Exile's Honor

He thought, vaguely, that he should be on his knees, throwing up what little there was in his stomach. But instead, all he could feel was grief and numbness.

:Selenay—: prompted Kantor, with unutterable weariness, turning his head in the direction of the Heir.

No, not the Heir, he reminded himself, with a stabbing sensation in his heart. The Queen.

He wiped blood and sweat away from his eyes, and peered though a haze of exhaustion toward her circle of protection. He hadn't prevented all of the Tedrels from getting to her and her guardians, after all—just a great many of them. Another clot of bodies marked where the Royal Guardsmen and her bodyguards had taken care of the ones that had gotten by him. Four of the Royal Guardsmen were dead, the rest wounded, two of the four mounted bodyguards were down.

Kantor stumbled to them; he half fell out of the saddle. His leg slash and half a dozen other wounds burned with a fire of their own, but he knew from the way they felt that though they hurt like demons were poking him, they were relatively minor. He wasn't going to bleed to death any time soon, and his injuries weren't going to incapacitate him. Therefore, as he had countless times when he was injured, he would carry on, if need be, until he dropped.

Berda and Locasti were on the ground with their greathearted horses standing over them like guard dogs. Locasti sat up just as he got there, holding her head in both hands; a dented helm told him what had happened to her. It was a good helm, that, double-walled, with extra space between the inner and outer wall on the top of the head—a helm inside a helm, so to speak. Good job it was built that well; it had saved her from a cracked skull or worse.

Berda rolled over on her side, moaning, and Lotte slid down off her mount to help her; blood spewed from the knee joint of her armor. But she was still alive, and Lotte was down beside her, tearing off the thigh armor to get a belt around the leg even as he reached them. Lotte had a slash of her own down her arm that she didn't seem to notice—or else she didn't care, knowing that it was minor compared to that leg wound.

She's going to lose that leg, he thought dispassionately, looking at the joint laid half-open. Better that than her life. Much better that than losing Selenay....

:They're telling me all over the field that what's left of the Tedrels are routed,: said Myste into his mind, with a deceptive calm that overlaid hysteria. :The others are telling me that they're disengaging and scattering to the four winds. And our reserves have caught up with their cavalry and they're cutting them to finely-chopped bits. I think we can get up now.:

That was when he realized that she was Mindspeaking Keren and Ylsa—and the Companions—as well as himself. The Companions spread out, and the little armored shell at the heart of their circle opened up.

'Your guard drop not,' he croaked, as Keren and Ylsa stood up, Ylsa hauling a weeping Selenay up by main force. Myste stayed where she was.

'We don't intend to,' Keren said grimly, and put her back to Selenay, shield up, facing out.

Alberich dropped heavily to one knee before the Queen, who stared at him without comprehension, her face contorted with grief, tears pouring down her cheeks. Perhaps it was without recognition as well; his Whites were saturated with drying blood, the white leather-and-plate armor over it blood-streaked and crusting. He must look like something out of a nightmare.

'Majesty,' he said in a harsh voice from a throat made raw with screaming. 'To your people, you must show yourself. Now. Your banner must fly. Know they have a Queen, they must.'

He really, truly didn't expect her to understand him. He didn't think she would even hear him, much less realize what he had just said.

But as Ylsa's armored hand fell on her shoulder in a gesture as much of comfort as a hand in a gauntlet could convey, he watched sense come into her eyes, watched with awe and wonder as she somehow—out of what reserves, he could not even begin to imagine—pulled herself together. She pulled off her gauntlet and wiped her streaming eyes with the back of her hand, then straightened. 'You're right, of course,' she said, in a flat voice. 'Myste?'

'Working on it.' He saw that Myste had hauled herself to her feet—

—no, foot, for the other one was held clear off the ground—

—and her Companion was lying down on the ground so she could get into the saddle. She did so with a grunt of pain, leaned over and picked up the bloody, muddy battle banner by a corner of the fabric. Her Companion heaved herself to her feet, rider and all, and Myste manhandled the banner back into its socket. In the next moment, Selenay mounted Caryo, and pulled off her helm so that her golden hair shone in the westering sunlight.

:Heralds of Valdemar—: Myste Mindcalled, the voice echoing painfully in Alberich's skull. That was a strong Mindcall. :Behold your Queen.: