line forced the battle and their tuathal line simply vanished. We’re being flanked, Nadalforo thought, but there was nothing she could do about it. They couldn’t run, so they had to fight. She hoped the Lightborn would flee—because if they didn’t, if they were questioned, all of them knew at least something of Lord Vieliessar’s plans.

Her blade rang off the pauldron of the enemy knight before her. She sparred and feinted for a few exchanges to convince her enemy he knew what she’d do, then swung her mount wide and jammed the point of her blade directly into her opponent’s groin. Cuisses only went to the top of the thigh, and faulds to the middle of the belly. The raised pommel of the war saddle and the long chain shirt were supposed to protect the unarmored groin and lower belly. They did their job because komen were more interested in fighting beautifully than in killing their foes.

Nadalforo gave her blade a twist as she withdrew it and saw the blood of a severed artery spray; if her foe screamed, there was too much noise to hear, but he dropped his sword and thrashed. His destrier, taking the shift in position for a command, reared, and the knight fell from the saddle. Nadalforo was already turning to find other prey.

She heard the shrill notes of one of her company’s signal whistles calling: disengage—retreat— go right. It could only be hope, not possibility, for Prince Runacarendalur was out for revenge. He wouldn’t retreat unless his defeat was certain, and that meant she’d have to manage to kill most of his attack force.

When she heard warhorns ring out—the foe is in sight—attack—attack—she knew reinforcements had arrived. The best her meisne could hope for was to die fighting. I’ve never thought the souls of dead warriors go to ride with the Starry Hunt forever, but soon I’ll know.

But when the reinforcements reached the battleground, they weren’t Caerthalien’s. The newly arriving knights wore green surcoats, but the device on them was a silver Unicorn, not three gold stars. Green surcoat fought green surcoat, and the blazon of the silver Unicorn was everywhere.

Once again Nadalforo heard the signal whistles calling for disengagement and retreat, and this time she was able to ride free of the melee.

“I thought we were going to die fighting for free!” Faranglis shouted when she reached him. He was already moving toward the road, brandishing his sword in a signal: close up and follow.

“Not today,” Nadalforo answered. Now it was Caerthalien that was outnumbered, but it would take Lord Vieliessar’s knights time to slay them all, and time was the one thing they didn’t have.

They reached the road. Prince Gatriadde’s russet surcoat stood out among browned mail and green armor. Nadalforo was glad he’d managed to escape; his role in this had been vital and he’d endured danger and sacrifice to carry it out. She gave the order to form up for another attack on Caerthalien—she had no intention of letting Household knights fight Stonehorse’s battles—and as she did, she heard someone sound the call for retreat. She couldn’t tell which side was calling for disengagement.

Suddenly the Caerthalien destriers turned and bolted, running as fast as they could. Any animals without riders fled as well, quickly passing the others. The moment Caerthalien took flight, Lord Vieliessar’s knights galloped toward the road, leaving behind them a field covered with the dead.

The Lightborn had found a way to fight after all.

Nadalforo spurred her destrier toward the relief force’s commander. “Making the enemy’s horses bolt seems like a convenient way to win a battle,” she said when she reached him.

“It only wins the battle,” Thoromarth answered. “It doesn’t win the war.”

“I don’t object to winning a battle,” Nadalforo answered. “Especially since it means I’ll live to see the rest of the war.”

Thoromarth laughed harshly. “I never knew a sellsword to be such an optimist.”

* * *

One moment Caerthalien was in the middle of a battle Runacarendalur was convinced they could win. The next moment, Gwaenor—and every other Caerthalien destrier—bolted.

Nothing the prince did slowed Gwaenor’s headlong flight. The stallion was insensible to the command of bit and spur. Runacarendalur concentrated on keeping his seat. If he fell from Gwaenor’s saddle he’d be trampled by the destriers running behind them. Riderless animals galloped past the knights, and it was a small comfort to know the riderless animals would trip any hidden traps or be the ones to break a leg in a hidden burrow. Gwaenor’s neck was covered with foam and bloody foam flew from his jaws. Runacarendalur only hoped the spell set on them was not meant to make the animals run themselves to death.

It had taken them two candlemarks to reach the Sanctuary road. Now they covered the same distance in a fraction of that time. As they neared Aralhathumindrion, the air stank of smoke and roasting meat. They’d seen a column of smoke as they’d left the encampment, but hadn’t known what burned.

Now they saw.

There was nothing left of the forest but charred ground and a few charred stubs of trees. Smoke still curled up from the ash and embers of the woodland. The riderless destriers reached the burned area first and ran straight onward. Ash swirled up in a choking cloud around them, mingling with the smoke. But they swerved to avoid the now-exposed open pits, which made Runacarendalur hope the bespelling had lifted. If the horses were no longer bolting in a blind panic, perhaps they would answer to their riders’ commands.

“Turn them!” he shouted to the rider at his side. He bawled the command over and over, until it was heard and passed back through the ranks. Simply bringing the horses to a stop wouldn’t be enough, even if they could. The others behind would run over them, or past them, and maybe spook them into bolting again.

Gwaenor strained against the rein. Runacarendalur feared he would not be able to make the destrier turn, until from the ranks behind him, a warhorn sounded: wheel deosil—form column—wheel deosil—all knights.

And Gwaenor turned, obedient to a signal he’d had heard every day of his life since foalhood.

By the time they were heading back the way they’d come, Gwaenor had slowed to a canter, then to a trot. Other destriers, still moving at a gallop, passed him, but the whole force had turned in response to the warhorn. At last, the animals were all standing. Winded, blown, exhausted, overheated—but alive.

INTERLUDE THREE

SORCERY AND STRATEGY

In the changeable world of Form and Time the Light had hidden the only weapon which could slay the eternal beautiful children of He Who Is. Only the arrogance of the Light had disclosed its secret, for had it not shared that secret with the Elvenkind, the Endarkened would have remained ignorant of it …

Until too late.

Virulan threw himself into preparations for the coming war as never before. In the World Without Sun, he made a nursery of horror, taking the races of the Bright World captive and there, twisting them to create the legions of his army. From the Fauns, he created the dwerro. From the fairies, he made goblins. Under his fell twistings, Hippogriffs became Serpentmarae, wolves became Coldwarg. From every living thing with which the Light had filled the Bright World, Virulan made a creature of the Darkness.

He let his monsters breed.

He withdrew his Endarkened from the lands of the Elflings, sending them across the Great Waters to hunt. Even there, he ordered them to work in secret. There would be no gathering of Brightworld clans against him, no warning for the Children of the Light of their fate.

And he himself hunted the Unicorn.

The creature was clever. All was as Uralesse had said: no matter what ordinary concealments of their form and nature the Endarkened used, the Unicorn could sense their presence. Finding where it laired was difficult. Capturing it seemed impossible. But Virulan was patient and clever. He considered the matter carefully, then set his artisans to craft nets.

Miles of nets.

This time, when the creature was spotted, the sky above Shadow Mountain turned black with the flight of the