Fourteen

... the Goddess could not spend all Her time persuading the Kings and Queens of the world of the idiocy of war. Therefore She invented tacticians ...

—source unknown

 

As they topped the crest of yet another line of foothills they paused, silent in the dusk, and looked down upon ancient history. Forest patches lay on the wrinkled fells and hollows of the land below. Although it was just two nights before Midsummer, the wind ran chill over the land, rustling trees and grass so that the earth seemed to shudder like the flank of a troubled beast.

South of their position the foothills became rougher, their bare stones turning brown, red, and hot gray in the fading light. Farther south still rose the Highpeaks. Off into the crimson distance they marched, mountain after mountain. At their forefront, frozen like a white wave of stone about to break, stood Mount Nomion, which overshadowed Bluepeak.

“The weather’s changing,” Freelorn said.

He was looking uneasily at the filmy banner of windblown snow that stretched southward over the Peaks from Nomion’s major summit. It had a distinct downward curve to it that indicated it was a south wind fighting to get past the mountains and slide under the warmer northland air.

“Storm tomorrow, loved. Can’t you do something?”

Herewiss’s eyes were elsewhere—searching the country west of them for any sign of the Darthenes. Eftgan’s last message had said that she and her troops would bivouac a league-and-a-half west of the mouth of Bluepeak valley two nights before Midsummer, well out of the sight of the Reavers encamped in Britfell fields around the town. But the land beneath them had a trampled look, and was empty.

“I could,” Herewiss said, reaching over his shoulder for Khavrinen to better sense what had been happening there. “It would be unwise, though. Eftgan may already have done something.”

“Or Someone else might have,” Segnbora said. She was as troubled as Lorn, for different reasons. Her undersenses clearly brought her a feeling of haste and disruption from the land below, as if plans had gone awry and many minds down there had recently been in turmoil. Worse were Hasai’s memories, and those of some of the mdeihei who knew this area well. Something dark and threatening lurked under this land, and was ready to rise up in menace.

She shuddered, as did the mdeihei inside her. Herewiss was sitting still with Khavrinen flaming in his lap, its Fire subdued.

“Someone else has been meddling, I think,” he said, glancing over at Freelorn. “There’s will behind this weather, and I’d sooner not probe it more closely than that, since I’d be leaving myself open to be probed back. Better to stay low for the moment.” He looked down at the Bluepeak highlands. “Eftgan came at this site from the north a day and a half ago—”

“Were they driven back by Arlenes?” Freelorn said, anxious. Cillmod had been raiding across the Arlene-Darthene border for nearly a year now, in violation of the Oath. It was unlikely that he would allow a Darthene incursion into his territory to go unchallenged.

“No. Reavers—and they were here first. Eftgan had a skirmish with them and went north again. The Reavers went west. No sign of Arlenes; they must not have received word that Eftgan’s in the vicinity.”

Dritt looked confused. “Eftgan’s a Rodmistress, though. Shouldn’t she have been able to sense that the Reavers were here, and avoid them?”

Herewiss nodded.

There was uneasy shifting among Freelorn’s followers. Lorn himself was bewildered. “How can a Rodmistress’s scrying go wrong?”

Herewiss swung down from Sunspark and began loosening the girths of its saddle. “The same way mine can, I imagine,” he said. Segnbora could feel the great effort he was making to conceal the trouble in his mind. “1 can’t feel where she is—my range has been steadily diminishing for the past day. Something’s settling down over this whole area. Power.”

No one had to ask Whose power.

Sunspark looked sideways at Herewiss. (I’ll find her,) it said. There was unease in its thought over Herewiss’s sudden anxiety.

Herewiss laid a hand on its burning shoulder, where the fiery mane hung down. “Go, loved. But burn low. Don’t advertise us.”

It tossed its head and was gone in an oven-breath of wind, leaving only wisps of smoke to mark where it had stood.

Segnbora dismounted from Steelsheen in silence, thinking that the tai-Enraesi house luck was certainly working as usual. Of all the places she had never wanted to be in a battle, this led the list! Since Earn and Healhra had first set the bindings here a thousand years before, this land had slept uneasily. It was steeped in Power—not beneficent power like the Morrowfane’s, but a dangerous potency that could be manipulated easily by whatever lesser force moved there. Sorcerers and those with the Fire stayed away from Bluepeak, afraid to trigger unwelcome influences. Yet here they were, merrily riding into this unstable land with the clear intention of arousing those influences in order to bind them. Segnbora would sooner have kicked a sleeping lion awake, then tried to tie it up.

“How far from Nomion would you say we are?” Herewiss asked his loved.

“Eight miles, maybe.” Freelorn was chewing his mustache absently, an old nervous mannerism. “We’ll be there by tonight if we push the horses a little.”

They stood together, Herewiss playing with Khavrinen’s hilt, Freelorn looking out over the darkening land toward a remote ridge that stood away from the foothills in front of Nomion. That ridge was Britfell, the White Height, which partially hid the mouth of Bluepeak valley. There was nothing white about the fell this time of year. Its barren curved ridge was a brown wave rising over the green land below it. Here and there it was dotted with blackthorn that had managed to take root in its sheer stones.

On the hidden southern side of that wave, within Bluepeak valley, the tiny combined force of the Arlenes and Darthenes had—one thousand years before—been hunted up against the cliffs of Britfell’s inner side by Fyrd. Seeing them trapped there, the Shadow had taken a hand, climbing down out of the Peaks in the shape of the Gnorn, a form so fearsome that just the sight of it would kill.

Earn and Healhra, trapped together on a height near Britfell’s end, faced with the slaughter of all their people, took the option offered them by the Goddess. They sacrificed their mortality to undergo that Transformation by which mortals become gods. Together, as White Eagle and White Lion, they attacked the Gnorn and destroyed it—slaying the Shadow and being slain, and leaving their people free to move north and found Arlen and Darthen.

There was hardly a child in the Kingdoms who hadn’t played at Lion-and-Eagle and fought that battle in dusty village streets or empty fields. Segnbora had done it herself, usually insisting (for loyalty’s sake) on being the Eagle to someone else’s Lion. For Freelorn and Herewiss it must have been a little different, of course. The inventors of the game had been the founders of their houses; their Fathers many times removed.

“Goddess help us if the Reavers are holding the mouth of the valley!” Freelorn said.

“Probably they are.”

He looked sidewise at his loved. “You should have let me buy those mercenaries, dammit.”

“Lorn, the point of this excursion is winning back your throne, not having battles. And buying yourself mercenaries guarantees you’ll have battles. Everybody in the neighborhood assumes you’re going to start something with them, and so they start something first. Besides,” he said, smiling wryly at Freelorn’s exasperated look, “it seems there aren’t enough mercenaries available right now to make a difference. Someone else has been hiring. Cillmod.”

Freelorn shrugged, still chewing his mustache. “You miss my point. What I mean is, I’m going to have a hard time getting into the valley to do the Royal Binding; that is, unless we try something obvious, like using Sunspark.”

“Where did you have in mind to do it?”

“Lionheugh.”

That was the little island-height at the end of Britfell’s curve, well inside the valley’s mouth,

“Since the Transformation took place there, it’s favorable ground. Every place else has too much blood.”

Herewiss looked grimly amused. “So all we have to do is get you past a whole army of Reavers, and probably Fyrd,” he said. And keep you alive afterward.

Segnbora caught his worried thought, but Freelorn merely raised his eyebrows.

“Problems?”

“I think we’ll work something out,” Herewiss said in his lazy northern drawl. Under his hands Khavrinen swirled momentarily with a confident brilliance of Flame, then died down again.

A hot whirlpool of air set dried grass smoldering on the ridge. The vortex darkened as if with smoke, spread horizontally and solidified into Sunspark’s blood-roan shape. Herewiss reached up to lay a hand against its cheek.

“Well?”

(I found Eftgan’s soldiers busy with more of those Reaver-folk we had trouble with at Barachael,) it said, pawing the ground modestly, and leaving a scorched place. (They’re busy no more. I drove them back down into the valley to play with the rest of their people.)

“Oh, no!” Herewiss covered his face with one hand. “Loved, I thought I told you to be circumspect!”

Its burning eyes were merry. (So I was. I don’t need to show fire to burn something. Things just became, should I say, too hot for them?)

Segnbora couldn’t suppress a chuckle, at which Sunspark beamed.

“Don’t encourage him,” Herewiss said as he bent to pick up the saddle again.

(I did have a little trouble,) Sunspark added, in a tone of thought that said it was making light of the problem. (For some reason I wasn’t able to make things burn as easily as usual. Something there was slowing me down.)

Herewiss nodded, and kept his voice equally light. “We’ll keep an eye on it. Well done, loved. Did the Queen have any word for me?”

(Yes indeed,) Sunspark replied, and said one.

Segnbora exchanged amused glances with Lang, who stood beside her. It was not a word one usually associated with Queens.

Herewiss  looked  sternly  at  Sunspark.   “Did  you  burn her?”

(Oh ... just a little ... )

Fastening the girths of the saddle, Herewiss kneed the elemental good-naturedly in the belly. It developed a surprised look, then a searing hot breath went out of it—whoof! Herewiss pulled the girth tight.

“You and I,” he said, “are going to have a talk later. Meanwhile,” he mounted up, “let’s join Eftgan before the Reavers figure out that the, ah, heat’s off ... “

The camp seen from above looked like any other bivouac that Segnbora had ever seen: squares set out with tents at their centers, picket lines of horses tethered nearby, men and women sprawled around campfires tending to their weapons or their dinners.

Britfell rose up a mile south, a looming blackness from which the occasional hunting owl came floating down in search of small game disturbed by the activity thereabouts. The owls weren’t getting much business, though. It was a quieter camp than most Segnbora remembered. Evidently the Darthenes, too, realized that there were forces about that it would be better not to disturb.

They passed the outer sentries and shortly thereafter were met by a dark-haired rider on a Steldene dun gelding, bearing a torch, the light of which danced off the bright chain of a major.

“Torve!” Freelorn said, pleasantly surprised. “Well met. You seem to have made better time than we did from Barachael.”

“Barachael’s secure,” Torve said with his usual calm cheerfulness. “The Queen’s grace wanted me here, so here I am. She asked me to bring you in.”

“She felt us coming?” Herewiss said, sounding somewhat relieved.

“You were close,” Torve said, his unassailable calm strained a little. “There have been problems with scrying of late.”

“We noticed.”

The Queen’s tent was little different from those that the rest of the army used—slightly larger, perhaps, but of the same patched canvas. All that identified it as hers was the Eagle banner on its pole outside the door. On the other side of the doorway, however, the diamond-studded haft of Sarsweng was thrust into the ground up to its hook. Its diamonds glittered restlessly in the torchlight. Eftgan was sitting in shirt and britches on a low folding chair, surrounded by a scatter of maps and parchments and papers. She was tapping one map idly with her Rod while talking to a man who squatted beside her chair.

She rose to greet Herewiss and Freelorn and the others, tossing her Rod aside. “I’m glad to see you,” she said, sounding as if she meant it. “Come in and be comfortable. Everybody, this is my husband Wyn—”

The group murmured greetings. Segnbora caught Wyn’s eye and traded smiles with him. It had been ten years since she had last seen him, and (as she had suspected) the years had left no sign of their passing. Short and compact, Wyn s’Heleth was in his early fifties and looked perhaps thirty. His face was like a handsome hawk’s. His eyes were so merrily threatening it was sometimes a strain to meet them.

Segnbora had herself introduced Wyn to Eftgan back in Darthis, when the old King had been looking for a wine merchant who wouldn’t charge him exorbitant prices. Not too long thereafter the Darthene Court had found itself with not only good wine at reasonable prices, but with a future Prince Consort. Connoisseurs were still talking about the rare vintages that had been uncorked for Eftgan’s wedding.

“There’s stew in the pot and dishes beside it,” the Queen said, sitting down. “Wine and water in the jugs. Sit, friends. We have trouble.” She dug about in the welter of maps and pulled out a large one of the whole Bluepeak area.

Trouble’s a gentle word for it, Segnbora thought as Eftgan talked and pointed. The Reavers had a considerable start on the Darthenes, and there had been nothing the Queen could do about it. Worldgating would have been impossible, when so many people were involved. Eftgan had therefore been forced to march westward from Orsvier slowly enough to allow for musters and pick-up levies along the way. The Reavers seemed to have handled all such matters a long time before, on the other side of the mountains, for here they were, four thousand strong, arrayed in siege around Bluepeak town and holding the mouth of the valley from Nomion’s flank to Britfell’s outer curve. Lionheugh, as Freelorn had feared, was well inside their lines.

“They have three thousand foot and a thousand horse,” Eftgan said, “and the fact that they got here first gives them the advantage of the ground, too. They’ve taken stand on both sides of the Arlid, and to dislodge them we’re going to have to attack uphill. I don’t like that ...”

“How do you stand?” Herewiss said.

“Fifteen hundred horse and four thousand foot,” Wyn said in his sharp voice. “Eighty sorcerers, fourteen Rodmistresses—”

“Fifteen,” Eftgan said. “You always forget to count me. However, sorcery hasn’t worked since yesterday—or, when it does work, you don’t want to be anywhere near the consequences. As ranking Mistress here, I’ve advised my sisters to keep their Fire to themselves unless I—or you, Herewiss—order otherwise. By the by, have you heard anything from the Precincts?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. It’s disturbing. I asked them for advice on this matter two weeks ago, while it was still possible to bespeak as far as the Brightwood. I suppose the Wardresses started debating the subject and are taking too long about it, as usual.” She sighed. “It’s too late now; we’ll have to make do with our own advice. Meanwhile,” she said to Freelorn, “there’s the business of the Royal Bindings to consider. I brought the Regalia.”

Freelorn nodded. “I know the ritual. But the Arlene Regalia is in Prydon ... all of it but Hergotha, anyway.” He looked annoyed as he said it. Hergotha the Great—Healhra’s ancient sword—had been missing since Freelorn’s father died. If there was anything Lorn wanted back as much as the Arlene kingship, it was that sword. “And I remind you, I’m not an Initiate. My father never took me on the Nightwalk into Lion-hall.”

Eftgan nodded. “We’ll take our chances, Lorn. You’re the Lion’s Child, and Healhra’s blood is what’s required here. The problem is,” and she pushed at the map of Bluepeak with one booted toe, “I’m reluctant to do even so minor a Gating as would put us down on the Heugh—that was the spot you were thinking of, wasn’t it? The Shadow’s influence is building by the minute. Any use of Power from now on could be terribly warped.” She frowned. “Did I tell you that the valley is crawling with Fyrd? A new kind—”

“Thinkers?” Dritt guessed.

The Queen looked at him glumly. “Yes.”

Freelorn reached for the map and pulled it closer to where he sat cross-legged on the floor. He studied it for a few breaths, then indicated the mouth of the valley. “The Reavers are drawn up here, under several of Cillmod’s mercenary-captains.”

“A little more north,” Wyn said. “About a quarter-mile north of the Heugh, stretching right across to the Spine.”

“Uh-huh. They’re on the other side of the Spine too?”

“It seems a safe assumption, though we haven’t confirmed it. They’ve got a small force at the Spine’s northern end; we’ve left it alone.”

Freelorn nodded, leaning over the map. “I doubt they’re paying much attention to their rear, then, since the besieging force is holding it secure, and the Fyrd are back there too. I suspect no one will notice if we go in the pantry door instead of the great-hall entrance.” He pointed at Britfell, indicating a spot near where the fell joined the northern massif of Kemana. “Here.”

Now it was Wyn’s turn to look shocked. “You’re crazy! There’s no going up Britfell, it’s too sheer! Maybe a climber could do it in a day or so, if there were time ...”

Herewiss was looking at Freelorn with an expression compounded of worry and dawning hope. For once, Segnbora thought, anticipation rising in her, maybe one of Freelorn’s crazy strategies is going to pay off—

“I’ve done it on horseback,” Freelorn said. “With my father. There’s a path. We went up the north side and down the south in about six hours, coming out on the far side of the curve about a half mile north of the Heugh. And if two people did it, so can ten.” He glanced around at his own group. “Or a hundred,” he said to the Queen. “Or five hundred.”

“That path must not be very visible from either side,” Eftgan said, sounding uncertain, “which suggests it will be rough to ride.”

“If the Shadow had built it, it could hardly be worse. But it’s a way over. And everybody, even the Reavers, knows there’s no way over the fell. That’s what brought our ancestors to grief.” Freelorn tapped the map again. “So. We take a few hundred of your horse—Why be stingy? Make it five hundred—and go over.” He scrunched up his forehead in thought. “Allow sixteen hours for the whole passage. You order your main force to draw up north of the valley’s mouth. The Reavers won’t move; they’re not such idiots as to attack downhill and give up the advantage of the ground. If they draw back and try to tempt your forces to come after them, fine. Meanwhile, you and I and five hundred horse are here”—he tapped the inside of Britfell’s curve—“where we can’t possibly be. We come down around the Heugh and do our binding there, while the cavalry takes the Reavers in their unsuspecting flank and rear, attacking downhill and driving them against your main force to the south. Hammer and anvil.” He grinned.

Wyn was beginning to look interested despite his doubts. “That still leaves the cavalry with an unfought force at its back: the besieging force. If they leave the city and come down on you—”

“How many are holding the siege?”

“About a thousand foot.”

Freelorn shrugged. “If they send enough people to make a difference, won’t the garrison inside try a sally?”

“So they’ve said,” Eftgan said. “That’ll make no difference to the cavalry, though.”

“So.” Freelorn tapped the Spine. “Once your main force engages the Reaver force, you send a good-sized party to secure the ground between the Spine and Nomion and clear the Reavers off that side of the river. There’s our bolt-hole. We ford the river and go up behind the Spine, then rejoin the main force.”

Eftgan sat silent for a little while, studying the map. “We’re fifty-five hundred to their four thousand,” she said at last. “I don’t have the leisure for strategic victories. I need conclusive ones. This at least gives us a chance to do what we have to without using Power and risking a disaster. And the surprise of taking them from the rear would be tremendous. It should disorganize them wonderfully. And, since organization was never their strong point anyway ...”

Eftgan glanced over at Wyn for his opinion. He nodded at her. She paused to give the map one more long look.

“The last scrying I managed,” she said, “gave a hint of something that might be coming from the northwest, from upper Arlen. Help or hindrance, I couldn’t tell. And I don’t dare delay to find out. The Bindings must be reinforced soon. A delay could turn loose forces I don’t care to contemplate.”

Standing, she bent to pick up her Rod from among the papers on the floor. “No matter. We’ll work with what information we have. Freelorn, I’ll ride with you regardless of the uncertainty. Wyn will handle the main force in my absence. Meanwhile—”

The tent flap was thrust aside. In peered a tall, rawboned woman in the Darthene royal blue, with somewhat disordered dark hair and a captain’s chain around her neck. “Ma’am,” she said, breathless, “the Reavers are attacking the north side of the camp again. Maybe a hundred or so.”

“Oh, damn,” the Queen said. She tossed her Rod away and reached to the side of the tent, where Forlennh BrokenBlade lay sheathed. “They love trying to draw us out,” she said, buckling on the scabbard. “Any trouble handling it, Kesri?”

“Not really.”

“Good. Of your courtesy, go call the other captains and the captains-major. I have something to tell them.” The captain vanished and the tentflap fell. Eftgan turned to Freelorn and Herewiss. “Midnight’s coming on. We’ll start an hour after midnight, and give the Reavers a surprise tomorrow afternoon.”

Lorn and his people began heading out of the tent to see to the horses and to their own bedrolls. Eftgan flicked a wry glance at Segnbora, an outward indication of mixed concern and anticipation. “Just like old times, ’Berend.”

Segnbora thought of Etachne and other such fields that lay behind the two of them, victories and defeats equally frightful. “Not just like, I hope.”