Authors: Katharine Kerr
“Hush, hush, it was time.”
As violently as it had come, her weeping left her. He could see her wrench her will under control as she looked up, her eyes as calm and gray as fog over sea.
“So it was. And someday we’ll meet again in some land or another.”
“Just so. Have faith in the Light.”
In simple exhaustion, Dallandra leaned her head against his shoulder. As Aderyn held her, his heart pounding, he realized that he’d fallen in love.
That night they burned Nananna and scattered her ashes under the trees of the sacred grove, in a spot where the moon fell through the branches and touched the ground with silver. On her grave Halaberiel swore an oath that never would the race of men defile this spot. All night, the People wept and sang songs of mourning, but when the sun rose, their grief was gone.
There was nothing left but to wait and see what move the Bear clan made next.
“Four hundred men!” Garedd said. “I never thought our lord could raise so many.”
“I told you that the men of the north had guts, didn’t I?” Cinvan said. “We’ll shove those stinking Westfolk off Lord Dovyn’s land, sure enough.”
They were standing on the roof of Tieryn Melaudd’s dun, ostensibly on guard duty, but they’d spent most of the afternoon leaning on the railing and watching the last preparations for the march west. In those days, four hundred men was a sizable army, and the ward below was a cram and clutter of horses, supply wagons, and men, the servants rushing back and forth loading provisions, the lords and riders standing around and talking over the campaign ahead.
“Tomorrow,” Cinvan said. “We ride tomorrow. Cursed well about time, too.”
“I’m just glad we didn’t draw fort guard.”
“Cursed right. The sooner we get the fighting started, the better.”
Garedd nodded his agreement, then went back to watching the bustle below. Cinvan walked across the tower roof and looked off to the west, where, far out of sight, the enemy lay, no doubt waiting for them. Normally, on a night before a march to battle, he would have been as eager as he was trying to act, but this time, he was troubled by thoughts that he could barely understand. As a matter of course he wanted battle glory, and he wasn’t afraid of battle pain—that wasn’t the problem. He was simply having trouble convincing himself that he hated the Westfolk as much as he should, considering that they were now his sworn lord’s enemies. No matter how hard he tried to banish the memory, he kept thinking of Prince Halaberiel, demanding and getting mercy for Lord Dovyn. And what about his sister’s man, too? What if Gaverro was part of the elven warband? Cinvan cordially hated the elf, but what about his little daughter, so far away from her mother now? What if his own niece ended up an orphan after this fight? Back and forth Cinvan prowled, struggling with an utterly unfamiliar conscience. Finally, when the sunset was turning the west a gilded pink, he reminded himself that as an oath-sworn rider there was absolutely nothing he could do about anything except follow his lord’s orders.
“We’re off watch,” Garedd called out. “You coming? What’s wrong with you, anyway?”
“Naught. I’m on my way.”
Yet he paused for one last look to the west, and he shuddered, wondering for the first time in his life if he might die in a coming war. Then he shook the feeling off and clattered downstairs to the warmth and noisy cheer of the great hall.
Three days after Nananna died, the first scouts came in. Aderyn was having dinner with Prince Halaberiel when they arrived at the camp; at the sudden gleeful shouts the banadar left his meal and hurried to meet them, with Aderyn trailing after. Although Aderyn couldn’t understand the Elvish reports, in time Calonderiel remembered his manners and translated for him.
“The Bears are here, camping down on the strip of land that Dovyn wanted. They’ve sent out scouts of their own.
Our men spotted a couple of them crashing their way through the woods and killed them. When they don’t come back, the Bears should be able to guess that we know they’re here. They let a third Round-ear live, so he could tell the Bears about the terrain. That was Halaberiel’s orders, you see, to let one live. Why, I don’t know.”
“How many men does Melaudd have?”
“About four hundred.”
“Oh, ye gods.”
“Bad odds, sure enough.” Calonderiel paused, rubbing his chin. “Well, if we die defending the death-ground, it’ll have a certain poetry to it.” He caught Aderyn’s arm and began leading him away from the others. “Will you promise me somewhat? When the battle starts, you and Dallandra will be in camp, waiting to heal the wounded, right?”
“That’s our plan, truly.”
“Well and good, then. If our line breaks, and we’re all slain, will you make sure she gets to safety?”
“I will. I promise you on the gods of my people.”
“My humble thanks. I know she’ll never love me, but at least I can die content, knowing she’ll live.”
“You might not die at all, dimwit.” It was Jezryaladar, strolling over to them. “The banadar has a trick planned. That was the reason they let one scout get away, as you might have known if you’d only listened more carefully.”
“With these odds, a trick’s not going to do much good, no matter how clever it is, and don’t you call me a dimwit.”
“My humble apologies.” Grinning, Jezryaladar sketched a bow. “And your intellect does seem to be catching fire, truly, if you realize that you’ve got no chance with Dalla.”
Calonderiel howled and slapped him across the face so hard that he staggered back. Before he could recover or speak, Calonderiel had stalked off into the night. Jezryaladar rubbed his face and swore softly to himself.
“Are you all right?” Aderyn said.
“I am, and you know, I deserved that. We’re all on edge tonight, I’m afraid.”
“Do you think Cal’s right, and things are hopeless?”
“I don’t, but blast me if I can tell why. I’ve just got this certainty deep in my heart that somehow or other Halaberiel’s going to get us a victory out of this, but I doubt me if the banadar believes it himself.”
• • •
The valley that sheltered the Lake of the Leaping Trout fell steeply to the water along its eastern side, but on the western, gentle hills rolled down, forming a strip of fairly flat ground, at least twenty yards wide, often wider, edging the entire length of the lake. When the lone scout came back with the news that the Westfolk were camped up at the far end, Melaudd and his allies automatically decided to move up on this flat ground, where they could ride three and four abreast in battle order, safe from some sudden ambush.
“Not that there’s going to be an ambush,” Garedd remarked. “From what I hear, the Westfolk only have about eighty riders with swords.”
“That troubles my heart,” Cinvan said, and he meant it. “I hate to fight with this kind of odds on our side. I’m an oath-sworn warrior, not a pig butcher.”
“Well, Melaudd’s an honorable man. He won’t let all four hundred men charge a tiny warband like that. Probably just half of the army will ride in the first wave, and then we’ll see what happens.”
“That’s a little better, anyway.”
As the Bear clan’s sworn men, Cinvan and Garedd were in that first wave when the army rode out on the morrow. Four hundred horseman jammed onto a narrow strip of ground tend to spread out, and the day was hot with the last of false summer, too, making the animals a little lazy and the men overconfident, with the end result that the line of march was over a quarter mile long as it wound its way toward the battle. At the time, since everyone assumed that the men in the rear would take no part in the fighting, it worried no one that they had no way of seeing what was happening in the van, if indeed anyone even thought of it. Cinvan and Garedd, riding some twelve ranks behind Tieryn Melaudd and Lord Dovyn, had as much of a view as they needed, especially since their route rose and fell to give them the occasional high ground. It was on one of these small rises, in fact, that they got their first good look at the elven line.
“Are they daft?” Melaudd said it so loud that Cinvan could hear him over the muffled clop of hooves on grass and the clinking of battle gear.
“Must be,” Garedd muttered in an answer unheard by their lord.
The elven swordsmen were dismounted. In regular ranks they stood some hundreds of yards ahead in a crescent formation, its open and embracing end toward the oncoming Bears. To one side of them was the lake itself, and on the other, a line of sharpened wooden stakes pounded at regular intervals into the slope, with the points slanting uphill.
“Clever, that,” Cinvan said grudgingly. “We can’t outflank them and ride them down.”
“Just so. But wait a minute, what’s that behind them? Looks like a crowd of women.”
“With stakes in front of them, too. What?! By all the ice in all the hells, what are those females doing there? Are they going to cheer their men on?”
“Savages, these people. That’s all I can say. Howling savages.”
“Look.” Cinvan pointed uphill. “There’s some more men, running into position, but they’re not swordsmen. Oh, ye gods, they’re carrying bows.”
“So what?”
All this time, the army had been traveling forward, a little faster now, the men pressing their horses to close the line and bunch together into a tight formation. Cinvan saw silver wink as Tieryn Melaudd blew his horn for his men to draw swords and ride ready to charge. Up ahead the elven line held steady, waiting, the swordsmen rock-still as the horsemen trotted forward, and forward again, until they were only some hundred yards from the mouth of the crescent. All at once a distant voice cried out in Elvish; at the signal it seemed that a wind swept through the waiting Westfolk and made the line shudder in a long flex like grass before a storm. Bows swung up, arrow points winked and glittered, there was a sound, a rushy hiss, a whistle, a flutter, as over a hundred cloth-yard arrows arced up high, then plunged down at full force into the mail-clad riders and their unarmored horses.
Screams burst out as horses reared and staggered, and men fell, some bucked off, others stabbed and bleeding right through their mail. Again came the hiss and rush of death; Lord Dovyn’s horn blew in a long sob for a charge,
then cut off in mid-wail
as
a third rain stabbed into the ranks. Horses were panicking, and worse yet, Ming; charging was impossible
as
the dead or merely wounded bodies of men and beasts alike began to litter, then block the road. Carrying an empty, blood-streaked saddle, young Lord Dovyn’s horse burst free of the mob at the van and staggered uphill. Again the arrows, ever again—screaming out every foul oath he knew, Cinvan tried to force his horse through the mob by sheer will to reach the wounded tieryn’s side. All around him riders were trying to break free, to turn out to go up the hill or splash through the shallow edge of the lake, but inexorably behind came the press of their own allies, who could see nothing of the slaughter ahead, who only knew by the sound of things that the Bear clan was in danger and who out of sheer force of a deadly honor were rushing forward to join the battle and thus to trap the men they were trying to save.
Again the arrows, again and again, and now the Westfolk were cheering and screaming. As he reached the front rank and caught up with Melaudd, Cinvan saw that the women he’d so despised were archers, too, raining death down as hard as their men as they aimed at the exposed positions to the flanks. He wanted to weep—there was no time—the sword in his hand was useless—he went on cursing as the arrows came flying, again and again and again.
“Cinno! They’re trying to desert us!” Garedd yelled. “The allies! They’re pulling back!”
Cinvan turned his head to shout an answer just in time to see Garedd die, spitted through the chest by a broad-head arrow that snapped the rings of his mail front and back. With a cough and bubble of blood he fell sideways, only to be trampled by the horses of other Bearsmen as they desperately tried to turn and flee. Hissing and whistling, the deadly rain came again. Cinvan’s horse screamed and reared, kicking, as hard iron grazed its flank, but it came down able to stand. Silver horns rang out: retreat, retreat! in a blare of hysteria. Still untouched, Cinvan wrenched his horse around and kicked it into one last burst of gallop. He could see Tieryn Melaudd’s broad back just ahead and followed it blindly, unthinkingly, right into the shallow water at the lake edge. Behind him he could hear a
few more men cursing and yelling as they splashed after to skirt the battle and turn round the archers’ position.
“To their camp!” Melaudd screamed. “Trample it! Vengeance! To their camp!”
Then the tieryn laughed, a madman’s howl, a keen of grief, equally mad. Out of loyalty alone Cinvan followed his lord while his mind screamed against the dishonor of such a low trick.
As best he could with his left hand, Aderyn was organizing his packets of herbs to treat the wounded when he heard the horses coming. His first thought was that the elven side had lost and was retreating; then he heard the battle cries, Eldidd voices, shrieking in rage and hatred. Dallandra screamed and came running toward him.
“The Bears! They’re heading here!”
“Get into the forest. Run!”
She obeyed without a moment’s thought, racing through the tents. Aderyn started to follow, then turned back. If he abandoned his medicinals, wounded men would die. He could see the horses by then, a squad of some fifty out of an army of four hundred, heading in a cloud of dust straight for the defenseless camp. Distantly he could hear elven war cries, chasing after. He grabbed his heavy packs, then froze in sudden panic as the lead horsemen swung round and headed straight for him, swords flashing, slashing the tents, hooves pounding, kicking, trampling bedrolls and cooking pots alike in empty revenge. Aderyn knew he should run, could hear his own voice speaking aloud and begging himself to run, but the panic bit deep and froze the blood in his veins like snakebite as two horsemen charged, closer, closer, closer.
“Not the councillor!” A third horseman burst past a tent and swung by him at an angle to meet the others. “Turn off!”
Swords flashed; one of the charging men screamed and pitched over his horse’s neck.